Chapter Seven

June 6

Draco no longer dealt much with labels. 'Death Eater' and 'evil' and 'amazing bouncing ferret' could do too much harm if they were the focus of one's life. It was much simpler to just be himself, without worrying about being the 'heir' or the 'last-in-the-Malfoy-line-so-you-had-better-produce -male-spawn-and-fast.' Too much responsibility, too little freedom.

But in Hermione's case, freedom was something he did not want to consider. Freedom to think that what he felt toward her – if he felt anything at all, for he had not entirely abandoned the idea that his other head was doing more thinking than it was supposed to – was something deeper than his previous, superficial flings. Freedom to think that it could ever become anything more than just a brief infatuation brought on by years of solitude. Labeling what he felt, what he thought he felt, pinning it down tightly enough so that it couldn't flutter around his cerebellum and give him thoughts he should not have, was the safest way to deal with their situation. A situation that was, he had to frequently remind himself, temporary.

Strangely enough, he disliked that label even more.

So, as Draco sat on the couch (he had no desire to venture out into the torrential rain currently bombarding his property), only partially engrossed in his Muggle novel, he decided that it was fascination.

Pure fascination.

That was what he might have felt toward Hermione Granger.

That was why he couldn't stop staring at her over the top of his book. That was how he knew she blinked, on average, five times per minute when focused on the page; how he knew the wide, almond-oval shape her eyes made when she reached an exciting part; how he knew the dexterity of her fingers as they turned the page, the motion smooth and efficient from years of practice.

That was how he discovered her stillness. Seeing her now was such a change from the frantic, constantly moving character he had thought her, always running off to the library, sneaking out of the castle, saving the world, or slapping him across the face… A grin and a sneer fought for control of his features, twisting his mouth uncomfortably. No, stillness had never been part of his mental picture of her, yet here she was, and here she had been for hours, transformed by the presence of literature. Sitting in the same ugly, oversized, overstuffed chair in the same position – legs tossed over one arm, a pillow squished between her back and the opposite arm – with only a roll of her neck or the flex of her shoulders to interrupt her reading.

She could be downright beautiful when she wasn't lecturing or fretting. Curly hair falling loose from its half-hearted restraint and tickling her cheek… Delightfully pink tongue running sporadically over full lips… Breasts rising and falling rhythmically with her breathing…

Draco shook himself and turned back to his own book, but could not stop his eyes from flicking up to look at her.

Fascination.

That was all.

Temporary.

He had to remember.

June 7

The rain had not let up. It fell in grey sheets upon the muted green and brown background. Days like this were common in the summer and Draco usually got through them just fine. He spent most of his time alone, so why should the weather make any difference? He would just put off tending the lawn for another day – though he did have to do that soon – and toss a pizza in the oven for dinner.

Life indoors with a wood nymph was quite a different thing. Dryads weren't supposed to be cooped up for long, if ever, and his nymph – never mind exactly when she had suddenly and inexplicably become his when he knew she would never be anything of the sort – was showing signs of restlessness. She sighed and shifted, even going so far as to close her book and stare out the window. Weirdly, though he had been trapped with her for going on two days, he was not any closer to murdering her than he had been on his birthday. Her fussing was starting to wear upon him, however.

Shortly after noon, he was allowed a respite from her fidgeting. She pushed herself up from her chair, stretched (Draco did his best to ignore her breasts, but her shirts really were far too fitted to be decent), and announced that she was going to check in with her supervisor, Bates.

Draco looked up from his book, anger and suspicion quickly rising. "You connected me to the Floo system?"

She looked at him quizzically and shook her head. "No. No, of course not. We'd never do something so invasive without your permission."

Draco snorted. Hermione went on as if she hadn't heard him.

"I'll be using a phone."

It was his turn to look quizzical.

"Honestly?" she asked, a little exasperated. Draco shrugged. "Muggle Studies should be mandatory," she muttered, disappearing into her room and reappearing a moment later. She held in her hand a silver device about as big as her palm and two fingers thick.

"This is a mobile phone, or a mobile." She dropped the device into his hand. He took it in favor of the book and studied it closely. "It works similarly to the Floo system, except that it can't transport you anywhere and you don't see the person you're talking to. It's almost like a Patronus message – all you hear is the voice."

