Title: Tension and Release
Author: Wynn
E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harry Potter. They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc. No copyright infringement intended.
AN: Spoilers for PoA and GoF. This is a companion piece to the Hermione section: same events, different perspective. So this is all Draco, what he's thinking, what he's feeling, etc. Feedback is a wonderful thing.
Freedom
By: Wynn
Draco Malfoy lived a life of control. Control over his appearance: hair perfectly groomed, robes perfectly pressed, shoes perfectly shined. Lucius always said that one's outer appearance reflected one's inner stasis, and sloppy clothes reflected a sloppy mind. Malfoys were never sloppy; Malfoys were always cool and collected, a fact demonstrated by their immaculate apparel. Draco controlled his friends: embracing those who proved most useful to him and his ambitions, discarding those whose use value had waned. A Malfoy friend was not one to chat with about feelings or girls or Quidditch. A Malfoy friend was a stepping stone to help one achieve one's goals. Equally as important as control over one's friends was control over one's enemies. Draco carefully selected every sneer, every nasty verbal jab that rolled off his lips, using each snarky comment to manipulate his adversaries, prodding them into retaliation or emotional breakdown, whichever was most useful and pleasing to Draco at that time.
Most important of all, Draco controlled his emotions. Lucius always said that allowing others to view one's emotions left one vulnerable. Vulnerable to manipulation. Vulnerable to embarrassment. Vulnerable to pain. Emotions were not natural reactions to the various stimuli presented by the world. They were additional tools to use to gain what one wanted. A trembling lip, a vicious sneer, a wince of pain: all weapons wielded to influence others into doing Draco's bidding. Draco Malfoy lived a life of control, a life controlled by his father's expectations and the responsibilities accompanying the Malfoy name, and generally, most times, Draco enjoyed his life and the money, power, and prestige it bestowed upon him.
Sometimes. Sometimes, however, Draco wished for a release. For freedom. Freedom from the control. Late at night, lying tense and stiff in bed, his body uncomfortable in the plush bedding, unable to release the iron control over his every thought, action, and reaction. His mind would drift from the rigid confines of beliefs ingrained within him over the past sixteen years and Draco wondered what it was like to not be a Malfoy. Wondered what it would like to be free. Free to eat what one wanted. Free to say what one wanted. Free to do what one wanted. Free to be. He would indulge in this exploratory line of thought for a moment, for a precious minute or two, before clamping down on these yearnings, shoving them into the deepest, darkest recesses of his subconscious, fearful his father would somehow, some way, know what he was thinking. And that would not be good.
Draco used to love Quidditch. Practices were the one time he could be free, live and move and breathe according to impulse instead of a carefully organized plan. Float on the ever shifting gusts of wind. Dive because he wanted to see the ground rushing beneath him, the wind whistling in his ear, the air stinging into his exposed skin, and not because he needed to perfect the Wronski Feint in order to beat Potter at their next Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match. The pressure to win, to wipe the smug grin off Potter's face, erased any pleasure Draco derived from Quidditch. Each practice became his own personal battle, pitting him against himself, pushing, pushing, pushing harder and harder and harder, flying faster and faster, turning sharper, diving quicker, better, better, better than Potter. Because practice made perfect. And perfection allowed for control. Perfect control over the broom, the turns, the twists, the dives, resulted in a win for Draco and a loss for Potter, and that was the only acceptable outcome for a Malfoy. Failure was never an option.
So Draco lived a life of control, body perpetually coiled, on alert, observant of everything and everyone around him. And sometimes. Sometimes he'd see them. Across the Great Hall. At dinner, or some other feast. And they would be laughing. Laughing so hard tears streamed down their faces. Laughing so hard their faces turned red from lack of breath. Potter taking off his ridiculous glasses to wipe tears from his eyes. Weasel turning as scarlet as his atrocious hair. Granger biting her lip in an attempt to stifle her giggles. And the urge to storm across the Hall and smash all of their faces in would rise up within Draco like a tidal wave. But he'd just sit. And stare. Frozen to the spot by another urge, another wish, residing beneath years and years of hatred and fighting. Deep down he'd wish. He'd wish for a moment. He'd wish he could laugh like that, laugh without malice, without some ulterior motive, laugh just because something was funny. But base amusements were for idle brains, and Malfoys had much more to occupy their time. After all, Death Eater training was no stroll in the park. Countless preparations had to be made, as Lucius told him time and time and time again, as if Draco was small and stupid and incapable of comprehending even the simplest of words.
