Edited 10/11/15


8. Just Have to Adjust

Somethin' filled up
my heart with nothin'.
Someone told me not to cry.
But now that I'm older,
my heart's colder,
and I can see that it's a lie.

[Wake Up, Arcade Fire]


Draco had spent most of the afternoon huddled up on his bed trying not to cry. He had mostly failed, and soaked his pillow with hot tears. He sighed. He seemed to have run out of tears, and now he was left feeling numb and tired, with scratchy eyes and a sore throat, and a wet patch on his pillow. It was all finally sinking in, now. His world was utterly destroyed, and he was never going to be able to put it back together, even if he wanted to. And he didn't, mostly. Whenever he started wishing nothing had changed, Draco made himself remember.

The prisoners he had bound and gagged, and walked to be executed, or tortured. The mudbl- the Muggle-born woman he had used sectumsempra on. The torture he had carried out himself, on Voldemort's orders. He remembered the anguish in the screams and sobs that came from the great hall, whenever the Dark Lord held a revel. The day Draco had walked into his father's study, and found him rutting atop a crying Muggle girl. The time when it had all started to go bad, and he had found himself briefly on the prisoner's side of things, at the mercies of Voldemort and his followers. Nausea roiled up in him and he repressed memories that threatened to rise up, refusing to think of them.

No.

Draco didn't want to go back to any of that, not even to the time before he had fallen from grace. Now he had gotten free of it, it was like he could see it all clearly for the first time in his life. He was horribly ashamed by what he had taken part in, what he had watched and thought nothing of. He had thrown up several times since Hermione had left him. Literally sickened by his memories. Draco thought it was seeing his mother that had triggered it; all the tears and the memories and the final realisation deep in his bones that no, he could never go back. Hearing her speak so casually about Hermione's torture, after Hermione had been the only one who had sown any concern for Draco had been jarring. To look in his mother's eyes and see blind adoration for the cause, to hear her try to defend Draco's father to him...

Draco loved his mother, but he had looked at her pale, beautiful face, and realised that he wasn't like her, not anymore - and he didn't want to be. It was strangely freeing. Or that was what he tried to tell himself, as he scrubbed at his tearstained cheeks and thought of everything he had lost. And what had he gained? A world that either despised him or didn't know he existed, and a bushy-haired, know-it-all Muggle-born who should have hated him just as much as the rest, but instead...didn't. Draco had never thought he would be glad to have Hermione Granger in his life, but damnit, he was. She should despise him just for what he was - an ex-Death Eater. But instead she was trying to be nice to him. Trying, and not failing too badly at all. And he didn't know what the hell to do.

Draco had never before interacted so much with someone that didn't have ulterior motives, or was secretly plotting to do him some sort of harm, or gain some sort of control over him. He - he didn't think he'd ever had a friend. Not that Hermione was a friend, he reminded himself, but... He'd had cronies, lackeys, servants, allies, but never a real, actual friend. Draco didn't even know how to be just genuinely nice to people.

He sighed and flipped his pillow over, putting the wet patch against the bed, and stretched out on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. There were no other options available to him that he wanted to take, so he might as well try to make the best of what he had. He snorted cynically at the idea, but sincerely tried to think positive thoughts.

It wasn't easy.


Hermione took Draco breakfast the day after Narcissa's visit with a spring in her step. She had lain awake most of the night trying to figure out what she was going to do, and somewhere around two am Draco Malfoy had become a Project. Hermione had figured it all out in what had seemed like a logical fashion - for two am. She had even dug out a quick quotes quill and scrap of parchment, and made a bullet-pointed list.

What it had boiled down to was essentially this; Draco wasn't evil anymore, he had lost everything, he was miserable, and alone, and Hermione was pretty certain he was depressed. Hermione was the only one that was ever going to treat him fairly and give him a chance to prove himself, and therefore she felt a responsibility to do so. Plus, the more she saw of him, strangely, the less she dreamed about the Manor. It was almost as if being around him really was desensitising her to the memories of what had happened. She still wanted to cry when she saw herself naked; the words scrawled into her flesh, but she didn't feel so anxious and panicky the rest of the time.

