Title: Curiosity
Rating: R language and sexuality…
Spoilers: Books
Key: Hermoine/Draco mmm….
Summary: Hermoine has come home and has just begun to deal with what happened to her parents. As for Draco, much to his chagrin, he cannot get the mud blood out of his thoughts; so he does something about it.
A/N: This'll take me time, I'm writing it in AP Gov, (easier than notes, eh?)
**
before
**
The Night-Bus arrived at the station and she was packed off into a carriage that would carry her to the 9 ¾ station.
The ride was 10 hours, and she spent the majority of it with her head against the windowpane, studying the tracks left by water at it condensed. She looked into the intricacies of the stains and found no comfort: just water and what it left behind.
**
now
**
Draco Malfoy began his day as he usually did: waking up, scratching his balls and yawning. He stood up, stretched some more, threw on some robes and headed out to the main hall.
Crabbe and Goyle were waiting for him outside the dining hall. They didn't handle mornings well, and both were still a little off, briefly tripping over their own feet while rubbing the sleep from their eyes. They followed (to the best of their abilities) Malfoy into the Dining Hall.
Malfoy did something he did not usually do in the mornings, however. Before making his way to the usual Sylitherin table, he took the long-cut around the Gryfinndor table. Harry and Ron were already there, scarfing their face with pancakes and waffles. They were excitedly talking about quidditch (per usual), and the upcoming match between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Ron, the newest bludger, was making swooping motions with his hands and talking animatedly how he would take down the Seeker.
Malfoy sneered, they hadn't even noticed Hermoine's absence.
Of all people, Malfoy thought, I would be the first to know.
It was time to have a little fun.
Sitting down in Hermoine's usual seat, he leaned in with an elbow and gave Harry and Ron a I-Know-Something-You-Don't-Know sneer.
They looked back at him angrily.
"Malfoy," Harry began, his voice trying (but failing miserably) to be civil, "You're in Hermoine's seat."
"No I'm not." Malfoy answered back, his grin growing wider.
Potty and Weasley glared at him with a mixture of anger and curiosity (killed the...). Ron, ever the excitable on stood up, his right hand already clenched into a fist.
"Move, Malfoy, or I'll be forced to help you move."
"You don't even know do you?" Malfoy laughed, "You two, the infamous Harry Potter and the poor-boy Ron Weasley have no idea."
The curiosity was gone, and now there was just pissed-off anger, "Malfoy..." They both growled.
Malfoy pushed himself up from the table, and held up his hands, "I'll leave you two then, don't bother telling the mud blood hello for me."
"We weren't planning to."
Before Malfoy walked away he looked over his shoulder and spoke (for the first time) in a tone that was something other than patronizing, something other than..."You won't have to," He told them, "Don't bother waiting for her."
Ron practically launched himself over the table, held to the floor only by Harry's hand wrapped in is robes, "If you did anything to-"
Malfoy walked back to his table and let them wait.
The waffles were good, but the pancakes were missing something.
**
Coming home was easier than she had thought. Her bags were still in her room, still packed. Her trunks balanced precariously on her bed, open, the clothes inside still folded, still waiting for her to take them out.
Her mother was still at the hospital, and she had to call a taxi to get her there the first night.
Mum looked pale, a yellow tint had taken to her features, and she did not respond (not once) to the Hermoine as she sat there that night. She didn't open her eyes, did not squeeze her hand in comfort.
Hermoine's dinner, her first non-magical kind since last summer, consisted of Ritz's crackers and shitty coffee. The crackers, surprisingly, were tasty; they crunched satisfyingly as she angrily munched on them.
Where did he get off?
The nurses forced her out of the hospital in the morning, telling her that she could come back the next day. They called for her a taxi and one the way home she fell asleep. The driver honked his horn to wake her up, she paid him and stepped inside the house.
It was dark and still smelled of table wax.
