21
September 6th – 11th (Monday – Saturday) Week 3
The rest of the week was just as awkward and uncomfortable as that morning had been. They cooked alongside one another every night, but rarely spoke at all. Hermione assumed his cooking skills didn't move too far past pancakes, despite his supposed house-elf training, so she came up with most of the meals and assigned Draco to chop vegetables. His potion-making acumen contributed greatly to his cooking abilities, however. But, despite their close proximity, he could barely look at her, let alone speak to her. She took the opportunity to look at him, however. The dark circles were even heavier under his eyes, contrasting darkly against his porcelain skin, almost as bad as they'd been on the night of their introduction meeting.
During Occlumency lessons, Draco would pull one of the armchairs over toward the couch where she sat rather than sharing it with her as he normally did. It would almost be funny, his stammering and obvious discomfort at the position they'd found themselves in on Monday morning, if it didn't hurt so much. Truthfully, she wasn't thrilled at the idea of being wrapped around him or anyone for that matter, especially when she wasn't completely in control at the time, but if her self-esteem wasn't bad enough right now, having him avoid her as much as possible afterward definitely brought her to a new low.
He said he didn't think she was inferior because of her blood status, and because he was intoxicated at the time, she honestly believed him, and somehow that made it worse. If it wasn't about her blood, then that meant it was something about her that made him so uneasy. She tried to shake that feeling, to blame it on just embarrassment, but she couldn't stop the barrage of comments from running through her head.
Of course, he'd be bothered. Have you looked at yourself lately?
Someone who looks like him doesn't waste their time with someone who looks like you?
Obviously, he thought it was Pansy or someone like her he was wrapped around. Why would he not be embarrassed to wake up and realize it was you instead?
Perhaps he thought she orchestrated it all. He had accused her of "getting the wrong idea" a few days after she admitted to fancying him in school at one point. Something that was that misconstrued and obviously incorrect had resulted in him keeping her at a distance for a week. Now, he probably thought she had fallen asleep on the couch with him on purpose!
The idea itself was preposterous, and it infuriated her to think that he could be so presumptive. Especially given that it was his alcohol! Her thoughts were constantly either self-deprecating or cursing him for thinking she would be so needy. She had to constantly remind herself that perhaps she was wrong entirely, and it wasn't fair to be angry with herself or with him if she wasn't sure what was going through his head. Not to mention, if what was going through his head was nearly as confusing as what was going through her own, he was probably just as mixed up about the situation as she was.
Either way, just to be on the safe side, she decided to ignore him as much as possible as well.
So, every night, instead of going to the art therapy room, which was her first option knowing she'd never be able to sleep after the intensity of the daily CBT sessions, she had to instead sit in her room and try to meditate herself to sleep, which never worked. Well, she supposed falling to sleep wasn't the issue, it was the inevitable nightmares that followed that were the problem. She thought with the help of CBT that eventually they would let up, but instead, every night, she found herself either in the forest pinned to a tree by Greyback, on the floor of Malfoy Manor beneath the thighs of Bellatrix Lestrange, or watching Hagrid lay Harry's lifeless body at the feet of Voldemort.
The only reprieve, if it could even be called that, was the night that she dreamed of Draco, likely because their constant attempts to act like they didn't wake up completely intertwined did nothing but make that weigh on her mind even more.
In her dream, she'd awoken to find him looking at her, his hand ghosting up her bare leg in the same way as it had on Monday morning. His steel eyes were full of desire, taking her in as if she were Aphrodite herself. He slowly disentangled their limbs and closed the distance between them, pausing for only a split second, his face only a breath away from hers, before their lips met. His body was flush against hers as they kissed with a passion that Hermione had never experienced before, in neither reality nor dream. His hands tangled into her curls, pulling her closer to him, and she gasped when she felt his erection pressed into her thigh. Just as his hand was rising beneath her shirt, he said her name, not her surname in the way that she was used to, but her given name.
"Hermione," he purred, in a deep baritone that sent an aching vibration straight to her core and caused her to wake with a start, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest and a fire inside her that she hadn't felt in gods knew how long. The fact that it was Malfoy she was dreaming about made her slightly queasy and not-so-slightly confused.
It wasn't at all the type of dream she was used to having and out of sheer obstinance she got out of bed at three in the morning and took a cold shower rather than give in as she had on the night they first got drunk together. She almost thought she was losing her mind, but she kept blaming it on their close living conditions. It was completely normal to have these subconscious thoughts when spending almost every waking moment with someone, wasn't it?
