A/N: I wanted this chapter to end on a good note, and I finished it Monday night but had to find a suitable song to fit it, so that's why it's so late.
Chapter 26: A Delay
Hermione and Draco's greeting at Number 12 Grimmauld Place was somewhat frosty. Yet it was not Hermione who elicited this response, it was Draco. This fact tipped her off that no one there knew it was she who had killed their precious Dumbledore. So she kept her lips shut on this, and Draco wisely followed her example.
Draco, however wise he was about keeping the dealer of Dumbledore's death quiet, was not so smart about his other actions. Responding to the adversity he found at Grimmauld Place, he became defensive and snooty, often reverting back to his trademark smirk and a skeptically-raised eyebrow. Sadly, the cycle only looped back within on itself, as Draco's response brought out even more snide comments and suspicious whispers, and in turn he shot back more sneers…. And all Hermione could do was sigh and wish it was not thus, but it was unfair to tell him to stop if the others would not.
Many of the members of the Order were gone, anyway. At least half of the people usually coming in and out of the house did not any more. When Hermione had asked Mrs. Weasley, she had said not to be worried, they were all simply off doing business for the Order. Prodding for more information was of no use, the redhead pleaded ignorance with a look in her eyes that said she knew all.
"Underage my ass," Hermione growled into her pillow. Molly still considered her an underage wizard, which, she was sure, was why she was not told where the other members were. "I am seventeen!" The irritated sigh was lost in the emptiness of the room, and abruptly, she wished Draco were at her side.
Of course, it was improper, and incredibly unnecessary, and horrendously implicative (of things that had never happened) for Draco and her to continue sharing a bed, now that they were safe within the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Even so, the small bed felt cold, and she nervously tossed and turned without Draco there to guard her side. Jealously, she wished she could fall asleep just as easily has he had. His head had barely hit the pillow when his thoughts went still and cobwebby with sleep.
His incoherent thought chain lapped against her mind as waves do against the shore. It was not enough, however, to draw her into sleep any more than waves could submerge an entire tree by only touching upon its roots. With a groan, Hermione tossed the blankets off her body and shivered in the abrupt chill. She tiptoed across the room and rooted around in a closet until she came up with three more blankets.
Shivering already, she piled these atop her other ones and burrowed in beneath them. They smelled slightly moldy with disuse, but did the trick, warming her up sufficiently. What seemed like hours later, Hermione fell asleep, only to dream of a warm body beside her and possessive arm keeping her safe throughout the night.
Draco was sick. Miserable and only half-conscious, but irrevocably ill. Upon waking, his head felt heavy, his throat dry, and his eyes seemed to burn when he tried to open them. A curtain shunted the daylight away from his face, but it lightened the room enough to wake him anyway. He muffled a groan by pulling the blanket under his head and shivering beneath it. His nose felt as if it would fall off, it was so frozen and he seriously wished that Hermione's warm body was next to him to heat him up.
There was a knock at the door, and he suddenly wanted to cry with frustration. Draco Malfoy never got sick, and faced with the obvious fact that he was now made him angry with whomever dared to disturb him.
The lock on the door snapped open, and the door squealed as it opened slowly. The noise made him want to yell at whoever was opening the door, or at the very least throw an anvil upon them. Maybe then they would understand his want for peace. "Draco?" Hermione's soft voice called out.
"Wut?" he said thickly, only then realizing his nose was stuffed up. His attempt to answer "what" had come out embarrassingly uncivilized, and he was glad she couldn't see his shame burning his cheeks under the blanket.
"I brought you some breakfast," she said softly, though that may've just been the blankets over his head. He imagined that her voice was uncertain, and darkly entertained thoughts of snapping at her. But no, that would be mean, and he was feeling absolutely awful. "Are you all right?" he heard her say, and this time the uncertainty was not imagined.
"I'm fine," he grunted.
Her scoff did not go unheard, and he began to regret his earlier thoughts of kindness for not snapping at her. "Draco, it's almost one in the afternoon. You never sleep this late. You are not fine," she said, with that annoying tone of superiority in her voice.
"Go 'way," he yowled, and was embarrassed by the unnatural pitch of his voice. A Malfoy's voice should always be perfectly disciplined, with no cracking or breaking or hoarseness even throughout adolescence.
Draco could feel the bed compress next to him as she sat down. Hermione's dim thoughts—almost crowded out of his mind completely with his own wretchedness—were all the warning he had as she carefully pulled the blanket away from his head.
"You're sick," she said decisively. The girl examined his face and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, his cheek, the side of his neck. He shivered at her exquisitely lukewarm hands against his burning skin, though he felt cold as ice. "You have a fever," she said, recoiling slightly. "I'll go see if Mrs. Weasley has any medicine. Oh, this is all my fault for not wearing enough layers yesterday. I'm so sorry," she said, leaning over cautiously to place a kiss on his forehead. "Be right back."
