A Concerted Effort to Disagree

SEVEN

a wary peace

"What kept you?"

Her appearance was normal, at least, she reminded herself—had it not been, they would have commented on it. Ron's eyes were watchful, staring at her, concerned. Harry's and Ginny's were replicas, question marks looking her way. She sat down and pulled a plate of toast towards her. "Just Malfoy being himself, again," she answered, buttering a piece of toast for herself. "Not surprising."

"What was that last night, anyway?" Harry asked, reaching for the pitcher of orange juice and pouring himself some more. "Did Slughorn really tell you...?"

"'Promoting House unity,'" she answered, and giggled a little. They all relaxed. Who knew I was such a good actress? she laughed to herself. "Yes, it's all garbage, you've seen what they're all like, you know it'll never work, but it pleases the teachers and it's only once in a while. He was surprisingly cordial about it. He would've joined us for breakfast this morning, but...we had a bit of a row..." She smiled again, as if to say this weren't a big deal. "So it's probably better off waiting for Monday."

They were sufficiently convinced, she could see that already. "You seen his arm yet?" Ron questioned. "Just out of curiosity."

Her hands might have faltered with her knife, but she quickly righted herself. "No. And you both know it's utter rubbish, Voldemort wasn't about to bring a sixteen-year-old into his elite circle of Death Eaters..." She stifled a fake burst of laughter. "He would consider it so beneath him, wouldn't he? He has much cleverer, stronger wizards at his disposal than Malfoy..."

Ron gave Harry a look that plainly said, "I told you so," and went back to eating his sausages.

"So what are we up to today?" Hermione asked of the table in general.

"Well, it's Quidditch first, just a start-of-term practice for the older members; try-outs are next weekend," Harry answered; he was digging into a large bowl of porridge. "And then we were thinking of visiting Hagrid's, you're coming, of course."

"Why wouldn't I? I'd love to see Hagrid."

She felt that there was something too challenging in the way Harry had said that, as though he expected her to opt for an afternoon studying in her common room, with Malfoy undoubtedly nearby. This was just absurd. She wasn't at all interested in going any nearer that man than she had to. It had been proven, hadn't it, that he was at least moderately dangerous, no matter how genuine he appeared...

…

After a relaxing afternoon watching them all play Quidditch, and going to Hagrid's for a visit filled with rock cakes that they politely refused, the three returned to the Great Hall for dinner and were joined by Ginny. Hermione couldn't help but look round, once, to see if she could glimpse the Death Eater she lived with, but he was nowhere to be seen. Nonplussed, she continued with her dinner and stayed with her Gryffindor friends until they decided to retire to their common room for the evening to work on the weekend workload that so many seventh years already felt piling up. She found herself missing the Slytherin food that she had tried the night before; that steak had looked interesting, and she hadn't had the chance to taste it.

She felt bemused with herself for the thought. Waving goodbye to Harry, Ron, and Ginny, she turned down the corridor towards her common room, wondering if Malfoy was out on the grounds. She did have work to do, that was for sure, but she was curious where he got to...

"Visionary," she told the roses, and slipped into the common room.

He was there, relaxing on the couch, a plate of food beside him on the table. He looked up when she entered; she detected a flicker of interest, fear, even wariness before his features melted into their formerly stony appearance. Tension jumped into her shoulders, just being in his presence. It was something to be afraid for your life every second of being around a person you couldn't get rid of. "You weren't at dinner," she commented, removing her cloak and placing it on the little hook beside the door.

"I didn't feel like it. Nicked some food from the house-elves."

"It's not fair to call it nicking, they like to just push it at you, really—"

Again, that odd laugh; a half of a smile, a rush of expelled air. It was as though he'd forgotten how to do it. He sobered at once, though. "Hey, Granger," he said, as she sat down in the armchair with her Arithmancy book, "what's it like?"

"What? Being a Mudblood?" she asked sardonically, scratching her nose with the end of her quill. "Well, Malfoy, it's quite dull, really, you see, we spend half our lives thinking we're psychotic because we can do odd things and then we get this letter and come to this school where at least a quarter the population despises us..."

"Not that." He waved this off with a hand. "Having friends."

Her head lifted; her eyes narrowed. He was staring into the fire. Was he...depressed? Was that the emotion there? "I don't understand what you mean," she said cautiously, feeling as though she was walking into a trap.

"Sitting over there, with Potter and Weasley...laughing...having a good time. You act like you really get each other. Like it's not just for show."

