"So, your world's benign
So you think justice has a voice
And we all have a choice
Well, now your world is mine . . .
And I am fine."
-"Everything You Ever", from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog
Hermione looked up to see none other than Draco Malfoy making his way towards her across the crowded marquee. He looked like a predator.
Unconsciously, Hermione stiffened her spine and rolled her shoulders back.
She was chatting with Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown, and two other witches that Hermione didn't know. They were all wearing formal dress robes in muted purples and golds, and Hermione was feeling more than a little self-conscious already in her blue Muggle dress. The last thing she needed was Malfoy, mystifying her with an odd mixture of manipulative flattery, caustic humor, outright unpleasantness, and unexpected gallantry. Which one was the "real" Malfoy? WHat did he want from her this time?
Granger's subtle fear at Draco's approach was highly entertaining. Really, it would be a shame not to give her ego a knock at this point.
Pavarti was the first of the witches to see Malfoy, besides Hermione. She smiled genteelly and gestured slightly for him to join them. Hermione felt a quick dash of envy at her apparent grace and hospitality. She had always fantasized about being the perfect hostess, but never seemed to have the time.
All of the witches except Hermione gave Malfoy an appreciative once-over. Hermione tsked lightly and looked deliberately over his head. Yes, the tailored bottle-green dress robes were very flattering to his narrow-yet-toned torso, but the high collar made him look something like a vampire. Not the Robert Pattinson kind, the Count Dracula kind. With unhealthily pale skin and a widow's peak that was apparent even under the longish platinum hair that was falling over his forehead just so . . . Oh, forget it. Even Hermione had to admit that he looked terrific.
. . . Which didn't change anything. Of course.
He smirked, as though guessing her thoughts. His empty grey eyes penetrated her expressive chocolate-colored ones, reading everything they saw there without the need for Legilimency. She was an open book. Unsettled, she broke their brief eye contact. If she ever cared to test her theory, Hermione guessed that Draco was a very accomplished Occlumens. It was part of the Slytherin package . . . emotional compartmentalization.
Lost in musings about Malfoy, Hermione had completely tuned out of the conversation. The sound of Draco's cold, drawling voice brought her sharply back to earth, as though he had splashed ice water over her head.
"So, Hermione . . . I must say, somehow I didn't expect to see you here," he said casually, sipping something alcoholic from a stemmed glass that Hermione was almost certain hadn't been there a moment before.
"Why not?" she bristled testily.
"Oh, I meant nothing by it, dear," he said, irony tinging his voice. "It's only that you refused the Ministry promotion. Shows a startling lack of ambition, no? Even for a former Gryffindor." He rolled his wrist lazily, swirling the ruby red contents of the glass.
"I don't understand what my lack of interest in Muggle diplomacy has to do with a party being held by an old friend," said Hermione coolly, staring at the glass. The garnet-like quality of the light filtering through the translucent liquid was mersermizing.
"Well, it sends a pretty clear message, do you not think?" he remarked. He might have been discussing the weather if not for the ominous gleam in his eyes. "To distance oneself from Muggle diplomacy in today's climate is to distance oneself from popular opinion."
Hermione took the bait.
"Oh, because everyone knows you're the poster child for acceptance of the nonmagical community," she scoffed sarcastically. The other witches looked eagerly back and forth between them, as though watching a tennis match. The competitors, however, had forgotten them.
"Actually, yes. That is exactly what I am," he asserted. "You probably didn't notice, but the soirée of last month was quite a success. Imagine, the son of the most infamous pureblood elitist of today, cordially inviting the Muggles' Prime Minister to a traditional wizarding event!"
She opened her mouth to respond, looking absolutely mutinous. Malfoy cut in before she could.
"Oh, I don't mean to belittle your part in the evening, Hermione," he said condescendingly. "But, really . . . After playing your part so well, it's really a pity that you had to go jilting the most rapidly-expanding department in the Ministry. Why, just the other day, the Minister was saying -"
"Oh, shut up! Shut up!" she said angrily. Quite a crowd was assembling by now, attracted like sharks by the smell of blood. "And don't call me Hermione," she snapped, à la Vivian Leigh.
"As you wish, Granger," he said emotionlessly.
Something in Hermione broke. Hot liquid fury broke from somewhere deep inside, filling her veins like lit gasoline. She hated him, his pointed face, his stupid colorless hair, his expensive clothes, his fit body, his sneering mouth, his emotionless grey eyes, fixed on her, always fixed on her.
The glass in his hand shattered into a thousand pieces, flying apart like an explosion of deadly white glitter. Everyone gasped, tripping over each other in their haste to get away. A few people screamed. The incriminaing fragments littered the ground like small knives. A fine layer of powdered glass settled on the hair of the witch and wizard standing in the middle of the mess, glaring at each other. Malfoy's clothing was drenched in the crimson liquid, whatever it had been. With one rippling motion, everyone's accusatory gaze settled on the witch in a Muggle dress. This was no accident, and everyone knew it.
