"Perception creates our reality." - Ethel Diamond
Chapter Thirteen: Shifted Dimensions
What was she to say to him? What were they to say to each other?
This was the type of thing that people like them - long time enemies, thrust together with a common goal - should never have to deal with. She would be exploding into a million pieces any second now.
He hadn't moved either. The air was still, as if the furnishings were holding their breath as they watched the two.
What would it mean if she were to speak first? It seemed like he had been dreading the moment as well. Would he pounce on her for thinking about such a thing as the fact that there is only one bed for them to sleep in? Was there a chair somewhere in the room that she would be curling up in? When they were on the boat, Draco had moved his cot next to the door as to be as far away from her as possible, and then not even slept on the thing. And they'd had a limited amount of space to deal with - it hadn't been the biggest of boats. What did that mean now? Would it be the same situation - he wouldn't want her sleeping anywhere near him?
He was breathing, she realized. She could hear him breathing. He wasn't just some wallpaper in her life, some texture to listen to and fear, ignore and hate. He was actually there, breathing, moving, standing behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders as he steered her towards the bed.
Involuntarily, her breath caught. What? What was he doing? Was he taking her jacket off?
As the fabric slid to the floor, Draco made no move to catch it; his hands lingered on her arms briefly.
"Get some sleep. I'm going to take a walk."
She didn't move, only sitting when he applied pressure to the back of her neck. She couldn't hear anything besides her own heart as it resonated in her body. She could feel the force of it move her slightly on the covers - thump thump, thump thump, thump thump...
He was gone.
The breath she had been holding never came out. She lay down, still wearing the rest of her clothes, still shoeless, still wounded. Still Hermione.
What had she been hoping?
She was crying now, wishing that her heart would stop beating so loudly, wishing that she could breathe better; her lungs wouldn't fill with enough air to supply the rest of her body, let alone her heart. She had wanted something, anything, to take up the space that she had reserved for the fight that would be a prelude to getting sleep. She had pictured his idiotic argument, and then her decisive counterargument, and the agreement that followed. She hadn't expected to be left alone.
And why did it matter? She got what she wanted - a place to sleep without him making her feel like shit... except that wasn't exactly true.
By leaving her like that, he'd done something. He'd crushed her a bit.
Whatever other thoughts she had, about hoping that perhaps he would be okay with sleeping with her, she tried not to think about. Contemplating the things she tried to brush away just made it even harder to stop the blockage in her throat.
Draco rounded the corner, stumbling, his heart thumping.
Now he understood why the room had felt so distinctly muggle like. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was a muggle house - it had everything to do with her.
He'd always felt so careful around muggles, so wary of them. The entire secrecy of his world's existence weighed on his shoulders when he was around them. The magical world made him feel free.
Around Hermione it was the same way - he was careful. He was wary of her. He felt the need to hide from her.
But somehow, he was realizing that he wanted to be near her. It was like the cells in his body were drawn to her, like gravity. Despite trying to escape, she was pulling him in. And it was getting harder to resist.
He shook this thought away as he came to stand before the sliding glass door that opened into the smooth darkness of the garden. "'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...'" he quoted under his breath.
He wanted to blame this on magic. Some dirty muggleborn trick, it was; being around them too much made you ache. Some kind of... spell or something.
But no, that wasn't right.
Then she had to be manipulating him somehow; why was he even thinking about spending time with her, being himself? He wasn't even sure who he really was, even when he was alone. Besides, with his mask in place and his emotions thoroughly buried, he could concentrate on his goal and treat her the same way he always had.
However… even though he was always harassing her, she didn't do the same to him.
She was mean sometimes, but it felt so… hollow. Expected. Like she didn't know what else to do, how else to interact. Like she was mirroring his shittiness back at him. He suspected that though his normal mode of communication was to be short, sarcastic, and sometimes just plain childish, hers wasn't. What would happen if he stopped being that way?
If he stripped that away… what was left? What was he so afraid of, anyway?
Maybe the world made him wary, made him careful. Life made him too careful. But with her, if stopped hiding his emotions…
No, not gonna happen.
That's it then. He had to stay away from her.
As he turned away from the door, he thought he saw a flash of blue light coming from the backyard; when he glanced back, Jesse was sheathing her sword.
He'd lain down on the bed sometime while she was sleeping. He'd tucked her under the covers.
And he'd probably seen the tear stains on her cheeks, her red blushed nose, the pink circles framing her eyes.
She knew what she looked like when she cried - it was not a pretty sight. Crying made her feel... distinctly ugly.
Waking up, she could tell that he wasn't in the room. She felt the spot next to her, smoothing her hand over the flattened sheets and upturned comforter beside her. Yes, he had slept in the bed last night.
A part of her mind shouted a loud curse. She had missed it, with her crying and her exhausted, black sleep. Missed it.