Draco almost wished she wouldn't come back. It'd be better for him to sit out this misery all alone. He shivered and pulled the blanket back over his head.
True to her word, Hermione was soon back, making that indent in the side of his bed once again. "Here," she said softly as she pulled back the covers again. He shakily sat up as best he could, and was surprised when she propped him up on pillows. The glass in her hand allowed him a view of a frothy blue liquid.
Looking up at Hermione piteously, he made a face at the drink. Her face immediately changed from one of concern to admonishment. "Drink it," she commanded, handing it to him. With a soft groan, he hesitantly reached for it, and grabbed it from her when she glared at him. He would rather drink it on his own, with his dignity still about him than have her dump it down his throat.
The first sip of the potion was interesting. He could hardly taste it, with his nose stuffed up as it was, but what he did taste was rather unpleasant. He licked the fizz off of his upper lip with a scowl and eyed the glass with detest. Best get it over with, he thought, suddenly more wretched than before. With a single gulp, he drained half of the glass, and then after a breath of air, determinedly swallowed the rest of it. Hermione took the empty cup from him, and he tossed her an annoyed (and exaggerated) look of disgust at the brew.
Hermione, however, seemed only amused by this. "Hey, I drank it too," she protested. "And it wasn't all that bad," she chided him gently. But then she leaned over and tucked his blankets around him tenderly. "Go back to sleep, Draco," she murmured as she kissed him. He saw the concern on her face as she ran a hand through his sweaty hair.
And then she was gone, whisking out of the room with a quiet weariness that said she'd not slept well. He felt a pang of longing for her to be at his side, just before he sank deeply into the dark well of sleep.
That night, Hermione fell into bed only to hear a crunching sound. Rolling over in exasperation, she pulled out a crumpled letter from under her. Curious, she flipped it over only to see a seal in the shape of the Dark Mark. Her eyes widened. She had just told Mrs. Weasley that afternoon that they needed to replace the highly selective shielding ward that had disappeared with Dumbledore's death. For one of Voldemort's letters to get in to Grimmauld Place was a big deal indeed.
Hermione sighed and resolved to work with Mrs. Weasley on the ward tomorrow, but for now…. She turned her attention to the letter and opened it carefully.
Dear Hermione,
We haven't had a meeting in a while. Do come to MM and feel free to bring that boy with you. There shall be a party like none ever before. I will need you here tomorrow (Sunday) at 2 PM to work with plans. I am sure that by now you have figured out how to make portkeys, so go ahead and try one for yourself. If you haven't then I shall send one to you if you are not here by 2:15.
Most sincerely yours,
Tom
Hermione blinked slowly at the letter. "Thanks for the early notice," she muttered sarcastically, but carefully folded it up all the same. Fervently, she hoped the potion that she'd given Draco early that afternoon would have him well enough for the party. She mentally touched upon his thoughts, which were muzzy with sleep and illness.
Frowning softly, she got ready for bed and lay down. If they were to get the wards up tomorrow, she'd have to wake early, and then she and Draco could make some flimsy excuse about going to town for the day or something. Does Mrs. Weasley even know that we're staying indefinitely and not just for the weekend?
Snuggling into the bed, she waited for her warmth to heat up the cool sheets. A yawn cracked her jaw and the room swam in front of tear-filled eyes. Blinking away the yawn-induced tears, she tiredly curled up on her side and waited for sleep to drown her.
Draco felt dejected. Upon waking up in the middle of the night, he had felt lonely. His head still throbbed heavily, but he could breathe through his nose again by now, and his throat was not quite as sore. He coughed into the shadows of the room.
It had taken him a while to orient himself in the darkness, without Hermione by his side. He desperately wanted her there with him, and it was her absence that had kept him up for the last hour. Slowly, he pulled his achy body out of bed. Hey, I drank it too, he remembered her saying. Hopefully it would keep her from getting sick (was that why she'd taken it?).
At the last minute, he snatched a pillow up from his bed and clutched it to him as he wove his way through the quiet house. A light was on downstairs in the kitchen, and he momentarily thought about going down there for more of that awful potion. But no, if it was one of the Weasley twins or just about anyone else who hated his father for being a Death Eater, then he would simply be parading his vulnerable self out there for them to see. Not a good idea.
Foggily, he turned down the right hall (or what he thought was the right one…) and headed toward the end. Knocking on the door, there was no answer, and when he opened it up, it was only a small closet. Draco frowned and leaned against the door, wracking his brains to try and remember where her room was….
A door across and down the hall opened, and Hermione came out, with her hair messy and even bushier than usual. "Draco?" she said with a yawn. Her eyes tried to focus in the dark of the hall, and Draco stood up straight, trying not to clutch the pillow to himself too hard. Hermione's eyes registered this at last, and the corner of her mouth turned up. "Get in here," she said, almost ruefully, swinging her door open wider and disappearing beyond.