And at 2:37 am, Hermione had admitted to herself that a large part of her just felt desperately sorry for him, and wanted to make him smile. But that just sounded stupid and illogical and...dangerous, so she focused on the sensible motivations for what, at 4:02 am she had named Project Cheer Up Malfoy, or CHUM for short. There had been much quiet, sleep-deprived giggling involved, as she had tried to think of names that didn't result in horrific acronyms like SPEW. Hermione had thought CHUM was appropriate, given the purpose of her self-assigned mission.

And now she stood in front of the cellar with a tray of breakfast in her hands, trying to bolster herself with a silent pep talk. You are going to be cheerful. But you will not drown him in a flood of conversation. You will be friendly. You will not think about the look in his eyes as he watched you be tortured. Hermione gulped and refocused quickly. You will call him Draco and smile at him. You will not stare at his arm. You will not ask him personal questions. There seemed to be far more do-nots than dos on Hermione's list, and her palms started sweating. You will be fine. She told herself and tried to believe it as she descended into the cellar, a subdued Ron - she had talked to him last night about Draco - dropping the door shut above her.

"Good morning," she called as she reached the cellar floor, and then snapped her mouth shut, her breath catching in her throat. Draco was asleep. In the bed instead of on the floor, splayed out with the blankets rumpled down to his waist, his shirt unbuttoned and fallen open. In the low, bluish light his bare skin looked moonlit it was so pale. Hermione set the tray quietly down on the table with a click and bit her lip, not sure what to do. CHUM had called for her to spend some time with him, at least while he ate breakfast. She even had a packet of exploding snap in the pocket of her hoodie for them to play. Not that she liked the game, and she doubted Draco would either...but it was something to pass the time with for a little while. And if Hermione snuck back out now without waking Draco up, then she wouldn't have an excuse to see him until lunchtime. And Hermione didn't really feel comfortable coming down here without an excuse.

She wandered over to the bed, and vacillated over whether to shake him awake or not. CHUM was not off to a promising start. As she stared at him, debating the matter, Hermione got side-tracked. She had never seen Draco like this before. Fast asleep, fingers on his left and only hand twitching slightly as he mumbled something unintelligible. His eyebrows were strikingly dark in comparison to his hair, a sheaf of which fell over his forehead and into his eyes as he shifted his head on the pillow.

His maimed arm was laid stiffly over his abdomen; he was protective of the limb even in sleep. Beneath his arm his torso was too skinny; his ribs showed, thrown into in sharp relief by the dim light, easily countable. And here on his skin there was more evidence of his last few months with the Death Eaters. Hermione forgot about waking him up as she took in the marks of his refusal to partake in the Death Eater lifestyle any longer. The worst, apart from his hand of course, was a large scar in the middle of his chest - a healing burn wound. It looked almost as though someone had thrown a fireball at him, and Hermione thought with a wince of sympathy, that if it looked that way, then that was probably what had happened. The scar was shiny and pink, around the size of Hermione's splayed out hand.

But there were other scars too, so many more. Obviously he had never been allowed to see a Healer, because the wounds mostly looked like they had been healing without any magical assistance at all. Some of them looked like they had been caused by curses, and therefore were irremovable by magic, but others might just need the attention of a Healer. Hermione reminded herself vaguely to speak to Tricia Fideloff. Her eyes continued their slow sweep of him.

A series of scars swirled almost artistically over the right side of Draco's abdomen, and Hermione shivered; she recognised his Aunt Bellatrix's handiwork. She liked her cursed blades, did Bellatrix. Hermione rubbed the scars on her chest as unwelcome thoughts of them made them itch at her. Smaller, nearly invisible scars striped his chest, and there was a small brand by his bellybutton that looked like it came from a signet ring. Hermione gulped, unable to stop herself from imagining how all his many injuries must have been inflicted. How scared he must have been.

