She kept thinking of what he had said to her.
The people who don't listen to you are the fools, not you.
She wanted to believe him, but since he didn't know the full context of what went on in her therapy sessions, she was sure he would've had a different opinion on the matter.
Yes, her therapy partner was many things, but hardly a fool.
He is tense, unwilling to get close to people and open up, and uncaring, but there was something in the way he spoke, his pauses, and the structure of his words. If he were a fool, Hermione would have detected it even in the first session–maybe not the first since he hadn't spoken a word to her.
Some part of her wished that she was wrong and he actually was a fool. Then everything would be so much easier for her. But when was anything ever easy for her?
Never.
Fighting and struggling was the only thing she had known ever since birth.
Somehow the universe enjoyed itself, throwing challenging situations left and right. She didn't blame them, of course. Someone had to be the culprit.
While immersed in her tenth self-reflection of the day, she realized something. Something she swore she would never be.
A victim.
She knew that if she continued thinking this way, things would eventually get worse. She wouldn't be able to comprehend reality looking at it through the victim's eyes.
She quickly tried to reprogram herself to continue to think and see things from the third perspective.
But who was she kidding?
If reprogramming your brain was that easy, then life would just be a simple little thing for everyone.
Yes, life is actually simple if there were no such thing as thoughts and feelings. But unfortunately or fortunately, should I say? People feel and think it is our curse and blessing somehow.
Why did everything always have to be in the extreme? Why isn't there a middle to things? Why is it so damn hard to find an appropriate balance where thoughts don't consume you but also don't leave you numb?
Is it a good thing to feel everything right in the middle? Or is it actually a good thing that everyone feels emotions in a different percentage, which makes humanity thrive and helps us evolve?
Hermione, you've done it again.
It was always the same pattern for her. She would first think about a current situation in her life, then tie it to her regular feelings and somehow end up thinking about things from a global perspective.
See, this was what she was talking about.
Everything was always on the extreme side of the balance for her.
She either thought about her problems or global phenomena. There was never a middle.
But maybe she should be thankful that she thinks in this way. Maybe that's what makes her, her. Maybe that's who he is. An extremist?
"You've been staring at the wall for the past forty minutes," he snapped her out of her daze.
She turned to look at him, "Does that mean that you've been staring at me and my impeccable hair for the last forty minutes?" she mused, watching as he furrowed his brows and looked away from her.
Did she just intimidate Draco Malfoy? Or had he been caught for the second time in the last twelve hours?
"No," he said firmly, turning to face her again, "Every time I gazed around the room and saw you for a split second, I noticed you were staring at the wall."
Draco Malfoy, explaining himself? To her?
"Sure, whatever you say, Malfoy," she enjoyed this new Malfoy. It seemed like it was easier to poke him with her words.
"Oh, so you don't believe me?" he quirked a brow.
"I'm not quite sure I said that," she said matter-of-factly, a faint smile on her lips.
"You? Not being sure about something? Never would've thought I'd see the day," he joked, scratching his forearm. She checked to see if it was the arm that carried the mark, but it was the other one. He noticed her eyes linger on his forearm, and he quickly pulled down his sleeve, covering it completely even though the mark had pretty much faded.
She either thought it was a habit, or he didn't want her to remember him as being a former Death Eater. I hope it wasn't the second option because she didn't see him that way anymore.
She saw him differently, but she couldn't exactly describe how. She would need more time to think, that is, if she will ever get the mental space for it from thinking about her therapy partner.
"Why? Did I hurt your ego that much before that you never thought you could get ahead of me in our classes?" What was going on with her? Where did cocky Hermione come from? She actually enjoyed being somewhat cocky sometimes, even though the people around her wouldn't approve of this side of her much.
Yes, she always wanted and would treat people with kindness, but sometimes, or even now, people always took advantage of her for it.
At first, she didn't mind because she thought of these people as friends or as being interested in her, but experience had taught her otherwise.
Even when people were rude to her, she always tried to remain true to her character and not be a vile being to respond to them, even though the most harmful words lay just at the tip of her tongue. Words that could silence them forever and never dare speak badly to her face again.
But she didn't.
It wasn't her.
However, as time passed, she decided to use all those unfulfilling times of not standing her ground and having the confidence to defend herself and turn them into occasional cocky comments.
His brow had literally reached his hairline, "I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself now, Granger," his tone was serious, with a hint of amusement stirred in it.
"Am I?" she challenged, straightening her back. He mirrored her movement, slightly cringing as he straightened himself due to the small ache in his ribs.
"Yes," his eyes burned into hers.
"So you're saying I'm wrong?" she folded her hands against her chest, looking at him expectantly.
"Yeah. Some of us had a life instead of studying during the weekends, you know." His tone was not mean or menacing; it was just a statement, and he was somewhat right.
"Perhaps, but I'm assuming that this statement doesn't apply to you. Last I checked, you spent most of your weekends in the library too." His face didn't reveal anything, but she looked at those silver eyes that told her a completely different story.
"Most, yes," he admitted, "But not all."
"How do you know I was in the library every weekend?"
"Don't change the subject," he scratched his non-marked arm again, but she didn't look.
"Why not?"
