A/N: I hope you all enjoy this chapter - I got a bit carried away writing it if I'm honest... I also realised that people might mistake the Slytherin student as Tonks (even though Tonks wasn't Slytherin/in school in 1996), and I just wanted to say it's me! A teeny tiny cameo, if you will! Thank you all for your kind reviews; it absolutely makes my day to read them, and they make me feel so loved and appreciated so thank you all so, so much! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and you're staying safe. Love, CrazyAsACupcake
On Sunday, Hermione Granger is in the library at 10 o'clock, at the table her and Malfoy had shared twice over the past week. To Hermione, it seemed like the most obvious place to meet. She made her way steadily through her homework of Transfiguration and Potions, before taking a break at 12, still sitting on her own. She takes a sip from her water bottle, staring out of the large glass window on the opposite side of the table. The Quidditch pitch is empty and muddy, and the few students that are on the grounds outside look miserable under umbrellas. She does not see the white-blond hair of Draco Malfoy.
He was not at breakfast that morning, but Hermione thinks nothing of it; it's a Sunday, after all, and Harry and Ron preferred to stay in bed until noon on a Sunday, so perhaps Malfoy enjoyed his sleep-ins as well. She begins her Charms essay, though she isn't completely focused on it, her mind continuously wandering back to her new…friend. She hadn't explicitly told him to meet her in the library, so there was no reason as to why he would go there at all. At quarter to 1, she begins chewing on her lip, stopping her habitual tearing of the flesh there when she tastes the coppery tang of blood on her tongue. After a few more nervous glances around the (almost empty) library, she packs her bag and leaves the library, her regulation black shoes clicking against the stone corridor. As she walks down the corridor, she wrestles her bushy hair into a ponytail, wrapping it in two bobbles to prevent it from breaking free. Her prefect badge catches the light, glinting patterns across the walls as she makes her way with purpose to the Entrance Hall, then down into the dungeons. The skin on the back of her neck prickles and she curses herself – she's been in this school for six years and is somehow still afraid of going into the dungeons.
She passes Slughorn's (empty) classroom, still popping her head in just in case. The next few rooms are empty as well, and soon Hermione hits the entrance to Slytherin Dungeon, her hand itching to reach into her robe and pull her wand out. She knows it's a stupid thing to even be down here asking for Draco Malfoy of all people, and she should probably just turn and go back to the library. Just as she spins on her heel, the wall opens and a witch with pink and blue hair emerges – probably no less than fifteen, two years younger than Hermione. The girl sneers at her, looking her up and down as she stands, frozen, in the middle of the corridor.
"What do you want?" The girl has a not-so-thick Northern accent, and venom laced words.
"I- I'm looking for Mister Malfoy, is he in there?"
"Mister Malfoy," the girl mocks, her brow quirked and her lips curled in disgust. "And what do you want with him, then?"
"Um- Well…Ron has come down with a fever so he can't do patrol tonight, so I need to tell him – Malfoy. That he's needed at half past 8. To patrol. Because Ron is sick." Hermione can feel her cheeks heating up, can feel herself beginning to sweat lightly under the pressure (why she is feeling pressured by a random fifth year, we'll never know). She hopes the girl can't sense her nervousness.
"And who says he's the one who should patrol in the Weasel's absence?"
"McGonagall," Hermione's eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights. Don't ask why McGonagall couldn't tell him herself. She rubs her palms against the front of her robes, trying to get the slickness off them.
The girl rolls her eyes, arms folded over her robes. "Right then." Hermione breathes out a sigh of relief.
"So, please could you check if he's in there for me?"
"Don't need to," the girl drawls, smirking slightly. "He's not there."
"Well, do you know where he is?"
The girl shrugs, looking bored. Probably thinking about where she'd rather be other than in the middle of this conversation. "Could be anywhere. I don't keep tabs on him."
