WARNING: Chapter contains reference to torture.
Chapter Nine
"I don't know what to do."
Hermione's brows drew upward as she waited for him to say something more, but Draco only shook his head, appearing both confused and disappointed in himself. It was times like this she facetiously wished Harry visited more often—she'd love to see the look on his face when she explained that a Malfoy could experience more than one emotion at a time.
"You don't know what to do?" she echoed, aware how thick she sounded, as though she were incapable of comprehending that simple sentence. But she didn't see how he could've given himself half a day to think and still have no idea what he wanted during this mess.
Exhaling a miserable sigh, he settled beside her on the sofa, his hands rubbing along his legs in an anxious gesture. "It's not that I don't want to stay here—I very much do—but I can't ignore that my motivation is still in question. I can't honestly say it doesn't have everything to do with your 'guests.'"
She nodded, trying to be sympathetic. After all, she wasn't sure how she'd respond were their roles reversed. But she couldn't ignore that he wasn't being entirely honest. "It's only one of those guests with whom you actually have a problem."
"Well, that's hardly a newsflash, now is it? I've said as much, more than once. I mean, have you seen him?" Draco hissed the question in a whisper, acutely aware of the very same creature they spoke of in another room down a decidedly short corridor. "He's..." He shook his head, his eyes drifting closed a moment. "He's everything I'm not."
Oh, yes. She certainly did understand. She felt this very way every time she was in the same room as Fleur. It had taken her some time to accept that Fleur wasn't actually a terrible person—that it was her own rush to judgment, her own insecurities that allowed her to turn the Veela-witch into some abominable monster with whom no other female could compare.
How long had it taken her to accept that it wasn't Fleur's fault how she looked, nor the subtle, entrancing magic she exuded that blinded males to her flaws? How long until she had realized it was her own issues that permitted her mind to exaggerate those flaws in order to justify her own distaste of another woman whose only real fault, once one was truly paying attention, was a blunt manner?
She was ignoring, entirely, that he was essentially inviting her to think about Fenrir Greyback's physical attributes.
With a small smile, Hermione reached out, clasping both her hands around one of his. "I get it, Draco. And I know boiling this down to whether or not you trust me wasn't fair, and it wasn't realistic. I was angry, but I do realize it's simply not possible to expect you to be perfectly okay with this, or tell you not to worry. I mean, you shouldn't, but I know you will anyway."
He looked at her hands holding his, her slender, delicate fingers curled in a gentle hold. The revelations from Greyback had given Draco more to think about than he cared to admit. Hermione Granger was fierce and stubborn and tough, quick on her feet and even quicker with her wits, difficult to get close to unless one was willing to risk having an eye put out before she felt truly comfortable enough to open up to them. In those ways, he supposed it made sense that she had something… feral in her blood.
Yet she was also small, delicate, gentle, patient... well, most of the time on that last one. And in those ways, it made the prospect of her being descended from a werewolf seem laughable.
Laughable or not, he couldn't deny how jealously flared through him every time he considered that her heritage gave her a link to Greyback he couldn't comprehend.
"Knowing what I do now, I just can't help thinking maybe you'd like me better if I were a werewolf," he said, but then his grey eyes flashed wide and he winced, the words clearly having fallen out of his mouth without thought.
Her expression shut down as she pulled her hands from his. That he would even think that hurt. "This is something I only just learned about myself and it's taken you, what? Less than a day to throw it in my face?"
She bit her lip, stifling an unexpected sob. God, this day had been wretched. Mum had taken her leave the moment Draco had returned so there went any hope of support. Hermione still couldn't shake the discussion with Fenrir about just how close the wolf was. She might turn with the next full moon. If she did, her life would change, she was very aware. If she didn't, well, who was to say how long sanity and reason would permit her to allow Fenrir and Frigga stay with her.
But that wasn't all that tore at her just now as she stared back at him, feeling her eyes well up.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a breathy rush of sound. "I didn't mean it like that, I swear."
Tipping back her head, she uttered a sad laugh. "No, no. It's not that." Meeting his gaze, the witch shook her head. "Well, that certainly didn't help, but…. It's just occurred to me how easy our relationship has been before now."
"Easy? You and me?" Draco offered a laugh of his own, uncertain where that observation had come from.
"Don't get me wrong, we both had a lot of growing we had to do—though, to be fair, I think we did most of that each on our own before running into one another again after Hogwarts—but those were more internal issues. This is the first time we've had an external challenge to our relationship and look at how easily it's getting to us?"
His brows shot up. "So you admit his presence here is challenging?"
Rolling her eyes, she sighed. "Only in so far as it's making you insecure, yes."