Draco flipped it open, revealing a screen, a number pad, and several other buttons decaled with symbols he didn't understand. "How does it work?"

Hermione shrugged. "It's pretty complicated; phones were an entire month in Muggle Studies. But have you ever seen those giant aerials dotting the countryside?"

Draco nodded.

"One phone transmits a frequency to another, helped along by those aerials. The phones then connect wirelessly and you can talk to whoever's on the other line. The phones themselves are powered by batteries. This is where we are at a disadvantage. Our magic muddles the electrical components, but someone saw enough potential to give a few sets to Research and Development. Two years later, they gave us this." She gestured toward his hands. "All you have to do is punch in the number of the person you want to talk to and hit send."

"Any number?"

"No." She furrowed her brow. "I suppose I misspoke. The other phone's number. For Muggles in the States and Canada, it's nine digits long, including the area code. For us, it's only seven digits."

Draco considered the device closely. The ability to talk to anyone, anywhere, instantly, was very appealing. No waiting for an owl, no concerns about ash in one's hair, no possibility of splinching. "Why doesn't every wizard have one?"

"Not every wizard can afford them. Only a few people know the charm to get them to work, and there are some inner electrical components that need to be removed so that it doesn't explode when used. Right now, they're restricted to Ministry workers. Bates paid the fee for mine once I convinced him a phone would be less traceable than connecting you or the Wales safe house to the Floo network."

"And your boss has the mate to this one?"

Hermione grimaced and bobbled her head. "Yes and no. He has a phone, too, but they don't only come in pairs. It's complicated, though – more to do with frequencies. With this, I can talk to anyone else with a phone, even Muggles."

It was this piece of information that Draco considered now. If this Muggle device was a phone, then that thick, yellow book that had materialized in his driveway one summer morning was good for more than dust collection.

She went as far as to show him how to operate the buttons before removing herself from the living room to the limited privacy of her room. Draco, to his credit, only considered eavesdropping for the first two minutes of her absence. Once he realized that he could hear decently enough without his ear pressed to the doorjamb did he content himself with staying on the couch.

Their conversation did not take long. Hermione reported that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Yes, they both were still in possession of all of their limbs. No, they had not yet had to use magic, even though they wanted to. Then there were three minutes of silence followed by a string of soft but vehement, "No's." Draco would've given his eyeteeth to know what had prompted that response out of Hermione, but she was probably aware of the thinness of the walls by now and said nothing at all explanatory. She hung up soon after that and rejoined him in the living room, taking up her book once more.

Around four o'clock, she rose from the chair again. Draco remained on the couch, content to observe her. She went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and drank only half of it before setting it down on the counter. Then she went to her room. A door opened, boxes shuffled about, and she cursed quietly. Finally, she reemerged, holding a box with the word, "Scrabble" printed on the side and a dictionary labeled the same.

Draco waited for an explanation as she cleared a space on the kitchen table and started unpacking the box, revealing a board, a maroon bag that rattled when moved, two miniature racks, a pad of paper, and a pen. As she began to read what he could only assume were the instructions, he could wait no longer.

"What is that?"

"It came out of your closet. Don't you know?"

Draco shrugged. He hadn't explored the guest room closet too thoroughly.

"It's called a board game," she replied. "Would you like to play?"

"The answer must be yes as you've already set up my seat."

"But I haven't yet picked your letters. You get seven." She pushed the bag toward his chair. Draco marked his page and jointed her at the table, curious.

"Seven letters?"

"Yes, and then you combine them to make words. See the little number in the corner? That's what the letter is worth. Your word score is the combination of the letters plus any board bonuses. Laying on a double letter score, for instance," she pointed to a light blue square, "doubles the worth of the letter. Double word score," she pointed to a salmon-colored square, "doubles –"

"The worth of the word, yes. I think I can intuit the rest of it."

"Very well," she huffed. "No proper nouns, abbreviations, or acronyms. We'll pick letters to see who goes first." She pulled a 'C'; Draco pulled a 'V.' She smiled and placed the tile back in the bag, gesturing for him to do the same. "Let's see how you make out."

