―CHAPTER TWELVE―
Malfoy vs. Draco
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Damn. Midnight?
Hermione Granger stared at Draco Malfoy's request and wished that she had not relinquished her little golden hour-glass … a twirl of which would have extricated her from the thorny position she now found herself in. Stand up Harry, or Malfoy? She desperately wanted to know what had happened to her friend, and to see his smile when she recounted her Ravenclaw breakthrough. Equally enticing, was the dream chance of hearing the (ex?)Death Eater's confession. And either party would get suspicious if she came up with excuses to cancel … whose anger could she risk?
Friends always had priority …
She had an oath to uphold.
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The architecture of Hogwarts castle as per the Marauder's Map betrayed sheer genius on the part of Johann Roland, the world-famous designwizard who had dreamed up its idiosyncrasies: one of which Hermione was now blessing him for as she crept along the secret passageway linking an indoors niche to the outlying Astronomy Tower. Having never used this route (and not having needed to, as access to the tower was formerly not banned), she was not sure where exactly it would wind up, but by the eventual sharp grade of the path she imagined that it ascended in circles parallel to the tower staircase. At last, her wandlight illumined a rock wedged at the tunnel's end, and before intoning the spell to roll it aside, she murmured 'Nox.'
Clearly she wasn't alone in her foresight that light might draw attention through the open-aired ramparts of the round room: Malfoy was waiting in a greenish-hued glimmer diffused from his Hand of Glory –he jumped slightly upon seeing her, and demanded loudly, "How did you – "
"Magic, Malfoy," she said, smirking. "You know, that extra-Muggle phenomena we study here …?"
"Oh, joy," returned the cross-armed boy sardonically. "Outshined by my star student in stealth and satire."
"How come I can see in here?" Hermione asked, trying to ignore the oddly pleased sense his praise of her class status had effected. She pointed at the shriveled bone-arm grasped in his fist. "I thought it gives light 'only to the holder'?
"That, Granger, would be," said Malfoy, lifting cool brows. "Advanced magic." He took a step forward and set the object down on a telescope stool, wiping his hand absentmindedly on his trouser leg afterward, as though it felt unclean. He added brusquely, avoiding her eyes, "A souvenir of …"
"The last time you used it, yes," said Hermione in her iciest tones.
His shoulders slumped a little, and she saw his eyes move across the empty room, fixing point-blank on a spot by the ramparts at the end. "There's nothing much to say … about that night."
He sounded unapologetic; sulky, even, as though being accused of gate-crashing another of Slughorn's parties –she recognized the same symptoms of … embarrassment. He's ashamed. How quaint.
"Shame doesn't cut it, sorry," she said scathingly, flaring up without preamble. By his open-mouthed look he was taken aback at her sudden reaction and accurate assessment. "You need to feel real remorse –you need to – " she thought of Dumbledore's white tomb at the bottom of the lake, she thought of everything that was shattered, missing, and felt livid and embittered –"to get down on your knees, and remember," her voice trembled with hot anger as she stepped in and seized his left arm, sliding the sleeve up roughly and jabbing at the exposed tattoo. "What THIS means, joining Voldemort's sick cult, and the choice you made to help kill a man who was trying to protect you even as you –"
"Stop!" Malfoy exploded, pushing her violently up against wall behind them and clamping his free hand over her mouth. "Hermione, please …"
And he took his hand away and brought his mouth down on hers, hard.
She couldn't breathe or think or struggle or fathom anything beyond the sensation of his weight crushing warmly against her body, his arm that had snaked around her waist, the pressure of their parted lips together, the wet tongue twisting slowly around hers–
Shocked, Hermione wrenched her head aside. "What do you think you're doing!" she gasped out, glaring at him as best as she could from this foreshortened distance.
Malfoy was breathing hard, and in the green-suffused dimness, she saw a dusky blush rise in his face, staining it painfully, as if it hurt him like a burn. Feeling her own skin scorching with indignity –and, well, whatever else it was –she sidestepped him and said in a furious whisper, "Is this what you asked me up here for? A private lesson in the Dark Art of 'Breath Eating'? Or, rather, a replay of attempted murder –by suffocation?"
