A/N: Thanks for the reads and reviews, darlings!
Chapter 5
"Hermione? Can I talk to you for a sec?"
Hermione caught Ginny's eyes pointed at something behind her, a telltale smile tugging on the corner of her lips. She rolled her eyes, knowing this was possibly the last thing she needed at the moment. Behind Ginny she could see Malfoy leaning against the doorway, talking to one of his Slytherin Prefects but his eyes narrowed in her direction. She quickly glanced away, feeling her cheeks faintly burning from the memory of their last encounter. She could still feel the hate simmering behind her eyes. He had left a nice little bruise around her wrist that she'd had to cover up with a concealment charm for a few days before it had finally begun to fade.
She turned around to see one of the Prefects, Cormac McLaggen, smirking at her. A few Prefects had hung around to socialize after the meeting, but most were now beginning to filter out of the room, eager to start their weekend. She was only hoping Ginny would stay so that she wouldn't be left alone with him, but those hopes were quickly dashed when she watched her housemate pass behind McLaggen, twiddling her fingers at her with a secret smile on her face. "Told you," she mouthed, before exiting.
"Yes, McLaggen? Have you got a question about the meeting?" she said, trying to be professional despite the way he leaned towards her against the podium. She dreaded ever having to deal with McLaggen. She had often caught the looks he would shoot her during their Prefect meetings and the blatant sexual come-ons of the licking of his lips. While it had initially flustered her, she had learned by this time to mentally superimpose an image of a dog over his face during the meetings.
"Not about the meeting, per se," he said, slowly. Hermione watched as he reached out his hand and began to run his fingers up and down her tie.
She cleared her throat and snatched it out of his fingers, which only made him chuckle under his breath. She fought the instinct to roll her eyes. "Let's have it then. I'm sure you've got a very busy weekend waiting for you, hm?"
"Well, I was just wondering if somebody's already asked you to the ball," he said, flashing her a very confident smile. "And if not, I'd like to be the first in line. I've had my eye on you, you know. You've evolved into a very. . ." Hermione shuddered at the way his eyes trailed over her body, feeling as if a swarm of spiders had suddenly begun crawling all over her. "Comely young woman."
She tried not to let on too much how repulsed she was by his sentiments. "Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll keep my options open."
"Oh come on, Blackwell, don't be such a prude, will you?" he said, jokingly, even though she could make out the faint annoyance in his eyes. "It's not a big deal. We'll show up, we'll dance, we'll have a good time, and I'll keep my hands to myself." He smirked, licking his lips. "That's if you haven't changed your mind by the end of the ball. Minds do tend to change, you know."
"McLaggen, I'm flattered," she said, as she began packing up her things, "but I'm sorry. I'm standing by what I said." She left out the part where she would rather spend the night handcuffed to a Banshee than spend it with him.
His eyes drew downwards, a darker expression eclipsing his face. "Blackwell, I'd like to remind you that even with your heralded position as Head Girl, with your recent scandal, it isn't likely another bloke is going to want to taint himself with the association." He let out a sharp sigh, pasting back on that condescending smile. "So, gentleman that I am, I'll ask again and you can really answer me this time."
Hermione stared at him, having stopped putting away her materials, in complete shock of his audacity and immense ego. But before her patience could officially run out and she could tell him to do her a favor and bugger off, possibly forever, a tall figure suddenly appeared beside her.
"McLaggen, sod off," the familiar drawl snapped. "We've got Heads business to discuss and I'm tired of looking at your pompous little face."
Cormac's eyes flashed as he turned his face towards Malfoy. Hermione should have been enraptured to witness this episode of Battle of the Hogwarts Alpha Males, but quite frankly it was something that happened all too often and she had no one to root for here, as she detested them both.
"I'll 'sod off' when I'm done talking to Blackwell, Malfoy," he said. "So go sit on your privileged ass and stare at the ceiling or something. Do whatever it is you Malfoys do. Fat lot of nothing, from what I've heard."
