Chapter 13

It was officially the worst night's sleep he was having since he'd done the utterly foolish thing and rescued her.

She wasn't a quiet sleeper, especially when she was positioned so close to his bed, and his ear.

It wasn't that she snored; she didn't. That would have been easier to handle, what with the practice he had in sharing a dorm with Goyle for the past six years in Hogwarts.

No. she seemed to be plagued with so many nightmares that she was so unconsciously vocal about. How inconsiderate! It was annoying as hell!

When she'd been sleeping on the couch, they had been sufficiently far apart for the disturbance to be minimal, or at least manageable. Falling back asleep had never been a problem.

This time? This time, it was different, nearer, more constant.

His fingers twitched. The urge to silence her was strong, but he repressed it. He had to; because something told him she wouldn't be too happy about it when she woke up in the morning. He wouldn't want to be none the wiser when she crept up on him, only to be awakened by her cold hands wrapped around his throat in retaliation.

Always be ready for the effect you anticipate to cause.

He was reluctant to wake her though. Sleep was a privilege, especially after what must have been a mentally draining episode.

Having spent some time pondering it in his induced-insomnia, he'd deduced that it had been a panic attack of some sort.

She'd looked like she had fully intended to stab him after knocking the air out of his lungs, but her eyes had been wild; glassy and unfocused. It was a startling contrast to what he'd seen from her in the past. Not that he had seen much of her, but those fierce eyes had always been sharp and determined.

For his own well-being, it looked like he had to find a way to tweak the architectural magic in his room, or at least find a loophole to bypass it. That would be interesting, for Granger. She would be the one to do the research, of course, what with having all the time in the world and all. It would probably distract her from whatever demons she had lying under the surface. They wouldn't even need a direct solution for the problem if she was sufficiently distracted.

One thing was clear though, he wasn't doing the hard work, no matter how intertwined they fates might be. He had a wand and he knew how to use it to defend himself the savage woman. He was merely caught off guard that evening.

He was almost afraid to imagine what would have happened had she not abandoned (whether by choice) the knives in the bathroom. In her state of panic, he had no doubt that some conscious part of her brain would have her grab his wand and flee, leaving him to bleed. Then she would be inevitably caught. And he would be mercilessly Renervated before being tortured to death.

Or maybe she would make it out, and he would just bleed to death, to be discovered in his room after the war had long ended and his family evicted from their home. At least he would have been asleep by now, which wasn't too bad an idea, considering…

"No… No… NO!"

He flung a pillow at her, turned on his side, and pulled the covers up over his head (he most certainly wasn't hiding himself). He was done thinking. It was bedtime, for him anyway. Besides, he figured he was doing her a service by waking her up if her sleep was that agonising.

.

That morning found Granger back on the couch with her increasing collection of pillows; she had two now.

She was asleep, curled up in foetal position, a pillow under her head, another hugged close to her body.

He had no idea why he had so many pillows on his bed. He didn't even need or have the use for more than one of them.

Pillow-hugging, along with soft toys and bubble baths, was unheard of in Malfoy males; his father had told him so, when he was six years old. It wasn't manly. It was a sign of weakness.

Later on, he'd realised that he didn't need it, because that was what his parents were for; comfort and reassurance, and he exploited it.

He'd often wondered though, when he'd seen Crabbe, and sometimes Goyle, drooling on the pillow in their arms, what it would be like to not have to rely on his parents for help; to seek refuge in himself, in his own way. Whether it was alright to just break down and feel better the next day, by his own devices.

At the same time, he was nervous that the day was coming when he'd have to do so. Because he could feel it fast approaching. Having no one to rely on; it was a scary thought.

Now that he looked at Granger, at how easy it seemed to be for her to pick herself up in the years he'd known her, after all the insults, all that inferior lineage; practice. he felt irrationally jealous. It would only get easier for her whereas for him, he could only hide.

Was that what he looked like with his mask on; strong?

Or was she donning a mask of her own; secretly and silently hurting? She definitely didn't seem as sturdy on the inside, what with all those nightmares and that episode the night before.

Deciding he didn't want to test that theory, he let her be, choosing instead to leave a note. There were no reasonable benefits to waking her, other than spiting her, which would not bode well for him. The temporary peace was something he had to take advantage of. The white elephant could wait.

'I bought bread yesterday. You can have some of you want.'

The scrap of parchment went up in flames, burning to ash with a hiss. Too wishy-washy.

'Bread is available. Help yourself.'

Burnt to crisp too. It seemed to be too open for interpretation; unnecessarily inviting. He certainly didn't want her to 'help herself'. This was not her home, and he wasn't going to extend an invitation for her to believe so.

'There's food if you require extra nourishment.'

There. Formal enough, yet short and swee-

He burnt it as well.

Glancing at the clock ticking closer and closer to eight, he made a possibly life-changing decision; he would be the strong silent type. There was no need for words.

