Chapter 27

Hermione's arm hurt with his rough grip as he marched them at an unrelenting pace. There was no point fighting, because he was strong, and crazy.

Once inside his room, he shoved her to the floor in the darkness, and she hit her elbow hard. Quickly, she moved away into the corner of the room, looking for the door. Curiously, he wasn't guarding it. She'd make it to the door. If she'd make it further, she didn't know. There was also the concern that challenging him would make him worse.

It stayed dark and she tried to adjust her eyes to see. The stillness in the room was stark, but it all felt palpable.

Silently, Draco went to the bar area of his room and poured himself a drink. The sound of the crystal stopper being lifted was stark in the pressing silence. More so when it was replaced.

Then he sat down in the chair facing the large window. There was moonlight outside, so now that her eyes were adjusting, she was starting to see. His hair had a glow in the moonlight. Nothing happened after that. "You are one messed up little bunny," she said.

"I'm not little."

"Curiously how that's your objection to that statement."

Silence descended again.

Her knee and her elbow ached. There would definitely be bruises, but she still tried to rub them away.

Then came the soft sound of his glass returning to the armrest. Did he drink all the time? He seemed to. It was like air to him. It wasn't exactly a surprise, but he wasn't in a good state. For how long that had been, she wasn't sure. There had always been something close to the edge with him. Now he was well over the edge and apparently existing in whatever dark hole existed there. Curious how she had lost the war, and lost everything in the war, including her freedom, while he had won, but he was in worse shape than she was.

On one hand, that might be grimly satisfying, but she wasn't one to relish in other people's pain. That was his domain. Besides the torture, his interest in her seemed to be more bark than bite. The opportunity had been there, the threats had been there, but he'd never acted on it. Probably because it was truly distasteful to him. Well, she could take grim satisfaction in something, and the fact that he didn't want to touch her was comical, since it made for two of them. Then again, when had anything been sane with him?

Had all this been about him winning? Well, he'd won and now he didn't know what to do with her. So how did she get out of this? And leave him to the utter misery he was in. She still needed to get him to loosen his grip on her. It was the only thing standing in her way.

"You were always competitive at school," she said, not exactly sure where she was going with this. His silence was affirmation. "You did quite well in quidditch."

"I didn't win. Potter won."

"The Gryffindors won. Team sport and all that."

"What's your point?"

"I was just saying you flew very well. Even I could tell as someone whose feet never left the ground." She wasn't entirely sure how he would handle a compliment, but crazy people were seeking some kind of acknowledgement, where they?

"I set up a pitch on the lawn that summer. I practiced every day."

"I didn't know that."

"Why would you?"

Harry had accused him of buying his way onto the team, but he had actually been really good. "You don't do it anymore?"

"The maiming and murdering got in the way." There was a sharp terseness in his voice, but he wasn't as unhinged as he'd been before. With her, he wasn't as crazy—well, mostly. It was with them, with his father. That was who he was really angry with, and especially about the potential of her being his father's lover. Maybe it was the hypocrisy that goaded him. Well, no fear there. Lucius had shown no interest in her, other than a desire for her absence.

Perhaps it was also the maiming and murdering he was angry about too. He was clearly unsettled, and it was something outside of them. Their rivalry was mixed in somewhere, but not the cause of what had just happened downstairs.

Then again, how would she feel if she'd been pressed into leadership in a war? She kind of had been. It was a war that hadn't started with them, but had been up to them to fight. It was perfectly reasonable that she hate them all, but the people from her own side had died tragically, whereas his were sitting around sipping wine. And he bore all the scars.

In this society, the war was a nuisance they all wished to forget now. Except those too traumatized, or still dealing with us, like the two of them. And now she was angry with him, because she'd had a chance to escape, and he'd dragged her back here.

"You know why you hate me so much?" she said.

"Why's that?" he said with a snort.

"I can walk away from all this, and maybe even never think about the war, or this place, ever again. You can't. You have nowhere to go. I thought about it, you know, obliviating myself. Forgetting all of this. What good are memories anyway? What will they serve me?"

"Then who will remember the dead?"

"They're not around to care, are they? I don't have to be the torchbearer for that history. I'm sure the history books will remember the war well enough. Your version of the war, that is. I can't even imagine the lies that will be made up. But everything that was is gone. A chapter taught in the History of Magic class. That's all it is now. Maybe nothing matters in the long run."

"Never figured you for a nihilist."

"What? Is there some meaning to be found here? Do you think our sacrifice was for some purpose? All this pain and death so they can sip tea and gossip, and sit back thinking how superior they are. Nothing has changed. A habitual release of aggression so they can all go back to their pointless lives. I guess I have become a nihilist."

"So what now, brainbox? You're still a slave."

"All I have to do is get you to let go."

"And why would I do that?"

"Why would you keep me? All I am is a link to something that doesn't exist anymore." A link he was holding onto extraordinarily tightly. That was it, the reason for all this. She was the link to the person he'd been, because he didn't know who he was anymore. It was sad and pathetic, and tragic. "Maybe we'd both be better off dead. Obliviated, in my case, but it's really the same thing, isn't it?"

"Are you trying to depress me, Granger?"

"Why, do you need help?"

"It's astounding that people ever thought you were nice."

"I am nice. Just to people who deserve it."

"You're the biggest bitch I've ever met."

"Ditto, darling." Why had she just called him darling? They weren't darlings, just kind of stuck in the same leaking boat. Ah, fuck it. "Yet for some reason, you insist on dragging me back here. Misery loved company, I guess."

"Grinding you under my heel has always cheered me up," he finally said. His tone was lighter. He liked the bickering, she realized. He liked having her here, but he wouldn't touch her. Well, she hoped that was true, but it seemed to be the trend so far. Why was that?

She chuckled. "You know, Ron always thought you were in love with me."

"I seriously couldn't hate you more."

"Love and hate are flip sides of the same coi—" Her mind jarred to a halt. Alarms and confusion both wailed inside her mind. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't true. Absolutely preposterous. She dismissed it entirely. He didn't touch her because he was revolted by her.

"What are you trying to say, Granger?"

Fuckety, fuck, fuck. How did she explain this situation away? "Ron thought everyone was secretly in love with me. Viktor Krum asking me to the Yule Ball really threw him."

"I have to say it surprised me too."

"I don't know what he saw in me. We couldn't have been more unalike." It felt a little like she'd dodged a bullet. "I have to say the Durmstrang boys, for all their inherent creepiness—and they had some—they did have manners."

Draco sighed, and then rose. Hermione felt her tension rise again, because he was so damned unpredictable. But he simply walked to his bed and lay down. So what was she supposed to do now? For starters, she would wait until he fell asleep, and then maybe sneak out of the room. It was highly important not to bring the craziness back. It felt a little as if she'd talked him off a ledge. Maybe herself too. Truthfully, it had been an exhausting night. Then again, he was never a joy to deal with, was he?