Chapter 22: Exercise in Trust

Disclaimer: Alas, everything is JK Rowling's, and I'm only borrowing them for my enjoyment. Of course, not all the enjoyment is uploaded here on fanfiction.net… this said with a quick glance towards my bed, on which a topless Draco is lying gagged and bound. Ahem. But they all enjoy to JK Rowling really.

Thanks for 701 reviews goes to: Storm079,Arafel2, relena333, draconas, Flexi Lexi, Kiyoko, Go10, Shadow Slytherin, kessi1011, willowfairy, Madam Midnight, Alyssium, KrystyWroth, lavender skies, Ellie (x2), brettley, Saraiyu, Plaidly Lush, Hidden Relevance, Haystack8190, PINSXandXSPIKES, dixiechic581, Princess of Light, Saotoshi, JoeBob1379, langocska, cassie, citcat299, fantasymei-aqua, Krispykreme1468, Pertique, DeLaney.

A/N: Normally I don't respond to individual reviews, but I think this chapter I would like to make an exception in the interests of making one thing absolutely clear: I know this is a slow fic. I am fully aware that this is a slow fic, and I personally want it to be that way. I want to be able to take some time to have a proper play with my characters, to explore their development and thoughts and actions at my own pace. I'm fully aware that there will be people who aren't interested in slower-paced fics – they are more psychological and tend to need more thought, which doesn't suit everyone, including a good few of my close friends. (Though I do promise that there will be plenty of exciting bits to look forward to!)

I don't mind constructive criticism, or people offering advice for improvement; they're helpful and interesting and often inspire new ideas and avenues to explore. And I'm well aware that some people will not like this style of writing. However, I recall quite clearly saying that this would be a slow fic. Thus I would ask people who don't like slow fics to go read something else, instead of reviewing to tell me that slow-paced stories are 'painstaking' or 'monotonous'. It's like someone who doesn't like scary stories going on to a story labelled horror and telling the author their story is going 'downhill fast' because it's too frightening. If you don't like slow-paced stories, don't read them! There's plenty of other fics out there.

I'd also like to remark on – 'but you need to keep readers and what you've got dosn't do that.' This seems a rather odd comment to make, considering that my review count just reached 700… thank you to all my reviewers!

Anyway, onto happier things. I finished my first week of work experience without seriously maiming any of the kids! They changed the trip at the last minute from a farm to a park, so the chickens were saved, but I soon became Little 'Miss, Sophie's fallen off the climbing frame and hurt her head!' I got completely worn out though. Thirty demanding children are very seriously tiring. The school day ends at three not for the kids' sake, but for the teachers'! But I did well, and have been sent back with a glowing report, a Winnie the Pooh card and chocolates. The chocolates were definitely the best part of the whole venture…

And now, onto the chapter. There's a nice fat Draco/Hermione scene coming up; rejoice! The characters took over in that scene, sending me gibbering to her and panicking about them going OOC, but she assures me they remained IC. So if it is OOC, it's all her fault for lying to me…

Enjoy!

… that exercise in trust, where those in front

stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall

backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight.

Simon Armitage, Homecoming.

'Why does Charms have to be first thing?' Ron groaned as he took a bit of his pancakes. 'I still haven't managed to get that fingernail charm right yet…' The sixth years were leaning charms for use on humans, and Professor Flitwick had started with simpler, less life-threatening ones, such as hair-growth and eyebrow-plucking charms. This hadn't prevented Neville from almost suffocating under his own hair in Tuesday's lesson.

Hermione bit into a piece of toast thoughtfully. 'Fingernail charm… Unguis Sterne?'

'Yeah, that's the one,' Ron said. 'How do you know it? You aren't even doing Charms this year…'

'From the Yule Ball in fourth year. I used more charms and spells and potions preparing for that then I ever want to use again in my life…' Hermione shook her head. 'Anyway, try the spell and I'll see where you're going wrong…'

Harry watched as Hermione attempted to correct Ron's technique. He'd managed to get the spell right after a couple of tries – his fingernails were now beautifully smooth and shiny – but he lacked the ability to spot what someone else was doing wrong. Whereas Hermione, as both the boys knew from experience, could quickly figure out…

Professor McGonagall's voice startled him out of his thoughts. 'Mr Potter?'

