Gifts Freely Given
POV: Hermione
The Great Hall is nearly empty save for a few straggling First Years who cast looks of awe at the striking blond Slytherin striding into the vast room. Above him, the enchanted ceiling is a breathtaking sight. Snowflakes fall like white cherry blossom petals caught in a waltz orchestrated by a soft icy breeze. Winter break at Hogwarts, though quiet, is certainly a beautiful affaire.
The twinkling fairy lights dotting the gargantuan Christmas trees on the professors' dais catch my eye as I find myself wondering just how I'd managed to be only one of a handful of remaining Sixth Years left on Hogwarts grounds during the Yuletide. Seems with the threat of war, everyone feels the need to return home... well, nearly everyone.
I opt to stay at school for obvious reasons. I can already imagine my parents reuniting with their long lost Emmanuelle. I blink away on-coming emotion. Instead, I focus my thoughts on the quite delicious meal before me.
With no one nagging me to eat, I've at last been reunited with my long-lost appetite. Even my desire to sleep has returned. A late afternoon catnap is what had me missing the dinner bell and finding myself quite alone during my meal. I'm currently working on a treacle tart, savoring the sweetness of the dessert's golden syrup. I nibble at the last round of buttered crust as my eyes follow Malfoy's slim form strutting toward my table. It's the first time I've seen him up and about since I'd left him in the classroom to look for Ron. He saunters toward me with a slightly dragging swagger. His barely noticeable alteration of movement is somewhat alarming, leaving me to wonder if he's still in pain from the wounds Harry inflicted on him days before.
You wouldn't think he came away with a scratch from that duel with Harry if you were to look at him now, I think admiringly. Along with his impeccable robes, much richer than Hogwarts' required garb, Malfoy also wears a rare smile. In his hands he totes two rather large books. His smile widens when he catches sight of me. My heart flutters in the cage of my chest and I look back to my plate before he notices the blush rushing to my face.
I dare a darting glance his way when I sense he's stopped in front of my table. I discover him raptly examining the feast still in front of me. With what can only be described as masculine grace, Draco slides to sitting position across from me. He now occupies the spot usually reserved for Harry.
I frown at this.
"Hungry, Granger?" the amused grays of his eyes take in the spattering of crumbs on my plate. It seems like forever that I'd actually sat down and had a full meal, so I'm not about to feel like a glutton over it.
I'm stuffed and why not? It's nearly Christmas!
"No longer, Malfoy," I reply, patting my still flat stomach. "I think I've taken care of the hunger."
I watch him suspiciously as his mouth twists into a wry sort of smile. I itch to ask him why he insists on laughing at me.
"Really? Hmmmm, I wonder at that," he murmurs, taking up the plate in front of him to fill with food, too.
"Are you hungry, Malfoy?" I ask, perturbed by the secret twinkle in his eye as he piles mounds of potatoes onto his plate. I take notice of how his portions could rival Ron's.
"Very much so, Granger," comes his dry reply, as he pours a liberal dose of gravy over the fluffy mountain of white.
"Seems as though you're taking care of it," I say, staring pointedly at the overabundance that strains the wrist of his hand trying to hold the plate level. As irritating as this repartee is, it is good to see that Malfoy's appetite, as well as his wits, are restored.
"Hardly, Granger," he says in a tone I am unaccustomed to and cannot name. "I doubt this will work to fully satisfy my hunger."
My eyes whip up to meet his teasing ones. My eyes move to his fingers, mischievously plucking the top buttons of his dress-whites. The innuendo is now crystal clear. I stem the desire to roll my eyes in exasperation.
"Stop it, Ferret," I warn, voice lowered. He chuckles, then delivers me a sly, knowing smile. The sight of it sends a frisson of energy up my spine. I return it with an embarrassed flitting smile of my own. Now, in the light of day, what I'd done in the darkness of the hospital wing seems quite scandalous. I can't seem to hold his gaze. Desperately, I wrack my brain, searching for a way to steer the conversation to safer waters. A downturn of my gaze has me finding just the thing. With my chin, I indicate my interest in the books he's placed beside his cup.
"What have you got there?" I inquire lightly.
He deftly lifts the top book off the other, laying them side by side, moving them so the words are no longer upside down for me to read. He's eating with the manners of an earl, I notice, his refined breeding apparent in the simple act of carefully dabbing the corner of his mouth with his half folded napkin which he returns to his lap in what is obviously a well-trained habit. I try not to stare at his fastidious manners and turn again to the tomes in front of me.
Defensive Magical Theory and Confronting the Faceless.
Our Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks?
"You do realize the first is utter rubbish," I say with a sniff, pushing it away, back toward him. He flicks a glance at the book as it comes precariously close to his cup of cider.
"Only if you do not know what you are looking for," he replies tonelessly, lifting a forkful of beef to his mouth. "Umbridge knew what she was about when she required this book. I do agree, however, that there are far more practical defense techniques in Snape's required text."
I examine his face as he says this. He simply stares back at me, now unhurriedly chewing his food.
