Bittersweet and Strange

Chapter 9: Unexpectedly

"Here, start on that window over there. And use the blue rag, not the one with holes."

"Yes, your highness," Draco muttered, picking up the cleaning rag that was lying at his feet.

Hermione gave him an annoyed look and put her hands on her hips. "Look, I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. I know all the tricks there are to cleaning, thanks to my mum. And I'm doing it so you won't have to live in squalor like the helpless baby you are."

Draco put up his hands defensively. "I didn't say a word!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to scrubbing the conservatory floor, hiding a smile as she did so. Nearly a month had gone by since she and Draco laid their cards on the table and told each other their secrets. They had been relatively undisturbed by Narcissa, Blaise, and Theodore, and, after three days of slight awkwardness, Hermione and Draco had gradually become more friendly – domestic, even. Since then, the two of them had built up something that was dangerously close to friendship, spending a fair amount of time together and regularly having civil conversations. While the whole situation still felt foreign to Hermione, she was beginning to settle into a new routine – one that involved Draco Malfoy's company.

"What's this in the corner?" Draco asked, gesturing with his rag to a blackened spot in the corner of the window he was currently polishing.

Hermione shrugged. "You're the one who's lived here for ten years. You tell me."

"Yes," he agreed, "but you're the one who's been cleaning for the last few months. You've been in here more recently. And I've been here for eight years, not ten."

"Do you expect me to catch every little speck?" Hermione retorted.

Draco shook his head, returning to his window and scrubbing harder at the spot. "Where did you find this cleaning stuff anyway?"

"The hall closet," she replied, brushing a few stray hairs away from her forehead. "There were quite a few helpful items in there."

"Odd that I've never seen them."

"Considering the state this house was in when I got here," Hermione teased, "I'd say it's not so odd."

Draco shrugged. He worked for several more minutes on the black spot, then finally stepped back, took his aim, and spat directly on it. Hermione looked up at the sound as Draco began attacking the spot with a purpose. Something in the spittle must have been a solvent, because after a few seconds of fierce polishing, the black spot on the window was gone. Draco eyed it proudly and turned to face Hermione, gesturing to his handiwork.

"How's that?" he asked with a triumphant smirk.

Hermione sat back on her heels, pretending to consider the window thoughtfully. "Well… it's not how I would have done it, but I suppose it's a means to an end."

Draco scoffed. "Right, Granger. You would have sat there and scrubbed for two hours before it came off. My way is much more effective."

"And nasty," she muttered.

"Yes. It's a skill I mastered in my third year here. I got so bored that I started learning how to spit with an aim."

"Why?" Hermione asked incredulously.

He grinned. "It passed the time. Besides, I would just imagine that I was spitting right in Voldemort's ugly eyes, and I never missed the mark."

"Fascinating," she remarked. "But tell me, what exactly did you aim for? Have I been scrubbing your saliva off everything in this house for three months?"

"That depends. What have you cleaned?"

"Everything."

"Then, yeah, you've probably got it all."

At his impish grin, Hermione smirked at him and threw a dry rag at him. It hit him squarely in the face.

"You're not the only one who's practiced throwing," she laughed.

Draco laughed with her and tossed the rag back, managing to land it on top of her head. She snatched it off and stared at him while he laughed even harder. "How – Malfoy, how did you do that?"

"Wandless magic," he admitted. "I picked it up after about two years in here. My mum sent me a book on it, and I've been working on it since then."

"I saw that book," Hermione replied. "When I went to the basement."

Draco nodded. "That's the one. It's not that hard if you don't have anything else to do. I don't use it much and I'm not very good, but sometimes it comes in handy if I need to move something. Or make something float," he added.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "A true master of the art." She set the rag next to her soap bucket and returned to scrubbing, and Draco turned back to his newly-clean window.

"Isn't this great," he remarked dryly. "With this window clean, I can see so much more. Just think, I would have lived my whole life without knowing about these thorny vines that look exactly like the ones on all my other windows."

Hermione snorted a laugh. His sarcasm was contagious. "You should write a letter to Voldemort thanking him for sending you to such a paradise."

"Yeah, 'wish you were here, Dark Lord of the Wizarding World,'" he said.

Hermione chuckled again. They worked for a bit longer, Hermione on the floor and Draco on the next window, before she stood and announced, "I'm going to go grab more water. The bucket's running low. I'll be right back."

