Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.
Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts
Chapter Three
Then
Fourth Year
"Go and ask 'er for me."
Draco spluttered on the water he had just taken a sip of amid the loud laughter of Crabbe and Goyle. He was still choking when the librarian came rushing over, squinting furiously over her glasses, her lips pursed. She held a finger to her lips, shooting a deadly glare at each of them, before sweeping away once more. Goyle was sniggering quietly into his fist, and Krum was left looking around at the faces at the table, scowling in confusion.
"What?" he demanded.
"Hey, Krum." Zabini leaned forwards, apparently taking pity on him. "I think you're asking the wrong guy."
"He ees the only one," Krum argued stubbornly, jutting out his chin.
"You got a whole table of people here," Draco protested, waving a hand at the others. "Why does it have to be me?"
"No!" Krum stabbed a finger at Crabbe and Goyle. "They are stupid."
Draco and Zabini burst out laughing at Crabbe and Goyle's furious red faces, scrambling for a retort and coming up with nothing. Krum continued around the table, turning his accusing finger on his two fellow Durmstrang students sitting beside him.
"They cannot speak English." He pointed at Zabini. "He ees gay."
Zabini shrugged. "Fair point. But, you see, Draco's a racist."
Even as Draco swiped at him, Krum was speaking again.
"I do not care for thees stupid 'Mudblood' talk," he said. "Ask her out for me. You said we are friends, no?"
"Yeah, but there are limits," Draco objected.
"You do thees for me," Krum insisted, leaning forwards across the table, "and I will give you ze snitch from ze world cup."
There were hisses of alarm and excitement from the others. Draco held Krum's gaze, hardly daring to believe it. He couldn't be serious. The snitch from the world cup? He darted a glance over his shoulder at Granger's bushy head, which was currently – as usual – buried in a book. She was almost walled in by piles of them, sitting alone in the far corner of the library. She was there so often he wondered why she didn't simply take up residence there. He looked back at Krum, who was smirking, clearly aware that he had caught Draco's attention.
"You'd never give that up," Draco said. "You're bluffing."
"We lost zat game," Krum said flippantly. "I don't care. I will keep ze snitches from ze games I win. I was going to give it to my little cousin, but I will get 'im a broom instead."
Zabini was grinning, lolling back in his chair, eyeing Draco knowingly. Crabbe and Goyle were staring expectantly, their eyes round, quills clutched tightly in their meaty fists. The two other Durmstrangs were muttering together, their opinions on the proposition unclear. Draco flicked his tongue across his lower lip. Then he shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. Zabini let out a bark of laughter.
"Shut up," he snapped. He held a warning finger at Krum. "You swear?"
Krum held out his hand. Draco grabbed it before he could change his mind and shook it, then span on his heel and strode over to her table.
She lifted her head as he approached, frowning, her jaw set in anger. Recognition dawned on her and her face softened slightly – which surprised him. Usually when she saw him she looked decidedly pissed off. But now she laid down her quill and cocked her head as he reached her, her bushy hair swinging around her.
"What, Malfoy? Haven't you disturbed the library enough yet?"
He couldn't help but snigger. "Oh, disturbed the library? Oh my, whatever shall I do? I have disturbed the library."
"Yes, you have!" she hissed, keeping her own voice low. "I've been trying to work, and you lot are over there just… squabbling, or I don't know what. Can't you go somewhere else?"
"Believe me, Granger, what I wouldn't give to go somewhere else rather than sitting here staring at your ugly face all day," he retorted.
The insult had got old – she didn't even react. She rolled her eyes and retrieved her quill, dipping it in her inkpot slowly.
"What do you want?"
He caught the words on the tip of his tongue, trying to place them in the right order. She was waiting, one eyebrow arched, one finger tapping impatiently against the tabletop.
"Well?"
"Do you want to go to that Yule Ball crap with Krum?"
Her eyebrows shot upwards. "What?"
He jerked his head over his shoulder at the table of Slytherins. She leaned to the side to follow his gaze, and then sat back abruptly, looking like a rabbit in the headlights. She looked him up and down, and then let out a tight laugh.
"What are you, twelve? As if."
"So you don't?"
"I don't have time for your stupid games, Malfoy, I have homework to do."
"Oh, no, he's serious. Don't ask me why, but he is."
She scowled at him. "Please, Malfoy, just go away."
"He thinks you're 'preetty,'" he continued, in a poor impression of Krum's accent. "And if you go with him he's going to give me his World Cup snitch, so just do it, ok?"
She was blinking in surprise, owlish. "He said I'm pretty?"
"He won't stop bloody going on about it. Look, Granger, I really want that snitch, so how about you just say yes."
"Ok."
He had not expected her to say that. He searched her face for a moment, looking for some sign that she was lying, but she looked genuinely excited. And he wasn't quite sure why that bothered him so much. Her face had spread into a small, shy smile, and she was looking past him at the other table. She lifted one hand in a slight, delicate wave, and then her cheeks flushed red and she looked down quickly. He had never seen her make that kind of movement before – girlish, consciously feminine, welcoming a moment of attention rather than hiding from it. He tried to think of something to say, and came up with nothing.
"Good," he said at last.
He turned and headed back to his own table. Krum was sitting up very straight, watching Draco seriously, searching his face for news. Draco slouched down into his chair.
"Vell?" Krum demanded.
Draco briefly contemplated lying to him. "Yeah, she said she'll go."
Krum darted up from the table at once and hurried over. Draco turned to watch, and felt a slight rush of satisfaction as she looked up angrily at yet another interruption. But then her face was positively glowing and she was smiling that shy smile again, and whatever Krum was saying must be really fucking smooth because it was making her giggle and Christ, Granger never giggled. Especially not in the library.
"I can't believe you just did that."