Draco didn't need to be told twice.
Voldemort paced the floor angrily. "She should know," he grumbled to the elegantly wrapped box sitting on his desk. "She should know how to make a portkey," he said. The clock on his mantel said that it was already 2:08. She should be here by now.
Just at that moment, there was a very ungraceful crash and holler. He looked around for the source but was confused and disconcerted to find none. "Um…hello father. Sorry I'm late," Hermione's voice stuttered. "I just need to…find a way down…" he could hear the fear in her voice and finally looked up….
Hermione was perched on the top of his bookcase, looking extremely uncomfortable. The Malfoy boy was crumpled awkwardly on the ground next to the bookshelf, groaning softly. "Oh, Draco, are you okay?" Hermione asked, turning quickly and almost falling off the shelf.
"M'fine," he muttered, slowly pulling himself to his feet. Voldemort noticed that the boy looked sick, pale and rather flushed (for a Malfoy). He had dark circles under his eyes, which were puffy and bloodshot and heavily lidded. As if to confirm the Dark Lord's thoughts, he gave a body-wracking cough.
"Here, Chicklet," Voldemort said kindly, conjuring a ladder and carefully aligning it against the side of the bookshelf. Hermione pinned him to the spot with an unexpected look of utter gratitude. Voldemort imagined that if he could have, he would have blushed as red as one of those detestable Weasleys.
As it was, he was immeasurably grateful that she had to turn her back to climb down the ladder, and thereby missed the pale pink that overcame his pasty cheeks. No. Do not feel anything. You will kill her at the end of this, do not let yourself soften.
The Malfoy boy coughed again, and Voldemort eyed him in annoyance. He would rather that his daughter didn't bring her little pets along, but he looked ill enough to hardly comprehend anything that was going on. Irritated, but careful not to show it too much, he conjured another chair for the boy if he did later want it.
When he turned back, Hermione was down from the ladder and looking uncertainly at the height of the bookshelf she'd been sitting upon not five minutes ago. A weak laugh escaped her. "I guess I need to work on my portkeys. But that was my first one," she added, seeking some little bit of praise.
In fact, she needn't have added that hopeful high note to her comment. For a first try, for her to even appear in the correct room was an accomplishment. No matter that she ended up atop a bookcase with her partner falling to the floor. "Impressive for a first try," he agreed. With a frown, the Dark Lord added, "You really have had so little experience with making portkeys?"
Hermione's glow at the praise dimmed, and she shook her head sadly. "Not making them," she admitted, helping the Malfoy boy onto the cushy armchair in front of the desk that he'd put there for her. She herself settled into the straight-backed chair beside it.
Voldemort came to their side of the desk and gave an unsure glance to the Malfoy boy. He had nothing to give him, but then again, it wasn't his fault that she'd decided to bring the boy along before he'd counted on her to. "I have a present for you," he said, tenderly plucking the gift from his desk.
He could not help but feel a slight thrill of excitement as she ripped through the paper and curiously examined the box to find the opening. No, you do not care what she thinks. The fact was, he'd forgotten how much he actually enjoyed the young girl's presence. The simple, unguarded eyes of hers, and the sheer, unadulterated joy she got when he doted upon her made him feel...bubbly.
Shaking his head to get rid of his thoughts as a dog shakes itself after a bath, he turned his attention back to Hermione, who had finally gotten the box opened. She ruffled through the tissue paper and then froze at a glimpse of what was underneath. "But…sir…father…" she stammered, standing. The box fell to the floor, but she was grasping the item underneath, so that when the box slid from her lap the dress was revealed almost as if a curtain had been thrown off of it.
It was a dress. Not dress robes, but a dress. It was full-length, silk, and pale blue, with a low-but-not-indecent neckline and flowing sleeves. The back was low, and tied up like a corset with blue silk ribbons. The ribbons were thick enough that if she tied them right, she could hide the scars on her back while showing off her Dark Mark.
"But…" she began, and then her eyes returned from their blank look to become serious, and her mouth set. "You can't keep just spending all your money on me," she scolded. "I mean, there's a million other things you could be doing with the money you spent buying this dress for me." She continued, but Voldemort was no longer listening. A smile played around his lips at her sudden transition from blithering idiot to scolding know-it-all.
He straightened from the desk and went around to the side with all of his drawers, opening one where another gift lay wrapped. "…listening to me?" Hermione sputtered in exasperation.
Voldemort glanced up at her and closed the drawer. "Right, I almost forgot this part of the gift." Hermione looked as if she wanted to glare at him but was holding back. And there, even deeper in her eyes was a want to be loved, to be doted upon just as he was doing now. Holding a straight face, he handed the box to her and resumed his post leaning against the desk.
