A/N: Hey! I'm really sorry, I said I'd update in a couple of days and I left it like a week or so later... In my defence I had my end of year exams because it's test week (whoopie doo! *sarcastic eye roll*). Anyway, I was gonna do a kind of fluffy chapter to ease it up but then I thought during a revision session 'Nahhh, I want my characters to be emotional wrecks first, before I make 'nice' scenes. Fore-shadowing stuff is super fun but I'm trying to make it not too obscure which is kinda tricky. Anyhow, I should probably stop rambling and get to my point. Right, well firstly this chapter is DARK, and angsty (so this is the mild warning) and as always I own none of the characters just the plot, a stack of books to read and a cat who growls at you if you go within a metre radius of him. :) Enjoy!
When Hermione woke up to a throbbing headache drilling relentlessly in her skull and a rancid taste festering on her tongue, she didn't have the cognitive ability to recognise her surroundings. Instead, she was deceived into thinking she was drunk in the Gryffindor commons- a rare party event, which lulled her falsely into the pretense of safety and comfort. Instead of looking where she was ,and what- or whom- she was resting on, the brilliant witch merely screwed her eyes more tightly shut and burrowed her face deeper into the warm, rather solid pillow she was rest- wait, a solid pillow? One that moved slightly in a rhythmic pattern of rising and falling.
Her eyes fly open- quizzical of why her pillow was solid and why an icy breeze was rippling over her back, a small segment not completely covered by the fluffy blanket. Her eyes look down and widen in shock, and a little bit of horror.
What the hell is Draco Malfoy doing here? Wait, why am I lying on his chest!? Gradually realisation plods across her sleep-bedraggled mind and she rubs the sleep from her eyes as she quietly remembers yesterday. The nightmare. Being tied to a chair. Draco talking- then face softening. Him stitching her gaping wound, which ached like a bitch today. As well as her other bruises and cuts harmonising with its whines. Am I- is this for real? Did I really drink whiskey with the boy who'd tormented me, Harry and Ron for six whole years? She chews her lip thoughtfully, which accidentally reminds her of the bitter taste of liquor coating her Sahara-dry mouth. She envisions- indulges really- in the memory of the homemade Weasley fudge. Of the special hot chocolate her mother would make her on the dreary days. On her mother- sweet Caroline Granger-'s teary-eyed smile when she won her first ever spelling bee at the young age of five. How she'd bandage every bruise and scrape with a tender kiss at her 'clumsy' daughter. Or when Hermione had first performed magic at seven years old, when the mean bully Henry Reddings wouldn't give her her favourite book on: Fairy Jessamine, and how Caroline didn't scold her when she saw her daughter make the nursery books flutter out of their shelves and fly around the terrified bully in the secluded reading corner. No, Caroline ,as the only adult around, saw that her giggling amber-eyed little girl was just a little more special than she'd thought. Imaginative and smart. Magical…
Hermione smiled at the memory of how her mum had crouched in front of Henry telling him he was imagining things; Hermione Granger couldn't possibly make books fly like fairies, he was just tired. How, after he'd scuttled away like the cockroach he was, her mother had advised her gently to only do things like that in mummy or her own bedroom, where scaredy-cockroaches couldn't tattle tail. She remembered solemnly pinky promising with her eternally loving mum and-
The memory vanishes abruptly when Draco- who I'm still partially laid on- wriggles in his sleep. She observes his sleeping form, in curiosity. The ever-present frown lines are gone, smoothened down as he sleeps, oblivious to the world. His long blonde lashes rest gently on his high pale cheeks and his lips- those lips the girls used to titter and gossip about- were slightly open, his slightly larger lower-lip jutting out slightly in a manner which made him look slightly dazed. He honestly looked… Youthful. Innocent and angelic, like the first few snowflakes descending from the heavens. Or like the young boy- she mused wistfully- he might've been before his indoctrination into the dark side. Before his father corrupted him. Before he hated muggle-borns with fervor. Before he grew jealous and manipulative. At least she hoped that's what he was as a young child. Untainted by the tragedy his life was to become. Strangely, the words of her mother came back to her in a vivid burst of spontaneity: "Some people, sweetheart, are born with tragedy in their blood." At the time- in the uncomplicated year of being eight, her mother's words had seemed strange and trivial. What should she care about her blood? She already knew she was different to the other girls and boys. Her fascination of classic novels and education alienated her from the others before they ever became suspicious of her hidden magical talents. No, her mother's silly words had just seemed rather untrue and unnecessary, like "don't watch too much television or else your eyes will turn square", or "if you swear your tongue will turn black". She feels a sudden pang of loss at having her mother- the only person to have ever unconditionally loved her-'s memories slated away. A tear escapes her eye before she even realises that her vision is remembered disregarding the statement as some quirky little quote meant to encourage empathy towards others. But now… Now she wondered on it. Was Draco one of those misfortunate few who'd been raised badly and so now was truly bad at heart? The six years of mockery seemed a good reason as any to say HELL YES- but- but he'd saved her. From that beastly man on the battlefield with his luminescent killing curse and, then again yesterday, preventing her from infection.