Hermione nods, thinking about all the places Malfoy might be on a rather miserable Sunday afternoon. "Thank you for your help, anyway." She begins back down the corridor, before thinking better of it and turning back to the girl. "And you should probably show a bit more respect in the future. I'll be taking twenty points from Slytherin for how you spoke to me."
Down the corridor, the girl rolls her eyes, lifting her hands and wiggling her fingers slightly. "Ooh, I'm so scared. Get fucked, Mudblood."
Hermione feels her throat close slightly, her eyes burning as she stares at this girl, this random, unknown girl who just felt the need to curse at her for no reason. "That'll be fifty points, thank you very much."
She turns, quickly leaving the dungeon in case the girl got violent (she didn't – she just kind of laughed at Hermione's back). She pauses at the top of the stairwell in the Entrance hall, leaning against the doorjamb and rubbing her hands harshly across her face.
Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.
She takes a deep, shaking breath, pushing herself away from the stairwell and exiting the building, into the rain. Malfoy is too much of a snob to go anywhere in the rain if he has the choice; he wouldn't want his extremely expensive outfit getting muddy, and he certainly wouldn't want his hair (his precious hair!) getting ruined in the downpour. Hermione still walks around the grounds, her regulation black shoes soon turning non-regulation brown from the mud that's slurping at her feet, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. She squints against the rain currently pelting her, the coldness of it against her skin taking her mind off the harsh bitterness of the girl's words.
She meanders around the grounds for a while, not surprised when she doesn't see Malfoy, before re-entering the building. Her shoes make a wet noise against the stone, and she takes a moment to Scourgify her shoes, the bottom of her robes, and her socks, getting rid of the thick layer of dirt that coated them. Looking at her watch, she is surprised to see that it is nearing half past 3, and so she slips into the Great Hall for some lunch (thank Merlin for late lunch on Sundays – or else she would have missed it entirely). She sits awkwardly at the Gryffindor table – Ron, Harry, and Ginny probably having already gone back to the Common Room – picking at a ham sandwich she'd assembled on her plate. Her gaze wanders to the fruit bowl in the centre of the table, and she picks a perfect green apple from the bowl, biting into it and smiling slightly at the scent – his scent. When she looks to the other side of the Hall, she doesn't see him sat at the Slytherin table. Zabini, Nott, and Parkinson are sat there laughing together. Crabbe and Goyle are nowhere to be seen.
At 4:49, she starts off towards the only other place she can think of him being – the Room of Requirement – still crunching through her apple as she goes up to the seventh floor. Two girls are leaning against the wall, stood either side of where the door should appear. Hermione's brow furrows slightly, as she walks up the corridor towards them. One of them – clearly the younger of the two – is running her finger along a set of scales, while the other one scowls at Barnabas the Barmy's tapestry across from them, her head flicking towards Hermione as she nears them. Hermione watches as the scowling girl hisses something to her friend, causing her to drop (or did she throw?) the set of scales on the floor, the loud noise echoing off of the stone walls around Hermione and rattling through her head.
"What are you two doing?" She calls to them as she approaches, watching as the younger girl slowly bends to the floor to grab the scales.
"Nothing," the older girl snaps, arms still crossed, her piercing glower now moved from Barnabas to Hermione.
"Well, why don't you go do something worthwhile instead of stand in the corridor."
"Like what? It's miserable, and we're not going to take orders from a-" The younger girl hisses at her, and she swallows her next words. "We've been told to wait here."
"Told to wait here by who?" Hermione's body language mirrors the surly girl: arms folded, scowling (sneering?) with one brow raised.
"By Ma-"
"By Professor McGonagall." The younger girl quickly jumps in, glaring at her friend. "She told us to wait here while she dealt with some other boys."
"Oh. Are you two in trouble then?"
The younger girl nods with wide eyes. "Yes-"
"Not at all!" It's the older girls turn to glare. "We had asked for help on Transfiguration, and she said she would help us but then the boys appeared, and she had to go…"
"And give them detentions."