There was a tightness to her lips that Voldemort wished he could overlook. Clearly, she was annoyed he'd spent so much money on her, and had not just been searching for something to say. Well, she would have to deal with it. With Malfoy in his hand, he could afford almost anything he wanted.
Speaking (or thinking) of Malfoys…his attention turned, momentarily, to the boy who was slumped in the soft armchair next to Hermione. While his position was almost completely lax, and he obviously wasn't feeling well, his eyes were fever-bright and attentive, watching the proceedings with interest. There was a small yelp, partially of delight and partially of amazement, which brought Voldemort's attention back to his daughter.
"Oh, my…but these must have cost a fortune!" she protested. She reached into the box and plucked out one of the two ornamental silver hair combs. The pair of them were shaped like butterflies, with pale sapphires set into the wings for color. Hermione looked up at him with a pained and yearning gaze.
Without warning, she dropped into a low curtsy. "My lord," she admonished quietly, still bent towards the floor, "You have no need to buy my loyalty. It was yours from the start."
This did not have the effect that Lord Voldemort would have expected it to have, had he ever imagined such an event as this. His jaw dropped, and he stared at the young girl, who was still bent over in a pose of utmost submission. "My dear girl," he began, and was amazed to find that he was actually hurt by her assumption. "I am not trying to buy your loyalty. I am only trying to give you what any loving father would give his daughter, did he have such money to spend. It just so happens that I do."
Hermione shook, and he liked to imagine that she was moved by what he said. He had surprised himself by actually meaning it, in fact. But the reality was that she was probably shaking from holding the curtsy for so long. At length, she straightened and gave him a tired smile. It was the only apology he would get, he knew.
"I'll be back," the Malfoy boy said into the silence. He shakily stood, getting his bearings, and walked over to the door and out into the hall. They were, after all, in Malfoy Manor, (or at least on a far corner of the property) and it was technically his house.
Hermione picked up the dress from where she had draped it over the arm of a chair and carefully put the comb back in the box. She glanced at Voldemort, holding up the dress in a question. Belatedly, he remembered about the shoes he had bought for her, but decided he could give them to her later. He nodded in response, and she left the room also, to try the dress on. When they were both gone, he allowed his shoulders to slump. "You're not supposed to like her so much," he growled to himself.
The room mocked him with its silence.
The ball that night was extraordinary, if not the best ball she and Draco had been to. It would have been better if Draco was not sick (though he was faring better than he had earlier that afternoon during their visit with Voldemort), but he doggedly kept up with her.
The Death Eaters were all congratulating themselves on their successful London raid. Narcissa was certainly a guest of honor for her work on the plans, and Voldemort had even acknowledged her as the producer of the plan. The dagger Hermione had used to kill Professor Dumbledore was put on display for the evening, and many people came to hug and kiss her (which was a bit unnerving, when some Death Eater she did not know would come and kiss her full on the mouth—however, most of them stayed on her cheeks and forehead) and commend her for the excellent execution (in more ways than one) of the plan.
Although it was a truly awful thing, Hermione somehow found herself giggling excitedly along with the other Death Eaters. Later, even, she was telling them all (much to her own amusement) about how she couldn't use the killing curse on him and had to just slit his throat. She embellished the story a bit, saying how he put up a fight, but of course he was no match for her without his wand.
When the party finally began to die down, Draco (who had stubbornly stayed by her side for the whole ball) took her by the elbow and led her up to the stairs. Hermione pranced beside him, and she could feel that it was taking all of his effort to keep her under control and himself in a dignified state long enough to get them to his room. "What's wrong with me?" she murmured, suddenly feeling sick. Her stomach groaned a protest and for a moment, she settled down enough to walk.
"I slipped some alcohol in your drink," the blond boy answered her truthfully.
Hermione broke into a grin and let out a high-pitched giggle. "You got me drunk?" she asked, suddenly finding the whole situation amusing.
Draco nodded wearily and turned down the hall. She followed him, fairly skipping in her shoes. "I knew you wouldn't be able to handle all the praise otherwise. So I got you drunk so you wouldn't have to deal with it until later." He leaned against the wall and braced himself for a coughing fit.
Hermione was staring curiously at a portrait, leaning close to it and then pulling away to make her eyes focus and unfocus, as if trying to see if there was something deeper there than layers of paint. She giggled, and Draco came up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist tightly and almost dragging her down the hall. It would seem that he had just gotten a new burst of energy since they were so close to his room.
"But I was looking at that," she complained quietly.
"No, you need to sleep now. You'll have a hangover, and I'm sorry for that but at least all of them thought you were nice and sociable tonight and not fidgety and nervous. Look, I know this means very little to you right now, but I'll never do something like this again, I swear. It's just…you got in there, and I saw how scared you were when they started to praise you, so I just thought, why not?"