Draco wriggled again, the peaceful resting morphing into something suspiciously like a nightmare. He balls his fists in the sheets as his angelic face contorts to a grimace, eyebrows drooping worriedly and a crinkle twisting his rather beautiful aristocratic features. A bead of sweat forms on his hairline and she looks down at him, uncertainly. Hermione reaches out a tentative hand and shakes his shoulder lightly, drawing back off of his chest in case he flails.
"Draco? Hey, Malfoy?" She mutters firmly. He doesn't appear to hear her, and a shudder rolls across his body. His next breath is a pant and the pictures he's seeing in his mind must be pretty craptastic because the next thing he does is growl. It's rather short and husky but with the undertone of fear and the promise of bloodshed. Aw, heck. Hermione thinks.
"DRACO!" She yells, finally making his eyes snap open, and turn to meet hers, agitated and fearfully. He sits up, and glares at her.
"Granger? What the fuck are you doing here?" He growls, spitefully. She's taken aback by the aggression but barrels ahead regardless.
"You brought me here, remember?" She replies, half-exasperated. She watches him as he sifts through the hazy memories and sees the exact moment realisation hits and the pieces fall into place.
At first Draco was sure the mudblood was pissing with him. He'd already dreamt something foul and the sight of such- such gory, spine-breakingly, horrific memories, lingering like the cloak of death, had made his tone sharp and his memories sluggish. That and the after-effects of the alcohol. But, no, Granger was right he had saved her from the brute and cleaned up her injuries. He'd made civil- or at least as civil as he could under the circumstances-talk, and had shared the liquor with her like old friends, thinking and chatting amiably before they fell asleep…
A headache thrums duly behind his eyes and he gets to his feet slowly, making sure the room was no longer spinning before making his way silently out of the cellar door.
"What are you doing?" Granger asks from behind him. He can't be bothered to reply and only detachedly notices as she slips out of the wine-cellar after him. They make their way to the kitchen, both too tired and confused to talk. Finally they reach it, his favourite place in the whole of the manor: the kitchen. Draco smirks at the memories of cooking here with his mother, all those years ago. When they would reprieve the elves of their duties so they make the most exquisite of dishes while his father was away at the ministry. His mother, contradictory to his father (who'd always turned his nose up at the thought of doing such manual, lowly work) had always had a passion for cooking, always insisting to him in hushed tones how if you could cook a good meal you'd become accustomed to the tasteful things life offered and how it always was a therapeutic labour, which would be enjoyable and calming. He'd agreed and even now, seven years on, he still found certain pleasure in slicing vegetables and adding spices to aromatic dishes.
Hermione watched inquisitively as the Malfoy heir began pulling ingredients out of the large fridge and retrieving things from the pantry. He had a half-smile on his face as he was flitting around the kitchen, and she found it pleasantly surprising he was well-acquainted with the art of cooking. She's always presumed it would be much too- too inferior job- for a higher-than-thou Malfoy. "What are you doing?" she repeated, softer this time. Draco shot her a look rich in condescension and with that one disdainful glance, she remembered why she'd always disliked the young pureblood.
"What do you think I'm doing? Writing a letter?" He sneers, patronizingly. Her face flames with righteous indignation.
