Thirty-Eight
Day: 1521; Hour: 1
Hermione had woken up to darkness, Draco's hand on her breast and his mouth on her throat. Her back was sore enough to know she had slept for at least an hour or two on the unforgiving floor, and the storm outside had calmed. The thunder was no longer rumbling constantly, the wind wasn't threatening demolition, and the rain was softer above them. She let Draco explore – quite thoroughly, taking in the realization that he seems to know her body in the dark just as well as she knows his.
She had stretched her body against the wood and out for him, feeling strange. Blind, drowsy, the tinkling of rain, and with the softness of his touches, it almost felt dreamlike. She thought only simple things: the brush of his hair, the texture of his hands, the warmth of his mouth, the lines of the floorboards, the cushion of darkness, the calm. It didn't take long for him to fully wake her up, but the strange calmness lingered. She wonders if she can call it contentment. There's no rush to escape within him, she's just already there. Could she name it that?
He's taking his time about everything again. Probably because she didn't give him what he wanted earlier, and now he's determined to hear her desperate. To drive her to the point where she's thrashing around and muttering things like Draco, Draco, please on repeat, and blushing about it later. She had tried to sit up, to maybe do those things to him, but she had been unsure if she could and his hand had been too insistent when he pressed her back down again.
His wand is tracing up her stomach. She knows because of the thrum of magic she can feel against her skin. His magic, echoing into the wand, unused but strong against its confines. She knows Draco in a lot of ways, but to have his magic against her, and coursing from inside of him to her is something powerfully intimate. She hadn't ever thought about it, or thought it could be, but it leaves her a little raw, despite that he hasn't cast anything and she hardly feels it. It's like his heartbeat and his blood – it's part of his life force, the very essence of him.
He settles it on her breast, and when it rolls, he moves to balance it. "Don't let it fall," he says, answering part of her confusion, and his hands track down her arms.
He wraps his hands around hers, holding them within his own at her sides as he kisses his way up her thigh. She gives an incredulous look in his direction, though it doesn't matter, and holds his fingers in her palms. He pulls away for several seconds, and she braces herself, but he only moves to her other thigh. She lets out a heavy breath and his lips curl before he nips her skin. She can feel his breath against her, and then he kisses the bottom of her stomach. When she lets out a frustrated groan, he laughs.
"Sinister, evil, lit-" She doesn't groan out of frustration this time, and she has to actively think to keep herself from grinding against his tongue.
She keeps herself in check for another minute, until he buries his face against her and thrusts his tongue. Her hips give a little jerk on their own accord, her moan cut short by the roll of his wand. She stills, locking herself in place, and the wand balances out again. She isn't about to lose whatever game he's playing, and playing well. She squeezes his fingers, and his thumbs start rubbing across her wrists. There is the trembling of her legs, the quickness of her breath, her blood rushing, and the pounding of her heart, but the rest of her is frozen.
The damn wand threatens escape with just her breathing, and it takes about as much as she has to not give in completely. She feels amazing, besides the fact that too much of her attention is focused on not letting the wand fall instead of what Draco's very talented mouth is doing to her. She's getting closer, a series of gasps and moans escaping her, and her eyes squeezed shut in concentration. She sincerely hopes that he doesn't expect her to keep it on her when she explodes, because she can feel the pressure mounting higher and higher, and she's about to lose control.
She's thrusting ever-so slightly against him, unable to help herself, when he completely ruins the victory she sees in sight. She barely manages to keep her body together when he gives a hard lick, but the second he begins sucking, her body deserts her mind and joins his side. Her hips thrust up, her back arches, and her nails dig into his hands. She cries out, moving her hips forward for him to repeat the sensation, but he's gone.
She collapses back, breathing raggedly, and her eyes open to look in accusation at the blackness in front of her. His thumbs are still rubbing along her wrists, but he's clicking his tongue at her. "Tsk, tsk, Granger. You let it drop."
"What?" she croaks out, her mind really only connected to the orgasm that was this close before he stopped.
"You let it drop." He sounds amused, the stupid jerk. He lets go of her hands to rub her hips, kissing her stomach, his lips wet. "Mm, and you were so close, weren't you?"
