My streak has broken, as I've struggled with the dialogue for this chapter for some strange reason. Anyway, here's the second half to the aforementioned long chapter, mostly Dramione. If you love it, hate it, whatever, drop me a note! I'd love to hear from all of you. Thanks to all my regular reviewers. And to my anon reviewers – thank you! You guys make me smile.
Enjoy!
LCailan
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Draco Malfoy's house was just as magnificent inside as it was on the outside. Here, it was cool and shadowy. The ceilings were high and made of a pristine plaster, with decorative cornices where walls met ceilings. The rooms were not overly large, and the staircase that separated each of the two rooms on the main entrance floor was wide, and made of some sort of shiny, dark wood. The floors were stained the same dark color and some were covered by expensive looking Persian rugs, and other parts were left bare. A red runner covered the stairs leading upwards. Hermione could glimpse at least four floors to which those steps climbed. The place wasn't overly messy, but neither was it clean. She could see signs of disuse in the two rooms here, and wondered if the house was more for show than for habitation. It was just as well, she decided. The rich didn't use what they had, and those oppressed never had enough of which they could use. It just wasn't fair!
Malfoy haphazardly dropped his uniform jacket onto a small intricately pattered upholstered chair, and then motioned for her to come with him.
"The kitchen and dining area are upstairs."
His voice echoed in the silence of the room, and Hermione wondered where Astoria had gone to. Fascinated with the artwork along the plaster walls, she dutifully followed him up the richly carpeted stairs to the second level. It was no less grand here, though the carpet ended and a pattered tile began, leading to what looked like a massive kitchen and, to the other side, a large dining room with huge windows overlooking the main street where they had just been. He led her into the kitchen, where the bright afternoon light gleamed off the copper pots, pans, appliances, and countertops.
"Do you cook, Granger?"
He had leaned against the countertop, watching her, his expression unreadable. In this light, Hermione took notice of the lines under his eyes, and the fact that he looked incredibly tired and worn. It mildly surprised her, for she hadn't considered that a man living the way he did would ever feel strained.
She looked down at the countertops, not wanting to stare at him too long. Cook? She couldn't remember the last time she had cooked, really. The little cast iron stove in the flat she had shared with the Weasleys had spewed out dark soot every so often, making it impossible to actually make anything edible. They had survived on rations. And then, in the alienage…they were practically starved, after all. If the Ministry officers were so inclined, their watery soup was accented with stale, sometimes mold riddled bread. No cooking necessary, she mused. Hunger was a way of life, like breathing.
"I…"
Hermione thought of her own mother, and then of Molly, and she rapidly blinked against the rush of emotion that suddenly overcame her. Her fingers tightened on the countertop next to Malfoy's disused looking stove. Both women had been integral parts of her growing up, and both women were…gone.
Hermione stood stone still, unable to move against the flood of memories assaulting her, but she was aware that Malfoy had stopped staring at her, and had begun to move through the kitchen, opening the wooden cabinets and the shiny refrigerator. He moved with purpose, as if toward some goal that she didn't understand, nor even care about.
When he stepped closer to her, she flinched, even though she didn't want to. It was the mixture of his proximity and the fact that when one of them got too close, it always meant pain. But Malfoy didn't touch her, instead reaching up over her head to the top cabinet and rummaging around there for a second before stepping away once more. Hermione could smell him, a mixture of cigarette smoke and something sweetly musky, like the last hint of heat on a summer's day, and the hint of fruit and praline. Whatever it was, she felt her stomach flip in a tantalizing sort of way. Disturbed, she shook her head, trying to make the odd feeling go away.
It's just this house, and my fear. It's driving me mad.
"Well, since you won't bloody talk, just make what you want. I don't much care. There are vegetables in the side pantry, and meat in the refrigerator, if you need that. Make a hotpot. I'm going to go change."
She heard his footsteps fading on the tile, and then Malfoy was gone, leaving Hermione alone. Her knees buckled slightly, and she slumped against the counter, nearly crumbling to the ground. A few tears escaped her eyes, but she sniffed vehemently, telling herself this was not the time to cry. Instead, she moved robotically to the pantry and removed potatoes and carrots from the stores, bringing them back over to the counter. Her search of the fridge caused strange, ghostly fingers of hunger to grip her belly when she saw the food within. There was ham and potatoes, a pan of peas and more carrots, and huge, delicious looking pieces of beef just ready for cooking and eating. And in the bottom drawer, she saw bacon. Real bacon, with succulent fat perfect for sandwiches! Hermione closed her eyes against the beautiful sight of abundant, wholesome food, and she gripped the door of the refrigerator lest she faint. Her stomach was now crying out for satisfaction, and the sharp pains made her wince.