She didn't have the energy to empty her trunks, to find places for her wand and her books and her robes. Crookshanks was already out in the yard, adjusting easily to chasing squirrels, rather than owls.
Hermoine, too tired to move the trunk off her bed, and unable to bring herself to sleep in her parent's bedroom, made herself comfortable on the couch, curling up under and afghan and falling asleep as dawn approached.
**
It had been Harry Potter who came to him first, shoving him against the wall and whispering (fiercely), "You knew, how did you KNOW?"
Malfoy shrugged, as much as he could while pinned to the wall by an irate Potter, "That's for me to kno-"
Potter slammed him back into the wall, "Was it you?"
Malfoy, pretenses dropped, looked down at him with confusion, "Pardon me?"
"Was." Her slammed Malfoy against the wall to punctuate each word, "It. You?"
"It would be what?"
"Did you kill her father?"
Malfoy looked at him, confusion the only emotion that held his attention, "No." he answered simply, unable to muster the energy for sarcasm.
Potter released the lapels of Malfoy's robes, smoothed them down, did an about-face and left Malfoy to wonder when (exactly) did he let the any of them get off.
**
Hermoine found out (the hard way) that she was not very good at cooking the non-magical way. Her expertise in potions did not translate over to Bisquik and milk. Her pancakes were shitty and Hermoine consoled herself with more Ritz crackers; they tasted like the orange Bertie Bott's beans, except crunchy.
She reacquainted herself with BBC and STAR, searching (futilely) for something that was quality to veg out to: nothing. There was nothing but news and adverts. She gave up on the television and made her way to the study. Books lined the shelves, fiction, non-fiction, anthologies, collections; they patterned her parents in their barest form.
She picked up one book, whose cover was threadbare, and the pages barely adhered to the binding. She sat on the floor beside the chair that her dad used to sit in, the comfy, worn Lay-Z-Boy that her mother hated so much (mum).
She didn't like the book but she read it anyway, anything to pass time and forget about the respirator and the catheter and the IV that ran into a blue vein and the nurses with their white hats and their motherly frowns and their tsks and her mum not moving...
**
Draco Malfoy was bored. Crabbe and Goyle were doing something stupid (per usual) and for one of the first times, Malfoy did not find it funny, nor in the least amusing. Rather, he realized, it was tiring, they were stupid he wished they would just stop and be quiet.
Just be...quiet.
Snape was talking in the background, something about something or another, Malfoy didn't really care. He found himself staring at the empty seat beside Harry and Ron. They glared back.
His eyes went blank; the curiosity that possessed them fell into blank nonchalance, focusing (not really) on the wall just behind Snape's talking head.
Bored.
He was...bored.
He twirled his quill between his fingers, and tried to think about something other than blank brown eyes.
**
The book still sucked like last time, but it didn't matter, it was time to go to the hospital. She didn't bother with a taxi this time, nor did she bother with the broom.
Her bicycle was still in the garage. Spiderwebs traveled along the spokes of the wheels and gummed the handle bars. She could have used a simple cleansing spell, but she didn't want to bother with the wand (and the reminders). She wetted a toilette and smoothed away the cobwebs. It was a shaky start but it came back to her (like riding a...).
The same nurses manned the desk, the same respirator beeped with annoyance as she sat beside her mum and limply clasped her hand.
She was tired, so she slept, her hair limp against the crook of her mother's arm.
**
**
It was bothering him and he didn't know why.
The scene in the hall had been replaying in his mind, over and over and over like a broken tape. Their first encounter in the hall, with her blank eyes trying to place his face. They kept popping up as he tried to do other things, other things not pertaining to the bloody mud-blood.
She hadn't thrown back a sharp retort.
Just clambered up and over him and went on her way, not bothering to look back and not bothering to apologize.
This was bloody bothering him, it was. The question remained, then, why?
Pushing Ron into a wall didn't solve anything, he had tried that, multiple times (much to Harry's and Ron's chagrin). It just served to distract him until he wasn't paying attention and those bloody blank, stupid eyes floated up, and back into his conscience.
