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songrecs: without you - the kid laroi and miley cyrus
They have to walk for a while before they reach the Whomping Willow, and they do so in silence, the grey sky perhaps reflecting the mood; hopeless, worrying, desperate. And so, silence prevails, almost oppressive, the only sound the crunch of their shoes on the frost-bitten grass.
She remains silent as she can't stop playing over and over in her head what he had said to her.
'I'd kill my own mother if they threatened your life'
Now that is a statement of devotion, and yet it isn't sweet and gooey like in the movies or romance novels. She didn't swoon or break out into song or throw herself into his arms, no. Instead, she had just felt more dread, horror, reflecting Malfoy's expression back to him, one of very sincere fear.
This was bad and getting worse, much, much worse as each day passed, each hour, each minute even. Could the bond intensify? She had to think it must be, it was the only thing that made sense, that it was worsening, and thus, so were the effects.
The need to be near one another, to be close, to be in proximity. The craving under her skin to touch him, place her hand on his, breath him in, nothing sexual, no, just to feel his skin on hers, to feel warm. His protectiveness, jumping to her defence at nothing more than Professor Snape's usual snark. The high when she'd spent the night with her hand in his, and their inability to fight now, when once that had been all they had done. It already feels intense to the point of boiling over, and now it's getting worse.
She and Malfoy didn't like one another, not at all, but they were bonded, and Malfoy apparently would do anything to keep her safe, anything and everything. It was so messed up it makes her head hurt, she just hoped they could find some solace in the books at Malfoy Manor.
'I gave you all the answers I have'
She just hoped they weren't the only answers, there had to be more, there had to be. For what other option was there?
Hermione needed to know, she needed to know what this was, how to deal with it, how to endure it because in this instance Malfoy was right. They couldn't keep stumbling through, having to spend nights holding hands in the library to be able to function the next day, to have Malfoy standing up to her to Snape, her friends shocked and bewildered as she ran out without explanation, to faint in his arms at the slightest argument. They couldn't keep this up, not for much longer.
If they tried … what were they supposed to do? Spend every minute together, sleep in the library every night? What about her friends? It wouldn't be long until they knew, until she would have to stop fobbing them off with excuses. This wasn't sustainable, not anymore.
And, so they needed answers, and they needed them now.
'I gave you all the answers I have'
God, she hoped not.
Once they reached the Whomping Willow, she waved her wand, the knot at the base of the tree stilling it's branches, Malfoy didn't comment, he'd likely been here far more than she had.
She felt an odd pang at that, the idea of him coming down here, cold and scared, to hide away in the dark, among the mould, probably frightened beyond belief, just waiting, waiting to turn. Alone, scared, probably curled up in a ball on the floor, alone.
She didn't like to sympathise with Malfoy of all people, but the twisting feeling in her heart told her she was, whether she liked it or not, she blamed the bond.
"Don't cry Granger" He drawled with a roll of his eyes as he stepped into the long passage that would lead them to what was effectively his cage, "Are you going to pity the beast?"
Hmm, clearly Malfoy knew them arguing at one another would send her into a spiral, but mocking was still very much on the cards. Weirdly that comforted her, if Malfoy was being nice, she knew something was wrong, his disdain was easier to handle, easier to digest, and made her less worried that there was something serious going on.
And so, she just shot him a glare and followed him through the passage, wrinkling her nose at the smell of mould, a shiver at the cold, and yet she followed without complaint, down the passage, into the cage… his cage.
It is as expected, mouldy, cold, miserable and yet she gasps as she notices a few touches that weren't their last time, new touches, that she knows Malfoy put there.
A splatter of dried blood against the wall, violent, dirty, red against the mouldy, against the mud. She knows it must be Malfoy's, and there's a fair bit of it too. She realises he must have done this to himself, as werewolfs would when locked up, unable to roam and kill. There's that pang of sympathy again.
And yet, she just keeps looking at the blood splatter, and part of her wants to make a remark about his blood being the same as hers, the same colour, same consistency, the same., but she senses that might not be the best idea right now.
Malfoy would do it no doubt, that low blow, but she won't, not this time, maybe not ever. That does make her feel a little better, that she won't stoop to such lows, but she wonders if delivering the blow would have felt better still. She's glad for once she has enough restraint not to find out.
There's more than just the blood though, the blood that looks like hers, identical to hers she guesses. More, and yet her gaze doesn't flicker.
'No one asked for your opinion, you filthy little mudblood'
'You'll be next mudbloods'
'How dare you talk to me, filthy little mudblood'
She flinches, his words vicious in her head; she remembers him saying them, his tone vicious, filled with malice and hatred. She glances at him then, his shoulders having tensed, knows somethings wrong, but maybe he's realised what's upset her, and wisely says nothing.
Hermione also knows Malfoy likely hasn't changed his views, he just counts himself among the dirty blooded, condemned with her perhaps. There's no radical shift, just his belief that he's a second-class citizen now too.
Dirty, like her.
Her eyes search the room to find something to distract her, and she finds herself looking at the deep gauge marks in the wall; claw marksshe realises, his. They're huge, easily three inches wide, 8 or 9 inches long, and deep, straight through the wood, near ripping it apart.
She doesn't flinch this time, but she feels a shiver chase up her spine, that might be worse. A flinch she can handle, but this feeling of unease is worse, like a prickle at the back of her neck, as though a cool wind is dancing across her back.
She believes Malfoy when he says he won't hurt her, that he can't, but his wolf? She doesn't imagine the same promise would come from the beast.
'He'll kill his own best friend if he comes across him'
She'd recited that fact, from memory, and she remembers it now, remembers it keenly.