What is he on about and why has he brought these books here?
I frown.
"Do you mean to tell me, Malfoy," I say, smoothing my hand over the cover of the second book, "that the answer to how I will be able to survive my meeting with Riddle is found in our textbooks?"
"Why, yes, Granger, that is exactly what I mean."
"You are actually going to keep your promise of teaching me?" I ask incredulously. "You were truly serious?"
From across the table, I watch his movements still. I am surprised to find half of the food on his plate already gone. How he'd eaten it all without appearing like Ron and Harry at the trough, I cannot begin to say. With agonizing preciseness, he places his fork carefully against his half-filled plate. An icy silence grips us as I notice his hands tense along the edge of the table. The small hairs at my neck lift at the charge of energy his sudden change in demeanor throws into the air. Despite this, I bravely lift my face up to view his. His steely stare makes me want to cringe. I refuse to cower.
"I gave you my word, did I not? " his voice is tight and disdainful. "I do realize that such a thing may mean precious little to you, Granger, but it would appear that my word is all I truly have left." His suddenly cool, perhaps even pained, countenance bewilders me. I take mental note of what I'd said that had riled him so much that he's managed to conjure up a shadow of his father's freezing tone.
"Rest assured, witch, I am coming to understand the meaning of words like honor, duty, and, yes, even trust," he continues stormily. "I am striving to unlearn the skewed vision of these things taught to me at my father's knee. I do not precisely know why, but it is of some importance that you believe me, though I would rather it not matter so much."
"I… I," my stuttering aggravates me and somehow it is this faltering that somehow brings back the lazy smile to his face. "Malfoy, I didn't mean to insult you," I finally splutter. "I'm just surprised that you'd actually approach me with this, seeing as you were so adamantly opposed to helping me before."
"Weasley and I came to an agreement before he left on holiday," he states between bites, calm again. "We both decided it was probably best if we," he sends me an odd look before saying words I never thought to hear from his lips, "do as you request, Bookworm."
"Really?! The both of you?" I gasp, shocked and relieved that they'd come to this decision without an epic argument from me first.
"Yes," he says, in a bothered tone, before tucking into the last of his potatoes. I watch him swallow. His adam's apple bobs up and down.
I know that throat. The thought drifts into my mind as I sit mesmerized by the motion there. I've touched that throat. I've even kissed that throat.
He glances up to catch me staring. As shrewd as he is, he also seems to catch the direction of my thoughts. With an enigmatic smile he repeats his reply, "Yes, Granger, really."
I clear my own throat and purposefully move into academic mode, a much more comfortable place to be than wrestling with this foreign yearning for a boy who not so long ago had been my number one enemy.
"So what's to be first, Draco?" I ask eagerly. Now that I'd pushed aside my desire for him, I try not to bounce on the bench in my excitement to learn something knew.
"Hmmmm. What shall it be..." he appears thoughtful as he bites into his dessert. The crumbs latch on to the tart's golden syrup threatening to trickle down the side of his mouth.
I want to wipe it away.
His eyes close in what seems to be rapturous ecstasy over that one sweet bite. Interesting that he shares the love of this humble dessert with Harry. Thankfully, this idle thought helps me to keep my hands to myself.
Malfoy carefully dabs his lips with the napkin again. I am irritated that I continue to notice such things about him. His calculating grey orbs meet mine. He smiles wickedly. His hand opens the textbook nearest to him and I watch his adept fingers flip to the index of Defensive Magical Theory. He hasn't even looked at the page he's opened.
He reaches for my hand. Confused, I offer it to him with some trepidation.
"Make a pointer finger," he orders quietly, holding my wrist lightly. At this slight touch, I notice how he seems to feel the same wave of magic hit us simultaneously. He recovers first. "Now," he demands softly, "Hermione, give me your hand and point."
I stare at him suspiciously, then I watch him guide my hand so that I feel my fingertip slide along the open page. I hear him whisper a counting chant from my childhood. How he knows of it I have no inkling.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe..."
Alarmed, I tug my hand away but he won't let go. This isn't the proper way of getting down to the business of defeating Voldemort! I want this thing with Riddle over and done with straightaway. Malfoy's behaviour seems wholly contradictory to the urgent need to start with a more thoughtful strategy.
"This is ludicrous, Ferret," I say sharply, thoroughly unamused. All the while, I try to ignore the pleasurable sensation of his hand now holding my fingers captive. "Give me back my hand and stop messing about."
"So instead of fate, you would rather leave the deciding to me, then?" he teases as his thumb dares to slide against my sensitive palm. "And, you will agree to whatever I say without complaint?"
I barely register his words, my every nerve alive at his rather innocent caress.
"Yes, Malfoy," I nearly sigh, aghast at the words that mindlessly trip out of my mouth. "Let's start with whatever you think is best."
He squeezes my fingers once and then lets go. I feel the absence of his touch all too keenly. I dislike the physical need he inspires in me and I try to ruthlessly beat back the sensations with an imaginary bludger. Malfoy returns his attentions to his food. I war with myself, trying to wait patiently for him to finish eating so we can talk.
