Chapter 2: First Night
No one was surprised that they had made Professor McGonagall headmistress. They weren't really surprised that she had not chosen head boy and girl from the crop of 8th year students, even though Hermione Granger was amongst that illustrious lot. She was, after all, a fair woman. They were quite surprised when she announced that a separate dorm had been set up for those 8th years, regardless of House affiliation. The Slytherins were not-so-secretly disappointed that Malfoy would not be housed with them, as they had plans to make him regret every decision he had ever made down to and including his apparently unwise decision to be born.
Hermione was outwardly disappointed to be separated from her House yet understanding of the logic behind it. Inwardly, she was relieved to have a place to hide away from happy lions already moving past the war and getting on with their lives. She relished the news of having a place where she wouldn't be expected to smile and pretend that life was grand. She wasn't entirely joking when she said she would be happy sleeping in Myrtle's bathroom as long as it was quiet.
It wasn't until the feast was over, Hermione having eaten very little of it, and McGonagall was leading the 8th years to their dorm, that it hit her. She hadn't stopped to think about who else might be returning to school. The Ministry had been willing to waive N.E.W.T exams for those 7th years that were affected by the war. Harry and Ron had been quick to take advantage of that, in fact. It had never occurred to Hermione, however, that the amount of students returning would be so small. Hardly a handful of students followed the headmistress through the winding halls of Hogwarts.
Justin Fitch-Fletchley, Kevin Entwhistle, Terry Boot, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Michael Corner, and Anthony Goldstein were the only other students to return. All male and all half-blood, muggleborn, or blood traitor. McGonagall led them to a little-used corridor and directed the boys, save Malfoy, to a painting of a tree, where a bowtruckle awaited their password. Malfoy and Hermione waited in the hall while the boys were settled in their dorm, neither having the courage to look at the other. Soon enough the headmistress had led them up and down a few more corridors before halting once more.
"Now listen, you two," McGonagall commanded, peering at them over her half spectacles. "There were many reasons we chose to house you separately from your houses and the other returning students. You can speculate all you like as to the why of the situation. The most important of these is your own well-being." The two students must have looked confused because she continued. "Not only are you heroes of the war, to some, but enemies to others. You will be stared at, talked about and bombarded from all sides. We felt we owed you a safe haven from all of that."
"But…together?" Hermione asked timidly. "What made you think to put the two of us together, Headmistress? He hates me!"
"She has a point, loathe as I am to admit it," Malfoy agreed. Hermione shot him a dark look.
"Where else would you have me put you?" McGonagall asked sharply. "We are still repairing damage from the battle. Be glad we had space for you at all or else you'd be hunkering down in Hagrid's hut!" With that the headmistress led them to a large painting of a spring garden. As the trio looked at it, a fairy flittered out from behind a tree and presented herself. A quickly uttered " sapiens et callidus" later and Hermione found herself in her new dorm with the last person she thought she would ever be rooming with.
She was standing in a small, square room with two doors directly across from the entrance. To her left were two desks separated by a bookshelf and an open door through which she could see a small bathroom. To her right was a tiny fireplace with a sofa and two end tables in front of it. That was the entirety of the room's décor. To say the room was cozy would be giving it too much credit. It was almost cramped and the lack of rugs or any sort of personalization made it feel less like the home Hogwart's had become and more like a motel room.
"A castle full of wizards and they couldn't use an enlarging charm?" Malfoy asked sarcastically.
"The castle wouldn't allow it," the headmistress answered smartly. "Of course, you may decorate any way you wish. The bedrooms are identical so no need to squabble over who gets which room."
"I'll decide what's worth squabbling over," Malfoy retorted. "Which one would you prefer, Granger?"
"The left," Hermione answered, already anticipating his response.
"I'll take the room on the left, Headmistress," Malfoy stated, falling right into Hermione's trap.
"That's fine, Malfoy," Hermione said serenely. "I was partial to the door on the right anyway." She flashed a smirk in the blonde's direction and made her way to her new room, pushing the door open just enough to peek inside. It was as utilitarian as she expected, though a bit roomier than the common area.
"I'll leave you two to get settled. Three taps of your wand to change the password on your bedroom doors. We'll discuss schedules in the morning, as adjustments will have to be made." With that the new headmistress slipped from the room almost as if she had never been there.
Hermione watched her go and then turned to face her new dorm mate. He was leaning against his bedroom door, ankles and arms crossed, head tilted slightly to the side and silver eyes regarding her closely. She tried not to move when he pushed off the wall and approached her, moving so smoothly that he resembled the snake on his lapel pin. She had to remind herself that she had faced snatchers, Death Eaters, Bellatrix Lestrange and many other creatures from her nightmares. Draco Malfoy did not scare her.