So Draco searched, covertly, for some form of release from the constant tension of control. But each release found, each form of freedom, quickly lost its luster, transforming into yet another test of his skills. Quidditch was a test to beat Potter. Potions a test to beat Granger. Or the risk of discovery by his father, his fellow Slytherins, by everyone would grow too high and Draco would have to abandon his newfound freedom. Because anything Draco derived pleasure from, even the smallest thing, could be used as arsenal in the battle for pride and standing he fought every day. Nothing stayed. Everything faded. Then the search would be on for the next thing, the thing that could not be controlled, the thing through which he could be free. Free from the expectations of being a Slytherin, from being a Malfoy, from being Draco.
And it was this search that brought Draco to the library. To the table currently occupied by Hermione Granger. Against his better judgment. Against all of the reflexive cries of Mudblood and pureblood and superiority and dirty resounding through his head. The need for release overran his need to upkeep the status quo.
She was alone, a fact for which Draco was eternally thankful. He didn't need nor want to deal with Potter and the Weasel, not in his current state of mind. Desperation led to carelessness, and carelessness would lead to an extreme beating by two very pissed Gryffindors. Draco had to tread very carefully during the next few minutes or he would end up hexed by Hermione as well as beaten to a pulp by the Wonder Twins.
He needed to tread carefully not only to avoid retribution from the Gryffinsnores, but from his own house, too. No respectable Slytherin would look too kindly on Draco's little field trip to Mudville. He wasn't stupid; he took precautions to protect against discovery. Slipping off to bed early with the excuse of needing adequate rest for Quidditch practice. Locking his curtains with a charm to prevent any unexpected and unwanted visitors from discovering his absence. Sneaking out of the dorms through a secret tunnel he'd discovered second year. Yet for all of his precautions, the risk of discovery still remained. Slytherins were crafty and naturally suspicious. Everyone searched for the next scandal like a shark seeking fresh blood. And if caught, Draco might be able to explain the upcoming conversation with Granger away as a cure for his boredom or a way to manipulate Granger and her emotions. But if confronted, Draco wasn't sure he could, or would, explain his obvious insanity away. And that was not of the good, either.
Books were piled high on both sides of Hermione's table; rolls of parchment, bottles of ink, and extra quills were stashed and stuffed between the leather bound volumes. Hermione sat hunched over a piece of parchment, the quill gripped in her ink stained hand flying over the yellowed page, her hair an impenetrable curtain covering face, page, and hand.
Draco forced himself to grip the back of one of the chairs to keep from reaching across the table and touching Hermione's hair. It fell halfway down her back, a thick golden brown mass of curls with no rationale or pattern to its existence. Just utter and complete chaos that hung thick and heavy around her shoulders and tended to frizz during rain storms.
And it was the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen.
Wild, wanton, luscious curls that Draco needed to touch. He needed to feel the beautiful chaos within his hands. Needed to know, to feel, to be. The need was a physical ache within him, a manifest presence sitting heavily within his stomach. He tried focusing on something, on anything else, but his thoughts inevitably returned to Hermione and he couldn't shake the image of her ginger curls to save his life. They were burned into his mind, in a perfect sense memory of beauty and freedom.
He knew the exact moment she realized he was standing before her. Her grip tightened on her quill, which gradually slowed to a stop and remained poised above the parchment, hovering in indecision while Hermione debated whether to keep writing and ignore Draco's presence or set the quill down and begin a confrontation. Draco remained silent, afraid if he opened his mouth he would break down and beg to touch her hair or lash out with a vicious remark, the former of which would make him look like a complete prat while the latter would surely get him hexed. Or at least significantly lessen his chances of Hermione allowing him within fifty feet of her, let alone allow him to touch her hair. So Draco waited, calling upon the control he so desperately despised to keep him and his emotions in check.