Hermione gasped, trying to distance herself from him like everyone else had. Shining like a scarlet letter on his face was a thin line of blood, working its way down his cheek.
"Oh, my God," she breathed. "I'm . . . I'm so sorry." She turned desperately to look att he other guests, searching for a shred of sympathy. She met only antagonism, radiating from the whole room like heat.
The only person who didn't look as though they fervently desired to expel her from the planet was the one standing in front of her. His expression was, as always, blank and unreadable as a flat expanse of marble. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.
Parvati stepped forward. It was her duty as the hostess to take care of this mess.
"Mr. Malfoy, are you hurt?"
He raised a hand to his face, seeming mildly surpised and interested when his fingers came away tipped with vermilion.
"It would seem so."
"Do you need to go to St. Mungo's?"
"I think not. If you'll excuse me, Miss Patil, I think I must leave. Thank you for inviting me."
The formalities sounded awkward and out-of-place. Without a backward glance, he Disapparated. Aloneness twisted Hermione's vitals as she faced the tentful of irate and scandalized wizards.
"I can clean it . . ." she attempted feebly. Her words fell on the empty silence with a heaviness that was almost tangible. Without a word, Parvati began Vanishing the glass pieces. Hermione took the hint and left the marquee, her vision blurred by hot tears. Once she was outside, the cool night hair stinging her face, she Disapparated.
When Hermione opened her eyes, she had no idea where she was. Disoriented, she stumbled sideways and tripped, falling on smooth grass.
She lay there for a moment, breathing in the calming, familiar scent of grass. It had always been a favorite of hers, even manifesting itself in the Amortentia that she had smelled in her sixth year at Hogwarts. Her heartbeat slowed gradually. Hermione sat up, feeling rather as though she was emerging from water and could only now breathe freely.
She was on a wide, sloping lawn, with the indistict dark shapes of trees and shrubbery off to her left. To her right, a gravelled pathway led up a gently sloping hill to the hulking outline of what was unmistakeably Malfoy Manor.
Hermone sighed. In her agitation, she had Apparated to the first place on her mind.
Draco reappeared directly inside the imposing wrought-iron gates of the manor. He could potentially have Apparated right onto the doorstep or even inside the building itself, but tonoght he wanted to take the long walk himself.
He set off, the cold air lashing at the open cut on his face. His fingers traced it lightly again. The cut was paper-thin, but surprisingly deep.
He couldn't get Granger out of his mind. He didn't begrudge her the glass-shattering incident . . . He had baited her with full understanding of the possible consequences. Hell, if he was honest with himself, he had almost been expecting it. Unconscious magic was a very powerful force even in trained wizards, and Granger wasn't exactly the best at marshalling her emotions. Strong, yes, clever, oh yes, but terribly vulnerable. This was exactly the kind of weakness that Draco made it his personal business to avoid allowing in his own mind. His brain had the efficiency, coldness, and self-reflexive insanity of a military state.
Something ghostly white drifted out of the darkness. Draco didn't even flinch; he was well-accustomed to the sight of an albino peacock or two wandering the grounds at will.
What he was not accustomed to was for mysterious shadowy figures to follow them.
Draco cursed, fumbling for his wand. When he found it, he muttered "Lumos!" and pointed it threateningly at the intruder.
The beam of wandlight illuminated none other than Hermione Granger, who looked equally startled to see him.
"Draco!" she said, her voice scaling an octave higher than usual. "I - I'm sorry!"
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked bluntly.
"I couldn't just go home without making things right," she said quietly, looking at the ground. Draco suddenly realized that she had been crying.
"Here, come with me." She followed him repentantly, lighting her own wand as they walked towards the manor.
Outside the door, Draco leaned slightly to whisper. "Dotty is already off work for the night. She'll be asleep, but we ought to be quiet. The accoustics of this place are amazing."
For once, he wasn't bragging for the sake of bragging. Granger nodded, looking slightly taken aback at his evident concern for Dotty's welfare. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, just because he kept his heart under lock and key didn't mean that he lacked one.
Hermione's heart was thudding heavily as she stepped across the threshold of Malfoy Manor. The vast space was dark and forebodingly empty in the almost-total darkness. The beams from their wands reflected eerily off the highly polished floor and winking chandelier.
A warm, dry hand encircled her wrist. Hermione jumped slightly. Somehow, Malfoy's touch wasn't quite as repulsive at it had been at the Ministry hearing a month earlier.
He led her to a dramatically smaller room, off to the right of the foyer, and flicked on the light. To Hermione's shock, it looked like a room one might find a normal house: slightly chipped yellow paint, a table, two green chairs, and a cabinet off to the side. Malfoy released her wrist and went to the cabinet, rummaging around for something. Hermione stood there awkwardly, hands clasped behind her back.
Malfoy tuned around, holding a little bottle. Hermione recognized it at once. She had used an identitcal product on various occasions: Essense of Dittany.
He unscrewed the lid. Instictively, Hermione stopped him.