She picked her letters, he followed suit, and the game began.

Both he and Hermione were bright and had no problem making words, but the game lasted over two hours nevertheless. It could have been over sooner but for several lengthy arguments about the validity of words, use of the board, and a half-serious quarrel about the inclusion of so-called "wizarding" words.

"Apparate? You can't use Apparate!"

Draco looked up from his empty letter tray, feeling quite pleased with himself. Emptying one's tray was like the Golden Snitch of Scrabble: it was fifty extra points and usually meant the opponent's loss. If one's opponent wasn't Hermione "Swallowed a Dictionary" Granger, anyway. She had emptied her word bank two turns before with "mandolin" and, like him, had made strategic use of a double word score bonus, earning her seventy points.

"I always knew you were proud, Granger, but I never thought you were petty."

She narrowed her eyes. "Come again?"

"This would earn me four more points than your word and put me in the lead. Why else would I not be allowed to play Apparate?"

"It's a proper noun."

"No, it's a proper verb. I think you'll find the rules don't mention those."

Hermione frowned. "But it's not a Muggle word."

"So?"

"This is a Muggle game!"

"And two wizards are playing it. It's not my fault they failed to plan for contingencies."

"Draco, it's not allowed."

"Rubbish. Hand me that quill –"

"Pencil."

"– so I can mark down my score."

She shook her head. "Apparate isn't in the Scrabble-approved dictionary. If it's not in here" – she waved the book before his nose – "it shouldn't be allowed."

Quick as a cat, Draco snatched the book away from her and held it above his head, quite out of her reach. She looked appropriately affronted and put her hands on her hips, presumably to keep them from going to her wand.

"Malfoy."

"Can't say no to the word if you can't look it up."

"You're being childish."

"Says the pot to the kettle."

"Will you give that back?"

"Will you allow my word?"

"No."

"Well then…"

"Draco!"

"Jean, you're being ridiculous." His tone was one she had taken with him several times in the past week. "You didn't say anything about not including wizarding words so, by your rules, it's a fair play. But I suppose I understand. This word would put me ahead, which puts you in a tricky situation." Her eyes narrowed. Draco fought the delight from his face and tried not to revel in early victory. "You might not be able to come back from this." He sighed and shook his head dramatically.

Her outrage was immediate and hilarious. "I… You… Nev –"

"Of course, you'd never admit it, and since I'm a gentleman" – he ignored her guffaw – "I won't make you. I will take back my word, and we can resume with your pride intact." Resignedly and with an expression that may have only been halfway convincing, he reached toward the game board.

"I know what you're doing." Her voice was a severe monotone. Draco paused, hand outstretched, and looked at her from beneath his eyelashes. He enjoyed her exasperated and competitive half-grin a bit too much and could no longer contain his fiendish smile.

"What ever do you mean?"

"You are such a Slytherin."

"Me?"

"And you know the worst part?"

"You wish you were, too?"

Hermione scowled him. "It's worked."

"I can keep my word?"

"Draw your letters. It's my turn."

He considered her for a moment. "Say it," he demanded, his tone curious and testing. Her brown eyes darkened and narrowed deliciously.

"You may keep your word," she said with false, Umbridge-like sweetness, "but no more wizarding terms. I'll win anyway, despite your cheating."

Draco sat back with a satisfied smile. "Malfoys never cheat, Jean," he mock-scolded her. "They simply play by their own rules."

"Rules that happen to be in their favor."

"Naturally."

Hermione grumbled and looked from him to her letters, proceeding to rack up another thirty points with a well-placed 'Z.' Draco countered and the game continued until Hermione laid her last letters. Unable to use his final letter – a damnable 'Q,' – Draco was forced to subtract ten points from his total score.

"Meaning that you lose by three points."

"Oh, try not to look so self-satisfied," he groused as Hermione cheerily cleared the board of spent tiles. "It was only luck – you had all the 'U's."

"I believe not playing them until the end is called strategy," she quipped.

Draco frowned. "We will play again, Granger, and next time, wizarding words will be allowed."

"And I'll still win."

"We'll see."