He turned. Zabini was barely controlling his laughter. He snatched up a ball of paper and threw it at him, smirking as it bounced off the other boy's head.
"Screw you, Blaise. You want that snitch just as much as me."
"You just asked out a Mudblood for Krum," Zabini sniggered. "You know what, this could be fun... Just how much would you do for that snitch?"
He snatched up his wand and sent a flicker of electricity at Zabini's head. And then the librarian was back and she was ushering them out of their seats, her shrill voice herding them out of the library with their books flapping after them, and he had one last glimpse of Granger and Krum's bemused faces before the doors slammed shut.
~O~
The Yule Ball, with all its glittering decorations and flickering candlelight, was the closest thing Hermione had ever come to living out the fantasy she had kept in the back of her mind for as long as she had been at school. The idea that, one day, she would be able to walk into a room with someone holding her arm, someone who was proud to be seen with her and wanted to dance with her. That she would swirl around the room in a dizzy haze, like Cinderella, and no one would be mocking her. For a couple of brief hours, that dream became something tangible. She had walked in with Krum, and she had heard people whispering in surprise and amazement at the difference between the girl they saw in the library and the girl they saw now. And despite herself she had enjoyed it, and she had let herself believe that it was all real.
But, of course, the sharp reminder of who she really was came all too soon. She was never usually one to give in to that kind of dreamy, fanciful thinking, and reality came crashing down on her like a punch in the gut. In this instance, reality wore ginger hair and an angry, sullen expression.
"You're fraternising with the enemy."
"He's using you… He's way too old!"
And then, after he had dug his way under her skin and thoroughly wiped the smile off her face, the worst one came.
"They get scary when they get older..."
And she couldn't help herself – she screamed back at him. Because, obviously, if she wasn't going to play the nerd she was going to have to play the doting, naive girlfriend type, and she refused to be turned into either of them. And perhaps the worst thing about it was that Harry, who had always fought her corner in the past, who had always been there for her, said nothing. He said nothing. And somehow his silence seemed to hurt more than Ron's words.
She span around, hot tears pricking at her eyes. It wasn't just the ruined night, it wasn't just the hostile mood, it wasn't just the blatant sexism he had just tossed back at her - it was more. It was that he was making her feel bad for not wanting him, for not simpering at his feet. It was more that she actually did, despite everything, feel guilty. And she had never felt more enraged.
"You've ruined everything Ronald Weasley!"
He retreated up the stairs, Harry just behind him. She stumbled to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, her heart pounding, her shoulders heaving with suppressed sobs. She heard a voice and glanced over her shoulder - Victor Krum was there, squinting out of the Great Hall in search for her. A girl from Beauxbaton was trying valiantly to get his attention. Let him have her, she thought viciously. She hadn't even liked him like that, not really. She had been so flattered by the offer and the thought that someone had actually wanted to go with her that the only answer had seemed to be yes. And yet now she wished she had not come at all.
She escaped out into the castle grounds, where someone - perhaps Professor Sprout and Flitwick - had done a beautiful job of creating a twisting seating area made up of low benches and tall hedges, which made pathways along which to stroll. Silver fireflies made of glimmering air flitted to and fro, in and out of the hedges. Every now and again the hedges formed a larger courtyard where magnificent ice sculptures - consisting of the animals of the four houses, as well as the Durmstrang dragon and the Beauxbaton swan - let fly pretty fountains of water or snow. It seemed to have become the place to go for a quick grope - she could make out several couples nestled into bushes and on benches, engaged in fiercely serious tonsil tennis. It was the last thing she had wanted to see.
Turning on her heel, she crunched angrily across the gravel path, ducking away down one of the hedge-tipped alleys. Her feet carried her away from the music and hubbub of the festivities until the air began to still slightly. Only when she reached the edge of the hedged area did she begin to slow down. Further before her the grounds dropped into a steep hill and the forest began, and she had no wish to make a bad evening worse by heading in there. Out here there was little light but for the tiny fireflies and the glow cast from the upper windows of the castle. She sucked in a deep breath of the chill air, letting it seep into her bones and slow her racing heart and pounding head.
It took her a few moments to recognise the smell of cigarette smoke.
She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing against the dimness, and caught the red flare of the end of a cigarette. She blinked at it until the face behind it came into view. She should have guessed by the white blonde hair, by the black and dark green dress robes which looked more like a suit, the shiny, brand new black boots.
"Fucking hell, Granger," he said, his voice clear as a bell in the cold air. "You look almost like a girl."
She let out a short burst of humourless laughter. In a way, the familiarity of the jibe was almost refreshing after the evening she'd had. She folded her arms as he stepped forwards into view.
"Didn't take you for a smoker," she said, glancing pointedly at the roll of white paper between his fingers. "Isn't that a little too Muggle for you?"
He shook his head, tutting. "Haven't you done your research? All the great wizards smoked. They brought tobacco over here first from other countries - if anything, Muggles are doing a wizard thing."
"Something I never thought I'd hear you say."
"I didn't say I agreed with it."
She snorted, turned her gaze on the dark line of tree. They stood in silence for a few moments. A plume of smoke floated past her and dissipated on the wind.
"Who made you cry, Granger?"
She looked at him sharply. But he wasn't laughing. Rather he was frowning, not a trace of mockery on his face. She shook her head, huffing shortly in answer.
"What? I wasn't even in there, it can't have been me."
"No," she said sarcastically. "It wasn't you. Well done, Malfoy, congratulations."
He shrugged, scuffing at the snow with one heel. She brushed at her face with both hands, sniffed, pulled herself together.
"Ron, actually," she said, more quietly.
She felt tears of anger and hurt pool in her eyes and looked away from him. There was a short pause while she fixed her eyes on the trees and tried to pretend that she wasn't crying and he puffed away silently. He broke the silence first, huffing slightly.
"Well, he always was a royal fucking idiot, wasn't he? Nothing new there."