"No, let me," she said quietly. He looked doubfully at her. "Trust me, it's almost impossible to heal oneself," she insisted, taking the bottle.
She poured a drop onto the still-bleeding cut to instantly dinifect it. She then began delicately probing it with her fingers, testing the depth and checking to see if there were any remaining shards of glass. Finding none, Hermione poured a small amount of liquid directly into the cut. Malfoy sucked in his breath sharply.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I wasn't expecting . . ." He flinched slightly as she extended her fingertips toward his face again.
"I have to double-check to make sure I didn't just seal any glass inside your skin," she hissed. "I'm going to feel even more awful than I already do if it gets infected . . ."
Draco considered making one more attempt to stop her gentle fingers from brushing over his face again, but knew that it would be no use. He had seen this raw determination in her eyes before, and it never boded well for anyone to get in her way.
Her touch was soft yet insistent, a Healer's hand. She probed his cheekbone without apology, her fingertips coming to rest on the place just below his left cheekbone. Draco's heart sank.
"What the hell? . . ." she mumbled, running her hand over the spot again. Draco's head jerked back abruptly.
"Thank you," he said stiffly. "For the Healing, and the apology."
The subject change wasn't working.
"Malfoy . . ." her tone was warning, "is that by any chance a massive piece of glass embedded in your flesh?!"
"And if it is?" he challenged irritably, remembering to keep his voice low at the last minute.
Granger's hand flew to her mouth. "Malfoy! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?!" she demmanded in a whisper-shout.
"It's not your fault," he added hastily, unwilling to let her think even for a moment that his subdermal scar was a result of tonight's incident. "Not directly, anyway," he added as an afterthought.
"You have some serious explaining to do," she insisted.
"Er, before we take a trip down memory lane, I think I really ought to change clothes."
"What?"
"Well, you just doused me with elvin wine, after all." He pretended to pout slightly. "I'm quite put out with you, Granger. Expensive wine, expensive robes. Never a good combination in close proximity." On that note, he suddenly Apparated to his room.
Five minutes later, Draco (now wearing black trousers and a white Oxford shirt) and Granger (still in the blue dress) sat across from each other at the table in the yellow room. Granger was gnawing on her lower lip; Draco couldn't decide whether to be entertained or irritated.
"So, what in the name of Merlin is that thing under your skin, why is it there, and how am I indirectly involved?" she demmanded.
Draco hesitated. "You do remember . . . the first time you came to the manor."
Granger's eyes widened at the reminder of her kidnapping and subsequent torture. Draco hurried on before he lost his nerve.
"And when the chandelier fell?"
"Ye-es," said Granger slowly.
"You may not remember that I was directly underneath when it fell."
"Considering -" her voice broke, "that I was almost unconscious with pain at the time," she drew a shuddering breath, "you'll forgive me for not remembering that particular detail."
On an impluse, Draco took her hands across the table. She flinched slightly, and Draco pulled back as if burned, silently cursing himself for his thoughtlessness.
"If you think I wasn't experiencing all seven levels of hell whilst you were being tortured, then you're fully insane," he said fervently. The words came out of his mouth of their own accord, leaving both Draco and Granger speechless for a moment.
He cleared his throat to break the loaded silence. He still couldn't look her in the eyes. Not yet.
"Yes. Well. I had never experienced so much pain in my life, and yes, I am including the ceremony during which I was branded with the Dark Mark and all of the manifold times that the Cruciatus curse has been used against me. As a reminder, I asked my mother to leave the largest crystal shard in my face. It's healed, now," he added, as though that would dispel the tension.
"Can I . . ." her voice was slightly rough with emotion. "May I touch it again?"
Reluctantly, Draco tilted his head slightly back. Gently, she held his chin in one hand. Draco was forcibly reminded of the time when she had discovered that he was manipulating her for personal gain. Everything was so different now, though he couldn't say what had changed.
Gingerly, gingerly, she touched the layer of skin over the crystal shard. Draco knew that she could feel its hardness through the healed skin, but he couldn't feel her fingertips anymore. It was truly surreal.
At last, he looked Hermione full in the face. He could practically count her eyelashes. Her wide brown eyes, flecked with gold, were alarmingly near, studying the space under his cheekbone as though he was a fascinating, inhuman work of art. As if that wasn't enough to drive him half-mad, she was biting her lip ever-so-slightly. Draco so needed to feel her pearl-pink lips against his.
Her gaze rose to his eyes. Her eyes, incapable of hiding any emotion, filled with curiosity and a slight tinge of fear. Their expression of naive confusion was almost irresistible.
Being Draco Malfoy, he resisted.
He stood suddenly, forcing her to let go of him.
"It's late," he deadpanned. "Do you want me to take you to your flat, or . . ."
Hermione picked up the hint. "I'll be fine, thanks. It is late. I really have to go."
Relieved, Draco turned to leave.
"Draco . . ."
The sound of his given name made him pause. "Yes?"
"Thank you."
Unseen by Hermione, the smallest hint of a smile played around his mouth. "You're welcome."