She blinks in shock, and then glares. What a complete prat. He had worked her up for what felt like an hour now, brings her seconds away, and then just stops. She has been patient enough, she figures, and if he was going to get so arrogant with his control, she would just have to take matters into her own hands like she had done earlier. She keeps glaring, reaching down, her knuckles hitting his nose or chin. She feels him pull back, his shoulder moving against her leg, maybe in surprise.
She feels relief already, and maybe just a bit of vindication, before he grabs her hand. She can picture his affronted look as she rolls to her side automatically, but stops at the sudden smack against her bum. Her breath shutters in surprise, and maybe at the jolt of pleasure that goes through her that she tries to ignore. Did he just...
"You're being very naughty, Granger." Oh, God. How is it even possible to become more aroused in this moment? And to that? "Put your hands down at your sides and roll over." He says this in the same tone he uses on missions, and her saliva gets caught up in her throat.
She huffs a laugh, her mind whirling but still indignant. Like he could just order... He smacks her bum again, and she moans in response. Her face heats up even more as she clamps her lips together, a new bead of sweat running down from her temple. He's silent for a few seconds, and then his fingers skate up the curve of her backside.
"You like that, don't you, Granger?" His voice comes out dark, almost dangerous, and her breath shudders as she shuts her eyes.
She doesn't answer, blushing wildly because she does like it. She never thought she could possibly like something like this. Does this make her strange? Would he think her weird, or... He smacks her again in the silence, and on the second one, another moan escapes her, and he has his answer. He hums, grabbing her hand and pulling it away from her, though she had stopped all movements at her new found sexual deviancy.
"Do you know what happens to naughty girls, Granger?" he asks in that same dark voice, and oh, God, she has a feeling.
She feels a bit like a small animal under the eyes of a panther, or, or...a snake. His mouth comes down to her hip, and his tongue swirls before he nips the skin, sucking it and drawing the blood up. His fingertips brushing her skin are a contrast to the savageness of his mouth, and she breathes out loudly, pushing her hip against him. His hand comes down in sharp slaps, and his breathing is a little ragged against her hip as she bites her lips, curling her fingers against the sheet and her stomach.
"And do you know what happens when you're a good girl?"
They both wait, him rubbing the overheated skin, and she feels a little awkward and a little too excited. This is new, and very different, and she doesn't know what to do with herself. All she knows is that she likes it, and that she's curious, and that Draco has never made her feel ashamed. At least, not here, within the heat of him. She still has to stop the urge to put a hand over her face.
His kisses trail over her hip and to her bum, his lips cool in comparison to the heat he formed there, and smacks her on the other cheek. She whimpers at the mixed sensation, squirming away at the jolt of hurt under his palm, only to push herself back again. "What?"
"I might let you come."
Day: 1521; Hour: 9
She opens her eyes to light. The sun is shining through the windows, and she can hear the birds calling through the washed world. She blinks and squints, adjusting, and looks in wonder. The light is coming through the holes in the ceiling, where the rain had been coming in. They stream like laser beams of white light, hitting all throughout the room like little spotlights. It reminds her of how the sun looks coming through the trees sometimes. It's beautiful.
Draco is asleep, his face buried against her neck and hair, as if to shield the light from him. He's on his side, his arm thrown over her hips and his other stretching out above their heads, likely holding his wand. His leg is between hers, his hair sticking up against her face, and his stomach rising evenly at her side. She's on her stiff back, one arm around his shoulders, and her other hand reaching out to float through the sunbeam. It turns her palm bright white, and she dances her fingers through it.
She feels dirty, but in a good sort of way that she wouldn't ever tell anyone. The amount of things that had dried on her skin should be making her dash toward the shower, but she smiles at it instead, remembering. She looks down the length of him, glad to be able to actually see him, her eyes lingering on the curve of his bum, and then the bite marks she left as revenge on his skin. She can see two – one on his hip, another on his shoulder. Her memories are interrupted by the sound of loud laughing, and she remembers what woke her up in the first place.
"I'm going to do it! I'm going to go hunt and kill a cow or something!"
"Are there any cows in the woods?"
"Yeah, I don't know if there are cows just roaming around anywhere."
"Take this knife and go sculpt a spear out of a branch...or something."
"Uh...why not just use the knife?" More laughing.
