A/N : First and foremost, I want to apologize for the time it has taken me between updates. I have had a lot going on in my personal life, and writing time has been limited. Hopefully I'll be able to pump out chapter nine faster, but I make no promises other than this story will NOT be abandoned! :) Thank you SO very much to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed! You have no idea what it means so me!
VERY special shout-out to the ladies of Wandlore, especially my self-proclaimed "groupies", ambriabeal and tilly90! ;) lol And major love to my beta and best friend, claireabellalou! XO
Last, this chapter has been a pain in the ass. It may be confusing, and certain parts may not make a lot of sense or seem... off, but just bear with me, okay? It'll all come together! Haha As always, reviews are so appreciated!
Much love,
-L
Oblivion
Chapter 8:
Hermione woke from her fitful half-sleep the instant she heard the faint Pop! outside of the tent that she knew signaled Harry and Ron's return. She rolled over swiftly to face Malfoy across the room where he sat staring at her. He was still covered in blood.
"Episkey! Tergeo!" she said hastily. Malfoy gasped and clutched his nose as it popped back into place and the blood disappeared from his face and clothes. He tried to meet Hermione's solid, cool stare, but he was the first to break eye contact. It felt like a small victory to her.
She turned her head as Harry and Ron eased through the tent entrance, the former supporting the latter's weight by the arm slung around his shoulders.
Hermione was instantly on Ron's other side and helping Harry lead him to a chair. "What happened?" she asked, concern etched into her face.
"It's nothing, 'Mione. I'm fine," Ron tried to assure her.
"You most certainly are not fine, Ron! What happened?" she demanded in a tone that made it clear resistance was futile.
"I just tripped, that's all. Someone was passing just a bit too close to where we were, so we started backing up a few steps," Ron started.
"Yeah, and graceful here forgot to tie his trainers properly. He tripped over the laces and twisted his ankle," Harry finished. All three turned when they heard a snort from behind them. "Muffliato!" they said in unison. Malfoy rolled his eyes and then narrowed them in confusion at Harry. Hermione ignored him.
"Were you seen? The cloak. Did it fall off?" she asked.
"Yeah, it did," Harry said. "Ron was seen, but I wasn't. It all happened so fast. He was falling backward, and the cloak fell off, and the woman was turning her head toward the noise, and before he even hit the ground Ron cast a Disillusionment Charm on me. He was brilliant," he said, smiling down at his best friend.
"Yeah, brilliant," Ron laughed. "Brilliantly clumsy, maybe. Harry Apparated us out of there faster than you could believe, Hermione. Your nag- erm, insistence that we take turns leading when Apparating apparently paid off."
Hermione sighed with relief. "Thank Merlin," she said. "Here, let me see if I can fix that ankle." She knelt down in front of him and pointed her wand at his ankle saying "Episkey!" for the second and, hopefully, last time that day.
Ron rolled his ankle. He looked up and smiled shyly at her, his eyes soft. "Thanks, 'Mione," he said. Hermione heard in the two little words what he didn't have to say. I'm sorry.
"Of course," she said. I forgive you. He held his arms out to her, and she hugged him tightly. "I'm just glad you're both safe."
"Well," Harry said, "I'm going to go stand watch for a bit, make sure we weren't followed. Care to join me, Hermione?"
"Sure," she answered as Ron set to digging through their meager food supplies for something to eat. Harry held the tent entrance open for her and then sat down in the spot she had occupied just hours before, leaving her to take Malfoy's. Harry eyed the pile of shredded leaves in front of him and the stripped twigs across the entranceway in front of her, but he simply raised one brow for a moment and didn't say anything about it.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked her.
Hermione tried to look innocent though all she felt was guilt. She wasn't even exactly sure what about. "Me? Yes, of course. Why?"
Harry gestured at her face. "Your eyes are red and puffy like you've been crying."
Damn. She'd forgotten to fix herself up, and of course Harry had noticed. "Oh, that. Yes, I believe it's my allergies acting up. My eyes are itchy as well," she lied.
Harry nodded his head. "Your allergies causing your mouth to bruise and bleed, too?"
Hermione hesitated then sighed. "It's nothing. I'm all right, Harry."