It's a losing battle.
"So? What's it to be then? The first thing I am to learn?" I'm fairly bursting with curiosity. Again, he slowly places his fork neatly at a diagonal on his now clear plate. I clench my teeth waiting for him to speak. All too quickly, a triumphant gleam reaches his eyes and I know I've made a grievous error.
Clever. Too clever. Wretched Slytherin. Now we both know he's gained the upper hand… indefinitely.
"Shall we have a wager, Hermione?"
No!
"What are you proposing?" I find myself responding, despite myself.
"If after the… ah… lessons, the three of us decide that you are rubbish at these defenses, then we will not go through with your visit to Lord Voldemort's," he says with an insouciant smirk.
No!
The expression on his face, however, has me nodding my agreement even as my internal voice screeches at me not to agree to his suggestion. The possibility of being bested by him is intolerable. The mere idea of bringing his arrogant self down a rung or two by showing him just exactly what I'm made of is suddenly quite tempting indeed.
His smile widens at my hasty acceptance of his terms. I watch him move to pull out his wand.
"So, shall we seal it with a vow—"
I shoot him a dirty look.
"No oaths. No vows. Let's simply agree on your newly discovered honor that you and Ron will be fair about this," I say, thrusting my hand out to shake. He regards my resolute expression, then he settles his gaze on my outstretched hand. He stares at it for so long that I itch to pull it away.
"We're supposed to shake on it, Malfoy," I explain through clenched teeth, thoroughly embarrassed that he's left my hand still hanging in mid-air.
"Oh, I know," he says with a broad smile, making no move to take my offering. "I am just wondering if you have eschewed the touching of our wands for yet another opportunity to touch me."
"In your dreams, Malfoy," I snap, snatching my hand back and fisting it in my lap. I hiss at myself as I feel the color rising again, ashamed that I actually had a fleeting thought of how delicious it would be to feel the little thrill of his touch once more.
"I do not think I am the only one doing that sort of dreaming, Granger," he says with a husky laugh. Mortified, I watch him gather his books and rise to leave. I move only my eyes, watching him turn the corner of the table, to come near. He leans down, his mouth nearly against my ear. I tense. His slightly mocking voice whispers, "Just let me know when you want me to... make all your dreams come true."
I squirm, knowing without a doubt that his hawk-like gaze hadn't missed the instant rise of pink to my cheeks and my newly laboured breath. Still flustered, it is the view of his retreating back that finally reminds me he's failed to answer my initial question.
With a quick glance around, I see that the Great Hall is now empty of all but us. I rise before he reaches the entryway, and in a clear voice I call loudly, "Malfoy, what is it that we'll be working on first?"
Without looking back he tosses his answer back at me.
"Occlumency. Await my owl."
Last night, his black-billed owl tapped incessantly at my dormitory window. After I'd given the gorgeous creature a treat, it regally regarded me with its golden eyes, then flew off, leaving me with a piece of parchment. Draco's precise penmanship indicated the time and place for my first private D.A.D.A. lesson with him.
I am now at the place he specified, at about the same time as we used to meet when he and I shared the cabinet assignment. This evening, the Room of Requirement is not filled with dusty magical relics. It has taken on the look of a very cozy parlour. I wonder if it mimics the one Malfoy grew up in at his family manor. The color scheme surely hints at it.
The fire crackles at the grate, warm and inviting. Seems I've caught the blonde somewhat unawares. Draco leans back against the forest-green, velvet-covered chaise. He's staring into the fire, lost in his thoughts. His dark trousers still hold their crisp folds. His white button-down is open at the neck. The sight of his skin there taunts me with the memories of touching him. I see a hint of his healing scars just beneath the collar. His shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows show me that he still bears no Dark Mark. In fact, Malfoy looks every bit the lazing aristocrat – hardly menacing.
Even so, I enter warily, unsure of what exactly I've just gotten myself into.
"Happy Christmas, Draco," I say softly, not wanting to surprise him while he's lost in the sight of the dancing flames.
"And to you, too, Hermione," he replies turning to look at me with a half smile. The molten metal of his eyes train on my every movement as I put myself in front of the fire glow. "So, you came."
"Yes."
His mouth moves into a full smile as he watches me fidgeting in front of him. His hand moves to a small beribboned box on the floor beside him. He picks it up and offers it to me. My eyes widen, my mouth opens slightly in shock while looking at what can only be a small jeweler's gift box.
I find myself rooted to the spot. I'd brought nothing for him. I am appalled at myself for not even thinking to bring him a gift.
"Take it," he entreats, still holding it out to me as I mentally kick myself.
Forcing myself to take a step toward him, I reluctantly reach out toward the hinged box. He lets go and it falls heavily into my open palm.
"What is it?" I ask lamely.
He rolls his eyes at me, moving his fingers to pinch the end of the bow, pulling it a little to loosen the ribbon.
"Open it."
"I didn't bring anything for you," I admit shamefully, shaking my head.
"I did not expect you to," he replies. His tone is noticeably neutral. "Just open it, Hermione."
