(Harry Potter Fan Fiction)
Scent
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Nor is Draco Malfoy. Or Hermione Granger.
History: Post-HBP. War has began.
Summary: She could still smell him on her.
Pairings: Draco/Hermione
A/N: Written for the dmhgficexchange over at LiveJournal.
She wondered what had happened.
She wondered how she became convinced that hiding was the best option while her best friends continued to put their lives on the line to protect people like her. Muggleborns, they said, the Death Eaters will come after each and every Muggleborn. You're not safe with us, not even with the Order. You need to hide. We'll come get you when the coast is clear.
She briefly wondered how long ago that was. Time was lost on her. She spent weeks moving from place to place, reading the Muggle newspapers diligently, looking for any strange reports or sightings and praying that there wouldn't be any mention of her friends.
And that day, she noticed something in the papers that caught her attention. A house was broken into, and the perpetrator apparently set fire to the house before making his getaway. Fortunately, a neighbour notified the fire department and the fire was controlled, leaving only a part of the house destroyed. It was reported that the family was away on a vacation so no injuries were incurred.
There was nothing peculiar about it. Except the house on the photograph attached to the article was very familiar. Too familiar.
Two hours later, she stood in front of her house in the pouring rain, her cloak pulled tightly around her. She parked her car a few blocks down, not wanting to attract any attention and walked to her house. And because of that, she was drenched from head to toe.
The air was thick, hot and humid and she felt like she couldn't breathe.
The upper left side of the house was falling apart. Black. Charred. Splintered.
She swept away the hair plastered against her cheek and headed for the front door, slightly ajar. She stepped into the house and shut the door behind her, immediately overwhelmed by the familiarity of everything before her.
The news report was right. The house was relatively unharmed. The only indication of a fire was a charred corner of the stairway and the stinging smell of burnt wood.
The fire must have begun upstairs. The second step on the stairway creaked in protest as she placed her foot on it, as it always did. The sound echoed across the house and she paused and waited.
Nothing.
Of course, there was nothing. There was no one here. They were long gone. She could smell it in the air now. The fire wasn't started by an ordinary match.
There was the smell of magic in the air.
When spells are cast, they leave behind a certain scent. Just like humans, who shed skin cells, leaving their scent everywhere they go. Each and every human being has his or her own distinctive scent. In the same way, different spells leave different smells behind.
She continued her way up and by pure instinct, turned in the direction of her own room. Or what used to be her room.
It smelled awful.
Maybe it was the burnt articles scattered all over. Maybe it was the smell of the spell. She shut her eyes for a moment and tried to calm herself as bile rose up her throat.
Then, something in the air shifted. Her nose perked detected a different aroma. It was hauntingly familiar. And before she could put her finger on it, it was gone.
She turned. No one was there. She was alone. Of course, she was alone.
A creak.
She froze and her hands went cold. People often described fear as an awesome force, invading one's body, taking over it; those people had never known real fear.
Pure fear is clean and flawless. It is nothingness. It doesn't so much take over your body as it actually deprives you of one. The concept of death wasn't what she was afraid of. She was afraid of leaving.
But she knew she couldn't let fear in.
Inhaling hard, she forced her legs to move out of her room and carefully down the steps. She slowly reached for her wand. It was a long way down.
The shadow looming at the bottom steps turned and she stopped midway. For a moment, she couldn't quite see his face and she pointed her wand in his general direction, uncertain of what spell to use if he suddenly attacked her. The shadow shifted and with the aid of the dim streetlights streaming in from the windows, she caught a glimpse of his face.
Bloody hell.
"Took you long enough," a familiar voice cut through the silence.
He wasn't expecting to be discovered. He wasn't really expecting to find her here either.
He knew they were enemies. He also knew she wouldn't hurt him, unless in self-defense, and he wasn't looking for a fight himself. And for his own sake, she sure hoped he was right.
"You!"
Ah. So many emotions in that one word; shock, repulsion, disgust, anger perhaps.
"You."
The second time she said it, he could sense the difference. The negativity was gone, and instead, replaced with…
Defeat, perhaps.
And maybe even relief.
She came down the stairs and slipped past him straight to the couch next to the fireplace. She sank down and the couch swallowed her. For the first time, he noticed she was drenched.
And she seemed so small.
He eyed her carefully.
"I'm on the other side. I'm with the Dark Lord," he stated.
"Really? I never saw that one coming," she retorted, her voice soft but mocking.
"Wait. Granger, I'm supposed to kill you. We're supposed to be sparring with each other right now," he paused, half-expecting her to jump up from her seat and brandish her wand at him.
Instead, she just let out a mirthless laugh. "Really?" She sat up from the couch and stared at him for a while. He stared right back, slightly disconcerted, but determined not to let it show.
