Yay, actually got this done. Pretty sure there's something I missed but it's at least 99% where I want it.
Chapter 9
He hadn't heard from her in weeks.
Exactly nineteen days.
Looking at the time, it was past midnight so day nineteen had come and gone. Day twenty had started and he wasn't sure how he would look upon the clock should day twenty pass like nineteen did.
He didn't take much stock in it the first few days.
Then as the first week closed and she hadn't so much as sent him a message of any kind, he resorted to counting the days to keep from letting his mind run away with him.
She had started the habit of sending him random messages but her last message was fourteen days ago.
I might be by tonight.
She didn't stop by.
He had chalked it up to work that she couldn't make it. Something important was taking her time and she couldn't be pulled away so it was only fitting that he was given second priority, but then he never remembered a time she had actually never shown without a message of some kind. Even the noncommittal promises she broke through the years had a message of that followed with some reason of why. He didn't think they had deteriorated so quickly to the point that he didn't deserve a notice.
So when he tried to call her a few days later, he was met with her voicemail as she didn't pick up. He was worried at the fact that the call didn't even ring through and had gone directly to her voicemail. As he hadn't a reason to panic aside from fear, he couldn't run off like a maniac just yet. So he hung up the many times her voicemail picked up, there was no point in leaving a message unless he had good reason to. He feared a mystery of his own creation and it was irrational and leaving a message would only make it worse in the long run. For all he knew she was busy with work and friends and family or some sort and just hadn't the time after all.
Dinner this week?
He gave in and had asked but didn't get a response. At least with a txt, it would only be words and would lack any irrational fear his voice could give.
Her lack of response was getting his mind to bad things.
Once was work, twice was a bad week.
Nineteen days and counting was a bad sign.
Jean?
He was worried and it was his only link.
"Draco, drink up tonight?" Draco nodded at Blaise as he hid the device back into his pocket.
"Sure." He needed to get his mind together. He couldn't keep letting images of her hurt somewhere to comfort him. It was just sick and he was being irrational.
She was busy, that was why she hadn't responded, he had to believe it to be true.
Her phone broke and she didn't have time to replace it, even that just had to be true.
"Seems Granger's taking time off of work." Blaise mentioned quietly over their table.
Draco nodded as he gulped down his drink. He needed someone to stop his mind from running away from him.
"So?" He rarely kept up with those he went to school with. Blaise was his coworker and aside from those within his family's circle, he didn't really venture outside of it.
"Seemed her guard dogs are plotting to keep her off of work." If it was suppose to be interesting news for Draco, he didn't care. His mind was focusing on Jean and keeping his fears at bay.
It had taken a few days after she gotten back from her parent's place to finally get around to picking up her phone. Given the pages of documents and questioning she had to endure to get her property back, it was a wonder how they never included her mobile in the first place. It was dead and she would need to charge it when she got home.
Thanking the attendant, she left the building with a yawn.
Work had sent her home early. It seemed she was considered a handle with care project among her coworkers. She was walking proof that one maniac could easily remind people of the thing they strived to move on from and forget. It was one thing to be looked on as a war heroine, it was another to see said heroine freshly battered about despite the healing spells, potions and surgery.
From the fact that muggles got to her first after the blast and the fact that ministry officials didn't intervene till after she was out of the operating room, she was damaged goods.
It was uncommon for a witch or wizard to have to be subjected to such a chain of events. Since the war, the Ministry had gotten very good at removing witches and wizards from muggle institutions when problems arose. While the new world after the war was accepting of all magical people regardless of origin, it was still very closed off and feared to let those magical be caught out by muggles. If anything, there was a silent fear of a muggle need for a witch hunt should they ever learn of how much damage had been done by the war.
She was once again a marked woman. She stuck out no matter if she did things as normal or not. She understood that the upper management of St. Mungo's had a placed a great regard for her wellbeing but it was mixed with those around her who carried a morbid curiosity of what happened. She had to still field through questions of her health and in some cases, some less than tactful coworkers wanted see the scar. As a result, there were just days she was more than happy to leave early.
Making a cup of tea and feeding Crookshanks, she settled into straightening her flat.
Ginny and her mother had both stopped in to water her plants and Crookshanks had been at her parent's till she came home.
Looking at the miserable offerings she kept in her kitchen, it was a sign she needed to get groceries.
Grabbing her coat, she checked the phone's status.
Half alive.
Half was better than nothing. She had told her mother she was picking up the phone and would call if anything came up. Mostly she said so only for her mother to know that she would have the device on her and in turn her mother could have a comfortable means to check in on her if need be.