"You're letting him out. Malfoy. When we're gone, you let him out of the cell." It wasn't really a question, so Hermione decided she didn't technically have to answer. She simply stared ahead into the woods.
The two were quiet for several long minutes. Harry sighed. "I don't know why you brought him here, Hermione. I can't begin to really understand, but I do trust you. You know that, right?"
Hermione nodded but still didn't meet his eyes.
Harry cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable about what he wanted to say next. "And you can always trust me, too. Did you… I mean have you ever… Were you…" He groaned loudly in frustration.
"Just spit it out, Harry," Hermione snapped, not sure exactly where he was going with this but afraid she may have a clue.
Harry took a deep breath. "Hermione, do you have feelings for Malfoy?"
Hermione whirled around to face him, eyes wide with shock. "What?!"
"It's okay if you do. I mean, well, not really. It's completely mental and totally fucked up and confusing, but I won't be mad or anything. D-did you have… a thing or something? Is that why you brought him?" Harry's eyes widened as if he'd just realized something. "Is that why you kept trying to convince me he wasn't a Death Eater last year? Because you… were secretly involved?"
"No!" she screeched. "Harry, don't be thick! Malfoy and I have never had any kind of 'thing', unless you consider me punching him in the nose in third year a 'thing'. And I tried to get you to stop obsessing over him potentially being a Death Eater because I honestly didn't think You-Know-Who would make him one, not because I had some secret crush on him," she scoffed. "Honestly, do you even know me?" She met his eyes and tried not to fidget under his questioning gaze. She couldn't stop the blush that crept up her neck and cheeks when she unwillingly thought of Malfoy's attack earlier that day and her mindless initial response to him.
Harry didn't miss it. He narrowed his eyes but only nodded, deciding not to push for the time being. "We're going to have to decide whether or not we'll be going back to Diagon Alley to watch Gringotts again. Honestly, I don't feel like we're near ready to infiltrate yet, and you're certainly not healthy enough," he said, effectively and thankfully changing the subject.
"Who was she? The woman who saw Ron. Did you recognize her?" Hermione asked.
"I don't know. Maybe? I've never seen her before, for sure, but I would swear she's Padma and Parvati's mum. She looked just like them."
"Well that's good, isn't it? Better her than someone more likely to join You-Know-Who," she reasoned.
"I suppose," he agreed. "She didn't look comfortable being there at all. I'd guess she wouldn't be likely to contact a Death Eater just to tell him Ron was in Diagon Alley, assuming she even recognized him." He stood and brushed the dirt from his trousers. "I'll talk to him, make sure he's comfortable going back, but as long as he's okay with it, I really don't see why we wouldn't. I'm positive no one else saw us." He held a hand out to pull Hermione to her feet, but instead of letting her go he pulled her into a fierce hug. Hermione closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest, grateful for the comfort and familiarity. "I love you, Hermione. You're my best friend. I'm here if you need anything, alright?"
"I know. I love you, too, Harry." They parted and went back into the tent where Ron was sitting at the table slowly munching on a bag of crisps and reading the book Hermione had left there that morning. "Really? You must be joking! We go on the run, and now you decide to open a textbook?" she joked.
Ron wrinkled his nose. "Trust me, it's not my first choice, but someone deemed my Quidditch magazines 'not useful' and decided not to pack them," he grumbled.
"Yeah, well," Harry said with a grin, "you should just be glad she didn't decide to surprise you and go digging in your room for them later. I'm sure you wouldn't particularly want Hermione discovering any of the other magazines you have in your—"
"Oi!" Ron shouted, face turning beet-red while Harry's mischievous grin widened and Hermione doubled over with laughter at the look of embarrassed disbelief on the redhead's face. Once she started, she couldn't seem to stop, and she plopped down right where she was on the floor and clutched at her sides as she shook with unsuppressed mirth. It was contagious, and before they knew it her two friends were rolling right along with her. A moment of youthful bliss in the middle of old men's war.