And she wanted so much to defend her friend and respond as she always had in the past, but instead she found herself actually laughing. And perhaps that was the moment that she realised she was so, so finished with scrabbling around after him, writing his essays and correcting his homework and pretending his jokes were funny and standing by stupidly as he stared at Lavender Brown's arse in Herbology. He so clearly didn't care about her. She wasn't foolish enough to pretend that coming here with Krum tonight wasn't partly about showing him that she could move on if she wanted, a gentle prod to see if he would up his game. And yet all he had done was punish her. She was fed up with waiting.
Draco, meanwhile, seemed surprised at her reaction. She liked that look on his face – it was unusual, like snow in May. When she surprised him, suddenly the tables were turned. On a sudden impulse, she stretched out her hand.
"Can I have some?"
His eyebrows leapt upwards and she had to struggle to keep a straight face. He looked from her outstretched hand to the cigarette and back again, his mouth slightly open, caught speechless for a few delicious seconds.
"You can't be fucking serious."
"Go on – I want to try it."
He let out a dazed laugh. She fully expected him to refuse and tell her to fuck off back to the dance, but to her surprise he suddenly held out the little roll of paper. She crossed over to him to take it. It was larger than she had thought it would be - she couldn't hold it like him, nestled between his first two. Rather she pinned it between her thumb and first finger, eyeing it uncertainly. She hadn't really wanted any, it was only to see what he would do really. But he was watching her now, and she couldn't back down. She raised it to her lips and took a tiny breath. He grinned.
"You're supposed to actually breathe it in, not just hold it in your mouth."
She glared at him, furious that he had deciphered her so quickly. Slowly, she lifted it again and took a deeper breath. Instantly her lungs were choked with what felt like pure ash and she coughed harshly, flinching away from it at once, spluttering. She heard him laughing and felt herself flush red, shoved it back towards him.
"Too cool for you, Granger?"
"It's horrible," she croaked, glaring at it as he took it back. "How can you stand it?"
He shrugged, putting it back between his teeth. But he couldn't stop laughing long enough to take a pull from it, and in the end he had to flick it away, still giggling.
"Ah, thanks for that one," he smirked. "That was hilarious."
"Shut up, Draco."
The words were out before she could stop them, and suddenly she was the one caught speechless. Her eyes widened and she struggled to think of something to say – perhaps he hadn't noticed, if only she could move on the conversation quickly enough – but he had, and he was staring at her with a strange expression on his face. It was something she had not been expecting, and yet something she could not quite put her finger on. As if he was surprised, but not angry. The awkwardness grew too much for her to bear and she turned away quickly, pretending to check her sleeve was straight, her face colouring. Why had she called him that? She didn't even know where that had come from. He let out a short, slightly forced laugh beside her.
"Getting chummy, are we?"
"Don't," she said, desperately fiddling with her bracelet. "I don't… sorry."
"S'fine."
And she was hit with a fresh wave of shock. She didn't know how to handle this Draco Malfoy. She was used to the constant taunting and mockery, she knew how to react to that. This was just… alien. He suddenly straightened up from where he had been leaning, and she didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed that he had decided to go. There wasn't much else to do – it was just too awkward to carry on any kind of normal conversation now. Although why it was so awkward escaped her somewhat… She looked up to find that he hadn't, in fact, left at all. He had stepped away from the shadows of the hedge and held out his hand. She looked at it in confusion.
"What are you doing?"
"Pissing off Weasley," he replied smoothly, his hand still outstretched. "Come on – dancing with me will make him way angrier than sharing a butterbeer with Krum."
She couldn't conceal her disbelief at his suggestion, and something like rejection flickered in his gaze. But he didn't move, and she found that she did not say no.
"Ron's not even here."
"No," he said, tilting his head to the side as if contemplating the fact. "But you'll know that it happened."
And just like that, he had made her laugh again. She must have had too many butterbeers earlier – her head was feeling light and airy and she had no idea why she was stepping forwards and taking his hand. As soon as she did she was suddenly filled with a strange, blind fear of stepping into the Great Hall at his side – it was impossible – everyone would see, and she wouldn't know what to say, how to act… He seemed to notice, a similar hesitation on his own face, and rather than leading her in he simply pulled her closer.
"It's too hot inside," she found herself saying lamely, as if that explained it all.
He just nodded. His teeth fastened briefly on his lip and then, decisively, he put his other hand on her waist. She stood frozen, expecting him to shove her away and laugh with every passing second. But he didn't, and she felt more stupid just standing there dumbly like a mannequin. So she put her hand on his shoulder, and to her own dazed astonishment found herself smiling. They stood there, just about able to hear the music drifting from the open doors of the Great Hall.
"I hate this song," she said, trying to fill the still air between them.
He blinked and listened for a moment, as if he had not even noticed it. Then his usual smirk was back.
"God, me too," he said, and began to lead her in a slow, stilted waltz around the snowy grass.
Their feet left a trail of spirals behind them, and her toes were covered with snow and absolutely freezing, but for some reason she didn't really care. She didn't know how to dance at all, but he did, apparently, and he led them slowly enough for her to follow without tripping. She tried to look at something other than him, but it was surprisingly difficult when they were so close. Practically nose to nose, if he hadn't been taller than her. And he wasn't making any effort to avoid her gaze. Eventually she stopped trying to look over his shoulder and simply looked back at him. She could feel her heart beating fast in her neck, fluttering like wings. Her stomach felt strange. God, she wasn't about to be sick, was she? No – she didn't think so. His eyes were the most tranquil blend of blue and grey. He was, in fact, quite attractive, she realised. She had never really thought about it before. But there he was – high cheekbones, striking eyes and smooth lips which were no longer smirking but instead forming some sort of half-smile, curled upwards at one corner…
She had to catch herself there because she was sure that she was blushing profusely now as well as staring, and she really had no idea at all what she was doing. Part of her wanted to let go and run for the Great Hall, but her body didn't move. And he wasn't moving, either – he wasn't revealing it all to be some cruel joke, or calling her a Mudblood, or anything. In fact, he was being completely un-Malfoy-like.
