Chapter 8
By the time Draco was prepared for bed, his hands had fortunately ceased their shaking. Schooling his expression into a neutral one (the scowl hadn't lasted long) he entered the bedroom.
Granger was already lying on the couch, but her eyes were wide open; alert.
He expected that she was studying his every move. He couldn't be sure; he dared not make eye contact. He wasn't planning to apologise, so by default, he shouldn't have to acknowledge her presence.
Besides, he thought that the night's events had been traumatic enough to justify his suspicion and aggression towards her.
Yes. That must be it. He was too exhausted to think rationally.
He climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin. The lights dimmed, providing him additional cover. He curled into a ball, one hand clutched tightly onto the comforter. It wasn't long before he drifted off in a fitful sleep.
Hermione on the other hand was having trouble falling asleep. She wasn't used to sleeping so much, and to be honest, she was scared. There was nobody she could trust. She didn't have Harry or Ron with her. She only had one Draco Malfoy. Trust wasn't an issue with him. It was a given that there was none.
One little slip up on his part, intentional or unintentional, would put her in immediate danger. Not only were the Death Eaters after her for being part of the Golden Trio, the Snatchers were probably after her for their personal grudge.
And now? Now, she couldn't even discount the possibility that he was capable of personally harming her.
The night spent crouching in the bathroom hadn't gotten her any closer to her escape.
She had spent it clutching onto the knives all-too-tightly, refusing to let go even when her hands had begun to cramp.
Subconsciously, she held her hands up in front of her, examining the red parallel lines running diagonally across each hand. Strangely, it didn't hurt. There was something about self-inflicted pain that never seemed to bring as much agony as they should seem to.
Her back however was aching from crouching in wait the majority of the time she had been alone. She had started the vigil by sitting on the edge of the bathtub, but the slightest noise had frightened her. She had later established that it was merely a drop of water from a leaky faucet (did Malfoy not know about this?) but the damage was done. Her nerves were already frayed and her mind had descended into paranoia.
Preoccupied with thoughts of what to do if someone else were to enter and find her, she found herself crouching in position beside the door, running through how she would strike down her opponent.
Attempting to think up theoretical escape plans was promptly thrown out the window; the manor was unknown to her. Even without considering the extensive security measures, there was a great chance that she wouldn't get out of the place; spending the remainder of her life finding her way out of the labyrinth she was certain was the manor.
She wasn't a coward, but she was a cautious tactician. There were simply too many possibilities in the unfamiliar place. Hell, she didn't even know which floor she was on! She needed more information to get back to the boys, alive.
Her mind, having nowhere else to retreat to; no plans to make, went back to its hypersensitive state of paranoia. There really was nowhere to run if someone else barged in. The spacious bathroom suddenly seemed so small.
She would have probably had to wing it by running out of Draco's room. She was not the type to wing it. The last time she had done that, she ended up killing a person, and in this state.
Then, she remembered hearing the pounding on the door. After finding out earlier on that Malfoy had locked the bathroom door, she had started to panic when the person outside was having difficulty lifting the charm. She was either never getting out from there because Malfoy forgot how to undo his own bloody charm, or somebody was breaking in.
Then the muffled shouting began. Open up? No way in hell. Not that she could, anyway. She was as locked in as they were locked out.
As the thought dawned on her, the room seemed to be closing in. Yes, she was locked in; trapped. The steak knives suddenly seemed so useless. At least, she hoped that Draco had used a complex locking charm. She at least could physically survive being locked in for about a week. Her mind though, she wasn't so sure. The bathroom seemed to suffocate even her thoughts then.
Then, reprieve.
She remembered how her eyes had automatically welled up when she saw him, and not an unfamiliar enemy. She'd had to restrain herself from hugging him. Then, she saw him crash into a halt, kneeling clumsily in front of the toilet.
Her emotions overwhelmed her and she placed her hand on his back, trying her hardest not to gag. As much as she'd wanted to escape the blasted bathroom, she thought she owed him at least that little gesture of comfort. Even things out a bit.
Then, he turned on her. The bastard.
Sure, he had never been on her side, but to accuse her of stealing his wand? That was just insulting her integrity; not that she hadn't expected something like that happening. He was Draco loathsome Malfoy after all.
