"Draco, I know you're in there," Hermione said, punctuating each word with a knock on his bedroom door. "Draco, I'm not leaving until I get an answer from you."
"Go away Granger," he snarled.
"Draco, I'm not going to let you sit in there all alone while you're upset. If you won't talk to me than at least talk to someone else. You shouldn't have to deal with this alone."
Draco had ran from the Great Hall like a bat out of hell this morning at breakfast, presumably after he had read the contents of his mother's latest letter. Regarding her conversation with Mr Malfoy. Hermione had already received a letter from her only the previous day, warning her that she had written a letter to Draco regarding the matter and that he should not be left alone after he read it. She'd no doubt made sure the letter arrived on a Saturday so that it did not affect his lessons. Malfoy's, they thought of everything.
There was a loud thump, like something solid hitting wood.
"Hermione," Draco rasped from a much closer distance, "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not that I don't appreciate the effort, but there isn't anything you can do to help me, or this situation, so why don't you go and do whatever you were going to do before this, and leave me alone to deal with this my own way. Who let you in, anyway?" he asked after a moment.
"Theo."
"Bloody traitor. I have one conversation with him and now he acts as if he's entitled to stick his nose everywhere."
"He was concerned. He was sitting next to you when you got the letter. Your reaction wasn't exactly subtle," she supplied.
Draco laughed, dry and brittle. "Subtlety wasn't my main priority at the time. It was more, 'Please let me get back to my room as soon as possible before I punch something.' I can see now how that may have raised some eyebrows."
"Do you really want me to leave?" she asked, sliding down the door and landing on the stone floor, chin resting in her updrawn knees. If this was a movie, there'd be a double shot of the two, nothing but the door separating them. But this wasn't a movie.
"No," he said, worn down at last.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
What was there to say? That his father was a cruel, possessive bastard who cared about his house more than his own son? That if he found out the truth about who Draco was speaking to right now, he'd been cast out, or worse, he'd hurt her for 'tainting' his precious Pureblood heir? That he'd been horrible to his mother? She hadn't outrightly said anything, but Draco could tell, could tell that her husband's words had hurt her. How did you love someone like that? And it wasn't until too late that he realized he'd said the words aloud.
"Love is love. It doesn't make sense, can't be rationalized and put into little boxes and observed and examined. Muggle scientists say it's just a chemical reaction in the brain, brought on by hormones and such. But I don't think that's true. I saw how my father looked at my mother, like she was the only star in the sky, how after years of marriage they were just as much in love as they were when I was small. Even when I Obliviated them, I could see it in their eyes, still just as present. I think your mother loved your father very much, and still does, and I know some part of you does too, otherwise you wouldn't be so upset. We love even those who hurt us, because only someone who truly knows you can hurt you, and you only truly love those who truly know you. I think your father lost himself, whether because of what he had to do serving Voldemort or something else. But these are not excuses, only reasons. Love does not excuse pain, or cruelty.
"I think that's what happened with me and Ron. I loved him, and therefore did not see what was right in front of me, the things I didn't want to see. And I think some part of him cared for me, after all those years of friendship, and maybe that clouded his judgement to how I was feeling, and what I needed. I'd always been strong and smart and brave and steadfast, for all the years I'd known him, and perhaps he simply couldn't deal with it when I wasn't. When I needed someone to help me stand when I was unsure. But that's not important at the minute."
"Are you telling me you actually loved Weasel-face?" Draco asked, and some part of him hurt to hear Hermione rationalize her hurt so easily, as if it was a natural fact, a pre-determined conclusion. As if she had expected nothing else.
"Yes, I suppose I am."
"But he didn't deserve it?"
"I suppose that depends on your point of view. Is your father any less deserving of your love?"
"He's my father," was all he said.
"Exactly. And Ron was my best friend. Everyone thought it was inevitable. You still have good memories of him, don't you?"
"Yes."
"I still have good memories from my friendship with Ron, and I wouldn't trade those, or give them up. Your father hurt you, disappointed you, let you down, and it's okay to be angry. It's perfectly natural, and I'd feel the same if I were in your shoes. But none of this is your fault, and you should not punish yourself because you feel it is so."
"There's no way you'd fit in my shoes Granger; your feet are far too tiny," Draco joked to break the silence. He'd always been good at that, deflecting with humour.
"I know, but I'm being serious." Ah, so she had noticed, then. Of course she'd noticed, she was Hermione Granger.