Besides, it wasn't his business whether she ate or not.

He summoned the leftovers and the bread, and set them on the coffee table next to her couch. She wasn't an idiot; she would be able to figure it out. Right?

He spun on his heel and headed for the door.

With a last glance at the loaf of bread, he sighed before conjuring up another note. 'Eat,' it said.

The strong, silent type just wasn't him. He couldn't handle the repercussions, especially if it was Granger yelling her head off at him. He might hex her. It would be troublesome.

.

Breakfast had never been a grand affair. Death Eaters were sparsely seated around the dining table. They never seemed to sit together when there wasn't a pressing need to. The fact that the dining table was long enough; the attending Death Eaters few enough, further encouraged that. They were His followers, the relationship simply ended there.

The Malfoy family was often the only exception. Although the family no longer occupied the head of the table (which was reserved for the Dark Lord if he ever cared to join them, which he never had), they had made it a point to have breakfast seated together every morning, perhaps as a silent protest to having uninvited guests over.

Once, they had found Crabbe Sr. in one of their seats. He was subsequently hit by what had been diagnosed as an extreme case of food poisoning the next day, but was actually caused by three separate alterations to the contents of his breakfast, and person. He was never down for breakfast again.

The table sat three other occupants that day; Rookwood, who raised his glass of juice in a toast; Pettigrew, who seemed to be in a hurry, scarfing down his food, barely chewing; and Macnair, who other than initially casting some curious glances, largely ignored him.

His father shot him a significant look when he'd taken his seat across the table next to his mother, whereas she merely looked relieved that he was there at all.

.

Breakfast was uneventful. Nobody talked, the only sounds the clinking of utensils and the scraping of chairs. There was, though, a collective tension in the air that he found he wasn't a part of. What was he missing? It was only a couple of silent breakfasts he had skipped.

It made him rather nervous. Being out of the loop was a dangerous position to be in. Draco hoped his father would be in the right mind to answer that question.

One by one they left, until only the family of three remained. Even then, no words were exchanged. Walls had ears, his father had warned.

It wasn't any wonder, then, that his father excused himself from the table and took his leave without even casting a backward glance.

On the other hand, Draco ate slowly, helping himself to seconds, just waiting for his mother to finish her meal. She never hurried, nor did she dally. He actually liked spending the quiet moments with her, not speaking, just being in her presence.

Without a doubt, he had been forced to quit the habit. It wasn't his father's orders this time, because Lucius enjoyed seeing his wife and son together. Rather, it had been due to circumstances.

They recognised the fact they could easily be held over each others' heads if foes determined that they were closely-knit. Capability didn't matter if they were far outnumbered.

All too soon, she was done, dabbing at the mouth with her napkin. She primly set it down on the table, her hand lingering on the thick fabric. With a sigh, she looked over at him with eyes so shiny he thought she might have been crying. She was, almost, for her eyes looked a little pink, her small smile wavering.

She leaned over her seat and engulfed him in a hug, whispering in his ear, "Stay safe, Draco. Do what you think is right. I'll be behind you, every step of the way."

Before he could think to react, she pulled back, and it was as if the hug never happened; she stood up, wished him a good day, and bade him farewell.

That was the most affection his mother had shown him in a long while. He hoped it wasn't in preparation for the 'talk' his father wanted to have with him; a sort of compensation. He was so dead.

.

He paused in front of his father's study, hand in mid-knock. Was he prepared for it? He didn't have much of a choice, did he? He was largely going in blind. Having no idea what his father would want to talk to him about so urgently, he had no clue what to prepare for. That was the problem. Look before you leap; that was an age-old saying, wasn't it? Adages tended to be rather accurate.

Coupled with his father's increasing deliriousness, his only viable option seemed to be to wing it and hope for the best.

Before he could decide whether to put up a shield charm on his person, a voice bellowed from within the study, "Come in."

He gulped, quickly pushing open the door.

His father's study was twice the size of his, furnished with its own sitting area and personal library. The dark mahogany furniture was of a similar style to his own, invoking in him a feeling of familiarity, or a false sense of security (whichever way one wanted to look at it).

His father was perched on his high-backed armchair with a goblet in his hand. "Have a seat, Draco. I'll have to trouble you to cast a muffling charm."

He obliged with a Muffliato directed at the walls before sitting directly opposite his father in a similar armchair.

His father took a leisurely sip from the goblet, "Now, Draco. I'm not interested in what shenanigans you are engaging in in your room that makes you find it difficult to join your mother and I for breakfast, but I hope you will take this piece of advice with you: do not get attached to anyone."

