Chapter Ten- Violent Delights

He knew the exact moment she entered the Room of Requirement. If the way the door slammed to a close wasn't enough, then it might have been the clicking of her shoes, or the soft chuntering that grew louder the closer she got, but Draco thought the most telling sign was the way the air changed, almost like it did before a storm.

He raised his eyebrows, slid a bit of spare paper to keep his page, and looked up in time to see Hermione Granger bursting over to him. She stomped closer, fell onto the settee opposite, and huffed.

"Happy as ever, Granger," he commented.

She glared at him and pushed her frazzled curls away from her face. "Don't. I am not in the mood, Malfoy."

She'd been calling him by his first time for a few weeks now, and his surname rolling from her tongue reminded him of normalcy, of a time Before. He wasn't sure he really preferred it. She must be vexed for her to revert back.

Still, Draco almost smirked. His cheeks were hollow, the crescents under his eyes black, and he felt his ribs dig into his flesh every time he shifted, but the smirk on his lips settled like a blanket around his shoulders, like an old skin. Granger's hair was sparking. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"Talk about my knickers one more time and I'll hex you so hard you'll end up in Hogsmeade," she rummaged through her bag and hauled out a heavy book and a few scrolls of parchment.

Without another word, she started working. The Room had procured some sort of study: there were two black leather settees in the centre of the space, a coffee table reclined between them and a carpet stretched under their feet; a fire crackled contently in the hearth and bookshelves stood tall and stacked, like a forest around them. He didn't remember there being this many bookshelves when he walked in. Bloody Granger.

Speaking of, Draco watched her. He drummed his fingers on the cover of the book he had been reading, but found that he'd lost interest entirely. "Why are you annoyed?"

Granger's shoulders tensed. She mumbled (and he only just caught her through that mass of hair), "I'm not."

He scoffed. "Spare me."

Her head shot up and she glared at him and snapped, "Mind your own business."

Draco clicked his tongue, flicking his eyes away. "And here, I thought we were becoming friends."

He knew that would get to her and had to fight the smirk that was slinking its way back along his lips. In the corner of his eye, he caught her hair whip her face as she looked at him. Granger cleared her throat. She shuffled in her seat.

"Harry and Ron are working over Halloween," she said haltingly. "They said they'd try to visit but it doesn't sound like they have the time anymore. Something about a massive workload and a looming deadline. They've probably had all summer to do it and just procrastinated."

"Massive workload," Draco murmured. "Sounds like overcompensating."

She snorted. He looked at her in surprise and his lips quirked in a smile. "Something like that," she agreed. Granger looked up at him. Her eyes fell on the book. "What are you reading?"

"I'm surprised it took you so long to ask," he remarked drolly.

She scowled.

He picked the book up and flipped her the front cover so she could see for herself. An eyebrow rose.

"How... Muggle."

Draco swallowed. He felt a slight niggle at the tone of her voice. "What's wrong with that?"

Granger's eyes darted to his face and she said, "Nothing! I just didn't peg you as a Shakespeare enthusiast."

"He's a talented playwright."

"He's Muggle."

"I'm not a bloody fool, Granger. I'm well aware of his heritage."

"I'm simply-"

"He's historically responsible for modern language!" exclaimed Draco. "It's not Muggle Studies. It's- cultural!"

"Of course!" agreed Granger. She hesitated. There was something sly about the way her eyes slid away and back. "I just didn't expect a romance."

"It's a tale of conflict and warring families," he snapped.

"It's a love story, Malfoy," she said and she was smiling now. He pursed his lips. He knew he couldn't win.

She returned her attention to her work and Draco turned the book back around and carried on reading. He read the same page three times before he knew it wasn't going to sink in.

"You should read Anthony and Cleopatra next, if you like love stories," said Granger after a moment. Incensed, Draco's head shot to her and he noticed the smile still curling her lips. He twitched.

"It's not a love story, Granger. It's got violence in it-"

"Oh Draco," she sighed, throwing her hair back to regard him. She looked bemused. "It's the greatest love story of all time!"

He pulled a face and mumbled, "Well, it's not a very good one. They both die."

"No love story is complete without a bit of struggle," said Granger. "It's not worth it if it's not something you're willing to fight for."

Draco looked at her. He cleared his throat and said, "You sound like Potter."

He thought he managed to scrape the disdain from his voice.

Granger snorted. Perhaps not. "Haven't you got over that yet?"