A minute passed, followed by a second. And then Hermione sighed and lowered her quill. Lifting her head, she pushed a stray curl from her face and shot a resigned, suspicious look at Draco. His throat tightened at the look, at her automatically assuming the worst about him, at how her assumptions of the worst were usually accurate. Maybe this was a mistake. No. This was a mistake. She hated him. There was no reason in this world to make her stay and listen to him. He should turn now and leave before he said anything stupid. But his legs refused to move, and his hands failed to release their grip on the chair, so he stayed. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
"I-"
"I really need to finish this essay for Snape, and I have the project for Professor McGonagall I need to start working on, so whatever it is you have to say, just say it and go."
"I…" Draco refused to sound like a babbling idiot and utilized the manners taught to him years and years ago by his mother. Elite society demanded civilized behavior and proper etiquette, a veneer of polish covering the conniving, corrupt center. He could be polite and charming and solicitous if the need called for it, and the current need most certainly called for all of that and more. The current need needed a miracle. "I would very much like to sit here, Hermione," Draco said through clenched teeth. "If that is alright with you."
Hermione blinked. She stared up at him, incredulity shining plainly in her coffee colored eyes. A moment passed and then she reached for her parchment rolls and quills as she muttered, "There are fifteen other tables in the library. Why you want mine, I don't know. But I'm too busy to fight with you-"
"No." Before he realized he had moved his hand reached out, stopping a few inches from Hermione's left hand. Crap. That was not a smart thing to do. She most certainly would interpret any move to stop her from leaving as an act of aggression, as some sort of ploy to keep her here. Shit. A ball of lead formed in his gut as he waited for her surely volatile reaction.
She paused, left hand hovering over the book before her, the other tightly clutching a spare ink bottle. Her eyes drifted slowly from the book and bottle, over Draco's hand, across the table, up his body, until they met his eyes. Rage smoldered in the russet depths of her gaze. She raised one eyebrow and said softly, "Pardon?"
Fuck. Her look was deadlier than an Avada Kedavra spell. He retracted his hand, replacing it back on the chair. He needed to think fast to fix this. "No… I didn't mean that you had to move. I meant… I wanted to sit here. At the table. With you." There. He said it. As politely as possible for a Malfoy and that was pretty damn polite. Politeness to the point of brittleness. Each word pinched and clipped and razor sharp in their civility.
He held his breath and regarded her warily as she digested his admission. Hermione might be the most level-headed of the Dream Team, but she possessed a wicked temper when provoked. A temper Draco himself had been victim to third year. He still winced in pain when he remembered her vicious slap to his face.
"You want to sit here. With me."
Draco nodded. Best not to open his mouth and try to say something. There was no telling what sort of idiotic statement could slip out.
Hermione raised the other eyebrow. "Is this some sort of joke?"
"No," Draco snapped, his patience cracking under her unflappable nature. What did she need? A banner? A big sign strung across his chest that said 'Enormous, insane prat here. Please pity and converse with him'? No doubt Hermione was intelligent, but fuck. She could be as dense as a stone wall on occasion. "It is not some sort of joke. I am attempting to ask you nicely if I can sit at your table and you're turning it into some marathon worthy event. It's a simple question, Granger. Can I sit? Yes or no."
"Um…" Hermione glanced around the library, empty at this late hour, as if the answer to Draco's very simple question resided behind one of the book stacks. It wouldn't surprise Draco if it was hidden somewhere within a dusty leather tome. What to do when mortal enemy approaches for chat by Hopelessly Foregone Git. Hermione bit her lower lip as her gaze returned to Draco's face. "I…" Closing her eyes, she rubbed a hand across the bridge of her nose. "I must be going mad. Sleep deprivation does tend to do that to a person. And Harry's always told me I need more sleep…" She paused, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled, her breath a soft sigh in the preternatural stillness of the library. "I know I am going to regret this."
Join the club.
