Chapter 7: Jaywalking

There was something Hermione had noticed back in school, and it still held true years later: life became harder as a person came closer to Draco Malfoy. This was not in any way referring to an emotional state of closeness, but merely fully-clothed physical proximity. Having Malfoy in her flat made it hard to cook dinner. It was hard to read, hard to clean, and hard to think.

She managed to do these things anyway, but not as well as she'd previously been able. For example, the chicken was burnt around the edges and the rice was undercooked. She finished setting the table just as Harry and Ginny arrived, and she served dinner immediately because she didn't have the energy for living room small talk. It was like the sound of their voices was muffled somehow, like her ears were set to the wrong frequency. All she could do was nod when it seemed appropriate, but then Harry's volume spiked as he brought up a new subject.

"Weird about Malfoy, isn't it?" he asked conversationally. Hermione managed not to drop her fork, but it was a near miss.

"Yeah, have you heard anything about it in your Department?" Ginny asked. Hermione forced herself to answer as calmly and accurately as possible. The wording made it possible to be honest; if the question had been more along the lines of, 'is Draco Malfoy hiding in your bedroom closet as we speak?' then, yes – she would have lied. After all, she was already in the process of building such a tall and heavy lie pile in a house of secrets.

and 'truth' doesn't mean what I thought it did.

"Not much," she said. "I think Harry would still know more than I would – it hasn't gotten up to our Department." Yet, she realised. When they didn't find Malfoy or his body anywhere, the search would inevitably work its way up the food chain. "Most people think he's dead," she added impulsively.

especially me; I am almost certain that he is dead.

She felt guilty for saying it, even though it was true. As a recently-recognised expert in the field, she could easily spot a bit of death-faking by omission.

The Potters were both too mature to say what they were thinking, but they didn't have to. There was an uncomfortable silence, during which she could read the reply on their faces: big loss. She scowled at her plate because really it would have been. Didn't they realise how boring and mundane the world would be without him? Didn't they see that without him, all a person would have to think about were rose bushes, lawn flamingos, slip resistance tests, and useless echoes of the past?

and fear and anger and escape. He makes us look alive by comparison.

They didn't, though, because they weren't any such persons. It was only Hermione who benefited from the continued existence of Draco Malfoy, while simultaneously hoping it would end, if that made any sense, which it didn't. Nothing had made her feel sane for some time now, and Hermione was starting to fear that it never would again.

"Well, some trace of him is bound to turn up eventually," Ginny said. "There's hardly a witch or wizard in the country who wouldn't recognize him on sight. That is, unless he's dyed that ridiculous hair." She and Harry both laughed, and Hermione tried to mimic their response, but she couldn't stop the wheels from turning in her head.

What if he did dye his hair? Maybe it's time to incorporate some sort of disguise, even in Muggle London.

Of course, deliberately camouflaging Malfoy's identity counted as death-faking.

"Let's talk about something else," she said. "We've only got one evening a week together,

and I only get one evening without him,

and I'd rather not spend it talking about Malfoy."

Harry nodded his head. "You're right, I shouldn't have brought it up. It's just so strange, you know? He was supposed to get married in three months, and he disappeared on his birthday."

Her head jerked up at that. "He did? What day was that?"

"The fifth – a week ago, yesterday."

"Hm," she said. Her voice was a bit higher-pitched than usual, but no one seemed to notice.

"Not that he's much better," Ginny began conspiratorially, "but I'd run, too, if I were engaged to such an insufferable idiot. She was a year behind me in school, and she never talks about anything but herself. I think she honestly believes she's a veela."

Hermione couldn't help but snort along with Harry at that, but probably for a different reason.

If she were a veela, then why would her fiancé run away and spend his free time trying to get into my bed?

"That's doubtful," Harry said. "If she and her sister were veela, Ron would've had an even harder time in Potions."

It wasn't until he gave Hermione an apologetic look that she even realised what he'd said, and she threw up a hand to wave it off. Ginny looked like she had something to add, presumably relating to Ron, but Hermione laid down the only trump card she had for this sort of situation.