"I can get it, if you'd like," Draco offered.

"Well, you can help me if you want to," she said. "It's pretty heavy when it's full, and my hands are already raw from all the scrubbing."

Hermione picked up the empty bucket and headed for the hallway, Draco right behind her. When they reached the loo, she started filling the bucket with water, and Draco leaned against the wall next to the door, looking down at the floor thoughtfully.

"Wanna know how many tiles there are on this floor, Granger?"

Hermione frowned and glanced at him behind her through the mirror. "What did you –"

"Fourteen."

"Okay –"

"And there's twenty-six on the floor in the dining room – "

"You've –"

"Nineteen in the kitchen –"

"Mal–"

"And sixteen in the loo upstairs," he finished proudly.

Hermione sighed. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

Draco grinned, obviously enjoying himself. "If floor tiles impress you, you've got a problem."

"Considering you're the one who has all the floor tiles in his house memorized, I think you're the one with the problem."

"Don't judge me too early, Granger. Give it eight years, and you'll be counting the floor tiles, too."

He was teasing, but his words made Hermione inwardly wince. Eight years? Could she really have to wait eight years? Did she have a choice? Could she and Draco coexist for that long? It was a nightmare to think about never leaving, but maybe she should start considering the possibility.

As if sensing her thoughts, Draco quickly added, "But I'm sure you won't be here that long. The Order will figure a way out for you." He reached over and turned off the faucet, picking up the newly-full bucket and starting to lug it down the hallway back to the conservatory.

"And you," Hermione answered, following him. "If they can get me out, I'm sure they can get you out, too."

Draco rolled his eyes. "The Order doesn't want a Death Eater, Granger."

"How would you know?" she retorted. "I think they could get past it, especially after you tell them what you've told me. You'll be an invaluable source. Besides," she added, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "we believe in giving everyone a second chance."

"Even Death Eaters?" he asked sardonically.

"Who needs a second chance more?"

Draco regarded her for a moment, thinking over a possibility he had seemingly never thought of. "Whatever you say, Granger."

They reentered the conservatory and set the bucket in the center of the floor. Draco started to pick his wiping rag up again, but Hermione stopped him. "I've been scrubbing that floor for two hours, and three months before that. You scrub the floor. I'll wash the windows."

Draco smirked at her. "Like I said, whatever you say, Granger."

They swapped jobs, Hermione confiscating Draco's holey rags and Draco taking over the dreaded scrub brush. They chatted back and forth for a while, keeping their conversation light. After almost an hour, the water in the bucket finally needed another refill, and Draco stood to get it.

"Need any help?" Hermione asked over her shoulder.

"Nope," he said cheerfully. He was whistling quietly as he left the room in search of more water, and Hermione tried to hide a smile. He had been so sullen and moody when she first came, and the change in him since her arrival – no, since her decision to believe him – was not easily overlooked. He was happier than she had seen him since… ever, really. Even at Hogwarts, he had been pretentious, condescending, and downright mean, but now it was as though he were a totally different person. I guess that proves a second chance can make all the difference, Hermione thought.

After five minutes had gone by without a sound from Draco, Hermione set her rag down and started toward the door. "Malfoy," she called softly. "Mal–"

They collided, her coming out the door just as he was coming in. Soapy water from the bucket sloshed out and soaked the front of Hermione's shirt and pants, as well as Draco's sleeves.

"Godric, Malfoy," she muttered. "Couldn't you at least have shouted 'fore'?"

"What?" he asked.

"Muggle expression," she explained dismissively. She pulled her shirt in front of her away from her body. "Well, looks like I'm in for a headcold."

Draco set the bucket on the floor and began shaking his sleeves to dry them, slinging even more water around the room. "Sorry, Granger. I guess I'm not used to coexisting yet."

Hermione sighed. "Well," she said, "it could be worse. I'll dry off quick enough."

"Go change clothes," Draco stated, as if it were an obvious conclusion.

Hermione gave him an unbelieving look. "Malfoy, has it escaped your notice that I have not once in my time here changed clothes?"

Draco studied her for a moment, taking in the burgundy shirt, faded blue jeans, and trainers that she had been wearing for almost three months. "I, um... I guess I hadn't thought about it," he admitted.

"Obviously," she said. "Don't worry about it. I'll dry off."

"It's December, Granger. It's freezing in here. If you walk around soaking wet, you'll get sick for sure."