With shaking hands I pull off the remainder of the green and red satin bow. The irony of the intertwined colors is not lost on me as I flip open the top. My eyes fall on the contents of the box. I let out a small gasp as I behold an exquisitely formed pendant hanging on a delicately thin platinum chain. The bijou is obviously expensive and finely wrought. It is reminiscent of the white blossoms we'd somehow summoned from the vanishing cabinet; just like the one he'd left for me while I slept. The same one still pressed between the pages of my copy of Hogwarts: A History.
"Edelweiss. Remember?"
How could I forget? I nod quickly several times, struggling to keep my composure. I know I should refuse this quietly extravagant gift, but I can't make myself relinquish it. I am also still unable to catch my breath long enough to properly thank him.
Bemused by my shocked silence, he stands and plucks the necklace from its velvet case. I watch him move stealthily around me. I feel him stop to stand behind me. I keep very still, waiting.
"So, I have discovered a way to silence you," he murmurs, half to himself. His hand holding the jewelry reaches over my shoulder. "Hold up your hair," he whispers, in a voice that could charm snakes.
Unhesitatingly, I do as I'm told.
"I thought we were going to practice?" I say with a little whine that annoys even me. I can do nothing to call back the words that fall from my lips, a sorry attempt to drive off this sudden attack of nerves as I feel his fingers glide against the chain at the base of my neck.
"Must it always be about lessons with you, Bookworm?" he asks with a soft chuckle. "It is Christmas," he adds patiently, deftly working the clasp to keep the necklace around my neck. His breathy words slide silkily against my ear and across my cheek. I fight to keep my eyes open and not allow my body to fall back against the strength and hardness of him.
How can so simple an act, like helping me with jewelry, feel so sinfully seductive?
At last satisfied with his work, he turns me to face him. I let loose my hair and he patiently arranges my curly locks around my shoulders.
"I needed... wanted to do this for you." His gaze dips to the flower resting at the hollow of my neck. He touches it lightly with a fingertip. My pulse leaps at this gentle pressure.
"Exquisite," he whispers wondrously.
"Thank you, Draco. It is... quite," I finally manage to say.
"You are, too," he adds quietly, without hesitation.
My eyes go wide again before they shyly slide away to view the flames dancing in the hearth. I am at a complete loss. His unexpected gift, his compliments, words so foreign when directed at me, throw me off kilter. His every action tonight leaves me bereft of any sort of response, much less the proper one.
Seeming to sense my unease, he pulls away to again lay, like a pleased feline, on the chaise. I silently thank him for giving me some much needed breathing space.
"Have a seat, Hermione," he suggests after what seems like an interminable amount of time spent staring at each other.
My eyes swing around nervously in the sparsely furnished room. I find myself wishing desperately for my own seat located a healthy distance away from him. Amazed, I watch a squashy armchair magically appear across the way from where he's languorously draped himself.
The armchair is audaciously scarlet. He laughs at the sight of it, so incongruous to the room's decor. I laugh, too, and at last the strained tension between us dissipates. As our laughter dies, we smirk at one another. I step toward the red chair.
"Ready to start our lessons, then?" he asks.
"Yes, Malfoy, whenever you are."
"My godfather claims Occlumency is a highly useful, though obscure branch of magic," Malfoy drawls while I curl into my seat. The silkiness of his voice reaches out to twine around me. "According to our textbook, the very one you claim is rubbish, it is just that. It is the one weapon you have against Legilimency, Riddle's favorite sport.
"I assume you know that a Legilimens can access your thoughts and feelings, even influence them." He stops, waiting for my nod. I notice that he adopts the voice of a lecturing professor. "A master Occlumens can suppress certain thoughts, emotions, and memories, even turn a Legilimens' talent against himself, keeping him away from the truth and leaving him only to believe just what the Occlumens allows him to see."
I find myself mentally taking notes as my fingers itch for a quill and parchment.
"These planted thoughts can be either truth or lies," he continues. "In such a case, it is not obvious to the Legilimens that Occlumency is being used against him. Therefore, with a master Occlumens, Legilimency is not an exact science. Snape can do this, and his exceptional talent for it is the only reason he remains alive despite having to work so closely to Voldemort."
My mouth moves into a slight scowl. I recall the night Harry came storming into the dorms fuming at Snape. He hadn't been able to repel most of the attacks Snape leveled at him during a Dumbledore-required, private Occlumency lesson with his most hated professor. I'd been horrified that Harry, in his stubborn dislike of Snape, simply refused to keep trying to learn how to shut Voldemort out. This memory fades and I notice that Malfoy had stopped lecturing to watch whatever emotions crossed my face as I'd been daydreaming.
I motion for him to continue.
"In any case," he says slightly louder, checking to see that he has my attention, "to resist Riddle, who is a highly accomplished Legilimens, will require a great deal of willpower. It is the same sort of willpower you will have to call up when I teach you how to resist the Imperius." He stops to stare at me, to increase the drama of his words, I suppose.