Finally, she began to sober up, still gasping for breath and spontaneously letting out a giggle. She glanced to the side as she wiped her streaming eyes, and Malfoy was staring at her. He looked…. confused? Surprised? Bewildered? Or maybe something else… Hermione couldn't tell, and at the moment she really didn't care. She was in too good of a mood, something she needed desperately and that she also knew would fade all too quickly as it was.
She heaved herself up off of the floor. "Come on," she said, still smiling and rummaging in her beaded bag and pulling out a board. "How about you two play some wizard's chess, and I'll get something started for dinner?" And laughing and talking all the while, holding on to that warm feeling of simplicity for as long as possible, they did just that.
oOoOoOoOoOoOo
Draco lay on his back in his clear prison cell and stared up at the ceiling of the tent, watching the eerie shadows the dying candlelight threw against its canvas walls. When he was a child he'd loved to watch the candlelight's movement in his room, seeing shapes of animals and trees and such in the shadows as he fell asleep. Most nights, anyway. Other nights the shadows seemed sinister and scary. Those were the nights he had something to feel guilty about, some wrong he'd done that he'd yet to rectify. Like the time when he was nine and he'd stolen his mother's wand to play with and misplaced it. She'd asked if he'd took it, and he'd denied it, naming one of the house elves as the culprit. His mother had given the elf a sock immediately, and the creature had wailed and begged at her feet for mercy. The shadows were unfriendly for that night and two more until he'd finally come clean and told his mother the truth, though she'd already figured out as much when she'd found her wand. After the guilt was gone, the shadows were pleasant and comforting again.
Tonight the shadows were sinister. They twisted and curled and slithered around him like serpents ready to strangle the life out of him quickly and quietly. He shut his eyes to block them out, but that only made the tightness building in his chest that much worse. With a frustrated groan he sat up, running his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair and, recognizing the signs of an approaching panic attack, began slowing his breaths.
It was ridiculous, this feeling of guilt. The only times in his life he'd ever felt guilty had been in accordance with something he'd lied to his mother about or something hurtful he'd said to her in a typical teenage fit. So why was this damn-near crippling guilt bearing down on him now? He didn't give a shit about the Mudblood. He didn't owe her anything.
Okay, he may actually owe her a life debt for removing him from the manor before the Dark Lord showed up, but that was debatable and not at all the point. Besides, it's not like he had been trying to kill her. He wasn't really even trying to… He wouldn't even think the words. He'd never have done it, not to any woman, Mudblood or not. On more than one occasion he'd been labeled weak and a pussy for not participating in the violation of women (and even more nauseatingly, very young girls) during raids. That was one time the terms didn't faze him in the slightest. The ones who participated were pigs, and he felt no shame for not being like them in that aspect.
No, he'd only intended on scaring her, which is exactly what he'd done. She'd pissed him off with her insistence that he could be "good" and "change". What the fuck did she know? He was just like his father who was just like his father, just who he was raised to be. Even if he had some desire to change that – which I don't, he stubbornly argued with himself – it didn't matter. People don't just change. There are some things there's just no coming back from. Draco was positive he fell into that category, for better or worse.
He'd wanted her to fear him. He'd wanted to prove to her he was who he said he was. He'd wanted her to understand and just stop pushing.
Now he just wanted her hands softly on his shoulders while she distracted him with some random babble to ease him through the growing tightness in his chest. Why?! When had that happened? How had that happened? Why had that happened? What was wrong with him? Why had her presence at the manor turned everything upside down? What was going on with him?
Draco didn't know. He couldn't even begin to fathom whatever it was that had changed things so abruptly and dramatically. All he knew was as soon as Potter and Weasley left in the morning, he was apparently going to have to fucking apologize to Hermione Granger, of all people.
oOoOoOoOo
He didn't even pretend to be asleep this time while the other two men readied themselves to leave for the day the next morning. He sat with his knees drawn up, forearms resting on them with his hands dangling, and watched Hermione as she piddled about here and there, packing Potter's rucksack and fussing with the infamous cloak as she neatly unfolded it and secured it in his grip. Weasley, in turn, glared at him steadily, but Draco paid him no mind. The freckle-faced git leaned over to Potter just before they were leaving and whispered something in his ear, never taking his eyes off of Draco. Potter threw him a quick and irritated glance over his shoulder before shaking his head and whispering back to his friend. The red-head's scowl deepened, but he nodded. Draco smirked at him.