"Don't pretend you didn't like it," he said smugly. "You've been reduced to breathy blushes and bad puns."
"You're impossible," she huffed, turning from him and stalking toward the concealed entrance of the secret passage. It didn't matter if he learned of its existence, or the map's, for that matter –right now, all she wanted was to escape his offending presence. Drawing her wand, she muttered, "Don't know why I even bother."
With two long strides he had caught up with her and, grabbing her shoulders, spun her around to face him. "Don't turn your back on me, Granger," he said, eyes glinting. "And incidentally, why do you bother? Why agree to meet me for an illicit rendezvous in the middle of the night, when you haven't given me the time of day throughout your entire –" his voice was cuttingly cynical. "Hogwarts career? Furthermore," he tightened his vice-like grip as she wriggled to prise herself away. "Might you not ask why I bother? In fact, don't your motives arise exclusively from nosiness regarding my motives?"
Hermione paused squirming long enough to give Malfoy the benefit of her most self-righteous, scoffing expression. "I thought it was made perfectly plain in your note, that you were supposed to explain yourself about that nig –"
"I'm not stupid, Hermione," Draco hissed. He was positively bruising her now. "Nor do you lack intellect, as you so admirably flaunt in class … so don't insult either of us. You know what I mean."
"Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me," she snapped, raising her wand in warning. "I don't fancy a chat while being manhandled."
He released her immediately. The circulation returning, she massaged her sore arms. He began pacing the width of the circular room, then stopped, and shot her a piercing look. "Well, are we to speak openly with each other?"
What a question. The crux of the matter, essentially: candor or cunning; which was the trump card? If she showed him her hand, would it lull him into doing likewise? My task for the Order of the Phoenix is to discover whether you're still on a soul-selling contract signed to Voldemort. A step toward mutual confidence could be the key to unlocking his closet of skeletons … or it could open Pandora's Box, letting all hell loose.
"I can hear the wheels whirring in your transparent Gryffindor brain," said Draco in a bored voice. "Leave the masterminding of sly nefarious plots to me … just answer the question."
Compromise, she decided. Midway between truths and untruths.
"Yes," she said quietly. "Let's talk straight."
"Agreed," he said, holding out his hand.
I cannot believe I'm making a pact of honesty with the Slytherin prince of deceit, she thought as she acquiesced to the proffered handshake. Merlin help me.
"So, you start." Conjuring two chairs, he seated himself in one and waved her into the other. Almost as an afterthought, he suggested, "Shot of Firewhiskey to break the ice?" and conjured two scotch glasses and a decanter filled with bronze-coloured liquor.
"No, thanks," said Hermione, thinking of the poisoned brew he had smuggled in last year that had mistakenly been imbibed by Ron.
"They say alcohol is the only true truth serum," he shrugged, raising his glass and knocking back his drink. "I thought we could toast our newfound truce … ('Aguamenti' drawled, imperiously, to the decanter) "Unless …you don't trust yourself?"
"Fine," she said crossly. If not innocuous, the drink was clean at least. She accepted a half-filled glass and took a guarded sip, feeling the fiery liquid burn its way down her throat and dissolve into a pleasurable warmth inside her. "Mmm," was her muffled consent to a refill. After the second round, she blurted, "What's your angle, in playing nice?"
White teeth flashed in a sphinx-like smile. "Ladies first."
"You already guessed," Hermione said. "I'm here to find out why you are. Back at school, I mean."
"Because you don't believe that I've defected," he stated calmly, flicking his wand at her empty glass.
She sipped mutely; he scowled.
"I never pretended to join your people –" he nodded at her wide-eyed unsaid query. ('Of course I know you're in with the Phoenix lot, what do you think we discussed at Dark Order forums?') –"and I never retracted my admitted respect for Dark Arts –McGonagall's throwing it in my face, and you see me putting up with it like a good little reformed Death Eater, don't you? In exchange for protection. Not out of Potterish machismo, not as tribute to Dumbledore's memory, and most certainly not from a change of heart on the issue of blood supremacy … my sole noble aim: unadulterated selfishness of survival."