When he was about a foot away, close enough that his every breath stirred her hair, he stopped. He didn't touch her. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, waiting. For what, she wasn't quite sure. She found herself mesmerized by his lapel pin, unable to look away from it. It moved slightly with every breath he took, its emerald eye sparkling in the dim light from the lanterns on the wall. The longer he stood there, watching her, the harder it was for her to breathe. She was sure that at any moment she was going to hyperventilate.
Finally, finally, he turned away and closed himself away in his room. Hermione wisely waited until she was safely within her own room before collapsing against the wall, trembling and not sure what the bloody hell had just happened.
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Draco surveyed his new room. As distractions went, it wasn't the best but it would do. It wasn't small but it definitely wasn't the spacious rooms he was accustomed to. Directly across from him was a small window that looked out over the lake. There was a full sized bed in the far left corner, pushed against the wall, below a narrow window, with a night stand and lamp next to it. At the end of the bed was his trunk, probably magically placed there by a house elf once he had made his room choice known. Against the wall to his left was an armoire and an armchair occupied the opposite corner from the bed.
Draco wasn't opposed to the size of the room; it was better than sharing a room with 4 other boys. He was, however, deeply opposed to the absolute lack of any luxury. A few swish and flicks later and his bed was richly adorned with green silk sheets and a down comforter as black as Voldemort's soul. Curtains of heavy velvet hung around the bed to ward off chill and light. A throw rug covered much of the bare floor, his clothing hung in the armoire, and the utilitarian lamp and armchair were transfigured into much more appropriate pieces befitting his wealth and snobbishness.
With decorating completed Draco had nothing to occupy his mind. There was nothing to keep it from wandering back to just a few minutes before in the common room. He didn't know what he had been thinking. One minute he was looking at Granger, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with his new roommate and the next he was standing in front of her. He wasn't trying to intimidate her. Or maybe he was. He didn't know. He wanted to touch her but he didn't. He wanted her to look at him but he prayed she wouldn't because he didn't know what he was going to do if she did.
To say he was uncomfortable with the situation was an understatement. He didn't like not knowing what to do and he didn't like when he wasn't in control of himself. Having spent his life being told what to do at every waking moment of the day, he kept the utmost control of himself and his actions, the one thing they couldn't take from him. Finding himself across the room and in front of his enemy…former enemy…without knowing why or how he had gotten there was definitely an issue for him.
So, as he was wont to do when faced with a precarious/dangerous/unsettling/confusing situation, he took a mental step back and took stock of the situation.
Did he hate Granger? No. He found her incredibly irritating with her know-it-all attitude and her intellectual superiority. Did he want to harm her? No. While he wouldn't go so far as to say he never wished ill on others (he could admit he was a bit of a prat), he could honestly say he didn't want to personally cause her harm. Did he want to scare her, intimidate her, or annoy her? Well, yeah. It was fun to watch her face go all red and her eyes shoot fire. He swore her hair actually stood on end with all the aggravated energy she always tried to contain. But his aim was to get a rise out of her, not actually leave her cowering in fear or hexing his bits off. So was that what he was trying to accomplish just now? Did he just want to see how she would react?
Now that he was thinking about it, he tried to recall every detail of how she actually reacted. He was standing so close to her that he could smell her shampoo, feel her breath as it whispered across his chest, taste the vanilla and coffee on it with every inhale of his own, and see the pulse beating frantically at her throat. She wouldn't look at him, eyes glued straight ahead. Her short stature put her eyes level with his chest and she seemed intent on keeping them there.
He had stared at her face, willing her eyes to rise to his. He was looking so intently that he noticed for the first time the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and high cheekbones. He became entranced by how dark and long her eyelashes were. He doubted she wore any sort of cosmetics or glamours. She was far too intellectual to get caught up in vanity, as she was quite quick to point out on the train. Her lips twitched and his attention was immediately drawn to their lushness. Her mouth was wide and a perfect cupid's bow, the bottom a bit fuller than the top, and a pale rose in color.
Draco recalled that at the time the thought of what those lips would feel like had crossed his mind. Would she be timid and allow him to control the kiss, pushing past her lips and taking what he wanted? Would she be curious and do some exploring of her own? Would she be passionate, unleashing her angst on his mouth and demanding more, ever more? Or, as with every interaction they shared, would she fight him, resisting his attempts to gain entrance to her warm, wet mouth, clawing at him and pushing him away until he wore her down and she gave in, or went for her wand which, admittedly, was more likely?
It was the realization that he was fantasizing about kissing Granger that finally snapped him out of it and sent his mind back into his room. Draco didn't know what to make of his thoughts about Granger. He could admit that she was appealing in a way and he wasn't exactly immune to that. Her blood status, once the most important quality in his mind, was but an afterthought. It was difficult to give up beliefs taught from the cradle. Less so after being bested year after year by a being his parents had taught him wasn't even really magical. Even less so after spending a year watching people being tortured and killed over his breakfast kippers...midday tea…after dinner coffee. One tends to abandon beliefs once one knows the man responsible for them was a raving, homicidal maniac.
