Going Back
"Come in," I called in response to the door, "it's open!" I was expecting my neighbor, Rosemary, a writer who liked to drink a cup of tea with me in the morning. She claimed that I "inspired" her.
It was a surprise, then, when I walked out of the bathroom, still a little wet from my shower and a towel wrapped around me, to see Draco Malfoy, or all people, shutting the door behind him. "Malfoy!" I half-squealed, half-snarled. "You could have warned me!"
He threw me a bemused, ill-looking smirk. "Sorry, Granger, couldn't resist; for old time's sake, you know." I had seen him only a handful of times since our chance encounter a month ago; when we accidentally met, we passed each other with nothing but a curt nod. He looked to be in a foul, sarcastic mood and threw himself onto the couch, pointedly looking away from me. I slipped back into the bathroom and tackled my hair, wrestling a comb through it.
"What do you want, anyway?" I called to him.
"They want us to come back." His words were raw with bitterness.
For a moment I just stood there. Staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, at the sad woman who looked back at me, the mist on the mirror fazing the edges of her form slightly. She reached out to the surface of the mirror and brushed away the clouds that hung around her. I walked out of the bathroom to look at him; I realized, for the first time, that he was wearing wizard's robes again, a black traveling cloak edged in shades of green. His pale grey eyes looked angry, bitter, hard. "What do you mean?" I asked slowly, not believing what he'd said.
"Damn it, Granger," he swore, standing up in a rustle of his black cloak. "They're calling it the Third War."
"Against whom?" I demanded.
"Some crazy bloke who thinks he can be Voldemort," Malfoy spat, sitting again.
"Oh, honestly! We're not the only ones who survived, you know, and by no means the most experienced." Roughly, I started raking the comb through my hair again as I paced. "They could have gone to Lupin…Mad-Eye…Tonks…Shacklebolt…any of the Aurors! They don't need…and what on Earth are you looking at me like that for?" I snapped, whirling around and glaring at him.
His face hadn't softened, but his voice and his pale grey eyes had. "It wouldn't be so bad if you were a bit more gentle," he said quietly. "Your hair, I mean."
"This is a really spiffing time to discuss my hair," I said crossly, folding my arms across my chest.
"It is," he said, glaring right back, "because it will calm you down, at least for now, and the last thing I need is trying to deal with a hysterical female."
I didn't even have time to make one of the customary You did not just noises before I was saying, "And how on Earth would you know anything about hair?"
"My mother," he said simply, and I looked away, feeling my face redden. Narcissa had died in that final battle. "She brushed it every night. Do you have a brush?"
I cast him a suspicious look and went into the bathroom, rummaging for the brush I knew was there somewhere. I couldn't have known he was watching me.
He could see, in the mirror, that when she bent slightly her collarbone showed through her pale skin, creating a fine, hard ridge that would stop anything. Droplets of water still hung on her bare shoulders, and her hair was drying. She didn't look so much like a Mudblood anymore. She looked like a powerful, young, brilliant witch, and a very sad one at that. He had very little tolerance for thinking like that, though, and he looked away. It wasn't indecent, really; the towel covered her down to her knees and only exposed her bare shoulders, and she definitely did seem uneasy with him around like this, but he doubted that now she remembered anything about wanting to change, not with thinking of going back to a life they'd both deserted – he supposedly permanently, she supposedly temporarily. As always, she'd been right.
Cautiously, I emerged from the bathroom with the found brush, never used. He had resumed his typical haughty expression, but said, "Now, seriously, Granger, no wonder it's always so bushy. Just go slowly."
Apparently I did it wrong, because he gave a resigned sigh and said, "Come here," and nodded to the spot on the couch next to him. My couch. Anger flared up inside of me, but I wrestled it down and joined him on the couch. He touched my shoulders and turned me so I was facing away from him, then took the brush from my hands. First, with a gentleness that surprised me, he worked his fingers through my hair, patiently untangling the knots, and muttered something about split ends before muttering a few words of magic, and I felt small pieces of my hair be snipped away from the ends. Then he slowly put the brush through it, separating the curls until they fell around my shoulders in gentle, very far from bushy waves.
Surprised, I turned my head slightly; I could see his hand, working through my hair. "You're good at that," I said, my voice considerably softer.
"I watched my mother do it a thousand times when I was younger," he said, and his voice had softened, too. It was strange; I'd never heard Malfoy's voice the way it was now; usually it was full of accusation, deceit, sarcasm, hatred, loathing, never gentility. I couldn't believe the change the softness had wrought in his sound; suddenly, his voice was lighter, less heavy, just above a whisper as he spoke. "Father would always be away, and I'd sit by her feet near the fireplace every night, just to be near her." I heard the sadness in his voice and nearly turned to comfort him, but then a voice shouted in my mind, Hermione! This is Draco Malfoy! Honestly!
Something else kept me from turning, too. I knew that if I turned around, I would see something that I didn't want to see; it would be a Malfoy whose sadness was plain on his features, and that would make him so much harder to hate. It was getting harder already, just hearing the pain in his voice right now.
"I miss her," he said finally, and I felt the brush pause in my hair a moment.
"Well, we have something in common after all, then," I said, looking straight ahead of me and thinking of Harry, what he'd say to see me sitting here, in only a towel, with Draco Malfoy – Draco Malfoy – brushing my hair. He would have had the ghost of a smile twitch his lip. I thought of what Dumbledore would say, too, how I was sure he'd be so glad to see a little bit of house unity after having been gone from Hogwarts for so many years.
"Really." Was that a genuine smile I heard in Malfoy's voice? "And what would that be?"
"We both lost someone we loved in that war," I said, quietly. "We should honour their memory by fighting this one. Right?"
"The typical Hermione Granger talk of unity and honour and valour," he said sarcastically. "I knew I'd hear it soon." I turned back to face him, and he sighed heavily, glancing down. It struck me then how very unlike his father he looked. He was so far from stoic, even though he tried so hard not to show it. While Lucius's features had been arrogant with pride, Draco's were almost delicate with anger and hauteur. Surprisingly, it made a big difference. "I'll be by at six sharp tomorrow." He stood, his cloak rustling.
"Where will we go?" I asked, standing as well.
"Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix," he responded, already on his way to the door. "Oh, and Hermione…we'll be arriving together, so do make yourself presentable, won't you?" As if to make a point, he handed the brush back to me and Disapparated, his haughty expression already back in place.
It was when I was in the bathroom, running my fingers through my newly tailored locks of hair, that I whispered aloud in surprised, "You called me Hermione."