"So, how's James?" It was like holding up a shiny object in front of a toddler about to fuss. Ginny's eyes lit up with delight, and she commenced with the details until they'd finished their food.

Hermione used the time to scrape up every last speck of sauce from her plate, harder and harder, until her fork was screeching audibly and rhythmically in time with her breathing. She found the sound oddly soothing, and she wondered dimly why Ginny was suddenly having trouble finding her words. Her nails dug into her palm as she gripped the metal.

"Hermione?" This time she did drop her fork, turning to Harry as she snapped out of her trance.

"Yes?"

It's not your job to wake me up,

"Are you all right?" he asked gently. "You seem a bit… tense, this evening."

I'll wake up on my own when I'm good and ready.

She picked up her fork and looked down at her plate in confusion. It had gotten all scratched up, and she would have to throw it away, which meant that her dinnerware set would be incomplete. Her jaw dropped in absolute horror, and for a second she thought she was going to cry. An incomplete dinnerware set was unacceptable.

"Hermione?"

She looked at him again, reluctantly. "What?"

"I asked if you were all right," he said. She could see his compassion and concern, but it was too late for any of that. It wasn't his fault,

just unfortunate circumstances,

and she didn't blame him,

though it could have been prevented,

but nevertheless it was too late.

"I think I'm a bit stressed out," she admitted.

"You work too much," Ginny said. "Don't you think you should take some time off?"

"Certainly not." Her tone was colder than she'd intended, and it sounded harsh even to her own ears. Harry and Ginny shared a meaningful look, which did nothing to improve Hermione's mood. They were always talking about her with their eyes, right in front of her like she was a child.

"If you're sure," Harry said.

"If I wasn't at work, I'd be at home," she said, "and I can't be at home."

She could tell they were both confused by this line of reasoning, but they didn't question it.

"Well, we should be getting home to James. Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Ginny asked, one more time for the road. Hermione gripped the edge of the table. "It's just that we don't want you getting sick again."

They always had to bring that up. A person could be hospitalized for exhaustion just one time, and everyone would treat her like a porcelain doll forever. She used to have this recurring dream where she'd wake up to find her entire flat jammed full of packing peanuts, and Harry's voice would waft toward her through the Styrofoam to tell her it was for her own good. "That was over a year ago. I cut my hours after that, and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Well," Harry began, but then he stopped short.

"No, Harry, what were you going to say?" Her voice was dangerous.

I dare you, Harry Potter.

"It's just that… your assistant was so concerned that she came to me to make sure you were all right. I know you cut your hours, but you've picked them up since, and I think you might actually be working more now than you were back then."

Oh, yes, I dare you to make me stay here.

"Did she, now? How very interesting." Apparently, all of her mentoring had done nothing to teach Penny how to keep her nose out of other people's business.

"Now, don't get cross with her about this, Hermione – she really looks up to you. She's just worried, and I have to say I can see why."

Hermione took a calming breath. They needed to see her resilience, since it was clear that they had forgotten. "I appreciate how much you care about me, but no one needs to be concerned about my health. I have everything under control."

Ginny gave her a wary look. "Please let us know if you start to get overwhelmed," she said. "Don't forget, you could always visit my mum and spend a few days eating homemade soup."

That's a brilliant idea. I'll leave Malfoy alone at my flat while I spend a few days getting nagged.

"Thanks, Ginny," she said. She was absolutely still in control. "I think I'll turn in early tonight."

They cleared out of her kitchen, and Hermione saw them to the Floo, where they both hugged her tightly before departing.

She went to her kitchen, picked up her ruined plate, and threw it at the wall. It chipped when it hit the white paint, but it didn't shatter until it hit the floor and chunks of glass went every direction.

This is how good I am,

It made a very satisfying noise, and she let out the breath she'd been holding.

and I've never been better.

