Chapter 13 - Well that's going to explode
Hermione arrives at breakfast early on a Monday morning a little over a week after Halloween. The Great Hall is gloomy and grey to match the November weather outside.
She expects to be the first sixth year Slytherin to arrive and is rather looking forward to enjoying her tea in peace while she updates her planner for the week.
Instead, to her surprise, Malfoy is also up early. Her heart flutters when she sees him.
Hermione forces herself to take a deep breath and not alter the pace of her stride as she approaches the table.
"Malfoy," she says evenly, dropping into her usual seat next to him.
"Morning, Granger." He half smiles through heavy, tired-looking eyes.
They've come to a general understanding this past week. Or she has, at least. She thinks he has too. They haven't spoken about it, as such. But Hermione cannot deny the situation any longer: She seems to be dating Draco Malfoy.
It's desperately inconvenient.
It's probably going to ruin her life.
She doesn't have any inclination to stop.
"How are you?" she asks softly, her gaze flicking over the bags under his eyes.
"I've been better," he says, taking a long sip from his oversize mug of tea.
She touches a light hand to his elbow for a fraction of a second. He nods his head subtly in acknowledgement of her touch.
"Can't you tell me what's going on?" she pleads. "I might be able to help you."
Hermione's asked him several times this week already. His answer is always the same. But if she can just get him to let her in, maybe…
She's not really sure. Maybe she can fix it. Maybe she can stop him, if he's doing something awful. Maybe if he talks to her, she'll trust him more. Or he'll trust her.
Or, maybe, if he tells her what it is, she can stop imagining the worst.
"You don't want to help with this."
"But how do you know, if you won't tell me?" she argues. "I might surprise you."
He fixes her with a long-suffering stare. "Trust me, you don't want to help me. Merlin, if you knew what you were offering…"
Yes, she wants to scream, that's it exactly. I don't know!
Instead, she takes a breath and tries again.
"Well, if it's something so awful, then maybe you shouldn't be doing it," she reasons. "Maybe I can help you get out of it."
"Who says I want out?" he sneers. "What if I want to do it? I hope you haven't forgotten who I am. Or where I come from."
"Yes, I'm well aware of all that, Malfoy," she grimaces. "Doesn't mean I have to accept it."
He looks at her for a long time, a gaze she can't quite place the meaning of, then sighs.
"Just write in your planner, Granger," he says wearily.
Hermione nods, conceding her temporary defeat. She digs her planner and a quill out of her bag and tops up her tea.
"Wait. How did you know I wanted to write in my planner?"
"It's Monday," Malfoy says simply.
"Oh."
Hermione writes in her planner. A few moments later, a copy of the Daily Prophet arrives for Malfoy. They sit in companionable silence, him reading, her writing, until the table starts to fill up around them.
Pansy's the next sixth year to arrive.
"Having a nice morning, you two?" she asks knowingly.
Hermione is confident that neither she nor Malfoy have told anyone about anything that's happened between them. She is equally confident that Pansy knows everything.
"Fine, thank you," Hermione says.
"You know," Pansy goes on, "I know I said you have to sit next to Draco at meals, but there's no requirement for you to sit quite so close."
Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Thank you for that, Pansy."
Pansy smirks and gestures at his paper. "Can you imagine if that Skeeter woman were here? 'Harry Potter's muggle-born friend and the son of an imprisoned Death Eater get cozy.' She'd sell a million copies."
"Everyone knows Rita Skeeter only prints lies," Hermione says calmly, ignoring the way her stomach drops out from under her at Pansy's words. "And I have no idea what you're talking about, anyway."
"Right," Pansy snorts. "And I suppose you have no idea why Potter's not speaking to you, either."
Hermione stumbles over an intake of breath. It's true. Harry hasn't spoken to her since Halloween, not properly.