"Granger, you will have to exercise a high degree of mental and emotional discipline. I honestly do not believe that you can do it. All that you seem to think and feel is written all over your face, your body. I do not even have to practice Legilimency on you to know what you are thinking."
I bristle visibly.
Arrogant prat.
"Stop calling me names in your head." He lets out a laugh when I whip my eyes to his, revealing my surprise that he'd guessed accurately.
All at once, he is serious again. "As I said, Granger, you have much to learn and I will give you an added incentive to accomplish all of this. With the mastery of this sort of self-control, there is the added bonus of being able to resist the influence of Veritaserum."
His comment reminds me of the chipper voice on the tele attempting to sell me a CD collection that comes with an additional song and a money back guarantee.
"So, you're going to try to read my mind," I summarize.
Malfoy firms his mouth, giving me a tight nod. "And, you are going to have to try to keep me out of it, Granger."
I regard him in silence, my jaw clenching. Harry had described the feeling of invasion when he'd failed to keep Snape out of his head. It seemed rather unpleasant. This suddenly doesn't seem like a good idea anymore.
"We do not have to do this, Hermione," he reminds me quietly. "Just say the word."
"And then what, Malfoy? You go on to kill Dumbledore to preserve your cover as a double agent?" My voice rises in agitation. "No, I don't think so, Draco. We're doing this. Just give me a moment to collect myself."
His eyes are trained on me, focused on my hand which I discover is absently fiddling with the pendant.
"Since it is the first lesson, I will permit you to do so, Granger," his tone is now irritatingly business-like, "but you will not be able to request such things in the future. After all, Voldemort will allow no such luxuries."
I nod, focusing not on his scolding, but on trying to hide while in plain view.
I work to keep the placid expression on my face. Inside, however, I am frantically racing around in my mind, gathering every tiny wisp of memory from the past summer — the contents of the medical folder my dad had so tearfully handed me, every single waking, sorrowful, and idle thought of my parents in Muggle England, the undeniable curiosity I have about my true wizarding parentage, and, finally, the unwanted knowledge of how I am related to Salazar Slytherin. When I feel I am done, I scourge my thoughts and memories once more for the last remnants that might reveal my secret. I also grab up all of the facts related to Malfoy's book and how I came to procure the true knowledge of my bloodline.
When I am satisfied that I've weeded out every last stray thought, I throw it all into the deepest, darkest recesses of my long-touted, overly large brain. I imagine conjuring up a heavy steel door with rows and rows of bolted locks to keep this clever wizard with the silver eyes out. With sudden acuity, I realize that the mental power to do all of this in the space of a few minute leaves everything else open to Draco's examination.
Hurriedly, I think back to his earlier lecture and come to a dreadful conclusion. As much as I despise him knowing the things I will now allow him to see, I realize with some despair that I do need the distraction of these particular thoughts to keep Malfoy from delving any deeper into my mind. I have no doubt that he's a practiced hand at this and I'll prove little resistance to his magic.
I again increase my stronghold against the imagined steel door that hides my true secrets away from him. Quickly, I summon together all of the other thoughts I'd so recently fought against relinquishing to him. Gazing steadily at Malfoy's chest, I complete the internal job of scattering these images around in my head. Resigned, I tuck these things into the recently emptied folds of my memory, filling voids that I'd left in my earlier haste to hide my more damning thoughts. I am intent on using these decoys to distract him if he manages to break through my magical ward and venture into my mind.
POV: Draco
Some of us, like Potter, have a natural magical talent. Though it pains me to admit it, Potter is exceptional on a broom. His skills at flight are second to none. I, on the other hand, have wide and varied abilities, and I am especially gifted at Occlumency.
I can thank my father for fashioning the strong foundation of skills that make me especially adept at this sort of magic. From as early as I can remember, I have been taught to shut down my emotions. I suppose this is why my mind is impenetrable by such gifted Legilimens as Snape, my crazed Aunt, and just once this past summer Voldemort himself.
"Malfoys do not cry!" my father had thundered at me one day when I was a small boy, still in short trousers. I had somehow managed to lose my favorite pup and was frantic to find him. I had rushed into his office to beseech his assistance. In my bluster, I'd caught him in a rare moment. He looked world weary, hunched over, head in hands. It was the first time I had ever seen him with any sort of real feelings on his face. When he caught the sound of my labored breathing at his doorway, I will never forget the invisible cold wall that fell between us when he turned to regard my tear-drenched face with his ugly sneer. His unrelenting gaze revealed only scorn at my dishevel, which clearly indicated to him my earlier, frenzied search of the grounds. It had been a wild effort, born out of obvious love and care for the animal I sought to find.
"Wipe your eyes this instant! You are a Malfoy! You are my son and are not to behave in this manner," he had bellowed at me from behind his imposing desk. "How you feel about that mongrel, this ridiculous love..." he'd spat the word as though a curse. So forceful was his vehemence that I shrank away from him. "It makes you weak! You must never show love. What you love can be ripped from you! Just. Like. That." The loud snapping of his fingers to highlight each word made me jump. "Cease crying this instant!" he'd shouted.