Slamming the door shut, she whirled and returned to the counter to face her task.
Maybe if I sneak one bite, no one will know…? Just one potato or carrot?
But she was too afraid that someone would come in, and so, fingers trembling, she took up a knife and began to sluggishly peel and slice the potatoes for the hotpot, her mouth salivating in spite of her insistence that she not think about food. Just as she was finishing with the potatoes and moving to peel the carrots, Malfoy returned.
"Ah, so you started."
She offered a stiff nod, training her eyes on the cutting board, afraid if she spoke, her voice would crack.
"What are you making?"
Hermione swallowed, trying to loosen the thickness in her throat, and she blinked away the bout of dizziness caused by her hunger.
"Lunch. As you requested. Sir."
Each word was like a dagger, sharp and precise. She wasn't able to hide the resentment and anger she felt, and perhaps it would be her downfall. Surprisingly, she heard him make a choked sound, like a laugh.
"You make this so hard on yourself, Granger."
Hermione turned her head to look at him, and paused. He was no longer in uniform, and she realized it was the first time she had seen him this way – he wore a blue linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat, becoming black trousers, and something about his clothing and the way random strands of his silken hair fell onto his forehead made him look softer, less harsh.
Bloody hell, of course he's not soft! He's…he's cruel, and…and…
She tore her eyes away from Malfoy, looking back down at her preparations, feeling her cheeks flush just a touch.
"I don't know what you mean. I'm doing everything you've asked of me."
There was another strange chuckle from Malfoy – it sounded like he was a man trying to laugh after a long time of not doing so. He leaned against the counter, watching her, though Hermione refused him the satisfaction of looking back. He spoke in a softer tone.
"Yes, it's true. But it's the way you're doing it."
She sighed, the knife clattering to the cutting board as she tried to curb her anger.
"I'll try better, Sir."
The words seethed from her lips, barely veiled nastiness under the complacent tone.
"See?" he commented with haughtiness. "Even now, your words speak complacency, but your tone says 'fuck you.' That's what I mean."
She found herself surprised, and turned quickly to gaze on him, seeing a smirk on his mouth.
"It's not like I haven't used that tone myself, Granger."
Hermione rolled her eyes, fingers clenching around the knife she held.
"But not when they're ordering you to murder my kind, right? I can't imagine you as anything but the perfect, mechanical official! Why, look at you, Sir! A perfect home, a beautiful wife, you're living the life, aren't you? Have no consideration for anyone but yourself, since it seems to work so well for you!"
Her tone dripped with a mixture of loathing and sarcasm - and it caused Malfoy's face to darken.
"I told you already to watch your mouth!"
Hermione lost her temper, and slammed her small hands against the counter, the imperfectly cut potato slices tumbling from the cutting board onto the stove. She turned on him, her eyes blazing.
"It's because of you and your blasted Ministry that I've been reduced to this, Malfoy!"
The 'sir' was gone now, and her true feelings on the surface.
"I've endured far worse than you ever will! I've been humiliated, battered, condemned and persecuted by people who are no better than I am! You've killed my family, my friends, and my husband! I'm so hungry most of the time, it hurts to eat! At night, I lie awake because when I close my eyes, the nightmares terrify me!"
She stepped away from him, feeling her heart hammering wildly in every inch of her, and trembling fingers yanked her dirty shirt away from her scarred skin.
"See this?" she managed to choke out, her voice breaking with humiliation.
"Every time I look into a mirror, I see this. I have to remember and relive it each day, what she did, and what she wanted to do. I wake up every morning wondering if today is the day I'm going to die! I'm so sorry, Malfoy, that I can't hide my resentment!"
She hated herself for being so weak, for breaking in front of a man who didn't give a damn, but the words were out and there was no taking them back. Breathing heavily, she yanked away, terrified, when his fingers reached to trace over the hideous scars.
Malfoy's touch was strangely gentle, and when Hermione turned her tear stained eyes up towards his face, she found that he looked almost…sympathetic. She nearly leaned into that strange, calming touch. Until she saw sleeve of his linen shirt betray his true nature; he was evil. An evil, loathsome toerag – no matter what sympathies she thought she saw in those silvery gray eyes.
No. I'm imagining kindness where there is none. I'm seeking solace in a man who knows only discord. I'm lost and alone and I can't cave to this. I can't try to seek refuge in the one man that can destroy me!