As soon as Hermione sent them on their way with their hands full of what appeared to be several wrapped sandwiches or pastries, she set about making breakfast at the little table. Draco sat quietly and watched her work, her hair flying and wand prodding various contents sporadically. Before they'd woke, he'd scooted up to sit with the tips of his toes just grazing the barrier that kept him safely tucked away from the others. As she waved her wand here and there over the breakfast makings, Draco couldn't help wondering if, perhaps, she'd dropped his wall in the process. He knew it was ridiculous, but he had to check. He eased his right foot forward just a few millimeters, and it met resistance. Of course it did. Had he really expected anything else?
He waited until she was seated at the table with her coffee mug tucked close to her chest as if she was trying to pull the warmth from it. The delicious smell of baked goods had filled the tent as she'd prepared their breakfast, and Draco was shocked and pleased when, instead of yet another bowl of mush, she'd levitated a jam filled danish into his cell. (Without a word to him or a glance in his direction, of course.) He didn't know where it had come from - Potter and Weasley raided a bakery on a supply run, maybe? - and he certainly didn't care. Part of him wanted to engulf the thing in one bite right then and there, but he didn't. If he was going to get out of this cell again, he was going to need this apology to seem sincere, and appearing to have lost his appetite until he'd said his piece would help with the sincerity. I haven't though. It's just an act, he insisted to himself, then wondered why he was trying to convince himself in the first place.
He waited until she'd taken a few sips of her coffee, giving her time to get the feel-good caffeine high started. He'd composed a short speech and repeated it over and over like a mantra inside his head in the hours he'd lain awake before the others had woken.
Granger, I would like to apologize for my behaviour yesterday afternoon. It was rude and terrible and completely uncalled for, and I am infinitely embarrassed by my actions. I should never have frightened you like that, and I vow not to do so again. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
If his father were ever to hear him speak those words to a Mudblood… He shuddered at the thought. His father wasn't here, though, and that apology was his only hope of a ticket out of this cell. And out of your guilt, his subconscious whispered. He mentally shot his subconscious a rude hand gesture.
Draco sat up as straight as he could on the floor and cleared his throat. "Granger," he started. She turned her head to look at him with those knowing, wise, and unfathomably kind, albeit guarded brown eyes, and suddenly Draco didn't remember he even had a speech, much less the words to it. "I'm sor- I'm sorry," he stuttered. "For yesterday. For trying to scare you. I wou- I wouldn't have... I mean I'd never... I'm sorry. I was only trying to frighten you. Truly. I didn't want to- I mean I wasn't going to- I just… I was trying to make you understand, really. There's no redemption story to be had here. There's nothing good in me, Granger," he said almost desperately. "Though, I'm sure you've realized by now. I've made my choices." He saw in his mind's eye the memory of her lying on the old and beautiful rug he'd sprawled across so many times as a child, her arm gushing blood (the same color as mine when it had spilled on the same rug while I took the Mark) and her screams of agony piercing the air. That had been just a handful of days ago, still so new and fresh that her physical wounds hadn't even healed yet, much less her emotional ones, and she'd suffered yet another attack yesterday, this time at his hands. After she'd done what she thought was the right thing by trying to save his life. After he'd had such a strong reaction to her suffering that he'd betrayed his family and his leader to give her the slim chance of an escape. And then he'd caused her more pain. "I've made my choices," he repeated, and though he didn't notice the slight rasp in his voice, she did. "I am what I am. You should really just give up on me now," he said softly, and he wasn't even surprised when his ever-so-loud-and-persistent traitorous subconscious whispered, But please don't.
She stared at him for several long moments, and meeting her gaze without flinching was one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to do. After some time, she waved her wand in his direction, and his heart leapt before he noticed the cup of black coffee heading in his direction. It landed neatly in front of him, and Hermione turned back to look at her plate and flick idly through the book at her elbow. Draco swallowed against the dryness and tightness in his throat. Well, that's a start, he thought as he picked up the mug and sipped at the strong liquid. He never took his eyes off of her as he drained his drink and ate his breakfast, watching how she held herself rigidly, almost as if she had some protective shield wrapping around her and holding her upright, keeping her from harm of the emotional and mental sort.