Hermione smiled and glanced at the clock. "Spaghetti and meatballs okay for dinner?"

He shrugged. "Sounds fine."

"I should probably start the sauce. It has to simmer for ninety minutes."

As she walked to the kitchen, Draco had a thought so absurd and completely out of character that it came bursting out of his mouth before he could restrain it.

"Do you want any help?"

Understandably, Hermione paused and turned around to stare at him. Draco fought a blush: Malfoys never did work when there was a chance of it being done for them. Desperate to salvage the deteriorating situation, he amended, "Today was my night to cook, after all. But the rain, and the grill…" He tamped down a wince as Hermione continued to stare; he wasn't sure he had made it any better.

After what felt like an eternity, she ceased her intense scrutiny and shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Sure. You can chop the onion if you want." Draco nodded and reached for his wand, but then remembered: no magic. She read his gesture correctly and laughed.

"Yes, very funny," he deadpanned, skulking into the kitchen. "Chopping an onion with magic is simple. It'll take me an hour to do it by hand."

"I'm sure you'll do fine. Here." She set out the cutting board, a sharp knife, and a large yellow onion. "Have fun, but do be careful."

She turned away from him to open several tins of peeled tomatoes. Draco picked up the knife uncertainly and looked askance at her. He didn't want to admit it, but aside from routine potion preparation, Draco had not chopped so much as a carrot without the aid of magic. Now he had to do an entire onion with a significantly larger knife than he was used to. The task felt much more daunting than it should have.

But he was not one to give up, especially in front of her. He started slowly, cutting it in half first, then in quarters. There – it was well on its way to being chopped. Perhaps this was easier than he thought. With a self-satisfied smirk, which he was later thankful Hermione missed, he passed the knife through the onion and deep into the skin of his thumb.

The oaths he swore were so vile that Hermione actually said his name in scolding reproach.

"Damn your sensitivities, woman," he hissed, brandishing his bleeding appendage. "I've nearly amputated my thumb!"

Hermione frowned and moved into action quickly. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the sink, turned the water on full cold, and thrust his bleeding digit beneath the stream. He swore again and yanked backward, but Hermione's grip was firm.

"Quit being such a child. You would think you've never bled before."

"I've bled plenty, Granger. You have Scarhead to thank for that."

Her grip around his wrist tightened and, though she did not look up at him, Draco saw her entire face pinch in displeasure. He felt a weird mixture of pride and guilt. Yes, Potter had made him bleed. That damnable curse – he disliked even thinking its name – had brought him to death's doorstep. Sometimes he thought he could feel it, like Snape's countercurse, strong though it was, still fought the original intention. It was never more than a tingling on his cheek, or arm, or torso, or thigh, but it never failed to unnerve him.

"It's deep, but I don't think you'll need stitches. Do you have bandages?"

"Bandages? I'm a bloody wizard. 'Do I have Dittany' is a more apt question."

"Do you?"

"No."

Hermione frowned. "Me neither. Though I may have a first aid kit…" She shut off the water and led him – still by the wrist – to the bathroom. "Take a seat and keep pressure on it," she ordered, disappearing into her room.

Draco looked around the small restroom skeptically and then, feeling foolish, took a seat on the porcelain throne. He reached over and grabbed a threadbare rag from the closet and wrapped it around his thumb. He tried not to look down, but failed. Though he was applying pressure – hell, he didn't hold onto a broom as tightly – blood soaked the rag, staining it bright red. A wave of dizziness and nausea rocked him and he groaned, closing his eyes and leaning back against the toilet tank. He had developed a very real dislike of seeing his own blood.

"Okay in there?" Hermione called from her room.

Draco took a deep breath and tried not to retch. Merlin, he could smell it, all iron and heat and life… "Just peachy, Granger. Move any slower and I'm more like to just scab up on my own." He attempted to sound annoyed but his voice shook too much to be entirely convincing. Eyes still closed, he felt more than heard her enter the bathroom. He was grateful for her silence.

As she took his hand, however, Draco opened his eyes. Her touch was gentle and soothing. She did not hesitate to touch him and was not shy about manipulating his fingers into the position she wanted. He watched closely, despite the blood, fascinated. Entranced.