He shoved her almost roughly into his room and turned, carefully locking the door. Draco turned and eyed her, and then also put a complicated locking charm on any exits to the room before taking away her wand. "Look, you can stay awake or not, but I'm tired and sick, and I'm going to bed now. Please, don't try to leave the room. I'm not sure all of those Death Eaters are sober enough to remember to keep their hands off of you," he said quietly, taking off his shirt and shoes and climbing into his bed.
"Well…why aren't your hands on me?" Hermione asked. The tone was innocent enough, but when he looked over at her from his bed, she had a soft pout to her mouth, as if seriously unable to understand it. Her eyes flickered with a deeper understanding, though.
"You're drunk, Hermione. Leave it be," he said, rolling over onto his side to look at her. She really was beautiful. The light from the fireplace glinted off of the sapphires of the butterflies in her hair, and made the silk shine strangely. The dress clung to her chest and hips, making her appear curvier than she actually was. With her brows together in a soft frown of confusion, her bottom lip stuck out just a little bit…in that moment, he wanted her so badly that it hurt.
No, he couldn't deal with this. Her thoughts tangled alluringly at the edge of his, but he kept himself away from that and shut his eyes. She was drunk, and he would not take advantage. Hermione was silent for a while, and the moment seemed to drag on forever. Draco couldn't sleep, and he carefully peeked at her from under almost-closed eyelids.
Hermione's mouth was moving as she spoke softly to herself, swaying slightly in front of the fire. Draco wished he knew what she was saying, but knew that the only way to do that was to venture into her thoughts. He wouldn't mind doing that, except that she may catch him up in her own (alcohol-induced) randy desires, and who knew if he'd be able to stop.
She turned, and her wide, innocent brown eyes met his across the room. Her head tilted a bit, considering, and then she walked over to his bed. Kneeling beside the bed put her at about the same level as him. "Draco, I think I'm in love with you," she whispered to him. Her eyes were serious, and a little bit scared, as if this frightened her. But it was the truth, he knew.
"Hermione," he breathed, savoring her name. One of his hands clenched his sheets. He would not touch her, not tonight, not while she was drunk. "I love you too," he murmured, and despite himself, leaned over to kiss her tenderly. "It's my fault you're like this," he kept his eyes closed as he whispered, more to himself than to her, "I won't take advantage," he reminded himself, still not drawing away from her. His lips were almost upon herswhile he spoke.
Draco was just about to pull away when Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. For a second, he could not help but entertain the idea of taking advantage of her. She was practically throwing herself at him. But if he did, she would never forgive him, and he would never forgive himself. She was not so drunk that she would forget what happened tonight. With a ragged sigh, he dragged himself away from her. "I can't do this, Hermione."
He scooted away from the edge of the bed and rolled over onto his other side. He closed his eyes sadly, ashamed he'd even considered for one minute that it would be okay to do that to her. Drawing up the comforter, he coughed into it quietly.
It seemed like forever before the bed dipped at his back. "Draco?" Hermione asked quietly. He rolled over and looked at her. Her eyes glinted in the dark, but he couldn't read them. "I'm not so drunk that I don't know what I was asking for." Her hand came up and ran through his hair. He really didn't know what to say.
Leaning over, she kissed him lingeringly. She was still tipsy, he knew, but fighting for a sober mind for all she was worth. Hermione sat up and took the butterfly combs out of her hair, placing them on the nightstand. She shook out her mane of hair, and then deftly wrapped it up into a bun near the top of her head. Holding it there, she turned her back to him a little more and asked, "Will you undo my dress?"
With shaking fingers and his protests dying on his lips, Draco sat up and reached over, slowly untying and then unlacing the dress. "Thank you," she said primly and with a wide grin (oh yes, Draco was now certain she was still tipsy). Then she stood and walked calmly over to his wardrobe and pulled out some clothing, going into the bathroom to change.
When Hermione came out later, she carefully laid the blue dress over the back of a chair and got into bed with a sigh. Draco didn't dare find out what that sigh was for, and pulled her close and wrapped his arm around her. Sober enough to know what she was asking for, he thought sadly. Had he known that, he may not have turned her down as he had.
"Goodnight, Draco," she murmured sleepily.
"Goodnight, love," he said. But by now he was wide awake. He could feel her muzzy thoughts drifting away and wished his were too. Draco turned his head away to cough into the blankets and then put it heavily on her shoulder. Her hand came up and rested on his hair, which was already becoming damp with sweat from the heat. She even tilted her head slightly so that her nose rested pleasantly against his forehead.
Shivering and sweaty, it was a while yet before he managed to sleep.
Hermione awoke to a pounding headache. She gave a soft moan and felt someone stir next to her. What had happened last night?