He looked round to see the familiar face of his Head of House. 'Yes, Professor?'

'Professor Dumbledore would like to see you…'

'Is something wrong?'

His mind began leaping to awful conclusions and worst-case scenarios. Someone he knew could have died – were all his friends here? Ginny wasn't, and he had time to feel the most horrible sensation of shock – like having his spine struck with a xylophone hammer – before he realised that if Ginny were dead, Professor McGonagall would go to Ron first…

She shook her head. 'No, nothing out of the ordinary. You have permission to miss the beginning of Charms, but I suggest you hurry. The password is Chocolate Frog.'

Harry nodded and got to his feet, muttering a goodbye to Hermione and Ron, who had broken off their impromptu tutoring to listen to his conversation. 'Bye, you two – see you in Potions, Ron,' he said, and headed for the doors. Behind him, his friends started their conversation again.

'Right, Ron, you need to pay more attention to…'

At least, he reminded himself as he made his way out of the Great Hall, McGonagall had told him that nothing was wrong. It couldn't be any of his friends at Hogwarts – they'd all been in the Great Hall, apart from Ginny, and McGonagall would certainly have gone to Ron first if that had been the case. Who else? The Dursleys? Would Voldemort have killed them? Or what about someone at the Order, someone like Lupin or Tonks…

Harry shuddered, and hurried onwards, trying to convince himself that this couldn't possibly be about a death. It was something normal, he reasoned, something normal and everyday and nothing to do with Voldemort.

He made it to Dumbledore's office in five minutes, and ran up the moving staircase, too impatient and too worried to wait for the stairs to carry him up. At the top, he knocked sharply on the door, breathing slightly hard from hurrying there too fast.

'Come in.'

Professor Dumbledore was seated at his desk, a long piece of parchment spread over it, which he was slowly covering with his small, cramped handwriting. It looked to be a letter, but as Harry came in, Dumbledore started rolling it up, seemingly finished.

'Harry,' he said with a smile, though Harry noticed that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Dumbledore looked tired and somehow more worn than the last time Harry had seen him: there were creases and wrinkles on his face that were more to do with worry than laughter. Harry found a corner of his mind asking in a whisper how old Dumbledore was – while he'd known that the Headmaster was old, he'd never considered him to be so. Now he appeared to have aged a decade in the past month.

Still, it didn't distract him from his primary fear. 'Is everyone okay? Nothing's… happened?' he asked.

The merest hint of a puzzled frown passed across Dumbledore's face before he realised what Harry was asking. 'No, everyone's fine. A little tired, perhaps, in the case of the Order. But fine.'

Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and half-smiled in the light sensation of relief. Dumbledore smiled back – a real smile this time – and gestured to a seat.

'First of all,' he said as Harry sank into the soft cushions of the chair, 'I wanted to know if you are fine.'

Dumbledore's pale blue eyes suddenly caught Harry's own, making him feel uncomfortable. 'I'm okay,' he mumbled, knowing it was a lie, but managed to say, 'At least, I'm getting better,' more loudly.

The Headmaster nodded, breaking the eye contact. 'I hoped so. It would be… too early… to hope for you to be completely normal. Perhaps I could say you never were,' he added, almost as an afterthought. 'I should have checked on you before, and I should spend longer doing so now, but alas, my time is stretched all too thinly these days…'

'Fighting Voldemort?' Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore nodded. 'Yes, and his Death Eaters. There are still plenty who wish to align themselves with him for one reason or another… power, fear, old prejudices…' He shook his head, as if trying to knock the hard, drawn expression that had come over him off his face, and his usual kindly smile replaced it.

'But there's no need for you to be thinking of those things. Not yet,' Dumbledore said firmly. 'I think the most important thing for you to do is restart your lessons in Occlumency.'

Harry's heart both sank and rose at once, leaving him in a state of confusion. On one hand, he wanted more than ever to prevent Voldemort gaining access to his mind after Sirius had died because of him. On the other, he had no good memories of Occlumency lessons…

'Is Professor Snape gong to be teaching me again?' he asked quietly, barely daring to hope that the answer would be no. Who else could teach him, other than Dumbledore, and he was far too busy…

Dumbledore nodded. 'Yes, he will be. It's taken me quite some time to persuade him, but in the end he agreed.'