"This may sting."

She tilted a small black bottle labeled 'Hydrogen Peroxide' over his cut, which, he saw with another roll of queasiness, was about an inch long. And then he swore because, sweet Circe's tits, it did sting.

"No chance of simply disinfecting and sealing it with your wand, eh?" he gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Nice try, but I don't need my face swollen up because of that stinging jinx. One of us needs to be competent."

"I thought I'd had you there."

The smile on her voice was beautiful. "Better luck next time."

When his cut was through fizzling and foaming, Hermione patted the skin around it dry with a cotton swab and took a seat on the tub across from him. Their knees touched. She muttered an apology without meeting his eyes, but he couldn't really look at her in that moment either, so he stared at the one place he shouldn't: his damaged finger.

His hand rested upon hers, which then rested upon his knee, making him feel uncomfortably warm. She grabbed a cotton swab and gently applied antiseptic cream to the cut. Then she unwrapped a medium-sized bandage and, without ever touching the cotton pad, secured it around his thumb. Despite having finished with her first aid, she did not drop his hand. Her fingers lingered, warm and comforting, absently tracing the lines of his palm. He could see the faint blue of her veins beneath her skin. The same blue that riddled the backs of his hands and the underside of his wrists.

Funny thing, blood was. Necessary to survival and – in their world – the cause of a near-genocide. But was her blood really any different from his? He had seen her bleed before. Had watched in horror as his aunt's silver knife pressed into her throat and marred her smooth skin with crimson. It was just vibrant as his was, full of life and magic. He remembered that it had looked clean. A strange thought at the time, but it had been a strange time, too.

Maybe it was his own blood loss that prompted these thoughts, or maybe it was their proximity and the feel of her pulse trembling beneath his fingertips, but Draco suddenly found it ludicrous that he had ever believed them to be different. How had he ever thought she was less? How had he ever considered her dirty? There was so much more to her than just blood. More, even, than the annoying chit he had known at school. Behind the self-righteousness and desperation for control was an actual person, flesh and bone and blood. Someone who was occasionally conflicted, but who was usually genuine and surprisingly sincere. Someone who doubted and lied, but tried her hardest to do what was best. She was human. It was a refreshing discovery, though Draco knew it should have been obvious.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," she said quietly, interrupting and affirming his thoughts. She spoke to his hand, her fingers still traveling across his skin. Piled as it was upon his revelatory thoughts, the sentiment left him dumbstruck. It took him a moment to recover.

He cleared his throat. "It's all right. Perhaps my blood will give the sauce character."

There was a noticeable drop in temperature. So noticeable that Draco was surprised Hermione's face didn't swell, though the contract hadn't mentioned accidental magic, so maybe that shouldn't have been much of a surprise. Just as he was going to comment on it, Hermione's hands fell limply away from his, breaking whatever had been forming between them. She rose and left the bathroom without a word or backward glance, leaving Draco wondering what the hell he had said. He sat on the toilet for a moment longer, pondering, until he heard her take up the knife, wash it, and continue chopping onion, presumably not amputating herself in the process. He rose and watched her from the bathroom door.

Draco had always been decent at reading people but found that he didn't need to try very hard with her. Hermione's anger was barely masked by a poorly constructed calm, and they way she chopped the onion was violent, bordering on dangerous. He approached with caution.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she answered, not taking her eyes away from the knife. Her voice wasn't frosty, but it was certainly chilled. Too even, too controlled. Too unlike her. "Nothing's wrong."

Draco persisted. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying," she growled.

"Then why the sudden change?"

"There is no change." She said forcefully, driving the point of the knife into the wooden cutting board. It quavered and danced in the light. Hermione looked up at him with diamond-hard eyes. "I'm fine."

"No you're not. What happened just now? What made you so cold all of a sudden?"

"The realization of how much time we were wasting." The excuse was quick and controlled. Another lie. "I just want to get this done. So either bugger off or open the tins. Unless you want to eat at midnight." She yanked the knife out of the cutting board and went back to her chopping. Draco studied her for a moment longer. Her cheeks were pink and she seemed to be working hard to keep her breath under control.