Powering it on, she realized immediately that it was over three weeks since the incident.
It also didn't help through the cracked screen, there were clearly more than a few messages and missed calls.
She had forgotten.
She had told him she would stop by that night.
She never made it.
It was one thing to mention the possibility of seeing him but she had never stood him up before.
Would he ask?
Would he care?
Hermione could feel the pit sick feeling overtake her. Her empty stomach was not any happier by her sudden dread.
The twill of the phone as it powered on forced her to look at the last message came up then. It was from the morning.
Let me know when you're not busy.
She sighed.
Relief washed over her. She didn't know she had even held her breath till the rush of air made her dizzy enough to have to steady herself on the furniture.
That was how she found herself dressed and in his flat.
She didn't think before apparating to his place.
He was home.
His outer robes were flung across the couch and the top of the decanter on the sideboard laid next to its counterpart.
Listening intently, she didn't hear him move about.
Dropping her bag, she headed towards the bedroom.
It was too early for him to be in the office. He wouldn't just leave work to come home to work.
She found him on the balcony and a light stench of Firewhiskey hung in air.
"Heys."
She didn't miss the overcompensated light tone he took. There was a bite to it and it was subtle enough to evoke the image of his younger self sulking.
Coming up behind him, she took the drink from his hand before downing the last of it. "Hey."
She peppered the back of his neck with a trail of kisses. She couldn't apologize for an incident she didn't want to explain. If he didn't know, telling him without a proper setup would only make things worse in the long run.
"Done for the day?"
She would never claim to know what he was thinking but she knew he was in a very foul mood.
"Can we not do this?" He was on the edge of questioning and she didn't want to deal with it.
He sighed before looking at the empty glass he once had. "Sure."
"Thank you." She walked around his chair and settled into his lap then. Nestling her head under his, she let his arms wrap around her. She would have to accept that he had a lingering hint of more than just one drink about him. He was more than annoyed and she would be stupid if she didn't realize it might have something to do with her.
"Let's go see a movie." They couldn't stay on the balcony all night not saying the things they wanted and should say to each other.
"Sure." He didn't care much of her request. He should've been relived that she came by.
Part of him should have been jumping for joy, but that didn't explain the twenty two days where he wasn't.
He let her drag him out of the flat to the theatre. He didn't care when she picked the movie.
He was glad she was back but even so, he noticed it. Something was off.
Something new.
She was on autopilot with him. It was one thing for him to sulk and do so but it was rare for her to do so to mirror him.
He could see the reserved way she moved about, something was on her mind.
When they went to dinner, she didn't show any particular interest in the food. Not a comment about anything interesting at work. No boring detail to give. Whether it was for lack of material to use, she just didn't want to share the neutral topic in detail.
It was like talking about the weather, it killed time.
She stalled him through the night and led them to wander the streets till he finally gave in and said he was tired so they should head back.
She agreed and despite his attempt at seduction, she had fallen asleep within minutes of hitting the bed.
Pulling the cover over her, he grabbed a cup of coffee before heading to the grab the documents he brought home with him.
He could work in bed and she seemed too tired to wake any time soon.
Sleep had just started to take its grip on him and he had let it take control only to be shaken violently back to waking by the movements.
Grrrrrooooaaan.
It wasn't him making the sound and he knew it.
Then he heard her whimper through his sleepy mind.
It wasn't the whimper of sex or a stubbed toe. It was distinct, he heard it. There was no denying what he heard no matter what he wished.
It was the sound of fear and pain. He had heard it many times in his life and he knew it for what it was.
Snapping his eyes open, he waited.
He wanted to believe that his twisted mind drew the sound out of the past he buried.
Then he heard it again.
Turning in the dark, he looked down sharply at her serene face to listen for the foul sound escape her lips again. He was daring it to anger him with what he knew he didn't want to hear again. He wanted to wait and hear silent slumbering from her, he wanted to let it be his crazed him that made up such a sound. He wanted to blame his broken mind for putting such a vile sound with her voice, he wanted to ignore the way the sound came from her was pure and unfiltered raw hurt, it dug into his mind despite only hearing it once.
He knew she was a relatively quiet sleeper, a few turns sometimes, a few bouts of light snores, even a bit of drool every now and then. Nothing among those traits were too remarkably noticeable to be considered a flawed habit. He listened and watched and wanted to accept a light snore from her as indication that he was just too twisted sometimes.
Occasionally she would let out a slight mumble but it was never consistent.
She didn't snore heavily that night or fidget too much, not that she normally did so more or less in the past. No tonight's movements were different, it wasn't a readjustment from an uncomfort, it was defensive.
