The flat seemed more suffocating than usual after everyone had left. Draco couldn't stand the quiet. He wandered around the living room for a bit, and then he sat down in an old, grungy armchair. His mind was racing.
Harry Potter's best friend and his biggest rivalry at school was sleeping in his shower. How odd it was to realize that the notions that used to drive him most fervently were rendered completely irrelevant. School meant absolutely nothing now. …And Potter? The bastard who got his Father arrested. He'd be dead by the end of the year. And it wasn't like he was going to run into him in the meantime. Not that he wouldn't like to! What he wouldn't give to be the one to bring him to Voldemort. Draco could feel the anger rising in his body now.
Simultaneously he was consumed with frustration, knowing that after his completely unsuccessful first assignment he'd never come close to receiving the task of finding and bringing Potter to his death. And even if he was to ever be eligible for such a task— after Voldemort and the usual Death Eaters— no one was more wanted by not only the Ministry but the Order of the Phoenix as well. Whether it was to put him behind bars for the rest of his life or to cut him a deal for all the information he had, no one could say. He wouldn't be able to even be in the same province as Potter without getting arrested. But even all these set backs were getting too far ahead of him.
Wanting to help kill Potter?
He had been given the opportunity to have a life in his hand and decide what to do with it, and he completely froze. He had always believed he would without a doubt do whatever it takes to survive, to be on top. Choking when he did had forced him to reassess what he was really made of. But Harry Potter, the one who had ruined everything, the one who had ruined what would have been a most glorious and successful return for someone who would have rewarded his family most richly, the one who was to blame for his Father being contained, his accounts frozen and he and his Mother evicted from their million galleon home, the one who had made him the laughing stock of his entire wizarding class, the one who ultimately led him to where he was now, alone and unimportant….
Draco kicked over the ottoman before him, fuming. He got up and hastily began repairing the damage that had been done to the apartment, flicking his wand about hastily.
"Reparo! … Scourgify!"
He sighed as he realized he would have to go check on Hermione or there might be hell to pay. Contemplating for a moment what would be worse; Hermione escaping… or Draco being forced to interact with her. Finally he accepted that if he ever wanted to move on from spending all his time with a tacky old goblet, he would have to prove he did all he could to follow his new orders. His life was at the mercy of what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named thought of him.
He peered slowly into the bathroom. Hermione was still sleeping in the tub, her head resting on her shoulder. Draco quietly kneeled down next to it. He shook his head as he stared at her body. She had pretty little feet, limp in relaxation, and long shapely legs leading up to her boy cut undergarments. To anyone else they would seem practical and modest. But to Draco, they were irresistibly sexy the way they accentuated her perfect hips and smooth feminine stomach. Her wet, white top did not help him at all either. No male would be able to ignore her breasts. But Draco had to make himself. This attraction was ridiculous—it had to stop. Six years at Hogwarts spent going through all of puberty and then some lusting after something so stupidly impossible was bad enough.
But then there was her face… so small and perfect. Porcelain skin… long curly eyelashes… plump pink lips….
Draco couldn't help himself, he took his wand, "Episkey," he said, mending her lip, "tergeo," he went on, beginning to siphon off the remaining dried blood all the while knowing how pointless it was.
It was inevitable, wasn't it? The strongest willed person he had ever known, just giving up such information? And with her astonishing loyalty, just turning over her friends? No, her pretty little face wouldn't stay pretty much longer. He just couldn't believe he would have to be the one to do it.
No, no, no. He couldn't! How could he? And why bother? They could demand him to beat her into a bloody pulp and she still wouldn't utter a single fact. She would die first. She would let Death Eaters torture her to death. Draco couldn't begin to fathom such dedication—and he didn't even want to try. Right now he couldn't shake the horrible thought of ending up killing her. But that was the point, wasn't it?
When it came down to it, they wouldn't care much at all if she never talked. They probably already expected it. And, oh, how kind of them, they probably assumed he didn't mind at all that torturing her would be fruitless. He'd love to end up killing her, right? Death Eaters just love to kill—especially mudbloods; especially mudbloods that have wronged them. It was a gift. Snape had truly given Draco a little doll to play with.
She was very doll-like though, so innocent and sweet looking. An intriguing similarity Draco couldn't ignore. He found himself distractedly gathering her wet matted hair and moving it neatly to her shoulder.
"Remember when you came into the Room of Requirement?" Hermione suddenly murmured.
Surprised, Draco pulled his hands away from her.
"Do you?" she mumbled again, stirring a little. She wasn't even opening her eyes. Still curled up in the bath, she seemed to be almost talking in her sleep.
Her question sent him through the whirlwind of a most peculiar memory. A most strange encounter that he, and surely her as well, never told another living soul about….