"I was only asking, Malfoy. No need to get your knickers in a twist." She quips, eyes rolling at the spiteful boy. He aims another sour look at her.
"I told you not to call me that." He mumbles, under his breath.
"I'm sorry, what? Malfoy is your name isn't it? When did you tell me to call you otherwise?" She questions, half-exasperated and half-befuddled.
"I told you it last night, remember? Or were you too busy sucking down my whiskey to pay any notice."his lip curls. The remark stings a little. Yesterday, especially last night they'd reached a… Camaraderie of sorts. Yet today? Ugh he was acting like such a spoilt little brat again, pretentious and cold, like his Slytherin friends.
"What the hell is your problem? Last night we were fine, yet today? You're being a right prat." She remarks matter-of-factly. The tone, so similar of the one she always used during their school years together, sets him on edge and makes his eyes narrow meanly at her.
"You, Granger. You're my problem. You're in my house, under my hospitality yet you-"
"Yet I what, malfoy? I try to be civil to you and yet all you do is just throw it back in my face! We've already discovered that my blood is no more tainted than yours-" Draco bristles, reMembering his words, yet seeing his father's eyes looking at him in shame at the thought of his son forgetting his lineage. Hermione blathers on, oblivious to Draco's mounting fury "-and we're stuck in the same situation as each other so you might as well stop giving me crap, okay?" She stops, feeling proud of her rant at him, hoping- sadly in vain- that he would heed her plea for peace. She watches him warily and he looks back at her with the cool indifference he wore like a mask.
Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, his lips twitch into a humourless, dark grin. Her heart beat jumps in apprehension; she unconsciously steps back from his darkened presence. He stalks after her predatorily, slow and graceful like a panther all the while grinning that frightening smile…. Her back hits the wall and her hand scrambles for her beloved wand. Twitching her fingers to feel the comforting wooden stick in her capable hands. And then, with a dreadful streak of remembrance, she recalls how it is downstairs. Among the blankets she'd been swathed in earlier. Before Draco had his nightmare and woke up in an unpredictable mood. For not the first time today, she curses internally. A colourful stream of explicits that would make a sailor blush.
"Granger, granger, granger." He cajoles, wickedly. "When will you ever learn, huh? You are inferior, you mudblood attention-whore. You think I don't notice how you secretly crave the spotlight Potter-" he sneers at his word, disgust evident in his velvety-smooth voice "-basks in. You think I don't know that you always look- so damn dismayed- when your idiot friends hand you their half-assed homework, using you over and over for your brains. Not your character, just your bookish intellect which grants you a spot by famous Potter and his BFF Weasel's side. And do you know what, mudblood? You will always be the sidekick." At his last hiss, he caresses her face with one slender pale hand, almost caringly. He looks at her pityingly, as though the smartest witch was really just some dumb, deluded fool, blindingly following the wonder-boys like some gormless tag-along. And then, as the agonising analysis sinks in, her back becomes rigid and her eyes flame with anger. She suddenly doesn't feel so trapped by his body caging hers against the wall, both radiating heat, and instead she feels brave. Like the Gryffindor Princess her house ruled her out to be.
"If I'm the sidekick than what are you, Malfoy? Cos you're damn well not a villain. No...You are the filthy mole. The cowardly wimp torn between wanting to hurt people yet too cowardly to submit fully-" she points at his forearm, where the inky death eater symbol gleams under the kitchen lights "-to the Dark side. You never truly did decide which side you supported, did you? Due to what? Fear? Some twisted fear of going too far, enfing up in Azkaban like Bellatrix is sure to? Maybe you're right, maybe I do now and again want to be the heroine of my tale; instead of the bookish best friend who is compelled to save the hero's butt a few times. But what you don't understand is that I love my friends and they love and trust me back just as much. I may not be the 'leader' of my friends, but I'd rather be ignored once in awhile, than be the leader of snakes with hearts of stone and a non-existent sense of morality." She pauses, if only to pour some more salt and harshness to her vocalised venom. Feeling a savage pleasure in watching Draco Malfoy tense and reel at her blunt words "- Despite what you think my blood is most certainly not muddy. And no matter how much you might think otherwise, you're not even worth half of the man both Harry and Ron have grown to be."