There had been laughter, and praise, and Hermione had laughed along with it. A multitude of people in black and some white. Draco's face, pale and flushed and colored with firelight. And…why was she not wearing a shirt? She edged away from the boy beside her, who was looking up at her with feverish eyes. Clutching the blanket to herself, she eyed him apprehensively. She didn't remember them having sex, but that didn't mean it hadn't happened.
His fingers had been warm as they'd touched her back when he'd untied her dress for her. She shivered at the memory, and winced at what had probably followed. "Draco…?" she said hesitantly. "Did we…?"
He gave a short bark of laugher, propping himself up on one elbow. "It's all right. You got hot in the middle of the night and took off your shirt. I would know," he told her, looking as if he would wink if he had the energy, "because your elbow hit me." As if to prove this, he rubbed a spot on his jaw like it ached.
Hermione nodded slowly, accepting his story, and leaned over the edge of the bed to look for her shirt. I won't take advantage, she remembered him saying distinctly. But she had wanted him to take advantage (not now, butat the time,she had). I am not so drunk… the words floated back to her and she winced, sitting up straight. She had been throwing herself at him, but…
Oh, right. "You got me drunk," she accused, turning to him. It was impossible, why on earth would Draco do such a thing, but…she had never before acted so lustfully while sober, and it would explain the headache.
Draco sat up, and she clutched the blankets to her chest and hoped they wouldn't fall off of her like they had him. "I did. And the party was better for it," he said, sliding out of bed and going into the bathroom. Hermione stared indignantly after him, and only allowed herself to slump back into bed once he was gone.
"He's right, I know. It would've been an awful show of Death Eater pride if I had been moping the whole night and not laughing and telling stories along with the rest of them. But still," she whispered, running a hand through her hair only to get it tangled up. "If he ever does that to me again…" I swear, he had promised. Chronologically, the events of last night were hard to place, but if she tried hard enough, she could at least remember everything that had happened, or most of everything.
Her stomach gave a fitful grumble, and she untangled her hand from her hair to rest upon it. I'm hungry, her mind complained.
"You need to eat," Draco said as he reentered the room, startling her. "And I'll see if I can get you something for your hangover." He came over to the bed and kissed her forehead lightly. "Be right back, love."
Once he was gone, Hermione got out of bed, wrapping her arms around her bare chest in the chill of the room. In fact, the room was not cold, but it was colder than the sheets of the bed had been. She looked around for she shirt she'd put on last night, and when she couldn't find it went and got another one.
Fully clothed once again, she looked around the room. The dress she'd worn last night was hanging over the back of a chair, and she could clearly recall laughing and trying to get Draco to dance with her (she never had been able to keep much of a rhythm, so if she had danced, chances are she would have been ever more uncoordinated than ever). She winced, both from the headache and from embarrassment at what she'd done while drunk.
The analytical part of her brain began to click. As far as hangovers go, this is probably not so bad. I was almost sober by the time I fell asleep, so this is just a fraction of what I would be feeling if I had been completely drunk when I went to bed. Even so, it hurts, she thought.
Draco's thoughts bumped against hers comfortingly, and she crawled back into bed to await his return.
"But I thought you two were going back to the school," Mrs. Weasley protested their arrival late Monday afternoon. Her gaze turned suspicious. "Where were you two last night?" What she was really asking hung sticky in the air between them. Draco smirked before Hermione could stop him, and she playfully shoved him into the bushes.
"We were too tired to walk all the way back here last night so we stayed at a hotel in town. In two separate rooms," she reassured the worried redhead. "I forgot to set an alarm, and Draco only ever wakes up when I wake him up, so we both missed the train. I think if we get on one as soon as possible, we can make it back for dinner tonight. Now, may we go inside and pack up? The longer we waste time out here, the less chance there is of us catching the 3 o'clock train," she warned.
Mrs. Weasley looked frostily between the two of them, still not buying Hermione's answer, but stepped out of the way at least. That was all that was really needed, and she and Draco walked past her, the latter a bit more brusquely than was strictly necessary.
They packed up, and Draco shrunk and placed their luggage on his person while Hermione said her goodbyes. Finished, he leaned nonchalantly against the doorway to the kitchen with a sneer while Hermione fluttered around to everyone in the room like a butterfly to flowers. A word here, a solemn nod there, and occasionally a giggle and swift hug. To the Weasley twins she paused longer, a frown on her face as she said something in exasperation, sparing a half-annoyed, half-understanding glance his way. In the end, the twins were hugged too, but the looks she gave them as she came back to Draco were reproachful.
"What was all that about?" he asked, leading her out the door.