Opening her eyes, Hermione looked directly at Draco and said, "Yes, Malfoy. You can sit down."
Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He slid the chair beneath his hands out from under the table and eased down into it. Hermione regarded his movements with the same expression one would use while watching an inmate at St. Mungo's or a rabid animal. One would think that by now she would realize he hadn't come here to engage in battle. One would, but apparently not Hermione. Draco rolled his eyes. "You can relax, Granger. I'm not here to hurt you."
"I suppose you're here for pleasant conversation then. A meaningful chat between enemies."
"Something like that, yeah."
"Run out of victims in the Slytherin dungeon to listen to you? I can't imagine why you can't find intelligent conversation there. I mean, Crabbe and Goyle alone must provide countless hours of deep, philosophic thought."
"Oh, like Potter and the Weasel are any better. If it wasn't for you, they would have flunked out of Hogwarts their first year. I can't imagine you having any conversation with them extending beyond 'Must. Kill. Dark Lord. Now.' and 'Please, sir, can I have some more?'"
Hermione straightened in her chair, bristling from his sarcasm. Voice tight with fury, she said, "If this is your version of a meaningful conversation, Malfoy, I'll pass. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do." She flung open her Potions text and grabbed her quill. Jaw clenched, she bent her head over the book, eyes focused intently upon the tiny lettering. She didn't start writing again, though, and Draco knew she was waiting for him to lose patience and leave. However, he hadn't come this far to give up yet, so instead of leaving, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for Hermione to give up the façade of working and engage him in conversation again.
Five full minutes passed, and Draco grudgingly admitted to himself he admired Hermione's stubborn streak. She didn't bow under the pressure of his gaze like so many others would have. She kept her eyes locked on the text. But five minutes of stonewalling for a statement even she had to admit was true was a bit ridiculous. Everyone at Hogwarts knew Potter and Weasley weren't paragons of studying virtue. Their marks were passable at best. And Draco emphasized 'at best.' Without Hermione, they never would have survived their first round of exams, much less five years of classes.
Draco supposed the crack about Potter and the Weasel's conversational skills was slightly snarky. But it wasn't as though Hermione held back her vitriol any better. Not one minute into the conversation and she already unleashed a disparaging comment about his housemates. Draco shook his head. Women. Even the most rational ones were completely irrational.
Her hold on her quill grew tighter and tighter, the knuckles of her hand turning a whiter shade of pale, as time passed. Draco feared she would break the quill if she held it any tighter. Heaving another sigh, this one full of so much frustration it nearly brought a smile to Draco's face, she threw down her quill and finally looked at him. Her gaze was heated. Aggressive. Ready and willing to meet the challenge of conversing Draco had laid before her. Excellent. Hermione mirrored his pose, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest. "You want to talk, let's talk. What is it you want to talk about, Malfoy? School? Quidditch? Secret Death Eater plans? What?"
Draco opened his mouth, prepared to retaliate with his own brand of sarcasm, but he shut it before speaking. This was his one chance. If he blew it, Hermione would leave the library to escape his presence, and Draco wanted this interaction more than he wanted to let fly the perfect verbal jab. And Draco always got what he wanted by whatever means necessary, so if he had to swallow his pride and once again try for civilized conversation with this irritatingly stubborn chit, he would do it.
Best to select a neutral topic of conversation then. Nothing concerning friends, family, school, Voldemort. A conversation excluding magic in general would probably be best. His eyes drifted across the multitudes of books covering the table while his brain scrambled for a topic. A faint smirk appeared on his face as inspiration struck. Glancing at Hermione, he said, "Do you ever read anything other than school books?"
Hermione blinked again. She looked down at the books strewn across her table and then back up at Draco. "Yes… Mostly during summer break. I don't usually have time during the school year to indulge in extracurricular reading."
"Too busy saving the world with Saint Potter and the Boy Blunder, I suppose." Anger flashed in her eyes again, and Draco quickly continued before she could speak. "So what do you read when you have the time?"
Hermione shrugged. "Lots of different things," she said slowly, still looking at Draco suspiciously. "I doubt you would know any of the authors. They're mostly Muggle writers."