The memory of Occlumency lessons with Snape rose up in Harry's mind again, repeated visits to the things he was always trying to forget, and he knew that the last thing he wanted was for an irate Snape to go poking around in his head. Not now, not with Sirius's loss and the guilt from that still so clear and vivid in his memory; a wound only just beginning to scab over.

But that was exactly the point, wasn't it? The reason he had to do this, however much it ended up hurting. Sirius had already died because he, Harry, hadn't been able to tell that Voldemort was attacking his mind, hadn't been able to defend himself. How could he refuse to learn it now? Any one of his friends could die if he didn't learn, if he was tricked again – Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Seamus or Dean or Neville – and he couldn't let that happen.

He glanced up to where Dumbledore was watching. 'When will it start?' he asked quietly.

None of the Slytherins noticed or cared when their newest outcast slipped out of the common room, heading for the library and his meeting with Hermione. Well, almost none. Pansy and Blaise broke off their conversation to stare at him openly, frowning; then Pansy shook her head and they began chatting again.

They had been his friends once, Draco remembered; before he'd changed and had to flee his own home. Pansy and Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle, He'd eaten with them at every meal, sat next to them in class, plotted ways to humiliate Potter with them, done homework with them, lounged around the common room with them…

No longer. One of them might even be Lucius' spy, reporting Draco's every move to his father.

He was aware you were meant to be sad when you lost friends, and had adjusted his behaviour accordingly, but he didn't really feel anything. Occasionally there was a kind of irritation which he thought must be like losing an arm or leg, the feeling of trying to reach out and having nothing there to reach with. For five years he'd been able to count on Crabbe or Goyle backing him up if anything should degenerate to physical violence, or Blaise there to discuss schoolwork and occasionally philosophy with, or Pansy with a helpful charm if he lost the immaculate perfection he'd needed as a leading Slytherin.

The fact that they weren't there any longer annoyed him, but he didn't feel sad about it.

Draco had thought about this for a long time, and realised it must be something to do with emotions. He'd done all the usual friendship-things with his fellow Slytherins. After five years, they knew each other inside out. Crabbe had been claustrophobic since he was seven, when he'd sneaked into his mother's walk-in wardrobe, shut the door and been unable to get out until a house elf found him three hours later. If Goyle didn't manage at least seven hours of sleep, he would be in a dreadful mood the next morning – he'd once punched Millicent Bulstrode so hard she was out cold for an hour, just for smiling and saying 'Good morning.' They still scared the first-years with that story sometimes. Blaise loved chocolate, animals, philosophy and anything more than two thousand years old; Draco had once caught her reading Vergil in the original Latin, although to be fair, she had needed a dictionary. Pansy could come off as a complete airhead at times, but while she was a devoted follower of fashion, she could also be incredibly caring if something was wrong.

And they knew as much about him. Except, Draco realised, they didn't actually know him at all. They knew the person he'd invented, with emotions and feelings and personality planned exactly how he wanted them to be, to manipulate those around him in order to fulfil his overwhelming instinct to cause harm.

They'd been friends with a lie, he mused as he reached the Library door and pushed it open. He'd just been using them, manipulating them to his wishes, each one with their own page in his mental catalogue that listed useful qualities, weak points, interesting knowledge, to be carefully utilised like chess pieces. Players do not care about their pawns, their knights or rooks; but only about themselves and their game.

Draco still didn't know why that felt so wrong.

Hermione was already at their usual table, sitting back on one of the library's wooden chairs and flicking randomly through a book while she waited.

'You look puzzled,' she remarked as he slid into a seat beside her. 'Something confusing you?'

'Apart from the entire range of human emotions? No, I can't think of anything,' he said, leaning his elbows on the desk.

He noticed the very slightest flush of embarrassment tinting her cheeks pale pink. 'Alright, stupid question, I guess,' she said, closing her book and putting it down on the table. 'Anything in particular?'

He wanted to ask about friendship, but that odd sensation he'd assumed to be awkwardness came over him, a bothersome feeling as though his stomach had been removed, unfolded and spread flat, then folded up wrong and put back in again. Bloody things.

