Hermione sat on the floor of their common room for the second time that night, right next to Draco. For the first time, she felt sorry for him a little. He couldn't talk to either of his parents, and the school hated him. All he really had going for him was their little task, and his role as Quidditch Captain and Head Boy.
After he undid her paralysis, Draco double checked the doors were locked.
She hated making him open up like this, but it wasn't like they had much of a choice, and also they weren't spilling their guts about crushes.
Hermione Granger could never imagine herself trusting Draco Malfoy with that sort of information. No way in hell.
"So, we can't tell McGonagall because you don't trust her," Hermione started, "And we can't leave the castle because we can't tell McGonagall, and because the Ministry is watching you very carefully and your father wants to come after me, and wants you to help?"
She didn't know what to do, for once in her life. She was trying hard not to go to Narcissa Malfoy herself, but knew that for her safety she shouldn't. Her parents could wait a few days, she supposed.
"That's about it."
Draco leaned back against the couch, his head falling back in exhaustion. Hermione understood to an extent how he felt. Her parents weren't there, either. But the difference was, if her parents could remember her, they would be there for her. He had never been able to rely fully on his parents. They both got stared at like aliens, but for different reasons. They stared at him, because they didn't understand why he was back. They stared at her in awe.
They were the same but completely different at the same time.
His chest rose and fell under the thin shirt he wore. It was funny to see someone who wears suits in the weekends in his pyjamas. Hermione had to admit to herself, he could pull off either look. And he didn't even need her help tying the tie.
His eyes were tightly shut, his eyelashes casting a shadow over his aristocratic cheekbones. Hermione thought that if he were someone in History, he would either be a prince or a noble. With his pale skin, and wealth larger than her entire worth, there was no questioning it.
Maybe he would have been an aristocrat in the French court in the 1700s. He wouldn't even need to put on the makeup to get the fashionable pale skin. He had it naturally. It was flawless.
Hermione stopped herself from getting too caught up in the way that he looked, clearing her throat and standing up.
"I'll let you take the reins on this one," Hermione said, nudging him with her toe. "Three days. And then I'm going to your mother without you. I don't have long before…" Hermione didn't want to think about what they might do. Confiscate her wand? Snap it? Send her into Azkaban for a few days?
Draco sighed in recognition. Hermione trailed off to her room.
The blonde stepped confidently onto the property in front of him. The peacocks were looking a little worse for wear, the garden clearly not being attended to. The manor house stood as a looming shadow over the path to the door. He walked up to the door, and knocked. The door opened obediently, recognising that he was back. Narcissa's wards always let way to him and the others. There was something about her that couldn't let him go.
His footsteps then echoed in the house eerily, ricocheting off the high ceilings.
"Cissa?" His voice echoed out in call for his wife. He had to stay away for a week or so, waiting for the ministry officials to clear out. He knew perfectly well that he would be safe, however. The ministry had nothing to pin on Narcissa or their son.
There was no reply.
There was no noise coming from the basement, either, where they normally held their house elves.
He searched each room, careful not to make too much noise in case he was wrong and it triggered anything.
There was nothing. Not even a portrait yelled at him as he came in. The people in the portraits were missing.
"Cissa!" He yelled louder. No reply again.
He went into the last room down the hallway. There was a blast through the door, which he knew wasn't her doing. She was too kind to the house to be able to do anything. She was also too scared to fix it once it happened.
The room had previously been Draco's. You could've see the hints of childishness coming out in the décor on the walls. Old paintings and such from his preschool days. A few holes in the closet from when he tried using his wand at home after he turned seventeen.
Until the Dark Lord came into their house, and set it up as a base for their case. Lucius had been proud that his family had been chosen to be a home to the Dark Lord, though he was terrified. When the Dark Lord asked something, you didn't say no. That's why the childhood room to his son was then the room of the Dark Lord.
Instead, when Lucius opened the door, you wouldn't have guessed that it was the room of a little boy. There was nothing on the walls, and nothing but black bed sheets and pillows on the bed. The closet was empty, bar from a cloak that none of the Malfoy family dared to touch. Since his fall to Saint F***ing Potter.
Lucius, while he feared the Dark Lord, sided with him for a reason. Mudbloods were running the world. There was no purity in their life. Nothing of the old tradition that they had all been drilled into believing as a child.
A note had been left, crisp and out of place, on the bed.
Lucius picked it up and read it.
My dearest Lucius,
I've fled to another area with the house elves. I don't want what you're doing to ruin mine and Draco's chance at a future. Can't you see we're hurting?