It stung to hear the reality aloud, but he couldn't deny it. "Look, I'll make this simple. I'm going to stay, but if I start feeling like ... " Draco let his eyes drift closed for a few seconds before going on. "Like maybe I'm not what you want anymore—"
"Draco!"
He pressed a finger to her lips. "Shh, let me finish. You may not think anything is going to happen, and we both want to think we're stronger than this, but I can't pretend the possibility doesn't exist. So, I will stay with you—and them—and I'm going to do my best not to let this situation change how you and I are."
She nodded, aware that should sound strange. Yet it didn't, because she understood precisely what he meant. She'd learned well from the folly that had been her relationship with Ron. Things would be great between them as it was, and yet, whenever another male was in the picture—except for Harry, of course, but then sometimes even with Harry—suddenly Ron became suffocatingly affectionate, showered her with gifts and attention. At first, she'd not made the connection, simply enjoying what seemed some random burst of sweetness, but after a few more similar incidents, she became very aware that he didn't have as much faith in their relationship, or in her, as she did if he believed such overtures were necessary to keep her from straying.
And she couldn't say Draco was wrong about there being a … possibility, as much as she loathed it. It was less than a day since Fenrir Greyback had come stalking back into their lives, and yet there had already been tears and shouting and a fair bit of angry storming out.
She offered a small, sad smile. Yes, perhaps it was time she stop denying that it wasn't entirely impossible. Not believing in magic wouldn't stop a spell from working, after all, so pretending there wasn't some ... minor spark between herself and Fenrir wasn't fair to anyone, least of all Draco. She wasn't about to be swayed by a tiny little flicker, but she knew ignoring that it existed wouldn't solve any problems, either.
"I understand."
"Good." He stood and offered a hand down to her—she stared at his fingers a moment before reluctantly accepting, uncertain if this were simply an affectionate gesture or an attempt to throw their relationship in Fenrir's face. "C'mon, it's late and it's been a very long day. Time to go kick a werewolf onto the sofa."
Oh, a little of both! Of course it was.
Hermione had no idea how she made it through the next day in her Ministry office. Stifling a yawn, she peered into the depths of her coffee mug, saddened to find it empty, but aware another shot of caffeine—she'd lost track how many cups she'd had some time around lunch—probably wasn't going to do any good.
She'd tried hard to sleep last night, and one would figure with the strains of the day she'd have drifted right off as soon as her head hit the pillow, but… damn, there went that yawn she'd just tried to push away. But she kept waking up, unable to stop herself from creeping out to the living room to check on Elora.
Only she never really made it that far. Having trouble sleeping himself—she couldn't be sure if it was the unfamiliar environment or some other matter—Fenrir was seated up on the sofa. One long arm draped across Frigga's cradle, he stared out the window.
His gaze didn't even flicker toward where she stood at the corridor entryway as he whispered, "No, no. The pup's fast asleep. Back to bed with you."
Sure, she'd made up for it by cuddling with Frigga all through her morning coffee and bite of breakfast, but she was positive they hadn't accounted for the fact that her bond with Frigga had made it difficult to sleep without seeing the baby was all right firsthand. Hermione let her chin rest against her palm and allowed her eyes to drift closed, scrolls untouched on her desk.
She'd simply have to discuss that with Fenrir and Draco when she got home—advising the former that he was not to shoo her away in the future if he meant her to get any rest at all, and the latter to assure him that yes, it was only to check on the baby.
"Hermione!"
The witch started awake, nearly jumping in her seat as her hand slipped from beneath her chin and her head snapped up. Wide-eyed, she turned her head. "Good Lord, Neville! You scared me witless!"
Her friend chuckled warmly, shaking his head at her. "Sorry, I should've guessed you were still out of it after calling out Friday."
"Hmm?" In her exhausted state, it took her a moment to recall that she'd feigned illness to stay home with Frigga that day. Bless Neville's trusting heart for believing she was simply still recovering without a single question about what mysterious bug she might've caught. "Oh, yeah, I suppose so. Did you need something?"
His brows pinched together. "No, no. Just… it's end of day. You can go home and sleep in your bed instead of at your desk?"
"Oh!" Her jaw fell. Last she recalled there were still two hours left! She forced a laugh, aware how painfully awkward the sound came out. If only he knew that wasn't as simple as it sounded. "Of course."
She hurried to gather her things. "Thank you, Neville. Goodnight."
He nodded, hanging back a moment in case she seemed unsteady on her feet. When she managed to get out of her chair and start through the office without any hesitation or missteps, he relaxed. "Goodnight, Hermione. Let's hope tomorrow will be better, yeah?"
The witch stifled another noisy, frankly rude, yawn. "Yes, let's."
The rest of the week passed much the same. With the small exception that the boys had grudgingly agreed to let her check on Frigga during the night so that she could rest.