"Yes, well...it's not. We do. I mean, ever since we knocked out that mountain troll together first year, it's been impossible to not be friends. Me and Ron row a lot, but it's all just our personalities clashing, really..."

"Wait, wait, wait." He held up his hands, signalling for her to slow down. "A mountain troll? The one that got into the castle?"

"The one that Professor Quirrell let in, you mean," she scoffed. "It was terribly big."

"I'd...heard rumours...but how did you three end up getting to it? We were all supposed to go back to our dormitories."

"You act as if you've never broken rules, Malfoy."

He smirked. She smiled, but ducked her head quickly to hide it. "So what happened?"

"Well, er, we weren't all friends yet. I mean, Ron and Harry were, but I always annoyed them, I acted like too much of a know-it-all. So, Ron said something...something about me having no friends because I was unbearable...I spent the day crying my eyes out in the toilet, all through the feast as well. And then when I'm about to come out and go to bed I hear this grunting, and a click, and this victorious shout, and I looked out of the stall to see this enormous mountain troll in the loo with me. Turns out Harry and Ron had come looking for me because they knew I didn't know about the troll, and they didn't realize it was the girl's bathroom and they locked in it with me. They apparently realized what they'd done because they burst in—and Harry leapt onto it, distracting it—and Ron knocked it out with its own club. So, well, that's how we became friends."

She busied herself with her Arithmancy book, aware that he was staring at her quite as though he'd never seen her before. "So...that's it?" he pressed, when she said nothing more. "That's all it takes to become friends for six years?"

"Well, I mean, there's quite a lot more to it!" she said, exasperated, looking up at him once more. "We've been through a lot, you know—it's about loyalty and liking each other and putting up with each other—I mean, you have Crabbe and Goyle, don't you? And all your Slytherin friends."

"No," he corrected her automatically, having turned around fully now to look at her. "No, we have...a series of debts to be repaid...services to exchange...the strong leading the weak. It's not...friends, exactly, it's..."

"It's bloody worthless, in other words," she interrupted. "How do you live like that? Everyone needs friends."

"No," he countered, "or I wouldn't be alive."

She made a face. "You know what I mean."

"Well, do I look like a well-adapted individual to you?" he snorted.

"No," she said, immediately. "But, I mean, it's nice, you should try it some time. You end up with people who care about you no matter what...and all that rubbish...they're completely devoted to you, even your flaws, they like who you are, they wouldn't be the same without you. It's nice, being needed like that." She felt abruptly embarrassed, a blush creeping onto her face, and looked down at her book again.

"I never said I'd like it," he said, on the defensive immediately. "I was just wondering. You always seem to be having such a grand time. Must be nice. Once in a while."

"Yes, well, it is." She didn't look up. They fell into a wary, uncomfortable silence. A quick glance showed her the books upon books of open homework, waiting to be done on the couch beside him. He didn't seem to be inclined to start or finish it. There were half-written essays and crumpled pages of notes. He cleared off the space, piling the books on the side table beside his food.

There was a brief pause, and then, with a murmured incantation, he conjured another goblet and tipped the bottle of wine into it, pouring out the scarlet liquid within. "Wine?" he offered, his voice a struggle to sound careless, but she knew an invitation when it was handed to her, even wrapped in grubby packaging. She towed a bag of her books along with her as she took her seat on the couch, accepting the nettle wine and a bite of sharp cheese, keeping a space between them, but feeling less like she was about to be hexed into oblivion.

They settled into an uncomfortable sort of peace, sitting with food and drink and roll after roll of parchment, scribbling out assignments and reading deep into the night, all of it passed in silence but for the occasional comment or question about a subject they had in common. By the time Hermione retired to her bedroom, he had fallen asleep against the arm of the couch, breathing deeply into a textbook. She hesitated before pulling the book from underneath his head and placing a pillow there instead, gently tugging the quill from his hand and pushing his inkwell out of reach where it wouldn't spill. His breath, for a moment, caught, and she wondered whether he knew she was there. Carefully, her fingers caught at his sleeve, lifting it back away from his wrist. For a moment, she took in the Dark Mark that was faded, motionless, into his flesh, barely discernible, inactive. She shook her head, and let his sleeve go.

His eyes opened as she retreated to her room. Her scent—like apples, and melting brown sugar, was it her soap or a perfume?—lingered behind her in the air. He breathed deeply, and drifted back to sleep.