Draco moves against her, shifting, and takes a breath, holds it, and releases it. He almost always does the same thing when he wakes up and plans on staying that way. She moves her hand from the sunbeam and to her eyes, wiping the sleep away. She stretches now, pushing out her legs and straightening her back. Her muscles ache, and she's sore, but still content. Maybe a little embarrassed as well in the light of day, from her actions and reactions. She feels exposed now.
Draco's arm pulls back and up from her hips, brushing her skin on the way up. She jumps a little when he gives a gentle squeeze to her breast before moving on to rub his face. He makes an amused sound at the movement and she purses her lips at his shoulder. They still feel a little swollen, and she wonders how much sleep they even got.
He pulls his arm down from above them and lifts himself up on his elbow. She almost smiles at his sleepy face, but squirms instead when his eyes drift down her body. A look of surprise claims his features, and she feels distinctly uncomfortable – the sensation of wanting to wiggle out of your own skin. Sure, it had been pitch black last night, but it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before and seemed to accept just fine.
"Shit," he breathes out, and when his eyes meet hers, they are bright and amused. "I might have ravished you."
She takes a second, trying to shake the cobweb of sleep from her mind. "Might have?"
He gives her that cocky, satisfied male smirk, his gaze traveling down again. "Have you seen?"
She lifts up on her elbows, looking down at herself, expecting something horrifying. There are fingerprint bruises, bite marks on her thigh, shoulder, and hip. Red welts from his mouth are scattered across her skin. She has a feeling there will be at least one on her bum and another on the back of her thigh, if memory served. Only God knows what her neck looked like at the moment.
Holy..., she thinks; he had left marks on her before, but nothing like this. She remembers the mark she had given him when Margarete was trying to shag him, and the possessive mark he had given her in turn. If that's what it's about, she's pretty sure Draco had up and claimed her body all his.
He was the only person in the world who ever saw her so out of control of herself. She wonders if he knows that. It isn't just about sex. It's the fact that he knows a part of her that no one else in the world does. That he might know it more than even she does, and she wonders if he knows how much she must trust him in order for him to see it, let alone know it. She wonders at the animal that must have overtaken him, the amount of passion that fueled him, to mark her so...abundantly. Then she wonders if maybe she knows a part of Draco that no one else knows either. That she knows the person that comes out of him in the dark, when his face is hidden, and she isn't laughing, and it doesn't scare her in the least.
She stops thinking when she looks up and finds him staring back, watching her. She gives him a glare with no heat, and looks at his shoulder. "And to think I felt bad when I saw that this morning."
He looks at the bruise of her teeth, and then back at her. She smiles at him, because she thinks he might need to know that she doesn't mind. Maybe he wants her to. Maybe he wants her to be angry that he left all these marks on her, that he became possessive of her, that there might have been some sort of barbaric claiming in his passion. But she's far more concerned with him knowing it's fine with her, in case he wants it to be, because it is. It is in a way that she doesn't think about.
She looks back down at his shoulder again, and then at his neck. She blinks at the two welts there, another on his collarbone, and a bite above his nipple. Fingerprint bruises on the back of his hands and shoulder, the bite at his hip, and a red mark on either side of his pelvic bone. She flushes, just a little, a small part due to her own barbaric tendencies, and mostly because of her memories.
Draco looks down at himself, and she can see his eyebrow come up. He hums, and she's entranced by his finger as it circles his nipple and the bruise above it. He had practically roared his orgasm when she did that. He seems to remember this, judging by the look he levels at her.
"You were a very naughty woman last night." She blushes hot red, like she did the morning after she told her friends she was a witch. Like William had, the night after he kissed her on the rock. She thinks to make excuses for the bathroom, but then: "I don't know if I ever came so hard in my life."
She blinks at him, but he's looking at his finger, now circling the bruise on her breast. Something wells up inside of her until she forgets her embarrassment and, for a second, she can't stop the grin. She bites her lip, reaching out to trace the lines of his nipple and the bruise like he had, his own finger sliding down to the next welt.
He lifts his head to look at her and she reaches up with her other hand, with no conscious permission, and runs her finger down the length of his nose. It's the move that started the whole thing last night, and the corner of his mouth starts to lift.
"I-" he starts, and then the pound of footsteps has them both looking to the door, stilling.