She's tried talking to him, several times. He says he's fine, that he's not mad at her. That's how Hermione knows he hasn't figured out the truth about her… situation with Malfoy. He knows she lied to cover for him. And he knows — because she told him — that she's been getting along with the Slytherins. Harry's hurt and confused and she hates it –– but he doesn't know everything.
"Anyway," Malfoy interjects firmly, "you'd do well to consider your own secrets, Pansy, before you go trying to expose anyone else's."
Pansy just gives a smug little smile. "Who's exposing anything?" She helps herself to some fruit. "As far as I know, there's nothing to expose. Isn't that right?"
Hermione tries to tune her out and carry on with her planner, filling in her schedule for Thursday.
"And since nothing's happening," Pansy continues. "I'm sure you won't object to a little advice?"
"How does that follow?" Malfoy asks. "Those ideas don't go together at all."
Pansy ignores him. "If I can figure it out," she says, voice turning earnest, "it won't be long until someone else does too. Watch yourselves. And don't say I didn't warn you."
Blaise, Tracey, and Daphne choose that moment to arrive at the table and complain loudly about the charms assignment Hermione finished days ago. Pansy raises her eyebrows at her significantly, punctuating her point.
Hermione purses her lips as she meets Pansy's stare, before snapping her planner closed without finishing her schedule and shoving it in her bag. She hasn't managed to eat any breakfast yet, but she's suddenly not very hungry.
She marches out of the Hall, head down, planning to go to the library for a few minutes before class starts.
That's the other as-yet unspoken rule of… all this. Secrecy. She can't imagine how Harry or Ron or any of her other friends would react. She'd never be invited to the Weasleys' again. And, Merlin, the publicity. That aspect hadn't even occurred to her until Pansy brought it up. But the things Skeeter would say…
As for Malfoy, regardless of what he said in the common room ages ago, about how he would welcome people finding out as a way of sticking it to Ron and Harry, it wouldn't be good for him either. She can't imagine his parents would approve – or Voldemort, if what's going on is as she suspects it is.
"Hermione!"
She turns.
"Hermione!" Ron calls again, before noticing she's already stopped. "There you are," he says, catching up with her. "I've been looking for you since yesterday."
"Here I am," she says with a weak smile.
"So… are you feeling okay?" Ron asks as they fall into step beside each other.
"I'm fine," she says hesitantly. Just having a mild, secret morality crisis.
"Okay," Ron says awkwardly. "Okay. That's good." He rakes a hand through his slightly too long hair. "But…what's the deal with you and Harry?"
"I — he hasn't told you?" Hermione stops in her tracks, surprised.
"No," Ron says, pulling her gently toward a stone bench and sitting down. "He keeps saying I should ask you."
"Oh," Hermione says, sitting down and wondering how to put it into words. "Well, we had a… fight? Sort of. Not really a fight. But the night of the ball, Harry and I followed Malfoy to the Room of Requirement, and Malfoy said something that made it seem like I lied to Harry."
"But you didn't lie to Harry?" Ron frowns.
"No," Hermione clarifies, her gaze fixed on a speck of mud on Ron's left shoe. "I did."
"What?" Ron says sharply. "Why? What did you lie about?"
"Ron," Hermione says, voice breaking. "I can't. I can't tell you why. I'm sorry."
She places a hand on top of Ron's. He flinches away.
"Harry said you were getting friendly with the Slytherins," Ron says. "I thought he was exaggerating. But if you're lying to protect Malfoy… I don't know, Hermione, I just don't know."
"Maybe I'm protecting myself!" Hermione exclaims. "It's complicated, Ron. I don't want to keep things from you and Harry. But I promise, promise, a million mountain trolls promise, that I'm on your side. Harry's side. No matter what. You'll always be my best friends."
She says that last bit through tears.
"Then you can let us in, Hermione, can't you?" Ron pleads. "If we're your best friends, you can tell us anything. Let us help you. Whatever you're protecting yourself from, we can help. We'll figure something out, we always do."