Hermione sighed. "Did you miss my headcold comment?"

Draco wasn't listening. Instead, he was already starting to head down the hallway and toward the staircase. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" she asked, following him and hugging herself with her arms to stay warm.

"Upstairs," he said unnecessarily. They headed up the staircase and to the empty bedroom that held the entrance to the basement. "I think I might have something you can wear down there," he mused, pushing the secret wall open and gesturing for Hermione to go down the tunnel first. The trip down to the basement seemed shorter to Hermione than the first time she had walked it alone. She suddenly realized that it was the first time she had been to the basement since Draco had passed out down there. They reached the bottom of the tunnel and the entrance of the laboratory, and Draco headed toward a locked trunk in the corner of the room.

Hermione wandered around as he dug through the trunk, muttering to himself. She took advantage of her opportunity to study some of the labels on the potion ingredients on the large table. The potions displayed in Draco's books were some of the most advanced that Hermione had ever seen. "Is this really a dragon's heart?" she asked in amazement, picking up a jar filled with some sort of organ.

Draco stopped his rummaging and turned to look at the jar Hermione was holding. "Um... yeah, that's what Dennis said it was. I'm trying to make a potion that lets the user fly without the use of a broom or a wand."

"What?!" Hermione gasped at the casual way Draco had made his statement. "Is that even possible?"

"I don't know," he said absently. "That's what I'm trying to find out." He finally stood, holding a gray tunic and a black robe. "I'm not sure what these are doing down here, but it's all I can find that you might be able to wear. They're a little big, but you could probably alter them. Can you sew?"

"Not really," Hermione said. "I can try to do something with them, though." Draco nodded and handed the garments to her. "Thanks," she added.

"Don't mention it." He closed the trunk and started toward the entrance to the tunnel, the stopped and turned back toward the room. "Hang on, let me grab one of my books before we go back upstairs."

Hermione studied a few more bottles on the table thoughtfully as Draco strode to his desk, and she was surprised to see how neatly he had organized everything. Granted, it wasn't exactly the way she would have done it, but it was obvious that Draco had put a lot of time and work into his potion making.

Her musings were interrupted when Draco suddenly let out a frustrated cry, causing her to whip around in surprise. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Draco whirled around to face her, looking very disturbed. "The map. The floorplan of the house. It's gone! Did you take it when you were down here that day?"

"Of course not!" she said. "I was too busy trying to save your life, if you'll recall!"

"Then Blaise and Theodore. Did they take it?" Draco was frantic, yanking open his desk drawers and shuffling through the stacks of paper on his desk.

"No, not that I know of," Hermione replied. "I wasn't with them the whole time and –" She stopped short, suddenly remembering something she had forgotten about in the frenzy of excitement. "Malfoy. Malfoy, they were down here!" Draco turned to face her again, and she walked quickly to the desk to join him. "I remember now! We were all up in your room and were trying to figure out what had happened, and Zabini told Nott to go downstairs and check around your desk for any clues about what might have happened."

"And you didn't try to stop them?" Draco demanded.

"I didn't think about it! I mean, I remember seeing the map down there when I found you, but I didn't even think about it when Nott went down there."

Draco sighed in frustration, sitting on the edge of his desk and running one hand through his hair desperately. "Merlin's teeth. I've tried for so long to keep that map a secret, and now –"

"I'm sorry," Hermione blurted out. "I didn't even think about it."

Draco shook his head. "Oh, it's not your fault. It's mine for being so careless."

Hermione frowned and looked at the floor, trying to think of something to say. "You said you trusted them, right? Zabini and Nott? That they're like your brothers?" Draco shrugged, and Hermione continued. "They won't turn us in. Surely they wouldn't do that now."

He nodded. "It's not them I'm worried about. If they were going to turn us in, they would have done it a long time ago. I just hope it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. Dennis is the one who saved me. If anything happens to him –"

"Nothing will happen to Dennis," Hermione said firmly. "He's first on the Order's list of priorities."

Draco swallowed, then looked up at Hermione with a small smile. "Second, I'll bet," he said. "After you."

Hermione shook her head but couldn't keep from smiling in return. "Whatever you say, Malfoy."

After a moment, Draco stood, shaking his wet sleeves again. "Well, I guess there's no use in worrying about it now. I can talk to them about it next time they come. For now, let's go get changed and get back to work."