If this continued, he feared, he might actually start to care.
And that would be a laugh.
A bloody, stupid laugh.
It would.
**
The nurses kicked her out again, and she walked home, with the bike beside her. This stupid rut would have to go, she thought, it was time to do something.
Anything.
Just something to get her mind off of the respirator and her mum's clammy hands.
Something.
When she got home (it took her longer than necessary, but that's because she had tripped) she cleaned the scrape on her knee, and went about straigtening the house. The laundry was still in the wash, it had been sitting there for a week now, all smelly and moist and now it had to go.
She ran the washer on the clean-cycle and began to scrub the plates that had crusted in the sink. She could have grabbed her wand.
She didn't.
Her fingers were sore and raw and from the scrubbing, they smelled of bad eggs and rotted flowers, and she was humming a tune that she heard on the radio.
It was catchy and she wondered (ever briefly) if it was a meme.
**
The day just kept getting worse and it was all that damn mudblood's fault. He had snapped at Crabbe and Goyle and they had scurried into a corner somewhere to lick their wounds.
Harry and Ron were all angry and bitter that Hermoine hadn't told them, that Malfoy knew before them; that they still hadn't heard anything.
He didn't care. He wouldn't.
He got back to his room, it was still a mess from that morning, and he sat on his bed wondering why he wasn't out there beating up someone.
There was always someone to beat up, his father taught him, always someone to hurt or torture or mess with. So why wasn't he out there hurting someone?
He found himself by his desk, pulling out a quill and addressing a letter:
"Mudblood," He wrote, angrily, "Good Riddance."
He looked at the paper, with the angry words and the frenzied handwriting. Good, he thought, at least I'm hurting someone.
He sealed it with some wax and tied it to is owl. At least this was done.
**
end chapter 2
**
AP gov has become quite the muse. Yay!
Read and Review and I'll love you (looooooong time)
-dafnap
Rating: R language and sexuality…
Spoilers: Books
Key: Hermoine/Draco mmm….
Summary: Hermoine has come home and has just begun to deal with what happened to her parents. As for Draco, much to his chagrin, he cannot get the mud blood out of his thoughts; so he does something about it.
A/N: This'll take me time, I'm writing it in AP Gov, (easier than notes, eh?)
**
before
**
The Night-Bus arrived at the station and she was packed off into a carriage that would carry her to the 9 ¾ station.
The ride was 10 hours, and she spent the majority of it with her head against the windowpane, studying the tracks left by water at it condensed. She looked into the intricacies of the stains and found no comfort: just water and what it left behind.
**
now
**
Draco Malfoy began his day as he usually did: waking up, scratching his balls and yawning. He stood up, stretched some more, threw on some robes and headed out to the main hall.
Crabbe and Goyle were waiting for him outside the dining hall. They didn't handle mornings well, and both were still a little off, briefly tripping over their own feet while rubbing the sleep from their eyes. They followed (to the best of their abilities) Malfoy into the Dining Hall.
Malfoy did something he did not usually do in the mornings, however. Before making his way to the usual Sylitherin table, he took the long-cut around the Gryfinndor table. Harry and Ron were already there, scarfing their face with pancakes and waffles. They were excitedly talking about quidditch (per usual), and the upcoming match between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Ron, the newest bludger, was making swooping motions with his hands and talking animatedly how he would take down the Seeker.
Malfoy sneered, they hadn't even noticed Hermoine's absence.
Of all people, Malfoy thought, I would be the first to know.
It was time to have a little fun.
Sitting down in Hermoine's usual seat, he leaned in with an elbow and gave Harry and Ron a I-Know-Something-You-Don't-Know sneer.
They looked back at him angrily.
"Malfoy," Harry began, his voice trying (but failing miserably) to be civil, "You're in Hermoine's seat."
"No I'm not." Malfoy answered back, his grin growing wider.