Unfortunately, her attempts at speaking to him as little as possible lasted all of four days. When Friday afternoon rolled around, they were told that this week's "outing," would be a trip to a movie theater.
"We actually had other plans for tonight, but we put those on hold when I saw that my favorite movie was playing tonight," Walt said that afternoon during lunch. "We're going to see The Princess Bride!" He was grinning from ear to ear and waiting for everyone to be as excited as he was.
Hermione couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm, and truthfully, she did love The Princess Bride. That was one of her father's favorite movies, so she'd seen it probably fifty times.
"I'm beginning to think that all the fun things you all have planned for us are really just bringing us along to do all the fun things that you lot want to do," Dennis said, jovially.
Walt laughed, twisting his silver curls up into a bun. "You have fun. I have fun. You guys are going to love it, I mean it." He looked around the table expectantly.
Before Hermione could stop herself, she said with a grin, "Anybody want a peanut?"
Walt pumped his fist into the air and beamed at her. "I knew I wouldn't be the only Princess Bride fan!"
His elation was contagious, and she couldn't hold back her own smile as she said, "That's my dad's favorite movie. I'll try not to quote it the entire time."
"Inconceivable!" Walt said, with a perfect impression of Vizzini.
Before Hermione could even deliver the next line, Seamus said, in a horrible Spanish accent, "You keep using that word."
Hermione and Walt both looked at Seamus, astonished. He shrugged, as if he had only just realized he'd even spoken, the foreign smile dropping from his lips just as quickly as it had shown up. His faze fell to the table, and a slight purple tinged his cheekbones. "My parents love that movie too."
Hermione, thinking maybe this was their first opportunity for an olive branch, said, "I do not think it means what you think it means," then burst out laughing, followed by Walt and Seamus.
When she stopped laughing, Walt gave her a knowing smile and nodded slightly. Maybe Seamus would soften to her now, but she wasn't going to hold her breath. She realized then that the table was mostly silent. She looked up to find Draco watching Walt, his eyes narrowed. Walt hadn't noticed, he was in mid-conversation with Dennis to his left.
When Draco noticed Hermione looking at him, his expression softened, and he said, "That was strange."
"What? It's a good movie." He was still looking at her, so she rambled, "A movie is like a play, but it's –"
"I know what a movie is, Granger," he said, expressionless.
"Oh, so you've seen one, then?" she asked with an exaggerated smile, already knowing the answer.
He turned back to his tea, and she grinned to herself in victory. "No, I haven't," he said, begrudgingly. "But I know what they are."
"Of course, you do," she replied sweetly, patting his arm.
"You're really infuriating sometimes, you know that?" he asked, as he stood to take his dishes into the kitchen.
She'd be lying if she said she didn't love getting under his skin, especially when he'd barely spoken a dozen words to her since Sunday night, so she stood and followed him into the kitchen. "You're really infuriating all the time," she said, as she sat her plate on the counter beside the sink where he was currently washing his own.
After a minute passed without a response, Hermione thought he wasn't going to, but just as she reserved herself to the idea of another day of silent treatment, he spoke. "I'd be inclined to think you like that sort of thing. Given the way you were all over me."
She had been pulling her sleeves up past her elbows preparing to wash her own dishes when his words stopped her mid-motion. His voice mimicked the same tone from her dream, as smoky as his eyes as he turned to face her, causing her heart to hammer madly and a slow heat to burn its way across her chest. That reaction alone had her cursing the stupid dream she'd had of him. She almost wished she'd had yet another nightmare, if that would spare her the image of his eyes smoldering down at her and the feel of his lips on hers. He turned to face her, lifting one eyebrow challengingly.
"What? Am I wrong?" And there was the smirk again.
He's messing with you. Get it together. Gods, she was desperate if one dream and Malfoy's voice had this effect on her.
"I'm sorry, I thought we were still pretending that never happened," she said back, her eyes wide in mock innocence. "Besides, I wasn't the one with Roman hands and Russian fingers." She lifted her eyebrows and waggled her fingers at him for emphasis.
He scoffed and leaned backward to rest against the counter behind him, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm a man, and I've been in prison for a year. Completely natural reaction. Expected even. You, however, really have no excuse."
