xTwox
Hermione Granger is worried. It's been six days since Malfoy woke up in her flat, six days since he left and she hasn't seen or heard from him since. She's sent owls to check up on him and make sure he was alright, all of which have gone unanswered and been returned. She had even swung by Malfoy Manor yesterday, only to be greeted with a 'Sold' and 'No Trespassing' sign on the gate. And for some reason, unbeknownst to her, it worried her even more. She's asked around plenty since then, but got little to none in answers-mostly because nobody could care less about him. And she should be one of them. She has every reason in the world to hate him, to not care about his well-being. And had it not been for the night at the bar last week, where he seemed to be all too happy to be receiving blow after blow by the man trying to kill him, she probably wouldn't. But something happened that night, and seeing him so fragile and wounded and careless, had really gotten to her. She'd been afraid for his life. In that moment he wasn't the prat at school who called her names and verbally tortured her day after day, he wasn't the guy who had watched his aunt torture her in his sitting room and he wasn't the Death Eater who had been let off for lack of evidence. He was a man, getting beat up by a man twice his size, seemingly all too happy to embrace it. (She'd seen the smile, bloody and broken, even as the man kept punching him in the face). She couldn't just sit by and watch. So she made Ron help make the guy stop and she made Harry help her get him to his feet and she made both of them help her take him back to her house. They didn't understand why it mattered to her and in all honestly neither did she.
She still doesn't.
When he left the next morning, it was under a mutual understanding that they wouldn't see each other again. And that should've been okay with her. She should've just let it go. She should have taken her victory from saving his life and healing his wounds and left it at that. But she couldn't help the overwhelming feeling and wanting to know if he was okay. She was worried in a way that a friend would worry for another friend, and yet he is not a friend. He's no longer an enemy, but he isn't a friend either.
It shouldn't have surprised her, she thinks, that he was as drunk as he was. She'd heard rumors; he was wallowing in self-pity, he was drinking gallons upon gallons of alcohol a day, he was more than gladly allowing his life to fall apart around him. But not once did she think they were true. Not once did she think that Draco Malfoy-the same confident and snarky Draco Malfoy she knew at school-had fallen from grace so...badly. And that, she reckons, worries her more than anything.
"Mione!"
The sound of someone calling her name pulls her out of her thoughts and she looks up from her desk in her ministry office to find Harry standing in the doorway.
"Harry! Did you get it?" She exclaims excitedly.
"I did. Are you gonna tell me why I had to?" He wonders, for she's been quite mysterious lately. He hands her a file and she opens it to see all of the information she has been looking for and a picture of Draco Malfoy looking back at her.
"I'm just...worried about him, that's all."
"Malfoy? You're worried about Malfoy?" the raven haired man snorts.
"You saw him the other night Harry." She looks up from the file, straight at him. It's written all over her face, that much is obvious.
"I did, but I don't think it's your responsibility-"
She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "I know, I know. I just...I can't shake it. I have to see that he's okay."
Harry rolls his eyes, showing his displeasure and yet he can't help but smile at his best friend. "You're too good sometimes Hermione."
She smiles, "I know."
X
When she gets out of the taxi in front of the building written down on the piece of paper in her hand, she has to pinch herself to ensure that she isn't dreaming. When she asked Harry to find him she was expecting him to be in some upper class, high-end pent house or something of the sort. He is Draco Malfoy after-all. But the building in front of her is anything but; it's stingy and dirty. She almost doesn't want to go inside, but her genuine curiousity and worry gets the best of her. Could he really be that bad off? The answer to that, she decides as she walks inside, is yes.
The inside looks (and smells) even worse than the outside. The floor is dirty, the walls are water-stained and the ceiling looks as though it could fall in at any moment. It's a motel, is what it is, but more than that it's disgusting. Surely Draco Malfoy could do better than this.
She walks up to the front desk and the fat man behind the glass gives her a very suggestive once over; she struggles to swallow the bile in her throat. "Um, hi, I'm looking for Draco Malfoy?"
The man just stares at her and she shifts uncomfortably. "A friend of mine said I could find him here," she tells him.
The man still continues to stare at her.
"Look..." she trails off, straining to read his name tag. "Max...he's an old friend of mine, okay? And I'm worried about him. So if you could just give me a room number, I'll be on my way." She's only half lying, and that doesn't count, right?