She had been pinned to the Manor floor like an insect, with Draco watching it all. Everything. She had begged for him to help and he hadn't. Hermione shut her eyes, her hand stretching out toward the ornate cut marks on his abdomen, as though touching his wounds would heal them. She had begged for him to help her, to kill her to make it stop, and although she hadn't thought so at the time - and for a good long time afterwards - he had done what he could, without getting himself killed.

Hermione opened her eyes and stared at the old injuries, her fingers scant inches from his stomach. The story these scars told was of a situation essentially the same as hers, except it hadn't been an old enemy standing there and refusing to help. It had been his parents. Like she was in a trance, Hermione's fingertips barely touched the ridged scars, traced over them ever so lightly. The ridged swirls were uneven, thin, and the scar tissue felt strange under her feather touch. Draco mumbled and shifted his maimed arm so that it half-covered the scars, and Hermione snatched her hand back just in time, fingers curling up into her palm, heart thudding frantically in her chest.

She didn't know what had gotten into her; standing over him and, and touching him like that. It was just that...they were the same, in a way. Linked by the marks Voldemort and his followers had inflicted on them both. But Hermione couldn't just stand here staring at him while he slept. That was just weird.

"Draco," she murmured, laying her hand on his right shoulder softly. "Draco, wake up."

"Isssofe pa flibbermift." He tried to shake her hand off by rolling onto his side and Hermione snorted quietly at his nonsense words. She shook his left shoulder this time, as he lay curled into a ball facing her.

"Draco!" She said it loudly this time and then jumped and let out a stifled shriek as he reacted instantly.

"Wha?" Draco jerked bolt upright and scrabbled for something under his pillow that wasn't there. His wand? She wondered. Then his eyes cleared and for a moment embarrassment flared. He swung around so he sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor.

"Oh, it's you," he said shortly, and then looked down at his mostly bare torso and immediately started trying to do up the buttons on his shirt. Hermione glanced down at her toes, the wall, the stairs; anywhere but at the half-awake, half-embarrassed Draco Malfoy sitting sort of shirtless in front of her and swearing at his buttons. Maybe she could help? She decided asking couldn't hurt, and opened her mouth and out came the dreadful words.

"Do you need a hand?" Hermione went white, then red, face burning with mortification as Draco looked slowly up and fixed her with a look of fury warring with utter disbelief.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry I didn't mean - I was just - it was automatic. I'm sorry!" He stared at her for a long moment, nostrils flaring as he closed his eyes, and Hermione waited nervously for the explosion of cold rage she was sure was coming. And she wouldn't blame him either. How on earth had she said something so stupid? She may as well just sit down and wedge both her feet in her big mouth. His face was working with emotion, lips pressed together so hard they went white. And then he let out a sigh and opened his grey eyes.

"I'm sure it was, Granger," he said, the acidity in his voice enough to curdle milk, and then, a familiar old insult: "Didn't your Muggle parents teach you to think before you speak?" Hermione licked her lips.

"I'm sorry, Draco." She put every ounce of effort she had into trying to communicate her sincerity with the simple apology, and Draco's lips twisted but he nodded once, accepting it. He stood and she backed off as he turned half away from her and began another attempt at buttoning his shirt. Hermione discreetly craned her neck to try to see how Draco was trying to do it, and she saw how his truncated right arm pinned one side of his shirt against his body, left hand trying to fumble the buttons into the holes.

"I brought breakfast," she said, her head tilted downward, but eyes peering up at him.

"Right," was all he said in a strained tone, and then quietly but ferociously: "Fuck. Fuck!"

Hermione dragged her lower lip between her teeth repeatedly and chewed on the inside, still looking surreptitiously up at Draco from under her lashes. He had stopped trying to wrestle with his shirt, and was standing now with drooping shoulders, pushing his hand through his hair and dragging with too hard frustration at clumps of it. He was the picture of angry defeat, and Hermione sighed shortly, plucking up her courage. This was ridiculous. She stepped quickly over to him, stopping in front of him and Draco opened his eyes and looked down at her tiredly.