He felt slightly nauseous. His father was actually insinuating that he was fooling around with someone so much that he couldn't afford the time to turn up for breakfast? Especially when that someone was that prudish bookworm? The urge to retort with a caustic 'oh please!' was strong, but he doubted it would be well-received

Ignoring his son's suddenly-paled face, or taking it to mean that he had been spot on, Lucius continued, "People are watching your every move. Do not give them the leverage they need to set you back. I expect you down for breakfast at least every other day," he shot a challenging glare, as if daring a protest, "It's the only time you have for free access to information others throw out. Being at the bottom doesn't mean we have to stay there. We, Malfoys, are certainly over-qualified for it, unlike some of the scum currently in favour with the Dark Lord," he spat out in contempt.

Somehow, it seemed to be one of the rare times his father was making sense those days. Was he really going crazy, or was he merely biding his time?

"Whatever business you wish to conduct after breakfast is not of my concern."

He fought back the shudder creeping up his spine. No way in hell.

"Do remember, though, that there is a meeting tonight. I shall be very upset if you are late."

At his nod, his father continued, "Rumour has it there's going to be a new Death Eater joining the ranks; supposedly another double-agent," another sip from the goblet, "It would be wise to get close to him, seeing as he's bound to be favourable in the Dark Lord's books to join this late in the game."

Right there. That was it; the purpose of this talk. His father wanted and expected him to ride on the coat tails of a new recruit to elevate their statuses. Were they really that pathetic that they had to depend on the success of others, a newcomer no less? That no matter how badly the newcomer performed, they would still be able to be lifted out of the bog they had gotten stuck in?

Crazy or not, his father was still the power-consumed person denied of that same power he sought.

Wasn't there a saying that if one wasn't good at one thing, to go to the next and not dwell on it?

"Yes, Father. I will do my utmost to get us back in favour with the Dark Lord."

There was nothing else he could say, nothing better. Who knew what his father would do if he'd outright refused to play the pawn in the scheme?

As soon as he'd agreed, the conversation was closed, and he was dismissed immediately; shooed out of the room. The Lucius Malfoy who once was the host of many a social event now possessed none of the courtesy or charm of a good host. No offer of drinks or small talk. Perhaps that was why he couldn't get himself out of the hole he'd dug himself into; a vicious social cycle where one had no persuasive power to escape.

Draco shook his head. It wasn't the time to think about how he could get his father to function in social settings. That was for later, if there was a later.

He stopped in front of his door, once again scanning for possible intruders. There were none.

Good.

Because once the door opened, he was greeted with the sight of Granger staring out of the window.

He closed the door gently behind him. Not that he didn't want to startle her, but because he thought it appropriate for the atmosphere; that it was quite poetic, in a way.

She gave no indication that she'd heard him, and he doubted she even saw him through the reflection in the window.

Did she not have any sense of self-preservation? He was coming up from behind her and she didn't seem to register the fact that he wasn't someone she should trust her back to.

Normally, he wasn't one to invite trouble, but her lack of reaction was unsettling. Was there something outside? He stopped in his tracks. Suddenly he wasn't so keen on approaching her.

From his position, he didn't spot anything out of the ordinary outside the window. He tentatively stepped towards her, making sure to keep his eyes on the window, wand gripped tight.

Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, Granger never once turned around even after he had drawn his wand.

He blew out a sigh of relief upon reaching the window.

Nothing seemed off, except maybe the fact that he was looking out the same window as Hermione Granger, at nothing.

He cleared his throat, "Uhhh… Granger, what are you looking at?"

"Snow. It's snowing," she said after a significant pause.

So it was. Was it that enchanting though? Must be a girl thing.

Just as he was about to turn and walk away, she spoke, "Beautiful, isn't it; snow? But at the same time, it's slowly burying everything under; engulfing everything. Eventually everything's just white, just snow. And it stays that way until the snow melts, or someone intervenes. By then, will it be too late to save what's underneath?"

"Granger, we're magical. We can fix anything."

"What if we were the ones trapped under that same snow? Five, no, ten feet of that stuff? Would I be able to save you?" she turned to look at him, frantic, "Would you save me?"

He was stunned by what he saw. Besides genuinely waiting for his answer to her question, she looked openly afraid. She didn't look anything like the brightest witch of their age. Instead, she looked just like a girl who was lost and had to rely on someone other than herself, which, perhaps, was a better representation of her current predicament.

They were all a little bit lost, weren't they?

"Maybe. Probably. I don't really know. I guess it depends," he stumbled over his words. He decided he wasn't going to give her false reassurances, if she was indeed seeking for it.

She nodded at his answer, as if in approval, as if it was in line with her expectations, "At least it's not a straight 'no'. That's good enough for me." She chewed on her bottom lip, as if deliberating her next words. "I haven't said this, but... thank you for saving me… that night." She flashed him a small, brief smile that didn't seem to quite reach her eyes, and then walked away.

He was left staring out the window at the falling snow, his windowsill already coated in white.

A/N: Hello!

As usual, feedback is welcome, even those about where the minor mistakes are!

See you next time!