Hermione rolled her eyes, clearly sensing where this was heading – which was downhill, and fast. She turned to McLaggen. "Cormac, my answer is still no. I'm sure some other girl would be honored to hold your attentions for the evening and I'm even betting she's probably waiting for you to ask her right now," she said, her voice calm and measured at this outlandish lie. "Now can you just leave so Malfoy and I can talk Heads business?"
Cormac sent them both a scowl, stepping back. "That's just as well, then. You two deserve each other anyway," he spat, before turning around and walking out the door.
Hermione sighed, shaking her head, continuing on with putting away her things. "Wanker." She closed her satchel before looking up at Malfoy. "Speaking of wankers. What Heads business was it you needed to discuss?"
"Your incompetence, Blackwell," he icily said to her. "As you've yet to secure a band for the ball. A completely simple task that you seem to be failing at."
She glared at him, slipping her bag strap onto her shoulder. "I'm working on it, Malfoy. A month's notice isn't exactly the ideal time frame most wizarding bands want to hear."
"A month," he said, "was two weeks ago. If you hadn't been able to get a band two weeks ago, what makes you think your chances have bettered now?" His steely eyes flickered over her, disgusted. "It seems that Mudblood brain of yours is failing you, Blackwell."
She felt her grip tightening on the strap, the leather cutting into her palm. "I'll get the sodding band, Malfoy." Even if it meant having to conjure one out of thin air, she couldn't let him lord this over her. "Don't worry your pretty little blond head."
"Forget it." His upper lip curled. "I'm done watching you scramble like a useless little peasant. I'll find the band. Can't have us both looking inept all because of you."
Her hand itched to reach out and give him another good smack. It was so tempting that the urge practically clouded over her brain, chasing away whatever verbal retaliation she might have had ready. She hated that he could still get her worked up like this and inflate something as simple and trivial as obtaining a wizarding band for one night of back-to-school frivolity into something that might ruin her reputation as Head Girl. How she wished for indifference, for the ability to look at him as if he were just vapor, instead of the blinding rage he did such a good job of summoning. That was the problem with hating someone this much. In such high doses, it incapacitated you.
"Try as you might, Muggle, you can't rise above your blood," he hissed at her. "So I'd quit now if I were you."
"You're not going to bully me out of being Head Girl, Malfoy," she said, as evenly as she could muster. She was not going to raise her voice. She was not going to let on how it still hurt. She was going to kill him with her maturity. "Not with your lowly insults and schemes. I earned this position and you can try to fuck with me as much as you'd like, I'm never stepping down."
He smirked at her. "We'll see about that, now, won't we?"
Hermione, trying to seem unfazed, stepped past him. "Now if that's all, I have more productive things to do with my time than to stand here and tolerate you." With a firm look, she brushed past him and began heading towards the door.
Before she could cross it, he called out to her. "Wait."
She debated on whether to give him another second of her time after he had just spent minutes using her as a verbal punching bag. But there was something in his voice – something different from the hostile tones he had proved himself such a master of. Reminiscent of a time past, even. She felt a tug in her chest she wasn't sure she wanted to feel.
She looked back at him.
She only caught a flicker of it before she saw the slow, taunting smirk that crushed her fleeting, miniscule hope. "Welcome to hell."
Without a spiteful hand gesture, she left the room, silently reprimanding herself. Sometimes she could swear she saw the faintest trace of the old Draco, like a fragment of an old picture between frames in transition. She told herself she was just imagining it, that it all conformed to the sadistic personality of human nature and memory. That nothing was left of the him that she knew, and to permit even the slightest hope against it was like wishing the dead back to life. Futile. Torture. Stupid.
"Hell," she scoffed to herself, her knuckles still white on her shoulder. "You'd think it'd at least be a bit warmer here."
ooo
She had been catching up on some reading on her bed when she'd seen it it – something moving outside her window. She dog-eared her page, put her book down, crossed over and swept the heavy curtains aside. She was not surprised by the smirking figure hovering outside her window as she unlatched them and opened them wide, letting in the warm sun and fresh air.
His blond hair was tousled from the breeze and his cheeks were rosy from having flown there from his manor. "Thought we could go out for a ride," he said to her.
She crossed her arms on her chest, shaking her head. "Dream on, Draco."