After a measure of silence, "Because every time I borrowed a book, your name and the date you borrowed it was always written as the last person who had borrowed it. He sighed, glancing at the clock. It was 13:30 in the afternoon. His therapy session was in half an hour.
"So you're saying you touched the same book as a Mudblood?" It was chilling how carelessly she had said the word as if it had never meant everything to her for half her life. She didn't look offended. Her tone was almost amused.
Draco felt confused and didn't know if he should continue with an answer that would correspond to the light mood between them or consider the fragility of the word for her and its significance in the war.
He decided to take a chance and go with the first option, "Actually, you posed quite a big problem up until fifth year," he stated, and she looked at him expectantly, wondering where he was going with this, "I constantly had to carry gloves with me, and turning the pages was an absolute nightmare with those gloves. Each page would take me at least half a minute, and almost halved the number of books I read per year."
Hermione couldn't tell if he was joking or not, "Are you actually serious? Gloves?" Younger Hermione would've probably cried her eyes out, but new Not-so-Golden Hermione thought this was the funniest thing ever.
He nodded, half ashamed, half amused.
She started laughing to herself and covered her mouth as his dark eyes were trying to decipher if this were the type of laugh that would eventually turn into gut-wrenching tears or happy tears.
When she finally calmed down, she noticed a sense of relief wash over him. She wondered why that was.
Then it dawned on her, "You said up until fifth year. What about sixth year?" Her eyes sought his, but he tilted his head to avoid her gaze. She patiently waited until he looked at her again, but he never did.
His gaze was cast on the floor, "Nothing mattered that year except for keeping her alive." She knew that the 'her' he was referring to was his mother.
Before, she thought Draco was soulless. Someone that only cared about himself. Maybe he was, but not when it came to his mother. She could see how much he valued her. The way he talked about his mother was different. The defensiveness that always masked his face lifted at the mention of her name. It was the only time she could see through him. The real Draco behind all the darkness that surrounded him, which didn't seem so bad after all.
She liked this version of him.
He looked so vulnerable and broken, sitting there, eyes cast downward. It almost made her want to comfort him. To hug him, but she was too scared of being pushed back.
But then she thought, why not? Worse things have happened. She pushed herself off the bed and watched his eyes glisten up all over her frame. She didn't want to shock him, so her steps were careful.
He watched her as she sat beside him, her thighs touching his, and looked down at her, meeting her gaze.
She gently placed a hand between his arm and abdomen and waited for him to respond. His breathing was heavy, and so was hers, and he shifted to align his frame with hers. When she reached her other hand to his side, he stopped her by holding her hand and stared at it for a moment before he pushed it away, "I," he commenced, but she cut him off, "It's okay. I understand," she quickly rose to her feet, "It was stupid," she turned to face him, "I'm sorry," then turned around to walk back to her bed before she felt dangerously cold hands hold her by the waist, and turned her around.
She stood there stunned as she searched his eyes for something. Anything, really, but they were as enigmatic as ever. He stared at her and everything about him seemed to grow sharp. "I can't let you hug me."
"Why?" She knew his views about her kind had changed, but apparently, it was not enough to be hugged by her. But it didn't make sense. Yesterday, he had willingly touched her thigh. He had let her hold his hand while he healed her at the lake or that time they apparated to the cinema. She had even kissed his cheek, and he didn't do anything about it.
Maybe his ideals had changed enough for minimal contact. But still, it didn't make sense to her. She tried not to be consumed by her assumptions and hear out what he had to say, but it sure as hell was not as simple as that.
He looked away to his favorite spot again, the ground. Of course, he would. Confronting him always lead to him looking at the ground. She made a mental note to keep track of his reactions the next time she would confront him–if there even was going to be a next time–and see if looking at the ground was a constant recurring pattern of his.
"Because…I just can't again, Granger," he slowly removed his hands from her waist and lay on his back again, looking at the ground. She wasn't mad about the situation. It was clear that he had boundaries, and she pushed them.
She started walking away to get some air outside. Just right when she had reached the threshold, she stopped.
She was a damn hypocrite.
She also couldn't hug people for quite a while after the war and hated when people forced her, yet she did the same to him.
She turned around, walking up to his bed again, "I'm sorry. I had no right to cross your boundaries or ask you about it. I'm really sorry, Malfoy," Draco saw the sincerity in her eyes and felt bad that she felt guilty because of his incapability to accept a damn hug. Here she was, trying to comfort the fucking vile piece of shit Death Eater that he was. The one that hurt her and fiddled with her self-esteem for almost half of her life, yet she still carried so much compassion that she not only forgave him but tried to comfort him too.
But he just couldn't. It might seem like a small deal to the rest, but this was everything to him. The only warm thing he held onto, and he just couldn't risk it.
"Don't apologize," his tone was calm, "You did nothing wrong. I sI appreciate all of your beautiful comments and support for this story 3hould be the one apologizing."
"No, really, you don't have to. It's my fault. It won't ever happen again," with a final glare, she left the infirmary to catch some much-needed air.
He should be relieved, right? That there were no external 'attackers' left that would take this away from him.
It won't ever happen again.
It was what he wanted, yet why did it…hurt?
A/N: I appreciate all of your beautiful comments and support for this story.