Her lips twitched up in a soft smirk. "They wanted me to know that they were highly disapproving of my choice in men and added that if you ever hurt me it would be the only excuse they would need to murder you." She eyed him sideways with the same critical look she'd given the twins before leaving. "You may have been a bit nicer to all of them. Now they doubt my judgment, and it may in the end turn the tides for the worst…" her voice became distant, her eyes pained as she imagined the consequences.
Draco did not apologize, but reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. It will be all right, his thoughts murmured, but she could feel his doubt.
Malfoy Manor was cold and stony. Draco showed Hermione to a guest room, which surprised and dismayed her. She had been counting on sharing his rooms again. "Thank you," she murmured softly as he shut the door behind him.
Confused by his isolation of her, Hermione began to unpack into the drawers and wardrobe. She hung up the red dress from her very first ball, and then also the blue one from the most recent ball, and the white one from the Hogwarts ball. In the back, she even found a once-white dress with iridescent beads and speckled with red….
She was startled to realize that she really had no idea what had happened to this dress after that night. And the fact that it was in this particular closet made her wonder how long Draco had been expecting her to use this room. Stiffly ignoring the chill that shot up her spine at that, she turned around to examine the room. It was done up in mostly pale blues and silvers, accented in places with a deep black. A door on the far end of the room led to what was most likely a bathroom. She wondered if it was as lavish as Draco's but decided against checking it out right then—her eye was caught by something else.
A large bookcase took up half of the largest wall. She was drawn to it, and looked upon its shelves to find an astounding variety of books, mostly from the wizarding world, but there was a whole shelf and a half of muggle books (it seemed, actually, as if it was a complete collection of Shakespeare's works, but she did notice some others). Hesitating, she looked around the room. Is he coming back? she wondered, and the thought was narrow and quiet with uncertainty.
She hovered, half expecting Draco's mind to chuckle reassuringly and wrap itself around hers, but either he did not feel like responding to her small thought, or he hadn't heard it. After a few minutes, she sadly turned to the bookshelf and picked one at random, setting on a window seat to read it.
Hermione tried to concentrate on the book, she really did, but her thoughts kept going back to Draco, and finally she was too depressed to read, so she carefully put the book down and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. The window fogged up with every exhaling breath she took, and she struggled not to drown herself in her own misery. With a shiver (but that might have been because the cold window was seeping through her body), she realized that she'd become dependent on Draco. Not a particularly reassuring thought.
A soft groan escaped her, and she looked up to meet her eyes in the window. The fog spot her breathing made temporarily blurred the image, and she slowly relaxed herself, letting go of her sadness. As unexpected as if ice water had just been dumped over her head, Draco was in her mind, a worried flurry of confusion. Are you all right? What's wrong? Are you okay, did something happen? What…? His frantic thoughts pulled her out of whatever tranquility she had achieved and she sat up straighter, pulling her head away from the icy glass.
I'm fine, she thought back in confusion. Calm down. She tried to convey the calmness she'd had before he'd entered her head, and once he was not as frenetic (but, restful as she was at the moment, she could feel him wherever he was, panting) she asked, What brought this on?
You wanted me, he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing ever. You even called me. I was worried something was wrong.
Hermione turned back to the window and pressed her face against the glass, looking out at the roses under her window. No black ones there, though. No, she answered back lazily, a good half a minute after he had finished thinking.
Draco didn't reply back, and the next second, Hermione's door was practically blown off its hinges. She jumped, startled, and was engulfed in his arms before she even had time to react. "I was so worried," he said raggedly into her hair. "It was just like this huge gush of sadness and it was all cold, and…" He trailed off and just hugged her tighter.
A delay? Hermione wondered quietly, keeping the thought from Draco, who was now running his hands up and down her sides in a worried fashion. But why would there be a delay on my feelings to his? This is a Compassion Binding, after all. If not thoughts, emotions should be immediate.
The blond seemed to sense that something was off, for his hands stilled low on her hips and he turned his face in toward her neck. His breathing gave her chills. What are you thinking about? He asked uncertainly.
Nothing at all, sweetheart. Absolutely nothing, she replied, tucking the strands of her doubt in a corner of her mind.
That night, Hermione lay in the cold emptiness of the blue bed. It seemed disproportionately long to either side of her, as if she were laying on the vastness of a floor and not a bed. Somehow Draco had made her seem protected and secure, not like she was on a cold pavilion that stretched in every direction, so clear for everyone to see. She shivered, and tried to burrow down in the blankets.
Originally, they had not meant to stay at Malfoy Manor as they were now. But it seemed clear that Grimmauld Place was unsuitable, for Draco did not have a satisfactory background amongst those there. Right now, though, Hermione longed for the cozy comfort of the small house, and not the cold vastness of the Manor. She wasn't even quite sure where Draco's bedroom was in relation to hers, or she would've been out of her room without even laying down on that perfectly made bed.
