TITLE: Safety in the Storm Chapter Three
AUTHOR: Jennie
DISCLAIMER: Refer to chapter one.
RATING: R
PAIRING: Draco/Hermione
AUTHOR NOTE: Sorry it took me so
long to get this part out. I wrote the first half, got fed up with the
direction it was going, scrapped it, and rewrote it. Ugh.
Chapter Three
'Tis strange -
but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction.
--Lord Byron
Intangible
No way.
No fucking way.
He held Hermione Granger in his arms; he held her life in his hands.
To him she had always represented everything he could never have, everything he
could never be. She was the kind of girl he had never quite understood and
because of this, had never forgotten. He remembered seeing her once at the
beginning of their many years together at Hogwarts: hair in disarray, walking
down the corridor, laughing with her friends, innocent chocolate eyes viewing
the world with their optimistic sincerity. She had looked at him with only a
passing glance, and his stomach had churned in disgust for her naiveté, but
only because her eyes had seemed to belong in a different world, one that he
was not, and could not, be a part of.
And throughout the following years at school, he had secretly wondered what
marvels she knew that he didn't, where that intangible warmth in her sparkling
eyes came from and why he had never seemed to be able to grasp it.
Looking into her bright eyes now, he was surprised to find that same childlike
innocence peering up at him and he knew in that instant that he wouldn't be
able to smother it. It would almost be akin to killing the hope that dwelt back
in the deep recesses of his mind that he might one day learn her secret.
Even covered in gradually forming bruises, she seemed hopeful and. trusting. Not at all tortured with dark thoughts of murder or revenge as he
was. It didn't seem fair. He had always been tortured by something. He
had forgotten what it felt like to be carefree. Sometimes, in between rude
barbs, Draco would find himself watching her, in potions class, while eating
dinner, at the occasional Hogsmeade visit, it didn't
matter. No matter where she was, she always found some new tidbit of
information to happily store away, a new book to delve into, or another reason
to smile. Watching her made him think maybe it wasn't something that plagued
him but perhaps a lack of something.
Years later, he would think back and find himself silently craving her and that
little something that she embodied for him. Because he could.
Because never in a million years would their paths cross again.
Boy, was he wrong.
"Draco?" she questioned again, her voice clearer but still scratchy
as though she hadn't used it in years. It was then that he realized she had
called him by his first name, not by his surname as she had always done so in
the past.
And she remembered him.
Not that he cared, of course.
Without even realizing what he was doing, he slipped the miniscule vial of
nightshade back into his pocket and pulled out his wand.
It had been a long time, longer than he cared to admit, since he had had the
need to use a healing spell and he hoped he remembered enough to help her.
Help her?
The thought shocked him. How long had it been since he had helped someone
besides himself? But a little nagging voice in the back of his mind knew
exactly why he was helping her and would not cease reminding him. She was
Hermione Granger, the girl he loved to hate.
His wand lightly touched her cheek and he watched with detached curiosity as
the purple bruises faded to little more than smudged shadows. In a matter of
seconds, her face was healed and he took a step back.
She sat up with a bit of difficulty and moved her face experimentally.
"Come on. I'm getting you out of here," he said, his voice sounding
almost gentle, soothing. It seemed foreign to him.
Hermione blinked up at him through cloudy eyes and he realized that while he
had been able to fix all the superficial injuries, she was still hurting on the
inside. Typical. He had no idea what he could do to
cure her completely.
A cough sounded from the hallway and Draco was reminded of their precarious
position. "Come on," he repeated and held out a desperate hand.
"We're running out of time."
Hermione nodded mutely and looked like a small, frightened child in need of
assurance. But she took his hand willingly enough. He was elated that she
trusted him. He hardly trusted himself sometimes.
He had to think quickly.
Just then, his rational side decided to kick in and he hesitated.
What the hell was he doing? Was he really willing to risk two years worth of
work, of planning, of subterfuge to save her life?
That nagging little voice, although it didn't seem so miniscule anymore, was
back with a resounding yes.
She was clinging onto his hand now as if it were a lifeline. and,
well, technically speaking, it was. Gripping his wand tightly, he knew that all
he had to do was make it down the stairs and then he could apparate.