He smiled. "Indulge my curiosity."
Tiny white teeth peeked from the confines of her mouth and gently worried her bottom lip. His gaze drifted from her eyes down to her mouth as she spoke, focusing on the rush of blood staining her pale lips a lush pink. "Well, I like a lot of classical literature. I've read some of the ancient Greek playwrights. I really love Homer's The Odyssey. Much more than The Iliad. The Iliad's full of fighting and bloodshed and whinging, which frankly gets boring after a thousand lines or so. But The Odyssey has all sorts of mini-adventures and exotic creatures. I first read it before I knew I was witch and that there was this real world with magical creatures residing in it." She paused. "And before I knew that Homer was a wizard and most of the creatures he wrote about were real."
Hermione became more animated during her explanation concerning the virtues of The Odyssey over The Iliad. She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward in her chair; a twinkle of excitement appeared in her eyes. Her joy from reading was infectious, loosening Draco's own tense posture and bringing a semblance of a genuine smile to his face. So this was what pure, undiluted pleasure looked like. Free from some hidden agenda or clandestine motive. Pleasure for pleasure's sake. It was… simple. Nice.
Hermione trailed off and a faint blush stained her cheeks. The guarded expression returned to grace her features, and she leaned back in her chair again, putting as much space as possible between herself and Draco. She tugged on a lock of her hair, twisting the auburn curl around her finger before releasing it, only to recapture it again moments later. Draco watched the nervous movement, hypnotized by the way the curl bounced back into its corkscrew shape. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked. Anticipation slithered through his belly and his fingers tingled with the need to capture that wildness within his hand. And all he had to do was lean forward, just a little, and there it would be. His for the taking.
"Malfoy?"
Draco started, grey eyes flying from her fingers to her face. "Yes?" His voice did not just squeak. He felt the tips of his ears grow warm. Good show, Malfoy. Letting yourself get caught daydreaming by one of your mortal enemies. Bloody brilliant move.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, whether from concern or confusion Draco didn't know. She opened her mouth to speak, and Draco wondered if she was going to ask if he was alright. Before he could ask himself whether or not he wanted Hermione to ask about his welfare, she said, "Do you, um, read books? When you have the time. That is, when you're not out torturing fist years or sacrificing goats to the Dark Lord."
His hands clenched into fists and the sneer formed on his face before he realized Hermione was joking with him. He froze as he discovered that the faint smile on her face wasn't one of malice but one of amusement. Cautious amusement, yes. Wary and uncertain. But amusement nonetheless. Color him shocked. He hadn't known Hermione possessed anything resembling a sense of humor. He knew she had a sharp wit, having it unleashed on him countless times over the past few years, but this almost friendly teasing was a revelation. Nobody teased Draco. Ever. It just wasn't done. Yet Hermione was doing it, returning Draco's hesitant non-hostile gestures with a sly look in her eyes, and the carefully controlled order ruling his world, order initially cracked by his approach to her table and her acquiescence to his desire to sit down, broke a little more. The sneer melted away and his hands relaxed as he said, "Yes, those pesky Dark rituals take up so much of my time, what with the laborious incantations and special dance required. But I have been known to, on occasion, read a book."
"And what type of book is exalted enough to hold the interest of Draco Malfoy?"
"One with lots of fighting and bloodshed and whinging."
One corner of Hermione's lips curved up into a smile. "So you've read The Iliad?"
"Of course. It's a family tradition. Helen of Troy's a distant relation to my family."
"Seriously? I don't believe you."
Draco shrugged. "Believe what you want. Doesn't make it any less true. One of her cousins married into the Malfoy family. Used her Veela charms to seduce Belial Malfoy away from his first wife. Quite the scandal back then."
And she smiled again, a full blown grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes and brought out the dimple marking her right cheek. She looked nice, pretty even, when she smiled like that. "Now you expect me to believe that Helen of Troy was a Veela?"
"Did you honestly believe a normal, human woman could start a war that lasted for ten years?"
