AN: I hadn't intended to continue this, but I felt compelled to write a bit more. I will leave it marked as complete for now, though, as I don't want to commit to turning this into a multi-chapter fic. I don't own Harry Potter.
Part 2
He goes back two days later. He can't resist. This time, he asks the house elves to bring him a snack in his room, and he pockets generous amounts of bread and cheese. He spends an hour reading on his bed and not absorbing any of it, and then he goes back down to the cellar. He knows the Dark Lord has sent his men on a big raid, so he figured it's as safe as it can be. (Or maybe that's just foolish optimism. It's probably Lovegood's fault.)
She actually is sleeping when he comes in this time. He plans to leave the food and sneak away, but as he bends down, her eyes flutter open.
"I brought food," he says stupidly. "I didn't know if they were feeding you or not, so…."
She looks down at the offering and then back up at him. She gives him a faint smile. "It will be nice to eat bread that isn't stale," she says.
Damn. He wishes he'd brought something more interesting than nicer versions of what she's already been eating. He files the information away for next time, not even realizing that he's already planning for a "next time."
As if she read his mind, she says, "I do quite like simple food. There's something lovely about it. It is better when it's fresh, though."
"Death Eaters aren't known for their simplicity," he remarks dryly. "We have a flair for the dramatic."
She bites into the cheese, closing her eyes briefly as she savours the taste. "You aren't a Death Eater," she says.
He laughs humourlessly. "I am," he says. "I have the mark to prove it."
"I have a birthmark shaped a bit like a radish."
He knows immediately that she is leading up to say something that will leave him speechless, not just from the sheer ridiculousness of her words. Catching people off-guard seems to be her favourite way to communicate, possibly because it means she can finish her sentences before people walk away or laugh in her face.
"A lot of people don't like radishes because they're spicy and tough. I don't think I'm spicy and tough, though, do you?"
It takes him a moment to realize she's actually expecting him to answer. "No," he says, because that's what she wants to hear. After what he saw the other day, though, he thinks she's tougher than knows herself. He's seen grown men with less composure when faced with the Dark Lord.
The silence stretches out. She picks out the body of the bread and eats it, then folds the crust and eats it, too. Of course she would have peculiar eating habits. "So, there you go," she says finally. He gets the impression that he was supposed to say something during that silence, but he doesn't know what, and he hates the feeling, so he defaults to what he does know.
"Don't delude yourself, Lovegood," he scoffs, "a birthmark is hardly the same thing as this...brand." To emphasize his point, he pulls up his sleeve and shows her the ugly print, visible even in the dim light as it stands out against his pale skin. She looks at it the way one might stop and look at an interestingly-shaped cloud, without disgust or horror, just mild curiosity. She raises her hand and hovers it over his arm.
"May I?"
He nods, giving his silent permission for Merlin knows what reason. He suppresses a shiver as her cold fingers lightly brush his mark. After a moment, he snatches his arm away and pulls his shirtsleeve back down.
"You shouldn't taint yourself with that," he scolds to hide his discomfort.
She tilts her head. He's sure she doesn't know any Legilimency, but it feels like she can see right through him, and not in the physical sense. "Do you think I'm tainted?"
"What? Of course no-" he stops, suddenly catching on to her scheme. Some Slytherin he is. He walked right into that one. "That's not the point. I'll have this thing the rest of my life."
"But you didn't have it before."
"No shit."
She has the nerve to look faintly amused. "Perhaps you could imagine it's like being possessed by a snorglehaff," she suggests.
"I-" he sputters before lapsing into silence. He knows she's waiting for him to ask her about snorglehaffs, but he isn't in the mood to justify that with a response. Huffing, he gets up and leaves the makeshift dungeon without another word.
He feels bad about the way he stormed out on Lovegood. She was only trying to help, in her unnerving, nonsensical way. He tries to ignore the feeling for almost five days, and then his guilt surpasses his pride and he ventures down to the cellar for the third time.
She looks worse than she did before, stringy hair and cracked lips, and he immediately notices the tell-tale spasms of the aftermath of the Cruciatus Curse.
"What happened?" he asks, brow furrowing. He has the horrifying thought that maybe this is because of him somehow.
"Bellatrix was bored," says Lovegood, her voice uncharacteristically devoid of expression. "I'm all right, though. She went very easy on me. I don't think her visit was authorized."
"I'll get a potion for you."
He starts to back away, but she whispers, "No, stay" and his feet listen to her, even as his brain tells him that this is ridiculous.
Awkwardly, he sits down against the back wall. He takes an apple out of his pocket, deep red and perfectly symmetrical, and sets it down in the space between them.
"Thanks," she says. She takes a bite out of it and offers him a small smile, and he relaxes slightly. She doesn't seem to be mad about how he left things last time. He isn't sure why he cares, but the idea that he might have upset her makes him upset.
"You were telling me about… snorglehaffs."
Her smile grows, and she says, in that light, matter-of-fact tone he has come to expect from her, "They make you think you're something you're not. They especially like people our age." She takes another bite of the apple.
"And this is relevant because…?"
"You're a Slytherin, aren't you, Draco?"
A laugh escapes him. (He's starting to pick up on her subtle, deadpan, and sometimes wicked sense of humour.) She's just so odd, but everything she says seems to hold a bit of truth to it, too.
"I am a Death Eater, though," he argues. "I already told you. I showed you. I'm marked as one."
"So they decided," she says mildly.
"Well, it's kind of hard not to go along when the Dark Lord is living in your house," he sneers. It's always her mildness that gets under his skin the most.
"For now."
"For now?"
She puts down the apple and turns towards him. "Things are happening," she says seriously, her blue eyes filled with conviction. "The world is always orbiting the sun, even if we don't feel it."
"I thought you didn't have any information?" he says uncertainly.
"None that the Dark Lord thought was pertinent to him," she answers. The corners of her mouth quirk up again, but this time, the expression is grimly satisfied.
He looks away. He wants to ask what she means, what is happening that he doesn't know about, but it's probably safer for them both that he is left unaware. If he were honest with himself, he'd admit that he's also just afraid to know.
She makes quick work of the rest of the apple, and he vanishes the core. Then, eyeing her thin cardigan, he puts a warming charm on her. It won't last that long, but it's better than nothing.
"I should go," he says roughly, throat suddenly dry.
She looks up at him as he stands, offering one last bit of bewildering advice before he departs: "Talking helps with the snorglehaffs."
As he re-locks the door to the cellar, he shakes his head. "'Talking helps with the snorglehaffs,' indeed," he mutters, but there's an exasperated fondness to his words.