"I'm gonna get me some chickens! Orders up, orders up! Chicken, beef, and if I can find some..." The voice trails off, and then in a breath of shock, asks, "Harry Potter?"
"The food," Hermione can hear Harry's voice answer, tiredly, "is in the coat closet in the living room."
Silence, Draco still tense against her from the moment the boy got out the first name. Then, a weak "Oh," from in front of their door.
"Do you know if Hermione Granger is here? About...curly hair like..." Draco snorts at Harry's description, and what was bound to be some exaggerated hand placement. She pinches the skin her finger was hovering over and he growls, pinching her back.
"Ow," she whispers, cradling her breast, and he snorts again. Probably because he's done it a lot harder before, to a completely different reaction.
He starts to pull away, and her hand darts out, grabbing his arm before she can even think about it. It's just that she doesn't want him to think he has to leave just because Harry's here and looking for her. Harry didn't sound like it's an emergency, some awkward conversation continuing in the hall about war heroes and the best way to hunt chickens. She thought she had proved to Draco that she doesn't care, but maybe it's going to take more on her part to convince him.
Or maybe he's just done after such an exhausting night, and found no reason to just lie with her if they aren't going to shag. Maybe she looks like an idiot for grabbing his arm and stopping him, or maybe too needy. There's a part of her that's always afraid of him catching on too much, or coming across like she doesn't care at all. It's this fine line, and all she really knows is that she doesn't want him to leave or to stop this...whatever it is.
He had pulled away from her when she seemed to be getting too attached. He had pulled away from her when she seemed to not care, or think he was worth something. Maybe Draco doesn't know what he wants either. Maybe this is confusing to him as well. Maybe they both can't stop anyway.
She thinks quickly under the questioning looks he's giving her. "I just want to...check something."
One eyebrow comes up as she rolls her eyes at herself, and the other follows when she pushes him onto his back. She traces the marks she left on him with her fingers as she moves down his body, and he's half-hard against her stomach, then her breasts. She settles between his legs, and doesn't look up at him.
"Surprisingly, it's still there," he whispers, smirking, and then grinning when she blushes.
He lifts himself up on his elbows when she wraps her hand around him. Naughty, he mouths at her, and she decides she might leave another mark or three.
Day: 1521; Hour: 12
Hermione gasps when Draco's feet skid out, his arm flailing out for balance, when Harry's hand smacks into grip on Draco's forearm. Draco's entire body tenses, having almost just fallen off a roof and probably because it had been Harry who stopped him. Harry leans back, pulling Draco back to more solid footing, and they exchange very manly nods and quickly act like it never happened.
"You're like Molly down there, Hermione." Harry sends her a grin, a streak of spackle across his cheek.
"Well, you need to be more careful. I don't know why you insist on fixing this place up anyway."
She had found Harry, Draco, and two of the new recruits circled around the kitchen table after she had done her best to wash up with the water in the rain catchers. As much as she hadn't minded her dirty state when waking up, it was a whole different feeling when facing the rest of the day without running water. The things Harry had asked her to pick up for him were laid out, and Harry had been explaining how to patch a roof. She isn't sure why they all agreed to fix up the wreckage that stood as a house, but they had. Maybe it's because they have nothing else to do but bide their time, waiting for a mission calling, or for the coin to grow hot, or for anything at all.
Most of the missions had to do with rescue or retrieval, and the Death Eaters aren't making any new moves. They come out for a night or a week, and then something in their plan fails, and they're back in hiding again. If there weren't so many of them left, and if they weren't still so organized, it would probably mean the end of the war. Sometimes it feels painful, how close they must be, and other times it's painful to think how long they might still have.
Staying in one spot means a lot of time in your head, and it isn't a good place to be when the war is still a war. It makes people do crazy things. Like stun Muggles, or attack their friends, or themselves. A man had killed himself in the middle of the Ministry last week, Ron had said, and then he just sat there for too long. Sat there, silent, until she forced him into playing chess with her. It scares her, too much time in their heads.
"Well," Harry answers, after explaining something to the boy next to him, "I figured it's either this, or the next storm is bound to blow us to the other side of England. You know, this Auror came back with me after our mission last week...she cried when she walked in. I mean...cried. Ron told her she was hurting the house's feelings...you know Ron."
She laughs at his shrug, and he smiles back. "I wouldn't expect anything else from him."