"No, I don't suppose so." She shook her head, the smile still lingering on her face. She probably didn't believe him and his admission of familial relations with the Helen of Troy, but Draco didn't care whether she believed him or not. Even if he was, for once, telling the absolute truth. As long as she smiled that smile, he would tell her anything, veracity be damned. So soft and warm. So unlike the cold sneers or wicked smirks usually directed his way.
The mirth faded from her face as the silence stretched between them. Hermione glanced down at her hands. Her gaze flickered up to his, and a mixture of apprehension and curiosity clouded her vision. Question time had come. Draco wondered how long she would sit and chat about books before her inquisitive nature took over and she began to ask him the questions he wasn't sure he could answer.
Her mouth opened slightly, but instead of bombarding Draco with questions, her eyes dropped down to the parchment covered table before her. She wanted to know why he was here, but a few minutes of civilized conversation hadn't completely wiped over five years of insults and torment from her mind. He felt her retreat back into herself and begin to raise the protective barriers she'd discarded for just a moment. She looked at him coolly, the distaste Draco had seen every time she'd looked at him the past five years gone, replaced with hesitation and a little bit of fear. "So-"
"You can ask, if you want," he said quickly, the words stumbling from his lips with all the grace inherent in a newly borne horse. His hands clutched the armrests of his chair. "I won't… I want…"
Hermione stared at him for a long moment, calmly assessing his eyes, his face, his body, searching for something. He didn't know what. Honesty. Sincerity. Draco didn't know if he possessed those qualities or was capable of possessing them. But he met her gaze, unflinching, unblinking, willing her to see what she needed to see. The moment passed, and then she asked the question he'd been asking himself all bloody night.
"Why did you come here, Draco?"
And here it was. The choice. He could tell her some bullshit story about a Slytherin bet or boredom or anything other than the truth, throw in the word 'mudblood' a couple of times, and his world would tilt back to normal. Hermione would hate him again, probably even more than she did now, and Draco would go on living his life of controlled predictability. He'd graduate Hogwarts, most likely second in his class behind Hermione, accept a cushy job at the Ministry, rising quickly through the ranks to become the youngest Minister of Magic ever, all the while pushing through mandates and referendums created by his father and the other Death Eaters. He'd marry someone suitable, possibly Pansy, maybe some societal princess he'd never met but who had coveted political connections, and have a child, a boy, an heir to the Malfoy name and fortune.
Or he could choose. Choose to tell her, try to tell her, the incomprehensible. That Draco Malfoy was having a moment of crisis, a crisis of conscience and conviction. That he was slowly suffocating under his proscribed life, struggling to breathe in the confines constructed by his father and the Dark Lord and the reputation of the Malfoy name. And that for one moment, just a single moment, he wanted out. Wanted freedom from the pressures and limitations and expectations. If he told her, he'd still most likely graduate Hogwarts second in his class, accept a cushy job at the Ministry, and become the youngest Minister of Magic in history, quietly pushing through legislation from Lucius. But maybe. Maybe not.
And this maybe sat before Draco with large coffee eyes, tiny nose scattered with freckles, bow shaped lips, and a cloud of twisting, tangling ginger hair. This unknown potential in front of him had the tendency to be bossy, stubborn, arrogant, and infuriatingly noble. This newfound possibility cared about lost causes, exhibited grace under pressure, displayed frightening intelligence and perceptivity, and stood up for what she believed in regardless of the opinions of others.
And she had given Draco a chance when everyone else would have told him to shove his wand where the sun doesn't shine.
Like most of the choices presented to Draco, he realized his choice was already made for him. Had been from the moment he snuck out of the Slytherin dorms, made his way to the library, and approached the unapproachable.
So he opened his mouth and spoke the unspeakable.