It's remarkably similar to what she was saying to Malfoy a few minutes ago, in a way she can't quite process. Maybe it just means there are far too many secrets this year. Too many things Hermione doesn't know the answer to.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "I just can't yet. I need to figure some stuff out on my own first."
Ron sighs. "I was afraid you were going to say that."
"I'm sorry," Hermione says again.
Ron tentatively reaches for her hand. He squeezes and she squeezes back.
"Are we okay?" she asks.
"Yeah," Ron says. "We always are. And I'll talk to Harry."
"Thank you," she says again, smiling in a thin line. "Ready to go to class?"
"Sure," Ron says, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Hey, maybe you can help me figure out this thing Lavender said yesterday…"
And the next thing she knows, Hermione's giving Ron relationship advice. A thing she is uniquely unqualified to do, but which is a more-than-pleasant distraction nonetheless.
Theo fidgets with the handle of his cauldron. Slughorn's lecturing about something, Theo's lost track. He missed a few days of class last week.
Slughorn assigns them the potion for the day, a complex draught that would be a suitable distraction if he were looking for such a thing. What he really wants is to go back to bed.
"Ah, Mr. Nott." Slughorn arrives, interrupting Theo's complex process of staring off into space and ignoring the assignment. "Good to have you back, my boy. I suppose your father is well?"
He should have expected Slughorn to be nosing around, fishing for the latest gossip.
"As well as can be expected, sir," Theo answers generically. In truth he's not sure his father could be considered to be doing well by any set of expectations.
"That is often the way," Slughorn responds, taking on an air of wisdom.
Theo nods politely and the professor shuffles on.
It's been eight days now since Professor McGonagall found him in the Great Hall. She brought him to her office, and told him that his father had been transferred from Azkaban to a secure ward at St. Mungo's.
Some sort of chest affliction. Cause unclear.
Possibly natural.
Possibly poison.
Either way, he was close to death.
That last bit was all McGonagall told him. The near-death thing. And that if Theo wished to see him, he had to go immediately. He did not particularly wish to, but he went anyway.
He found out about the possible poisoning through an overheard conversation between healers.
"The diagnostics of his lungs are showing an abnormality," one of them had said, the younger of the two, just outside the bathroom Theo was hiding in at the time. "It doesn't look like a natural substance."
"It's likely not," said the more senior healer, whispering. "He was a high ranking Death Eater, apparently. But he was injured at the Department of Mysteries — you know, when Potter and the other kids were there? And You-Know-Who can't have been pleased with his performance."
"So you think he was poisoned?"
"Aye," the senior healer confirmed. "Best to record it as natural. It's subtle enough it could have been missed on the test. We wouldn't want to cause any trouble. Treatment should be the same, such as we're able to give him."
Upon hearing this, Theo spent a further 40 minutes hiding in the bathroom. He did that a lot during the three days he was there.
He hadn't been sure how long he was supposed to stay. When he'd spoken to McGonagall, she made it sound like he should stay until his father died. But she also made it sound like that would be imminent. But it was now looking like his father could survive for weeks or months, and he couldn't possibly be expected to stay that long, could he?
No one was around to tell him what to do. The healers were kind, if not overly helpful. The guards outside the door to his father's room were neither. They were human, at least. He'd been worried they'd be dementors.
But no one had seemed to know what to do with Theo. Just two months from his seventeenth birthday, he was almost of age, but not quite. His legal guardian was deathly ill and under constant guard, but there wouldn't be much point in finding him a new one.
So Theo made his own decisions. He stayed at the hospital for three days, flitting between his father's room, the family accommodations, the cafeteria, and hiding in the bathroom when he didn't want to be in any of those places. Then he owled McGonagall and got permission to use her floo to come home to Hogwarts.
His father was unconscious the whole time he was there.
"Pass the heartnut sap," Draco mutters absently, staring intently at his cauldron.
Oh, right. Potions class.