"Seven."
"Thank you." She spins on her heel, walking quickly down the hall opposite the front desk. When she reaches room number 7 she hesitates, biting her lip, before raising her fist and knocking. And then she waits. And waits. And waits. She sighs, knocking again. Almost immediately after, she hears a bit of stumbling and mumbling behind the door.
"Ow...who is it?" The voice inside isn't anything like she remembers. It's hoarse and tired and slurred.
"Housekeeping," the brunette replies, knowing full well that he wouldn't answer the door if he knew the truth.
The door opens then, revealing a less than graceful looking Draco Malfoy. His hair is shaggy and greasy and dull, not at all the perfection it used to be. He's got a five o'clock shadow, untrimmed and rough looking across his jaw. And his clothes are ratty and ragged-an old white t-shirt with rips and tears and a pair of stained sweatpants. He looks awful and smells like alcohol. She hardly even recognizes the man before her.
Draco looks at her, swaying on his legs as he uses the door to hold him upright. "You are not housekeeping Granger," he decides.
"I honestly doubt this place even has housekeeping," she mutters her response as she invites herself in, knowing she won't get an invitation otherwise.
"C'mon in Granger, make yourself at home." His voice is laced with sarcasm as he closes the door behind her and then stumbles forward after her. "To what do I owe this displeasure Granger? And how in the world did you find me?"
"I have my ways," she shrugs.
"Let me guess. Potter and his Auror skills?
She chooses to ignore his stab at her best friend, and instead looks around the room she's in. She almost forgets why she's here. "This place is a mess Malfoy," she tells him looking around at all of the empty beer bottles and fire whiskey bottles. |When was the last time you drank something other than alcohol? You smell like a pub."
"Dunno." He mutters his response, disappearing into the kitchen and then emerging with yet another bottle of beer.
She looks at him properly now. At the way his cheeks have sunken in and his collarbones stick out. And even through his baggy clothes, she can see how skinny he's become. It's beginning to scare her, this Malfoy. "When was the last time you ate something nutritious?"
He snorts, rolling his eyes as he brings the bottle to his lips and tilts his head back, relishing in the taste and feel of the liquid sliding down his throat. "Who do you think you are, my mother?" Then, as though he's just realized what he said, his eyes cloud over becoming darker (if at all possible) and takes another swig. Hermione stands in the would-be living room awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably on her feet as she watches him. She wants to ask him if he even knows what time of day it, or at least point out the fact that its only 4 o'clock in the afternoon but she doesn't.
"What are you doing here?" "I..I was worried about you," she replies softly, suddenly becoming increasingly aware of how silly that sounds.
"Worried...why?"
"I don't know," she whispers, more to herself than to him. "I just...I went by the Manor and you weren't there, nothing was there. So I asked Harry to find you-"
"Knew it," he mumbles, rolling his eyes.
"Why are you here Malfoy?"
"Because I couldn't stay there." His voice is barely louder than a whisper as he takes another swig. Hermione frowns. She's got her own fair share of memories in that house, she doesn't even want to imagine what sort of things he had witnessed as a child growing up there. "You couldn't find somewhere more...tasteful?" she wonders.
"Why? Do you disapprove of my living quarters Granger?" he asks, a hint of his taunting-self shining through.
"Yes."
"Well that's too bad."
"Malfoy, look at this place! It's a dump-"
"And so what? I'd rather be here, than there anyway!" he yells defensively. Who does this mad woman think she is?
"I'm just...I'm just trying to help-"
"I don't need your help! I don't want your help!"
"Fine.. I'll go. I'll let you wallow in your self-pity and your precious alcohol," she snaps, glaring at him.
He glares back, best he can through heavy eyelids. "Good."
"Great."
"Brilliant."
She huffs, spinning on her heel and leaving through the front door. She slams it behind her, causing the walls to shake and for a minute she's sort of expecting the door to come off its hinges. She turns to leave, but something makes her stop. Her pride, perhaps; the Gryffindor within her refuses. She spins back around and marches right back inside, slamming the door again behind her. He's sitting on the couch, looking at her with a sort of drunk, amused look on his face; like he was waiting for her.