Draco recalled a day in his last year at Hogwarts—one of the most miserable years of his life. He had been pacing outside the door that led to the Room of Requirement. He needed to work on the cabinet some more. Time was running out. He was concentrating on the storage room, beginning the ritual to gain access. The pressure was really starting to get to him. He hated it; he thought longingly of previous years at the school. They actually had not been that bad. He had even enjoyed some good times. Images of scaring first years and pranking other houses ran through his mind. And quidditch. He had always loved quidditch. But then of course, he remembered… he had just missed out on the match earlier that very same evening, and he feared that once again Slytherin had lost to Gryffindor.
His pacing had quickened now; the thought of Gryffindor house always made him furious for obvious reasons. But then of course like always, he couldn't think of Gryffindor without thinking of Granger. Realizing too late he was not focusing on what he should have been focusing on, he had already turned the knob….
"…Yeah," Draco finally answered, "I remember."
"You were nice then," she continued quietly, in the same sleepy tone.
Draco looked at her intently, was she just that unfazed by him to say whatever she felt like, no matter how random?
He remembered how odd it had been to open the door of that magical room, expecting to see his cabinet and instead seeing her lying there on a bed, books strewn about like she had been trying to study. She had been more than shocked to see him there as well. But, strange as it could be, it was like they made an instant silent pact: "Don't ask me what I'm doing here and I won't ask you what you're doing here," their eyes mutually promised.
But she was right. He had been nice to her then. After the silent surprise and strangeness had gone on long enough, Draco finally said something.
"Hello."
"…Hello…." she responded, slowly sitting up, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe earnestly.
"…Working on that transfiguration essay?" he inquired, seeing her parchment and not knowing what else to say.
"Yeah…." Hermione said, hesitant.
"Hard, isn't it?" he commented.
"It's pretty challenging," Hermione agreed.
"They talk about it more in a later chapter of the text, reading that helps," he added.
"…Thanks…." Hermione managed to squeak.
"Well good luck on the test," he finally managed to say.
"You too," she answered.
"Bye then." And with that, he exited backwards out the door.
"Yeah, so what if I was nice…." he ultimately responded, trying to act as nonchalant as he could.
"It's weird when you're nice…." she said, "Like you cleaning up my blood now."
Draco stood up and backed away, "Well you're a disgusting mess," he said. Not sure what to do with himself, but too intrigued to discuss that night, he began rummaging in the medicine cabinet, searching out some potion ingredients.
"Why did you look so sick?" she asked, finally appearing more awake and rubbing her eyes.
"What?" he wondered.
"You had horrible bags under your eyes, and you were paler than usual. Why did you look so sick?"
"Because I was," Draco said sharply, now filling the rusty sink with hot water, "I hadn't slept in ages."
To this Hermione appeared to have no more questions. Draco assumed she was clever enough to figure out the full meaning.
"Why were you crying?" he countered quickly, remembering her glossy eyes and pink cheeks that had made an already strange encounter all the more uncomfortable.
Hermione slowly sat up now, as if trying to figure out what he meant. She looked very tired and sore, but her mouth eventually turned up into a little smirk. "Ron Weasley had gotten together with Lavender Brown," she explained with a scoff.
Something lurched inside Draco. He had a powerful desire to fly Ron two hundred feet into the air and kick him off his broom.
"Is that what you were doing there, then?" Draco drawled, sprinkling some powdered moonstone into the water.
Hermione cocked her head inquisitively.
"Pining over your broken heart?" he went on. But he quickly changed his mind; he did not want to hear anything more about putrid Weasley, "Was that your bedroom? From your muggle house?" he expanded.
"Yeah," she admitted quietly, "I would go there sometimes if I got home-sick; it was a much quieter place to study than the tower anyway…."
Draco nodded, remembering when he too needed to be one of the top students at school and understood where she was coming from. Not realizing just yet how unlike this was to anything he'd ever encountered with her before—her freely sharing personal information, and he, relating to it.
Draco found he was suddenly irritated. He snapped "Accio!" pointing his wand at a nearby hanging towel. Grabbing it in mid-air he flung it in Hermione's direction.
"Get up," he barked, dipping a cup into what he had concocted in the sink.
Hermione dried off the remaining water, wrapped herself in the towel and walked over to Draco, showing no signs of fear.
Draco shot back the cup and sighed, scooping up some more he said, "I made enough for you but you don't seem to need any…."
"Draught of Peace?" Hermione guessed by the look of the potion.
Draco nodded, taking another shot, "It's kind of alarming that someone who is mortal danger can be so calm."
Hermione looked defiant, "Well I wouldn't know, I'm not in mortal danger… aren't you having a lot of that?"
Draco looked puzzled, "Do you not realize where you are? And, no I'm not."
"Yes, I'm in some shit-hole apartment with a wannabe murderer."
Draco's irritation was increasing by the second—the damn draught couldn't kick in fast enough these days. He grabbed Hermione's wrist; she didn't flinch.
"Ferula," he said, bandaging the cuts on her arms, "Has it occurred to you that Snape will be here any moment—and that when he arrives he will be briefing me on questions to ask you. Including how to torture you until you answer?"
"It has, yes," she replied smartly, rubbing her arm.
"And this doesn't bother you?—the prospect of torture?"