"Come on, you coward."
"I've got some reading to do."
"You've always got some bloody reading to do," he said, still leisurely resting on his broom. "That's all you do. You read and write letters and have tea and occasionally go on walks by the lake. You are literally the most boring person I've ever known."
She stared at him in mock offense before finally smirking. "Then why is it you're at my window and nobody else's?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.
"Because everyone else is already out, having fun," he drawled. "And Father kept me in for half the day practicing spells. Come on, Hermione. It's a beautiful day and it's waiting to be taken advantage of. Not just waiting. Screaming. Begging."
She laughed nervously. "I don't think so."
He lapsed into silence and just looked at her, pensively. "What's it going to take, hm, Blackwell? To get you to live a little?"
"Getting on a broom and potentially falling to my death isn't the most appropriate metaphor for living life," she said. "I can have a very fulfilling life without ever having to mount a broom, thank you very much."
"I disagree. I think you need to face your fears."
"I have plenty of time to do that," she said dismissively.
"What if you didn't? What if, without you knowing it, this would be the last and only time you will ever get a chance to fly on a broom with me and behold the beauty of your family's ancestral land?"
"Then I shall cry my eyes out. After," she said, picking up her book, "I finish my reading. Besides, you know I don't do What Ifs. I think they're an incredible waste of time."
He resigned, shaking his head. "You are bloody impossible. Truly, it's tragic."
"And you're a spoiled brat with a complex."
He shrugged. "I've been called worse." He looked back out to the open sky before back at her, as if making a decision. He sighed. "Well, step out of the way, then," he said impatiently.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "What exactly are you planning to do?"
"I'm going to climb through your window, what else?" he said exasperatedly. "Honestly, I thought you were supposed to be smart."
"I thought you wanted to go flying," she said. "If you're just going to stay here and sulk and complain about how you could be out there, flying, then I'd rather you just stay out there get it out of your system. I wasn't kidding about the reading I need to do."
"I know you too well to even remotely consider you making a joke about reading," he said, ducking his head and climbing through her window. He stood up a little too early and hit the back of his head against the pane, causing the window to quiver. "Bloody hell," he said, gingerly rubbing the spot. "I think you need a bigger window."
"I think you need to start using actual doors."
He leaned his broomstick against the wall and then headed straight for her bed, taking a seat on the edge and picking up one of her books, before casually flipping through it. "I've read this one. His sister dies at the end."
Hermione ignored him. That was one of his favorite pastimes: spoiling books for her. Often he'd ask her what book she was reading just so he could start and finish it before her just so he could spoil it.
"Besides, I think we're getting a bit too old for you to be climbing through my window at all hours of the day," she said, a bit hesitantly. "What with you being betrothed and all."
He put down the book, looking at her. His easy expression was gone. "So you've heard."
"I overheard my parents talking about it the other night. I'm not all that surprised, actually. It's an ancient tradition but one that lots of Pureblood families still insist on keeping. I was just shocked why you hadn't told me yet," she said matter-of-factly, shrugging.
"I was going to, eventually," he sighed, furrowing his brow.
She sat down next to him on her bed, trying to silently gauge whether he was sad about this recent development or not. She knew – perhaps even more than she preferred to – that he liked to fool around with girls but shockingly didn't have a clue what he thought about marriage. It just never had any reason to come up before. "Have you met her?"
"Once, when I was eight. She cried a lot," he said, as if trying to remember, "and loved to eat cake. But then her family moved to France. They wanted her to go to Beauxbatons."
She tried to imagine her, this girl she did not know, who would become Draco Malfoy's future wife. She wondered what she looked like, and what sort of girl she was. She wondered whether she cried at the news of her betrothal or had been rather proud of whom her parents had deliberated for her husband. Without knowing it, she felt a slight pang of envy.
"Does she know?"
"Know what?"
"That you're a heartless wizard that dotes on every airheaded pair of legs that walks by?"
He smirked at her, putting his hands behind his head and lying down. "She may have heard a thing or two."
"You're utterly shameless," she said, shaking her head, before falling into a thoughtful silence. "I wonder what she's like. I mean, her being literate would be a plus. Or having any sort of opinion about anything besides hair and large diamonds."