He closed his eyes, he took a few cleansing breaths. He was risking everything,
including his life, for someone he hardly knew. Sure, he had seen her
practically every day for seven years but they had verbally sparred and argued
more than anything. Knowing how to push someone's buttons didn't necessarily
mean that you knew them.
She shifted beside him and moaned softly in pain. Glancing down, he saw that
she was favoring her left leg.
Suddenly, Draco felt a slight tug somewhere in his chest. It was a small pang
of disenchantment at the crumbling of what had probably been a perfect life.
She was most likely married (to Potter or Weasley, no doubt) with children
nipping at her heels... or whatever children tended to do. He was envious. Not
of the married and kids part but because he'd never had the perfect life. He
had been fighting an uphill battle since he was a small child. In a strange way
seeing her like this hurt him. The thought that a person could be as lucky as
she was in having the perfect life had sustained him through many hard times
back in school. But he should have known better. Optimism wasn't one of his
strong suits and he was surprised it had prevailed in that case, because he now
knew that in this world pain was inevitable.
She must've been brimming with questions. Why was he there? Why was he helping
her? Why was he standing there staring at the door like a fucking pansy? But
she didn't give voice to them, just kept hold of his hand, which was fast
loosing feeling, and rubbed weakly at her eyes.
It was now or never.
He opened the door.
The beady-eyed guard in the hallway (Draco couldn't, for the life of him,
remember his name) swiveled around, mid-step to face them. Draco watched his
eyes widen in realization but it was too late. Draco had already been muttering
the words and he watched as the memory charm seemed to arrest the man in
mid-motion.
Praying to a deity he did not believe in, he pressed on and hesitantly glanced
down the elaborate staircase. The coast was clear. A whimper sounded from
behind him and he looked over at Hermione, surprised. He had almost forgotten
she was there. Her eyes were saucers as she looked down at her leg.
"I can't--" Her head shook and a single tear slipped down her face.
He was such a fucking softie. Pulling her next to him, he slid his left arm
around her to help take the weight off her leg.
"We just need to make it down the stairs."
She nodded again and they cautiously began the decent. "I--thank
you," she whispered so softly he almost didn't catch it. "I don't
know why you're here or why you're helping me but thank you." Her eyes
looked tired and she stumbled.
Not knowing how to answer, he simply held her tighter. Surprisingly, they made
it to the bottom without incident and, taking one last look around, Draco
apparated them to the only place he could possibly go.
* * * * * * * * * *
It was an odd feeling, waking up to unfamiliar sounds and smells, vivid dreams
and memories hovering just beyond her awareness. She sat up, feeling a wave of
exhaustion crest over her, and squinted at her darkened surroundings as she
waited for everything to come crashing painfully back to her. To her surprise
(and confusion), it began to come back slowly, like moonlight through the misty
edge of a cloud.
Marcus, the bloody betraying bastard... her research journal... only now did
she cringe at the thought of all that hard work destroyed... that elegant yet
terrifying bedroom that made her sick to think about... she had given up there,
waiting for whatever horrors was in store for her... and Draco Malfoy.
A face from her past.
The boy whose name could instantly have Ron and Harry (and she had to admit
herself as well) sputtering in indignation. To most who knew him in school, he
had been the devil incarnate with his icy glare, biting insults and chilling
good looks. Proudly, Draco Malfoy had been the cause of many young and innocent
girls' corruption.
Yet in her hour of need he appeared out of nowhere, hardly said a word, and
took her by the hand and led her to safety like a guardian angel. Okay, well
maybe not an angel per say, but definitely a person she would now be in debt
to... no matter how many shivers that thought produced.
He had saved her life.
The thought kind of made her nauseous.
Gingerly, she threw back the thick layer of old quilts and padded in her socks
across the hardwood floor to the door. When he had apparated them, Hermione
really hadn't paid too much attention to her surroundings. Between bouts of
dizziness and struggle to keep her eyes open, she hadn't seen anything but the
makeshift bed he pointed out to her. It was really no more than an old mattress
dumped unceremoniously on the floor with some rather threadbare quilts but to
her it had looked and felt like heaven.
