The sunlight splashing across her face felt like torture. Her head was pounding so violently she could feel the pulse of her muscles constricting in her temples. Rolling over onto her stomach, Hermione pressed her face further into the pillow, trying to drown out the glow of the sunlight. She could feel every fibre of the cotton slide against her face, scratching her skin as she smothered her face. She had not had a hangover in years; is this what they felt like? Her stomach churned, bile rising into her throat, and she coughed in an attempt to repress the urge to gag. Whatever whiskey Harry had was clearly of a higher calibre than she was used to drinking— that was the only explanation for why she felt like she was on death's door.
As she lay still, willing her stomach to slow the tidal waves of sickness, the soft chirping of birds outside her window sent a shiver of terror down her spine. She lived in the city; there weren't any songbirds in her neighborhood. There were hardly any pigeons. Grimmauld Place was warded to drown out the sound from the outside, an insistence from Walburga during her reign to prevent her from having to acknowledge she was surrounded by Muggles.
The chirping felt like daggers in her brain, piercing her skull in time with the throbbing headache. Sitting up quicker than she should have, one hand went to her stomach, clutching her abdomen as she dry heaved, while the other rose to block out the sun the best she could. Her eyes burned, tears blurring her vision, and she hunched over in the bed, fighting for air through the increasing wave of nausea. This wasn't normal. This was worse than any hangover. Something was wrong. Was she dying? What happened? Better yet, why wasn't she in fucking Grimmauld Place?
Her mind raced like a flighty bird, flitting from one thought to the next as she sat still, saliva pouring into her mouth in preparation for what little she held in her belly to come up. Pushing out of the bed, her bare feet hit the cold wooden floor as she untangled herself from the bedding, finally launching across the room to grab the closest receptacle she could find. Her hands tightened around the rim of the decorative vase she ripped off the dresser, and as she heaved into it, green bile poured out of her mouth. After retching for what felt like an eternity, she leaned against the tall bureau collecting her breath. The back of her hand wiped at her mouth as she blinked at the too-bright room. If she hadn't already known she was in an unfamiliar place, she absolutely would now.
The room was sparsely decorated. A simple wrought iron bed frame sat against the wall, flanked by two empty night stands. The four walls of the room were blank, not even nails embedded in the light colored wood. Everything seemed almost rustic, from the wood paneled ceiling down to the quilt comforter that she had been wrapped in moments ago. This was most definitely not somewhere familiar. Leaning down, she set the vase at her feet before assessing herself.
Her brows furrowed as she looked over her clothing. She was in a thick pair of gray sweatpants and a plain white cotton shirt. Reaching up to rub some of the tension from the back of her neck, she felt her hair wound in a single thick braid. Her fingers brushed over the soft loops of her contained curls. Harry… Harry had to have fucking done this! At first she wasn't sure, but even now she could distinctly remember teaching him to pull her hair back in a simple braid in the Forest of Dean. She had asked him for help since washing her hair was low on the priority list back then. That bastard!
Moving across the room quickly, Hermione yanked open the door to the bedroom and almost instantly regretted the decision. The sunlight in the hallway seemed brighter than it was in her room, nearly blinding as it reflected off of glass covered pictures that hung in the hallway. "Circe's tit," she cursed under her breath as she tried to shield the light while moving down the hallway.
She was going to throttle him. No—she was going to fucking kill him. What the bloody fuck did he think he was doing? She was not in the mood to go on a fucking vacation, let alone spent one more second in a room with him. She didn't have money, she didn't have clothing packed, and she most definitely did not have any Dragon's Breath with her. She knew she would need to take a pill soon, within the next couple hours max if she wanted to avoid the more severe symptoms. The shakes had already started; she could feel her entire body tremble as she marched down the hallway towards an archway she hoped would lead to the front of this shitty little house he had brought her to.
The living room was tiny. There was only enough room for a faded floral couch, small coffee table, and an ancient looking television set. Immediately behind the couch sat what was supposed to be the dining room, based solely on the fact a rickety looking table sat in the space. And there, at the table, sat Harry. His fork was lifted to his mouth, a piece of syrupy waffle dripping onto the plate below as he sat poised to pop the delectable breakfast into his mouth, but instead he sat frozen, emerald eyes wide with shock.
"Uh… good morning," Harry said after clearing his throat. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips nervously.
