Chapter Seven: Broken
Getting Malfoy to cry was not the only new experience for Hermione - seeing him cry was completely foreign.
It was the strangest thing she'd ever seen.
He just crumpled to the floor. He made no sound... he just put his head in his arms and pushed tears out of his eyes. She hoped, sincerely, that he was expelling some stress with those tears. Because she'd never seen him so tense, never seen him looking so... lifeless.
"Now's the time to rearrange your life. Now's the time to live for something - "
"Shut up," he said quietly. His tears were in his voice.
Geez. This was even to much mushiness for her, and she had people crying all over the place every day. Her worst for the day had definitely been Pansy... until now. Hermione got up from her seat and made her way over to him. He looked so... small, curled up like that. It was unreal. She knelt down next to him.
"Go away," he whispered. You really want to leave this room.
Hermione shook her head and reached out uncertainly, finally placing a hand on Draco's shoulder. He stiffened. You really want to leave this room.
"There is nothing you can say to me right now," he whispered through his arms. "Nothing."
"Look at me."
"No."
"Look at me."
Draco raised his arms slightly, then shook his head. "I won't."
"You're hiding again - "
"Is this that you wanted to see?" His head shot up in a fury of white blond hair. His eyes were indescribable. They looked like hand blown glass orbs... of a glittering ocean. Shining, the way they were, Hermione could see right through him. And at this proximity... she could almost see his soul through his eyes. She blinked uncertainly.
"Happy now? Run home to Ronny so you can laugh in peace."
"I'm... not laughing, Draco."
"But you want to."
"No, I honestly don't."
"I beg to differ." Silence. He wouldn't let her go with his eyes. She felt like a dying fire being stared down by the bitter cold and the ever-stretching sky. She was being consumed by his shining eyes... and she hated herself for making him act this way.
She'd known, in some part of her, that she was pushing too hard. Now, she felt like an abusive, cold step-parent who cared about nothing except for results. About the ends, not the means. Because there were times when no end could justify certain means. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, had just had his guard completely shattered. How was she going to build him back up? She felt like she was responsible for sewing him together, but what kind of job would she do?
For the longest time, Hermione had wanted to see him like this. She'd wanted to crush him with the weight of everything she'd felt - everything about being muggleborn, being friends with Harry, being smart, and being shunned constantly. She'd wanted to see him stagger with the burden of everything that he had done to turn her life to crap, everything for which he was directly - or indirectly - responsible.
She'd wanted him to beg for forgiveness and swear to undo his very birth for her.
But how did it feel now that he was finally in a place to be burdened? Just the thought that he was fragile made her want to drive the stake of her disgust and absolute pain right through him.
But for whatever reason, she couldn't. It felt... wrong.
She realized that her next words could mean everything. They could spell success or failure... and more importantly, they could determine whether or not he would stay broken, or would begin to heal. And the other question was... was she holding onto the shoulder of someone concrete... or someone that was already dead inside?
Instead of speaking, she studied his face. He wasn't twisting his face in a sneer or a scowl, and he looked a lot more pleasant that way - he almost looked like a child with that look on his face. She could see all kinds of things she would never have noticed otherwise - a small scar under his eye, the blackheads on his nose, how pale his lips were. A little dimple on his chin.
"Say something," he whispered. A tear made it's way down his cheek.
It was too much - she wanted to look away. Now she felt like a pervert. This was completely indecent, what she was seeing. No one should ever have to see this... no one should ever have to feel this.
Draco didn't care that she was uncomfortable. She'd signed up for it. Fuck it, he thought. She wants to break me, fine. Break me. I don't care anymore.
"You love it." It was an accusation.
Hermione shook her head, unable to stop staring.
"Say it." Break me.
"No," she mumbled.
"Say it." Break me.
She shook her head again. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.
"Say it," he breathed dangerously, headily, his breath pooling on her face. Hermione's senses shut off temporarily as her brain clouded.
"Um." Her own eyes brewed tears.
"That's what I thought," he said, pushing back from her and standing up. She was briefly consumed by cold air - she hadn't realized that his body heat was warming her up. "Let me out of here."
Using a nonverbal command, she unlocked the door.
He left without another word, wiping his face on his sleeve.
Hermione didn't know how long she sat there, on the floor behind her couch. It could have been hours. She looked at her watch - twenty minutes had gone by.
She could not get that image out of her head - that image of his face, in her direct line of vision - completely obscuring the room; his eyes like glass bubbles full of grey diamonds. His soul, that light that she could see as a tear dropped down his face. Say it, her brain echoed mercilessly. Say it.
Say it - you love seeing me this way. You love seeing me come crashing down. You love every second you see my walls shatter.
"Ugh," she said, getting up. Her stiff joints groaned, and her knees made cracking noises.
Well, she thought, trying to comfort herself, at least he understands now. At least he can move forward now. Everything she had seen... it all felt so private. As a therapist, she thoroughly inserted herself into people's business, and the most personal of matters came up. Even talking to Pansy this afternoon, she got a glimpse into the other girl's private life. Through her sobs, Pansy had recollected the first time she'd seen Him. The way she described her lover... it was magical, and poetic. And extremely, extremely, close to her heart, as if she had thought about it a hundred times. It had nearly brought Hermione to tears.