"Granger," he said, and then broke off abruptly.
They had slowed down, now just sort of spinning at a snail's pace. Her voice had shrivelled up somewhere in the back of her throat, so she simply looked back at him, waiting, slightly breathless. His tongue darted out and ran across his lips briefly, and he was looking at her with the strangest expression.
When someone suddenly appeared from between the trees, she swore her heart stopped.
They flinched apart like lightning, as if hit with a cow prod, and she found her hands shaking wildly, irrationally, excuses already teetering on the tip of her tongue – but then two fourth years went running past, heading for somewhere over to their left, and disappearing into the darkness almost as quickly as they had appeared. She stared after them, her heart thundering in her chest. As their laughing voices disappeared into the darkness she glanced over at Malfoy, who looked just as shaken as she felt. His hands had let go of her as if she were red hot, and she was suddenly reminded of who they both were, of the gulf between their lives. She heard herself giggle at the ridiculousness of it all and pushed her hair back out of her face.
"I'm going to bed," she said.
He glanced over at her, his eyebrows pulled tightly together. She couldn't tell if he was angry with her or with the fourth year students who had interrupted them. She turned towards the opening in the hedges, her feet now numb with the snow, lifting her dress out of the dampness.
"Gran… Hermione!"
She was just about to move around the hedge when he spoke. His call stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly, looked back at him over her shoulder. He was standing where she had left him in the snow, looking for all the world like someone lost in the woods. But as she met his gaze he straightened, and his hands plunged back into his pockets, and his lips took on that familiar sneer. He jerked his head at the Great Hall, his eyes narrowing.
"Don't go crying, now," he said coolly. "There's no point in that."
She smiled, and was again struck by how easy it was to do so. "I know."
"Of course you do."
She shook her head, casting her eyes skywards. "Goodnight."
She made her way off through the snow, trying to figure out what exactly had just happened, putting it down to snowfall and stars and butterbeer and sheer, inexplicable madness. She made it back to the Gryffindor common room, hurrying into the corners every now and again to avoid a gaggle of familiar faces, and paused for a moment in front of the fire, warming her chilled arms and pulling her heels off her red-raw toes. She couldn't help but stare at the flames and imagine what might have happened if they hadn't been interrupted, if they had just kept getting closer and closer, until there was no space between them at all.
And then she had to go upstairs because she had clearly gone insane and had to go to bed immediately.
Now
She woke slowly, still half caught up in the memories that had flooded her brain all night long. She could almost still feel the fine snowflakes against her cheeks, the soft heat of his hand on her waist. She hadn't thought of that night in a very long time. For what felt like the hundredth time in the last few hours, she gazed at the ceiling and tormented herself with questions.
Why hadn't he answered the door when she had crept up there the night before?
What had happened to him in the six months since the war?
Why wasn't he with his parents?
Was he thinking about her?
It was strange having him there in the same house as her, and yet not seeing him. But perhaps he didn't even want to see her. They hadn't spoken in so long, and she had not even seen him in the Battle of Hogwarts. They had snatched a brief glance after that fiasco in the Room of Requirement, but everything had been so messed up at that point. She hadn't had time to take him aside. They had both just been… surviving. And afterwards there had been so much to do – Fred's funeral, for god's sake – her friends had needed her. She had finally been able to bring her parents back from Australia, return their memories. There had just been too much happening.
She had assumed that, if they ever did meet again, he would instigate the contact. But he never did.
Ginny and Luna began to stir, and she sat up and reached for her dressing gown before they could wake up properly. She just couldn't face them. For the first time since she had begun staying in Grimmauld Place, she began to wish for the privacy of her own room. She pulled her gown on, snatched up her towel, and hurried out of the room.
Out in the corridor, she paused. She looked at the narrow staircase that led up to the attic room, and the silence from above her head was utterly suffocating. Her heart began to beat hard and fast and she tore away, her own nervousness upsetting her mood even further. She hated being scared of seeing him. She took the stairs down to the next floor two at a time and locked herself into the bathroom, finally able to take a few deep breaths. She stared at her own hands as they gripped the bathroom sink. Her mind was a haze of muted panic, of half-formed predictions of what their first meeting after all this time would be like… God, she didn't want to think about it. Not least because things were still so tense with Ron. She knew he still half expected her to ask him to take her back one of these days. He still looked at her like she was his… With a groan of frustration, she tore off her dressing gown and the large t-shirt she wore as a nightdress and stepped into the shower, dousing her head in freezing cold water, and stopping her brain from thinking for a few blissful seconds.
She needed a plan.
As soon as she saw Harry that morning, she would quiz him on exactly why and how Draco – Malfoy, she had to remember to call him Malfoy – had ended up at Grimmauld Place. She would get the facts straight before she saw him. And then, when they finally did meet, she would take him aside and calmly explain that it had been a long time and they should try to just be mature adults about everything and talk it over… She clawed back the shower curtain and climbed out of the stream of water, breathing hard. Her own small, pinched face stared back at her from the bathroom mirror, and she avoided her own gaze.
What if he still… felt something?
What if he didn't?
She rubbed her hair dry so hard that she gave herself a headache, and pelted out of the bathroom with her gown drawn hastily around her. By the time she got back to the room she shared with Ginny and Luna, the other girls were still sleepily waking up. She dragged on her clothes, barely paying attention to what she was putting on, and ran downstairs without even saying good morning to them.