But those moments she was out of bed, if she accidentally woke Draco, he'd force himself to stay awake, still—and of course understandably—uneasy about Hermione being in the other room with the werewolves in the middle of the night. And Fenrir didn't seem to sleep at all.
She desperately hoped that pattern would not hold, that Draco's insecurities would ease their stranglehold on him, that Fenrir would get comfortable enough to sleep at night, or their would be no living with either of them. And she had already mentioned once that she would not be above kicking them both out until the month was nearly up.
On Friday, she came home to find what seemed a miracle. Fenrir was asleep, stretched out on the sofa that suddenly seemed impossibly tiny for what a large creature he was. And slumbering so deeply he didn't wake at the sound of her opening and closing the door.
Smiling, she breathed a sigh of relief. Setting down her things as quietly as she could manage on the table, she tiptoed over to the cradle.
Frigga was asleep, too. Her smile widening, Hermione sat on the floor beside the dosing child and reached in her hand. Trailing delicate fingertips along the soft skin of the baby's pudgy little cheek, she felt a sense of calm… of right steal through her.
"You go on sleeping, little poot. You and I have the entire weekend to spend together." Oh, Hermione was absolutely thrilled with the notion that she had nothing better to do than dote on Frigga the next two days! She'd take her to the park and ohh, perhaps the zoo!
Wait, she thought a moment, biting her lip. Could she safely take a baby werewolf to a place with so many animals? Did she emit some sort of scent undetectable to humans that would set them off?
She withdrew her hand and turned where she sat to face Fenrir, meaning to ask. She half expected him to have silently awoken, to be sitting up and facing her, waiting for her to notice.
But he was still asleep.
With a half-smile—thank God, she knew he needed the rest—she looked about, wondering what had happened to the spare blankets she'd set out for him. Yet her gaze never made it that far. Fenrir's back was to her, and in his shifting about in his sleep, his shirt had pulled up against the cushion.
It would be easy to get lost observing the expanse of olive skin, but—perhaps not unexpectedly for an adult werewolf—it was hardly unblemished. She knew what she was looking at; it was easy enough to remember all those scars on Remus' face even now. Yet the jagged lines crisscrossing Fenrir's back were not from claws…. She'd seen these types of scars.
In documentaries on world history; those terrible moments when pictures flashed across the screen displaying the atrocities humans committed against each other.
Her eyes welling and her heartbeat seeming to slow in her chest, she didn't even realize she was moving as she reached out. Fingertips sweeping along the scars in a gentle brush, she thought she might honestly break down as she wondered how the hell he had—
In a terrifying whirl of motion, she found herself against the floor, her arm stretched out painfully at her side in an iron grip. Fenrir was on top of her, growling in her face.
But he didn't see her, she could tell he wasn't seeing anything in front of him, his amber eyes bleary and dazed with interrupted sleep.
"I'm—I'm sorry," she squeaked out, mindful not to scream or cry out—the last thing this situation needed would be for Frigga to awake in a fright.
At her voice, Fenrir gave his head a shake. Blinking a few times, the growling subsided as his eyes focused.
"Hermione?" he whispered her name, confused.
Just as fast as he'd pinned her beneath him, he relinquished his hold and scrambled off. Struggling to get his anxious breathing under control, he put his back to the sofa and pulled his legs up in front of him.
Resting his hands on his knees, he only looked at the floor in front of him, seeming afraid to meet her eyes. "What—what happened?" his voice was barely a murmur, stilted and loaded with caution.
Seeing him like this made her chest ache. Miles away from the strong, fierce, wildly intimidating creature he'd been all those years ago.
"It's my fault," she said, aware that he had only reacted to her overstepping boundaries. "I ... you were sleeping and I saw your scars and I just … before I realized it, I was touching them, and that's when—"
"When I woke up in a growling ball of anger, right," he interrupted with a harsh laugh, nodding.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. They just looked so ... I'm sorry," she repeated, uncertain what more to say. There was no excuse for her disregarding his personal space like that. "I think I simply can't imagine it. Fenrir? Who did that to you?"
He finally dragged his gaze up to meet hers, amber irises swimming. "Hermione Granger, I'm rather certain there's not much in this world I wouldn't tell you. But please, and I'll say this only once, don't ever ask me about those scars again."
She only nodded in response, unable to pull her gaze from him for a few heartbeats. Against her own better judgment she shifted closer. Settling on the floor beside him, she tipped her head, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Though she would honor his wish and never ask again, she couldn't help wondering—even as it caused her heart to hurt even more simply to think it—how it was that Fenrir Greyback had been lashed by a whip. Several dozen times, from the terrible and tragic look of it.