Hermione laughed and scrunched her nose in skepticism. "Really? Is that what you've been telling yourself." She leaned back against the counter opposite him, copying his stance. She was really starting to enjoy this verbal sparring they seemed to always have going on, when they were actually speaking to one another, of course. "That's pretty weak. Are you even a Slytherin?"
The smirk vanished, and she almost thought he actually was upset by that, but then he laid his hand over his heart and shook his head. "Wow. I can't believe you said that."
"Too far?" she asked, laying it on just as thickly.
He nodded, solemnly, and said, "Too far," but the small smirk on his lips betrayed his feigned offense at her slight.
"Oh, now I see. The whole inconceivable bit," Draco said from his seat beside Hermione in the Muggle theater, reaching into the tub of popcorn in her lap.
She slapped his hand away and whispered, "I told you to get your own."
"I didn't think it was going to be so delicious. It's covered in fake butter! No one could possibly know it would be delicious."
"Shhhhh," Seamus said loudly, turning to glare at them from the row in front of theirs.
They quieted immediately when they noticed Walt's frown in their direction as well, only for him and Seamus to trade turns quoting the film seconds later.
"You seem like a decent fellow. I hate to kill you," Walt said, with a smile. Seamus immediately responded with, "You seem like a decent fellow. I hate to die!" before they both dissolved into laughter and Parvati elbowed Seamus in the side.
They'd apparated to the alley beside the small theater, and Walt bought all their tickets before ushering them inside quickly. Hermione noticed the way Draco seemed to be taking everything in reservedly. She wasn't sure if he was more hesitant to appear confused by everything or to appear eager.
Only a few minutes into the movie, Hermione could tell he was sold. She kept sneaking glances in his direction to see how he was enjoying it, and each time she'd find him watching with rapturous attention, his face illuminated by the bright colors on the screen.
Without turning from the screen, he shifted his face closer to hers, whispering in her ear, "This Vizzini fellow is a complete twat." Hermione shivered slightly as his breath, warm and beguiling,as it danced across her ear and cheek and raised goosebumps across her skin.
What the hell is wrong with me?!
She turned her attention back onto the film and heard Seamus and Walt both say, "Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!"
A moment later she noticed Draco's scowl, but then was sidetracked by a memory of her father, gasping in shock, just as he always did, when the Dread Pirate Roberts is revealed to be Westley. The memory brought a smile to her face, with only a tinge of sadness. It was a recent development, this thinking of her parents without the overwhelming feeling of regret and heartache.
"I totally saw that coming," Draco mumbled, lifting her out of her memories, and stole another handful of her popcorn.
"Everyone sees that coming," she said, resignedly dropping the tub of popcorn into his lap. "Would you like my drink, too?"
He turned to face her and called her bluff, pulling her soda from the cupholder on the other side of her armrest and taking a big drink. She couldn't even be angry with him, because the moment he pulled his lips away from the straw, the look on his face resembled a child on Christmas morning.
"Wow!" he exclaimed, garnering a few more glares from the rows in front of them, and turned to look down at the drink in his handZ. "Merlin's sack, what the hell is this!?"
"It's a coke," she whispered, laughing at the candid smile on his face. After seeing the disgusting amount of honey he puts in his tea, she should've known he would like soda. Before she could try and take it back, he sucked the rest of it down in one large gulp.
"This is the greatest thing I've ever tasted." Hermione wasn't sure if he was talking to her or himself, but he turned his attention back to the screen as the music intensified signaling Westley and Buttercup's fight with the ROUSs.
"Are those real?" he whispered, nodding toward the rodents of unusual size on the screen.
This was fucking ridiculous. He was about as bipolar as a person could get, changing his moods like a person changes their socks. First he'd ignored her almost entirely for over a week and a half, excluding the time he insulted her by proclaiming they weren't friends and he didn't want her to "get the wrong idea." Then he drunkenly admitted to pushing her away, called her perfect, and then proceeded to grope her in his sleep. So, it was completely unfair that here he was, innocent as a newborn puppy, wide-eyed and curious about Muggle films, being insanely endearing and infuriating her in the process. It was completely unfair.
She was lost in thought and forgot that she hadn't responded until he turned to look at her, a curious look on his face, barely recognizable in the dim lights of the theater. Had she given something away? She tried to gauge her own expression and found no sign of the strange conglomeration of emotions she was feeling at this moment. This had to have been due to the dream. She reminded herself to search the library when they got back for Psychology texts, thinking surely there was a logical explanation to the insane dream she'd had.