Theo has apparently done something. It's not clear what. His cauldron isn't empty, anyway.
He passes Draco the small jar of sap. Draco accepts it, and pours three drops into his cauldron, which promptly turns his potion the desired shade of sky blue. He stares at the potion for another second, then flicks his wand to turn off the fire and takes a step back.
"Done," Draco declares. "How's yours going?" He peers into Theo's cauldron. "Oh. Well that's going to explode."
Draco smoothly vanishes Theo's attempt at a potion and covertly ladles a scoop of his own potion into Theo's cauldron.
"There," Draco says. "If Slughorn asks, just tell him you miss-measured the eye-of-newt in step one and then corrected by keeping the amounts proportional. Explains why you have so little."
"Thanks," Theo mutters.
"So," Draco asks, as he begins clearing down their station, "are you all sad and spacey because Slughorn brought up your dad, or have you been like this since you got back?"
Theo shrugs. "Both, I guess."
"Hm." Draco purses his lips. "But he's hanging on?"
"For now."
"Pity."
Theo makes an indistinct grunting noise.
"And since you've been back, you've just been holed up with Longbottom?" Draco asks, tone impressively neutral.
"More or less. I've gone to class, too," Theo answers. "For the most part."
"And has Longbottom been… helpful?"
Neville's been perfect. Full of tea and sympathy and patience.
He's familiar with St. Mungo's, and with hopeless cases. He understands, as much as anyone can. Though Neville, at least, wishes his hopeless cases well.
Theo can't decide. He felt, seeing his father in the hospital, the exact opposite of what he'd felt in the vision he had in Divination class of him dying in prison. There's no triumph, no sense of power or winning.
He just feels numb. Empty.
All the years he wished he'd never have to see him again. Soon, he won't.
He's not sure how to process that. On the one hand, there will be a freedom to it — no more fear, no more impossible expectations. But on the other hand, who is Theo without him?
Who is Theo without the times when things were good? Few and far in the past as those times may be.
And who is Theo without the fear? The expectations and obligations? What's left?
Only a blank space. A freedom of emptiness.
"Neville's been great," he answers Draco, a faint smile flitting over his lips. "Perfect."
"Well, that's something I suppose," Draco says, snapping his textbook shut.
"Yeah," Theo says, shoving his own unopened textbook back in his bag.
"And the whole throwing yourself off Gryffindor tower thing?" Draco asks evenly. "Any changes there?"
Theo attempts a reassuring smile. "No plans at the moment."
"Good," Draco clips. He's ready to go the instant Slughorn dismisses them, his bag already over his shoulder. "I have to go. See you later Theo."
Draco disappears before Theo can reply, no doubt off to work on his secret mission.
Theo makes the slow walk to Divination, ready for the warmth of the tower classroom after the cold of the dungeons. He hopes they'll be doing tea leaves today. He could use a cup of tea.
The rest of November drags on in a flurry of mid-term and many hours in the library. Hermione spends as much time as possible with Harry and Ron, taking comfort in the familiarity of them and trying to repair the damage done on Halloween by sheer force of time spent in their presence.
She doesn't actually spend very much time with Malfoy. And of the times she does see him, they're almost never alone. At one point, she considers just loitering in the hallway outside the Room of Requirement – that seems a surefire way to run into him.
It's just so hard to find an uninterrupted stretch of time to talk. Between how much time she's been spending with Harry and Ron, the workload of NEWTs, Malfoy's project he still won't tell her about, and the requirements of secrecy, they can't seem to find much time to spend alone together, let alone have a substantive conversation.
One day last week, she'd heard her name whispered from behind a tapestry in an otherwise empty corridor. She ducked into the hidden alcove, and, well. That had been a rather long stretch of uninterrupted time, they just didn't get around to speaking much.
And they need to. Or Hermione needs to, at least. There's so many things she wants to know. There's what he's working on, of course.
But there's also how he feels about her. And what they're doing – what is it, anyway? What are they? What's the goal, the future, the label? What does he want?
