Hermione woke once, finding that she had kicked the covers off. While pulling them back onto the bed, the last bits of the dream she'd had faded. She knew it had something to do with being late to their first flying lesson, back when she had been a first year.
But at that point she was too tired to care, and after rearranging herself, she quickly found her thoughts coming randomly and not making any sense. Somewhere in that time she acknowledged that she was falling back asleep, but she promptly forgot about that.
Someone was on top of her, a cold hand gripping her shoulder and the other pointing a wand at her face. For a moment she thought it was someone named Leach. The name came naturally to her. But then, even though the face was not visible through the haze, she somehow suddenly knew that it was Harry.
"No!" she was screaming, wailing at him, wanting to get away somehow, any way. But his grip was too strong and her struggles were futile.
He was saying something. At first she couldn't comprehend it, but he repeated it over and over again as he looked down at her impassively, showing no reaction to her resistance.
"It's the same thing. It's the same thing. It's the same thing."
"No! No, it's not!" she pounded on him, moaning at his stare but unable to look away.
"It's the same thing … it's the same thing."
"No, that's not true!"
"Crucio!"
Despite the accompanying jolt, she woke slowly, pieces of her memory coming in fragments. She was jerked out of the deepest reaches of sleep by the horrifying thought that Harry had just cast the torture curse on her. Even though she had awoken in the safety of knowing that it had just been a dream, she clung to what remained of her sleep. She was afraid that she would wake to something worse than what she had left. By the time she found herself staring up at the dark ceiling, she recalled enough of what had happened that she laid still for several minutes, not daring to move. More than once, harmless sounds preyed upon her fear, but at last her eyes adjusted enough that she could tell she was alone.
She lay covered in an elegant four-poster bed, though she had to guess at the exact details because of the darkness. From what she could see, the rest of the room was fairly small but well furnished. Sitting up slowly, she checked over every detail from the relative safety that the middle of the bed provided. Minus the cold sweat she was drenched in, everything seemed to be fine. Had it all been a dream?
That might have been a soothing explanation, but the fact remained that she had no idea where she was. Try as she might, Hermione couldn't recall ever waking in such a room, or falling asleep there for that matter. She wasn't new to this feeling on account of the last few months, but she had always been able to eventually remember how she had gotten there.
Pulling aside the covers and swinging her feet onto the floor, she winced at the intricate pains that burst out up her legs and back. She found herself in a simple and inclusive night robe, and she frowned at it. Slowly, after waiting a long handful of heartbeats, she thoroughly examined herself with dread. With much relief, she found only the tender sources of her aches, though her confusion deepened.
Cradling her head in her hands, she slowly massaged her temples, fighting to distinguish what had actually happened.
She felt horrible. She had a horrible taste of shame. But what did she have to be ashamed of? Surely the man had only been a nightmare.
She let out a sob when she knew that it couldn't have all been a dream. The images, though distorted and unclear, held too many precise details and lurid emotions. Still vivid in her mind was the sense of horrible finality at the moment she'd found the curse binding her legs undone.
She had met Malfoy in the forest. They'd talked but then another man … Leach was his name, had come. And then …
Drawing in a shaky breath, she determinedly wiped at her eyes. There was no sense in tearing herself apart over what wasn't certain. Still, though, she couldn't help the dirty feeling on her skin and the thought that she was only fooling herself, putting off the truth for just a little while. But it was a little while she needed.
Finally, after a minute's more hesitation, she stood and opened the bedroom's only door.
A huge foyer of stone stretched out beyond. Its exact dimensions were lost in the darkness, though at the far left end she caught hints of a massive stairway that rose upwards into the shadows. There were other doors, presumably leading to rooms similar to the one she had just left. The only source of light was at the far right end, where a large fireplace hosted a healthy blaze that sent the long shadows flickering. Arranged in loose form were a handful of plush, high-backed chairs atop a thick rug.
Carefully moving sideways, Hermione thought she caught a glimpse of an arm resting on one of the chairs facing the fireplace. Pulling her night robe tighter and realizing just how chilly it was, she padded across the cold stone floor on her bare feet. As she drew closer, the arm became unmistakable, and she saw that the top of a blond head was leaning against it. She tentatively stopped when she came close enough, surprised to find that Malfoy was asleep, his face passive and his head supported by his fist and the back of the chair.
She stood for some time, battling over whether she should wake him while she furiously struggled to recall and order the remains of her memory. Finding him here hardly made things much clearer. But at last her uncertainty won out, and she turned to the fire, somehow her decision drawing her to it.
It was a marvelous thing, really. The flame fed upon a neat order of fuel, neither growing nor waning as time passed. Despite being quite boisterous in its volume, it was somehow tranquil. Hermione felt all the disparaging thoughts choking at the corners of her mind, some that she had only barely realized, slip slowly away. The longer she stared at it, the lighter her mind grew, until the light faded and grew with each heartbeat.
"Funny thing isn't it?"