He absorbs all of her words. Feeling the knife twist deeper as she repeatedly mentions her fan-fucking-tastic friends, their incomparable loyalty, and how Pothead was just so wonderfully better than him. Yeah, right. He thought to himself as she lectured passionately, a light pink tint colouring her cheeks. When she finishes, he has a moment- one small, enlightening moment- when a voice deep within him tells him to leave. To go for a fucking walk, or punch a wall or, or something. Because he knows, in that starting moment of clarity, that whatever the hell he's going to say next will scar her. He's always been one with words, "manipulative and clever," his mother- one of the few family members who gave a rat's ass about him- had told him when he was five. Even at five he'd been scathing and ruthless when in pain or very, very angry. And in that moment he knew that despite Granger's 'noble' lecture, she didn't really deserve the calculated words ready and waiting, precisely chosen to inflict damage where he knew people hurt the most. But the voice- the logical, ethical voice- was overridden by the devilish taunt who liked invoking fear and fed lasciviously off of loathing. It was even more stoked, this devilish creature, by his own self-loathing for his occasional doubts and blasted 'morality', which had only ever caused him and his family issues, when he gave in to it. And that nightmare… It twisted his gut and re-kindled the spark of violence which simmers inside him.
He leaned down, closer to the furious, young witch and his hands placed on either side of her head on the wall behind her. To anyone who might've been watching them from a distance, they looked like some intimate couple, lost in one another's presence. Spurred on by the tension, to be closer, to touch and kiss the other like newlyweds might. But to them it meant something else. Draco liked the close contact due to being in proximity to watch first-hand her reaction. Hermione predictably disliked the enclosure as it felt way too intimate and intrusive. She watches his narrowed charcoal eyes, sees the swirling loathing and devilish gleam, in the depths of his intense glare. She glares back, wavering at what he was going to do- hit her? Shout at her? Kiss her? The coiled tension in him made her unusually nervous and made her courage duck tail and flee, like a puppy might when faced with an intimidating wolf.
"Cute speech." He mocks, winding a chestnut brown curl absent-mindedly on one finger. "Did you just re-iterate some lesson from some muggle ethics book and spout it back out at me? Sometimes Granger, I think you're different. I see your intelligence and your blinding loyalty and burning anger, and I wonder why you stay where you are, as you are, following the two dumbnuts around like they are your personal messiahs. And then I realise- you're not as brave and smart and fiery as you try to be. In fact I don't really think you are at all. After your lengthy speech I feel you're rather vindictive. You can be callous and cruel just as much as any other Slytherin. You're not brave but stupid, wanting to save the world from your subjective view of 'good' and 'evil', recklessly following the fools who left Hogwarts under the thumb of some of the most wicked Death Eaters. Where's your 'loyalty' now, Hermione!? Where were the 'Golden Trio' when snivelling Longbottom pissed his pants on the classroom floor as some teacher Crucio'd him til he passed out? Where were you when Seamus was forced under the Imperius curse to be my Aunt Bella's little bitch. Or when the students were slapped and beaten. Tormented and squashed over these twisted thumbs. I heard about your Horcrux hunt-" he confesses, his smirk holding a bit of sadness all of a sudden "But you didn't know that Harry- the chosen one- was a Horcrux as well, did you? You mock me of my morality but how can you truly say that all Death Eaters are evil and all 'Dumbledore's Army'- or whatever the fuck you gallanting knights call yourselves now- are good? Did you know that Pansy Parkinson, the one you all think is a spiteful bitch, is actually adopted due to being raped and mistreated in her childhood? Or that your best friend, Ginny the Weaslette, fucked Zabini in his dormitory before she was on a 'break' with Harry. Oh, wait no, this one- this one might hurt a little bit. Especially as you and Ronnie-kins had apparently become 'close' during your treasure hunt. Did he ever tell you how during your little horcrux-hunt he sent rather suggestive letters to Lavender, which I coincidentally once intercepted-" he pauses and searches her hazel eyes. Hermione senses the harsh feeling of betrayal punch her innards more effectively than a physical blow. How he'd learnt all this, she didn't know. How the conniving bastard had managed to turn her heart bloodied and raw, she didn't know. But the painful words settle on her skin, marking her soul, making her question Ron and the fond looks he'd given her. Made her question Ginny's mindset and why she'd go against Harry like that. And Harry… Was he really a Horcrux? But Dumbledore had said that there were...Oh fuck- there were seven!