"Where the blood hell am I, Harry James Potter?!" Hermione demanded, her nostrils flaring as she began across the room. Dropping her arms to her sides, she fisted her hands, hoping that keeping them tight would hide the telltale signs of her shakes. The last thing she needed was to have him fucking notice them and derail her interrogation.
Harry slowly lowered his fork to the plate, resting it next to the half-eaten waffle that he was regretfully pushing away from him. The plate scratched softly across the oak, causing the metal fork to clink against the porcelain in a sharp rattle. When Hermione winced at the noise, her bloodshot eyes closing tight, he immediately withdrew his hands. Shite, that's right. He mentioned that she might be sensitive to noises. "What do you mean?" Stall Harry. Just stall… everything will be okay. It's not like she can hex you.
Hermione felt her brain pulse at her temples in frustration. Between the sunlight, the racket he was making that sounded suspiciously like a baby mandrake's shrill scream, and the disgustingly sweet smell of his breakfast dish, she was closer to physically assaulting her friend than ever before. "What do I mean?" Her words sliced through the air like knives, each word popping with boiling rage. "What do I mean?!"
Harry got out of the chair quickly and moved around the table until it lay between him and the furious witch that had begun to advance on him. It might have been nine years since they had spent time together, but years of history between them told Harry that answering her question would have been like verbalizing his request to be beheaded. Inside, his eyes stayed glued to the witch, mirroring her movement as she tried to work her way towards him.
"I mean I'm not in your bloody house. I mean I'm fairly fucking certain we are not even in London anymore! What the FUCK did you do!?"
"'Mione, please. Just calm down." Harry tried to reason, his voice soft and low. "Why don't you take a seat? I can explain everything if you just—"
"Calm down? CALM DOWN?! Harry, you bloody kidnapped me!" Hermione snapped as she delivered a single blow to the table that sat between them in frustration. Harry had done plenty of stupid things before, but this had to take the cake.
"Honestly, Granger. It's not kidnapping once you're no longer a child," an icy voice called across the room from behind where Hermione stood. The hairs on the back of her next instantly raised, and a shiver ran the length of her spine. "Besides, let's not pretend like anyone will notice you're gone. It wasn't like you had a pressing schedule."
Hermione's mouth instantly ran dry, and for the briefest of moments, she watch as Harry's face turned from apologetic to relieved. Her head turned towards the source of the noise, her body slowly following until she faced him. Her childhood enemy. The source of her torment in school. A man she had not seen in a little over ten bloody years—at least not in person. Draco Malfoy. He was leaning against the archway into the living room with a casual apathy that made the already forming goosebumps run down her arms.
He looked older, which should come as no surprise seeing as it had been a decade, but it was disarming. Time had been more than kind to him; instead of the white haired ferret she once knew, a man who had grown into his sharp features stood before her. He looked aristocratic—handsome, even. Who was she kidding, he was bloody gorgeous. "W-what are you doing here?" Hermione stammered, her brow knitting in confusion before her head snapped to look at Harry again. "What is he doing here?"
Draco let out a long suffering sigh, his hands pushing up the arms of his forest green jumper to reveal toned arms before he pushed off the wall and began towards the small floral couch. His hand swept toward Harry casually. "Yes, Harry. Why don't you tell your little pet project what I'm doing here."
Emerald eyes narrowed on Draco, giving him a hard look, before Harry edged around the table towards Hermione. Merlin, this was already going to be difficult; did he really have to make it worse? As he approached Hermione, Harry reached out and gently laid his hands on her shoulders. "Look, maybe you should—"
"Don't fucking touch me!" Hermione jumped out of Harry's touch immediately, darting across the room. His touch felt like cat claws running down her back; the rough scratch of the white cotton shirt sent shockwaves down her spine.
"'Mione."
"Don't!" she reiterated. Dark eyes flashed up towards Harry in warning as she took another step back, her head shaking no.
"Stop being such a bloody imbecile, Granger." Draco looked over his shoulder at the witch, silver eyes gleaming across the room with annoyance. "Listen to your friend. He's quite possibly the only person on this planet who gives two shits about your well-being. So do us all a favor: be a good girl and sit the fuck down so we can get this over with."
