Hermione had never looked less like a threat, with her trembling hands and ash-covered face, and yet, his gaze never strayed from her. Moving slowly, as if he expected her to attack them at any moment, Draco set the pie on the table and returned to the outskirts of the room, clasping his hands behind his back. The two other boys, in turn, remained silent, deferring to his judgment, waiting for him to have the first word. Feeling lethargy set in, Hermione rocked onto the balls of her feet.
"What's she doing here?" For someone with such a pale, almost ethereal disposition, his voice was deeper than Hermione expected.
"She's a Muggle-born," the boy answered. Blaise, she reluctantly corrected herself. She supposed she was entrenched in their world deeply enough at this point to call the boy by his first name.
Draco lifted his chin, looking down at her over his slender nose. "I knew that much. I can practically smell it on her." He stood taller than others, but not by much, and painfully thin. Still, his presence was imposing and demanding. With the strong set of his jaw, the confidence in his shoulders, she found him impossible to ignore. And he reveled in that fact. "Put her out on the street with the rest of the strays," Draco said with a sneer.
"She'll never make it out of London alive," Theo said, taking three steps toward Draco, but stopping just out of reach. "You know what they'll do to her."
"You know what they'll do to us if they find out we're harboring a Mudblood." Draco narrowed his eyes.
Whatever that word meant, it wasn't a compliment. Hermione's shoulders caved. "Listen, I really don't want to cause any trouble-" But no one seemed to be listening to her.
"She's not on the Registry. I would remember a name as pretentious as Hermione," Draco continued. "There's still time for her to get out alive."
She dug her fingernails into her upper arms. How far would she get before they found her? Would she have been better off not knowing the dangers that lurked in every shadow?
"We already told her she could stay the night," said Blaise. "But you can stay at Pansy's if her presence upsets you that much."
"And tell Pansy what?" Draco bit back, lifting a pale eyebrow. "You know she can't find out about this."
"Offer to go down on her," Blaise quipped. "She'll let you stay for a week. No questions asked."
Draco's back stiffened. From his words and his icy tone, his pallid appearance and aloof, unfeeling demeanor, everything about him was cold. He stood straight as a bayonet, unmoving, with all the precision and discipline of a soldier. Not even his shoulders rose and fell to signify his breath. It gave him a look of indifference, like he was so far removed from Hermione and her situation—so far above her.
"She's practically bursting at the seams," Theo said, disregarding the comment about Pansy. "If we don't help her, she'll turn into an Obscurial." Hermione mentally added that the list of words to look up later.
Draco looked her over, taking his sweet time. Any other day, she would have scolded any man who had the balls to shamelessly look at her like she was a meal, but her eyes were drooping and her heart rate was slowing. She only had so much fight left; she had to pick her battles. "You might want to consider that option," he said. "It would be a blessing compared to what Voldemort would do to you."
"Lay off, Malfoy," Blaise said. Draco took a step forward. Hermione blinked. She hadn't expected Blaise to be the one to come to her defense so swiftly.
As Draco opened his mouth to perpetuate the argument, Theo took the opportunity to lead Hermione away from the ostentatious display of hegemonic masculinity. "Shower's right through there." He pointed to the bathroom.
Hermione offered a small smile; the greatest display of gratitude she could muster. "I don't want any of you to risk your lives for me. I just need to know how to control this and then I'll be on my way."
Theo shook his head. "No rush. We'll work on Draco, just get cleaned up. You've had a rough day."
Hermione sighed as she closed the door behind her. Understatement of the year.
· · ─────── ·?ￂﾷ ─────── · ·
When he heard the shower turn on, Theo unwrapped the pie. Lemon meringue, Blaise's favorite. On Friday nights, the three usually enjoyed it with an intense drinking game and illicit drugs, but no one seemed to be in the mood anymore. Not when their death sentence was lathering, rinsing, and repeating just ten feet from the kitchen table.
After rolling up his sleeves, Theo summoned a fork from the kitchen with a lazy wave of his wand and dug into the cream.
"So, what's her deal?" Draco asked, sinking into the chair beside Theo and propping his legs up on the table.
"She accidentally set her house on fire," said Blaise. Theo knocked Draco's legs to the ground with his elbow.