There's a part of her that's still convinced it's all part of some scheme. Woo her, manipulate her, some indeterminate middle step, Voldemort wins the war.
There's also a part of her that has no idea why she's doing this. Forget what he wants, what does she want?
She has a tendency to forget that any of this is important though, when she looks him in the eyes, or finds him in an alcove. It just… ceases to matter. There's nothing in those moments but him and her.
On one particular morning, a note falls out of Hermione's planner when she opens it to record her Arithmancy homework.
Stay up late with me tonight. I'll be by the fire.
She wonders if this means Malfoy is having similar doubts, or feeling a similar need to talk.
Hermione stares at the artful handwriting on the note for several seconds before shoving it back between the pages of her planner.
Meeting in the common room will be risky, even if they are the only ones awake. Anyone could catch them at any time.
There's no doubt in her mind that she's going to take the risk.
She leaves the library a bit earlier than usual that night, stops by her dorm to drop off her bag and give Crookshanks a scratch, and neatens her hair a bit. Pansy raises an eyebrow at Hermione's primping, but says nothing.
Hermione brings a book and settles into an armchair on the back corner of the common room. It's positively freezing. The warming charm she casts helps, but not enough that she doesn't wish she could be closer to the fire.
Malfoy's already there, sitting comfortably with an ankle crossed over his knee, chatting with Blaise, Crabbe, and Millicent. He's telling a wildly amusing story, judging by the peels of laughter that reach all the way to her cold corner.
She sighs and opens her book. It distracts her modestly well for a modest amount of time.
Hermione spends the rest of the time lost in her anxious thoughts and coming up with talking points she wants to discuss with Malfoy.
Finally, finally, around one o'clock in the morning, everyone else leaves and it's just the two of them in the common room.
"Thanks for waiting, Granger," Malfoy says, his voice soft, but carrying easily over the distance between them in the deserted room.
She picks up her things and moves, dropping down next to him on the couch. "Hi," she says, smiling tentatively, suddenly shy. "Finally."
He quirks his mouth into a confident grin and leans in, kissing her chastely at first, then with more urgency as she opens herself up, relaxing into his touch.
It would be far too easy to get distracted by this once again.
"Hi," he says, mere inches from her face after she pulls away. "How are you?"
His face is lit strikingly by the shimmering light from the crackling fire, and Hermione is forced to notice how stunningly attractive he is. It would be bloody annoying if she didn't like it so much.
"I'm alright," she starts, not sure how to begin to explain the mess that's going on in her head. "I was starting to think those fifth years would never leave."
"Me too," he says, laughing softly. "I'm glad you stayed."
He shifts closer to her on the couch, letting his knee brush up against hers.
"You seem happy," she remarks, tracing a finger over the back of his hand where it rests just on his thigh. "Secret project going well, then?"
"No." He grimaces. "But I don't want to talk about that."
"And you're absolutely, positively sure you can't tell me what it is?" she needles him, just for the sake of it.
"Absolutely positively sure," he confirms. "Now tell me about your week."
Malfoy listens intently while Hermione describes her progress on her Ancient Runes assignment and her continued frustration at finding nothing of use about the Sorting Hat in her spare library time.
"You're still researching that?" he asks incredulously. "You've been doing that since the first day of school, Granger. Surely you've read all there is to read by now."
She nods in agreement. "Maybe," she says. "But it doesn't hurt to go over things again. I mean, I asked Dumbledore about it too, that first day, and he said he had some idea, but he wouldn't say any more than that. Harry's asked too, but he won't tell him either. So there has to be an answer, if Dumbledore knows it. I just have to figure it out."
"Do you, though?" Malfoy asks, looking inexplicably hurt. "It doesn't really matter at this point, does it?"
"I don't know! That's the point –– no one has ever been resorted in all of Hogwarts history except for me and Theo. That has to mean something, right?" She pauses, going quiet for a moment. "I'm just worried that if I don't figure it out, something bad will happen. Whatever it means, I don't think it can be good."