"What?" There was a tremble beneath the abrasive query. Hermione didn't say anything; she didn't know what to say, and her fingers trembled like his voice as she stepped close and took his shirt in her hands and began slowly buttoning it.

"Granger..." He put his hand over hers, stilling her motions as she began on the third button. Hermione looked up at Draco and could see just how it felt for him, to need her to do this. He looked broken. Stupid boy, she told herself firmly, so that she didn't start sniffling with sympathy, there's nothing weak about needing help. She twisted her hand around beneath his and squeezed his cold fingers, kindly, and pushed his hand firmly but gently back down at his side.

"It's not a big deal, Draco," she told him and he laughed, a choked, low sound.

"Yes it is. Maybe not for you, Granger, but it is for me." And Hermione realised that of course it was for him; not even the embarrassment of someone else doing it, but the fact that he literally couldn't do it himself, made it a big deal. But Draco let Hermione's fingers keep nimbly slipping the tiny, fiddly buttons through the small buttonholes. It didn't feel terrible touching him; he didn't bring back memories of the Manor. She didn't feel his chest rising and falling beneath her hands and think Malfoy, she thought Draco and something small and warm seeded in her chest. And then his shirt was buttoned and Hermione smoothed her hands down the front and across his shoulders automatically, without thinking about what she was doing - it was the sort of thing she would have done with Ron, or even Harry. Smoothing out the wrinkles, making sure they were presentable. But this was Draco.

Her hands fell away and she looked up with cheeks slightly pinked and met his eyes, half-hidden behind a shaggy fall of platinum hair that he swept back as she stared up at him silently, breath tight in her throat and her chest.

"There," she said in a soft approximation of her usual, bright tone. "All done." She shifted uncomfortably under Draco's gaze, his eyes pinned to hers and carrying a look of puzzled wonder. He swallowed hard before he spoke, voice soft and rough at once.

"I'm not a child, Hermione." So she was Hermione again, was she? She tried to hide her tiny smile.

"I know," she answered and she was still standing so near him, and she took a quick pace back, fiddling with zipper on her jersey.

"I could have done it," he added, a vertical frown line appearing between his brows, and Hermione's smile grew ever so slightly.

"I know," she repeated.

"But...thanks, Hermione." He looked away as he said it, awkward and sincere.

"You're welcome," she answered, and without realising it, mirrored both his actions and his tone. "Breakfast?" she asked quickly to break the tension in the still air, and he nodded. Draco sat down at the table, and gave her a curious glance as she settled in on his bed, perching tailor fashion at the end and pulling out the pack of cards, turning them around in her hands.

"What are you doing?" He raised an eyebrow as was clearly his habit, and Hermione shrugged.

"I thought you might like to play a game or two of exploding snap after breakfast," she said, trying to get Project CHUM back on track. Draco contorted his face into an expression of horrified disgust.

"You thought I might like to play exploding snap?"

Hermione couldn't help it: his horrified expression and tone seemed funny out of all proportion on top of her already strained nerves, and she collapsed into gasps and giggles in a most undignified manner. When she finally stopped snorting and wiped the tears from her streaming eyes, Draco was watching her with that familiar look of superior amusement, and she grinned at him suddenly.

"Well, no. I didn't really think you would appreciate exploding snap. Neither do I, to be honest. But I don't have anything else to play." Draco tried to pretend reluctance, but Hermione could see right through him - he wanted her company, even if he wouldn't admit it right now.

"Oh go on then. We'll have a bloody game after I've finished breakfast," he allowed and forked up a mouthful of scrambled egg. She watched him from under her lashes again, pretending to examine the exploding snap packet. And then he looked over at her, and Hermione knew Draco had noticed her staring at him. Before she could drop her eyes and pretend she hadn't been, Draco flashed her a quick, winsome smile around the fork, hair falling over his forehead and grey eyes bright. Hermione nearly fell off the bed in shock. Draco Malfoy, smiling. Not sadly or bitterly or nastily, just...smiling.

He looked almost...nice.