Sitting up, he looked down at her. While there was a lack of the continual whimpering, what he saw was enough. She had shifted a few times and in turn her movements and his had moved the coverings of the bed and as well as the top she wore shifted for him to see.
All his dread and fear came back.
Even in the dark he saw it.
The glaring gash was red and daring him to think the worse, it was daring him to know that his worse was all in his mind and he hadn't a clue where it really came from.
Spanning the length of his palm, he didn't dare touch.
Slanted and red and angering him in a way his imagination couldn't, he knew.
The scar above her belly button wasn't there weeks ago, the marred skin turned his traitorous stomach.
He had their years as proof to tell him that there was no reasoning to the scar, there was no history of it being something he could have had missed over time. He remembered all the times he had held her, the times he kissed her, he had her body memorized in his mind and never once had he felt such an anomaly on her skin.
He knew all the places where the glamour didn't fit her turned form. He knew that along that seemly smooth left arm laid slight raises and falls in the skin that could only be described as a badly healed scar she didn't speak of. He remembered lingering on it once for her to push him away when his fingers overstayed their welcome. She didn't mind when he asked about the small scar just below her ankle as she readily told the story of her childhood follies.
He was not so dense as to have never known. He knew her body too well and he knew what was off limits and why.
Something had happened to her.
There was no way to write the new scar off as something good.
Good things didn't leave a scar.
Good things didn't cause her to whimper in the night.
Good things didn't make her turn so much in her sleep.
He simply couldn't not look at it.
He couldn't stop rehashing all the terrible things he thought might have happened to her.
Not only were some of them terrible, it didn't stand to reason how any of them might have happened and not been mentioned in the papers.
So that left him with one thought more terrifying than the rest.
Someone had been targeting only her and they got to her.
He couldn't sleep.
He didn't want to and he refused to sleep.
His mind wouldn't push out the image of her scar.
It mocked him with ever jagged turn on her skin.
He was Draco fucking Malfoy. People kept their distance from him, his name was under the family whose power and status was to be feared and revered.
No one dared to act out against a Malfoy.
At most, there were empty threats from those who had false beliefs of authority and power but in the end, no one truly dared. If there was something to be regretfully proud of, the dark reputation was built on solid ground that few questioned the validity.
That was the problem, he was thinking things as a Malfoy. It was just his name. He hadn't a clue to her real name. As far as the magical world was concerned, there wasn't a Jean Lagrange.
He had a short and long list of key players in the war that would incite violence from Death Eater sympathizers if given the right chance.
In the end, either he couldn't imagine how the chance might come to be or the sheer fact that no one on either list could've been her without having laundry list of more questions and a breaking story in the news.
What was it about her that could be twisted to be so terrible that even a decade past the war, she was a target? Or more specifically a target that someone would be so patient as to attack so far along.
He was almost ready to accept anything else as the reason.
A jealous ex from her youth, the unknown man he would hurt without hesitation.
A would be suitor who didn't know the meaning of boundaries, he would make sure they knew.
Just about anything.
No, that level of fear and pain was not something as simple as errant emotions of attachment.
That sound was something born out of direct need to inflict pain.
The soon to be dead man had to have knowingly committed the act and he would make sure they learned that no one was supposed to touch her.
He would make sure of it and she would tell him who it was.
He had let her have her secrets, he had let her live her life behind a mask. He humored her fears of discovery because she hadn't been caught.
Now that there was proof of something terrible and his willingness to look away was gone.
The time for being passive and trusting her to be safe in anonymity was over. Draco wound find the dead man and ensure that for once in his sordid life, his past was useful for something.
Draco Malfoy wasn't just a Malfoy in name only and he certainly wasn't the nephew of Bellatrix Lestrange for nothing. For once in his life, he was glad for his past, he was glad that someone had taken the time to teach him how to make another life suffer. It wasn't just his father's teachings of manipulation and the subtle arts of human nature that he was going to rely on, no those traits were only good for internal satisfaction. He was mostly glad to know that the very things his aunt taught him could finally be useful, the ways a person could be destroyed in every imaginable way that was external and was meant to drive the victim to beg for insanity, beg for the unattainable release of anything else. Aunt Bellatrix had taught him her warped views of what were the proper methods to getting something from another victim. For her, everyone was just another potential victim to a goal. She made sure he had learned from youth more than what pain could be. He had been a captive audience to more than one of her torture sessions, despite her rash and reactive nature he was taught how patience with a target was just as good as instant gratification.
Draco would make the cretin beg and suffer till he got satisfaction, no matter how he got it.