'Not really,' he replied, and her face fell in disappointment. He wondered why – she didn't want him to be confused, as far as he knew. 'Just… general things.'

Hermione sighed. 'Draco, there isn't much point in meeting like this if you aren't going to talk about anything you need help with.'

'We don't have to meet…'

'But I want to help you!' she insisted, with a sudden flash of vehemence that made Draco start. 'And you said you wanted help, so I don't understand why you won't just tell me what's wrong and let me try to explain things.'

And that was more awkwardness; the feeling of having skin that tingled and itched and didn't quite fit right, or having bones the wrong shape, or having foreign blood pulsing in your veins. He slid his elbows forward, sinking to the desk, and buried half his face in the crook of his arm, his nose just resting atop the sleeve of his robe. Too late, he realised how stupid he must look, but in an odd way it made him feel better.

There was a silent pause while Hermione frowned at him in what he identified as a mix of anger and distress. He didn't know all that much about Hermione, he reflected; nowhere near as much as he knew about his fellow Slytherins. They didn't do nearly enough of the usual friendship activities, like going to Hogsmede together, or eating together, or working in class together. They talked quite a bit; that was all.

He remembered lessons from his father on friendship and how to fake it, all the rituals that should be followed, the correct body language, the tones of voice for every situation, the right things to say and attitudes to be pretended. But if there was one thing he knew about emotions, it was that there was more to them than making the right expression and the correct reaction. People didn't even think about their reactions. They simply reacted, based on the illogical, unthinking dictum of emotions.

So what was friendship? The huge and complex riddle of actions and attitudes that had taken him years to perfect, or something emotional that he couldn't comprehend?

Hermione was still watching him, her forehead slightly furrowed and her brown eyes a shade darker than usual. She wanted to help him; wasn't that one of the things friends did? Help each other? But she'd wanted to help him even when they were still enemies, back at the Order.

Draco remembered seeing Ellen being attacked by the third-years, and wondered whether it was the same impulse that had driven Hermione to help him, that compassion which he didn't know how to defend himself against. Almost before he thought about it, he found himself speaking; compassion had been painful when he resisted it, and a part of him didn't want Hermione to suffer more than she had to.

'Friendship,' he said suddenly, breaking the silence. 'What's friendship?'

Hermione sat back in her chair, appearing to contemplate the question, and it amazed Draco that normal humans could live with emotions for years and still have to think about them if they were asked.

'It's a lot of things,' she said eventually. 'You have friends among the Slytherins, don't you? Crabbe and Goyle?'

'Not any more, not since I left my father,' Draco pointed out. 'And I wasn't properly friends with them anyway. No emotions, remember? I went through the motions; that was all.'

Hermione bit her lip. 'Well,' she said slowly, 'you know part of it then. Part of being friends is talking to each other, and sharing secrets, and doing things together…'

'And the other part?' Draco prompted.

'Is not easy to explain. It's… well, Harry and Ron and I didn't become friends until… you remember in our first year at Halloween, when that mountain troll got into the dungeons?' Draco nodded, and turned his head sideways to face her properly. 'Well, I was in the girl's bathroom at the time, and the troll came in behind me… I didn't have my wand, I thought I was going to die. Then Harry and Ron ran in, and they managed to knock it out.'

Draco snorted. 'Just like a Gryffindor. They're lucky they didn't get killed.'

'Probably, but I'd have been killed if they hadn't saved me. And we've been friends ever since.'

He didn't understand. 'So to become friends you have to save each other from a troll?'

'No… well, perhaps metaphorically.' That odd feeling of confusion was coming over him again, the one that felt like a choking fog inside his head. Hermione must have seen it on his face, because she quickly attempted to explain. 'I mean, to be friends you have to share experiences. It doesn't have to be fighting a mountain troll, it can be something as simple as… your first ride on the Hogwarts Express together, or making a feather float in Charms. Memorable things. And you have to care about each other, and trust each other, and be loyal to each other. All of which happened when we were fighting the troll.'

Draco considered this. 'I think I understand that,' he said slowly.

Hermione beamed. 'And then all those things kind of make… a bond between you. So you want them to be happy and you worry about them if they're depressed, and you want to spend time with them and help them.'

