Chapter Thirteen
A gray curtain of rain shielded the Hogwarts' grounds from view. For Draco, that was just as well; he didn't feature watching his schoolmates skip down to the Quidditch field for a sunny afternoon game while he remained, as he had for the past five weeks, squirreled away in a far-off tower.
Hope they all catch their deaths of cold, lousy buggers, Draco thought sourly. He flounced back onto his cot, avoiding a glance at the stacks of homework piling up on his desk. Granger brought his lessons like clockwork every afternoon at five, and every day, he kept the door bolted against her until she finally tired of waiting in the cold hallway and wandered off. When he felt like it – which, admittedly, wasn't often – Draco would complete his assignments and leave them for her to fetch from outside his door the next evening.
He kept waiting for her to grow weary of the pointless go-round, but she apparently possessed an impressive stubborn streak. Unfortunately, so did Draco.
Granger wasn't the only person Draco was avoiding. In fact, since he'd awoken in this cell-like tower room more than a month before, aching from head to toe and so weak he could barely lift his head off the pillow, Draco had admitted just four visitors: the Headmaster, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Snape, and Dobby. Dumbledore had been sitting by his bed that first terrible morning, waiting to deliver the dreadful news of Draco's fate in soft, somber tones; the Headmaster had returned once or twice to check up on him, but their conversations had been mercifully short.
His other three visitors came on a more regular basis. Dobby popped in three times a day with meals, usually sneaking up some extra treat for the boy he still insistently called "Master Draco," no matter how many times Draco reminded the house-elf that he was free now. Snape showed up every Saturday night with more of his vile-tasting Lykos Potion. He would stand by silently glowering until Draco finished every last drop – luckily, Dobby kept Draco supplied with enough sweets to chase away the rancid-butter taste of the potion. Madam Pomfrey came round once a day to listen to her patient's chest, tut over his thinness and his pallor, and poke about the wound on his side, which had healed nicely into a jagged scar.
Well, at least now Potter and I have something in common: scars.
A knock on the door startled Draco from his grim reverie. He cut a wary eye toward the window; outside, the rain still lashed furiously – hard enough to cancel the match? Draco doubted it; he'd seen Quidditch played in much worse conditions. Since it was unlikely he'd have any unwanted visitors while the entire school was down at the Quidditch field cheering Hufflepuff to victory over Ravenclaw, he decided this unexpected intruder was probably just Dobby sunnily bearing another one of those awful tea cozies he kept trying to pass off as a hat for Draco to wear…
"Coming," Draco called reluctantly. He plodded wearily across the small room and slowly pulled open the door, cursing his continued fatigue. "Dobby, what is - ?"
He pulled up short. For an instant, he considered slamming and locking the door, but on reflection he decided that would be far too dramatic of a response to the situation. Instead, he forced a cold, indifferent expression into place and demanded, "What do you want?"
Hermione Granger trembled in the hallway. It being Saturday, she wore a pair of tattered blue jeans and a short-waisted gray cotton sweater in lieu of her usual school uniform. Her shorter hair-do was growing out into soft, silky waves that she had tied back on her neck with a gray silk scarf; Draco had to restrain himself from reaching out to tuck a stray lock behind her ear.
Bleeding Christ, I've missed her…And she looks so damn vulnerable standing there, waiting for me to welcome her in…
With some difficulty, Draco reminded himself that he owed Granger nothing. Madam Pomfrey had alluded to the care she had taken of him during his prolonged illness; truthfully, Draco perfectly recalled what he had thought were simply dreams of Hermione's voice and touch soothing him while his body baked with fever, what he now realized hadn't been dreams at all. But that, he told himself sternly, changed nothing: Granger was friends with Potter, quite likely much more than friends, and Potter was the reason Draco would never, ever have the life he had dreamed of.
They don't make werewolves healers. They don't make werewolves anything, in point of fact – I'd have been better off dead.
"I, um, I wanted to see how you're doing."
Granger's tentative response puzzled Draco for a moment until he remembered that he'd asked her what she was doing outside his door. Gruffly, he replied, "I'm bloody marvelous, Granger. Anything else I can help you with?"
"Professor Dumbledore was asking how your lessons are going," she blurted out. She folded her arms protectively across her chest, shrinking from Draco's fierce scowl. Though she looked ready to bolt, true to form she stood her ground. "He's been asking, actually, for a while now, and I've been telling him that you're coming along all right. But now the other professors are starting to ask when I'll be bringing back your assignments. So I thought maybe I should see if you needed…a tutor?"
Draco snorted derisively. "Any opportunity to play the know-it-all, eh, Granger?"
She flushed scarlet – rather prettily, he couldn't help noticing. "I have notes from the classes we have together, and I borrowed copies from people in your other courses. I thought maybe you'd like me to go over the lessons with you, be sure you understood how to do the assignments."
"No thanks."
Her embarrassment was, he could see, quickly turning into impatience. "All right, then, what should I tell the professors when they ask when you'll have your lessons finished?"
"Tell them right about the time they make me Minister of Magic." Draco smirked at her astonished expression. Leaning one hip against the doorframe, he chided, "C'mon, Granger, did you really think I'd go on playing the part of dutiful student? The only reason I'm still at this school is because Dumbledore doesn't know what else to do with me." A coldness settled in Draco's chest, and his next words came out more bitterly than he intended. "I'm sure my father will take care of that once he finally gets himself out of Azkaban."
Granger blanched. "Oh, no, Draco you can't think – Dumbledore would never let your father – "
"Whatever." Her concern touched Draco far more deeply than he cared to admit. Unbidden, memories of their steamy kiss rose up to taunt him.
Just another thing you've lost thanks to Potter. Hermione Granger can certainly do better than a half-blood, a monster in a man's skin.