Potty and Weasley glared at him with a mixture of anger and curiosity (killed the...). Ron, ever the excitable on stood up, his right hand already clenched into a fist.
"Move, Malfoy, or I'll be forced to help you move."
"You don't even know do you?" Malfoy laughed, "You two, the infamous Harry Potter and the poor-boy Ron Weasley have no idea."
The curiosity was gone, and now there was just pissed-off anger, "Malfoy..." They both growled.
Malfoy pushed himself up from the table, and held up his hands, "I'll leave you two then, don't bother telling the mud blood hello for me."
"We weren't planning to."
Before Malfoy walked away he looked over his shoulder and spoke (for the first time) in a tone that was something other than patronizing, something other than..."You won't have to," He told them, "Don't bother waiting for her."
Ron practically launched himself over the table, held to the floor only by Harry's hand wrapped in is robes, "If you did anything to-"
Malfoy walked back to his table and let them wait.
The waffles were good, but the pancakes were missing something.
**
Coming home was easier than she had thought. Her bags were still in her room, still packed. Her trunks balanced precariously on her bed, open, the clothes inside still folded, still waiting for her to take them out.
Her mother was still at the hospital, and she had to call a taxi to get her there the first night.
Mum looked pale, a yellow tint had taken to her features, and she did not respond (not once) to the Hermoine as she sat there that night. She didn't open her eyes, did not squeeze her hand in comfort.
Hermoine's dinner, her first non-magical kind since last summer, consisted of Ritz's crackers and shitty coffee. The crackers, surprisingly, were tasty; they crunched satisfyingly as she angrily munched on them.
Where did he get off?
The nurses forced her out of the hospital in the morning, telling her that she could come back the next day. They called for her a taxi and one the way home she fell asleep. The driver honked his horn to wake her up, she paid him and stepped inside the house.
It was dark and still smelled of table wax.
She didn't have the energy to empty her trunks, to find places for her wand and her books and her robes. Crookshanks was already out in the yard, adjusting easily to chasing squirrels, rather than owls.
Hermoine, too tired to move the trunk off her bed, and unable to bring herself to sleep in her parent's bedroom, made herself comfortable on the couch, curling up under and afghan and falling asleep as dawn approached.
**
It had been Harry Potter who came to him first, shoving him against the wall and whispering (fiercely), "You knew, how did you KNOW?"
Malfoy shrugged, as much as he could while pinned to the wall by an irate Potter, "That's for me to kno-"
Potter slammed him back into the wall, "Was it you?"
Malfoy, pretenses dropped, looked down at him with confusion, "Pardon me?"
"Was." Her slammed Malfoy against the wall to punctuate each word, "It. You?"
"It would be what?"
"Did you kill her father?"
Malfoy looked at him, confusion the only emotion that held his attention, "No." he answered simply, unable to muster the energy for sarcasm.
Potter released the lapels of Malfoy's robes, smoothed them down, did an about-face and left Malfoy to wonder when (exactly) did he let the any of them get off.
**
Hermoine found out (the hard way) that she was not very good at cooking the non-magical way. Her expertise in potions did not translate over to Bisquik and milk. Her pancakes were shitty and Hermoine consoled herself with more Ritz crackers; they tasted like the orange Bertie Bott's beans, except crunchy.
She reacquainted herself with BBC and STAR, searching (futilely) for something that was quality to veg out to: nothing. There was nothing but news and adverts. She gave up on the television and made her way to the study. Books lined the shelves, fiction, non-fiction, anthologies, collections; they patterned her parents in their barest form.
She picked up one book, whose cover was threadbare, and the pages barely adhered to the binding. She sat on the floor beside the chair that her dad used to sit in, the comfy, worn Lay-Z-Boy that her mother hated so much (mum).
She didn't like the book but she read it anyway, anything to pass time and forget about the respirator and the catheter and the IV that ran into a blue vein and the nurses with their white hats and their motherly frowns and their tsks and her mum not moving...