N.
Lucius scoffed. Their futures would have been perfect, had it not been for Potter and the rest of the Order, including the bitch who came up with all the plans. She would be the one to go, first.
It was hard, planning to wipe out an entire race of people.
He remembered her writhing on the floor of their parlour, screaming as Bellatrix threw another Crucio at her. Not because she was muggle born. No, the writing on her arm was because she was a mudblood. She was also a thief.
Narcissa showed mercy with her curses that she used. None the less, she was attacking. She was also a slight disappointment. She didn't want their son to join their cause. The cause that Lucius would gladly die for. That was a funny string to pull with Lucius. He let her ask Severus for help, though, out of mercy for their son. He was a victim in all of this.
That boy must choose who he wants to side with.
Lucius hadn't heard anything back from his son yet. But, he also knew it was typical of Draco to not reply to letters.
He's just coming up with a plan for the two of you.
Yes, Lucius grinned maniacally. He's coming up with a plan. Well done, Draco.
It was hard battling off people on the Quidditch pitch on a regular basis, let alone when they have little vendettas against you for things your father had done.
Draco twisted and turned on his broomstick, through, under, over the people who were purposely getting in his way. The wind blew through his hair, running like fingers through it. The Hufflepuff seeker was right on his tail, so he had to be smart about what he was doing, when he was chasing the snitch. He wouldn't lose to them.
The golden ball stopped for a second, before whizzing right up above the two of them. Draco steered his broom directly up, whereas the Hufflepuff seeker went more for a gradual rise to keep up with the snitch. Mistake number one.
Draco was a metre away from the snitch. He let go of the broom with one hand, and leaned forwards, his brook going faster now.
The Hufflepuff nodded to one of his teammates, a beater. The beater tried to aim the ball at Draco. Mistake number two. The ball never got near Draco.
He could feel the fluttering of the wings of the snitch under his fingertips. He leaned forwards a little more, as the Hufflepuff tried to catch up. Number three.
The snitch was in Draco's hand before the Hufflepuff got close to him.
The whistle was blown, signalling the end of the game. Slytherin was the winner yet again.
Draco and his teammates landed on the pitch, smiles on their faces. "Good job, guys!" Draco called to his team. His team were about the only people who weren't scared of him. Maybe that was because they could beat bludgers or the quaffle at him when they wanted, though.
The sun was beating down on the pitch, making everything in sight visible. Including a certain Gryffindor's smile at him, and thumbs up.
Draco wasn't sure if she was being nice because she thought they were friends, or because she felt sorry for him. Either way, it was weird.
He didn't know what to think of her. They had both changed so much since the war. Her, with the things she had to face and how she was forced to deal with them. Him, for what he was forced to witness and do. His family only defected to avoid imprisonment. Well, his father did anyways. Draco did it for his school, and his mother did it for him.
Draco's mother had sent him a letter saying that she had left the manor, and was somewhere safe. She didn't want to disclose where in case his father got a hold of it, or one of his newfound followers. She told him that she was safe, and to tell him if he needed her help, or if his father reached out to him. He didn't want to worry her any more than she already was, so he hadn't told her yet.
His father knew nothing about being discreet with his actions against muggle borns. A muggle family was found three days prior, it had said in the newspaper, who had been slaughtered for birthing a witch. Draco kept the newspaper hidden from Hermione.
When she found out, from one of the students in the Gryffindor tower, she just about had his head for it. She didn't blame him for his father's actions, though she was angry about him hiding it from her. If they were going to work together, she had said, they mustn't hide anything from each other.
She was becoming more and more a friend to him. Draco didn't know what her friends thought of it, though. Had she even told them about all of this? Probably not. None of them came back with her, and the last Draco had heard, Harry and Ron were going to training to be Aurors. Draco, as a child, had wanted to be one. But in light of recent events, he knew that it wasn't going to happen any time soon.
"I'll see you all on the Quidditch pitch at five thirty Monday morning!" Draco said, much to his team's complaints. He couldn't schedule the pitch for the afternoons. When he had tried, Madam Hooch had said that all the spaces were taken up with her and the other quidditch teams.
He knew it was a load of bullshit, but had learned to hold his tongue. He hated biting everything back, but knew of the repercussions if he didn't.
"You guys played so well!" Hermione gushed to him when they got back to the common room. She stepped forwards, as though she was going to give him a hug, but wrinkled her nose. "You smell like sweat. Go take a shower."
Draco rolled his eyes. They were friends. All was well for the time being.