"I know you are. To be honest, I don't know what I was expecting. That being in prison had miraculously changed him? That he'd waltz home and be the father I knew, the father I loved and looked up to? But then again, i've changed. I'm not that little boy sitting at his feet, drinking in every word as he ranted on about blood purity and the sanctity of the Malfoy family, what it meant to be a Pureblood and how fortunate I was. I had everything given to me and yet that wasn't enough. I became like him, enjoyed being like him, until I couldn't tell the difference anymore. That's when I knew I had to stop, when I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize who stared back at me, when all I saw was him. I just wish he hadn't taken it out on my mother; I know how much their fights drain her, and she shouldn't have to put up with that when she'd be within her rights to not talk to him. Ever."
"I agree, she'd have every right. But she wants to help him and she knows he won't help himself. It was the same with you."
Draco opened the door. "What was the same with me?"
Hermione sighed, getting up from the floor and refusing Draco's hand. Her and her Gryffindor pride. "Would you have helped yourself, forgiven yourself, if I had not seen the goodness in you, the goodness that you showed me? Answer me honestly."
"Probably not," he admitted.
"Precisely. Sometimes it takes another person to help us realize ourselves that we are worth forgiveness, worth a second chance, so long as we ask for it and do not demand it. Now, have you finished brooding for the day?"
He nodded.
"Good. I have something I want to show you."
"If the last few months of our friendship weren't suggestive enough, I am quite familiar with what books look like, Hermione," Draco quipped as she led him through the mostly deserted stacks.
Sweet Circe, he could be insufferable sometimes.
She sat down at a table and motioned for him to join her.
"Where are we, anyway?" he asked, pulling up a chair.
"Advanced Arithmancy section. Hardly anyone ever comes near here. It's a good spot it you want to be alone." Understanding lit in his eyes but she waved a hand, shrugging it away.
"How much do you know about Oneiromancy?" she asked him instead.
"Dream magic? Not much," he admitted, chewing on his bottom lip meditatively. It was kind of cute.
"Well, I had a very interesting conversation with Headmistress McGonagall about the subject, which got me thinking. There's this Muggle theory called astral projection, where if one has the capabilities they can project their consciousness across the astral plane to a different location. Like you said, Oneiromancy is dream magic, so I thought about what if one could astrally project their consciousness into someone else's dream? Then I thought, what if it's not a dream, but a memory."
Draco leaned back in his chair, front legs hanging in the air. "So let me get this straight. You want me to astrally project myself into a memory, if I'm guessing correctly, to cheer me up?"
"You guess correctly.'"
"Using magic I've never done before."
"Yes."
"Using untested magic."
"Yes."
"Based off of a conversation you had with McGonagall?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"What's the worst that could happen?" Draco smirked.
"Your conciousness could get stuck on some alternate plane forever."
"Oh. I'm sure it will be fine. I trust you."
Damn, if that didn't make her smile.
"Okay. Here's the spell." Hermione pulled a parchment from the recesses of her bag.
"'Ambulare in memoriam eius.' To walk into her memory, I take it? Should be easy enough." Draco took out his wand. "I take it you have a Sleep Potion?"
"I do," Hermione said, taking it from her bag and placing it on the table with a glass thunk.
"What do I need to do to get inside your head?" he asked with a chuckle.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Just cast the spell and think about me. A connection, a bridge of sorts should form. All you have to do is knock. I think."
Not wanting to lose her nerve, Hermione downed the potion in one go.
The last thing she heard before her eyes shut was, "Pleasant dreams, Hermione."
Draco was standing on a bridge in his mind, solid yet unsubstantial. If he wasn't mistaken, he was standing on one of Hogwarts' many bridges. How very fitting. He turned to look over his shoulder and found Hermione waving at him, dressed in her usual red jumper and jeans. Draco looked down and saw that he himself was wearing a light grey jumper and his favorite pair of formal trousers. Hermione reached him, grin bright and luminous.
"I can't believe I did it!" she exclaimed. Draco gave her a look. "Well, we did it," she amended, practically bouncing up and down.
"I believe you have something to show me?" he asked, knowing how distracted she could get.
"I do," she said, and gripped his hand, so much smaller than his own, yet just as strong. Hermione led him to a gate at the end of the bridge, twining with ivy and curling flowers. A brass doorknocker lay in the centre. In the shape of a roaring lion.
"Was that really necessary?" he whined.
"I am a proud Gryffindor, and always will be," she answered.
"Why do I have to knock? You already gave me permission?"
"It's symbolic, and are dreams and memories not symbols in themselves. Come on, humour me."
"Fine," he grumbled, reaching for the lion. "But this better be worth it."
Draco knocked.
It truly was.