She'd pass out if she didn't start remembering how to breathe, but her body and mind didn't quite feel connected anymore. Not all the signals were going through, and not all her nerves could feel pain. Nothing did its job anymore, she'd noticed; not objects or people or anything else. With the way things were working, she wouldn't have been surprised if the sun and wind went and took a day off.

She smiled. She returned to her room and opened the closet door. Malfoy lifted his head and blinked as the light hit his face.

"I thought of a plan to get some money," he said. She could tell he was excited about it, whatever he was plotting.

"Is it legal?"

"Kind of," he said, as though considering this aspect for the first time. "I guess it depends how you think about it."

"I bet I'll think it's not."

"I bet you will, too, but you're going to do it anyway."

"Don't tell me what I'm going to do," she warned.

and don't tell me what's mine.

"You have been less predictable lately," he said thoughtfully, "but now I can predict that you're going to do the opposite of what you would have done six years ago."

"You need to stop acting like you've ever known anything about me."

"Nobody knows you as well as I do."

She snorted and shook her head in disbelief. "Is that so?"

"You don't really know someone until you've seen them at their worst, and nobody brings out the worst in you like I do."

"The second half of that is true."

"It will be a beautiful day when you stop lying to me."

She didn't want to talk to him anymore, but there was something she hadn't stopped wondering about since dinner. "Happy birthday, by the way," she said sarcastically.

He grinned, wide and shining. "You're the first to say it."

"I guess that's appropriate, since I'm the reason you got to be twenty-three for longer than a day."

"Nobody else was going to give me any good presents, so I had to go out and get one for myself," he said, as though it explained his behavior in any way.

"What do you mean?"

"Freedom, Granger! Try and keep up," he chastised impatiently.

"Of course, and now you've got it. Locked in closets, not allowed outside, sleeping on floors and couches, reduced to begging anytime you want to touch something." She put her hands on her hips and sneered. "You're good at this."

"When did you get so sassy?"

She was finished now. This conversation was over. "I saved you some food," she said, starting back for the kitchen. She heard him laugh as he followed her, and the sound corroded her ears.

"Don't you want to hear my plan?"

"Not particularly."

"Yes, you do. I'm going to sneak back into the manor and lift a few things for us to sell."

She turned around so quickly that they almost collided.

"It's a good idea, right?"

"No," she said. "You were right – I do think it's illegal. Only I don't just think so, it's my official pronouncement as a Magical Law Enforcement Officer."

"Like I said, it's only kind of illegal. I mean, that stuff's part mine. I was thinking I'd transfigure replicas of some minor art pieces, and if I choose carefully, I guarantee you it'll be another century before anyone so much as looks at them up close. Even if somebody broke one of those vases, my mother would just be disappointed for a few seconds until a house-elf swept it up."

"There's no such thing as 'kind of illegal,'" she pointed out.

Like how there's no accidental kidnapping or death-faking by omission.

"There's a Muggle story I read one time, I think it's actually rather famous – the legend of Robin Hood. Would you describe Robin Hood's activities as 'illegal'?"

Kind of.

"Seriously?" she asked with a grimace. "Are you really comparing yourself to Robin Hood?"

"No, I'm just drawing a parallel, but you're avoiding the question."

"It has nothing whatsoever to do with this situation."

"Sure it does. Is my family rich or poor?"

"Rich," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

"And what about you and me?"

"We're fine. We're in the middle."

"Compared to my family, we're pretty bloody poor. In your opinion, do my parents deserve those vases?"

It's all a matter of perspective.

"Definitely not," she sniffed.

"Then let's take them."

She sighed and looked down at her folded arms. She couldn't argue with his logic on that last one, despite the bizarre and completely inapplicable comparison. "How would you even get in there?"

"The front door, I would imagine. They may have put up a new ward to detect if I come home, but I know how to check for that and disarm it before I enter the property. When my father was in prison, I learned that even as a fifth year I was better at protective magic than he ever was."

"What if someone sees you?"

"They won't."