"Course not. So, I thought we can at least stop the rain from coming in. Make sure it's still here for the next team."
"Where did you learn to do this anyway?"
"You don't even want to know," he mutters, and she catches it on the wind.
Draco's willingness surprised her the most, but he had no mission to plan, no television to watch, and Harry's challenging look didn't hurt – she would bet it was the last that decided it for him. It probably shouldn't look strange, watching him work at the roof, shingles pinned under his arm, but it does. She had seen him do a lot of Muggle things, but patching a roof reminds her of summer, and her dad and uncles drinking too much beer to be balancing themselves at the top of the house. It's to see Harry up there too. Or, maybe, just to see the two of them together like this. Heads bent across from one another, both working diligently, and laughing together over whatever the younger boy said.
They both glance toward her then, the laughter apparently about her, and she's automatically suspicious. "What?"
"Adam wants to know if you'll fetch him a drink."
She's pleased then, that they both seem to know her so well. Both of the men exchange a knowing look, and then look awkward, as if just realizing that the other knows her well enough too. She supposes it will take some time before they get used to her being common ground between them, along with the war. Or, at least... She hums inside her head, overriding the noise of her thoughts.
"Adam can get it himself."
While Harry had dropped the paint can in front of her and the other girl, Allison, Adam decided to inform them it was because painting was a woman's work, and patching a roof was more fit for a man. Draco had settled against the wall, as if awaiting a show, and Harry had grabbed the boy's shoulder to pull him toward the door. She had only managed to tell him to find a paintbrush before Harry quickly closed the door behind them.
"Are you done painting?" Harry asks her, after another gasp when his foot slips, her hand reaching out as if the strength of her wrist could save him from crashing to the ground.
"Do you want me to leave?" She glares at the exasperation in his tone.
"You're hovering," Draco tells her distractedly, pulling one of the shingles out from under his arm.
She mutters darkly on her way back inside.
Day: 1521; Hour: 18
The rain hits late afternoon, the thunder ripping, and the world turning dark enough for the shadows to remind them the electricity isn't back on yet. The other three young faces return with candles, not enough beer, and a sealed envelope for Draco. She stares at it as if she had X-ray vision, and he drops it unopened into his trunk, before dragging it into her room.
The living room looks half decent, and odd when roaming through the rest of the house. The guys had enough time to fix the roof in the living room and kitchen, but there had only been enough paint for the former. It looks clean, though the floor is still warped and water damage still spots the ceiling, but it's somehow brighter than the gloom outside should allow.
They eat their dinner from cans, cold and mostly gross, though the beer warms them up. Hermione trades a second for a sweater, and Harry gives her the same look he used to give her after Quidditch victories. Their younger companions decide on buying more paint tomorrow, throw jokes at one another, and their laughter forms a constant chain of sound. Allison takes pictures, though she's pretty sure Draco scowls in every one of them, and that her hair appears like a wild beast on top of her head. Harry's voice is strained when he refuses to talk about the Graveyard, but he's bright when they start asking about Hogwarts.
"What did you use the Polyjuice for?" Every head snaps toward Draco, though for different reasons. He had mostly been silent since taking his trunk out of the room, he had just interrupted Hermione's very educational explanation on brewing Polyjuice, and he also had no idea why they had.
"To collect information," Hermione rushes out, forcing herself not to glance at Harry, because Draco is too observant.
"So, yeah... Hermione turned into a cat."
She glares at Harry, because she had been hoping he would change the subject entirely, or at least never, ever, ever bring that up. Ever. "Well, Harry-"
"Wait... I thought you couldn't turn into an animal with Polyjuice?" Toad interrupts her fumbling as she searches her memories for an embarrassing incident to bring up in revenge.
She doesn't even know why the wizard is named Toad, and when she had refused to call him that, he had refused to tell her his real name. "You can't," she answers, leveling him with a sour look, but he's probably used to it by now.
"It didn't go well." Harry is snickering, and she jabs him in the ribs with a rather sturdy finger. He makes an injured noise and rubs at the spot, then gives her a grin. "Alright, alright...how about the troll?"