Hermione hesitated, her eyes flickering between Harry and the back of Malfoy's head. Was this a set up? Why would he bloody do this? Why the hell would he invite Malfoy of all people?! Nine years was a long time, but to make friends with him—a boy he literally obsessively stalked and accused of being a Death Eater—was laughable. While it had turned out to be the truth, it seemed almost unbelievable that they would be… friends? No, clearly they weren't friends based on their body language. Colleagues? Last she heard Malfoy wasn't even in bloody England, but it wasn't like she was up to date on his latest coming and goings in the media, now was she?
Her curiosity had always been her downfall, so instead of telling them both to piss off, Hermione began to move towards the tiny sitting area. Her bare feet slid across the wooden floor in a careful approach. Instead of sitting beside Malfoy, Hermione chose the cushion farthest away from him, her body curling protectively against the arm of the couch as she looked to both Malfoy and Harry expectantly.
Eight Hours Earlier
Harry budged open the front door with his shoulder, his brow furrowing as he peered into the darkness to try to see where he was going. The drive had taken him nearly two and half hours due to delays on the motorway. By the time he found the cottage nestled amongst a thicket of trees on the outskirts of Burford, his eyes were growing heavy. The Pepper-Up Potion did wonders, but the crash from the magical elixir left little to be desired when they were used to treat hangovers.
He had carried Hermione bridal style from the car to the front door of the cottage, her cheek resting against his chest. He could feel her soft, sleepy breath wash over the sensitive skin on his neck as he crossed the threshold. Shifting her weight in his arms, Harry pulled her petite frame closer to him as he cautiously stepped in the room, trying to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When the letter from the talent management company instructed him to rent this place, he had thought there must have been a mistake when he found the listing. It was non-magical and in the middle of nowhere, nearly ten kilometers from the closest Muggle village and almost thirty to the closest wizarding, but a quick email to his point of contact revealed that there had been no mistake.
Even in the cover of night, Harry knew Wren's Nest was not going to contain the same comforts that Grimmauld Place had, but he was willing to make whatever sacrifice he needed to make sure the wisp of a woman in his arms was okay. He could feel her bones through her clothing, sharp and angular. Her vertebrae pressed against his forearm, each one prominent. She was small—too small. Much smaller than she had ever been back when they were on the run eleven years ago.
By the time he managed to make his way into a bedroom, lay her down, and turn on a low light, he allowed the sadness of her current condition to finally come to the surface. He watched her lying in the bed, her petite frame surrounded by soft swaths of fabric, her gentle breath the only sound filling the quiet room. It was almost like he could see the girl he grew up with underneath the surface, past the deep bags beneath her eyes and the sunken cheeks. When they were in school, she had held so much promise. Top of the class. Hermione could have practically recited their textbooks back to the professors, and she always earned the top makes. How had she fallen so far? How had she turned into something the tabloids loved to despise instead? Reaching out his hand, he smoothed over her curls, letting the soft strands of hair slip between his fingertips as he moved them all off her sleeping face. She was supposed to write text books like Bathilda Bagshot, travel like Newt Scamander. She was supposed to fight for the rights of beings who couldn't fight for themselves. She was built for a life much bigger than what had happened, and Harry felt responsible. If it wasn't for their friendship, she would have never ended up like this. She would have never fought in the war or lost her parents. She wouldn't be so bloody broken.
"Still pining for her after all these years, Potter?"
Harry jumped, his fingers flexing against Hermione's cheek instinctively as his head snapped to looked back at the door he had walked through moments ago. He would have recognised that icy tone anywhere. He stared unmoving, his mouth agape as his sleep deprived brain tried to catch up to what was in front of him. "Draco?"
"In the flesh," the blond wizard replied. He stood at the doorway, not daring to cross the threshold and ruin whatever little moment The Boy Who Lived and his project were having. His hands were tucked into an ankle length pair of slim navy trousers, and his crisp, cream coloured oxford was paired with a thin navy tie. He looked a far cry from the days of everything-must-be-black-and-broody.
Harry blinked as if the wizard were some sort of hallucination, but when he didn't fade away, Harry's brows nearly hit his hairline. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he whispered across the room, giving Hermione one last look before he moved off the bed toward the blond in the doorway.
Silver eyes watched Harry's approach with a smile sharp enough to hurt. A thin, curved brow lifted at his question. "Well, Potter. Judging by the file given to me and the correspondence I've been receiving all week, I believe you hired me to fix your little problem there," Draco replied in a low tone, his right hand moving from his pocket to gesture towards Hermione's silent form.