Hermione wasn't convinced; however, if she were, hypothetically, to actually consider this as a possibility, then she would theoretically know a way to make sure Malfoy wasn't seen. Borrowing from friends was in no way illegal. Malfoy was wearing a satisfied smile, and she realised she'd paused so long in thought that she couldn't plausibly deny it. "I'll think about it."

"If you have to act like you need to do that, go right ahead. I know you've already made your decision."

She turned her back on him and walked until she reached the kitchen, and she'd completely forgotten about the broken plate until she almost stepped in it.

"I see Potter's been getting on your nerves. Did you throw it at him?"

"It was an accident."

"That's strange, then. Is your kitchen having gravity issues?"

"What?"

"It's just that generally, things accidentally break on the floor, but your plate hit the wall so hard it left a mark. I was wondering if perhaps your gravity's malfunctioning."

Her hands clenched into fists. He raised his eyebrows and then glanced at the table.

"Why save the rest? If you broke one, you might as well break them all."

"They're still perfectly good plates," she muttered unconvincingly.

"No, they aren't. They're incomplete."

"I only ever have two people over anyway, and it was a set of four."

"But you'll always know, Granger. You'll never be able to set them out again without thinking about that fourth plate."

"They're just bloody plates! What is wrong with you?" she yelled, shaking her fists at him wildly. Her nails dug into her palms.

"You ask me that a lot, and this time I can tell you. Right now, I'm upset because your dinnerware is lacking. It's driving me insane just looking at those two miserable chunks of ceramic," he said breathlessly, and she really had no idea whether he was joking or not. Judging by the strange intensity in his eyes, she decided he wasn't.

"They're my plates, and I'll keep a set of three if I want a set of three plates!" Her breaths came fast and heavy now, too, and some small part of her was trying to figure out why she was so angry about dinnerware.

"Oh, sure! Like you could be happy with that! Your whole life is a set of three plates, and you never even knew it until I came in and needed the fourth one."

"Is that supposed to be a metaphor?" she yelled. Her lungs were burning, and her throat was tight.

"You know exactly what I mean," he growled, and she noticed that he'd moved closer to her, while she was slowly backing up against the table. "Face the facts, Granger. You're going to have to get some whole new plates." He was standing right in front of her, and a sharp corner was pressing into her back. She pushed him back savagely, but he didn't give up. "And I think I should pick them out, since you clearly have no taste."

"I only have bad taste in flatmates," she retorted bitterly.

"You know that's not true. I taste good."

That was it. She had to hand it to him: he really did know exactly where the 'off' switch was for the logic centre in her brain. She reached behind her and grabbed one of her ugly, incomplete plates and threw it at his head. He dodged it with a strangled cry, and so she threw the other one but missed. He kept walking toward her until he was centimetres away, and the table was still digging into her skin, and he smiled.

"I knew I could get you to do that." She slapped him across face, and he reeled back and looked at her dangerously. "That, too."

She almost wanted to respond, but her throat had closed up completely, and all she could do was reach behind her and hang onto the table.

"And you want to know something else?" he asked. She lifted her chin and stared him down. "You forgot to do something last night." She would have to get her breathing under control soon, or she'd hyperventilate. "You never said I couldn't touch you again. You've got about five more seconds to say it right now."

He came at her in a straight line, stepping carefully over the shards, but she didn't say it. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her roughly onto the table, but still she didn't say it. She didn't bother wondering why, even though the noise she made when he sunk his teeth into her shoulder was proof that her vocal chords were working just fine. She sank her nails into his skin and wrapped her legs around him, and he groaned into her neck. He put his mouth over hers again, and she thought it may have been closer to a kiss this time, but it didn't really matter.

She even managed to stop thinking for a time, and she couldn't tell how long it was, but Malfoy was growing more eager much faster than she was. There existed here a power that Hermione had never used, but she could feel that she had it.

She turned her head to suck his neck at the base of his ear, and she nibbled his earlobe before whispering in a sultry voice. "Malfoy?"