"Go ahead and mock her," he drawled. "It might seem outdated to you, but betrothals are an easy and logical solution. My father's been educating me on the skilled art form of finding a wife since I could walk and it's proved tedious and ridiculous. I'd rather just have it out of the way."
"So I suppose love is out of the question, then," she snorted.
He turned to her, as if confused. Then his gray eyes narrowed, like he was trying very hard to read her. "Love? You don't really believe in that, do you?" he scoffed.
For some reason he seemed completely aghast at the possibility she might actually believe in something as conventional and clichéd as love.
"Of course I do," she said, a bit defensive. "Why shouldn't I?"
"It's like this, Hermione," he said. "People say they love each other – confess it to the ends of the world, write the same sodding poem in different versions, build manors catering to their every desire – and then they go around and treat each other like they can't stand each other. It's completely dishonest. An entire myth built off of empty promises, and people eat it up. They think it's real. Then when they aren't looking, it destroys them, from the inside."
She just stared at him. He looked completely serious, as if he truly believed in what he'd just told her. For this, she actually felt sorry for him. In a way, she realized that she wasn't all that surprised he'd come out of all this thinking love was just some grand con on the human race. She wished otherwise, but she knew him and his life too well to pretend.
"Harry was saved by love," she said, softly. "How could I not possibly believe?"
His lips moved, but they only formed the faintest ghost of a smile. "Maybe that's the difference between you and me," he said. "You're gullible. And naïve."
She rolled her eyes, but lay down next to him, on her back. She counted the folds in her velvet canopy. He was breathing quietly, his expression sober and thoughtful, just looking at her.
"You know, the funny thing is," he said, his voice a low tremor, making the room feel fuzzy, "for some reason, I always thought I'd marry you. My parents mentioned it once or twice, a few years ago." He moved his gaze away from her, staring up at her canopy, his mouth pressing into a sad smile. "The suggestion didn't send me into a screaming fit of terror like I thought it would."
She laughed to herself, even though she could feel her heart rate quicken. At his comment, she felt something form at the base of her throat. Something sour and dense and remarkably close to longing. "That makes one of us then."
"Oh come on," he said, turning back to her. "You'd be thrilled to be my betrothed. Admit it. Admit you're bitter my parents didn't choose you."
She met his eyes, and for a second, really wondered. But Hermione, knowing the futile nature of wondering, didn't let her imagination take her too far. "I could never marry for anything other than love."
He shifted his eyes away again. "How inconvenient for you." There was a slight telltale edge to his voice. "Be sure to tell me how that goes. You know how I love a good laugh."
She was silent for a moment. "I know it's not going to be easy. I realize it might never even happen," she admitted.
At this, he opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but then closed it again. His eyes were dark and from the open window she could see that the sun was slowly setting, casting long shadows everywhere in her room, stretching and bleeding into each other. For a few seconds, everything around them went perfectly still. "For you," he finally said, as if the words were heavy and carefully deliberated, "it will."
She felt herself blush, subconsciously holding her breath, before he abruptly sat up and in long-legged strides made his way across her room, towards the window. She got up, too.
"I better go then. If I want to get a good fly in before supper," he said.
"All right. Be careful," she said, as he grabbed his broom and placed it outside the window, where it floated, waiting. "I'm sure your betrothed wouldn't want to be walking down the aisle to a vegetable." She had meant this to be funny but neither of them laughed, and instead all she could feel was the lame smile that rested awkwardly on her cheeks and the odd, strained silence that stretched in between them.
He nodded. "I'll see you later," he said, before climbing out of her window and getting on his broom. She waved and watched him from her window as he disappeared into the distance.
Years later she would replay this memory and realize he was right. It would be the last time she would ever get a chance to go out for a ride with Draco Malfoy on his broom, and she hadn't even considered it. She knew that now. That things had a way of slipping out from beneath you, and you would never even know you missed them until they were gone.
ooo
Hermione decided to meet up with her friends in Hogsmeade that Saturday night because come the end of her hellish week, she actually had something to celebrate. She revealed this to them as she requested a toast inside the Three Broomsticks, holding up an owl she had received from a popular wizarding band, the Wailing Banshees, that had formerly rejected her on her request for them to come and play at Hogwarts' beginning of term ball. Their original gig had been canceled so they were now able to commit to her event. She was so relieved; she was even considering sending a copy to Malfoy when she got back to her room later on that night, just to shove his arrogant little face in it.