I stifled a sob, then. My eyes widened at his rage.
"You cannot show fear or sadness either! No one must know they possess the power to hurt you," he shouted. His hands fisted against the top of his desk. "You will never show pity or compassion, or so help me..." To my ears each foreign word he had stressed sounded filthy as he flung them at me.
"To have feelings for something so transient as another being is a grave mistake, Draco. If you are to be my proper heir, it is best you learn all of this now." His light colored eyes gleamed in the slowly darkening room. Shocked frozen, I simply stared at him, my feet glued to the spot at his threshold.
"You cannot reveal anything of yourself. Ever." His voice, menacing to my young ears, sent my heart thundering. "If you do, if you are ever so weak as to wear your heart on your sleeve, it will be the death of you!" His words barely registered in my six-year-old brain.
Then, Father, my unquestioned hero, shook his head. His long, fine hair seemed to hang in the air before softly falling around his face like a slipping halo. He looked away then, and I, ever so slowly, backed out of the room as though creeping away from a momentarily stunned monster. Afterwards, I remember running to search for my mother, who was then only slightly more compassionate than Father.
Later that evening we congregated in the sitting room. My dog had been found and I was ecstatic, playing with him on the rug. My mother was smiling at my antics, but was keeping her distance. Suddenly, my father whistled, summoning my puppy to his side away from me. While my dog eagerly followed his orders, Father kept his gaze trained on me, keeping careful watch over my face. He ran his fingers bearing the ring of the Malfoy crest down my puppy's head and my pup gazed adoringly at him. I wanted to smile, but decided against it considering he had earlier commanded me not to show anything of myself to him. With his large hand, Father gently moved my hound to the foot of his chair. The dog's tail bounced. Father gave him another, almost loving, pat.
Then, my eyes widened as I watched Father calmly take the wand from the console beside his chair. Horrified, I heard him speak the Killing Curse. It tumbled from his lips just as easily as his earlier curt request of the house elf to find him a lemon ice for dessert.
With a flick of his wand, I watched the life light die in my puppy's eyes. Father's stare pinned me to my seat, daring me to move, daring me to show anything. In that moment, I knew fear and wonder at my father's power. Just as quickly, I learned how to shove all of my feelings away from me because of his dangerous strength.
I fought my desire to cry out, to run over and throw my arms around my dog. I fought every natural instinct I had to show my love and care for my faithful friend. I turned away from the sight of him laying there, dead at my father's slippered feet. At long last, I gathered up what little courage I had, and without so much as a wince or a tear, I bravely met my father's eyes.
For once, in the depths of his gaze there appeared a small measure of pride at my ability to do as he had earlier demanded. Only a moment of silent praise and then it was gone like a flash. With its departure, I felt for the first time my heart's door slam shut to any love I ever held for the man. What remained was only duty. That night, I left his den, head held high, slowly marching to my room to grieve for my puppy in solitude.
The bleak memory of this leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I recall the terrible emptiness that had squeezed my heart until I could no longer breathe. I would not answer the quiet knock at my door that could only have been my mother coming to check on me. My silent weeping wracked my body. My throat choked at the new, unspeakable feelings of deep-seeded hatred and betrayal wrought by my father. I recalled the dying light in my hound's eyes, how it had flickered out as I watched helplessly. By killing him, my father killed all the innocence in me. Alone, I learned how to lick the invisible mortal wounds and, more importantly, how to gather the sort of emotional void in which to surround myself to become just like my father.
I had first used this blankness to block out my boyhood shock and sorrow. Now, with some years behind me, I see how this ability to ferret away my emotions allowed me to find comfort through my bullying of those I perceived as weaker. It felt good to give into the temptation of mocking those who still held on to the innocence my father had so ruthlessly stripped away from me. My primary targets, of course, had been Granger, Potter and Weasel. How easy it had been to lock away any feelings of compassion, mercy, and regret, by hiding it all under the darkness of my roiling anger. Even that fury was barely concealed beneath the all-encompassing carpet of emptiness inside of me.
Earlier this week, in my hospital bed, it occurred to me that my father could not accomplish what he commanded me to do. This summer and ever since the return of his Dark Lord, his emotions seem to have gotten the better of him, and because of that, he rots in Azkaban. He has passionately declared his fatherly love for me, the sort of love he denied me that day when he cold-heartedly murdered by beloved pet. It was the very love he had taught me to eschew so I could no longer return the feeling to him. How ironic.
My near-death experience, only days old, likely is the cause of my out of character introspection. Regardless the reason, I am thankful for it. For once, my mind is clear enough to see how I had once known a sort of whole-hearted, innocent love. Having my father so cruelly cut it off in its infancy seems to perfectly explain my underdeveloped ability to fully feel any such emotion for anyone or anything now. It is fear that keeps me from truly loving, for I know that with just a flick of a wand, such a powerful emotion can leave a gaping hole in my already wounded heart.