No… no, that wasn't right. Harry might have hurried through this process, but he absolutely without a doubt would have remembered if he had hired Draco Malfoy. Shaking his head quickly, Harry lifted his hand to run through his untidy black locks. "No—no, that's not right. I've been speaking with a woman. Christy or… Chrissy or something of the sort," Harry whispered, his lips pursing in disapproval. "And you're most certainly not her."
Draco chuckled despite Harry's disbelief, and he took a small step backwards out of the room and into the hallway to allow himself more freedom to speak at a normal tone. Bloody Gryffindors and their noble behaviors. Hermione was going to sleep regardless of how loud he was! From what Harry wrote in his final letter, he had planned on giving her dreamless sleep. Unless he bought it from a shoddy apothecary, it should have been enough to keep her asleep until mid-morning at the earliest. "I believe you mean Chrysanthemum. My assistant," Draco explained casually as he leaned back on the wall. "I expect she might have forgotten to mention I would be working on this case personally. She often forgets the minor details. If she wasn't so bloody brilliant at managing my time-table I would have let her go already."
"But… but I hired an American company! You're not American," Harry replied as his brow knit in confusion. How was this even bloody possible?! Hiring Draco out of all the fucking people in the United States. Sure, he had heard Draco made his way across the pond after the trials, but it had only been a rumor, hadn't it?
"Very astute observation, Potter. What other talents has age brought you?" Draco snarked, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"Draco, I don't think we can do this. I… if I had known—"
Draco's eyes rolled skyward in annoyance and he released a heavy sigh. "Look, let's not pretend like my company wasn't the only one that would even consider your request. I've got emails from my contacts with McGall & Dougal's, as well as Starr-lebrity indicating they declined your offer and you were shopping around for what they both called an 'impossible assignment.'"
"Fuck," Harry breathed, his hand lifting to rub over his face before pulling at his chin in disbelief. He knew Draco was right. He had been turned down four separate times before Draco's company accepted. Even so, there was no bloody way they could all work together. Draco and Hermione had history! They were far from friends while at school, and he highly doubted she would be thrilled to see him when she woke. Beyond that, he and the wizard had a complicated past. Living in the same house with him, no matter how small of a time frame, seemed more daunting of a task than actually getting his friend sober. "Draco, thank you for accepting, but I cannot accept your help—er, your company's help. This just isn't going to work."
"From where I'm standing, it looks like you don't have much of an option." Draco knew that convincing Potter he was the right man for the job wasn't going to be easy, but the truth was no one would be willing to touch Granger with a ten-foot pole. She was like a walking virus: one touch and most companies would crumble. His agency was truly the best fit. They mainly worked with clients in North America; therefore in the English and European markets, they were virtually unknown. They did not have a reputation to lose if this didn't work out. And if it did work out—well, then it sounded like he had expanded his business. If he was able to help a couple people he owed his freedom to in the process, then he'd killed two birds with one spell, hadn't he? "I can leave if it's what you truly wish, but take a moment to think about it. Without my help, the Golden Girl is likely going to end up face down in a gutter before the end of 2009. I've seen it happen far too many times in my line of work, even to the brightest of people."
Harry's eyes left Draco's, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He was right. Malfoy was fucking right, and he slightly resented him for it. Without help, Hermione would not get better. Without help, he might lose her completely. But fuck it all, why did it have to be him!? Of any fucking person in the world, Draco Malfoy was the git who he'd hired to fix her. His right hand rose to card through his unkempt black locks once again, fingers twisting the ends of a small patch near the peak of his hairline as he slowly nodded. It was as if he was reassuring himself this was the right thing to do. He could set aside his feelings for her… for his best friend. "You can fix her?"
Draco paused, debating if lying to Harry would be the best course of action, but as he watched those big emerald eyes look up at him imploringly, sympathy began to creep inside him. Leaning back against the wall, Draco gave the wizard a small shrug, his arms lifting to across over his chest. "I'm not a fucking miracle worker, Potter, but I can bloody well try."