Draco took it in kind, leaning forward. "So you thought to invite her here?" The words were accusatory, but his voice still sounded detached. "We have a lot of books. Makes the flat pretty flammable."
"What do you suggest we do with her then?"
"Send her to the Order of the Phoenix. They'll at least kill her quickly, if you don't want me to do it," Draco said, without a trace of sympathy. Theo and Blaise had been talking for months about revolution and rebellion. It had always manifested in small acts: stealing from the Ministry, telling white lies to the Death Eaters about how they spent their time. It was harmless fun, and more importantly, impossible to trace the lie. Draco never thought it would come to anything more. He had always quelled their spirits before it could.
"They wouldn't," Theo argued. "They need the numbers."
"They have too many mouths to feed and not enough resources. She's useless at best and a liability at worst," said Draco. "Say what you will about the Order, but they're not above a mercy killing."
A long, steady rush of air escaped through Theo's nostrils.
"If we're going to keep talking about this, I need some vodka," Blaise said, holding out his hand. Theo flicked the cap open, downed a mouthful, and passed the bottle to Blaise.
As he stretched his arm out, he flashed the inside of his forearm in Draco's direction, revealing the remnants of a battlefield. Draco averted his gaze. Some of Theo's scars were pale and faded. Others were fresher, a collection of raised and angry reminders of the hold that Voldemort held over all of them. He wished his friend kept them covered. Draco always wore long sleeves: not to cover any blemishes, as he didn't have any. Rather, he didn't want any more reminders that his skin was pristine and unmarked, while Theo's had been carved into, sliced, and slashed. He cleared his throat and took another bite of pie. "How did she know to come here, anyway?"
"We met over the summer on Primrose Hill. I was being stupid and showing off, and she saw me. Told me she'd been struggling to control her magic, asked if she should be concerned." Blaise shoveled another forkful of pie into this mouth.
"You should have told her to leave the country then and there."
"I should have been more careful and not let myself get caught doing magic in public in the first place, but I wasn't," he said and wiped bits of cream from the corners of his lips. "She caught me off-guard. She was confused and pretty-"
Draco groaned. "If I risked my life for every confused and pretty girl who asked me-"
Blaise didn't let him finish. "I told her to ignore it. That was obviously a mistake." Draco glared, uncompromising. "And then I told her if she ever needed help, she could come here. And like it or not—and believe me, I don't—she needs our help."
"She could be killed. We could be killed."
Theo lifted the bottle in the air. "We can be killed at any point. We live our lives standing on a precipice, afraid that one wrong move will get us sent over the edge, but Voldemort doesn't need a reason to get rid of us. If he wants us gone, we'll be dead before we can even ask why. We've lived through all this death and destruction for twenty years, thinking that one day, things will get better, but there's no end in sight. If we're going to die at any moment anyway, we might as well do something worth dying for." He punctuated his speech by slamming the vodka bottle on the table.
Draco clenched his jaw, reaching for the bottle. "I think you've had enough of that," he said and took a swig, though Theo was just as lucid as he and Blaise were. Draco made a face as he lowered the bottle. He much preferred scotch over vodka, but Theo was partial to the stuff, so Draco relented. For all that Theo had given up, Draco was happy to make this small sacrifice. "What are we going to do about Pansy?"
"Tell her we have cockroaches and she can't come over for a while," Blaise offered. "Are you going to see her tomorrow?"
Draco nodded.
"Swear you won't tell her about Hermione," Theo demanded.
Draco scoffed, taking another bite of pie. "I'm officially an accomplice to your crimes. Rest assured, this secret will, most unfortunately, go with me to my grave."
Blaise tilted the bottle. "Hopefully later rather than sooner."
The sound of the shower halted, and their conversation submitted to the silence. Hermione walked out on the balls of her feet, wrapped in a towel, leaving minuscule puddles in her wake. "Would it be possible to borrow a t-shirt? My clothes are all a bit... crispy."
Theo, ever the gentleman, was the first to offer. "Yeah, follow me."
Draco rolled his neck. "Wait." He stood. "I have some of Pansy's clothes. It'll fit better." With a reluctant nod and a final glance at Theo, Hermione followed him into his bedroom.