"Hm?" he managed, pushing her skirt up over her thighs.

"You can't touch me anymore."

She had never heard a man scream like that before. He launched himself off her and howled and doubled over in pain, and his whole body was shaking. When he managed to look back up at her, gasping desperately for air, his eyes were black and hard.

"You fucking bitch," he hissed. She swung her feet back and forth and smoothed her skirt back down. "Don't act like you don't want this. You're denying yourself just as much as you're denying me."

"Almost," she whispered. "I'm denying you a little bit more."

He struggled to collect himself. "When you realise that you can't wait any longer, you're going to have to remove that restriction for good," he said at last, through intermittent ragged breaths. "There's no way I'm getting near you if you're going to do that again."

"We'll see how long I can wait," she said boldly.

"I guess we will." His voice was calmer, but his eyes were much too sharp. "Have you got anything to drink?"

"No."

"Liar."

"I told you I've quit drinking," she reminded him. He was moving closer again, but not as close as he was before.

"I haven't."

"You have if I say you have."

"You'll take both of those back after another week at work. What case are you working on now? I bet it's really exciting," he taunted.

"That's none of your concern."

"You came home early on Thursday and Friday. Why was that?"

"It's my prerogative to come home an hour early if I so choose."

"Then it wouldn't have anything to do with wanting to come home to me."

"You're asleep when I get home."

"If you want to see me that badly, I could alter my sleep schedule. In fact, if you'll let me sleep in your bed, I'll even do it at night."

"No."

"Can I stay on your bedroom floor?"

She was beginning to feel drained as the last of the adrenaline seeped out of her blood. "I guess," she muttered. It was only ten o'clock, but she had to get up early anyway. "But I'm going to go to bed right now. Get out of my way."

He stepped back slowly, and she pushed herself off the table. She sucked in a surprised breath as she remembered the sea of broken glass.

Did I really do that?

She took her wand and magically swept all the shards into the bin. She cleaned the mark off the wall, went to her bedroom, and shut the door.

"Open it when you're done changing," he said. He was waiting right outside.

She put on pyjamas and turned out the lights before letting him in. As she dragged the blankets over her head, she heard him lie down on the floor and bid her goodnight.

She was there again, and this time she was angry. She didn't want to look at the white doors or the silver doorknobs or the shining numbered plates, and there was no way out until she picked one. She grabbed the closest handle and jerked it open.

Ron was face-down on the floor as she'd left him, except that the scarf was wrapped around his whole head. He moaned unintelligibly into the fabric, and she stepped forward and kicked him in the stomach again and again because there was no one else she could think of to be angry with. He cried out in pain and rolled over, and she realised it wasn't Ron at all. She reached down in slow motion and pulled the scarf aside, and it was Harry.

Then she was screaming and clawing at her hair.

"What's wrong?"

She started sobbing in between her cries, and her body was shaking and straining against the mass of black on top of her, but she could see nothing. Her eyes were blank screens waiting for a projector.

"It was Harry," she whimpered. She was trapped and forgotten here in the void, and it wasn't comfortable anymore. "I didn't want to hurt Harry."

"Who did you want to hurt?"

"I don't know," she said. Her voice sounded like a little girl's. "Whoever told me I had to act like this."

"Act like what?"

"I don't know," she gasped. She could feel the tears sliding down her cheeks and her hands brushing them away, but there was nothing else. This was the whole universe.

"How do you want to act?"

"I don't know."

"Can I get in your bed?"

"Yes," she said, even though the question didn't mean much to her. She felt the binds around her tighten as something pushed against her from the outside.

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes," she said, because then maybe they'd help her out of here. They could help her create a more suitable reality, from scratch now at the beginning of the world.

"Forever?"

This was the Big Bang. She could feel it.

"Yes," she said. The ties loosened, and a warm body pressed itself against her back.

Hermione woke up clutching the edge of her bed, with no blankets on her at all. The only reason she hadn't tumbled out onto the floor was because of a viselike restraint around her waist. Needless to say, she was surprised by this turn of events.