"...spiraling out of control…"; "...like watching a train wreck…"; "helpless"; "addict"
Hermione sat silent as the grave listening to Harry talk about how much she had changed, how over the past couple of years she'd gone from the girl he remembered to a shell of woman. The only indication she was actually hearing the words he spoke was the occasional head nod she gave. What neither Malfoy nor Harry could see was the building rage inside her, boiling and bubbling to the surface with each harsh observation. Harry's words hurt. They hurt so fucking bad. Partially because she knew he was right. She did have a problem. She was helpless. She was spiralling out of control, but she couldn't stop it. She felt as fucking helpless as he did—probably more so!
She had no one. She was entirely alone. No friends. No parents. No bloody family to speak of. Harry left her. Ron left her, and she was forced to attend public events she despised. She was thrust into the spotlight repeatedly with zero consideration for what she wanted! She had begged them to let her stop two years after the war and before the Dragon's Breath. Before the drinking just to numb the pain. She begged to stop. She tried to tell the Ministry she wanted a quiet life, but no one would bloody listen.
Silent tears leaked from her eyes at the memory. Running the back of her hand across her cheek, she took a slow breath as she tried to put a stopper on her runaway emotions. Harry had no fucking right to do this to her! He bloody kidnapped her, and now he was sitting there telling her how shit her life was. OF COURSE IT WAS SHIT! HE FUCKING ABANDONED HER! It was his bloody fault any of this fucking happened.
Nine years. Nine bloody years since he'd even thought to so much as invite her to Grimmauld Place. Sure, they'd seen each other in passing at events in the beginning, but it had easily been over a year since they'd seen each other face to face! What the hell did he think she was doing? Didn't he read those bloody fucking magazines? Everyone else did. Suddenly, his words no longer mattered. The tears of shame were slowly replaced by anger as the unspoken rage at his abandonment overtook her. Harry had no bloody right to do this, to take her from everything she knew. And then to act like he was doing her a favor?! He didn't bloody know her anymore. And WORSE, he hired fucking Malfoy? Malfoy?! Was he fucking stupid or just out of his mind?
"Fuck you!" Hermione interrupted Harry, brown eyes narrowing on him.
Harry looked taken aback, his brows lifted. His mouth still hung open in mid-sentence. "Uh… what?"
"Fuck. You." Hermione's voice cut through the air as she made sure to punctuate each word crisply, malice dripping in her voice. "You...You just show up and act like some bloody white knight and expect me to be grateful for this?! YOU FUCKING ABANDONED ME!"
"'Mione, it wasn't like that."
"Really? Because that's exactly what fucking happened, Harry. We defeated the Dark Lord, and less than two months later you signed your bloody contract and poof!" Her hands lifted, fingers splayed for full impact. "You were fucking gone. Did you ever once think of me? No, of course you didn't."
"I—I… that's not fair, 'Mione."
"Stop it. Stop fucking calling me that!" Hermione snapped, pointing her index finger at Harry. "You don't get to use that anymore. You don't have the bloody right to use it anymore. You fucking stopped being my friend the moment something more convenient came along and now you want to act like you're saving me. Well you know what? Fuck you. I'm not fucking doing this little game you've got going on with Malfoy. I don't have a bloody problem!"
Harry winced. Her words impaled him like invisible daggers, cutting deep enough to bleed. "Hermione, please don't do this."
Hermione rose from the couch, her bare feet slapping against the wooden floor as she moved to put ample space between her and Harry. She didn't want to be near him. She didn't want to fucking look at him! Trembling hands rose to smooth over her curls as her mind raced, running from one thought to the next like rapid fire. How could he think this was a good idea?! He barely knew her anymore! He fucking left her. Who the hell did he think he was? Just because he defeated the Dark Lord—well guess what! She helped do that, too! She didn't have a bloody problem. He was the bloody problem here! "No. No! You don't get to sit there and act so bloody innocent, Harry," Hermione spat, turning around to face the raven-haired wizard once more. "I have a bloody drink every now and then—so what?!"
As soon as the question left her lips, the tinkling sound of a callous laugh behind her made her skin crawl. Her lips pursed as she snapped her head over her shoulder, brown eyes narrowing on the blond. Was this funny to him? Was it the fight with Harry or the fact she looked like an absolutely raving lunatic? Either way, it only seemed to infuriate her more.
Draco's slow chuckle only picked up, his expression morphing from apathy to a sick sort of amusement that didn't quite meet his eyes. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a characteristically Malfoy smirk as he uncrossed his arms and lifted his hands towards her, beckoning her to continue.
