A/N: Finally, Harry remembers that they're the good guys. In the second part, Draco hates a wooden door.
Enjoy, and leave me some feedback, please :)
CHAPTER 8
April 1998
It took them nearly a day to show up again, but it was merely to bring Draco some food. Potter opened the door, shoved the tray into the room, gave Draco a peculiar look, and disappeared again.
Draco knew he had talked too much. But it was done now. He could only wait to see what they would decide.
This was the first night Draco was able to fall asleep. He couldn't stay awake anymore, watching the door. He was dead either way if they decided to kill him.
However, his restful sleep was cut short by one of his usual nightmares. He hadn't even dared to hope they would stay away. No, in such an environment of stress they would tyrannise him even more cruelly. Draco swallowed the metallic taste of blood down – he'd bitten on his bottom lip to not cry out – and blindly felt for the water bottle.
Suddenly, something sharp pierced his fingers. Shite. The plate with dinner. He must have thrashed against the chair and it'd fallen down.
Running footsteps told him that someone had heard him. Just what he needed, Draco thought bitterly. The door was ripped open, and Potter stormed in, ready to – what? Fight him? Stop his flight attempt?
"What happened?" Potter bellowed, pointing his wand at the corners of the room.
Silently, Draco gestured at the broken plate. "Sorry."
Potter let out a slow breath, calming down. "You startled me," he murmured, as if apologising.
"Weren't you sleeping?" Draco asked, but it was a rhetorical question. He knew that he also would've awoken at any suspicious noise.
"And you?" Potter returned the question.
Draco shrugged.
"Nightmare?" he speculated. "You look like shite."
That, Draco knew. A Malfoy always looked orderly, respectable, well-groomed. If his father saw him like this, he'd have a heart attack.
"Come on. Let's get you a shower and some clothes," Potter offered in passing, as if it weren't important. He left the room, but the door stayed wide open.
Draco stared at it. Was it a trap? Maybe he wanted to lure him outside and throw him off the cliffs?
"Are you coming?" Potter looked around the corner.
"I…" Draco objected quietly, "I don't think whoever this house belongs to would want me to use their bathroom."
"Eh," Potter made a dismissive sound. "Bill and Fleur won't mind. Come on, Malfoy."
Hesitantly, Draco stepped forward, ready to dodge any hexes coming his way. But nobody attacked him, not even when he climbed up the stairs and entered the hallway, right next to the living room. He could see that someone had been sleeping on the couch. Potter probably.
The house was eerily quiet. Draco's breathing seemed too loud, and he feared he might wake someone.
"Here," Potter whispered, opening the door to a tiny bathroom.
"You don't think I'll run?"
An amused smile crept on Potter's lips. "You could try. I'd love to have a reason to curse you."
Draco shivered. "No, thanks. That one, Sectumsempra, was quite enough."
Potter's smile vanished.
Quickly, Draco turned and locked the bathroom door to escape the uncomfortable situation. A few towels were in the cupboard under the sink, and he placed one over the heater to warm up. The shower felt heavenly. He soaked himself in soap twice before he felt something akin to clean.
Suddenly, soft knock on the door made him freeze.
"I put some clothes for you here and a toothbrush," Potter's muffled voice informed him.
"Thanks," Draco replied, stepping out of the shower. Wrapped into a towel, he opened the door an inch and pulled the items inside. Instantly, he locked the door again.
Without thinking about the Malfoy dress code, he slipped into the jeans, T-shirt, and slightly worn pullover. It was orange. He'd never wear orange, not at home nor in Hogwarts; not on a normal day anyway. But now wasn't normal, and Draco certainly wasn't home.
Never look a gift hippogriff in the mouth, his mother used to say.
After Draco had brushed his teeth, he felt like a normal human being again for the first time in a long while. Before he returned, he took the time to look out of the window. The sun peeked over the horizon and the heath-like landscape lay in a gloomy half-light. The black granite-cliffs rising from the mist, the booming turf, the wheeling gulls; it all seemed very familiar to Draco, like he'd been here before. Could this be Cornwall? he wondered. The sight evoked painful memories of a happy childhood, a carefree world without a Dark Lord, without the constant threat of death.