She twisted away from his touch, swallowing hard, and it caused him to drop his hand. Still, his eyes traveled to the stark white reminders of her pain, forever traced into her skin.
"Parkinson?" he asked her, their eyes meeting.
She was humiliated and spent, weak from hunger and frustration. Dropping her head so that her messy curls would hide her face, she nodded.
"The…that day…in the courtyard-"
Hermione saw the corner of his mouth twitch with distaste, and his voice was soured when he spoke.
"I had hoped the dittany..."
But he said nothing more and Hermione swallowed the bitterness that she was drowning in, refusing to look at him just then. She was shamed; he had already seen more than she would allow anyone else to see.
"You must be quite proud of yourself, Malfoy," she hissed. "You hired her. She does her job well."
Pressing her lips together to keep from crying, Hermione turned back to finish the carrots and potatoes, before putting them into the pan of roast beef. She was shaking. If her words rendered anything in him, she didn't know, for she refused to look at him again, and he did not offer further conversation. Instead, he walked across the room and stood staring out of the window for a few moments.
She put the pan of roast beef into the oven, and soon the room was redolent with the scent of baking meat and potatoes, causing Hermione's stomach to growl like a rabid animal. She only hoped that he wouldn't hear it. When the hotpot was finished, she found herself serving up heaping portions onto delicate china plates, the fragrance of perfectly succulent roast making her heady. When she entered the dining room across the massive hallway, she found Malfoy seated opposite his wife at a huge, ornately carved dark wood table, both of them looking up as she entered.
Astoria Malfoy managed to look ethereal in a mint green and white gown – the second change of clothing in less than mere hours. Hermione felt more than scrutinized under the gaze of the impossibly beautiful woman, but no words were exchanged between them as she dutifully set their plates on the table, and then backed away quickly, her head held high, and her face a blank slate.
She wasn't sure why, but Hermione suddenly felt like a sore thumb. She was, after all a thin and scarred thing with straggling, lifeless hair and clothes worn gray and too loose from wear and wash, opposite a woman who sparkled with life and loveliness, bedecked with fine clothes and jewelry and the best that life had to offer.
I haven't a proper outfit to call my own and this woman can change her clothing at a fancy's notice!
Her eyes watered as she was made aware once again of what place she truly held in this new world. She didn't dare move lest either of them needed anything, but, as if reading her mind, Malfoy spoke.
"You're dismissed to the kitchen."
Before she could turn away, however, Astoria spoke, making Hermione wince.
"Well, I'm glad this isn't some disgusting Muggle food," she sniffed her fork poised above her steaming plate, and her nose wrinkled. Her face said what her words wouldn't – she was disgusted by just the thought of who had made her lunch.
It caused Hermione to see red, and taking a step forward she clenched her jaw.
What an ungrateful, selfish, bigoted bint!
Hermione forgot to check her fury.
"It's not," she assured Astoria, the venom in her voice barely restrained. "Us Muggles and Mudbloods get only watery soup and moldy bread. That's why most of us are starving. But I hope you enjoy your dinner."
The words, as they often did, slipped out before Hermione could stop them, and she expected an outburst similar to the one on the porch, however, Astoria only sighed.
"You didn't…finger this up too much, did you?"
Hermione swallowed bitter hatred and only stared at the other woman, who offered a quizzical shrug.
"I simply don't want to eat something that might carry a disease."
Her dark eyes turned up towards Hermione's.
"Who knows what kind of pestilence your kind carries nowadays. I'm only being careful. Did you wash your hands and the vegetables?"
Her fork was poking through the cooling food on the plate, but Astoria's eyes never left the other woman's. Hermione felt feeble against the flood of rage that roiled within her, afraid that the next words would be the end of her, fearful of her own ability to not fall apart. Her mouth opened just slightly, but words were impossible, for she drowned in helplessness. She couldn't help the rush of unbidden tears, and found it impossible that she could allow anyone, let alone someone whom she didn't care about, to make her feel hurt. And yet, she did. Without even realizing it, Hermione's tear filled eyes turned pleadingly to Malfoy.
Why? Why do I do this? Why do I turn to him?
Perhaps in a different time, under different circumstances, she would never have looked at him twice, but nothing was the way she had imagined it would be. And in a world of hatred, the man who hated her least was the only one she could turn to. Even if she didn't want to hope in him.
Either purposely or inadvertently, Malfoy was the one who staved the tide within her when he stood.
"I told her she was dismissed," he informed his wife sternly. "She may go. And you may eat, or not eat. It's up to you. Either way, I'm sick of your conversation."