Draco frowned. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he just shrugged. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"Yes, well. If it makes you feel any better," she said. There was a secretive smile curling her lips and he suspected her friends had hurt her more than she dared to admit in their misplaced priorities. "This would drive Harry and Ron mental."

Draco dropped his eyes to the book. "What would?"

"Our friendship," she said. She was flushed. He wasn't sure if he hadn't been paying enough attention to her before or if her cheeks just lit up even pinker and that threw everything about her into sharp definition. Granger's eyes were wide, ringed with gold. There were freckles over the bridge of her nose and her cardigan buttons were all mixed up, buttoned incorrectly. She must've come running from somewhere because she was glowing with a sweet mixture of cold and exertion and her hair was flecked with melting snow.

He pursed his lips but didn't correct her, looking down.

"You haven't told them?"

Draco kept his eyes on the page but he hadn't read a word since she'd walked in. He tried to keep his voice neutral. Granger shot him a look that implied he was an idiot asking an idiotic question she shouldn't have to answer.

"Draco, we meet in a secret room and leave ten minutes between both arriving and leaving. If you don't want to be seen with me at Hogwarts, I'm not telling my friends a hundred miles away. It would be a waste of ink and they'd panic for no reason, thinking I'd gone mad!"

There was a moment of silence. Draco wasn't sure whether it was his imagination or if the fire really did shrink and douse the room in a frigid coldness. He forced himself to ask it. It tasted bitter and scraped the roof of his mouth-

"Because I'm a Death Eater?"

"Because you're the boy their childhood revolves around besting!" she exclaimed, dismissing him so effortlessly he remembered quite suddenly how easy it was to breathe. "Honestly! Sometimes I think the only things they ever moaned about were Quidditch and Malfoy! It was borderline obsessive!"

Draco could feel his face heat up. He frowned and put his book to the side, shrugging casually. "I can't remember Potter really getting mentioned in my conversations."

Granger looked at him like she knew what a liar he was but she hummed and let him have it, this time.

Her looks always disarmed him; it was like she could see through him, through all his disguises, through the shroud he had draped over himself that clogged his lungs and threatened to choke him. She made him feel naked but for the first time, like he could breathe again.

They met here most days, often throughout lunch and up till curfew on an evening. Sometimes, they did homework. Rarely, they spoke. Mostly they just read.

"We should go to Hogsmeade this weekend," she said suddenly. "I haven't been for years."

Draco's head whipped up and he blinked at her. "What?"

"I'm starting to go a little stir-crazy," she laughed. "I think it would be nice to get out-"

She had ducked her head to continue working and Draco was glad she couldn't see his face. He closed his eyes briefly and his throat went dry again.

"I can't, Granger."

"Of course you can, Draco." Granger threw her hair back and declared, "Don't you feel trapped here?"

She didn't notice the way his face drained of colour. "Granger, you don't-"

"We don't have to stay for long, only an hour or so-"

"No, that's not what-"

"-and then you can go back to moping. Come on, Draco, just one day-"

"I can't!"

He slammed the book down on the arm of the settee and shifted his body and his ankle band whacked against the leg of the table. Blinking.

Granger closed her mouth.

Draco closed his eyes.

"I can't, Granger," he said. His voice was heavy. The air was silent and heavier still. "I can't leave the castle grounds."

"What do you mean?" she asked in a small voice. Her eyes finally focused on him.

He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to see the way her face changed, like he'd let her down. "It's part of the agreement. I get to wait here pending my trial instead of- instead of Azkaban. But I can't leave. It's the same sort of imprisonment. Just a different prison."

"You're not a criminal!" she fumed. Her voice shook and Draco wasn't sure if it was anger or tears. "What do they think is going to happen-!"

"The last time I went to Hogsmeade, I cursed Katie Bell." He spoke so resignedly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor. His shoes were scuffed. "I hate it but their fears aren't exactly unfounded."

Granger just stared at him. Her lips were pursed, her nostrils flared, her eyes wet.

"Those were different circumstances."

"Not as far as the Ministry is concerned," said Draco, picking back up his book and smoothing out the flexed spine. He pretended to read. He knew she was still thinking about it. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she was staring at the grains in the table. They sat in silence for a very long time, until the bookshelves cast looming shadows and the fire had died down to an ember.

"Do you have the date for your trial yet?"

Draco swallowed. He turned the page.

"No."

He refocused on the words, the lie seeping through his body, turning his blood into lead. He ended up reading the same line over and over and over:

'These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder

Which, as they kiss, consume.'

He did have the date of his trial, tucked under his pillow, and in the crevice of his mind, for safekeeping.

5th June. His birthday.