I shake my head at a memory of Pansy from about two summers ago. Due to a close family association with the Parkinsons, it became habitual for us to be in one another's company when our parents were otherwise engaged. I will never forget the sunny day in the garden when she came to me, heart in hand, offering me her love. I mocked her for it, laughed cruelly at her, called her weak and useless for even thinking of feeling for me in such a way. With a disdainful sneer, I told her essentially what my father had drilled into me when I was only a small boy.
"Get rid of that feeling, Pansy," I spat at her. "It means nothing to me. I don't want your heart and I don't need your love."
She had run away in tears, heartbroken, eventually finding solace elsewhere. Still, it did not stop her from spreading the trumped up rumor around school that I was her boyfriend. In truth, there was very little to be lost and quite a lot to be gained by posing as Pansy's steady beau. Her lies served me well, very well indeed. Pansy's false claims kept other girls, and their potential to give rise to any of my feelings, far, far away. When she spread falsehoods, she was also quite generous in her imaginative descriptions of my masculine abilities.
While this did wonders for my ego and reputation, I sometimes wonder if she had done it all for spite. I imagine it might have delighted her to raise such expectations about me, knowing full well that I have little experience with such things and would fail dismally if ever I decided to get some. Regardless, her fabricated indiscretions with me kept me high in the pecking order among my Slytherin brothers, and because of this, I did little to stop her wagging tongue. The added frosting was that my parents were also left to believe that I had already settled on a pureblooded girl to marry.
Though she and I know the futility of further attempts to try breaking down my protective walls, she has, every so often, tried to scrape away at the rough edges. I can always rely on Pansy to try breaking through even though she knows I lack the ability for such closeness. After all, I barely allowed her to touch me when she was just a playmate at the Manor.
The upkeep of our sham relationship, however, has required her nearness. So, at least in public, I allowed her a kiss or caress when I knew others were looking and watching. These were highly orchestrated, cold, and calculated moves, meant for an audience when I thought the viewing of such intimacies might serve a higher purpose. I performed with gusto, no doubt leaving Pansy somewhat dazed and confused. Considering my behavior toward her, I wonder why she continues to remain loyally at my side. I am faintly surprised that my frostiness fails to push Pansy away as it has so many others.
Yes, this lack of feeling has been a cold comfort. Even so, it is a comfort I reach for whenever any emotion becomes too much for me to bear. It is what I clawed for in the bathroom while facing Potter before his fury literally tore into me. It is what slipped from my grasp when I had subconsciously released it to grab onto a much brighter memory, one that surprised me at how instantaneously it focused my mind on the task at hand.
Those damned flowers, and Hermione Granger amongst them.
I watch her from across the room. Her face is screwed in concentration. I work to keep my growing admiration off my face. I wonder at her, this curiosity, this plucky girl, who manages to break down my every defense while the mere thought of her allows me to discover a mental clarity much stronger than the empty void I had been using to shield myself from anything that might actually make me feel.
From across the carpet she looks up to catch my quiet perusal of her. She flushes and I am pleased she is not unaffected. The pearly pendant I had given her is luminous in the firelight. It is perfection against the flawless skin of her throat. She worries it with her fingertips as she prepares herself for our lesson.
It would be all too easy for me to reach into her thoughts now, but I know it would be in bad form to do it. Besides, she will freely offer me the opportunity to do so in a moment as she tries to steel herself against my attempts. I am curious to discover whether she has any skill in this magic. For her sake, I hope she does. My arrogance, though, believes she will be able to shield very little from me.
Like a child in a candy store I relish the pleasure of imagining what I will find in the treasure trove of her mind. I try to decide exactly what it is I wish to seek once inside her. At last I settle on something, a very small thing, that I wish to uncover. Perhaps finding it and pulling it into me so I can examine it on my own will help me tuck away these dangerous thoughts and feelings I have for her.
I wish to learn something from this lesson too. I need to discover for myself how to lock these precious little things about her into a safe little cubby in my own mind. I have to do this so Voldemort will not discover them in me and use them against us.
"OK, I'm ready, Malfoy," her clear voice rings out and shocks me out of my thoughts.
I raise an eyebrow and push myself up. I toss my head and settle into an upright seated position. Taking in the sight of her I see she has propped her elbow against the arm of her chair. Her palm cradles her cheek as she gazes at me. A secret smile touches her lips and then it is gone.
"Are you sure?" I ask, not really knowing why I am asking for further permission.
She nods, her stare unblinking.
I sigh and then focus my energies.
I concentrate on delving into her mind with the spell I have used before. I am practiced enough that I no longer require a wand. Though my previous use of Legilimency has not been numerous, the times I had practiced it, I found it absurdly easy to complete the task. This time, however, I realize I do not need to be swift or inconsiderate in my entry.
This time, with this witch, I want to be careful.
I feel her wards push against me, keeping the magic I press against her out.
"Good, girl," I croon, "that's it. "
She appears as though she's resting, not straining at all. The block she has thrown up against my magic seems to strengthen at my words of encouragement
"I hope you have locked away all your secrets, Hermione," I say in a tone that I know causes her to bristle. It seems I need to add this new dimension to my offense in order to break through her defenses. "It will be easy to get to them once I find the way in," I taunt.