"When you read it's for pleasure, right? Because you want to read the book. Because you enjoy it." Off of Hermione's nod, Draco continued, "I don't. Every book I've ever read has been chosen by my father because he feels there's something I can learn from it. Something that will help me in life. I've read the Bible: 'Know thy enemy, Draco. Better than you know thyself.' I've read books by Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Voltaire. Muggle history books. Magical history books. But I've never… I've never read anything I wanted to read. Never done anything I wanted to do, not unless it was already cleared by my father. And I just… I wanted-"
He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands closed around the armrest, fingers digging into the wood. "There's something… more. And I'm tired… I…" The words wouldn't come. They wouldn't come because he didn't know how to make them. Every word Draco spoke was a lie before tonight, the truth buried beneath layers of sarcasm, deception, ambiguity, and suspicion. He didn't know the language of truth. The crisp, clean syllables sparkling with honesty withered on his lips from the overwhelming presence of the supreme ruler of all: fear. What if she laughed? He knew she wouldn't, but what if she did? Or worse. What if she pitied him, or thought him weak, or stupid? What if she told everything he said to the Boy Who Lived and his Boy and they all sat and laughed at him? Rubbed his confessions in his face every time they saw him?
What if they, what if she, did everything Draco would have done if their positions had been reversed? Scorned. Manipulated. Mocked. Exploited the weakness to gain the advantage.
He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let that happen. Vulnerabilities were weakness and weaknesses were exploited. It was the way of the world. Survival of the fittest. And Draco knew this because he read Darwin, so he knew it's either kill or be killed, and he won't be killed. He won't let himself be killed.
Draco shoved back from the table, knocking his chair to the floor. Without another word, without another glance at Hermione, he strode from the table, from the insanity he had willingly walked into. Stupid. He was so stupid. Father was right. He was weak and stupid and selfish and not fit for the Malfoy name. He-
Her touch was feather light, hovering just above his steel rod spine, but it froze him to the spot more effectively than a Petrificus Totalus spell. Her fingertips touched down again, poised on the smooth fabric of his robes like a bird ready for flight. Cautious. Careful. And Draco couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her palm pressed against his back, and the heat of her touch burned into him, burned through him. Strange. He thought she would be cold. Mudblood. Mud. Dirty, ugly, cold, and slimy. But she wasn't.
He was.
"You don't…" He heard her sigh. If Draco turned around, he knew he would see her straighten her shoulders and tilt her chin into the air, determined to see this through to the end because she wasn't a quitter. She wasn't afraid. "You don't have to say anything. I understand. Well, not really, but I do, sort of, if that makes any sense at all, which I'm sure it doesn't. You don't have to answer my question. But if you did, I wouldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't break your confidence. It's yours to tell. Not mine. So you don't, you don't have to leave. You can just sit. We can just sit. Or we could talk. I mean we haven't even touched on Roman literature, and one can't have a discussion on classical literature without discussing Ovid. Virgil, too."
Draco trembled, his body a battleground for the warring tension and release. He whispered, "Why?" It was more than a question. It was a plea. A prayer. For mercy. For compassion. For salvation. "Why would you want me? Want me to stay?"
"Because you want to be here." Hermione paused. Her hand moved against his back, spreading wildfires beneath her palm. "And I think I want you to be here too."
He turned. He couldn't not turn at her simple, sincere declaration. His heart raced in his chest, and his breath came in shallow, short gasps. Her eyes were wide and dark and serious, and her hand, outstretched, hovered between them. She drew her arm back towards her body, and his followed, a tango of limbs, one step forward, one step back. The tips of his fingers brushed against a lock of her hair, and it felt soft and strong as he threaded his fingers through her auburn curls. Like Hermione herself. Strong willed, strong minded, but still warm and soft and caring. And something shifted inside Draco, some piece he hadn't realized was slightly out of place, and he realized he hadn't come because of her hair. He came because it was hers. Because it was Hermione. Hermione, who never failed to surprise him, who didn't care if one was a Malfoy or a Muggle as long as they tried to do the right thing.
"So… are you staying?" Soft and strong. Quiet yet certain. Like she already knew the answer to her question, because he was sure it was written all over his face, but asked it out of formality.
Draco smiled. A smile full of freedom. Of possibilities. Of starting over and second chances. And Draco strayed from his predictably controlled path, gleefully crashing through the unknowable, uncontrollable woods, as he said simply, "Yes."
* * *