Astoria's eyes flashed as she glared up at her husband.
"I don't want my food handled by a Mudblood!"
Her objection was firm and stubborn. But it did nothing to quell the coldness in his reply.
"It's my food, not yours. It's also my house, and not yours. So therefore, you abide by my rules."
Hermione didn't wait to be dismissed again, instead fleeing as quickly as she could for the safety of the empty kitchen. Except when she stopped in the middle of the room, her heart would not cease it's crescendo of wild hammering, and her infirmity in the face of her current situation would not fade away. There was no safety, and she had no one in this house to who she could turn.
The tears ran down her face as she cried in silence, unable to move, not sure where to go, and what to do next. She buried her weary face in her hands, sobbing. She wanted to murder Astoria Malfoy with her bare hands, to watch her beautiful face turn ugly in fear and confusion. She wanted the couple in the dining room to know what it felt like to lose something, someone they loved. She yearned for them to feel the pain and agony that she had been feeling all these years! Hermione cried for everything she had lost, and for what lay ahead of her. She cried from desperation and fear, hunger and loss. And try and she might, she wasn't able to stop the flow of hot, bitter tears. So focused on her pain, she did not hear him until he spoke.
"Make yourself a plate."
Startled, Hermione whirled around to see Malfoy watching her, his face reflecting nothing, as it always did. She thought she had heard wrong, and her words were uneven when she managed a reply.
"W-what?"
"Make yourself a plate. I heard what you said in the dining room. I know Parkinson starves all of you, it's just a control tactic. But you're not there. You're here. It's my food, and I've got plenty. Eat the leftovers."
Hermione struggled with disbelief. She was so hungry, her stomach nearly screamed at the mention of food. Real, actual food, and not the scraps she had been eating for months and months. Nothing, and no one, had ever sounded as heavenly as his offer. And even though she hated to be reduced to lower than the low at the hand of the Ministry, she wasn't thick enough to turn down his offer.
Rushing towards the cabinet, she pulled down a plate and piled it with leftover dinner, reaching for a fork with trembling fingers, and then shoving bite after gluttonous bite into her mouth, not waiting to swallow the first before she followed with the second, and then the third. She ate, feeding the ravenous beast within her, filling herself as he stood there watching her. It was degrading, Hermione knew, but the food was divine, as if a gift from the Gods themselves. She delighted in the buttery taste of the potatoes as the luscious bites practically melted in her mouth. She rejoiced in the taste of well seasoned beef, both tender and flavorful, and a perfect complement to the velvety potatoes and carrots. She nearly wept. At first she was gloriously overcome with the feeling of being full again, of not feeling the nagging pain of hunger she had gotten used to. But as she finished the plate, she grew aware that that feeling was no longer pleasant. In fact, Hermione realized with a start, that she was going to be ill.
With a whimper, she pushed Malfoy out of the way, clamping her hand over her mouth to keep the looming mess at bay.
Merlin's beard, I'm going to be sick all over his kitchen floor! I'm going to vomit up the only meal I've had in months, and he's going to watch me as I humiliate myself in such a way!
But it couldn't be helped, she knew.
Stumbling up the richly carpeted stairs, Hermione pushed into the first door she saw at the top of the landing, hoping and praying it was the loo – and at least in that, she got lucky. It was a massive room with a marble floor and white, sparkling walls, a porcelain bathtub on gilded legs standing by a tall window, and a mirror with vanity lights on the opposite wall. But what she saw, and what she needed the most was the toilet, by which she fell to her knees, lowering her head just before her lunch betrayed her. The effort exhausted Hermione, and she slumped against the porcelain bowl, clutching the sides, her whole body trembling as she was sick. She tried in vain to gather her unruly curls away from her clammy yet overheated face, but the strands kept slipping into the bowl where she was vomiting.
She moaned in frustration, but couldn't move, afraid that the sickness would never stop. Then, she felt gentle yet firm hands gather her hair and hold it back for her.
And she knew he was there.
Granger was pathetic, Draco decided. She had been reduced to rags and starvation, a wraith in an oversized and threadbare blouse and skirt, so hungry she had eaten too much and made herself sick. Yet, at the same time, he felt a profound desire to ease her pain. Draco didn't know why he was standing in that bathroom, holding back the frizzy, matted curls that refused to be tamed. But, he was.