After half an hour or so, Hermione began methodically cleaning and putting away her dishes. When everything was in it's correct place, she walked purposefully to the tent entrance and out the flap without so much as a glance in his direction, which was basically what he'd expected. When, less than a minute later, she'd flung the tent-flap back open and pointed her wand at him with an annoyed and exasperated huff and caused the foot Draco still had propped against the barrier to smack to the floor, the leap of excitement and pure happiness in his chest was as baffling as it was expected.
Draco stood slowly so as not to have any risk of startling her, and he waited until she jerked her head in a "come on" motion before casually walking toward her, being sure to keep his distance as she watched him warily. He set off leading the way along the same path they had walked for three days in a row now, only this time Hermione stayed a handful of paces behind him and he could practically feel the wand that was pointed at his back. She wasn't going to let her guard down. Good. You never should have, you too-brave-and-smart-for-your-own-good witch, he thought.
Draco's steps faltered momentarily. Wow. Now I'm mentally paying compliments to Granger? He sighed quietly. Just go with it. Nothing makes sense anymore anyway, he thought resignedly.
They'd made several laps when Draco stopped and turned to her. She was pale and shaky, just as he knew she would be, but she gripped her wand all the tighter where she had it casually lifted toward him, though her arm hung at her side. "You need to rest," he said, and this time he managed to not even question himself. "You're pushing yourself too bloody hard, and you'll never heal that way." Hermione's eyebrows drew together in bewilderment. Draco pointed at what he was considering "her spot" and said, "Sit." Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline briefly before she narrowed her eyes at him, obviously trying to figure out what he was playing at. Eyes never leaving hers, Draco slowly eased himself down to sit in "his spot" and held his hands up as if to say I'm not a threat, which was kind of ridiculous, he knew. He could see her debating with herself about whether or not this was some sort of trap, but in the end her exhaustion won out, and she took her seat and leaned back against the post with a half sigh, half moan.
Draco watched as she breathed in the cool air deeply with her eyes closed against the bright morning sun and wondered. He wondered why he suddenly out of absolutely nowhere had this random instinct that screamed at him "PROTECT HER" anytime she was in harm's way. He wondered why and how his subconscious had come to view her as someone to keep safe while in his mind and heart she was what she'd always been: a Mudblood, someone to be discarded. Or was she? Was that still how he saw her? He didn't know. Everything he thought he knew was all twisted and knotted up with this new instinct that, try as he might, he couldn't fight.
"Why are you staring at me?" she asked with her eyes still shut.
"How do you know I am?"
"I can feel it." She pulled her head up and looked at him. "Why are you staring at me?"
Because you're beautiful, he thought.
Wait, what? No, she wasn't. Her hair was ridiculous, her eyes dull, her build gangly and awkward. Only… No, that wasn't right. She hadn't changed, not really, in the last year. She looked the exact same, and yet while he'd found her wholly unattractive and even funny looking ever since he'd known her - a sentiment he'd noticed the vast majority of the boys in the castle had NOT agreed with for some years, oddly enough - he now felt like that wasn't quite right either. As he looked at her now, he not only realized that he did, indeed, find her beautiful, but his memory told him he always had. But that didn't make sense. He hadn't. On more than one occasion he'd made a point to state all of her flaws, made a point to state that she was ugly and truly meant it, and yet it was like two separate memories were coexisting side by side. He drudged up the memory of her coming down the stairs for the Yule Ball back in fourth year. All the girls had seethed with jealousy and all the boys' eyes had widened in amazement, but when Draco had turned to look at her he'd seen nothing but… plain. Sure, she hadn't been as hideous as she usually was, but she certainly wasn't pretty. He could remember it clearly, and yet it was like there was a second picture of her beside that memory, and in it she was stunning, absolutely breathtaking. How could he clearly remember two completely different views, two completely different perceptions, two completely different feelings?
"Malfoy."
Draco shook his head slightly and filed away his thoughts for further exploration later. "I'm just trying to figure out why you let me out again," he said, and it wasn't a lie. He had been wondering that.
