Chapter 35

The weather was turning warmer, and Draco wondered if it was time to return to his old house. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd been at his parents' house for so long. It had just felt like the place he needed to be, but it was also grating now. It felt as if whatever had driven him here had dissipated in some way.

So far, Hermione hadn't murdered him. But she knew, and she'd withdrawn in some way. Things had changed between them, but he didn't understand how. Apparently there was a lot he didn't understand. What he did know was that things felt better. If you would describe giving your enemy a weapon and letting them do as they will as being better. Most probably wouldn't.

Maybe it was the fact that he'd given up control of something. So what did it now mean that she hadn't stabbed him in the heart while he'd slept? She'd certainly had opportunity to. It wasn't that she couldn't fight. She'd fought during the war, until there was no point left to do so. Maybe it was that she couldn't kill. Or she was building up to it. Was she waiting for him to make her angry?

"We're going back to my house," he stated, and she looked over from the book she was reading. Something she'd gotten from the library. Fundamentally, she hadn't changed. Books still drew her.

She didn't say anything, instead just returned to her book. The soft material of her nightgown was crumpled along her skin as she lay next to him, and he loved the texture of it over her firm body. There wasn't a part of her that he didn't know, and she like the things he did to her.

He loved how rosy her cheeks were and how her hair sometimes snaked around her neck. He loved her curves and the way she looked when she came. He also knew her plan, to be so available that he'd grow sick of her. The problem for her was that he couldn't foresee her not being there. There was nothing without her. Maybe she hated him for it, but he didn't care.

"Pack what you want," he said and rolled out of bed. Going to the window, he opened it. There was a chill in the air, but also warmth in the direct sunlight. It gently warmed his skin. Being with her made him feel more. Or maybe it was that he noticed things more. "Do you want to go somewhere?"

She was silent for a moment. "No, not particularly."

"Alright," he said and turned back towards her. "We leave in an hour. I'm going downstairs for breakfast. You can come if you like." He already knew she'd choose not to. But it seemed appropriate to inform his parents they were leaving. Luckily they'd given up on having an opinion about how he spent his time, or the decisions he made.

After dressing, he went downstairs to find his parents in the breakfast room. "It feels like spring today," his mother said. "It might be time to review the garden."

It was an annual event for his mother. She wasn't one of the world's great herbalists, but she like having an impressive garden. "I haven't decided the theme this year."

Lucius didn't contribute to this discussion. The garden was her domain exclusively.

"I'm returning to my house," he said.

"Ah," Lucius said. "Are you returning to work as well?"

That would be difficult with the proximity charm on Hermione. She'd have to come with him, which he wasn't strictly opposed to, but work didn't call to him right now. "Not yet." His parents treated him as if he was recuperating from an ailment, which annoyed him. Well, he wasn't recuperated enough to see meaning in absolutely meaningless work. Pointless negotiations with other countries about what constituted a standard, or whatever else stupid they wanted to argue over. Utter pointless shit, because these discussions didn't lead anywhere. They did it for the sake of doing it. Who gave a fuck about the exact length of a broom handle? Or that the Dutch or French were annoyed theirs were shorter?

"I might not return to that department," he finally said. "I don't know."

"What do you wish to return to?"

"Nothing right now," he said, feeling annoyance deep in his bones. Stuff like this had never bothered him before, but right now it annoyed the fuck out of him. He was being petulant and he knew it, but he just couldn't engage with this stuff anymore. "We'll be gone within the hour." Funny how he said 'we'.

The food was tasteless and he was eager to get moving. The company was also grating. They seemed to want things from him at the moment that he wasn't prepared to give, and he knew they talked about him, about how to handle him—how to get him back on track. Again he felt the anger build up, and he'd just escaped it.

"Will you come to dinner next week?" his mother asked as he got up to leave.

He really didn't want to. Being here had turned grating, and he feared that ill ease returning. "Maybe later. We'll see. I might go somewhere."

"That would be nice. Have you got somewhere in mind?"

Why were they always prodding? "Not yet." He really needed to be away from here. "I'll let you know once I decide."

With that, he left, and hated how it felt as if he was running away, but he hated the scrutiny. Hermione was dressed when he returned. "I suppose I need to bring these gowns," she said.

"I don't care," he said honestly. "Come."

She moved to his side and he took her hand and apparated them away. Perhaps he should gather some of this own things, but he couldn't be bothered. He could always send the elves to get what he needed.

His house had a stillness, a heaviness of air that hadn't moved in months. It hadn't been that long, but it felt like it.

Hermione stepped away and looked around. "How long have you lived here?"

"A few years."

It was significantly smaller than Malfoy manor, but it was comfortable enough. The furniture was of good quality.

Pulling his wand out, he started a fire.

"There's very little of you here," she said.

"Home decoration wasn't a priority. Still isn't, so if there's something you want to change, feel free to."

"You want me to make changes to your house?"

"If you wish."

"How can I when I can't leave the house? Are you going to go shopping with me?" Of course he wasn't. "Or are you going to give me a wand?"

"I can do whatever you want done. Do you want a drink?"

"It's a bit early."

Was it? Yes, maybe it was.

"Who are these people?" she asked, indicating towards portraits on the wall.

"Distant relations. This house used to be part of their branch of the family, but things have consolidated."

"Did they die out or were they killed? Or are they still alive?"

"We don't rob our family," he replied curtly.

"Just everyone else's."

"There are always consequences in war. The victor takes the soils. But this was not one of them. I was given this when I finished at Hogwarts."

"I thought your parents prefer you to be with them."

"I think they anticipated more of a bachelor life."

"And did you have one?"

"I was too busy fighting a war."

"So what role will I serve in this house?"

"Not much different from what you have been."

"So I share your bed every night. We dine together. Are we going to be playing house? Just so I understand what the expectations are. Or do you wish me to observe your belayed bachelor period?"

"More the former, I expect," he said and took a seat on the deep window ledge. He hadn't been thinking of it that way, but if that was how she wanted to see it. He was about to say 'if you wish,' but he knew where that conversation would end up. "You may do as you please in this house. Conduct any hobby or study, or whatever."

"And what will you do?"

A question he didn't have an answer to. "Probably drink," he replied honestly. It seemed to only thing he could do with some consistency. And bury himself in her every night. So yes, maybe they were playing house.

She moved around the room, inspecting all the things. None of them were his. They had all been here when he'd moved in. "Change anything you want."

"Are we going to be happy?" she asked with a dark tone lacing her voice.

"We're going to get through the month." That was as far as he could plan right now. She looked over at him.

"In some ways I appreciate your honesty, but I'm still a prisoner here."

"I haven't forgotten."

That seemed to satisfy her in some way. And maybe she was right and he would grow tired of her. Right now, though, he'd rather kill them both than be without her. Whatever he was going through, she was a part of it. The thing that made breathing tolerable. "Unless, of course, you stick a knife in me while I'm not looking."

Her eyes snapped back to him. She hadn't known he'd been aware. "You did that on purpose," she accused. "Why?"

"Maybe to see what you'd do."

"That's a big gamble. I have everything to gain by killing you."

"So why haven't you?"

Couldn't keep the eye-contact now, so she looked away. "I have more to gain if you release me."

"Not if I simply sell you."

"Still more to gain. No one cares much about a runaway slave. They'd care more about an escaped murderer, particularly someone of impure blood killing someone as esteemed as you."

Clearly she'd considered it. Still, he preferred to think of her having chosen not to do it, rather than her being too weak to do it.