She takes a second, and then smiles at her knees, remembering. Harry launches into the story for the young Aurors, and Hermione adds in her bits, watching Harry's face instead of anyone else's reactions. They had always been battling something, her, Harry, and Ron. Their entire friendship was formed on the foundations of it – danger, threat, war, death, battles, survival. They would need to get used to that too, she thinks. Just being normal. Just patching roofs, and lunches on work breaks, and a few drinks at the pub. That weird shock of normal lives.
She thinks they need this reminder of where they came from, and just why everything was going to work out. A friendship forged in such dangerous elements, that was built through the absolute need of the other to survive, had to survive those same elements from which it came. No matter what, it has to.
So she stays, until the strategically placed candles are half-burnt away, the night is dark, and the storm threatens to sweep them all away. She stays until she's yawning more than she's talking, and Harry yanks her off the couch and pushes her in the direction of her room. The Aurors pay her no attention, going on about how they took their O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S through the Ministry, and Harry laughs at her when she stumbles in her stretching. She glares, but smiles at the same time, because the lines on his face are less grave and his eyes aren't as dull as they have been.
Hours later, long after Draco left the room, when the beer is gone but the laughter still echoes after her down the hall, she finds him pensive with his notebook on his lap. There isn't even a glance in her direction as she collapses in exhaustion onto the bed, almost damp with the moisture in the air. She stares at him under a blanket that's too thick in summer and too thin in winter, and besides the tightening around his eyes, she would think he didn't even notice. She's asleep before she can ever wonder about the envelope again.
Day: 1522; Hour: 8
She wakes up to the groaning and squeaking of floorboards and jerks up, her hand slapping into her chest before flying to the bedside table. She blows the hair out of her eyes, her wand aimed to the last place she heard the noise. Draco continues drying his hair, and there might have been amusement on his face, but it's gone just a second later. Sometimes her dreams have the power of making her fear every sound.
"I crossed half the room before you even woke up."
"Yeah, well...shut up," Hermione mutters, tossing her wand to the empty side of the bed and collapsing back into the stiff mattress.
"The electric is back on."
"Finally."
"Toad made breakfast."
"Eggs ala Toad. Mm."
"Did you purposefully Polyjuice into a cat?"
"N-" She cuts herself off.
She glares at the ceiling, reaching up to rub at her face. So that's why he kept talking – get her in the habit of snapping something back, and he figured she might not notice something she might not want to answer. He knows her well, but she didn't think she appeared that slow in the morning.
"Do you really want to know?" She can practically feel his eyebrows raising, because he wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to. She's supposed to know him well, too. "No."
"I gathered that. Whose cat did you turn into?"
"Uh-"
"Anything that starts with 'uh' is bound to be a lie, Granger. Try again."
She manages to lift her head and glare at him this time. "Maybe I was trying to remember."
"Right."
"Millicent Bul-"
"Tell me Potter or Weasley, or whatever little Gryffindor, did not take on my form." He says this like a demand, so she glares harder.
"Yes, Ron did. Then he- Oh, calm down, I'm kidding. They were Crabbe and Goyle. They got you blabbering about the Chamber of Secrets, and we went on our way."
"The... What the fuck."
"Don't be angry, it hardly matters. You didn't know anything about it anyway, so it was pretty useless. Except in taking you out of the pool of suspects. Though I can't say you hoping it was me who died made us think any better of-"
"I didn't give a fuck what you thought. If you died, Potter died, any bloody Gryffindor, why would I care?" Well, that was rude. He could have at least apologized or someth- "I doubt you would have looked upon my own death with more than a faint glance at the obituary."
"Oh, please, I'm not that callous," she snaps, but works to calm herself at the angry set of his body, growing tighter, tighter, tighter. "I would have at least gave it a thorough read."
She tries to smile, like the possibility of his death or their mutual once-hatred could be funny, but she doesn't know what else to do. It didn't really matter anymore, not really, not enough. He's too angry though. She really shouldn't have admitted to the whole incident, but it was the past, just like the rest of the things they left behind.
"I didn't mean-"
"I suppose we got payback the following year, rather than-"
"Wait, what?"
"The boys and I had been curious about what a Mudblood might look like under their clothes. So we brewed the potion and Greg sauntering around as a naked Granger in our-" She cuts him off with the pillow that smacks into his face, and then the candle that sails over his shoulder.