"Back so soon?" He taunts. "Knew you wouldn't actually leave Granger, your Gryffindorness is far too strong. Idiotic, and completely uncalled for, but strong."
She ignores him, pulling her wand out of her bag and with a flick of her wrist all of the debris around the living room disappears.
"Hm, thanks for that. I must've forgotten I was a wizard."
She continues to ignore him as she walks into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, she isn't at all surprised to see it nearly empty-although she is disappointed. Aside from a few bottles of water and a few dishes of old meat and bread, the fridge is mostly full of beer. Sighing loudly, she walks back into the living room, a look of determination etched onto her face. "I can't believe you don't even have any food Malfoy, do you know how utterly irresponsible that is? It's ridiculous! Especially considering the amount of alcohol you've been consuming-"
"And how would you know how much alcohol I've been consuming?" he counters.
"I can smell it! I've seen you twice in the last week and both times you've been drunk! Whatever you think it's helping, you're wrong. It's only making it worse-"
He leans forward, shaking his head and looking her straight in the face. "That's where you're wrong Granger. You have no idea what is going on my head. You haven't a clue what it's like."
She blinks, taken aback by his forwardness. He takes another swig of the bottle, polishing it off easily before leaning forward and holding it out for her to take. "I'm not your servant."
"Very well, I'll get myself another," he slurs, struggling to push himself to his feet.
"Will you stop this?" she screeches, not caring if his head hurts in the morning. She pushes him back down when he tries to stand up and snatches the bottle from him disapprovingly. "You need to eat something, this is enough."
With another flick of her wand, she conjures up a plate of food-lots of food-and shoves it against his chest. His hands come up to hold it and she disappears into the kitchen once more to get him some water.
"What was that about not being my servant Granger?" he snickers.
She scowls at him, throwing the bottle of water onto the couch beside him. "Eat it," she demands.
"You're bossy."
"Eat."
He does as he's told, albeit grudgingly, shoveling the food into his mouth as though he hasn't eaten in weeks, which is probably true. She stands there the whole time, watching and waiting. Only when he finishes does he actually react. He feels sick to his stomach, whether it be from the fact that he ate so quickly or because it's the first thing he's put into his stomach with actual nutrients in weeks, he's not sure. But within minutes of finishing his meal he stumbles to his feet and down the short hallway into the bathroom before dropping to his knees in front of the toilet and emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl. Granger seems to have followed him, he realizes vaguely, as places a cool cloth on the back of his neck and offers him the bottle of water she had thrown at him just minutes earlier. He takes it, and when he's done he gulps down the entire thing. It soothes his throat, and he decides that he'd prefer the burning sensation of alcohol going down to that of it coming back up. He's breathing heavily as he leans back against the bathtub behind him, completely spent and weak.
"Are you okay?" she asks. Her voice is softer now, like a mother tending to her hurt child.
"Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?" his voice is scratchy and it hurts to talk.
"Because I want to."
"So what, I'm your charity case now? Since everything else is right in the world you've got nothing better to do than help poor, broken Draco Malfoy, is it?" He asks bitterly. "Or do you just secretly enjoy seeing me like this?"
"I don't enjoy it," she whispers.
"Right.. I'll tell you what Granger. Everyone else seems to enjoy it, it would do you best to do the same."
"Let me be the judge of that, will you?"
He rolls his eyes, "see, this is why I don't like Gryffindors. You're far too stubborn for your own damn good."
"I'll take that as a compliment. Now c'mon, I'll help you get cleaned up. You look like you could use some sleep."
Within a few minutes she gets him into his bedroom, which is really just a pull out bed in the living room. She wants to make a joke about it, Draco Malfoy Slytherin Prince sleeping on the couch, but he's half passed out and half angry so she keeps her mouth shut. She tidies up around the living room, picking up clothes and such and disposing of them where they belong. And when he finally does pass out, she lifts the sheets-which look like they're about one hundred years old-up to his chest. He almost looks perfect, sleeping there on his side, sort of angel an like. Or a child. Before she leaves she gathers all of the beer bottles from the fridge and everywhere else, as well as a few bottles of vodka and fire whiskey and she shrinks them all before tossing them into her bag. He'll be angry in the morning, she knows, when he realizes that he doesn't have any alcohol, but at least then he won't be able to get drunk first thing.