Now, she creaked open the worn door and snuck a glance around. Instead of
looking into a hallway though, she realized that the door opened straight into
a yawning living room. It was sparse and with the high, vaulted ceiling and
bare walls, one would think it might be empty or impersonal but Hermione instantly
spotted the history that was immersed in the room. Every indentation and score
in the yellowing walls, each tattered piece of furniture had a story making the
room astonishingly homey. Although, in the back of her mind she thought that
her reaction probably would have been much different if this place didn't
represent a type of sanctuary for her.
As she stepped further into the room, the flames in the stone fire place
flickered in the fading light of the afternoon, casting an eerie glow over the
room, the shadows making strange patterns on the back of the fireplace and the
walls around her. Hermione found herself being careful not to make a sound. It
seemed so still, so serene; she was afraid to ruin it.
And then she spotted him. The bane of her adolescent
existence, the boy who tormented her mercilessly. The
man who saved her life. A walking contradiction.
He was sprawled out on the slightly worn couch, heavily breathing in a deep
sleep. Unable to help herself, she found she was moving closer to study his
slumbering face-- chiseled bones, arresting lips, platinum strands of flaxen
hair messily framing his face, and impossibly long eyelashes resting on his
aristocratic cheeks. He had indeed grown into a very attractive man. a paragon of good looks. He appeared so harmless, so innocent as he lay there. It was disquieting, to say the
least.
Dragging herself away, she continued to explore the tiny cabin. Around the
corner she found a bare kitchen no bigger than the one in her own house (which
just went to show how small it actually was) and a tiny alcove straight ahead
set up as a dining area. Or maybe it should be called a breakfast nook. It
really wasn't any larger than a few feet, nestled between floor
to ceiling windows. But what really got her attention was the porch beyond it.
Though she could see the dampness, it was no longer raining, giving her an
amazing view of dense birch and oak trees, dripping still from the torrent they
had received. It was beautiful.
*****
He awoke with a start, jolting up into a sitting position, heart racing, head
throbbing and wand pointing out ahead of him. Except, as he squinted, he
realized it was pointed at nothing. Just a ghost in the dark,
a remnant of some already forgotten nightmare. The fire was almost out
now, only down to the softly glowing embers at the bottom, and he realized his
quick nap had ended up lasting a couple of hours. Wearily, he ran his hand
through his hair a few times and then stretched his aching back.
That couch hadn't gotten any more comfortable over the years.
And then he saw that her door was open, the bed unmade, the
room empty.
She was awake.
The notion was petrifying. For a moment, he was irrationally tempted to lock
himself in the bathroom and never come out. It was so unlike him. She had been so trusting, so unconcerned with his motives. But now,
without the urgency that imminent danger brought, the questions would start. Questions that he wasn't prepared to answer.
Yet his curiosity got the better of him and he snuck a peek into the kitchen.
It was empty. Draco stepped noiselessly into the darkening kitchenette. He
could see her form on the porch, a dark silhouette against the dying sunset
which flashed on the trees, her arms wrapped around herself. He felt the
corners of his mouth begin to turn up as he saw her slightly bounce on the
balls of her feet in a vain attempt to warm herself up. Carefully, he
backtracked to the couch and grabbed one of the discarded quilts before making
his way toward her as quietly as he could. As he slipped through the open door,
he found himself stopping inches behind her. Inhaling the faint, sweet scent of
her hair, of her, his hand grazed across it feather light; she did not even
feel him.
*****
She sensed a presence behind her before she heard the hushed shuffle of feet.
She closed her eyes. She didn't want to see him, didn't want to talk to him.
She was perfectly happy living in her nice world where there were clear-cut
lines between good and evil.
She knew with a doomed certainty that Draco was about to shatter that illusion
into a million shards.
But if this confrontation was bound to happen (and the only way out that she
could think of was to leap over the railing and run into the forest like a
madwoman. it was a shame she left her shoes in the other room), she was
determined to have the upper hand. After a moment, she turned and greeted Draco
soberly, her face, what she hoped was a carefully controlled mask.
He hadn't changed much; his air of confidence still made her nerves go haywire.
Silently, he offered her a blanket and she took it. She opened her mouth to say
something, anything, to break the silence, but nothing came out. Frowning, she
noticed him smirk.