"So am I," she grumbled, and he saw a blush creep up her neck. He wondered why and if it had anything to do with the day before (which it undoubtedly did), and for the first time, he let himself truly think about it, about the details. About the truth of them.
The truth was he'd been angry. He'd wanted to scare her. He'd wanted to have the upper hand. He'd wanted her to know that he wasn't good, without a doubt. That was the truth.
The truth was also that he'd wanted her to be right. He'd wanted the words she'd given him. He'd wanted to taste the lips that had spoken such hope to him, such concern for him.
The truth was once he had, he'd hated it, hated her. Hated how he didn't hate it at all. Hated that he'd begun to lose himself in the kiss, that his thoughts strayed momentarily from wanting to threaten to just wanting.
The truth was when she'd returned the kiss, when she'd pressed her body against his, he'd hated himself more than anything. He'd hated that he'd forgotten what he was doing. He'd hated that he'd dared to touch her, dared to harm her, dared to frighten her. Hated that he'd taken that anger and hate out on her by continuing his attack, by continuing to frighten her. Hated that he cared.
The truth was he wanted to know why she'd returned that kiss. What had she been thinking? What was she thinking now?
"That's probably the most emotion I've ever seen cross your face, and I don't even know what it means," she said, snapping him back to the moment and watching him intently.
"Neither do I," he admitted honestly.
After a moment she said, "I know you only apologized in the hope that I'd let you out of that cell again."
Draco snorted, and Hermione shot him a surprised look at the sound. "I don't."
"Don't what?"
"Know that," he answered. "Then again, I don't know much of anything any more, now do I?" he said more to himself.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said stubbornly. Draco turned toward her where she sat up straighter now, her chin slightly raised, her hair moving in the slight breeze, her dark eyes flashing in defiance. She really is beautiful, he marveled, still unnerved by this revelation.
"I know, but you should be," he whispered, and even he could hear the sadness in his voice.
"I know that's what you were hoping for," she said, but her tone had lost its edge. "I know you want me to be scared of you. Somehow that makes you even less fearsome."
Draco thought vaguely that he should be offended by that, but he wasn't. On the contrary, he was oddly relieved. Because more and more he was realizing, he didn't truly want her to fear him. He wanted to want her to fear him. He wanted to understand how and why that had all changed, too, but that didn't seem like it was going to happen anytime soon.
"You were right," he said, because why shouldn't he? "About my father," he explained. "The first time was on my fifth birthday. Mother and Father had taken me into Diagon Alley to shop for presents. I remember picking out new robes at Madame Malkin's, getting a new toy broom at Quality Quidditch Supplies, some new Exploding Snap cards at Gambol and Jape's. It had been a great day. We decided to stop in at Florean Fortescue's for a cup of ice cream before going to pick me out a pet at the menagerie. Father had spotted some Ministry worker or another that he wanted to say hello to, and I drifted out in front of the shop while my parents talked. There was a boy my age sitting at one of the patio tables, and when he saw me he waved me over. He asked me if I was a wizard, first thing. I said I was without question, and then I asked, 'Aren't you?'
"'I don't know,' he said. 'My brother found out two days ago that he is - that's why we're here- so hopefully I will be too! We came to Diagon Alley the first chance we got. It's amazing, isn't it?' I didn't know why he would think he could be anything other than a wizard, but I didn't think too much about it. I was five, and I'd never played with another child before. Ever. So I agreed that it was, indeed, amazing, sat down with him, and we talked and laughed and took scoops out of one another's ice cream cups like regular little boys. After a while my parents came out of the shop, and I heard my mother gasp. My father yanked me out of my chair, knocking my ice cream to the ground, and he said, 'Draco! What are you doing?!' I didn't understand why he was so upset until he yelled, 'He's a Muggle!'
"I was shocked. I'd heard of Muggles before, of course, but I'd always pictured them to be… I don't know. More like the monsters under the bed, I suppose. I tried to argue, saying his brother was a wizard. 'A Mudblood,' Father corrected. By then the boy's parents and brother had come up, but they just looked confused, like we were speaking another language. My parents ushered me out and down to the pet store without another word about it. They bought me the raven I picked out and a few other things throughout the shops in town, and that was that.