Hermione nods, looking to the side and thinking. She obviously doesn't believe them – they're both horrific liars – but it's not her place to pry, as she herself had done more sneaking at their age than they were doing now. She instead begins pacing the corridor, and out of the corner of her eye she sees one of the girl's eyes widen, and the two of them start whispering together. The younger one drops (throws?) the scales on the floor again, scattering Hermione's thoughts as the noise reverberates through the corridor.
The girl gingerly picks the scale up and Hermione glowers at her, turning with a flick of her wet ponytail, and walking back to the library to continue her work. Perhaps Malfoy had turned up there while she'd been looking for him. Perhaps she'll run into him walking through the corridors looking for her. The thought makes her smile slightly, and she quickens her pace with a spring in her step in the hopes of seeing him soon.
The two girls behind her whispered conspiringly together as they watched her go, disappearing around the corner.
Inside the Room of Requirement – or, as it's known in its current state, the Room of Hidden Things – Draco Malfoy stands in front of a partially destroyed Vanishing Cabinet, his robe slung over a chair behind him, along with his jumper. His tie is loosened, his top button undone to help him breathe, or cool down. His face is ashen, his forehead shines with a thin layer of sweat from his hard work (which started at 8 o'clock), he grips his wand tightly in his right hand, twisting it over and over with his thumb. His fingers itch to play with his ring, but every time he reaches for it he is met with the cool skin of his finger, remembering that he doesn't really own the ring anymore.
He stares at the door for a moment, breathing in deeply through his noise, then out through slightly parted lips. Closes his eyes, tips his head back as he calms himself. He turns, digging through his robe pockets and pulling out a green apple. He tosses the apple into the air and catches it, polishing it against his trouser leg. The apple gets places inside the Cabinet, and the door closes. A few moments later, he pulls the door open again, his stomach dropping when he sees the apple is still there.
He sighs, running his left hand through his hair, before removing the apple and shutting the door, placing the apple on top of his discarded robe. Pointing his wand at the Cabinet, he begins chanting an incantation, repeating it until the Vanishing Cabinet seems bright enough – in his eyes at least; the instructions didn't say how bright it was supposed to be. The Cabinet seems to shimmer, alive with light that dances across its surface, the inside glowing through the cracks. He drops his wand arm to his side, wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand. It feels like an eternity passes as he waits in silence for the Cabinet to go dark once more. He picks the apple back up, rolling it between his palms, his fingers twitching towards the stem. He takes the stem between his thumb and index finger, playing a childish game in his mind as he waits.
What is the name of your true love?
He begins to twist the stem, going through the alphabet with each full turn.
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H…
The stem snaps off, and he smirks.
Of bloody course.
The light in and around the Cabinet has disappeared, and so he places the apple back inside the Vanishing Cabinet, shutting the door and leaning his back against it. He is thankful for choosing a short-sleeved shirt today, as he knows with a long-sleeved one, he would've been hotter than he already is. The bandage is irritating his arm – he's done it miles too tight and he longs to pull it off and scratch the skin beneath. He counts to 25 under his breath, his eyes shut, fingers tapping against the door with each number. When he gets to 25, he pushes himself off the door and opens it.
The apple seems to grin up at him.
A harsh, guttural yell of frustration rips from him, and he launches the apple across the room, not seeing where it lands, but hearing it as it collides with the precarious piles and takes them down with it. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he tangles his long fingers in his hair, pulling at the soft ends until his scalp hurts. With a swallow, he looks at the Cabinet. A sudden feeling of horror rises over him as he thinks about how little time he has left to complete his task.
His stomach heaves and he presses a hand to his mouth to stop himself, but he can't. He retches once, twice, nothing coming up but a tasteless, odourless white foam – a reminder at the fact that he hasn't had a single thing to eat all day. He wishes he hadn't thrown the apple as his stomach begins gurgling and grumbling at him. Sighing, he picks his wand up, Scourgify-ing the floor of the room, and the tips of his shoes. He tips his head back and groans.