"You know, you could start by saying thank you." His voice was
imperturbable and nonchalant. Immediately, she felt her certitude slipping and
she desperately tried to keep a hold of it.
A biting, sarcastic barb was on the tip of her tongue but Hermione thought
better of it. Instead, she simply looked him solidly in the eye and spoke
clearly. "Thank you."
Draco arched an eyebrow at her and she felt the familiar flush of warmth rush
up her neck to her face. Her momentarily ironclad confidence was failing her
miserably.
"You know," she managed to stammer before once again steeling
herself. "If you had wanted to have an impromptu reunion, an owl would
have sufficed quite well. You needn't have sent a thug to kidnap me." She
instantly rued having said something so confrontational.
She heard him chuckle, and realized it was of a different texture and timbre
than the one that had tormented her so many years before. Now it seemed
chilled, almost as if he'd seen darkness and barely escaped its clutches. Once
again, she felt guilty for making light of a situation that he HAD to be
uncomfortable in, despite his calm appearance. He ran a hand through his
already fairly messy hair almost nervously. Was it the fact that he wasn't used
to playing the part of the hero? Or was there more to it? Did he just happen to
be in the right place at the right time? Had he even WANTED to help her? He
stopped his chortling and turned to lean against the doorframe, his eyes still
unreadable.
He cleared his throat and she looked down at her feet uncomfortably. "And
here I thought the thug was a nice touch," he replied in a deep, rich
voice. "But it makes me wonder, where was your precious Potter? Why wasn't
he there to rescue you from the big bad man?" She looked up at him,
squinting in the growing darkness. Although his words were biting, she could
see a sparkle in his eyes.
Smiling, she sucked in a breath of surprise at his sarcastic reply, suddenly
feeling warm. He was fighting back. She might be afraid to see Draco the
compassionate hero, but Draco the bastard who always went too far was someone
she could handle with no problem.
"Of course you would think the thug was a good idea; you are a Malfoy,
after all."
There was a flash of something in his eyes and they narrowed slightly. Was it
pain? Anger?
Hermione decided to change the subject. "Where are we?" she asked, turning
her back on him to stare out at the glistening bark of the birch trees in the
moonlight. Draco slid up next to her, mimicking her actions by leaning against
the wooden railing.
Glancing over at him, she was surprised to see a dimple flicker briefly in his
cheek before he answered thoughtfully. Funny, she had never noticed it before. "Ireland...
northwest part of Donegal. We're actually pretty close to Glenveagh Park." He trailed off
and traced a finger along one of the wooden beams supporting the slotted roof
above them. "This cabin belonged to my mother."
Hermione nodded then shook her head in disbelief. If someone had told her
twenty-four hours before that she would be in Ireland, in a secluded cabin,
having a fairly decent conversation with the man who Ron had dubbed 'Satan
Spawn,' she would've sent that person to St. Mungo's.
It had been an odd day.
*****
She was breathtaking. Standing there, hair flowing gently in the breeze,
innocent eyes bright and sparkling in the strengthening moonlight, she reminded
him of an innocent time of his own, when he was eight, playing in the woods
outside of his grandmother's house.
It was a sweltering day; he had just dried off from a dip in the mere in the
woods. It was in a secluded meadow overhung by enormous oaks whose branches
swayed gently in the breeze, making the sunlight dance along the leaves on the
ground. As he was walking back, a soft, musical giggle emanating from somewhere
off to his left distracted him from his trek. Without thinking, he turned and
followed the carefree laugh and was intrigued to catch a brief glimpse of white
luminescence through the trees.
Ducking from alder to oak, barefoot and shirtless, he almost tripped as she
came into view.
A fairy.
At least he thought she was. He had always thought that they were smaller,
though. He had never seen one before and found that he was frozen in awe over
the little creature's beauty. She stood a little bit shorter than he was,
flitting around on glittery, translucent wings that held him enchanted. He
wanted to touch them, run his fingers down the silvery lengths.
"What's your name?" she asked in a small voice.
He jumped and looked at her suspiciously. His father had taught him that
fairies were too stupid to have mastered human speech.
"Draco," he said slowly, scowling. He didn't like it when he was
wrong about something. An overwhelming urge came over him. He wanted to feel
her innocent delicacy, wanted to see if it was tangible. "Can I touch
you?" he asked, taking another step forward.