"What's so damn funny?!" Hermione snapped, her trembling fingers flexing at her sides.
Silver eyes flickered from Hermione to Harry, noting the way the wizard eyes pleaded for him not to say a damn thing. Like the endless pools of the Caribbean sea that were Harry's eyes would convince him not to tell this witch the damn truth. Harry knew him better than that by now—didn't he? He wasn't hired for his gentle touch and polite prodding. Draco was the best in the business because he cut no corners. He spoke the truth—even when the truth meant pain. "Well…," Draco began, turning his attention back to witch witch who was acting more like his dead aunt than the girl he knew growing up. "You. Standing there lying to not only us but also to yourself."
"Excuse me?" Hermione's brows rose sharply. Crimson flush crawled across her face as her nostrils flared. "You don't know a bloody thing about me, Malfoy."
"Draco," Harry interjected as he moved from the couch to between the two of them. "Don't. Just… don't."
Draco pushed off the wall where he had been leaning on, side stepping around Harry as he began to close the distance between himself and Hermione. "It's pretty fucking obvious you have a problem, Granger. Look at you for fuck's sake." A hand gestured toward her, starting at the top of her head and running down to her bare feet, silver eyes following the same path. "You're about two stone too thin if I had to guess. Your eyes have pools of purple under them that are bordering on black, and this is after you've been given dreamless sleep. And how about we discuss your hands? They won't stop shaking, will they? No matter how many times you ball your fists or try to draw attention away from them, they won't bloody stop. Well here's a little secret for you, love: it's not because you're upset."
"Draco, stop it." It was no longer a request. Harry watched as Hermione began to visibly shrink into herself, stumbling back until her back hit the wall, the dining table separating her and Draco. Harry could take her verbal assault. Hell, he could take that shit from Draco if need be, but he wouldn't be able to stand by and watch him tear her down if that was his way of getting her clean.
"No! I'm not stopping because she needs to bloody hear this, Potter. If you don't like it, step outside." Draco glanced at Harry, his eyes narrowed, letting him know this was non-negotiable before he turned the full force of his ire back on Hermione. "You're a bloody mess, Granger. And that's putting it lightly." With a wave of his hand and a softly muttered spell, a brown leather attaché case zoomed across the room into his outstretched hand. Nimble fingers flipped opened the top flap, and he withdrew a thick manila envelope and tossed it across the table to her. The heavy thunk caused both Harry and Hermione to stare at it, finally drawing their eyes away from Draco.
Setting his bag at his feet, Draco pulled out the chair in front of him, the legs screeching across the wood from the quick force, and he moved it out of the way before leaning over to flick open the overflowing file. Inside lay newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and photos of Hermione over the past year. One after another showed nothing but the shell of a woman she had become. Different men, different clubs, and different clothes but the same hazy, half-awake look in her eyes. "You're a fucking addict, Granger. All of bloody England knows, and I'd wager to bet that somewhere deep in the recesses of your brilliant little mind, you know it as well."
"I-I'm not!" Hermione stammered, brown eyes glued to the file in front of her, watching as Malfoy pushed article after article towards her, reaffirming her deepest fears. She was worthless. She was alone. She would be alone forever. Why would anyone ever want her? Look at her! She was… she was a mess. She needed help. She needed a drink. She needed a pill. She needed to get the bloody hell away!
"Stop lying!" Draco snapped, his finger jabbing at the file. "Do you know how many bloody times you've been photographed with Charlie Weasley, Granger? He's a known fucking drug dealer. The Aurors have been monitoring him for ages but cannot find solid fucking evidence to lock him up."
Hermione's head shook, her trembling hands grabbing anxiously at the bottom of her shirt, stretching the material. "H-He's an old friend. He's Harry's friend!" she stammered, eyes flashing up to Harry, who stood just beyond Draco's shoulders, his eyes cast down at the table as he studied the articles and photographs with a growing melancholy. Her stomach lurched. Pity… he felt sorry for her. He would never understand. She was alone. She would always be alone.
"A friend? That's all?" Draco lifted a brow and when Hermione only responded with a nod of her head, he began to flip through the stack of papers until he found a small section of photos. These were different than the magazine articles and newspaper clippings, because they were loose, not connected to any writings or stories. These he had purchased directly from the photographer. He flicked them across the table toward her wordlessly, one after another. They showed various scenes of her meetings with Charlie over the years.