"Come on, Draco," he murmurs to himself, gripping his wand tightly, his short, bitten nails digging into the flesh of his palm. "One last time."
He looks at his watch – it's quarter past 6 now. She'll be in the library until it closes. He has enough time, enough time to try it just once more.
Swallowing again, the horrible, lingering taste of tastelessness on his tongue, he points his wand at the Cabinet. Tries to ignore the shaking of his hand. Tries to ignore how his head feels like it's too heavy and too light at the same time. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed, before beginning the chant again. The shimmering light can be seen even behind his closed lids, and he opens his eyes to the full brightness, continuing the repetitive chant. He stops when his vision begins to blur, pressing his fingers to his temples and pressing down until the pain in his head stops. He needs to eat soon, and he will, if this works.
While the light dims down, he searches for something he can (hopefully) transport to the other Vanishing Cabinet that is currently waiting in Borgin and Burkes. He groans, tugging at his hair again with his left hand, before delving into his robe pockets in the hopes of finding something he can send. He finally pulls out his quill, staring at it for a moment before shrugging and chucking it inside the Cabinet.
"Last time." He leans against the chair his robe is draped across, his right foot tapping restlessly against the floor. When his counting reaches 30 this time, he opens the door, a smile dying on his lips.
His quill rests on the bottom of the cabinet.
He takes the quill out and places it delicately on top of his robe before grabbing the ends of his hair and doubling over, eyes screwed shut. He screams, anger and frustration and fear building into this one noise that fills the space around him, swallowing him, drowning him. He screams until his throat burns and tears are dripping down his cheeks onto his shirt. He screams until his breath runs out, until he's gasping for air. He stands straight, tears blurring his (perfect) vision, and he spins, slamming his fists against the door over and over again.
"Fuck!" His voice is full of hatred as he shouts, his throat feeling like it's ripping itself apart. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" He can feel the rawness of the skin of his hands, the pain that shoots through them every time they collide with the door. He hits it one last time, pushing himself away, his face upturned and his arms outstretched as he roars at the ceiling. "Come on! Come fucking on!"
His breathing is ragged as he glares at the Cabinet, picking his wand up and pointing it once more. "One last time," he growls, the incantation coming to him naturally at this point – yet at the same time, the repeated words seemed to lose meaning, becoming garbled and fake. He wasn't even sure they were real words anymore.
He opens it, bending to pull off his shoe and chucking it inside, slamming the door. "You better fucking work or I swear to Merlin…" He opens the Cabinet and groans – dropping his chin to his chest – as he sees the shoe still there.
"Are you kidding me?" He grabs the shoe and throws it on the floor, where it lays on its side like a forgotten toy. "Are you actually being serious?" He raises his wand again.
"One last time."
There isn't one last time. There is another six last times, all ending with Malfoy throwing a fit over the item (which changes each time) not vanishing. When Malfoy raises his wand for the seventh time, the face of his watch catches the dim lighting, causing him to pause. His brow furrows, and he tilts his wrist slightly to see the time. The blood in his veins seems to turn to ice.
It is 7:56.
The library closes at 8 o'clock.
He's left her – again – after swearing that he wouldn't.
"Shit."
He grabs his stuff, throwing his jumper over his head and his bag over his shoulder, carrying his robe across his forearm and his shoe in his hands, he bolts for the exit. He crashes through the doors, pulling his shoe on with his wand between his teeth like salsa dancers rose. Crabbe and Goyle jolt, their Polyjuice disguises long gone (but no one came down the corridor anyway, so it wasn't a problem). They quickly fall into step behind him, flanking him on either side as he slides his arms into his robe, his steps loud and harsh against the stone as he moves at the fastest speed that isn't 'sprint'. Crabbe and Goyle talk over each other, assaulting him with questions and information that he just can't deal with right now.
"What the hell are you up to-"
"-been waiting all day-"
"-owe us an explanation-"
"-can't stick up for you forever-"
"-Granger sniffing around-"
Malfoy falters, nearly tripping down the stairs at Goyle's words. "What did you say?" Crabbe opens his mouth, and Malfoy glares at him. "Not you, you dolt. Him."