"Not really," she answered coolly.
"May I ask why not?" Draco queried.
Hermione shrugged, "Because it's a prospect that won't come to pass. I will not be here for long."
Draco laughed, "Really? That's interesting. Escaping are you?"
"Yes," she said, nodded towards flat's main entrance, "I'm going to walk right out that door."
Draco laughed again, louder, "And how are you going to do that?"
"I'm sorry Malfoy," she said kindly, "But I can't tell you. You'll just have to wait and see."
Again Draco laughed. "Stupefy!" he bellowed suddenly.
Hermione fell to the ground, silenced. Draco scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the small bedroom, dumping her onto the bed.
He couldn't understand why he lost it. But he knew couldn't take it anymore. Talking with her he realized that his bitter enemy, the object of his constant and forbidden fantasy, was more than just someone to bark names at in the halls… was more than someone to visualize naked. She was a real person, with dimension and beliefs—like believing she'd actually leave the apartment unharmed. The more she stood there, close enough to touch, revealing more about her personality and opinions in five minutes than in six whole years, the more he knew her.
But he didn't want to know her. He just wanted her to go away. Why did she have to go get captured? How could she be so stupid, getting herself involved in this shit? She should've known she'd wind up getting herself caught or even killed eventually. She should be off curing vampirism or finding new ways to disillusion muggles. Who would let her try to break into Olive Hotel anyway? How irresponsible!
And that's when it hit him.
If she can undo their magical security, then certainly she could get through someone else's.
The last time Draco had been anywhere except Flat 1231 had been when Snape took him to Endless Point.
It was the night Dumbledore was killed, and Draco had fled the castle with Snape. He had to go face the Dark Lord, had tell him he failed to do what he had asked…. That's when he had been dismissed as useless. That's when he had been assigned to guard Hufflepuff's cup—a ridiculous measure. No one, not even a member of the Order of the Phoenix would pinpoint this random and obscure location. And even if they did there would be no way for them to get into this magically secured flat. There didn't need to be a live person here. This was punishment and everyone knew it. Draco accepted the post only because it was a notch above death.
He remembered every detail of that night. How He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named looked at him with disappointed disgust, how it was only Snape who quelled his temper. How He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named told him he would be positioned here, that he would guard one of his precious horocruxes. The smell of that old mildewed-ridden mansion—the dust in the air, the faint flickering of a few candelabras, creating the dim light that the Dark Lord preferred. What everyone was wearing, what they were whispering behind his back as he passed. He even remembered the two bricks that were set on a table—samples.
One brick from Azkaban and one from Gringott's. They were being tested. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wanted their magic to be broken. He wanted to know how to get through their security.
That was three months ago. They had figured out Azkaban, this much he knew—ever since then he had been waiting painstakingly for news of his Father. That they had gone in to get those arrested that night in the Department of Mysteries. The magic protecting Gringott's however… from what he guessed they hadn't made a dent.
He knew where they had failed Hermione could be successful. That's what he had to do to get himself out of this. Convince Snape to let her try in exchange for her freedom. Surely she would do this; it wasn't like asking her to show them into Godric's Hollow or Grimmuald Place. What would she care about Gringott's? If she could bargain for her life, then he wouldn't have to have anything to do with her anymore.
Draco looked at her, sleeping on the bed. Instantly he was reminded of how he used to imagine catching her masturbating, rubbing herself between her legs, then suddenly she would quietly, delicately, moan his name…. This fantasy always made him feel better in a deluded, ego-stroking sort of way. Maybe, just maybe, she thought about him in the same inappropriate way he did of her…. Not very likely at all; but a boy can dream can't he? He had been for almost seven years now after all.
The closest he ever come in explaining this terrible phenomenon to himself was assuming he just wanted what he couldn't have, which wasn't very many things at all, making her all the more appealing. That's what had attracted him, from the very moment he laid eyes on her. It was just fortunate that she grew into a lovely little frame. He couldn't describe how relieved he was when she finally came up in the locker room, knowing other Slytherin's noticed and acknowledged she was one of the most physically attractive girls in the school. His obsession with fucking her didn't feel as crazy anyway.
Wondering how long he had stopped and stared at her, he snapped out of it and hurried into the living room. How brazen she had been! How bold. It was enough to drive him crazy. He was so pent-up. He felt pathetic, wanting to wank so badly. He needed his boxing gloves. He was going to take this out on the bag.
In his haste, he stumbled over something left by the sofa. He looked down and saw the burlap sack Hermione arrived in, noticing for the first time a duffel bag sticking out of it. It must have been enchanted if it fit her and a bag. He sat down dejectedly on the sofa and unzipped it. The bag must belong to Hermione; there was a girl's robe on top. Perhaps they got it from whatever room she booked at the hotel to stake out in. Draco was relieved, not wanting to deal with her lying on his bed in her panties and skimpy top anymore, he pulled the robe out hoping to find her some pants but unfortunately he took out a silky red g-string.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, throwing the duffel bag away.