A sense of stealth came over her, and her eyes widened in the dark, trying to see without a light. The light in her room, though, was perfectly adequate for seeing (dim, but adequate), and she frowned softly. Realization came over her, and her mouth turned into a smirk. Relaxing more, she could feel herself in the hall with Draco, stealing behind a corner to let a house elf pass, and then heading straight down her hall…
In her mind, Draco still had one more hallway to go when there was a soft knock at her door, and it opened without delay. Hermione sat up in bed, instantly reaching under her pillow for a wand. But it was only Draco, and when he turned to her with a grin, she could not help but frown. There was most certainly a delay, for he had been almost all the way down the corridor when the knock had come.
In reaction to hers, Draco's own smile slipped. He became solemn instantly as he came to stand by her bed. "I thought…I thought you were going to come to me," he said quietly, like a child who feels so neglected that they need to ask if the parent hates them. Hermione's breath puffed out of her, and she reached out her arms to him. He hesitated, and then took off his cloak to climb into bed with her.
"Quite honestly," she said, letting a soft amusement infuse her voice while she carefully hid the doubts about the delay in the corner of her mind, "I have no idea how to get to your room from here."
Blessedly, his own humor was instantaneous in her mind, and he wrapped his arm around her, and she forced herself not to be bothered about the delay.
For now, at least.
And late night calls
are only daylight souvenirs.
And think of me tonight
when everyone leaves and you're alone,
—Sherwood, "The Summer Sends Its Love"
Heather: "why were Hermione and Draco leaving Hogwarts when no one else was?" All the teachers knew that they had killed Dumbledore, so they were all being mean. I know that sounds petty, but the two of them killed someone all the teachers loved, and if someone you loved was murdered, and you knew who the murderer was, I think despite your attempts at civility, you'd still end up being at leasta little resentful. I said: "Professors singled them out, and were magnanimous with detentions for the two of them. Even Professor Flitwick was cold toward them." And even in earlier chapters, the professors were already a bit angry with them because they knew what they were going to do.
AS-SIN-WATI: You are right, I rarely recieve constructive criticism on this site. And even my friends, who read my original stories, aren't very generous with criticism. I think that for this site, most people go around looking for stories to read and not to criticize (and my friends are probably just afraid to hurt my feelings). I understand and accept this fact, but would enjoy any constructive criticism they would have to offer me.
I do agree that you can tell when my writing is rushed. Going back through my chapters is often tedious, because I'm like "gosh, I could've made this part better and that part differently, and oh my gosh, this section is absolutely awful!"
And you're right, my story doesn't need HP background at all. As you have pointed out, Voldemort sometimes disappears from chapters, and I will make an effort in the future to make sure that it is not so, because as you said, "you'd think he would be so central to this plot". And, well, you're right. I mean, sometimes I do find it pointless to work in the word "Voldemort" when it's obvious that everything they're doing revolves aorund him in whichever part I am writing, but sometimes he does disappear completely, and Hermione and Draco are off doing things that can't possibly have anything to do with Voldemort.
"My favorite part of your story is by far the Compassion Binding. I hope, hope, hope that was your own idea. I haven't come across it before- if it is yours, congratulations. It was brilliant in several different ways. " Thank you very much for the compliment. I am almost certain it was my own idea, if influencedat all by other works. This was one of the few things where I was writing and it just sort of happened, as things do with me. It wasn't something I planned out at all, but suddenly it was like, "wow,I can feel what he/she is feeling". And then, of course, I had to come up with a way to explain it, and since Hermione knows just about everything, and what she doesn't know about, she's read some obscure reference to, I utilized that to explain it to people. But it sounds like some people were still confused with what was going on, which made me a bit sad.
"I'd be shocked if you haven't come up with dozens of ideas- for new worlds, new characters, different times. Try your hand at something fresh, and completely your own." Oh, trust me, I have. But the problem is that I start projects, get caught up in school, and never get around to finishing them. I'm working REALLY REALLY hard on one in particular right now, because I have promised myself that no matter how hard, I will finish it one way or another. I imagine up random scenes, beginnings, plotlines, endings, parallels to other stories, alternate versions of well-known tales so often that I end up with all of these papers just floating (well, more often on the floor of my room) around everywhere. But by the time I come back to it, I realize I have no way of portraying it as a story, or working in such a beautifully written scene (usually they are really beautifully written, because if they've stuck in my head long enough for me to write them down, I've built up on it and elaborated) simply because it doesn't make sense with whatever I'm writing.
That was a really long reply. Just one last thing:
Recommendations for other stories: I Won't Walk Away by Slytherin Girl, also Temporary Insanity by Arbitrary, andThe God of the Lost by Gravidy. Those are all pretty thick and have nice long chapters (it really bugs me when chapters are so short I'm hitting the "next" button every 5 minutes, and I really like long stories), and I Won't Walk Away is the only one finished at the moment.