Hermione laughed. "Enjoying a bit of hard work?"

He smirked at her in return. "It keeps my mind off the rest of my crushing doom."

"Well, don't worry about the portkey," Hermione said. "Zabini and Nott probably haven't thought another thing about it."

Hermione was not often wrong, but she was very much wrong about Theodore Nott. He had spent the last month giving more thought than was probably healthy to the portkey, and he had reached no solid conclusions. The things Blaise had said about the mole in the Ministry had provoked Theodore into some serious thought. If there really was a leak, and Granger was playing a part in it, and it meant a link to Draco's underground group and what was left of the Order, then Theodore was positive the portkey he had found had something to do with all that.

Grimmauld Place. Theodore hadn't been there in years, and then only to look for clues on who Draco might have met eight years ago. It hardly seemed that long to Theodore, especially now that his interest in the place had been renewed. A portkey in one corner of an unassuming floorplan. Draco was smart, Theodore had realized, and he had almost pulled off whatever crazy scheme he had been involved in all those years ago.

And that was the main reason Theodore was where he was on this particular night. Squatted down behind a large stack of charred-black stone, he had been waiting for nearly four hours, waiting for night to fall as he searched for some sign. Theodore had spent the last twelve nights in the same place, determined that he would find what he was looking for. What exactly that was, Theodore wasn't sure of, but he knew he would know it when he saw it.

Shifting his weight, Theodore went over all the information he had in his head. Draco Malfoy, right-hand man to Voldemort, was captured at Grimmauld Place on September 14, 1999, at 11:00 P.M. He was seen conversing with and giving a mysterious object to an unidentified person, who vanished as soon as Malfoy was petrified. Malfoy was taken to Voldemort's lair, then to his own home three days later, where he was sentenced to be trapped and cursed for the rest of his life for his treason. Searches for Malfoy's contact and any information about the secret meeting have proved unsuccessful. That was part of an article in the Daily Prophet, an article that Theodore had memorized. Any hope of solving the mystery of Draco's past lay in that story.

Theodore had asked Draco once about his past with the underground movement, and he had been coldly rebuffed. Granted, it had been a pointed question that Theodore really had no right to ask, but it had stirred in him questions that demanded answers, as well as a desire to solve whatever mystery Draco had become embroiled in.

Almost nine years in a world ruled by Voldemort had left Theodore feeling empty, bitter, and ready for a change in the way things were run. He had always been one to go with the flow and keep his mouth shut, but after seeing hundreds of people he had known as a child brutally murdered or sold off as slaves, Theodore suddenly felt the need to be more than lukewarm. He knew Blaise felt the same way to a certain degree, but Theodore's convictions ran deeper. Solving the story behind Draco's mysterious circumstances would reinstate a sense of justice into the Wizarding World, as well as finally give Theodore an accomplishment to be proud of.

He stretched his neck to either side before resuming his stock-still position. Grimmauld Place wasn't an ideal spot to spend the night, but Theodore was determined. First Draco is captured here, he thought, then Granger shows up and a portkey to the same place appears. It was too much of a coincidence. The two events had to be connected, and probably to the Order and the underground, provided the two organizations were seperate. If he could prove that, then he could possibly work with Draco to help the movement against Voldemort and restore peace.

All Theodore needed was some good, solid evidence, and he was almost positive that he would find it in Grimmauld Place.

"You really don't have to help," Hermione remarked, her amusement showing through her voice. "I've done dishes by myself before, you know."

"I know," Draco shot back. "But I'm enjoying this strange feeling of being useful."

Hermione shook her head and returned to scrubbing the dried sauce off a plate. It had been four days since she had washed the dishes, and they had piled up more than she had realized. She was expecting it to take awhile, but what she wasn't expecting was Draco appearing by her side unannounced and drying every dish she washed by hand.

"Where did you get these dishes?" Hermione asked, running her fingertip along the scalloped edge of a saucer.

Draco studied the saucer thoughtfully. "I honestly don't remember. I think Mum gave them to me when I moved in here. She said I would appreciate it later on. I think she might have gotten them from a wizard in France."

"Huh," Hermione replied. "They're quite pretty. A little fancy for the kind of meals we eat, but still pretty."

"Listen, if we wait around for a gourmet meal to use these dishes, they'll collect dust in a cabinet for the rest of our lives. And, yeah, Mum's got good taste."