This encounter was spiraling out of Draco's control. He knew if he didn't get rid of her quickly, Granger was going to punch through the protective wall he'd built around himself these last five weeks – hell, she might even break away the façade of hard-heartedness he'd been constructing for years. Looking into her wide hazel eyes, he searched for the button to push that would send her packing.
Potter. It's always been Potter.
"Look, Granger, I appreciate your concern," he began, his words laced with sarcasm, "but I don't see the point in wasting my time on schoolwork. It's not like the employers will be beating my door down once I leave here."
"So what are you going to do, then? Just give up? Spend the rest of your life hiding in this tower?"
You will not get angry. You will not get angry.
Okay, I'm angry. But I can deal with that.
"Hardly." Draco smirked deeper as he realized she was even angrier than he was – angry with his refusal to be the good patient, to accept her help in adjusting to this new "life" (if it could even be called that) fate had handed him. "As soon as I'm well enough, I plan to leave Hogwarts for good. Maybe go to London, see if I can find work – hey, maybe the Daily Prophet will be interested in my story, seeing as how it was the great hero Harry Potter who ruined my life."
Draco's words had exactly the effect he'd hoped for. Fairly spitting with rage, Granger shot back, "Oh, so now Harry's to blame, is he? I seem to remember it was you who insisted on that stupid duel, even when I begged you not to!"
"Always protecting him, aren't you? I can see nothing's changed while I was laid up, nearly dying."
"You know what? You're right. Nothing has changed." Granger, breathing heavily, leveled a venomous glare on him. In spite of himself, Draco colored a bit under that gaze. "And the worst part is, I was stupid enough to think you had."
With that, she spun on her heel and marched away.
You can't leave it like that. You can't let her have the last word. Go after her…
Against his better judgment, Draco allowed wounded pride to lead him away from his sanctuary. "I see what's going on, you know," he called to Granger's retreating figure.
Gradually, her steps slowed, and she swung back to face him. Draco, slowly closing the distance between them, continued acidly, "You're trying to ease your guilty conscience. Taking care of me while I was in hospital, bringing me my lessons, covering for me with the professors – you're trying to make yourself feel better about what happened to me."
Granger's eyes flashed dangerously. "And what would I have to feel guilty about?"
He spread his arms wide. "This. Me. How I am now." He packed as much cruelty as possible into his next words. "I sacrificed myself to save you, Granger. I'm not sure you know quite how to live with that."
Granger drew in a sharp breath. Draco allowed himself a triumphant smile; that had done it, all right – that had put her in her place, where she was sure not to come bothering his solitude anymore.
To his surprise, instead of running away in tears, however, she stepped forward calmly, her face an unreadable mask. "You did save my life," she responded quietly. Draco felt his breath catch in his throat as she reached one hand up to touch the side of his face. "But what you have to live with, Draco, is that I was willing to die to save you. And I still would. How does that feel?"
Bleeding Christ, I can't win with this girl.
Draco struggled to resurrect some shred of dignity from this awful scene. "You weren't out there to save me," he offered, despising how feeble his come-back sounded. "You were out there to save Potter."
"Do you really believe that?"
How could he possibly believe that when she was so close? Staring into her up-turned face, Draco felt his knees going weak – and suddenly, fatigue was not the cause.
"No," he confessed. His mind was swimming. "No, I don't really believe – "
Hermione – there it was again, the inability to think of her as "Granger" – silenced him with a kiss. Unlike their earlier, desperate kiss, this time she didn't hurry; she drew his lips down to hers gently, softly, pressing the length of her body into his as if she were sinking into a warm bubble-bath. And, just like that night in the old bath-house, she completely stole Draco's breath away.
Heat rose up inside of him. Blood pounded in his ears. Draco tightened his grip on Hermione's waist to draw her closer; she came willingly, her fingers wound tightly in his white-blond hair. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in his arms, carry her back to his tower-room, lock the door and –
Rip her flesh off her bones. Drink her heart's blood. I can taste her, smell her…
Oh God, what's wrong with me?
Terrified of the horrible thoughts dancing across his mind, Draco wrenched his mouth away from Hermione's. She stumbled back in surprise. "What is it?" she gasped as he turned away, afraid his dark fantasies were written plainly across his face. "Draco, what's wrong?"
An oddly familiar pain clenched in Draco's stomach, doubling him over. He shook his head in stunned disbelief. This could not be happening. It wasn't a full moon – he couldn't transform into a werewolf when it wasn't a full moon - !
Ah, but don't you see, it's always there, inside. The wolf. The monster. It wants to consume you; it wants to show its face in the daylight; it wants to break free of this prison of your humanity.
Draco closed his mind to his torturous inner voice. Hermione was leading him back to his room, murmuring words of comfort. He found himself impossibly weak, drained, and frightened.
For the first time, it occurred to him what being a werewolf really meant: He wasn't entirely human anymore.
He allowed Hermione to ease him onto his bed and tuck the covers up around his chin. She stoked the fire in his grate, placed a glass of water beside his bed, bathed his face with a cold cloth. "It's all right now," she soothed, sitting beside him. He was afraid of her nearness, afraid of what it might awaken, but too tired to forego her care. "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep. You're just over-tired, that's all."
"Hermione." He expended the last of his strength reaching out to lace his fingers with hers. "You shouldn't be here with me, after dark, alone. I could…hurt you."
"Draco, no offense, but right now, you don't look too scary." Grinning at him, she leaned down to drop a light kiss on his forehead. Her lips next to his ear, she whispered, "Go to sleep. Things are going to be different now, you'll see. Because I'm going to be here with you. I promise."
Too weary to argue, Draco nodded, and soon his eyelids drifted closed. Yet even as sleep overcame him, he wondered if it was a promise he could allow Hermione to keep, for her sake.