The house was very quiet, and she was grateful for the distinct lack of people. She needed time to gather her thoughts together, to set herself straight. The only problem was that every time she tried to think what she would say to him when she saw him, her mind went horribly blank. It had been so long since they had last been able to sit down together and simply talk - not as Death Eaters or rebels or enemies, but just as people. She almost felt like the person she had known so well back when they were students was no longer there.
She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that, as she pushed open the door to the kitchen, she almost didn't see Harry sitting at the table. And she would have walked straight past him if he hadn't glanced up sleepily and mumbled a greeting.
"Morning, 'Mione."
She flinched violently, startled. "Oh – Oh, Harry, hi."
She froze in the doorway, as if caught stealing, and he smiled at her wearily, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"Everything ok? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"No, no! I mean, I haven't," she blustered.
God, she was terrible at lying. She ducked her head, working her fingers through her wet hair, and hurried over to the steaming kettle above the fire.
"Coffee?"
"Got one, thanks," he said.
She glanced over her shoulder. He looked tired, his face a little paler than usual, and for a moment her own worries flew out of her head. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with him, arching an eyebrow questioningly. He huffed a short laugh and swirled his coffee about in his mug, watching the dark brown liquid spin.
"So, you're still talking to me, at least."
"What do you mean?"
He sighed heavily and raked a hand through his messy black hair. "The other night. I think our new visitor has severely pissed a few people off."
Her stomach lurched slightly, but she managed to keep a straight face. She hid behind her coffee cup.
"Ron?"
He nodded ruefully. "And George. And Dean. And Neville. And Hannah. And – oh, I don't know, just about everyone." He looked up at her pleadingly. "Look, it's not like I wanted him here either, you know? But if this is going to be the Order's headquarters, it can't just be a… a college dorm, you know?"
She could sympathise. Most of the time, the others seemed to treat Grimmauld Place like a second Hogwarts. But she knew Harry wanted bigger things for it – he wanted to continue the work his parents had started, wanted to support the Ministry and honour Dumbledore's memory. He rubbed both hands over his face, looked at her hopelessly. Just like he did when he was stuck on his potions homework assignments.
"This is a mess, isn't it?"
She couldn't help but smile at his dejected face, and shook her head. "Of course not. They'll come round."
She hesitated, and then pressed on, throwing caution to the winds.
"Why is he here, Harry? What's going on?"
He sniffed, pushed his glasses up onto his forehead so that he could rub both eyes with his forefingers.
"He's on the Ministry's list of defected Death Eaters," he explained tiredly, smothering a yawn. "Basically, his actions towards the end of the war indicated he wanted out of Voldemort's lot. But they're still not really sure whose side he's on. They've been trying to bring him in for questioning, but he's been dodging their owls – only Hestia ran into him last night and rescued him from a load of Death Eaters who, she says, were about to kill him in an alleyway."
Hermione felt her stomach curl into a tight ball. She struggled to keep her face emotionless, hoping her tightly closed fists were displaying interest in his story rather than concern. She swallowed hard, nodding, urging him silently to continue.
"So, Hestia seized her chance and brought him in. Apparently he's homeless, so she's got him on lockdown here. Hopefully now they'll be able to question him properly."
Harry sighed heavily and glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. She could tell he was warring with himself, trying to figure something out. Something about the situation was troubling him. She could only wait until he decided to explain himself to her – which, thankfully, he did after a short pause.
"He looks like shit, Hermione," he said at last. "When Hestia brought him here, he still had blood all over his face. He looks… I don't know, like he's sick or something. I thought he might've got hurt in the fight, but you know what Malfoy's like – every time I tried to ask he got all… urgh."
He gestured vaguely. She knew exactly what he meant. She wet her lips anxiously, trying to choose the right words.
"Is he… Do you think he's involved in what's going on with the Death Eaters?"
Harry shook his head. "I don't know. He could be. Either way, he's our only lead. He could be the only way we track down the last of the Death Eaters."
He buried his head in his hands again, and she reached out to rub his arm comfortingly. She didn't envy his position at all – he felt so responsible for finding the last of them, for making sure Voldemort's influence was gone once and for all. But he was still barely even an adult – she didn't know how he could be taking on so much work for the Ministry already.
"The others will be fine," she said, squeezing his arm until he looked up at her. "Really, Harry. If they can't be mature about this… Well, then they're not cut out to be Aurors."
He laughed. "I'll let you tell them that."
"I will!" she sat up straighter, lifting her chin. "They have to understand that this isn't a game. They have to understand how hard you're trying."
He shrugged and pushed his way up from the table, draining the rest of his coffee. Tossing the mug into the sink, he raised his arms high above his head in a long stretch and squinted down at her.
"I know I should stay here and be responsible and stuff, but… I dunno, I could do with some air. You want to go see how Hogwarts is looking? And not talk about any of this for the whole time we're there?"
A smile rushed across her face and she stood up too. "I'll grab my coat."
And that, right there, was why she knew she would always be able to rely on him. In some ways, she and Harry were just the same. Sometimes, they just needed to breathe.
~O~
Draco made his sluggish way back towards consciousness to the hardness of the wooden floorboards pressing against his side. He lay there for a while, taking stock of his throbbing head and the sharp pain in his chest. His whole body ached in protest at the night spent on the floor. Moving slowly, stiff and shaky, he rolled onto his back and then sat up, inch by inch. By the sunlight streaming through the window, he judged it must be late morning. He took in the room – the bed he hadn't had the chance to sleep in, the dusty chest of drawers, his bag deposited on the floor near the door. He had to remind himself that it had all really happened. It was such a ridiculous turn of events that it didn't seem real. To go from being chased down by Death Eaters to living in Saint Potter's attic within the space of an hour was disorientating, to say the least.
But he was there, and in many ways, as he held onto the end of the bed to pull himself upright, he had to admit that as bad turns went, this was a pretty lucky one.