Hermione gave him a teasing smile. "So does your mum do everything for you?"

"Well," he stammered, "not everything. That is, she always let me do some things, but... well, I do everything on my own now!"

"Everything," Hermione mused. "Even washing your own dishes?"

"What?"

She set a still-damp bowl back in the sink and reached over to take the saucer and wash rag out of Draco's hands. "See," she pointed out. "You're just skimming over the top of the plate like this. If you do that, only the center of the plate gets dry, and the little indentions on the rim might still have water stuck inside, which could fade the paint." She demonstrated her described method, then handed the saucer and rag back to Draco, who had watched her intently.

"Like that?" he asked, doing exactly what Hermione had said not to do.

"No," she said, "like this." She reached over and took each of his hands in hers, using them like puppets to re-demonstrate her method. She dried the plate gently and began to pull away, her point made, but Draco held on a second longer than necessary. Even when she had returned to her bowl, he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

"Like that?" he asked again, repeating his same mistake.

Hermione shook her head impatiently upon noticing. "No, Malfoy, that's not it."

"Well, maybe you should show me again."

Wiping her hands on her dry rag and heaving an exasperated sigh, Hermione started to reach for his hands again, but she suddenly saw the mischievous look he was giving her. "You cheat!" she said.

Draco laughed loudly, polishing the plate with perfect precision the way she had showed him the first time. "It's far too easy with you, Granger."

Hermione tried to glare at him, but she found herself laughing with him. They finished the dishes quickly and stacked them in the cabinet in a matter of minutes.

"I thought I might teach you some wandless magic," Draco said out of the blue as he shut the cabinet door. "That is, if you'd like."

Hermione regarded him for a moment. "Really? Why's that?"

He shrugged. "It's pretty easy to learn, and I'm sure you'd pick it up quickly. It's always useful around the house if you need it, and it could come in handy if you ever got in a bind."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I've never tried it, but I'd be willing to learn. When the Order comes for me, there's no telling how long it could be before I have my own wand back. I may not ever get the same one back, and I don't know how I'd get a new one."

"Right," Draco agreed. "I'm no master at it, but I can teach you what I know and we can learn the rest together."

"Together," Hermione repeated, gazing at the floor.

Draco was quiet for a few seconds, seeming to think over the significance of the word. Hermione wasn't sure he had ever used it about them, and it made her feel strange. Sure, they lived in a house together, but they weren't together. Even considering the possibility made her feel like a traitor to the Order somehow.

"I didn't mean it like that," Draco finally said softly. "We can wait on the wandless magic, if that's what you'd rather –"

"No, no," Hermione broke in. "I didn't mean it like that. It just... it's nothing. I'd like to learn. I really would." She tried to sound as sincere as she felt.

The doubtful look left Draco's face, replaced by a tentative smile. "All right. We can start tomorrow morning. In the basement?"

Hermione smiled in return. "Sounds good."

They stood in a silence that was only slightly awkward for a moment, then Hermione started to move toward the kitchen entrance. "Well," she said. "I think I'll turn in for the night."

Draco snapped out of his silence and nodded in return. "Yeah, me, too. 'Night."

"'Night, Malfoy."

Hermione climbed the stairs to her room slowly, walking to her bedroom and sitting on the edge of her bed in a daze. Draco Malfoy was going to teach her wandless magic. She mulled over the day's events in her head. Their little cleaning adventure earlier that afternoon, then the almost flirtatious way Draco had acted while they washed the dishes, puzzled Hermione. The same nervous, stomach-fluttering feeling washed over her.

Still, it wasn't necessarily a bad feeling. She glanced down at her hands and noticed that they were trembling the slightest bit.

It's just the cold, she told herself. It's not him. Just the cold.

It didn't occur to Hermione that her bedroom wasn't the least bit cold that evening. She was too busy trying to convince herself otherwise.

A/N: At last, I have returned from beyond! I can't believe it's been three months since I posted. I've been so lazy about this chapter for some reason, and I'm really sorry it took me this long to get it out. Still, it was a fun chapter to write, and I hope you all enjoy it!

As usual, thank you to everyone who reads this story, especially to those who comment. I can't tell you how much it makes my day to read your kind and encouraging words. You give me what I need to be motivated to keep writing! Again, thank you all for reading, and I promise I'll be back soon with a new update. Hugs and kisses to you all!