"You-"
"Doesn't feel too good, does it, Granger? Knowing your pri-"
She cuts off his diatribe and sinister look with the second pillow. "You intolerable-"
"Stop throwing shit at me!" he barks out, throwing the pillow back at her. She smacks it out of the way, lumbering to her feet in huffs and insults. "Should I be the one telling you to calm down n-"
"Calm down? Yo-"
"Don't be angry, Granger, it hardly matters," he repeats her with a sneer.
"I know you're lying about the Polyjuice, Malfoy," she bites out, pointing her finger at him, but not pausing in her stomp toward her trunk. "You wouldn't have wanted to see a Mudblood naked, no matter how-"
"How do you know?"
"Because I do! You were probably too stupid to even brew one in-"
"I had top marks in Potions!"
"Because Snape liked you more!"
"Bullshit!"
"Truth!"
"If you think it's a lie that I did it, why the fuck are you so angry?" he yells, and she's surprised the fabric of the towel hasn't ripped between the clenching of his fists.
"You're so stupid," she growls, yanking her clothes out of her trunk.
"Stop calling me stupid, Granger, or-"
"You just called me a Mudblood!"
"What?" What. What, and a look like she had just told him the whole war was a big prank on him.
"You said-"
"I was talking about when I was fifteen! I wasn't exactly calling you a Muggle-born the year after I said I wanted you dead!"
"Well, it sure came out of your mouth easily enough now, wh-"
"I don't believe it's time for you to start PMS-ing yet, Granger, so-"
He's lucky her wand is still on the bed. "Oh, like-"
"If you think I still look at you as a 'Mudblood', I'll bring you to Mungo's myself, right. Fucking. Now."
"I'm not saying that!"
"Then, please, enlighten me," he says, throwing his arms out.
"You didn't have to use that word!"
"I wasn't calling you one! I-"
"You said what a Mudblood looks like under their clothes, and then-"
"Indirectly, as a thought process of my fourteen-year-old self, who – in case you have forgotten – used-"
"I don't care! I-"
She doesn't really know why she's so angry, but her heart is pounding. That word rarely bothered her. Even when he called her it in the past. She hadn't grown up around it, she didn't even know what it meant at first, and in her head it was just some equivalent to a rude swear that didn't define her. The war made it heavier. It made it a burden.
It just felt... It just hurt to even hear him say that word now. To so easily use it in reference to her, no matter if it's just in repeating the thoughts of his younger self. It's like a slap. It's not pain, but any sort of hurt in the wake of the surprise feels magnified, because you weren't expecting any at all. She imagines she would react in some way had it been from someone else she knew too. But she wonders if the reaction is bigger with him because of the past, or because missteps from the ones we allow ourselves to be the most vulnerable around are more dangerous than a stranger stomping on nerves.
It hurt, and maybe it shouldn't have, but for a minute, it did. She knows he doesn't feel that way anymore, that he can't, but... "Whatever."
"I don't think so, Granger. You're not-"
"It's fine. I know you didn't mean it like that, it just...caught me off guard, I guess. I..." She pauses, then rushes on. "I don't like to hear it. Even... No matter the reasoning. It's fine, Malfoy."
He raises an eyebrow at her, and he drawls like he has never been more bored in his life. "Really?"
"Ye- And by the way, Malfoy," he doesn't look surprised when her anger comes back, "I, or we, really, do one little thing that didn't even effect your life in any possible way, and you're angry over it? This coming from the man who went on and on about the war, and how it didn't matter what you did to me in the past bec-"
"I never said it didn't matter-"
"Yes, you did! You-"
"I was momentarily a little pissed off that you and your band of saviors managed to intr-"
"It's not like it wasn't for a goo-"
"The point is that you did, that it was to me, and that I have the right to be pissed off about it for five minutes! It's not like I was going to-"
"It's not like you didn't do worse!"
He's silent, vein thumping, and she's almost nervous in the twenty-two seconds it takes for him to reply. "Right. I don't have the right to be angry about anything, even for five minutes, because I did worse things than what I got. That it? I guess I shouldn't have been pissed at Vince for killing Neville, since I killed his girlfri-"
"That is not what I meant," she breathes out, and rushes on louder when he makes to speak. "That is not what I meant! I ju-"
"That's exactly what you meant. If you're going to feel that way about one thing, you better apply it across the board. Furthermore, you better damn well apply it to yourself! Or, that's right, you don't count when it comes to your own—"
She makes a series of very threatening hand gestures as she growls, but he doesn't have the decency to look threatened. "You're putting words in my mouth!"