"Malfoy?"
"What?"
"You didn't kill him. Harry said you couldn't do it."
He knew immediately who she was talking about. The memories from that fateful night came rushing back, nearly knocking him over. He turned away from her, not knowing quite what to say to that.
"Are you really on the other side?"
His heart slammed against his ribcage and he shut his eyes.
"If you really wanted to kill me, you would have done it upstairs earlier, when my back was turned."
It was unnerving. She was too close for comfort.
"You know something? Every single time something bad happened in Hogwarts, Harry and Ron would blame you. Like in second year, the Heir of Slytherin? And just last year," she paused, apparently not that keen on elaborating and digging up the awful memories.
"Well, the thing is, I never thought so. I was always skeptical of you committing all those heinous crimes and sins they accused you of. And you know what, most of the time, I was right."
He clenched his fists tight at his side.
"You don't know me," his voice was low and threatening. "Don't act like you know me."
"Oh, but I do know you, Draco Malfoy," she replied. She knew she might be going a little bit too far. She knew him, alright, she knew he had a huge ego, and she knew she was bruising it up pretty badly.
Then again, she wondered how well she really knew him.
He turned around abruptly, ready to direct his tirade at her but a sudden crash at the front door stopped him.
She shot to her feet and before she could decide what to do, he grabbed her by her elbow and shoved her in the direction of the kitchen.
"Go! Stay out of sight!"
"But –"
"Go!" He gave her a hard final shove and strode to the front door.
She stumbled into the kitchen and ducked behind the counters just a loud voice boomed out.
"Malfoy! What are you doing here?"
She strained to listen as the conversation continued at a much lower volume, much to her disadvantage.
"I was sent here."
"No. I was sent here, by your father. He wanted me to stakeout the place in case the idiot of a Mudblood decides to come back."
"No, he must have made a mistake. He sent me."
"Oh, alright then. Fair enough. Come to think of it, haven't been seeing you around much, Malfoy, not even at the gatherings."
"I've been busy."
"Right, of course you are. Right then, I'll be on my way. Unless, you want me to help you out here."
"No. I don't think she's going to come anyway."
The conversation droned on for a few more moments and then there was only silence. She slipped back down to the cold tiles, her back against the kitchen counters. She was confused. She wasn't really sure what was going on, but she knew if Malfoy hadn't helped her, she would have been captured.
But Malfoy also did say his father sent him.
The silence was punctured by regular footsteps. He was coming back to look for her.
She smelt him before she actually saw him. It was that smell she caught a whiff of earlier upstairs. It was that familiar smell she remembered from back in Hogwarts, when he was always hovering around her, trying to beat her in everything.
She remembered it all.
He appeared next to her and after a moment, dropped down next to her.
"Your father didn't send you, did he?" She turned to him.
The moonlight streamed through the kitchen windows and she could see him quite clearly. She realized the silver light did wonders to his grey eyes as he turned to face her as well.
"No."
Then her lips were on his.
She wasn't really sure who leaned. But she was sure someone leaned. There was definitely leaning.
But it didn't matter anymore, not when her hands were in his hair, not when his hands were gently caressing her face. Not when her hands were stripping his coat off, not when his hands were reaching underneath her shirt. Not when her hands were up against his chest, not when his hands were running down her back.
He smelled wonderful.
They broke apart for air and she took that moment to utter a single word.
"Why?"
"What?" He stopped, his mouth midway to hers.
They were so close that his scent enveloped her.
"Why did you come here? Why are you doing this? Why are you helping your father?" She couldn't help it. The questions simply poured out of her. She had to know.
He pulled back.
"You don't know me," he repeated, getting onto his feet.
"Yes, I do! And this is not you. You're not evil. You're not meant to be. You're a good person. You have a good heart, I know it," she stood and reached for him, suddenly afraid.
Afraid to lose.
"You. Don't. Know. Me."
"Draco."
"I'm my father's son," he said, turning away from her.
"No."
"You want to know why I'm here? I'll tell you. I wanted to know how pathetic you have become, how sad a life you now lead. You were always so smart, so brave, but now look at you, running scared," he turned to her, and his eyes were a different shade of grey.
She chewed on her lower lip, fighting back the tears, the doubts.
"I'm a Malfoy. I'm a bad person, you idiot."
She remained quiet, unable to trust herself to speak.
"I'm a Malfoy."
"Alright. Okay. Whatever gets you through the day, Malfoy," she spat out his last name, then calmly made her way to the back door, not looking back.
The rain had stopped.
The air was still and warm.
It was dead quiet.
The night was still young. Everything started so fast, and ended too soon.
She could still smell him on her.
END.