She seems to interpret my words as a dare, which allows her to fortify her magical barrier against me. I prod thoughtfully at her magical shield, duly impressed by her ability to lock me out. I pull away slightly and adjust my strategy.
"Now, how surprising," I say, adding a jeer to my voice. "It seems you are locked up just as tight as all the boy say you are." I prod her magic more roughly. My words are meant to get a rise out of her. I am also annoyed that she is not proving to be as easy to penetrate as I first imagined.
I hear her gasp at my unsavory insinuation. It seems to work like a charm and I very easily discover my opportunity to pierce through her magical palisade — a single glimmering little hole where once there was none shimmers in front of me. My magic dives into the opening. Her body stiffens at the powerful thrust of it. The sound of her dismay has me stemming my glee at finding my way inside. The pulse of her magic around mine spears a sort of pleasure into the very core of my magical being. My desire to force entry cools entirely as I watch the distress on her face. I pull back, hovering within this very secret part of her, waiting patiently for her to become accustomed to the weight of my presence inside.
"You should not listen to the filth that comes from my mouth," I scold softly as she calms and begins to regain her magical footing. The feel of my supernatural energy partially enveloped by hers distracts me from the task of searching through her mind. I also find myself quite angry that she is not fighting harder against me.
"I am only saying these words to get you to lose your grip on your surprisingly strong control," I continue to speak, needing to hear my own voice, fearful of becoming fully engulfed by her magic. "I know how to hurt you, Hermione, and I am telling you now that I am not above using all of this knowledge to help make you stronger. Believe me, you have to be stronger than this, Granger. You cannot allow him to violate you so easily."
From my seat, I watch how her hands come up to gingerly cradle her head. I feel her magic pulse again, gripping mine and trying to force me out. The effort of this has her sitting up. I observe how she begins muttering something to herself and then starts rocking back and forth. Alarmed, I pull my magic out of her completely and get up to swiftly move to her side. Concerned, I place my hands against hers which are still holding her head.
My fingers on her skin send a tremor of energy racing through me at breakneck speed. Her rocking ceases. This magic between us seems more powerful than ever before. I have to take a moment to allow it to settle before I can begin to forcibly slow my pulse. With a gulp, and a little turn of my palms against the back of her hands, I force her to look up at me.
"You are showing a great deal of trust by letting me in, Hermione," I praise her. The soft sable of her eyes draws me closer. "I know that you would not allow just anyone to do this to you."
She whimpers a little and I feel a pang in my chest when I hear the sound. My hands tighten around hers.
"We will stop now," I decide shakily, starting to release her.
"No!" Her hands turn under mine to fully grasp my fingers, disallowing my retreat.
I scowl at her. What is wrong with her? Why won't she leave it alone?
"I am hurting you!" My impatience has me nearly shouting at her.
"It doesn't matter! I knew that you would hurt me when we started this, Malfoy!"
Her cry hangs in the air. I snatch my hands away. Dropping them to my sides, I clench the muscles at my jaw. I know she doesn't mean the words quite the way I hear them, but they infuriate me anyway. I fight for calm.
"What exactly is it that you want me to do to you?" I ask. My voice is strained, my posture unwavering, belying the worry I have that I will be unable to continue even if she wants me to.
"Just keep doing what you're doing. Taunt me, test me. Whatever! Just do it!"
"I am not going to rip into you like some animal," I say, fighting to keep the snarl out of my tone.
"But isn't that just what you said the Death Eaters would do to me, Malfoy? They'd take without asking, rape my mind. According to you, they'll be ruthless." She is sitting upright now, on the cusp of shouting, her tone accusing. Her fists are clenched in challenge.
That incorrigible spark, the fight that is Hermione, lights her eyes. I want to shut myself away from the brightness of it. It pains me to hear the surety of her voice, her common sense, but I force myself to listen anyway.
"This is the perfect lesson for both of us, Draco." Her voice gentles just a fraction. "While you're at it, why don't you practice being absolutely vile, too? How can I learn to fight off their advances when you back off at the slightest hint of my discomfort?"
I stare at her. The rush of white hot fury her words ignite threatens to incinerate my insides.
"I. Am. Not. A. Death. Eater. Hermione." I bite out, turning away from her.
"I never said you were," she whispers at my back. "We both simply have to practice being what we have to be. We need to work at becoming what we don't want to be if this is ever going to succeed, Draco."
I fight the urge to throw us back into the same old argument we've been having since I showed her the prophecy. I know there is a new way to win this battle and it is how the Weasel and I mean to overcome her stubborn streak. I promised Weasley I would not hurt her, but perhaps hurting her is the only way to convince her that she can't do what she means to do.
Author's note: A hearty thank you to StarDuchess who is worth her weight in gold for her careful beta work on this chapter. She helped me smooth out a few rough spots and for that, I am ever so grateful. Her concise writing helps to overcome my tendency for flowery wordiness and keeps the story moving.