**
Draco Malfoy was bored. Crabbe and Goyle were doing something stupid (per usual) and for one of the first times, Malfoy did not find it funny, nor in the least amusing. Rather, he realized, it was tiring, they were stupid he wished they would just stop and be quiet.
Just be...quiet.
Snape was talking in the background, something about something or another, Malfoy didn't really care. He found himself staring at the empty seat beside Harry and Ron. They glared back.
His eyes went blank; the curiosity that possessed them fell into blank nonchalance, focusing (not really) on the wall just behind Snape's talking head.
Bored.
He was...bored.
He twirled his quill between his fingers, and tried to think about something other than blank brown eyes.
**
The book still sucked like last time, but it didn't matter, it was time to go to the hospital. She didn't bother with a taxi this time, nor did she bother with the broom.
Her bicycle was still in the garage. Spiderwebs traveled along the spokes of the wheels and gummed the handle bars. She could have used a simple cleansing spell, but she didn't want to bother with the wand (and the reminders). She wetted a toilette and smoothed away the cobwebs. It was a shaky start but it came back to her (like riding a...).
The same nurses manned the desk, the same respirator beeped with annoyance as she sat beside her mum and limply clasped her hand.
She was tired, so she slept, her hair limp against the crook of her mother's arm.
**
**
It was bothering him and he didn't know why.
The scene in the hall had been replaying in his mind, over and over and over like a broken tape. Their first encounter in the hall, with her blank eyes trying to place his face. They kept popping up as he tried to do other things, other things not pertaining to the bloody mud-blood.
She hadn't thrown back a sharp retort.
Just clambered up and over him and went on her way, not bothering to look back and not bothering to apologize.
This was bloody bothering him, it was. The question remained, then, why?
Pushing Ron into a wall didn't solve anything, he had tried that, multiple times (much to Harry's and Ron's chagrin). It just served to distract him until he wasn't paying attention and those bloody blank, stupid eyes floated up, and back into his conscience.
If this continued, he feared, he might actually start to care.
And that would be a laugh.
A bloody, stupid laugh.
It would.
**
The nurses kicked her out again, and she walked home, with the bike beside her. This stupid rut would have to go, she thought, it was time to do something.
Anything.
Just something to get her mind off of the respirator and her mum's clammy hands.
Something.
When she got home (it took her longer than necessary, but that's because she had tripped) she cleaned the scrape on her knee, and went about straigtening the house. The laundry was still in the wash, it had been sitting there for a week now, all smelly and moist and now it had to go.
She ran the washer on the clean-cycle and began to scrub the plates that had crusted in the sink. She could have grabbed her wand.
She didn't.
Her fingers were sore and raw and from the scrubbing, they smelled of bad eggs and rotted flowers, and she was humming a tune that she heard on the radio.
It was catchy and she wondered (ever briefly) if it was a meme.
**
The day just kept getting worse and it was all that damn mudblood's fault. He had snapped at Crabbe and Goyle and they had scurried into a corner somewhere to lick their wounds.
Harry and Ron were all angry and bitter that Hermoine hadn't told them, that Malfoy knew before them; that they still hadn't heard anything.
He didn't care. He wouldn't.
He got back to his room, it was still a mess from that morning, and he sat on his bed wondering why he wasn't out there beating up someone.
There was always someone to beat up, his father taught him, always someone to hurt or torture or mess with. So why wasn't he out there hurting someone?
He found himself by his desk, pulling out a quill and addressing a letter:
"Mudblood," He wrote, angrily, "Good Riddance."
He looked at the paper, with the angry words and the frenzied handwriting. Good, he thought, at least I'm hurting someone.
He sealed it with some wax and tied it to is owl. At least this was done.
**
end chapter 2
**
AP gov has become quite the muse. Yay!
Read and Review and I'll love you (looooooong time)
-dafnap