She turned her head slowly to find that Malfoy was in her bed, touching her. It wouldn't have made any more sense (if making sense were something that anything still did) if it had been someone else in her bed, but this was also unexpected in its own way.

"How did you get here?" she rasped. He opened his eyes.

"You said I could," he informed her before closing them again.

"When?"

"You had a nightmare, and you woke up and told me I could get in bed with you."

"I don't remember that."

"I think you were still mostly asleep."

"So, you took advantage of the situation and coerced me when you knew I couldn't say no."

"I didn't know you wouldn't remember it."

She pushed his arm away and sat up. It was too bright in her room, and she stared at the clock in horror: it was already half-past eight. "Did you turn off my alarm?"

"No, you did."

She put her hands over her face. "I don't even remember hearing it."

"It was still dark outside," he said into her pillow. "I still can't believe you get up that early every day."

She felt just as hungover as she had the day before, and she thought wildly that she might as well have gotten drunk last night. By the time she arrived at the Ministry, with no breakfast and Malfoy still in her bed, it was after nine. She was two hours late. Penny managed to catch up with her even though she was practically running to her office, and she hurried along to nip at Hermione's heels the whole way.

"Miss Granger, you look ill."

"I am," she said decisively, but maybe not how Penny meant it.

"I'm sure you could go home –"

"I wouldn't be any less ill at home."

Hermione stopped in front of her door and unlocked it, curling her lip at the disgustingly neat stack of papers on her desk. She wanted to throw them against the wall like plates, but they wouldn't shatter in such a satisfying way. She turned to face her assistant, and she must have looked like death, because Penny was really looking frightened.

"Bring me black coffee," she instructed, and the young girl fled immediately.

She really did mean to resolve the Leaky Cauldron case that day. She managed to read through a good portion of the documents, but her mind was wandering.

It's nice not waking up alone.

Penny kept coming in to check on her, and Hermione kept sending her away to refill her coffee.

I like the way his arms feel.

She even spared some time to think about Malfoy's idea. It was true that his parents didn't deserve their expensive art, especially if they didn't even appreciate it. The longer she thought about it, the more sense it made. The only issue was the execution, and she wondered if she could actually manage to get her hands on Harry's invisibility cloak. She examined the idea from all angles, but she couldn't come up with a way to get it for long enough without detection and was forced to scrap the whole thing. On the other hand, what if Hermione were to appear at Malfoy Manor on official Ministry business? And what if she could then pluck some hair from a house-elf? She hadn't in second year, but now she knew how to modify a Polyjuice potion for interspecies use. If Malfoy were a house-elf, he could appear during daylight and come in as though he'd been tending the grounds. Her thoughts were interrupted when Penny set a fresh mug of coffee on her desk, but she didn't mind this time.

"Penny, do you know who's on the Malfoy disappearance?" she asked.

Penny visibly jumped at being spoken to, but she managed to recover. "Erm, I think the Aurors are still working on that one."

"I see. Do you know how long it will be before it moves up? Assuming they don't find him, which they probably will, of course."

"Well, I'm not supposed to know," she began hesitantly.

"It's all right. Tell me anyway." She could tell her assistant was especially desperate to please her after how cold she'd been lately.

"I heard Harry Potter talking in the hall the other day, and he said they'd take it out of his hands if he didn't have new information by Friday."

"That's very useful to me. Thank you so much," she said, and Penny looked like she might just weep with joy.

Once her assistant was gone, Hermione wrote a concise note to the head of her Department: I want the Malfoy assignment.

With that in mind, she forced herself to plow through the rest of her documents, and by the end of the day she'd finally submitted her decision: the Cauldron had ninety days to refinish their floors to meet standards, at which time a new test would be performed. They would cover the old man's hospital bills, but no further damages were to be awarded.

She was collecting her things to leave, and not a moment early, when a response arrived from her boss:I wouldn't have given it to anyone else, Miss Granger.