But there was nothing more private than what she had witnessed with Malfoy.
She had seen him in many states - taunting, on his pedestal; in the hospital wing with a shat-upon ego; whining like a child in class; staring coldly as she answered a question in detail... some things were hard to forget. She'd even seen him in some very vulnerable states, and wished for the day when the shoe was on the other foot and it was her turn to show him.
But what had she shown him? Her dark side, maybe. She honestly was trying to help, but there was still that little bit of her that wanted him to crawl out of her office, completely torn down. She'd wanted to completely dismember the very fabric of his mind, completely destroy the foundation that his knowledge, beliefs, wants, needs, and comforts were based on... and then she'd wanted to pour salt all over him. Watch him burn up in his own grief until he succumbed to better ideas, more constructive ideas. Her ideas. The right ideas.
And now that she'd nearly gotten there, she felt as if she'd killed him rather than helped him.
"What's the big deal?" she said, laughing to herself. "So he cried. Big deal. Let's move on."
Words, unfortunately, could never change how she felt.
She'd sounded exactly like his father - the same tone and everything.
Hello? I'm not talking to the wall. Though I get more results out of it than you.
Ugh. He couldn't believe that he'd actually cried. Cried. There was no way he was going back there now - he'd have to kill himself.
The bottle of sleeping pills called his name quietly from his shelving unit. Could he even kill himself with those? He'd probably just slip into a coma.
Don't even think about it.
He clenched his teeth - her voice was still inside his head. "Leave me alone," he muttered. Was that too much to ask for? He just wanted everything - the world - to leave him the fuck alone.
He looked around his flat. It was in desperate need of furnishings - he hadn't even moved the bed into one of the two rooms. It sat on the opposite wall from the front door, with a built in shelf next to it. There was nothing else but a chain hanging from one corner of the living room - it obviously used to hold a light, or chandelier. He wanted food, but here was nothing but a bottle of ketchup in the fridge. Why did he have that, anyway? There was probably some cans of soup in the cabinet... ugh. Where was a house elf when you needed one?
Pathetic, she whispered.
It was going to be curfew in a few hours. If only he could apparate without being thrown back in Azkaban... he'd go down to the NASROP. It was located in Poland, and the only way he was going to get there without being canned... was by portkey. An authorized portkey. Paperwork, paperwork.
Shit.
His thoughts were disrupted by a knock on his front door. He looked over at the fireplace. People knew his new address... friends and family (shudder) would use the fireplace.
He opened the door, and immediately closed it again.
What. The. FUCK. "Go away," he said through the door, before a loud bang sounded behind him and he was pushed flat on his face by the back of it. He'd forgotten that she had a wand.
"WHAT THE FUCK, GRANGER."
"...Yeah, sorry about that."
"GET OUT OF HERE."
"I don't like people slamming doors in my face, what can I say?"
"YOU CAN LEAVE."
Hermione stood there, with her arms crossed, and then she took a look around. "Wow... I love what you've done with the place."
She was torturing him, turning him about. She had her snobby tone and everything - arms crossed, full of sarcasm and contempt. And amidst that, he heard something else in her voice - awkwardness. Her words were forced, and his little crying bout could be heard ringing in her head as loud as if it happening again. It all drove him absolutely mad. The monumental amount of stress from the afternoon washed over him again, and he clenched his teeth, not bothering to get up.
"You need furniture. Desperately." I need you to leave... desperately.
His arms found their way around his head, and he didn't even notice that his face was on the floor, probably shoved right in one of his dusty shoe prints; his elbow had snagged on a nail. Stupid hardwood flooring.
"Are... are you okay?"
"Do I look okay?" came his muffled reply.
"Did I hurt you?"
He hesitated. "Yes, you did."
His meaning wasn't lost on her. "Listen," she said after a minute. "I came here to ask you... if you wanted to go to dinner."
Oh, wow. Is she fucking serious? Really? Really, now. "I'm not allowed," he muttered, leaving everything else he wanted to say hanging in the air.
Okay, that wasn't... exactly... a no. "You are where we're going."
There was silence. All he really wanted was for her to go away.
"Come on, I'm buying. You must be starving; Ron said you didn't take a lunch today."
He was aware of everything, and everything about her was stressing him out more than ever. Her voice, her intentions, the sound of her breathing, the soft grip of her hand on his upper arm, her long, feminine fingernails. The fact that she was concerned. The fact that she was, technically, asking him out on a date. The fact that she didn't, and would never, see it that way. And the fact that Weasley had told her that he hadn't eaten all day - Weasley actually noticed? ... But instead of making him angry, everything just made him feel so tired. It took him a few seconds to realize that she was trying to pull him up, and was struggling.
She let go of his arm as she felt his muscles flex underneath his skin. He rose to his feet painfully. She held out her other hand, where a small, wooden figurine rested on a handful of cloth.
A portkey. She'd planned for this. Well.
The implications made him dizzy.
He lazily reached out his hand and touched the little statue, and everything around him spun.
As he closed his eyes, he didn't know if it was the world or his own head that was spinning.