Very, very carefully, he eased the bathroom door open, but nobody pounced on him. A breath of relief escaped his lips. He tiptoed down the hall, freezing when the wooden floor creaked. Draco suddenly noticed light in the living room. He couldn't resist casting a last glance at the rest of the house before he'd be confined to the cellar once more. He was surprised at how homely everything looked, poor compared to the Manor, but comfortable.
"Tea?" Potter's voice reached him, and Draco flinched.
Reluctantly, he followed the voice into the kitchen. "I –" He wasn't sure what he had been about to say, but Potter interrupted him anyway.
"Here." Thrusting a cup of hot tea in Draco's hands, Potter sat down. "I want to talk to you." Draco's mind raced. What did Potter want? More information?
"Sit," the Gryffindor insisted. Draco pulled a face and hesitantly sat down, facing the entrance.
"You look better," the dark-haired wizard remarked casually, playing with the cup in his hands.
"I don't think we're quite at the small talk stage," Draco replied blankly, not meeting the other boy's eyes. He felt a sudden rage boiling up inside him. He hated that he felt so scared, so defeated, so bloody tired all the time; he hated that Potter was nice to him because he didn't know how to handle a nice Potter; he hated his own indecisiveness, hated himself for every stupid decision he'd made; and it all only added to his frustration of being a prisoner once again. Before he hadn't been locked up, true, but he'd been far from free. "Where are we anyway?"
Potter gave him a suspicious look. "Why do you want to know?"
"I think…" Draco paused, turning his head to the window and frowning in concentration, "I've been here before."
"Stop lying," Potter snapped, his fists clenched. "That's not possible."
Draco shrugged. "If you say so." But he was sure now – they were in Cornwall, not far from Tinworth. He remembered spending a holiday here when he was younger. It felt like lifetime ago.
"I'm sorry." Potter took a calming breath, relaxing his fingers. "I didn't mean it. Damn, I just –" Potter ran his fingers through his hair. "I just wanted to let you know that they're alive. Your parents."
Draco's heart stopped for a second, and he drew in a strangled breath. "What?"
"I – I can get into his head, and I saw …" Potter swallowed thickly.
Draco scrutinised him. He'd had that monster in his mind, but that Potter was going into the mind of the monster? – He couldn't imagine it. "Thanks," he rasped. He didn't really want to know what Potter had seen; for now, it was enough that they were maybe not okay but alive. Quickly, he took a sip of the tea. Potter did the same, avoiding his gaze.
Suddenly, a hysterical laugh burst through Draco's lips. He and Potter, sitting peacefully in a kitchen and drinking tea – he wouldn't have imagined it in his wildest dreams. The situation still seemed quite unreal to him. Sleep-deprivation could do many things to a mind. But this was too absurd to be Draco's imagination.
Potter threw him a strange look but said nothing. Silence stretched between them.
Emptying his cup, Potter stood up. "You should sleep a little." He nodded towards Draco, then left without another word.
Draco didn't know what to do now. Go back to his cell? He didn't really want to, if he was being honest. But sitting in the kitchen didn't seem right either. He downed the tea and was just about to stand up when a wave of tiredness hit him like a punch in the gut.
Draco squinted at the cup and sniffed at the remains, recognising the characteristic smell of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Sodding Potter. He must've added it in secret to – what? Why would he drug him?
But Draco's mind was too tired to answer these questions now. The potion pulled him under quicker than he'd expected it to. He didn't even manage to stand up but passed out on the kitchen chair, his head on the table.
Present
Draco hadn't been able to sleep peacefully that night. Every now and then, he'd startled awake, fearing he'd heard another scream. But they were just ghosts, memories, nightmares. Every time he woke up, he'd check if his father or godfather had left him a message, but the page stayed frustratingly blank. That didn't prevent Draco from checking, though.
The sunrise dawned bright red on the eastern horizon as if Hermione's blood had dripped right into the sky. Draco pushed that macabre thought away and dressed. There was no point in chasing sleep any longer.
The Manor was quiet. Not even the house elves seemed to be upstairs yet. Quietly, Draco walked down to the ground floor, pausing at the entrance to the dungeon.
He wanted to see Hermione so badly, but he shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Despite knowing better, Draco turned back and tiptoed down the stone stairs. The urge to see her was so strong, it felt like magnetism.
In front of her cell, the Slytherin stopped and listened. No sound reached him. Was Hermione sleeping?