Draco decided that his brain couldn't possibly take any more turmoil. He accio'd his night clothes, cast the appropriate cleansing charms for his face and teeth, and crawled into his bed, vowing to get a decent night's sleep and wake up refreshed.
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While Malfoy was having a bit of an existential crisis, Hermione was having a complete mental breakdown in the next room. She didn't understand her reaction. She had always been secure in her feelings for Malfoy. He was a loathsome git she positively couldn't stand and wanted as little to do with as possible. She had never feared him, finding him too cowardly and pathetic to be intimidating. For a little while after her time in the manor she resented him, despised his cowardice and unwillingness to help when his lunatic aunt was torturing her. But she had also appreciated his difficult situation and his decision to not identify them or summon Voldemort. Perhaps it was these mixed emotions that caused her to be where she was now, on the verge of a panic attack at the realization they would be sharing a dorm for the foreseeable future.
Her jumbled emotions about that day and about Malfoy himself, combined with her sudden recognition and appreciation for his looks were not enough to send her in such a tailspin. What really did it was the recent memory of his skin on hers, his body pressed to hers, muscles in stark contrast to her softness. Then, when he approached her, she was sure that he was going to do something. Hermione was not a fan of uncertainty and so not knowing what he was going to do, but sure he was going to do something, was just as comforting and upsetting as her feelings about his actions at the manor. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to touch her, attack her, call her names, attempt to hex her, hug her or what. She just wanted him to do something and end all of her uncertainty and anxiety about what he might do.
When he simply walked away she was relieved and yet frustrated that she still wasn't sure what was going on in his mind and what he had planned for her now that he was stuck with her just a door away. She was so close to losing it that she did the only thing she could think of to calm her nerves. She observed and gathered data.
She started by looking at her home for the next year. If she had seen Malfoy's room, she would have seen that hers was arranged as a mirror reflection of his, meaning that her bed was pushed up against the same wall as his. They would essentially be sleeping right next to one another; close enough to touch were it not for the wall. It was just as sparsely decorated as Malfoy's room as well and so she unknowingly followed his lead and began decorating.
She spelled the window first to always be clear so that rain or snow she could look out on the lake, vision unimpeded, but no one could look in. She conjured a soft, shaggy rug for the center of the room, sensible beige that helped to lighten the interior of the space. The chair became a bit plusher and a crocheted blanket and large cushion adorned it. She also conjured a small footstool. The lamp would not do at all, as it was not bright enough to read by, and so she transfigured it into an adjustable swing-arm lamp she could easily swing over the head of the bed or the chair, depending on where she chose to do her reading. The bed was quickly dressed in plush pillows, cotton sheets and a down comforter in varying shades of blue and brown ranging from the palest of periwinkle and cream to the darkest of navy and chocolate.
With decorating complete, Hermione got down to the business of unpacking. She was hoping to exhaust herself physically enough that she would fall straight to sleep and stop thinking of pale skin, hard muscles, and almost kisses. With a swish here and a flick there she had her trunk completely unpacked, robes and uniforms hanging in the armoire, muggle clothes in the drawers, and books and school supplies hovering in the air, waiting for her to open the door so they could arrange themselves on the shelves and desk in the common room.
The final touch was placing a single framed photograph on the nightstand, her parents' smiling faces watching over her as she slept. Hermione, satisfied with her work and more than ready for bed, decided to use cleansing and hygiene charms in lieu of a shower, promising to shower in the morning, and crawled into bed, drifting quickly into sleep.
Her dreams were plagued with images of cursed knives digging into her flesh but the knife wasn't held by Bellatrix Lestrange. When she dared to look into the eyes of her torturer, instead of deep brown tinged with a whole lot of crazy, she was consumed by liquid quicksilver. Malfoy's lean body was pinning her to the floor, his hands holding her arms above her head, his body bent so low over her chest that his hair brushed against her cheek and his breath ghosted over her neck, raising goose bumps along her flesh.
She lay there, waiting, just as she had in their shared space but this time there was no lapel pin for her to focus on. She needed him to do something. This torture was worse than the knife, the anticipation and anxiety tightening every muscle in her body and amplifying every sensation. His mouth opened, petal pink lips parting, and she locked her eyes on the plump flesh, hanging on every word sure to pass his lips…soon. As if in slow motion his mouth began to pucker, wrapping itself around a single word.
"Crucio."
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Draco was jostled awake by a blood-curdling scream, barely muffled by the stone wall bedside his head. He listened, in a panic, having heard too many of those in his young life, until he could make out words.
"Please. I didn't take anything. I didn't….please! Draco…AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Draco placed his palm flat against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. He knew where she was in her head. He relived that day in his nightmares often. He wished he had been able to do more than just sit there and watch his aunt torture her. He wished he had been a braver person. But he wasn't then and he wasn't now.
"Silencio," he muttered, once again taking the easy way out.