Memories flooded back as Hermione watched the photos come to life before her. The first series was nearly two years ago; she could remember it well. It was after the Minister's ball. She had tripped over the train of her dress on stage and toppled into the podium. She hadn't even been drinking that night! She'd promised her agent she would be sober, but that did not stop Ron from pulling her backstage and calling her horrible names. It didn't stop her agent from telling her she would have to find someone else to represent her. They all left her; they all abandoned her. They all just used her until there was nothing more. No money. No fame. Nothing.
Brown eyes began to swell with tears as the photographs morphed from a small drug deal behind the Ministry of Magic into a full blown shag against the dirty wall. Her torn dress was around her waist, and she gripped his shoulders as he pounded into her until he found his release. She never got off, not when they had sex. How could she? It wasn't for her—it was what he wanted. It was his favorite form of payment.
"Because this doesn't look like 'just friends' to me. How about this lovely little set here?" Draco kept flinging the photographs toward her, watching as they began to spill on the floor at her feet. The new set was shot through the large window of Charlie's office in London, but the image was crystal clear. Even if it had been blurry, she would have remembered it instantly because it had been less than two weeks ago. They showed Hermione on her knees, doing her best to make sure it wasn't bad. Doing her best to make sure she wasn't sloppy, so he might have some pity and give her a few more pills.
Harry let out a heavy breath, peeling his eyes away from the photographs, wanting to look anywhere else in the room. He knew it had gotten bad; that's why he hired Draco, but he didn't realise—he hadn't known! If he had known it was this bad he would have… he would have done something sooner.
When Hermione looked up at the sigh, watching Harry turn his back to them, his hands ruffling his hair like he did when he was flustered, she felt her heart snap in two. It shouldn't hurt—his rejection. Not after so many bloody years, but there was something about Harry. She didn't want him to think of her as less than. She didn't want him to know. Scrambling to the floor, she moved to sweep up the photos, bending the edges and crumpling them as she fought to catch those still descending on her from Draco. Her hands madly grabbed at the evidence.
"Stop fucking lying to everyone, Granger, and own your mistakes. You need help. You should be fucking thanking Harry instead of shouting at him. He's quite possibly the only bloody person in England who gives a shit about you."
Hermione stood, tears spilling down her cheeks unbidden as she pawed at the folder, desperately trying to collect the proof of just how shitty her life had become. Once she had stuffed most of the fallen images in the file, she slammed it shut before curling it against her chest, smothering the evidence of her fall, hoping that if the photos weren't visible, no one else would ever know her secrets. "Y-You're w-wrong!" she cried. Her vision was blurred by her tears. Hot. Shameful. They burned as they left trails down her flushed cheeks.
She needed to leave. She needed to get the fuck out of here. She needed to put kilometers between her and Harry and Draco. She needed fucking out. Her feet moved as her mind swirled through the stress of what she was sure was a rapidly approaching anxiety attack. The room around her felt too small, a pain deep in the center of her chest began to radiate through her entire being, and a sharp pain pulled at her stomach. She was falling, spiraling. She need to get away. She needed to find Charlie. She needed more pills. She needed a drink.
Reaching the front door of the cottage, she fumbled with the file, tucking it under her arm as she tried to open the door, but no matter how many times she jiggled the doorknob, it stayed shut. Trapped. She was fucking trapped. With a heavy burst of fresh tears, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the hard door as she felt the weight of the world crash around her. "Let me go," she managed through the tears, tugging at the doorknob. "P-please, just let me go."
Harry stayed silent, his eyes still downcast, looking at his socks. A fringe of black hair hid his own tears that pricked his eyes. It was bad enough hearing this, hearing Draco telling her just how bad she had become. He couldn't bear to watch her crumble. He wanted nothing more than to run across the room and wrap her in his arms. He wanted to smother her with love and comfort. He wanted to help, but he knew none of that would fix her now.
"Afraid we can't do that, Granger." Draco's clipped tone made no indication of pity. In truth, he didn't have one ounce of sympathy for the witch. He'd been there, on the edge of self-destruction, hooked on an illegal substance that dulled the pain until the world was bearable again. He knew exactly how she felt and how fucking scary the world seemed. The difference was he had to fight his own demons to get clean while she had Potter. She had a friend willing to pay him an absurd amount of money to help her.
