There were cracks in the ice now; crisscrossed in a delicate pattern that felt almost threatening.
He broke the code of silence the day she fell asleep beside him. And Hermione found she was perfectly content to leave it undone.
Mostly, she asked him questions. It made the most sense to them both. She was a know-it-all who always had the answers (specialising in the questions no one asked), and he was a closed book of complexity, who was loath to reveal himself even to his closest goons. Wasn't that why they were here? Trying to be anyone but themselves?
In her defence, she tried to keep her interrogating as impersonal as possible, while keeping it interesting enough. But sometimes even trivial things would cause him to harden, and his eyes to turn to steel. His favourite things to do on the holidays, his best childhood memory, what he wanted to do after graduation (if we're still alive).
Perhaps he wanted anything but to be reminded who he was. Perhaps he yearned to remember, to anchor himself to better times. She recognised the battle.
On the first true day of winter she plucked up the courage to ask the one question that had plagued her since their dance began.
xxx
Murky, young snow was strewn haphazardly across the Forest floor and melting into their robes as they sat side by side, carefully not touching, with their knees pressed against their chests.
"Why… do you come here?" With me?
When he remained silent she hastened to continue. "I mean, why don't you fly somewhere, or visit the Room of Requirement?"
He flinched when she mentioned the enchanted chamber of the castle. She might not have noticed, staring resolutely at the ground as she was, if his elbow hadn't knocked hers.
"Why do you come here?" He finally answered in his careful tone. She caught herself hoping his (deflection) question held the same implications to him that hers did.
Now it was her turn to answer. They were deviating from the protocol of their arrangement, but that was alright. She could adapt. She sifted through some retorts (Didn't you know? I feel at home in the mud.) before settling on the truth. She expected the same courtesy.
"There's something comforting in the energy of the Forest. I don't have to think about…" The war, my possible death, my shameful, life-saving urge to run, run, run, and never look back …"what everyone else is thinking about."
He nodded. "I feel it too."
Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. What had she expected, really? Him to scrunch up his nose and say, 'geez woman, I just like the scenery'? Just because Harry and Ron had looked at her like she was a little bit bonkers for choosing to relax in a cold, dark, lethal place rather than in the library or the bath, didn't mean all boys were oblivious.
He was speaking again. "It makes it easier to forget what you should be, what everyone wants you to be, and try to remember who you were. Who you wish you could be. Helps you forget that wishing for such things is pointless and utterly futile."
He looked at her then, for the first time since lumos. His bottomless silver eyes locked onto hers, telling her something crucial, something devastating, something he would never tell anyone whose eyes were void of the same crippling awareness that haunted her every thought.
Hermione's heart pounded. There were snowflakes dusting his hair, caressing the lines of his face, melting on his lips. His eyes were shadowed with the ghosts of a man who was forced to a fate not his own. He was a prisoner awaiting the Kiss; that soul-stealing moment in which he would become a shell of who he was, and who he could have been. He was trapped. He was falling. He was beautiful.
xxx
She started to watch him. A breakfast, during classes, at dinner. What did he do? Where did he go? What was he thinking? These were some of the questions she challenged herself with. It was probably a stupid way to pass the time. It was definitely stupid to harbour the tiny spark of hope that Malfoy was anything other than a shallow, contemptuous excuse for a human being. But she did it anyway. In the very least, they were sharing some common ground (pun not intended). And no matter the reason, subtly stalking Malfoy over her pudding and pumpkin juice every night was infinitely better than trying to decide what the hell she was going to do when life stopped being so simple.
Hermione liked to think of herself as an observant person, but after three days of watching him, she still had no answers. He seemed quieter, less demanding of his friends, less like the centre of attention and more like he was flying below the radar. It reminded her of what Harry said about experiencing someone else's memories. You see what they see, hear what they hear, but you slip through their world like smoke, unnoticed.
At his usual position at the Slytherin table, he ate in silence, and those who glanced his way soon averted their eyes, like they neither cared what he was thinking, nor felt like getting hexed for asking. In class he stared over the teacher's shoulder, or bent his head over his work and wrote like a NEWT student, his quill barely interrupted for ink. Hermione had the impression that, had she not been watching, not a single soul would be able to answer immediately if someone happened to ask "where's Draco Malfoy these days?"
She mentioned it fleetingly (and exceptionally, like she hadn't been planning it all morning) to Harry during Potions. The Boy Who Lived blinked and slid his glasses back up his nose before squinting at his textbook again.
"I suppose the git has realised that he's pathetic and is pondering how to end it all without messing up his hair." He shrugged.
Hermione scowled at him, flicking a lacewing fly at his head. "There's no need to be like that, Harry. He hasn't even bothered you this year. Do you think he's… becoming a decent person? There's only so long you can be a jerk for no good reason."
Harry, remembering a rather painful arrival on the Hogwarts Express this year, glanced up at her from his cauldron.
"I doubt it."
xxx
In the Forest, Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her robes. There was a rather impressive magical fire burning in front of her, warming her thoroughly without soaking her in melted snow, and there was a handful of chocolate frogs weighing down her pocket. And she was alone.
Did he see her watching him? Did he hear her conversation with Harry? She was sure he'd left the dungeon momentarily when she spoke up, but she could have been wrong.
Something akin to panic bubbled in her chest. The wind howled through the trees, scattering sharp ice crystals at her face and in her hair. It seemed so long ago that she used to come here alone. Now she was lonely. Without his body beside her, she no longer felt relaxed. The Forest's magic assaulted her senses, uninterrupted by his breathing, and his occasional movements.
After an hour of waiting it was growing dark, and Hermione felt resigned. She slowly stood, feeling her stiff joints creak, and silently extinguished her fire. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that she had done something wrong. But even more persistent was the fear that she had lost him, lost the precious hours they spent together, two very different people sharing their despair.
xxx
Her hand was in his, dwarfed by his long fingers. He stroked her soft skin with his thumb, and whispered in her ear.
"I love you, Hermione. You're just like me." She smiled up at him, giddy with happiness. He grinned back, and leaned in to keep whispering.
"You're afraid to do what other people want, because they want you to be someone you're not. They want you to be honourable, and brave, and to fight for their beliefs. But you're going to abandon them."
Amidst the warm fuzziness that was enveloping her brain, Hermione felt a small pang of alarm. What was he saying? Why was his voice cold like that? He was her Draco. He was a good person. He had finally realised there's no point being a jerk for no reason.
"I know you, Hermione. We're so alike, don't you see? We're going to leave them behind, leave them to fall over one another and die, but we'll be happy. Together. I understand. It's okay."
She realised he was soothing her, rubbing her back while she cried. Her heart felt so empty.
"But… Harry!" She choked.
"He's dead, pet. Don't you remember? You left him to die. But it's okay, because you have me. We're the same, you and I."
But she couldn't stop crying. Things were spinning so fast, making her head swim. His cold voice rushed about her head, faster and faster, until it was naught but a hiss.
With a stifled scream, Hermione bolted upright in her bed. It was after midnight, and there was a storm brewing outside her tower window. She shook herself a few times, and took several deep breaths. But she couldn't still her frantic heart, and she could do nothing to quell the sickness that churned in the pit of her stomach.
"Merlin's beard." She whispered to the darkness. Tears filled her eyes as she lay back down, and she sobbed into her pillow until sleep eventually came for her again. For the first time since that fall, she felt strangled. She thought she was finding answers, but she was simply delaying the questions. And she knew, with a twist of fear and loathing, that she would give anything to make them disappear altogether.