She quickly turned back to the screen, trying to not think about him looking at her. She realized that this was the closest they'd been since they were tangled together on the couch, and she was immediately aware of their close proximity. His hand resting beside her on the armrest, and his shoulder grazing against her own in the darkness.
Why the hell does he have this effect on me?
She saw in her peripherals when he turned back to the screen, and she began going over the ideas in her head for the thousandth time.
It was completely normal to be attracted to him. She prided herself on her ability to think about things objectively, and objectively speaking, he was definitely an attractive man. He was always immaculately manicured, from his hair, clipped close on the sides and longer on top and hanging messily in a way completely contrary to the slicked back look he used to have, to his finely tailored suits. And sure, his features were technically nice, rounding out a bit from all the points and edges he had as a child. And, yes, she supposed he was fit, after seeing his toned arms when she awoke on the couch with him.
But that was all it was. She was soon to be twenty years old and had never had sex before, so this was a completely normal thing, right? It didn't have anything to do with Dra—Malfoy. He just happened to be the one here right now.
But I haven't even thought about anything like that in a year. I've been avoiding it like the plague, actually.
But she pushed the thought aside. Yes, she'd had countless opportunities with Ron and each one sent her either into a panic attack or into a full sprint into another room. But, surely, that was just because she was healing now, right?
She was pulled from her thoughts when Draco said, "Well, that's just entirely implausible. You can't get a miracle from chocolate, and you certainly can't bring people back from the dead."
She smiled softly and leaned toward him, fighting the urge to get even closer, and whispered, "You can if they're only mostly dead. He's still slightly alive."
He harrumphed and shook his head disapprovingly. "Ridiculous," he murmured.
"So how did you like it?" Hermione asked Draco as they sat with the rest of the group at a large table in the middle of a Muggle Mexican restaurant.
Draco paused for a minute in his seat across from her, wiping his mouth on a napkin. Hermione had to fight back a smirk at the sight of him, sitting ramrod straight in this loud, raucous Muggle restaurant, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. She was surprised his pinky wasn't in the air as he took a drink of his coke.
"I liked it, but I do think that the main characters were the worst of the bunch."
This brought Hermione's eyes from where they'd been focused on the strangeness of watching Draco Malfoy drink out of a plastic cup up to look at his face, her eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"Westley was a real tosser, and Buttercup could be the dullest character I've ever seen. Are all Muggle films like that?"
Hermione was taken aback. Who doesn't like Westley? And Buttercup isn't dull at all.
"N..No," she stammered, "all Muggle films are not like that. I happen to think that film far exceeds most!"
Draco snorted. He actually snorted, and in a most undignified fashion. "I really hope that isn't true."
"What makes you think Westley is a tosser? He's courageous, devoted, romantic." She paused, looking toward Nicola for support, but finding the older witch engaged in conversation with Alys and not paying attention to Draco and Hermione's disagreement at all. Hermione turned back and caught Draco staring at her, a slight grin gracing his features.
"Sounds like you fancy him, Granger," he said, matter-of-factly, before taking a bite of tacos. He had been hesitant at first to eat with his hands, but after looking around and realizing there was really no other way to eat street tacos, he relented.
Hermione shrugged. "I'm not at all ashamed to admit that Westley was my first crush. The actor who played him, Cary Elwes, is really phenomenal. If you hated him in that, I suppose I shouldn't introduce you to Men in Tights then."
"No, thank you. I have no interest in being introduced to men wearing tights."
Hermione laughed unexpectedly, causing him to look up. "It's just the name of another movie that he's in. It's about Robin Hood, but if you didn't like this one, then you certainly won't enjoy that one."
He put his napkin down and pushed the plate in front of him slightly away. "No, I did enjoy the movie. I just think Westley was cruel and not a very good leading man."
"Cruel? He came back to rescue her even though he thought she loved Prince Humperdink!"
"He shouldn't have left her in the first place, and he was going to hit her. I'd call that cruel." He leaned back in his chair, surveying her as he rudely spoke ill of her first love.
"He wouldn't have actually hit her."
Draco shrugged. "Still, it wasn't a very gentlemanly thing to do. And Buttercup never does anything. She's just there, existing and waiting on someone to rescue her." Before Hermione could respond, he continued. "But Inigo's character is interesting. Is there a movie about him?"