Goyle struggles to keep up with Malfoy as they make their way through the corridors. Malfoy checks his watch nervously. 8:02.
"I said, at 5 that Granger started sniffing around, trying to get into the room. Don't know if she was after you or what, but she was poking her nose where it doesn't belong."
Malfoy runs his hands through his hair, mentally kicking himself.
She was looking for you.
The other two being there make his blood boil in his veins as he hears their clumsy footsteps behind him. "Oh, bugger off, would you! Let me deal with Granger alone!"
"You're going to find Granger?"
"Are you deaf now, Goyle? Pair of oafs, you'll scare her off." He can still here them behind him, and he turns, fire in his eyes. "Go!" He shouts, his voice echoing down the corridor. Goyle nods, starting towards the common room, before grabbing Crabbe's arm and pulling him along with him. Malfoy, too, could sense Crabbe's rebellion, and it made his stomach churn.
He breaks his façade, starting a dead sprint down the corridor, his robes billowing behind him. 8:08. He turns the corner, his shoes slipping and sending him stumbling as he tries to gain traction on the smooth floor.
He reaches the library at 12 minutes past, doubled over with his hands on his thighs as he takes deep, gulping breaths. His heart is racing, and it feels like it's going to crack his ribcage with how fast it's pumping. In front of him, Madam Pince finishes locking the door, dropping the key into her pocket and looking at him with a mix of pity and annoyance.
"I assume you're the one she was waiting for."
He nods, unable to speak as he tries to catch his breath. A stitch starts in his side and he winces.
"She was adamant you'd show up; I let her stay longer than I was supposed to." She nods down the end of the hall, and he looks up, straightening and running his hands through his hair.
Hermione Granger is leaning against the wall, clutching a book to her chest. Tear tracks run down both cheeks, which are red from the embarrassment of being stood up – of being left alone all day – in the library. She is staring at a point on the floor, and she doesn't look up, not even when his polished shoes come into her field of vision.
"Granger, I-"
"Don't, Malfoy."
"I'm sorry, I lost track of time. I was going to come, I promise, I-"
"Malfoy!" She snaps, and it catches him off guard. She finally looks up at him, and he can see the hurt in her brown eyes. "I waited so that I could tell you I'm done with this… This friendship, if you'd even call it that. I'm done."
He gapes after her as she starts down the corridor, watching as she rubs her cheeks angrily with the heel of her hand. "Granger!" He begins after her.
"Leave me alone, Malfoy!"
"Why should I?"
She spins around, the anger and hate etched on her face as she sneers at him. "Why should you? I'll tell you why, Malfoy." She spits his name out as though it disgusts her. "You promised, last night, that you wouldn't leave me waiting again. You promised. And instead, I'm left alone, wandering around the castle like some dumb love-struck twit like your fifty current lovers, looking for you! Getting called slurs and sworn at and just downright disrespected…" She takes a shuddering breath, her face flushed.
"Wait, who called you a slur?"
"A fifth year Slytherin girl – because I went looking for you in the dungeon. Because, Malfoy, you went MIA again! No note, no owl, no nothing."
"You went to the dungeons?"
"And the Quidditch pitch, in the rain. And the Room of Requirement where these two girls where very suspicious about their reasons for being there."
"You looked for me?" She can see in his face that he's surprised she bothered. A part of her wants to take his face in her hands, her thumbs rubbing circles on his cheeks as she slowly leans up on her tiptoes to plant a chaste, quick kiss on his lips. A louder part wants to never see him again.
"Yes, I did." She stands straighter, clutching her book closer – if that's possible. "And you weren't anywhere. And, quite frankly, Malfoy, I don't care anymore. I didn't care at half past 7 when it was quite obvious you weren't going to show up. I'm done."