He could grasp these things in theory, but couldn't connect then with feelings yet beyond that of compassion, of caring about someone else with complete disregard for oneself. After all, how many times had Hermione and Weasley followed Potter into danger?

But that couldn't be all there was to friendship. Hermione wanted to help him, spent time with him and cared about him. As far as he knew, she hadn't told anyone about what he was, and that made her loyal too. Which meant that either there was a large chunk she'd missed out, or…

'Are you my friend?' he asked, frowning.

Hermione seemed rather startled. 'I… I don't know. I never thought about it.' She paused, and Draco watched her think, watched her twisting and tearing the ends of her hair and watched her lips curl in evaluation. 'I guess I might,' she said eventually.

He didn't know why he smiled then; except that it felt like a phoenix feather had settled in his chest, warm and golden and full of strength, and Hermione smiled back too.

There was a short silence then, before Hermione asked 'Do you think you're friends with me?'

How could he know that? 'I haven't a clue,' he replied, 'I don't know what half those things you described feel like. I don't know trust, or loyalty, or any of those things.'

For a brief second she looked hurt at that, before her features cleared, and Draco wondered why. Why was she upset that he didn't know what trust was? Perhaps she thought she'd failed to help him enough; that made sense.

'I think I might be able to help with trust,' she mused, and he looked up to see her light brown eyes almost sparkling with delight. 'Stand up. We're going to play a game.'

'A game?' he asked bemusedly, but he got to his feet anyway and leant against the table. 'How's a game going to help with emotions?'

'It's a Muggle game. The Trust game,' Hermione replied, grinning, then started giving orders. Right, stand with your back to me… a little closer than that. Good. Now spread your arms out.'

Draco, wondering what on earth this had to do with trust, obeyed. 'You aren't going to tickle me, are you? Because I'm not ticklish.'

'No, nothing like that. Though the idea is tempting.' He could hear the laughter in her voice. 'Right, close your eyes,' – he did so – 'and let yourself fall backwards.'

Was she mad?

He opened one eye and twisted his head to look at her. 'What?' he asked incredulously.

'I'll catch you,' she promised, 'Don't worry.'

'And exactly what does this have to do with trust?' Draco demanded.

'The idea is that you have to put all your trust in the person catching you,' Hermione explained. 'So if you trust me – if you know what trust is – you'll be able to let yourself fall.'

Draco stared at her. 'I haven't a clue what trust is,' he pointed out.

'It doesn't matter. You might feel it without realising,' Hermione said, her voice suddenly determined, 'Now close your eyes. I promise I'll catch you.'

He shut his eyes, plummeting himself into the darkness of his own head. Was Hermione still there? She could have moved away, and he'd never know it – but she wouldn't do that. Would she?

He supposed that was the nature of the game, to see whether you thought someone would leave you to fall. But that was character assessment, not trust. He knew Hermione wasn't the kind of person who'd let him fall. He knew she'd catch him.

Carefully, he rocked back on his heels. It was against every instinct to fall backwards blindly, uncertain that he'd be caught. But he knew Hermione well enough, didn't he? He knew she'd catch him. But that wasn't trust.

And suddenly, with the same kind of feeling that he got from looking at a picture of a vase and suddenly seeing two faces, he realised. He could analyse Hermione's character for years and never be fully sure that she'd catch him. Trust was saying you were sure of being caught, no matter how sure you really were.

So did he trust her?

He rocked back on the balls of his feet again, then with a sudden reckless surge of adrenaline he pushed himself all the way back, found himself falling, waited for Hermione's arms to catch him and though for a horrible minute she wasn't going to…

And then he felt her arms grab hold of him, and heard her laugh a little in surprise, and opened his eyes to see her bright and flushed and grinning down at him, and it almost felt as good as flying.

He grinned back.

A/N: Unguis Sterne means 'smoothen the fingernail' - one I'd quite like to use on my toenails, because they're horrible.

As I said, they ran off with me in that last scene. But I was assured they were IC, and also cute, and it should keep all of you who are baying for romance happy for a little while, because while it's all platonic so far I definitely got the feeling that there was potential… Anyway, review, or I'll Polyjuice you into Harry and make you go to Occlumency instead! And you wouldn't want Snape poking around your head, would you? No? Well then, review…