The voice startled her so badly that she jumped, and she turned her stiff neck back to Malfoy. He hadn't moved an inch, but his eyes were open and staring languidly into the flames.
"It's called a Soothing Fire," he continued, not bothering to look at her, "It's supposed to take your worries away. But honestly, it gives me a headache."
Hermione refrained from nodding, finding that her neck and shoulders were tight and her back and legs ached. She could have sworn that she had only been there for a few moments, but somehow she knew that she'd been standing for hours. Working her way over to the nearest chair, she eased herself down into it, wincing at her throbbing feet as blood worked its way back into them.
She turned to see that Malfoy was watching her, though otherwise he still hadn't moved.
As she sat there, the pain in her tired muscles subsiding to a dull ache, another pain began to grow in her chest. For a moment she didn't think anything of it; it certainly was less than the pain in her feet. But it got worse, not spreading but intensifying in the same spot. It was as if someone was slowly closing a fist around her, and she grew frightened with each moment that it continued. She found herself on her feet again, the other aches of her body now distant as she clutched at the center of her chest. For several heartbeats it hit levels that she couldn't stand. But there was nothing she could do. Her breath was caught, her voice mute and her body trembling, but she could not move. Then slowly, long before she could notice, it abated, as if the fist was reluctantly opening. Even after it returned to normal, she stood there for another minute, catching her breath.
When she sat back down, she found that Malfoy was still staring at her, a slight frown discernable at the edges of his countenance. But when she flashed him the best cheeky smile she could force, he turned back to regarding the fire.
"I've heard of them," Hermione said after several minutes, when the silence had become unbearable, "Soothing Fires I mean."
"You've probably read about them," Malfoy replied, the words absent of the sneer and tone that she would have expected, "What do you see when you look at it?"
Looking back at the fire and rubbing at her chest when he wasn't looking, she frowned. "I … see the fire..."
"That's not what I meant," Malfoy rolled his head around to the other side of his shoulders, his voice sounding as though it didn't have the energy to be annoyed, "What are your sorrows?"
Pursing her lips and refraining from retorting that it was none of his business, she saw a clever way to fish for information.
"That depends, I'm having trouble remembering what happened last—night, if it was."
"Oh, are you worried about that?" he asked, as though it was an offhand topic no more important than what he'd had for breakfast.
"Yes," she surged to her feet, blistering indignation flushing her face, "I do happen to be worried about that."
"Well don't," he said simply, still showing no traces of emotion, "Nothing happened that you need to be ashamed of."
"But what did exactly happen?" she asked, careful not to take too much hope from his vagueness and realizing that somewhere her clever line of questioning had become somewhat blunt.
"If you don't mind, I really don't want to talk about it."
"Well I really do want to talk about it." She said, irritation mounting on top of her anger.
"Leach didn't get what he wanted," he turned to her, his expression slightly sullen but otherwise featureless, "Is that good enough or do I have to spell it out for you?"
"What happened, Malfoy?" she asked, closing her eyes against the images that the name conjured in her mind.
"Leach missed his chance to fuck a Mudblood."
"What happened, Malfoy?" she repeated, shouting as if it would give her a better answer.
"I killed him!" Malfoy shouted back at her as he turned in his seat, the rage in his voice barely touching his face. "Okay? Is that close enough to a definition for you? Does that explain everything thoroughly enough for you or should I go write a book? It's no wonder you don't have any friends, you're always pretending to be so smart but you're not! You have no idea when to shut up! You're just a stupid little suck up, why would Harry want you around anyway? I'm surprised that you lasted as long as you did!"
Hermione's mouth had frozen, her question why he had done what he had forgotten. She watched in horror as his face slowly fell into a cruel glee with each word.
He really hates me. The thought pounded into her mind, so sudden and unexpected that she could think of nothing else. For as long as she could remember she had thought that Malfoy hated her. She'd always known that. And maybe he had, but never before had it been so obvious, and she'd never really realized it until now. Never really felt it. And somehow, that thought hurt more than everything he'd said.
Hermione started to cry.
Malfoy continued to glare at her as slow, cool tears ran down her burning cheeks. He watched her as she fought it, until she sucked in a shaky breath, unable to hold it back any longer. Deep sobs racked her and she gasped each time her chest clenched, almost painfully. And she couldn't stop. She turned back to the fire, hoping that she could find solace there.
And she did. Slowly she felt herself come back under control. Wiping at her nose, she sat down, realizing again how tired she was.
"What do you see?"
She found Malfoy staring into the fire again, a stormy expression now set into his face.
Knowing what he was asking this time, she turned back to regard the flames, still seeing nothing. But she answered truthfully.
"Harry and Ron, they're finding—they're traveling together."
"Why is that bad?" Draco mumbled after a long pause, so softly that Hermione thought she had imagined it at first.
She blinked the last of her tears from her eyes as she stared into the warmth.
"They need me," she whispered.
Her voice faltered, and she wondered if that was really the truth.
Malfoy glanced over at her for a moment. His expression did not change as he turned back to the fire.
"Yes," he murmured, "I suppose they do."