"To Hermione," Harry shouted, over the cacophony of the crowded, bustling pub. "The most ridiculously dedicated Head Girl in the history of Hogwarts!"
"Hear hear!" everyone shouted, including herself, as they noisily toasted their overflowing mugs of butterbeer. She laughed heartily as she wiped the foam from her mouth. Sitting there, being with her friends, knowing that everything was set for Hogwarts' first big event of the year – this was undoubtedly the best she'd felt in a very long time. She allowed herself to just bask in the afterglow of her success. She knew that if she had to see Malfoy tomorrow, chances were that this feeling would be very short-lived.
"You never told us whatever happened when McLaggen asked you to the ball," Ginny mentioned, and all eyes were diverted back to her.
"McLaggen asked you?" Ron asked in disbelief, butterbeer dribbling down his chin.
"Don't worry, Ron, when I turned him down I passed along that you might be interested," she said sarcastically, reaching over for a chip.
"You turned him down?" Ginny echoed.
"Of course I did," she said. "Don't act so scandalized, Gin. He's utterly vile. You know that."
She looked disappointed. "I was hoping there would be more to him than that. You know, that there might be a nicer, cuddlier, and less sexually-harrassing interior." When everybody at their table gave her a dry look, she threw up her hands. "What? Can't a girl have a little bit of faith in humanity? Honestly, you lot are so jaded," she grumbled.
"Anyway," Hermione said, turning to the boys, "have any of you got dates yet?"
"I'm going with Parvati – just asked her today," Dean grinned.
"I asked Harry," Ginny replied.
"I said yes," confirmed Harry.
"I asked Hannah Abbott," said Seamus, "who said no. Then I asked Susan Bones, who said yes. So I'm going with Susan."
"Aren't Hannah and Susan best mates?" Ginny asked suspiciously.
"Practically sisters," Seamus nodded, and everybody gave out a groan of disapproval. "You can imagine that didn't go over too well. Look, judge me all you want, but at least I'm not dateless like Ronnykins over here," he teased, nudging Ron.
"Who says I'm dateless?" Ron said. "I'm going with Hermione. Obviously."
Hermione was taken aback by this sudden announcement. "Obviously?"
"You know. Everybody's got a date except you and me, so it's only natural we go together," he explained. At this, Hermione heard a mixture of sharp intakes of breath and groans from their group.
"Oy, well done, Ron," said Neville. "Have you ever considered writing a book called 'How to Repel Every Female in Two Sentences or Less'? Because you've already got pages of material."
"As flattered as I am, I don't think that's going to happen," Hermione laughed. Normally she would have been insulted by Ron's assuming nature and lack of any tact whatsoever, but this seemed like such a tiny blow compared to how her week had gone. This was barely even a dent in her armor compared to her troubles with Malfoy. "Sorry, Ron, but I'm not going to be anyone's default date. I think I've got a bit more integrity than that."
"Who are you going to ask then?"
She shrugged. "I'm not completely opposed to going alone. I'm sure I can steal a few dances here and there to save me from dying of total boredom."
As all of the boys in their group began suggesting a few dateless girls they had heard of to Ron, Ginny leaned in close to Hermione. "Has Malfoy got a date?"
"I wouldn't doubt it," she answered, taking a sip of her butterbeer. She tried not to think of the past girls he had taken to the Hogwarts balls (all of whom she had vocally disapproved of). But most of all, she tried not to think of how she had almost been one of them at one point in her life.
"I heard he asked Astoria Greengrass. Apparently Pansy was furious about it," Ginny said conversationally. "She's got a bit of a complex, that Pansy."
Hermione snorted, looking up at her friend. "You have no idea," she said, "how right you are, Ginny."