"P-Please."
Draco moved slowly toward the door, his hands sliding into the front pockets of his trousers as he edged closer, careful to step over the trail of fallen photographs she had left as she tried to make her escape. "The cottage is charmed. You cannot leave without an escort. And right now, neither Potter nor I feel like taking a walk, so you're stuck."
Hermione felt her knees give out, buckling under the weight of the world, and she leaned against the door for support. Her hands lifted to smother her face, and she felt the file fall open at her feet. This wasn't happening. This wasn't fucking possible. She stayed there for what felt like an eternity, crying until she had no more tears left to shed. Red-ringed eyes lifted from the floor, where the story of her last two years laid bare at her feet, to seek out Harry. He was sitting on the couch, his hands running through his hair and twisting the tips on occasion, but his eyes didn't lift to find her. He was embarrassed. He hated her. He pitied her. She was alone. She was going to be alone for forever. Gulping down the rising urge to vomit, Hermione pushed off the door and moved quickly across the floor, her shoulder slamming into Draco's as she passed him. If they wouldn't let her out, she wasn't going to sit here and let them both judge her. She had done what she had to to survive. If Harry truly cared, why hadn't he been there nine fucking years ago when this all began?
Draco let her leave, silver eyes tracking her out of the living room. When the sound of the bedroom door slamming rang through the house, he released a heavy sigh. The tension he'd been holding in his neck subsided. She was going to be harder to break than he had been hoping. Obviously Gryffindors didn't lose their tenacity. Part of him was excited at the prospect. He'd actually have to work to get her to meet his goals. It had been a long time since he'd actually worked a case that was worth a damn. But the other part of him was terrified because if she was in this deep, it would mean she would have to claw her way out from the pits of despair she'd grown used to. He would have to break her habit in addition to building up her self-confidence enough that she felt like she could do it without his help.
Looking across the room to find where Harry had slunk off to, Draco's eyes softened as they found the wizard with his head hanging in his hands on the couch. Merlin, if fixing Granger didn't kill him, the world class guilt trip Harry was putting him on would. He looked so bloody broken, like the row that had just happened personally affected him. Crossing the room, Draco took the seat on the loveseat next to the wizard. He eyed him thoughtfully, carefully formulating his words but none of them seemed right. Reaching out, his hand came to rest on Harry's back in gesture that was as comforting as he ever allowed himself to become.
At Draco's touch, Harry let out a soft breath, his body instinctively leaning into Draco's touch, leaning back until their shoulders brushed. Harry slowly lifted his head, peeking through his thick black lashes at the blond wizard, his cheeks flushing pink as he realised just how close he was. "Draco… do you think this is a good idea?"
Draco's hand moved in soft circled across Harry's back, similar to how his mother would comfort him when he was a small child with a skinned knee. "What do you mean?" Draco tried to clarify, his brow knitting. "She needs to hear the truth, Potter."
"No, not about Hermione," Harry explained. His hands hung loosely between his parted legs, his elbows perched on his thighs holding him up. "I meant you and I working together… doing this."
Draco's hand stalled on Harry's back, his fingers twitching lightly against the ropey muscles, and he dropped his silver eyes from Harry's. He was bringing this up now? Shouldn't he have thought about this last night? Or even this morning before the witch had awoken? Biting the inside of his cheek, he gathered his resolve. His hand slid down Harry's back, fingers running the length of his spine before his palm came to rest on the cushion directly behind Harry. "Why wouldn't it be? I'm the best in the business and your only option."
Harry's teeth sunk into his bottom lip, chewing on if thoughtfully as he watch the emotion ripple across Draco's face. It wasn't obvious, but after spending nearly seven years in the castle with him, Harry knew his tells better than he liked to admit. He blamed it on his year stalking the blond wizard, studying him, but the truth was he'd learned them even before that year.
Still reading Draco's face, Harry finally replied. "Well, historically speaking, we generally find it quite hard to be around each other for prolonged periods of time without fucking."
Author's Note:
Sorry this took a bit. Even thought it was written, I've been ill and not feeling up to editing/posting/being human. Hope ya'll enjoy. Some dialog inspiration for this chapter came from a lovely HBO show - Succession. Check it out.
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Beta: Ravenslight