He stalked around the counter. What right did she have to be angry at him? He didn't even know what he'd said! It took all of his self-control to bite his tongue and remain silent as he worked with her. If he said anything else, he knew it would end in an argument, and with the weather being what it was, he would have nowhere to escape to. He could goad her into confessing what had gotten her knickers into such a twist, and while that would be entertaining for a while, he would achieve long-term success if he charmed the information out of her. Catching more Bowtruckles with wood lice than dragon dung and all that.

Draco peeked at her from the corner of his eye. Color was still high on her cheeks and her brown eyes were shining and rimmed red. His heart thrummed uncomfortably until he heard her sniffle, "Bloody onion." That was a relief. Reducing her to tears would have decreased the success of his information gathering later. He wouldn't do anything to compromise that.

Dinner was a quiet affair, but Hermione seemed to have settled some. Except when Draco complimented the sauce.

What he had meant to be praise earned him an irritated look. Draco sat back in his chair as she stabbed at her pasta. His eyes narrowed as a theory presented itself. He scoffed and dismissed it, turning back to his plate. Of all the theories to have, that one was certainly wrong. Surely she couldn't think him so petty. He glanced up at her too-hard mouth and too-blank eyes. The thought presented itself once more, and Draco set down his fork.

Could she?

After they cleaned up – Draco offered to do much of the scrubbing, which seemed to put her in a better mood – he grabbed the firewhiskey, two tumblers filled with ice, and the Scrabble board. "Interested in a rematch?"

Hermione's eyes flickered between him and the half-read book sitting on the side table. For a moment, he thought she would say no. Then she looked out at the gloomy sky, the rain-spattered windows, and sat down at the table.

"Wizarding words are allowed this time," he said with a smile as Hermione set up the board. He poured them each a hefty helping of alcohol and pushed a glass toward her. "To a good game." He raised his glass and smiled again.

With only the slightest hesitation, Hermione lifted her own glass and smiled tightly. "To a fair game." They clinked cups, sipped, and drew letters, beginning anew.

Draco was amazed. He was amazed at the amount of firewhiskey it took to get Hermione properly sloshed: only two glasses. It usually took him around four but he held himself in moderation tonight and kept pace with her. He needed his questions answered, after all, and it would not do to addle his mind or body too thoroughly. He was also amazed at how gullible she became under the influence. It was like everything that had been holding her together, all of her restraint and logic, melted away, leaving a laughing girl with pink cheeks who could be convinced that any combination of letters was actually a word in Gobbledygook.

Her inebriation did not make his victory any less sweet, however. He smiled as she sat back and knocked down the rest of her drink, hardly wincing at the burn.

"I can't believe you actually won."

"I told you I would. You should have believed me." Suddenly, she squinted at the board.

"Something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, I just thought we played the same word twice. Strange."

He choked down a laugh. Double vision. Maybe it was the first time she'd experienced it. "Strange indeed."

As rain battered the windows, they settled into a comfortable silence. This was his opening.

"What was the problem earlier? In the bathroom?"

Hermione's mouth twisted. She looked into her empty glass and seemed to wilt. Then she leaned forward, set the glass on the table, and sighed. "You. Me. This." She gestured to the air between them. "We were getting along so well and then you had to go and bring it up."

"Bring what up?" he asked, fully aware of what her answer would be. The demented part of him just needed to hear it aloud. From her.

"Why we're different. Why you think we're different. My mother's sauce – my Muggle mother's famous spaghetti sauce. Perfect just how it is for everyone who's tried it, but not good enough for the pure-blood scion, even in concept. Nothing from that world will ever be good enough for you."

His theory was correct. She did think little of him. She continued, defeated, not noticing his stony silence.

"It just felt different for a little while, you know? Like maybe we were friends, or could be one day. And then you remind me that this isn't real. It isn't permanent. It's more like Stockholm Syndrome than anything else. A sick social experiment courtesy of our government. Because we're not friends, Malfoy. You haven't changed. And I… I just need to remember that. Sometimes you make it so difficult and I just can't help but…"

She sighed again and shook her head. Draco was desperate for her to continue. She took a deep breath. "This stuff works too well," she remarked, tipping her glass toward the half-full bottle of whiskey. "I shouldn't be telling you half of these things." Another shake of her head. "I need to sleep." She rose unsteadily and swayed for a moment before attempting the three steps to her doorway. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

She paused at the threshold to stare at him and his inscrutable face before frowning, nodding, and walking into her room, shutting the door.