Hermione sat straight up in bed, biting back the scream that was threatening to overtake her and attempted to find her wand on the table beside her. The sheets tangled around her ankles, threw her off balance and she fell hard onto the cold floor. The pain in her wrist as she caught herself just before her face smacked the carpet was enough to wake her up the rest of the way. She flexed her wrist for a moment making sure it wasn't broken before searching in vain again for her wand before remembering that she didn't have the ability to do magic anyway.
She took a deep breath, feeling the tears rising to the surface yet again. She'd dreamt she was running through the halls of the Ministry, deep within the bowels of the Department of Mysteries being chased by two Death Eaters. Of course, she remembered how it always ended – her waking up in the Hospital Wing screaming in agony while Harry and Remus looked on in shock and despair after the death of Sirius – but in the throes of her nightmare, she never remembered that. She was always running again, fighting for her life and the lives of her friends.
She righted herself and pushed herself up onto her feet, wincing at the throbbing pain in her wrist. She was still shaking, and she felt like her heart was going to beat out of her chest. Maybe it was the lack of sleep accumulating over the past few days or the way the darkness of her room seemed to loom in around her, but she couldn't shake the thought that she wasn't alone. She hadn't been afraid of the dark in a decade, but after waking from one of her many nightmares, sometimes she felt like hands were reaching out from every shadow. Unfortunately, this was one of those instances. That coupled with her lack of magic, had her frantically scrambling for the lamp beside her bed. She pulled the string and blinked a few times in the brightness to bring the room into focus. A quick cursory glance around the room proved that she was alone, and the aching in her chest started to lessen. The clock on her bedside table read 1:27 a.m., causing a groan to escape her lips.
I'm so tired. I'm always so tired.
She decided upon having tea and getting some ice for her wrist, knowing she'd never be able to get back to sleep, and honestly the thought of sitting in her room made her chest start to tighten again. Hermione dressed in the dark, pulling her jumper over her head and switching her sleep shorts for denims.
She shuffled toward the kitchen, willing her feet to move and not to imagine faces peering out of every shadow.
Hermione prepared her tea and a bag of ice, and headed to the Art Therapy room. She didn't want to risk waking anyone else up so she couldn't turn on all the lights, and she thought she'd surely have a panic attack if she went back to her room. Besides, it was only two in the morning; there was no way Draco was in there now.
But of course, as soon as the French doors opened, she found him sitting up on the couch, a cup in one hand and a book in the other. When the sound of the doors opening echoed across the expanse of the room, Draco's head snapped in her direction, so she couldn't rightly turn around now. So, her feet carried her almost against her will to their couch.
"Can I join you?" she asked, nodding toward the side of the couch opposite of him.
He said nothing but lifted a palm toward the open seat and nodded. She took the seat, shifting the blanket off the back of the couch and spreading it across her legs as she tucked them to one side.
She tried not to stare but she couldn't help but notice that Draco looked terrible. He was always pale, but dark shadows stood out prominently beneath his eyes even in the faint light of the room.
He lifted his gaze to meet hers, catching her taking him in. "Help you with something, Granger?"
She was too tired to play polite. "You look awful. Have you been up all night?"
He shrugged dazedly before looking her over as well. "You don't look like a million galleons either, Granger. Your hair looks like a kneazel." His words lacked any bite to them.
"A disparaging remark about my hair. That's a six at best. Are you even trying?"
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "I only managed an hour of sleep. I can't give my best work under these conditions."
"I can't sleep either," Hermione offered, turning to look out the window behind the couch.
"What did you do?" he asked, pulling her attention back toward him as he nodded toward the bag of ice resting on top of her wrist.
"I…" She paused to glance toward her hand as well. "I fell out of my bed." She didn't really have the energy to lie or think of any good excuse so she just left it at that. But then, when she heard him give a throaty chuckle, she couldn't help but join in. It was pretty funny to be honest. After all she'd been through and made it out mostly unscathed, physically at least, here she was icing a sprained wrist after a battle with the worthiest of foes – her own demons.
"Nightmares or just your typical poise and elegance?" His normal condescending drawl was laden with exhaustion.
"I was dreaming of fighting with Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries. You?" She asked him nonchalantly. To be fair, she really didn't think he'd answer.