He nods, seeming to turn her words over in his mind. "But you can't always stop bad things from happening. Maybe you should just accept things as they are."
"Some bad things can be stopped," she counters. "If you have enough information, and make good choices… bad things don't always have to happen."
Malfoy scoffs. "Well that's incredibly naive, Granger. What if you don't have any good choices?"
Hermione considers this. That outlook… explains a lot about him, actually. If bad things are inevitable, why even try? It's remarkably nihilistic. And sad.
It's just more of a reason for her to get some answers.
"So, can we talk about —" she hesitates, steeling herself. "What are we doing here, Draco? What do you want?"
"From this?" He straightens his back, increasing the distance between them. "I don't know. You tell me."
"I don't know either! That's why I'm asking!"
"Okay, well if neither of us knows, that's fine, right? We don't have to know anything."
"I'm not sure I follow that logic," she says dryly. "Either way, I can't keep waiting around in the cold corner — do you know how cold it is over there? — until the middle of the night just to talk to you."
Malfoy sighs. "I know."
"So what do we do?"
"There are plenty of tapestries in the castle," he smirks.
"Be serious!" Hermione scolds, tapping the hand she's been tracing softly this whole time in a gentle slap.
"Oh, but I am," Malfoy says. "What, did you think we were going to start going on dates? Cuddle in Madam Puddifoot's? Or did you want me to carry your books around for you, like fucking Weasel and Brown? Cause if that's what you want, Granger, I suggest you look elsewhere."
"No of course not," she snaps. "As if I'd ever go to Madam Puddifoot's. And I would never put someone else in charge of my books."
"In that case, what's the problem?"
"The problem is," Hermione begins, her voice rising as she goes, "that if I'm going to lie to Harry and Ron and sneak around, I need it to be worth it! I'm not here to be some – some plaything you only pull out when it's convenient for you, or — or just snog behind tapestries and then not speak to for a week!"
It all just sort of bursts out of her. But the words are clarifying. To her at least, if not to Malfoy who looks utterly confused.
"I don't see how this is my fault, Granger. It's not like you do anything different."
She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a few breaths. What is she actually upset about? What is she trying to say?"
"I think," she says slowly, "I need to know that it matters," she explains. "That it's more than just meaningless… physicality. I guess I'm asking… if you care."
She winces and looks down after she speaks, protecting herself from her own stupidity and his inevitable rejection. Of course he doesn't care. This is Malfoy. He's about to laugh at her or confess that this was all part of a dastardly scheme.
It doesn't matter to her anyway. She doesn't need the affection of a bigoted, arrogant bully who's probably a secret Death Eater. No. This will be fine. Better that she humiliate herself now and get shot down before this goes any further.
"You're worried that I don't care?" Malfoy spits. "Granger. Are you fucking kidding me? It's the middle of the night. Do you know how much I need to fucking sleep? Yet here I am, with you, on this fucking couch! I think about you all the time. So much that it's distracting me from what I should actually be doing, which, by the way, is really fucking important. And you sit there and you ask —"
He cuts himself off, leaning forward and grabbing her face in both his hands and kissing her roughly. So roughly she thinks her lips might bruise. It's the burning again, like their first kiss. Desire and power and flames and she wants more, she wants more, she wants more.
He pulls away as roughly as he started and glares at her. "Well?"
"What?" she says, dazed.
"Are you convinced?"
Hermione gapes at him, her thoughts moving too fast to grab onto any single thread. She closes her mouth, then opens it again, trying to speak. There are no words, none at all, not anywhere in her brain.
So she kisses him instead, soft and slow.
It's the only way she knows how to explain that, yes, she's convinced of his feelings. And all of this is still such a horrifically, terribly, awfully bad idea with no possible way of ending well.
But in the meantime, she'll be here.