He was standing in front of a building he'd never seen before in what was evidently Muggle London, judging from the dress of the people about. When he took a step closer he could see where she'd brought him, and in no way was he surprised.
"A Muggle bookshop?"
"Where else? I used to come here with my parents all the time when I was younger. I bought my first book here," she reminisced, a small smile on her face.
"What was it?"
"Matilda. She's a girl who learns she has magical powers but doesn't have a very nice family. But it has a happy ending, though, like all children's stories do."
"Good. Now, Miss Granger, shall you give me the grand tour?"
Hermione took him by the hand and led him inside, pausing in the entryway just to breath in the smell of the leather and ink and plastic and paper and floral air freshener of her youth.
"It's just like how I remember it," Hermione said.
Draco laughed. "Well of course it is. We are in your memory after all."
Hermione laughed. "Yeah, we are. Come on, there's loads to see."
She showed him the crime section, the horror section, the sci-fi section and the historical fiction section. They skipped the romance section since Hermione claimed that it was 'a complete waste of time since every book not only looks but sounds the same and nine times out of ten it usually is, and everyone has silly names, even by wizarding standards.'
They were just about to he'd to the fantasy section when Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. She'd gone pale.
"What is it?" he asked her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
And in some ways, she had.
Hermione was staring at herself. Or rather, he younger self. She was sitting on some sort of soft cushion that crinkled, engrossed in a children's book. The Dragon Berry Bush. If this were any other day, Draco would have made some smart remark about Hermione's affinity for dragons, but now was not the time.
"You look so young there," he said, voice laced with surprise.
"I was."
"Your dress is very cute," he remarked.
"What? I liked strawberries!" she said defensively, crossing her arms and scowling at him.
"It's true, everyone likes strawberries, especially when you're young. Your hair is adorable. Good to know that some things never change," he said, grinning at the numerous sparkly clips that did nothing whatsoever to contain young Hermione's unruly curls.
"No, I suppose they don't," was all she said, and they left the memory of Hermione's younger self behind.
As it turned out, Hermione was once again right, and after a few minutes Draco's qualms distanced themselves from his thoughts, replaced by a love of books and losing oneself within them. They must have spent hours looking at all the books, Hermione pointing out some of her favorites, as well as famous Muggle classics. When Draco picked up a book he was shocked to find that they did indeed have words in them, Hermione's memories of each page materializing at her will, he guessed.
After a while they just sat there, each with a stack of books, engrossed yet completely aware and comforted by the presence of the other. Draco had just started to get into a book called A Tale of Two Cities, which Hermione had weaned him had an unhappy ending, when she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"I think it's time we got back, I'm not sure how long I can keep the memory stable or how long you will be able to sustain an astral projection. But we can always come back," she offered, "if you want to. I think being back here did me some good, too. Reminded me of all the happy times I had with my parents, and how I still want to have more."
"I'm glad my emotional breakdown was able to help you, Granger," he quipped lightly.
"I didn't mean it like that!" she said, punching him lightly in the arm.
"Oh, how you wound me."
"Somehow, I think you'll live."
They made their way out of the library and found their way back to the gates. There was a doorknocker on this side as well, identical to the other.
"I think I need to do this one," Hermione said, and brought the brass down sharply. The gates swing open and they once again found themselves on the bridge.
"How do we get out?" he asked her, and Hermione had a considering look on her face for a moment before she said, "Like this," and shoved him off the bridge.
Draco awoke in his own body, feeling like he'd just fallen off a bridge, yet he had not physically moved. Hermione just sat there, grinning like a burglar after pulling off a particularly intricate heist with no one the wiser.
"You could have warned me!"
"And we're would the fun be in that, Draco?" she drawled as she picked up her bag.
"The fun of me not falling off of a bridge at a very great height and screaming a very unmanly scream as a result. That was uncalled for."
"I call it payback for you pushing me down the slide the other day."
"Fine. But in all seriousness, thank you for bringing me there, for showing me all of that. I know that must have been hard for you, and I truly do appreciate it."
Hermione smiled one of her brilliant smiles, the ones it seemed she saved only for him, or maybe that was just his imagination. "Always."
Author's Note: Hello, hello, hello! Happy Saturday! This chapter was such a blast to write, and I hope you enjoyed it. I just wanted to say thank you, since as of this moment Share a Home With You has had over 11000 views. I'm grateful beyond words. The next chapter will feature Hermione having a chat with someone we haven't seen yet who's rather fond of dragons and has a soft spot for spiders. I wonder who that could be?
*Strokes imaginary beard in a quizzical fashion*
Until next time.
All my love, Temperance Cain.