"So you're still prejudiced against Muggle-borns?" Hermione knew she was digressing, but she had to know.
Grey eyes darkened. "I can't condone wizardicide anymore," he said tersely. "But as heir to the Malfoy name, it's my duty to keep the line pure … therefore I socialise with the, er –'right sort,' as Father would say."
At this the boy suddenly fell silent, and Hermione had the impression that he was mentally recoiling from the thought of said sire. The whiskey was making her light-headed, and she wondered aloud, unthinkingly, "How did it happen? Your mother –?"
Draco filled his fourth glass and finished it in long, fast gulps. It seemed he would not respond, but at last he looked up at her, face flushed. "Lucius had to pay for losing the prophecy and some –important book, or something. And for wasting time sitting in prison. His punishment was … blood sacrifice. Very ritualistic, very primordial … with an alter, and a black veil, and a knife." He gazed at the prismatic rays glittering off the decanter crystal. "My penalty, for failing the assassination mission, was to watch."
She didn't offer words of comfort because she knew they would sound hollow. But her face crumpled, and to hide it she drank. Unnatural silence permeated the air; the way to break it was to continue questioning, even if it was a question she knew the answer to … she needed to hear it firsthand.
"You … didn't kill Dumbledore?"
"Couldn't." He was speaking with a slight slur now. "I stood right –over –there," he gestured at the tower door. "'Not a killer,' he said … guess the mad old coot was right."
"Why didn't you take his offer of protection?"
His half-lowered lids flew open. Uh-oh. Wrong question. "You said this before," he accused in a low voice. "How, exactly, do you know what was said in this room?"
"Harry was there," she said, the look in his eyes telling her it was unwise to lie. Also, her mind felt far too woolly to fabricate alibis. She chuckled. "The invisible eye."
"Second broom ... Potter, naturally," the Slytherin sneered, but the sneer seemed half-hearted. Or just, not sober.
The room had become toasty warm and Hermione peeled off her jumper. What else to ask?
"Why did you …" Hermione narrowed her eyes, focusing. "Run away with Professor Snape?"
"Severus Slape is a bastard," slurred Draco. "Made Mother an umbrable vow … that I'd stay – alive, y' know? –well, wouldn't work out for him if he … returned to Vord-ah, – y' know, the Dark Vold –alone."
"I always …" she struggled to form the thought into words. "Felt that … Snape … was," His image eluded her. "Cruel to be kind, somehow? Dumerdore believed in him …"
"He hired Kwurill, too." Draco yawned. "And that wolf, and the giant, and a psycho. Staffing not … his best power."
"Lupin was …"–this was important, she must remember, she must explain –"BEST Defense teacher wehad!"
Draco's wand-arm, dangling as he slumped down in his chair, moved lethargically, and her chair was flying forward, scraping the floor, crashing against his, knocking it over, and he caught her as she fell onto him, limbs tangled as they toppled to the floor, and Hermione found herself sprawled face-down over a laughing Draco down who leaned in with a mix of Firewhiskey and cologne scenting his murmured, "Better than me?"
Movement had finally given Hermione a clue to her extent of drunken vertigo. Pushing up with palms flat on the wooden floor on either side of the blond head below hers, she half-lifted her body, dizzily poised over him. She felt she ought to be indignant, and she attempted to fix the –sneaky snake, her brain supplied –with a suitably withering look, but her vision was blurred and all she could focus on, while inhaling the heady cologne, was that taunting mouth, mere inches away, and she wanted to wipe the smirk off, yes that's it … Brushing her lips against the soft warmth, she was conscious of hands fastening on her hips, pulling her deeper into the kiss, and her own fingers curling in sleek hair, and this time she welcomed the sinuous wetness of his tongue and then he was on top, pinning her down and soon she was moaning his name. Now, irrevocably, … Draco.
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A/N: Johann Roland -- yes, thanskgiving to a cameo JKR!
sorry if the kiss scenehappened too fast, but Draco's on a deadline, and Hermione ... well ...she's, er,just drunk? (I knowthat sounds terrible, but I promise it will get 'romantic' later on! don't shoot me!)