"Don't worry Granger" Malfoy mocks again, déjà vu, making her jump, his tone filled with disdain, with scorn "The full moons a week away"
She nods, she remembers that, but the prickle down her spine refuses to budge, for good or bad.
"Come on" Malfoy says then, taking pity on her, he doesn't hold out a hand but gives her a nod to the side, to follow him.
She does, she doesn't look back.
She follows him through to the front of the Shack, and she breaths in the fresh air as soon as they step over the threshold, thankful the damp smell dissipates as she steps into the autumn breeze. It's cold, getting darker and darker, evening here, a frost to the ground, and yet she sucks the cold air into her lungs, to settle herself a touch.
But the prickle, the shiver, it doesn't go.
She turns to Malfoy, his gaze already on hers, and then he holds out his hand, she doesn't sigh in relief, like she wants to, but it's a close-run thing. Instead, she just takes it, but she knows he hears the exhale she releases when their skin touches, as a feeling of relief courses through her, faster than any painkiller could.
She hadn't even noticed the niggle or two that had developed over the day, since not being in close proximity to him, and yet they banish the second her hand is in his.
Hermione never thought she'd be craving Draco Malfoy's touch, but here she is, and she's not proud enough to drop his hand.
Instead she just nods, and Malfoy looks at her for a second, just a second, his grey eyes meeting her brown, and she somehow gets the feeling he feels the same, not just in that he is relieved to touch her, to feel her, but that he too has started to crave it.
Dangerous, bad, terrifying.
And yet, neither move as Malfoy nods back, and with a jerk, whips them away, away from Hogsmeade, away from the very school they were supposed to be in, away from their friends, and into a place she never thought she'd be invited.
Malfoy Manor.
As she lands with a thud, it's exactly what you'd expect, almost like the Shrieking Shack; she'd expected to see the markings of a werewolf, the desolation and depressing atmosphere, and she expects something about the Manor too, and it does not disappoint.
But just like the Shack had surpassed her fears, with the claw marks, the blood (the same colour as hers, why does she dwell on that?), and all, so does Malfoy Manor, as Malfoy strides up to the gate, not dropping her hand, and again she can't herself, even though she should, she doesn't, she can't.
It's opulent, she can see a peacock grazing in the lawn for goodness' sake. It's huge, massive even, really a Manor, like the stately home her cousin had got married in where Hermione had been scared to spill anything or sit on the wrong thing, fancy and lavish, way too much and yet just enough all at the same time.
She follows Malfoy, silent as is he, both of them likely deep in thought, she knows she was, but now she just stares, a touch in awe. She should hate it, and part of her does, the wealth inequality disgusting her, but she can't help but admire it to, especially as Malfoy opens the door and steps inside, dropping her hand as he does so.
She misses it but doesn't dare say a word.
Thankfully she is distracted, as the interior is just as beautiful as the exterior. Clearly Narcissa Malfoy, snobbish and awful as she is, is a fantastic decorator. She still feels like she's entered a palace, it's hardly cosy or homelike, but it is simply stunning, and as with a flick of his wand Malfoy lights the lamps, she gets a proper look.
The paintings on the wall are clearly all antiques, magic but centuries old in some cases. There's vases, statues, even some rare old books on display in places. She pauses to look at a 1st edition of 'A History of Magic' hidden behind glass, and she knows she might be gawping a bit, but she can't help herself, what a piece of history!
"Come on Granger" Malfoy says with a roll of his eyes, "I thought we were here for answers, or did you fancy a tour?" He mocks, and she glares at him but nods, follows, he is right, no matter how much she wants to linger and look at some of the relics; many of which she feels should be in a museum.
More money than sense … as her Mother would say.
"Do you have any other first editions?" She can't help but ask, she is a bookworm after all.
"A fair few" Malfoy says, winding through corridors, past equally pretty floral arrangements, elegant pieces of furniture, all in perfect taste, and probably worth more than everything she owns, that leaves a bad taste in her mouth. "I'm pretty sure we've got a 1st edition of Numerology and Grammatica" He says with a shrug, and even cracks something close to a smile as she gasps; what a gem!
"I'll show you later" He offers, and she's so thrilled she doesn't question why he's being nice, just nods with a grin as he walks on, taking her to the library no doubt, which she hopes is just as impressive as the rest of the house.
"How was it growing up here? I'd be worried I'd spill something" She admits, not sure why she's making small talk, they hardly need to, and yet the question had just come to her.
"Why would I worry about that?" Malfoy scoffs, rolls his eyes, pushes open a door to a long corridor then, and nods her forward, manners likely having been beaten into him as a boy, even to someone like her no doubt.
Though, evidently his good manners with doors, don't extend to much else; like treating someone like a human being regardless of blood, for example; though she imagines Lucius and Narcissa beat the very opposite into him as well.
"Here" He stops her then, and pauses, turns around to her, one hand on the door, the other by his side, his gaze meeting hers … grey to brown.
"You ready for these answers?" He asks.
It's her turn to almost scoff, of course she is! And yet when she thinks about it, she knows why he paused. This could be it; this could hold the answers they need, and yet they may not be good, they may not be what they want, they may be the very opposite.
And besides, what does she want anymore? The bond is twisting that already.
To break the bond? Yes. To stay away from Malfoy? No. But she knows the former influences the latter, and though Malfoy said it wasn't possible, there may be further answers here, and she needs them.
Decision made.
She nods, and yet a horrid part of her, the part that needs him, holds out her hand to him, to step in together, to whatever answers they may find, and then, whatever may come of them.
And so, they step into the beautiful library (one that reminds her of the one from Beauty and the Beast), hand in hand.
sooo thoughts?
and so the angst ramps up ;-; and will continue to do so! trust me, this is just the tip of it.
I do hope you enjoyed, do leave a review if you can!
speak soon