Her hovering became slightly erratic and then she disappeared behind a tree in
a flash.
"I don't know," she squeaked. "I've never been touched by a
human."
"Will you let me try?"
The fairy girl giggled again and came out of hiding to land on a fallen, moss-covered
tree branch. Her warm, blueish-white incandescence
was alluring and his fingers stretched out of their own accordance.
"Okay," she tittered nervously.
Leaning forward, he extended out his splayed fingers.
He was so close.
He wondered if she would feel as wispy as she looked.
Almost--
"Draco!" At the sudden sound of his grandmother's voice, the
girl gave a shriek and was gone in a blink.
Dismayed, Draco turned around glaring but once he saw his grandmother's warm
and affectionate gaze the glare melted away. She bent down and tenderly pulled
him into her arms.
"Nanna, did you see the fairy?" he asked,
pointing to the spot where she disappeared.
"Ah," she said in her soothing voice. "I wondered what was
taking you so long. You must've met Seraphima. Her
curiosity always seems to get the best of her." She pulled away and looked
at him pointedly. "Just like a curious, little grandson of mine. But
actually, she's not a fairy. She's a nymph."
His nanna stood up and began to steer him back to her
house.
Draco looked up at her. Should he tell her?
"She almost let me touch her."
His grandmother stopped mid-stride. "Oh, honey," she breathed,
squatting down to be level with him. "We can't touch nymphs... they're too
pure... it hurts them."
Nodding, he glanced back into the woods to find Seraphima
waving a small hand. He grinned sadly and waved back. For some reason he
couldn't define, it hurt him to know that he could only stand back and observe something so magical... so, as his nanna had put it, pure.
It had been the last time he had ever seen a nymph.
Yet now, watching Hermione tilt her head back, close her eyes and take a deep
breath of the damp forest air, he was brought back to that moment and his chest
ached. In his mind, Hermione was the same as the nymph. She was pure and
innocent and one touch from him would corrupt her. hurt
her.
Standing right next to him in the dim glow of the eerily blue moon above, she
didn't seem real; she was an intangible warmth. She
filled him with a sense of wonder that he hadn't experienced since that day
with the nymph. He felt vulnerable, open to her emotions in the secluded
privacy of this familiar place which at one time he had hated, but had now
turned into an unexpected refuge. Maybe it was just the moment, or maybe it was
just impulse, but for that second, something inside of him cracked slightly and
he wanted nothing more than one thing. To touch her.
But Draco had always prided himself on his self-control, so he simply averted
his eyes. Unfortunately, he must've been a little out of whack that day because
he only lasted a few moments before he heard her sigh heavily and he turned
back.
She was facing slightly away from him, giving him only a view of her in the
shadows. He noticed though that while she still had a childlike appearance, now
that her thoughts were unguarded, he saw a ghost of darkness, a haunted
expression flicker briefly through her eyes. Its sudden appearance sent an
unfamiliar tremor through him and without a moment's hesitation,
he clasped her hand in his.
So much for bloody self-control.
But to his immense relief and utter amazement, she did not protest, did not
pull away, only squeezed his fingers softly in return, her gaze remaining on
the moon above.
They stayed that way for a while, long enough for Draco to forget the life, the
revenge he'd walked away from hours before. But when she withdrew her hand from
his, it all came crashing back down upon him.
"Why?" The word was uttered so quietly he almost didn't hear it.
But almost didn't count.
Slowly, he turned away from her, the excuses sticking unsaid in his throat.
"Because it was you..." He wasn't sure if she heard him, which was
just as well, so he let the sentence hang unfinished in the air between them.
She remained silent.
Finally, he could take it no longer and looked at her.
"I think I'm going to go back to sleep." Hermione straightened up and
slipped the quilt from around her shoulders. She opened her mouth as if to add
something, but nothing came out. Instead she stepped forward, her lips landing
on his with a light, fluttery nymph touch; soft, warm, quick. and then she disappeared like the nymph had so long before.
Stunned, he could do nothing but watch as she vanished into the shadows, making
her way back to the old mattress in the back.
* * * * * * * * * *
TBC...
Big thanks to everyone who reviewed. It means the world to me :)