Honestly though, what had actually gotten her angry was that his insinuation hadn't hit home. She hadn't managed to think up an escape plan to have any use for a wand. Really, she was angrier at herself than at him. She wasn't about to tell him that, of course. She had her pride, and he was the convenient punching bag.
She stared up at the ceiling from her couch. Technically it was his couch. As far as she knew, everything in that room was his. Even her life was in his hands.
She shivered. It was cold. She couldn't start losing hope.
She absolutely had to find a way to leave. She could repay his sudden moment of weakness (or bout of kindness, she preferred to imagine) when she was far, far away, preferably alive. Preferably with the also-alive Harry and Ron.
That night, she did not sleep. Fragments of ideas ran through her head, but nothing took shape. Even with a clearer frame of mind, she didn't have enough information about her exact location to form any of her signature fool proof plans. That wasn't even taking into account the amount of security they had in place.
One night wouldn't be enough for even the brightest brain to come up with all the different speculated permutations of escape. And hers was one of the brightest.
When Draco awoke in the morning, it was to sunlight.
He groaned and pulled the covers over his eyes. He hadn't slept well that night. Why, he could not remember at that moment.
He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the cocoon he had created. He was about to nod off when memories of the night before hit him. He jolted up with a silent, barely audible gasp.
Hermione jerked her head towards him, with an unmistakable crick. She winced. Her left hand immediately flew to her neck, leaving her right hand the only support for the oversized pillow. It tumbled onto the ground with a suppressed thud.
There was silence. Then Draco roared with hoarse laughter. It seemed that his emotions were running a little loose that morning. The whole situation probably didn't seem very funny on a normal day.
"Good morning to you, too," she said sarcastically, still rubbing the side of her neck.
Pity, seemed to be nothing serious.
On the bright side the pillow must have been somehow enchanted to make her a source of his amusement, first the night before, then now. He watched bemused as she glared at it (he imagined) in disgust.
The laughter eventually died down into a chuckle, then silence again. Realising bitterly that he hadn't had a laugh in a while now, he sobered, his expression grim at once.
"Dippy!"
The house elf appeared immediately.
Before it could say anything, he barked, "Apple! Now!" Apples were good. Apples calmed his nerves, brought him back to his normal state.
Dippy Disapparated, only to come back the next instant with a green apple on a small silver plate.
Draco took the plate, waved his hand dismissively at the creature, held up the apple, and sunk a bite into it.
He felt her eyes on him.
"What," he said in what he hoped was an intimidating manner, eyebrow raised and all. Unfortunately, it wasn't; not with his mouth full.
She raised an eyebrow in challenge, "A green apple? How absolutely Slytherin of you, Malfoy." She restrained herself from commenting on his negligence of oral hygiene practices.
"I take it you prefer yours red? How typically Gryffindor," he retorted.
"Actually, no. I like green apples as much as I do red ones. They're different and they bring variety," she replied thoughtfully. "However, I do have to say that I'm not much of an apple person. I much prefer oranges. No unwanted distinction based on anything other than its substance."
He rolled his eyes, catching her intended meaning. "Green apples taste different, you know."
"There are different varieties of green apples, you know," she mocked.
That, he did not know. He only knew of good ol' Granny Smiths because that was simply what he had been given; grown up with. He took a bite from his apple. "Well, I like Granny Smiths."
"Have you tried any other?" Her question was rhetorical. It was as if she had read his thoughts. She turned away, her back to him.
There were many things he thought he knew, but did he really?
He plopped back on his bed, mulling over what she had just said, desperately trying to block the link to his beliefs about Purebloods, Halfbloods, and Mudbl- Muggleborns.
He came to one conclusion: people were not apples!
He took another bite before spitting it out. Its core was black.
A/N: Boy! That took a while! And this was still mostly pre-written. I just tried to polish it up a bit. *dramatics* Whatever would I do for the unplanned/unwritten chapters?
Taking this chance, I would like to thank all the people who have expressed interest in the story (reviewers, favouriters, and followers). I hope this chapter wasn't too much of a filler for you. Seems like all I write is them thinking. Bah!
See you when I see you! In the meantime, cheers!