"I'm sorry!" He pleads, gently grabbing her wrist as she turns, and Hermione is shocked to see in his eyes that he actually is sorry.
"Where were you?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Why not?" She hisses, sneering – and he thinks damn her, she's got the infamous Malfoy sneer down to a T.
"I just can't."
"Why?"
"Because!" He snaps, instantly regretting it when he sees her flinch away from him with wide eyes. He buries his face in his hands, getting his breathing in control. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging the ends. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"
"Starting tomorrow we pretend that we were never friends," she whispers, looking at him from the corner of her eye. You don't want to do this. "You can go back to sitting with Pansy in Potions. You can go back to tormenting me and calling me a Mudblood. Call me it as much as you want: I don't care anymore. You enjoy riling Harry and Ron up, and I'm sure that word will get them going. We don't speak, you don't sit with me in the library, we go back to how it was."
"Granger-"
"No, Malfoy." She shakes her head, turning away from him. "I'm done."
He follows her silently, sneaking up until he's behind her, then grabbing her wrist and spinning her around and into him, a yelp escaping her. She pushes him away, frowning at him. "I'm sorry, okay? I lost track of time, I was going to come and see you. I was really looking forward to it, actually."
"You couldn't have come and found me? You couldn't have sent a note? You couldn't have said 'hey, Hermione, I'm going to be a bit late today,'?"
He takes a deep breath, looking her straight in the eyes, his hands on her shoulders. "Hey, Hermione," his voice is hoarse and rough, and Hermione feels her skin prickling at the use of her Christian name. She can't remember a time where he hasn't called her Granger – probably because he's never called her anything but Granger, except from his exaggerated goodnights, which don't count as they use her full name. "I'm going to be a bit late today."
A blush creeps up from her collar, and she pushes his hands from her shoulders. "You can't tell someone you're going to be late after you're already late."
He smirks, and she can feel her cheeks burning. "I'm certain we've had this conversation before."
"We have. Twice. Is it really too much to ask for a note?"
"Okay." He places his left hand over his heart and holds his right hand up. "I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear that, from hence forth, I shall send Hermione Granger a note – at least – in regards to any unforeseen absences."
She can't help the tugging at the corners of her lips at his use of old English, even though she knows he only did it because it would make her laugh. "It's too little, too late, Malfoy." But her smile betrays her, and he smirks at her.
"Sure it is." He pushes one shoulder gently, pivoting her around. "Come on, Granger."
"And where do you think you're going?"
"I think we're going to Gryffindor Tower, Granger." He starts walking, an arm around her shoulder.
"You can't come into the common room," Hermione fights herself, trying not to lean closer into him, telling herself that she's still mad at him. She doesn't want to lean into him, leaching his warmth, her arm around his waist. She doesn't.
"I wasn't going in the common room, I was walking you there."
"I'm still mad at you."
"Keep telling yourself that."
Half the trip to Gryffindor Tower is in complete silence, and his arm slowly slips from around her shoulders, causing her heart to scream out please don't let go, until the backs of their fingers brush against each other. Malfoy stiffens beside her, and it's almost as if she's under the Imperius curse as she slowly reaches out and entwines her fingers with his, palm to palm, her face flushing when she realises what she's done. When she goes to pull away, he starts rubbing his thumb in circles against the skin on the back of her hand. He's staring straight ahead, not down at her, but she can see the pink in his cheeks.
"I'm still mad," she repeats, her voice quiet. They stop just down the corridor, the Fat Lady just barely visible.
"I know," he murmurs, his eyes locked on hers. "I really am sorry."
"I know."
He smirks down at her, eyes glinting. His gaze flickers to her lips, then back to her wide, brown eyes. "Goodnight, Granger."
"Goodnight, Malfoy." She smiles, hesitating. Finally, she decides to reach up, leaving a small peck on his cheek, before running to the portrait. He stands there in shock for a second, tilting his head towards her with a smirk.
"Are you still mad, Granger?" She grins back at him.
"Always, Malfoy."