"Oh, it was one of my favorites. The one where Professor Burbage is being eaten by a giant snake on my dining room table not two feet away from me and cog au vin." She turned toward him, shocked at both his truthfulness and this revelation. He wasn't looking at her, however, but at nothing somewhere in the middle of the room.
She surprised both of them when a derisive chuckle bubbled out of her mouth. He stared at her with wide eyes, probably thinking she was mocking him, so she quickly said, "We are quite similar, you and I."
When he said nothing, just looked at her pensively, she went on. "We both got thrust into a war that neither of us wanted, yet we tried our best to survive." She turned her body to face him. "And, we both get to relive all the fun every night."
Another humorless laugh sounded in the darkness of the room, but it was Draco's deep timbre rather than her own voice.
"Oh, and you can't forget that we both carry such lovely reminders of it etched into our skin." She lazily motioned to her left forearm and watched as his eyes tracked the movement. There was no trace of the bitter laugh remaining on his face. It had been replaced by an unreadable expression. His jaw was set tightly, and his eyes bore into her arm.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed deeply and tried to flatten the intense expression on his face. His eyes flicked up to her face, and he asked, "Is it still there?"
She nodded and fought the urge to tuck the offending appendage beneath the blanket in her lap.
He sat up and sheepishly returned his gaze to hers. "Can I see?"
Hermione's heart juddered briefly. No one had ever asked her that before. Harry and Ginny had both seen, likely by accident when she was washing dishes, but both of them were polite enough to never act like they had. Even Ron had never gotten a good look. Any time her arms had ever been exposed to him, it was too dark – and entirely too brief – for him to ever see anything. Or if he did, he never mentioned it.
She'd never willingly shown anyone before, other than the healers at St. Mungo's, of course. She took a deep breath, realizing only when she felt like her chest was going to explode that she'd been holding it in.
She'd hesitated for too long, and Draco immediately backtracked. "I'm sorry. That was … I didn't mean – "
"No, it's… it's fine." She leaned toward him and gingerly pulled her shirt sleeve up, pausing only briefly to steel her nerves. He licked his lips nervously and Hermione was immediately aware of how dry her mouth was too. Draco shifted on the couch, scooting closer to her and placing his mug on the floor at his feet.
Hermione too looked down at the obscenity written across her skin – MUDBLOOD, written in Bellatrix's scrawling script. The word seemed to stare back at her, mockingly. Hermione wondered morbidly if that's how Bellatrix's writing had always looked, scraggly and uneven, a testament to her unstable mental state, or if that was merely the result of the blade being forced through her skin.
He started to reach for her arm but stopped just before touching her to look up at her questioningly. When she nodded, he took her arm in hands. Hermione's pace quickened, and she was reminded of how she'd done the same to him after seeing his Mark for the first time, only she hadn't thought to ask first. She fought the urge to recoil, wanting nothing more than to hide her horrible scar, her emotions, her face, everything. She wondered if this was how he'd felt as she traced the lines of the snake across the surface of his skin. She was further disgusted with herself when she felt the heat of blood rushing to her face, tinging it red, and realized that she was ashamed of this, as if she had any hand in carving this awful reminder of the worst day of her life into her body.
He held her arm in one of his hands while he ran the thumb of his other horizontally across the word, feeling the rough peaks and valleys of the grotesque letters. He laid his hand across her forearm, covering it entirely, and her heart slowed a bit at the calming feel of his warm skin on hers. She realized when he turned to face her, his hands still wrapped around her arm, that this was the first time he'd ever touched her willingly. She'd fallen onto him at the ropes course and he was asleep when his hands were on her bare thigh, but this was the first time he'd knowingly touched her. Perhaps it was because she wasn't flinching from his touch as she had been with Ron or maybe it was because he wasn't cringing at the thought of having touched her, but she felt a warmth rise in her chest completely separate from the feelings of shame and nervousness seconds before.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He glanced down at her arm again, and Hermione followed his gaze. Her arm lay across his thighs, and his hand still covered Bellatrix's handiwork. For a second, it was like the word wasn't there anymore. For a second, she didn't feel the constant heat of it, almost like a breath leeching out of her skin. Instead, she only felt the warmth of his hands. It was a different heat entirely, and for some reason, the thought of what her life could have been overwhelmed her and she bit back the sob that tried to escape her chest.
She made no sound save a sharp exhale, but Draco must've felt the way her chest trembled. He turned back to face her and searched her face. The intensity of his gaze as his eyes roved over her features almost made her turn from him, but she forced herself to not look away.