He made it to his feet and promptly sat down again, but this time on the bed. He was about to collapse his head into his hands, but his chest seared violently and he froze until the pain subsided. He gingerly shrugged off his jacket and dug in the pockets until he found the little bottle that was now his lifeline. He didn't have much left, but he didn't have the energy to be conservative. There were still two more bottles to go, after all. He took several large gulps and, as the welcome numbness set in, finally managed to take a deep breath. He watched the sunlight creeping across the floorboards near his feet. His head felt heavy and clouded with the Nightshade. He gave into it and toppled slowly onto his side, dragged his knees up to his chest, and closed his eyes.
He didn't sleep, drifting in and out of thought. He wasn't sure how much time passed, but when he opened his eyes again the light was noticeably dimmer. He didn't feel much better, but his body was demanding that he get up – he needed a piss, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and he was becoming uncomfortably aware of a stickiness beneath his shirt. He felt it carefully with one hand, being careful not to press too hard, and recognised the dampness soaking through the material. With a groan, he heaved himself upright once again and reached for his bag.
Potter had said the bathroom was on the third floor – or somewhere, his memory of the particulars of their conversation the night before were somewhat hazy. He sat there on the edge of the bed, blinking slowly. He felt hungover, and yet hadn't had the bonus of drinking the night before. He pressed his thumbs into his eyelids, strained his ears for any sound from downstairs. But the house was quiet, and he dared to hope that perhaps the others had gone out somewhere. He didn't much fancy running into Potter's entourage.
Eventually, the blissful idea of a hot shower forced him up. He dug through his bag for the box he had learned to keep well-stocked and close by at all times and a change of clothes. Then he located his wand – tossed carelessly on the upturned box / bedside table – and made for the door. He unlocked it with a flick of his wand, and then stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He glanced down at the box, which was rather sorry looking, and waved his wand at it. It hardened and took on a deep, chocolate hue as the cardboard turned to mahogany. A few inches taller, and a drawer added, and it finally became functional. He even managed to smile at his handiwork before opening the door and advancing out into the house.
The floor below was quiet when he descended the steep staircase from the attic, and the lower floors were still too. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably as he continued down to the next floor. He couldn't help but glance around every couple of seconds, certain that one of the doors was about to fly open and reveal someone who would most likely be very unhappy to see him. To his relief, the bathroom came into sight on the landing and he sped up. Once inside, he was able to throw the door shut, lock it, and finally be sure that he could relax. He frowned at the small bathroom – it had a large bathtub with clawed feet and a tall, slender shower head, a porcelain sink with a large mirror above it, and a matching toilet in the far corner, which he selected as his first stop. The tiled floor and walls were stained and cracked, and the sink was covered with an unsightly amount of short hairs. Apparently someone had shaved recently. His lip curled at the sight of it, and then curled further as he took in the various toothpaste tubes lying crumpled on the shelf below the mirror, the leaking jars of moisturisers and ointments. The bath wasn't much better – a horde of shampoos, shower gels and god knew what else had been balanced on the side of the bath, all of varying levels of emptiness.
Still, it was a bathroom.
He set the box down on the edge of the sink and began to slowly ease his way out of his shirt. Even though it was black, he could tell it had several new stains across the front. He detached himself from it and let it fall to the floor, then lifted his gaze to the mirror. He found himself staring at a thin, pale figure, whose face had great dark circles around the eyes and lank hair straggling above them. A hint of blood lingered just below his nose from his meeting with the Death Eaters the day before. A large bruise was darkening on his ribs too, but it was barely noticeable compared to the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his chest. He tried to avoid meeting his own hollow gaze as he undid the bandages and gingerly unwrapped them. He couldn't help gasping in pain as the material tugged at his skin. He only looked long enough to get the bandages off – as soon as he had done so, he unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his trousers and into the bathtub. He turned on the shower head and hissed again as the water made contact with his chest – he had to be careful when he touched the area. If he aggravated it too much, he would bring on another attack.
But the shower relaxed him, finally allowing the muscles in his back to lose some of the tension that had built up. He picked the least offensive-looking bottle from the side of the tub and rubbed the gel into his hair. It was good to feel clean again. Despite the state of the place, it was the best shower he'd had in a long time. The hot water beat down pleasantly on the back of his neck and he reached out to lean one hand against the wall, happy to stand there for as long as he could. He closed his eyes.
It was only when someone banged impatiently on the door that he pulled himself out of the stream of water. He stepped out of the bath and looked around for a towel – he didn't have one. He was about to simply get dressed while he was still damp when he spotted a slender cupboard in the corner. It contained several stacks of loo roll and, to his relief, a few folded towels. He snagged one and began to rub his skull, shaking water droplets from his hair. The someone banged again and he groaned. A muffled voice came from outside.
"Hurry up!"
He moved on to his body, moving deliberately slowly. Eventually he had to face the mirror again. He opened the box he had brought and took out a roll of bandages and some numbing serum – he knew better than to try anything stronger. The serum barely did much other than stop the bandages from sticking. He dabbed it on carefully, wincing, and twisted awkwardly to wrap the new bandage around himself. It took some time to get the tightness right, and by the time he had finished the person waiting was hammering on the door once more.
Leaving the towel abandoned on the floor, he pulled his fresh – well, fresher – clothes on – a pair of trousers and a loose grey t-shirt. He wished he'd brought a shirt. He didn't like the idea of meeting whoever was on the other side of the door in a t-shirt – it was like going out in his pyjamas. But he didn't have another option, so he retrieved his old clothes from the floor, put his box under his arm, and picked up his wand. As the knocking began to sound distinctly pissed off, he pointed his wand at the old bandages lying on the floor and set them alight. They crumbled to ash within seconds, and he slipped his wand into his pocket before he unlocked the door.