"I-"
"You just-"
"I can't believe you're not over this. I-"
"I am over it!" Hermione yells, throwing her hands up. Her clothes fall out of her grasp and she bends to snatch them off the floor, trying to control her breathing.
"Obviously not! You-"
"Yes, I am, and don't tell me something else when I know how I feel! The only reason I brought it up was because you were so angry over something in the past, when I managed to get over our-"
"For ten seconds before you freaked-"
"Ten seconds? You're still angry! You-"
"Because you went mad over a word I didn't call you, and haven't called you in years! Like I-"
"I told you, it's fine! I just don't like you saying it, and..." It hurt my feelings? It sounds so stupid, when she thinks of saying it out loud. "It just threw me off. I know you didn't call me it. I'm obviously over the past, Draco. I mean...obviously."
She gives another look to the clenching of his jaw and then closes her trunk, sitting on it. She fiddles with the lock and then clicks it shut, turning and turning it past the spiral of numbers in his silence.
"If I had really done the Polyjuice thing to you, would you be angry?"
"You did?" Her head snaps up to his blank face, and he turns to toss the other pillow back onto the bed.
"Answer me."
She glares at him, even though she doesn't want to fight with him anymore. She doesn't have the energy, and it's stupid, and she shouldn't have freaked out over such a little thing. It was knee-jerk. If he had actually called her it now, and not in reference to the past...that would have been different. But she doesn't think he would, not now, no matter how angry he gets with her or how much he wants it to hurt. And if she hadn't forgiven him for the past, she wouldn't allow herself to believe that.
"Yes, I would be." More like blinded by rage. "I get your point. But, if you're still angry about it a week from now, I-" She cuts off at the voice in the hall.
"Hey, Harry, I got your change from the paint... What?"
She looks up at Draco to find him staring at the door, and the floorboard creaks behind her back, followed by quick steps down the hall. Harry. He had probably been ready to break down the door at any sign she might need him. Draco doesn't appreciate the effort, judging by the hard look that replaces the weariness.
"I don't like fighting with you," she admits, trying to calm the rising tide of his anger again.
"I couldn't be more surprised."
She breathes a laugh, shrugging a shoulder and looking back down at the lock in her fingers. "I usually don't like fighting with you."
"Mm."
"This is strange, though. One of us usually storms out by now, and then we don't talk for a week. Or a couple hours, if one of us just..." jumps the other one.
"You're blocking the door."
"Wh- Oh." She does laugh then, and she can see the amusement start to edge out his anger as he turns, tossing his dirty clothes into a corner of the room. "And...the Poly-"
"No, I didn't."
She smiles faintly and nods, because she knew he had been lying."I don't hold the past against you, Draco, you-"
"Just shut up, Granger."
"I would never be able to even spend time wi-"
"Hermione." This makes her look up, and they stare at one another for almost twelve seconds before he starts gesturing toward her. "I suggest you get a shirt instead of three pairs of pants, though the knickers can remain optional."
"Oh." She stares at the clothes in her hand, and then looks up at him, narrowing her eyes. "Were you going to tell me that before we stopped fighting?"
He smirks, sitting on the bed as he unrolls a pair of socks, one black and the other white. She shakes her head, turning back to the trunk, and making sure to pick out the right pieces of clothing this time.
"I am who I was." His voice is low, but it's strong, sure.
Her movement freeze for a moment before she lifts her chin, searching for a pair of knickers. "I know." She lifts a bundle of photographs before she finds a small pile of them. "I wouldn't change that." And she means it. She doesn't know where he'd be or the person he'd be without who he had been, and it feels important to admit it.
He's quiet for several seconds of distant sound, and then the bed creaks. "I won't say it again."
She thinks he means Mudblood, and she knows he'd ignore her if she asked him to clarify. Or get angry, because she isn't the only one who does that when they feel vulnerable. Her body is awkward in its positioning, and she doesn't know how to move it for a moment, and her heart picks up a little speed against her ribs.
"Okay." She stands, the lid of the trunk thudding shut, and then she heaves it away from the door.