Automatically, he reached for the iron handle when a jolt of electricity warned him, and he jumped back in surprise. There was a new spell on the door. Draco wasn't sure what kind of spell, but he had a suspicion who cast it. Bellatrix.
This meant he couldn't enter the cell without her noticing.
Draco's fingernails bit into his palm as he clenched his fists. Now, he was banned from even slipping Hermione food, unseen. He longed to touch her, to hug her, to feel her warmth under his fingers, to make sure she was still alive and okay.
It was impossible now.
Why could something as fragile as a wooden door torture and taunt him like this?
Out of the blue, an idea occurred to Draco: he could render the door invisible, just for a little while. Then, he'd be able to at least see her, make sure she was – if not okay – alive. Should he be questioned about this, he could easily pretend he'd wanted to see the Mudblood suffer.
With a complicated wand movement, Draco performed the spell and, instantly, the door faded, becoming as see-through as a pane of glass. It was still there, though. If Draco looked hard enough, he could see the wooden texture shimmering in the light of the lone candle. Finally, he could see inside the cell.
For the first time, he noted that there was a small window in the wall. In the night, it had provided them with no light, but now the morning twilight managed to chase away the darkness far enough for Draco to discern a dark shape on the floor. Hermione was curled up in a corner, her back to the wall. She was breathing shallowly and twitched every now and then in her sleep. Maybe she had a nightmare.
Of course, she'd have bloody nightmares, his mind snarled. And it's all your fault.
Suddenly, as if Hermione knew she was being watched, her eyes flew open. She stared straight at him, unblinking. "Draco?" she mouthed.
He nodded, not knowing what to say.
Instantly, Hermione scrambled to her feet, staggering towards him with painfully sluggish motions. Right in front of the door, she stopped, detecting the obstacle between them.
"Oh," she sighed and lifted her hand, placing it gently on the wood.
Draco couldn't resist the urge and put his hand on the opposite side of the door, so their skin would meet if the cruel wood wouldn't separate them. The simple intimacy of near touch.
Hermione was so close, he could almost feel her warmth, taste her smile. The orange light of the candle penetrated the invisible door and Draco was finally able to see her clearly. Dark smudges under her eyes spoke of fitful sleep, and the bruise on her cheek had turned an ugly purple. But her eyes were clear, her gaze firm.
"I wish we could change places," Draco whispered.
"Nah," Hermione smiled. "I'd be a rotten Death Eater."
Involuntarily, he chuckled. "Still." He turned serious again. "I don't understand why you trust me."
The witch shrugged, her hand still on the door, like his. "There was something about you, in Shell Cottage. I mean…" She shook her head, her tangled locks brushing the door. "I couldn't help it. I've never seen you so broken. And then, in the tent, always running, fighting for Ron's life... you gave me little moment's of peace, of something akin to happiness. My life depended on yours, and you never let me down."
"But I did," Draco contradicted, self-hatred turning his voice hard. "You're here after all."
"That was my own fault. I don't know what I was thinking… a pharmacy in broad daylight." Hermione smiled sheepishly, and Draco opened his mouth to contradict again but then shut his mouth with a clack. It wasn't the pharmacy that had gotten them caught but his trip to Diagon Alley. He'd learned by now that Rookwood had spotted him on the street – well, not him, but a disguised Death Eater he didn't recognise – and had placed a tracing spell on him that would give away his apparition location. And it had.
It was Draco's fault, not hers. But he didn't know how to tell her.
"Draco." Hermione's soft voice chased away the heavy, guilt-ridden silence, and Draco focused back on her. "If this ends badly, don't… please, don't blame yourself. It's a war. People die."
He had to look away to escape the intensity of her gaze, burning amber. "Not you. You won't die! Not if I can help it," he promised in a raw voice. The thought of her death turned his heart to ice. That was nothing she could just forgive. He certainly wouldn't forgive himself.
Abruptly, Draco dropped his fingers from the door and stepped back. He just couldn't take her near presence, her kindness, for a second longer. He should leave!
"Draco!" Hermione called after him, and the desperation in her voice made him stop in his tracks. "Please, don't go!" she said, and it sounded suspiciously like a sob. He'd never heard her so vulnerable, almost pleading with him to stay.
There was no choice. Draco had to humour her. Even if it killed him.
"I'm going nowhere, love," he whispered, putting his hand back in place. The wood was rough and cold to his touch. Slowly, he leaned his forehead on the door, listening to her breathing.