His lips parted and he seemed to be trying to find the right words. Hermione expected to smell whisky on him, but instead she caught a rich smell of mint and the bergamot from his tea. Then the realization that he hadn't been drinking tonight hit her. He had felt comfortable enough with her to be this open without being drunk, and that alone gave her the resolve she needed to not look away.
"I'm …" He blinked his eyes slowly, keeping them closed while he took a shuddering breath. When he opened them, they were clear, his normal steely gray with flecks of blue flickering in the lamp glow. "I'm so sorry."
She didn't know what to say. He'd apologized before, the heaviness of his words hanging in the air and she took them to be an apology for everything, for his past, for their past. But this was different. There was no question what he was referring to. Before her mouth had a chance to catch up with her mind, he was speaking again.
"I… I'm –"
"Draco, you didn't do anything. You –" she interrupted.
"Please, let me say this." His eyes closed again and more than his words, the way his hands tightened around her arm made her stop speaking. He opened his eyes and never looked away from her – never once tried to hide behind his Occlumency shields – as he opened the wounds of the past and bared it all.
"You're right. I didn't do anything. I just sat there, terrified, and watched as she tortured you. I knew it was wrong, and I knew I would regret it, but I'd seen so much already. At that point, you were just another person about to die in front of me while I did nothing to prevent it. I didn't know any other way. All I could think was that if I did anything, if I said anything, it'd be me on that floor or my mother. I was so fucking scared that the best I could manage was to not give in and admit that I recognized you all. When she…" It was the only time his gaze faltered. He looked down for a second, the muscles in his jaw rolling as he clenched his teeth, before he met her eyes again. "When she tore your clothes, I couldn't watch any more. I thought… I'd seen before what they'd done to Muggle girls who they captured, and I couldn't watch. My father told me to take my mother out of the room, claiming she shouldn't be forced to watch that. Once again, I took the cowardly way out. I left the room rather than intervene. I had my fucking wand in my hand the entire time, and I did nothing. Then, after you'd escaped, The Dark Lord came back. I'd…," he paused to lick his lips again, "I'd never been tortured like that before. I remember thinking in between Crucios that I was going to die anyway. I sat there and did nothing, and I was going to die for it anyway. I honestly don't know why he didn't kill us."
He lifted his hand from her arm finally and ran a hand through his hair nervously. Hermione was immediately aware of how cold her arm felt without the weight of his hand. "I'm sorry," he continued, "I'm sorry that I didn't do more. I'm sorry that I didn't prevent this." He finished his confession by looking down at her arm and running his thumb down the length of the word again.
As if he just realized that he was still cradling her arm in his lap, he shifted uncomfortably, twisting to move to the other end of the couch. Hermione hesitated for a second before pulling her sleeve back down. Her mind was reeling. Voldemort had tortured them anyway, even though they'd done nothing wrong. What all had he seen before she, Harry, and Ron had been captured? Her heart felt as if it were on the verge of shattering as she thought of all that he'd gone through. She'd lived so much of the last few years in a constant state of fear. The idea that he'd possibly even had it worse than her made her want to…
She was taken aback even more at the thought that just crossed her mind. She wanted to hug him. Obviously, she wasn't going to, but she felt the need to comfort him. He'd just shared more with her than he'd likely shared with anyone. Now he was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, staring into his lap at his own hands, probably berating himself for being so open and vulnerable with her.
"You don't owe me anything, Draco. If it helps, then I forgive you, but I don't blame you for any of it."
His focus never shifted from his hands as he twisted the signet ring around his pinky. "You should."
She knew there was no way that she could convince him otherwise, so instead of trying to prove that he didn't owe her anything, she said, "Tell me about Dobby."
He swallowed and looked up at her. She thought he wasn't going to answer now, that this was too far, but he did.
He chuckled humorlessly, shaking his head slightly, before answering. "I didn't even do that right. At that moment, I was terrified and paralyzed, and I'm ashamed to say that more of it was for myself and my family than it was for you. I could hear you screaming, in the other room, and I knew what they were going to do, and I was too much of a coward to do anything." He turned away from her and brought his attention back to some distant point across the room. She couldn't believe that he was sharing this with her, but thinking that he trusted her enough to unshoulder some of the weight he carried every day brought an inexplicable warmth to her chest.