After a few hours of high-spirited communing, they headed back to Hogwarts to make curfew. She spent some time in the Gryffindor dormitories with Ginny because the other girls were out, and partially because she wasn't looking forward to being back anywhere near Malfoy. Even with her recent success of finally acquiring a band, it was quickly losing its luster, knowing that as the ball crept closer she would have to be working with him more than ever.
"Hermione," Ginny said gently, sitting on Parvati's bed and braiding her long hair, "do you ever miss him? Malfoy, I mean. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I see the looks you get sometimes. Like it hurts just to be around him."
Hermione was silent for a moment. She could feel herself getting pulled into the dark hole of her memories from her former life as a daughter of Pureblood society. Even now, thinking of it, she felt something bile and hot inch up her throat and felt a wave of conflicting, aching emotions. "Sometimes I feel like it was all just a dream, and it was only last year that I finally woke up from it."
"But you two were friends. Proper friends," she said. "It had to have been real."
Hermione smiled. She smiled because for a time she had told herself that, too, over and over again until the words eventually lost their meaning. She learned that the more you tell yourself something happened, the more you start to doubt it ever did.
"Time has this funny way of making you doubt your own memories," she said softly.
Hermione had left by the time the rest of the Gryffindor girls had finally come up for bed. She headed up to the Heads rooms, fumbling with the letter in her pocket. She fantasized about knocking on Malfoy's door and shoving it down his throat as some kind of retribution for how aggressively he had tried to get her to quit – not just from their previous Prefects meeting, but ever since they'd arrived here at school.
She walked through the portrait hole, still absentmindedly playing with the letter in her hands, before she stopped, mid-step. She turned her head back towards Malfoy's door, which had been left slightly ajar. She stood there for a moment, watching the door, as if expecting him to walk through at any moment.
"Malfoy?" she called out, walking towards his room. Something felt off to her. Draco had always been a stickler about privacy – there wasn't even the smallest chance he would have purposely left his door open. "Malfoy, are you here?"
She reached out, nudging the door open. A little at first, and then all the way. His room was dark, and she could make out something blue and glowing in the corner. It had an irregular shape, as if it had been toppled and spilled over. She stared at it, taking a steadying breath. She knew exactly what it was. It was a pensieve.
She began to walk over to it, now completely careless about the potentially huge problem she'd have in her hands if he found her in there, when she felt something heavy against her foot. She froze, nearly tripping over it. She tapped it again. It was warm and solid, and it was on the floor.
"Lumos maxima," she whispered, drawing her wand, illuminating the room. She looked down at what was crumpled at her feet, her heart becoming still. "Fuck," she hissed. "Not again." She got down on her knees, rolling him over. He was unconscious and she could make out the clumps of dried blood on his lower lip, as if he had been biting down on it too hard for too long.
"Malfoy," she said, softly slapping his face. She could hear him breathing but his pulse was faint. "Malfoy, come on. Wake up." After a few minutes, when it was clear he wasn't going to, she dragged his body to his bed, trying every spell she could think of to bring him back to consciousness. She paced at his bedside, trying to figure out what to do, feeling her panic start to rise. "I should go to Dumbledore," she whispered to herself. "This is the second time I've found him like this. Clearly there's something going on."
But there was a part of her that was resisting. The part of her that knew if he was involved in something – anything – there would be serious consequences. But how could Draco be up to no good, when he was the one mysteriously showing up wounded and unconscious? Biting her lip, she looked back at his forearm, covered up by his sleeve.
"I need to go to Dumbledore," she adamantly told herself. "I'm Head Girl. It's my duty to report anything if there's even the slightest implication they might be in danger."
Firmly holding onto this reasoning, she gave him one last look-over to see if he was still unconscious. Then she grabbed her wand and headed towards the door.
Then something happened. She heard something. A word.
She whipped back around. "What did you say?" she said. But all that greeted her was silence. His body was so still it looked dead from where she stood. She swallowed hard, her thoughts in a mad scramble. She knew what he had said. She was absolutely positive. It was still ringing in her ears, furiously weaving through her brain, revolving over and over again to make sure she had understood. He had spoken to her. He had said it.
"Fly."