"You're lying." she mutters weakly, shutting her eyes so he can't see the doubt that must be portrayed on her face. Her legs feel like jelly as the world shifts slightly. Becoming a little bit more grotesque. A little bit more depressing. She feels his hand cup her chin and she knows her lips are trembling. Her heart feels sore at the prospect of losing her closest friend to death and Ron- how could he? Especially after his jealousy with me and Harry, an-and the kiss- at how she maybe was losing him to the rival she had never even known existed…
"Hermione." his voice murmurs. She shakes her head: no. "Look at me or I'll make you look." he threatens, still in that sweet, honey-smooth voice. She opens her eyes and sees those striking eyes staring back. Honest and wide and unwavering.
"I'm not lying." he tells her, honestly. He cocks his head to one side, calculatingly. "Now, can you see that the world is made up of greys..? I personally know death eaters who hate killing people, hate spilling blood and taking a life, but have to. The Dark Lord may have their children tied up and screaming in pain under his merciless wrath. He may have raped their wives or slaughtered their kin or stolen their most prized possessions, only letting his reap rewards when their hands are bloodies, they are desensitised against horror, indoctrinated into hating others. He enjoys hovering their families above their heads like fucking food against a starving man. So are they evil, Hermione? Are they all as 'twisted' and 'malignant' as you said them to be. Fucking, no! We can't all have perfect lives wrapped in the love and goodness which your naive little self thinks we can. And now, with Potter being a Horcrux… What are you going to do if he's alive? Would you murder your dearest confidant and friend for the good of the whole society? Would you let him live, out of love, then live on bitterly as Lord Voldemort corrupts the wizarding community? So don't try feed me the good-and-bad bullshit, Hermione Granger, because no matter what your blood type you are still just as entangled in this chessboard game as I am. We are both pawns in this fucking game, no matter what side we are on. So yes, you may have a bloody higher IQ than me, but no fucking way are you less of a cruel, manipulative bitch as all the rest of us."
The tears run freely down her face now. His words have left gaping holes. Despair and resentment, denial and loss, loathing and agony, they all bubble up inside her. The salty tears keep flowing, tumbling down, like her pre-conceived notions. There are too many questions, too much loss, too much doubt… And yet this blonde psychopath had done it. He'd fucking summed up what was going on, and he'd dished it out as insensitively as possible. She just- didn't know what to do. Her heart ached for her mother's warm, open arms. For her books which would offer escapism from the predicament she was in. But she couldn't find escape, oh no, not now. Not when he'd laid out the cards and taken all the chips like the players they all were. All the while watching her, his permanent mask of indifference only broken by those expressive steely eyes which shone with honest determination. She wasn't angry anymore. Well. she was. She was pissed at the world, the screwed up wizarding world (which was maybe even more flawed than the muggle one), pissed at herself for being so naive and ignorant, pissed at Voldemort for being a heartless, merciless, maleficent bastard, who deserved to be Crucio'd til death. Or hung, drawn and quartered like they did during medieval times in muggle history. And she was just-just….
Her tear-filled eyes, her fragmented hope shattering in the inch or so which was between them, meet his. Hazel meets bluey-grey. Fire and ice. Both elements of nature, yet completely opposite. The air feels electrically-charged and she both despises and marvels at the tension between them. Strangely, she feels more connected to Draco Malfoy than she'd ever been before in her life. He was her, but born on the other side of the spectrum. She was him, now heartbroken by knowledge, and wisened, by the disturbing truth. He knew she understood him a bit better, but he didn't dare drop the emotionless facade. Better for her to hate him than become like him. He justified it, mentally.
She didn't bother to brush away the salty evidence of her emotional pain, instead she mustered all that was left of her dignity and left the room, saying a crude "Fuck you, Malfoy". He simply watched, sadly, as she departed, the door shutting her out with an ominous finality.