When they had moved into the flat, almost three years ago, he had chosen the smallest bedroom for himself. He found it comforting, that he couldn't pace more than a few feet. The world outside may have been vast and unending, but his bedroom was small and manageable; he knew every inch of it. Which floorboards creaked, the hollow spaces behind the wall, the uneven crown molding above the doorframe, every book that lined his shelves, and every sweater folded in his drawers.
"Who's Pansy?" Hermione asked. Draco tensed at the sound of her voice. The one unfamiliarity within his walls.
He forced his shoulders to loosen. "Doesn't matter. If everything goes according to plan, you'll never have the pleasure of meeting her." Kneeling at the base of his dresser, he withdrew an old Hogwarts sweatshirt and a pair of shorts and handed them to Hermione. "I'll see what I can do to procure a few more options."
"If you get your way, that won't be necessary," she said, examining the Hogwarts logo: Salazar Slytherin's coat of arms was front and center, with the other three founders' represented directly below it. The logo had changed since his parents' days at Hogwarts, before Voldemort came to power and Slytherin became the only respectable house to be sorted into.
"Seems as if I won't be getting my way this time. Theo wants to play the hero. I'll let him for now." He didn't finish the sentiment, but judging by the way her eyebrows lifted and her lips tightened, he knew she got the idea. If it came down to saving his friends or saving her, he wouldn't hesitate to throw her to the wolves. Theo wanted to protect her, but Draco wanted to protect Theo. He didn't mind playing the bad guy in order to ensure their survival.
Which meant, regrettably, that he had to stop staring at the curve of her bare collarbone.
Hermione's chest rose and fell, but she didn't respond to his threat. "Is this the magic school you all went to?"
He nodded his affirmation, not particularly inclined to elaborate. He wasn't going to wax nostalgic about his school days with a Muggle-born who was so inept at magic, she had inadvertently turned her home into a pile of ash. She lifted the pile of clothes. "Ok, well, I'll just..."
Draco cleared his throat and took a step back, squaring his shoulders and tucking his arms behind him. "Right. Don't snoop when you're done." Not that there was anything to find. Draco didn't keep his secrets in his bedroom. It was nearly empty, save for his bed, dresser, a desk, and a small bookshelf, which only held a few Muggle classics and empty notebooks. His walls were bare, the dresser housed enough outfits to last him a week, nothing more. If he never fully settled, he couldn't call the apartment home. He couldn't become attached.
Roots, in Draco's experience, were little more than beguiling chains, and he had been in bondage for too long to be tricked into submitting further.
When Draco emerged from the bedroom, Theo was piling pillows and blankets on the couch. "She can sleep in my room," he explained. "In case someone breaks in, at least she won't be the first one they see."
"Then we'll have to explain why you're not sleeping in your own bed."
He punched another pillow into shape. "As of yet, no one has offered to share a bed, so it seems like this is our best option." As of yet. Draco rolled his eyes. Theo said it as if it were inevitable. Sure, she was attractive enough, and if they were willing to gamble their lives, reputations, and legacies for a shag, that was their prerogative. Draco certainly wasn't one to stand in the way of a good lay, even if it was with a Mudblood.
Theo closed the open notebook on the coffee table and set it on the shelf, next to a long line of filled journals, and the rest of Draco's library. They were few physical things Draco indulged in: books and notebooks. Impractical, maybe, but necessary for his sanity nonetheless.
Hermione cleared her throat, appearing at the entrance of the kitchen, her hair still sopping wet. Draco had underestimated Pansy's height; the sweatshirt hung to mid-thigh, completely covering the shorts and exposing the length of her smooth leg.
Draco averted his eyes, catching sight of a line of mud on the corner of the carpet. His head shot up. He squinted at her. "Did you do this?" he asked.
Hermione's eyes widened, like a deer caught in headlights. "I- um..."
He sighed and dropped his head. "The first thing you're going to learn are cleaning spells," he muttered.
Her cheeks flushed crimson, but she didn't put up a fight.
"Feel better?" Theo asked. Hermione nodded. He turned to the group. "Are you sure about this?"
Of course not, Draco thought. He met Theo's eyes, wide and somehow still soft, even after twenty years of oppression and isolation. "You have the most to lose out of all of us, Nott," he said, grateful when Theo made no move to dispute this claim. "So you better make damn sure you're willing to risk everything for her."
Theo glanced between the three others, fingers unconsciously reaching for his wand. "I guess we better put up every protective enchantment we know."