Draco poured himself a full glass and scowled.

Even on only two glasses of whiskey, it was difficult for him to grasp exactly how he felt. Angry. Yes, that was obvious. Who was she to think so poorly of him? And from a silly, off-hand comment. He hadn't meant to upset their delicate equilibrium or insult her blood. He hadn't even considered it! Had he bought into the blood purity propaganda? At one time, yes, but he had been a child and had never heard differently, had never seen anything or anyone who could contradict that notion. After Hogwarts, after being bested by her in every single bloody class they'd shared, after seeing her prowess in handling the Horcrux hunt and the ensuing battle, how could he hold onto that prejudice? Hermione was a phenomenal witch. He'd never tell her that, of course, but how couldn't she know? It didn't make sense.

Or did it? At Hogwarts, he had been cruel to the two most important people in her world, and crueler still to her. He had told her repeatedly that she wasn't his equal, and that she never would be, no matter what the world believed. It was utter bunk, and he didn't believe for a minute that it had stuck to her. She had accomplished too much to put any stock in the idea of her inferiority.

But she couldbelieve that those notions had stuck to him. What did a week with him prove? What did that show her? For all she knew, he was just being polite to lull her into a false sense of security. She probably expected him to go full-bigot on her any day now.

He couldn't expect her to see the change in him so quickly, especially when he hadn't done anything to conclusively prove that he had changed. He could expect her to be professional and polite, even friendly, and she had been. She was the perfect houseguest. But some wounds cut too deeply, some actions hurt too much to be forgotten or forgiven over the span of seven days, and some attitudes took more than just a lack of affirmation to realize as dismissed for good.

He had hexed himself in the damn foot.

Worse still was that he couldn't even defend himself. He desperately wanted to. He wanted to tell her that Muggle television was a wonderful invention except for that sponge show, that their novels were well written and intriguing, and that her mother's sauce was delicious and probably would have been even better had she not had to scrap half of the bled-on onion. He wanted to yell at her. To take her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. He wanted to tell her that she had come from the Muggle world and was widely considered the brightest witch of their generation. He wanted to tell her that if that weren't good enough for him, not much else would be.

He wanted to tell her that and so much more, but she wouldn't have listened even if he had tried. He may have even been able to convince her tonight, considering the state of her sobriety, but why should he? She may not remember it tomorrow, and he wasn't exactly sober himself. Anything he said could be dismissed as the ramblings of a sad and lonely drunkard.

If she were sober, she wouldn't have listened. Draco did not presume to know her – not at all – but he felt reasonably confident in believing that once Hermione formed an opinion, it'd be nigh on impossible to shake her of it. She would have taken his excuses as a façade for an elitist runaway trying to make it in a changed society. She would have pegged him as a liar, told herself that any kindness on his part was a mask, a screen, a shield. She would have turned herself against him without his help.

It was bloody frustrating.

It was exactly how she must have felt.

He set his tumbler down as the waves of realization hit. He couldn't talk his way out of her prejudices any more than she could have talked her way out of his. What worked to change him was proof. Showing, not telling.

A slow smile spread across his face. He would prove it. He would show her – really and truly, once and for all – that he had changed. He would prove that he no longer bought into the blood purity bullshite. He would prove that they could be friends and that it could be a permanent state instead of a temporary partnership.

Perhaps that last bit could never be, but the whiskey made him hopeful and confident in a way he hadn't been in a very long time. He drained the rest of his glass and stood up too quickly. His head spun in a delightful way and he smiled.

If he could convince Hermione Granger that "zrrgle" was a word, then he could convince her that he wasn't the boy she had known at Hogwarts. It would take time, a large serving of the famous Black tenacity, and more than likely copious amounts of alcohol, but he could do it.

And so, Operation: Prove-to-Hermione-Granger-that-Draco-Malfoy-Is-No- Longer-an-Arrogant-Little-Berk commenced.