He could feel the heat coming off of her in waves, and her hair felt strangely soft within his grip as he stood there, waiting for her to be finished. Draco found himself trying to block out the sound of her retching, which was interspersed with struggling sobs. Finally, after an innumerable time, the sounds of her heaving ceased, and there were only her gasps and the whimpered sobs. Strangely, watching Granger crumbled next to his toilet, barely able to hold herself up, beaten down by both life and those who hated her, made him see the consequences of not only his actions, but the actions of those who worked for him.
Draco didn't want to think of her as anything but a Mudblood, but the truth was, he had already come to terms with the fact that in spite of not wanting to, he cared what happened to her. And this was no different. As she sat up, her let go of the pile of curls he had been holding, watching it fall haphazardly around stooped, thin shoulders. Though her sickness had passed, still she trembled slightly. As she took large breaths, Granger wiped her sweaty face, and she reached for the handle to flush evidence of her sickness away.
Without moving, he found himself speaking.
"You'll eat each day. I won't have you being sick all over my house."
He watched as she turned up her face towards him, her brown eyes rimmed with tears and her expression one of shame.
"I-I didn't mean to."
Draco couldn't handle the look on her pale face any longer, and whirling away from her, he stalked to the doorway.
"Clean yourself up."
But he didn't leave, waiting just outside of the washroom, staring listlessly out of the window. Draco didn't know where the compassion was coming from, and frankly it was starting to anger him. Never had he felt a pull to anyone, especially someone like Granger, without understanding his own motivations. Was it guilt? Was it the memory of Scorpius? Was it a conscience he didn't know he had possessed? Whatever it was, he realized to curb the strange feelings he was having, he would have to find the source and snuff it out. Soon enough, anyway – before anyone suspected his softened heart.
Granger emerged a moment later, her wild mane of hair pushed to the side in a valiant attempt at neatness, and her face regaining some of the color it had lost during her bout of vomiting. But even in that face of despair and the countenance of misery, Granger's eyes flickered like firelight – two eternal candles. Looking into those eyes, he once more felt the pull of something he couldn't explain, a light along his darkened horizon, closer now that she was with him, looking back at him-
"You'll need a few changes of clothing," he muttered gruffly, willing himself to stop thinking. "I can get those from my Aunt. Meanwhile, I'll take you back."
He saw her eyes widen and her breathing stop for a moment.
"B-back?" she whispered in shock.
"You didn't think you'd actually stay here, did you Granger?"
He had considered it. Pansy Parkinson didn't know where Granger would be getting to during the day, but having her stay with him would nearly guarantee the two would never have another run in. But there was no way on God's green earth he'd be able to explain that away – no matter how he fan dangled his aunt and wife. There was a flush to her cheeks then indicating that she had thought he would keep her there, and she dropped her head for a moment.
"N-no, of course not."
There was a pause and he sighed.
"Come on, then."
He could hear her muffled footsteps as she followed him all the way down to the main floor once again, and she never again offered any conversation, or indicated that she even knew where she was. She simply followed him back to the alley where they had used the Portkey. He pulled it out again, placing it down between them, and then looked back up into her eyes. They still shone with some undying light, even in the shadowy alleyway that late in the afternoon. Her mouth opened, as if she would speak, but she remained silent, hesitant.
"Wait for me each morning right along the drive where we met this morning."
The words were a firm order, but uttered gently. She only nodded and the last thing Draco saw before they were whirled into oblivion was her steady gaze. In spite of the animosity between them, and what had already transpired, he felt calm.
I almost said 'thank you', didn't I? Almost – after everything he's done to me, I wanted to thank him?
Hermione watched as Malfoy disapparated with a loud crack, just as he had that morning, leaving her alone on the stretch of gravel road leading to the alienage in the distance. She hadn't said a word, in spite of the gratitude on the tip of her tongue.
This far up the road, she was too far for any of them to see her, and her initial desire was to turn towards the slowly sinking golden sun and run as fast as she could away from her captors. But she knew she couldn't – they would catch her eventually. She had not expected to be returned to the alienage, but now that she had been, she knew she would return to Ginny and the children, and to Justin. At least she knew at the end of a terrifying and lonely day, she could return here, where she knew people, and where someone loved her.
Her mouth was dry and she still tasted the disgusting acidity of her own sickness, but at least the pain of hunger was gone. She felt ugly in what she wore, but at least soon she would have something new to wear. She hated the new Malfoy Manor, but at least there, she was safe.
Hermione's eyes burning, she set off down the road, moving faster as she neared the alienage, and nearly sprinting across the courtyard.
And at least, at the end of the day, she had her family.
Hermione didn't know, however, what awaited her.