"About time! What the-"
Draco felt his features instantly slip into a scowl as he emerged, recognising the voice before he even saw the shock of bright red hair. As gangly and red-faced as ever, Ron Weasley blanched at the sight of him. His eyes widened slightly and his mouth dropped open, and Draco felt a thrill of satisfaction at the effect he'd had. What made the situation even more perfect was the fact that Weasley was only wearing a dishevelled flannel dressing gown, which he clutched at to make sure was closed as he looked Draco up and down.
"Patience, Weasel," he said. "You really must learn to share."
Weasley's face contorted with barely suppressed rage. He drew himself up to his full height, the dressing gown slightly denting his efforts to look intimidating.
"Shut up, Malfoy," he growled. "I wouldn't get too comfortable – don't reckon you'll be here too long."
"As wonderful as that sounds…" Draco cocked his head, smirking. "Are you going to get out of my way at some point?"
Weasley began to move, and then seemed to change his mind and leaned forwards instead. Draco remained where he was, forcing the other boy to pull back again. A finger was stabbed in his direction.
"This isn't Hogwarts, Malfoy – this is Harry's house," he snarled. "You can't just do whatever you want – I won't let you–"
"Let me?" Draco let out a bark of laughter. "Go on, Weasel, threaten me. I dare you. Now, where's Potter? I've got some laundry that needs doing."
As Weasley's face turned bright red with fury, Draco pushed past him and stalked off towards the stairs. It hurt, but it was worth it to hear Weasley spluttering, searching for a come back, and failing. The bathroom door slammed shut as Draco made his way back up the stairs, and he grinned as he climbed up to the safety of his room.
He had a cigarette out of the window, seated on the low, wide windowsill, the door to his room firmly sealed shut. The swirling plumes of smoke set him at ease, and he leaned his head back against the wall and listened for movement in the huge house. He still felt tired, as if he hadn't slept yet. He contemplated going back to bed, but his stomach was beginning to growl. His appetite had been growing increasingly worse over the past couple of months, but the shower seemed to have improved it. Still, now that he knew that Weasley was somewhere in the house, he wasn't too keen on going back downstairs. He didn't care about running into the ginger that much – it was actually rather fun to rub his presence in his old school enemy's face – no, it was more his wound that worried him. If he went downstairs and found himself having some kind of attack, he would never be able to bear the shame of it. He listened, cigarette held loosely between his fingers, heard the faint hubbub of voices and footsteps come and go.
And what if she was there...?
But he really was hungry. And he'd be dammed if he let Weasel be the reason for his going without food.
So, finally setting his mind on it, he levered himself upright and rooted through his suitcase for something to wear. If his wound did start bleeding, he didn't want it to be obvious. He found a black sweatshirt and pulled it on, feeling a little more secure beneath the additional layer. Then he scooped up the almost-empty bottle of Nightshade – just in case – and slipped it into his pocket.
For a moment he stood there, preparing himself, pushing his hair carefully back from his face. Then, steeling himself, he pocketed his wand and made his way slowly out of the door and down the stairs.
Then
Fourth Year
Harry had disappeared to find Dumbledore, and Ron was not speaking to her. Hermione had planned to escape his great sulking mood by hiding out in the library. But it did not appear to be her evening – no sooner had she settled down in a corner, walled in by her books, a large figure appeared among the bookshelves. The frown etched into his face and his searching, hopeful gaze instantly filled her with dread, and she shrank down behind the books. It hadn't been all that long ago that he had dragged her out of the lake, both of them coughing and gasping for air. She had been quite happy helping Harry from the side-lines – she had no wish to actually become involved in the bloody tournament. But afterwards was when the real challenge came.
Soaked through and shivering, he had pulled her aside as towels were thrown over them. He had held her tightly by the arm, his dark eyes filled with a strange, wild kind of eagerness that instantly had her fearing what he was about to say. She didn't consider herself experienced in the intricacies of dating – or whatever she was involved in – by any means, but she knew that look. She had seen it on Ron's face before. Krum had shaken the water from his face and, then and there, in a heady rush, invited her to Bulgaria over the summer.
She honestly didn't know if she was flattered or horrified. All she could do was stammer out a vague response, doing her best to turn his offer down without offending him. But he had pressed on, assuring her that he had never liked a girl like this before, that she had to feel it too… And all she could think of was the Yule Ball, when she had been happiest out in the cool night air with someone else. Krum had not been happy with her rejection, and she had worried that he might seek her out again. And, sure enough, he was peering over the desks, squinting down the passages between the tall bookshelves. She sat there, crouched over her homework, trying to keep her face covered. But her hair was all too distinctive – she couldn't hide for long.
He paused at the intersection between a few bookshelves, just a few desks away from her, and she ducked her head behind her pile of books. He turned around in a full circle, and then decided on the corner the bookshelves were currently hiding. Her usual, preferred spot – he had been paying attention. She let out a great sigh of relief and sprang up as soon as he disappeared from view, cramming her books back into her bag. She was out of the library within thirty seconds, her homework crumpled, her books completely disorganised.
Her feet carried her down the nearest flight of stairs and around as many random corners as possible. She didn't care exactly where she was heading – she just wanted to put as much distance between herself and Krum as possible before he realised she wasn't in the library. The fact he had infiltrated her usual space, her favourite place to go outside the common room, infuriated her. She was going to have to go elsewhere now, or simply hide in the common room. And with Ron stalking about up there, she couldn't see herself getting much work done there either. She let out a groan of frustration as she reached the Great Hall. Nowhere, apparently, was safe from testosterone.