"For years," he continued, "the war and the Dark Lord seemed like such a distant thing, something that set me apart from everyone else. It made the Malfoys better and more influential to be at his right hand. But when he took over my house, I was face to face with it every night; I saw him for what he really was, and every single day became a nightmare. All I could think in that moment, despite hearing you screaming for help not twenty feet away, was that he'd either come back and kill us because the war was over and he no longer needed to carry on the charade or he'd come back and we'd get to live but in this awful world that we helped create. With all that, I don't even know how long you'd been tortured before the thought even crossed my mind to call for Dobby. At some point, you stopped screaming, and I thought it was too late, and for some reason, that pulled me out of my panic enough to remember to call for him. When I did, I think my mother was too terrified to say anything. Then I told him the plan to help you all escape, but I … I thought I was too late, and you were already dead."
He swallowed again, and brought his gaze back to hers, his eyes heavy with the weight of all that he'd just told her. "That's why I didn't tell anyone, and that's why I didn't tell you the whole truth when you asked me before. I thought I was too late. I was ashamed that I'd been too busy worrying about myself and my family, and even though you weren't dead, I still just sat by and let all the rest of it happen."
She surprised them both for the second time that night by closing the distance between them and placing her hand gently on his arm. For a moment she expected him to react the same way he had after admitting to torturing Astoria, and she felt the panic begin to build in her chest when her touch made him flinch.
But he didn't yell at her. He didn't run away. He only met her gaze, his eyes devoid of any shields but brimming with tears. His brows were furrowed in pain in regret, and he looked like he was waiting on her hit him again. The sight broke something inside of her. After being on the receiving end of the dreaded looks of pity for far too long, she knew that would only make it worse, but she had to forcefully remind herself not to look at him that way.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, seeming to will away the emotions that were threatening to overtake him. "I don't deserve whatever it is you're feeling right now," he said, the words draining out of him.
Her arm moved as if she were imperiused, without a thought at all, as she tentatively rested her other hand across his cheek. Again, she waited for him to flinch or pull away from her touch, but he only opened his eyes. She never thought she'd find herself feeling compassion toward him of all people, but she knew what it felt like to feel completely and utterly alone, and in that moment she didn't want him to feel that way.
No matter what had happened between them or what he felt he needed to atone for, Hermione needed him to know that she saw him. Not Draco Malfoy disgraced Death Eater. Not Draco Malfoy pureblood elite. But the Draco Malfoy in front of her right now, who was someone entirely different from who he was before.
They sat like that for a moment, neither of them seeming even to breathe. His eyes were fixed on her's, but her own roamed across his face, taking him in to drive the point home.
"I'm sorry, Gra– Hermione. For everything."
"Thank you."
His brows furrowed momentarily. "Thank… for what?"
"Without your help that day, I would have died. No matter how long you think it took you to react, you did. I would have died. Harry would have died. Ron would have died. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
When he started to argue, she dropped her hands from his face. "You don't. The entire ending of the war hinged on what took place at your home. We learned that Bellatrix had the … had what we needed, and you got us all out of there. That's all that matters. I'm thanking you for those reasons. But If you need me to say it because you think you need absolution, then I forgive you, Draco." She gently laid her hands over his arm, exactly how he'd done with hers a moment prior. "Now, you have to do the same."
They'd only been "friends," if you'd even call them that for a few weeks now, and despite their history, it was painful to see a tear break free and leave a trail down his cheek. He blinked and turned away from her, wiping his face quickly.
She scooted back toward her end of the couch, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. The thought of that alone stirred a sense of confusion inside of her. Why don't I feel uncomfortable?
"Thank you for telling me. I know that couldn't have been easy, but thank you for sharing it with me."
Hermione wasn't sure how long they sat in silence, each of them too wrapped up in their own thoughts. She couldn't help but think how unfair it was that her entire generation had been through so much. Not for the first time, she found herself feeling bitter at being robbed of her childhood, and now she felt just as bitter thinking that perhaps Draco had been robbed of his as well.
"How the hell are you so bloody kind?" he asked, shaking her from her thoughts.
She smirked waiting for him to look at her, knowing he would, as she said, "Would you rather I hit you again?"
He didn't let her down and returned her smirk just as she knew he would. "I think I told you before that the last time was actually the last time."
She shrugged indifferently. "Don't give me a reason to punch you and I won't."