"We got back to the manor, and I hadn't stepped more than a foot into the drawing room when Father spun around and backhanded me. I wasn't prepared, and it knocked me to the ground. I remember my mother screamed once, but then my father told her to be quiet, and I guess something in his voice told her she should. 'We do not mingle with Muggles or their spawn,' he said simply, and then he went to the lounge for a glass of firewhisky. It had been the best day, but it had turned into the worst. After that, Father reconnected with Crabbe and Goyle's parents so that I could make some 'suitable friends'."
Draco stared at the ground at his feet for several minutes after telling his story, waiting for Hermione to say something. When he finally looked up at her, the expression on her face was mostly just contemplative. Finally she asked, "Was he a wizard? The boy."
Draco shook his head. "No. No, he wasn't."
She fell silent again for a while. Then, "What did you name your raven?"
Draco smirked. "Marvin, if you can believe it. Who names a bird Marvin?"
Hermione laughed at that, and Draco's smirk bloomed into a small smile that faded all too quickly when she asked, "Do you still have Marvin?"
"No," he said flatly. "He's dead."
Hermione seemed to hear more in the three words and asked slowly, "How did he die?"
"My father snapped his neck when I forgot to latch the cage properly and he used the bathroom in the house." He said it with as little feeling as he could, but the memory still brought a lump of sadness and fear to his throat after all these years.
They lapsed into silence once more, listening to the birds in the trees around them and the small woodland creatures scampering through the brush without saying a word until lunch time when Hermione summoned some cheese sandwiches she'd already made for them. Draco glanced at her from time to time as she chewed thoughtfully on her food, and he wondered what was going through her head. Finally she said, "I don't know why. I know I shouldn't, absolutely should not, but for some reason I believe you." She glared at him accusingly. "Why? Why do I believe you?"
Draco raised a brow in confusion. "About… what? The bird?" he asked, bewildered.
"No," she snapped irritably. "About your damn apology, that's what. Either there's something wrong with me and I've suddenly gone daft, or there's something wrong with you and you've suddenly sprouted some form of a conscience."
He tried to fight a smirk. "I thought you brought me along because you were convinced I had a conscience deep, deep down, Granger?"
Hermione huffed. "Yes, well, I did think so. I do. It's just… I don't know," she sighed. "When someone physically attacks you and then spews this sincere sounding apology, forgive me but it can be a bit hard to believe. Or it should be. And yet I find myself believing it."
Draco hung his head as shame and guilt crept up on him again. "Definitely something wrong with me," he mumbled. He looked up and saw her staring at him questioningly. "Have you ever…" What? Felt like you were losing your mind? He sighed.
"Have I ever what?" she asked.
"Never mind. You shouldn't believe me. You shouldn't keep trying to find some speck of decency in me. I've been trying to tell you that. Just give it up, Granger."
Hermione shrugged one shoulder. "I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you're warring with yourself, which means I'm at least a little bit right."
Draco just shook his head sadly. He didn't deserve this unwarranted faith in him, in who she thought he maybe could be.
"That," she said, pointing at him. "I think that's why I believe you. No one can fake such despair and confusion."
"But someone can fake enough anger and heinous intent to slam someone down on the ground and rip half of her clothes off?" he asked sarcastically.
She pursed her lips. "People often lash out in anger when they're afraid."
"And what about you? Aren't you afraid of anything? Oh, no, of course not. You're all Gryffindor, all bravery. A hero with a saving people complex. Don't you have a shred of self preservation in you?" he demanded desperately.
"What about you?" she countered. "You're a Slytherin. You're supposed to be completely about self preservation, yet you put your life on the line to help us escape your manor." Her eyes held his with a challenge in them, daring him to deny it again. He opened his mouth, and then shut it with a sigh. She sat up a bit straighter in triumph. "You did do it, didn't you Malfoy?" she asked quietly.
Draco shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he whispered finally. "It doesn't change anything."
Hermione's lips lifted in a tiny smile. "Oh, Draco," she said, and the shock of his given name on her lips stunned him and sent a thrill of something to the pit of his stomach. "Don't you see? It's changed everything."