Her pace had slowed, mostly because she didn't really know where she was going. But she didn't want to stay in the castle anymore, and she was sure that wherever she turned now, her homework was not going to be completed that night. It didn't matter – she was already a week ahead anyway – but the interruption had messed with her schedule. Concluding that she could use a break from human interaction for the moment, she gave up on the idea of continuing work and headed for the great double oak doors leading to the courtyard. The cool air was an instant relief, and she sucked in great lungfuls of it as she wandered out into the grounds. All of the emotional stress from the last few weeks had caught up with her, and all of a sudden Hogwarts had come to feel extremely claustrophobic to her. First there had been the worry over Harry's involvement in the tournament, then the heady excitement of Krum's propositions, then Ron's selfish outburst at the Yule Ball, and then Harry had found Barty Crouch's body and the dangers they had been speculating about had become all too real.
And in the background, the whole time, there had been another presence. One that drifted in and out, one that she only ever ran into unexpectedly, but which always left her feeling lighter. And that alone was too strange to even begin thinking about.
The night was overcast with a fine, slightly damp mist which settled quickly over her hair and skin as she walked. It wasn't quite dark yet, although the half light painted the distant trees of the Forbidden Forest in shades of blue and grey. Behind her, the castle rose up with rosy glowing windows and bats wheeled and dived about its turrets. She paused to look at it, enjoyed its darkening silhouette against the pale evening sky. It felt quieter outside, and she was grateful for it.
She realised quite suddenly that her feet had automatically carried her to the Quidditch pitch, and finally stopped beside one of the tall wooden towers. She supposed that it must be because she often came to sit there and work when the others were practising – it was where she usually would have found Harry, had he not been busy. It felt different when it was deserted. Usually there was at least a small group practising, but now the pitch was silent, the wooden benches empty. She pushed her hair back out of her face, noting with some dismay the way it was already beginning to frizz in the damp air, and then with a sharp jolt caught sight of a figure on a broom high above her head. She had to crane her neck to even see him – it seemed to be a him, anyway. He was nothing more than a dark smudge against the mist, weaving in and out of view behind the clouds, picking up speed and then slowing down, completing complex manoeuvres. Practising, perhaps. Although practising alone – usually there was at least a couple of people trying out various moves together. She watched the figure veering from side to side, even felt a slight thrill of excitement as he underwent a tight hairpin turn.
Quite suddenly, the figure came to a halt high above her head. She could almost feel a piercing gaze settling on her, and shrank back slightly. It was too late anyway – she had already been noticed. The broomstick hovered for a little longer, obscured every so often by swaths of cloud, and then gracefully dipped downwards. It circled the pitch as it descended, coming closer and closer, until she could finally make out the shock of white-blonde hair, the pale, narrow face. He was wearing black robes rather than Slytherin's green colours – she hadn't recognised him from a distance. But now her stomach lurched, as if she were the one soaring, and she felt her face becoming hot. She gripped her bag furiously as he reached the ground and jumped from his broom. He had planned the distance perfectly, and when he straightened up he was only a couple of steps away from her.
She saw with some relief that the expression on his face was not particularly cruel or mocking. In fact, he looked almost relaxed. His hair had been soaked through by the damp air and had been coaxed out of its usual, neat style. His face was ghostly white, as always, but the faint smile that curved his lips seemed to warm it. And it was a real smile – just barely there, but with an honesty to it she had never seen before. His tongue ran quickly across his lips before he spoke.
"Are you stalking me, Granger?"
She had no idea why, but his words made her feel nervous and flustered. She tried to glare at him, but she couldn't quite pull it off.
"I was walking," she retorted. "I didn't know you were here, really."
He huffed a short laugh. "Don't worry, I won't tell if you don't."
She realised that she was smiling, and that her hand was clawing her hair back. Almost as if she was self-conscious, although she had no idea why she would care what he thought… Her mind was going in circles. She shifted her weight to one foot, fiddled with her bag, tried to think of something to say. He spoke first, rescuing them from the long pause.
"What are you doing out here?"
She cast her eyes upwards. "Hiding from Krum. He's been a little… persistent. Since the Ball."
His smile turned into a grin.
"He came into the library," she said. "I was just about to get started on that essay from Snape – you know, the one on serums and toxins. That's actually an essay question for fifth years, but luckily I did some extra reading during the summer so I think…"
He was shaking his head. She trailed off, uncertain as to whether he was about to launch into his usual self and call her a stupid Mudblood, but instead he was smiling widely.
"Granger – what the hell are you talking about?"
She considered the question and then shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."
He looked at her, and her heart jerked slightly. His eyes really were striking, now that she knew to look for them – a pale, piercing, silvery blue. And he was looking at her as if he was actually seeing her – not the books, not the Mudblood, but her. He looked almost scared. She felt her cheeks growing warm again and squirmed under his stare.
"You know what, Granger? Something's different."
She couldn't break his gaze. Her heart was beating very fast. She swallowed, tried to concentrate on what he was saying. "Different?"
"Yeah." He hesitated, his brow creasing slightly, as if someone had just asked him a slightly untactful question. "With… this."
He gestured vaguely at the air between them.
"I suppose," she said. She cleared her throat, wet her lips. "How is it different, exactly?"
"Just…"
He moved his head in a jerky, frustrated motion. Then he lifted his broomstick and moved abruptly forwards, until he was standing so close to her that she could count each individual strand of hair weaving back from his face, she could see the tiny droplets of moisture from the mist that had settled on his skin. He took a short breath, lifted his other hand. It hovered just millimetres away from her.
"Like this," he said, the words beating against her skin.
And then he bent his head, and she found herself reaching up on her tiptoes, and then everything was electric. It took until they broke apart for her to realise that his hand had come to rest gently against her neck, that his forehead was pressed lightly against hers, and that she had just kissed Draco Malfoy. They both remained still, as if he was as afraid to break the spell as she was, until she finally came back to earth and caught her breath enough to speak.
"I suppose it's different, yeah," she said distantly.
She was about to say more – she wasn't even sure what – but then his lips were brushing hers again and whatever she had been about to say really didn't seem important anymore.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.