Perhaps it was just as well. What would she have done if she had felt him climb in beside her? Would she have been unable to sleep, being too aware of the heat radiating off his body? For such a prick, he really was warm. She had, when they were still in the forests in Scotland, rather have curled up against his chest than lie down on the damp foliage.
"Mum sent me in to help you get ready. Do you have a clean pair of pants? A shirt?"
It took Hermione a couple seconds to process that someone had come in and asked her a question. Jesse waited.
Hermione shook her head slowly. "I don't think so."
"I thought as much... here are some of my clothes. They were mine a few years ago; they should fit you fine. I'm quite a bit taller than you." There was a smile in her voice.
Hermione really liked these people; either they were the way that humans were supposed to be, or she really did still look terrible. "It's not hard to be."
Jesse dressed her with patient hands, not seeming too repulsed by her grotesque scabs and bruises or shy about her naked form. Hermione however was one to cover herself up; the sunlight on her bare skin made her feel vulnerable. She was more of a winter type, the type of girl that tended to have a better glow when it was snowy. Rainy cold made her look sick and gray, and sunlight made her look like a boiled egg.
"Don't be shy about your body, Hermione. Guys like a girl with self-confidence."
She wanted to retort with some kind of indignant huff about not being interested in impressing boys, but nothing came out. It wasn't like she hadn't heard that one before. "I have self-confidence," she replied instead.
Jesse shook her head as she buttoned Hermione's shirt. "I'm not talking about confidence in abilities. I've got a body like an ironing board and practice four hours a day with a sword and Tim still thinks I'm the sexiest little thing out there. You have to be proud about what you are blessed with... you are in desperate need of a bra."
Hermione shook her head - the need wasn't that desperate. Tank tops usually did the trick for her, even though when they loosened up halfway through the day, she had a little bit of… bounce. "You practice four hours a day with a sword?"
"An arming sword. I'm training with a broadsword but my arming sword is my best. Let me get you a bra, girl." Jesse dashed out of the room.
Swordplay was more of a wizard pastime; the muggle world associated swordplay with renaissance faires and live action role playing, and only took it seriously in the form of fencing competitions or action movies. Meanwhile, magic swords were some of the most popular relics to collect, and it was not uncommon to see a wizard household that owned one.
After Jesse harangued Hermione into the bra and finished with her shirt, the two came out to the dinner table, where Sasha was setting out a tea pot. Hermione felt a lot better than she had in a while; fresh clothes and a bra made her feel like she was once again part of civilization.
"They're buying it."
Master No Name nodded, swirling the last of the wine in her glass around. She finished it and set the glass down lightly. "But not for long. Eventually they will wonder why there is no more physical evidence to point them in the direction we want. What's the closest wand shop to Brussels?"
"Bobby's place, I think."
She nodded. This whole fabrication was making everything complicated. While they had no leads besides a town to show them where Malfoy and the Granger girl really were, they had to set up a fake location for the Ministry so they weren't in the way. "Get Bobby to contact the Ministry with more crap. In the meantime, see to it that the apparatus construction goes on schedule. We may need Worthington to give us another crate if we fail again, and that's already too much money that I don't want to fork over. It does not do well to be wasteful."
"Indeed, Master. This is the new recruit, by the way."
Master No Name turned to the new guy; he looked disturbingly like Draco Malfoy, though was definitely older. The resemblance startled her for a few seconds before her mask slid into place once more.
"There is only one thing you need to know about me that I will tell you - I have no name. Do you know why?"
The man kept eye contact, something that Krokesh, Rubinoff's old partner, would never have done. Master No Name usually terrified new recruits, though she wasn't nearly as cruel as The Dark Lord.
"Labels do nothing for respect in this world. From this day forth, you'll cast aside your given name and become your destiny."
"Wait…" he said, "If you're a woman, doesn't that make you 'mistress' and not 'master'?"
Master fixed the man with a steely glare; Rubinoff stepped away from him.
"Although you all realize that yes, I am a woman, you won't again dare bring this fact to light. Being your mistress would be like being your bitch; being your master is being your leader. And I'm nobody's bitch."
The man stood in stunned silence, now fearful when he wasn't previously. Master No Name smiled, confusing him further.
"I like ranting, as you'll find. We are a tight bunch here, you'll fit right in." She nodded, signaling that they could leave.
She loved scaring the snot out of new recruits, especially the ones that came willingly.
"Rubinoff? In the matter of Hermione Granger, it is time that we cast a wider net. Start checking coasts, boats, and flights. We will find them."
"I just wish we knew who we are dealing with."
Neville shook his head slowly. "I've never been the greatest wizard, Harry, but I know lies when I hear them. This whole thing stopped making sense ages ago. Either they are very careful or we are relying on sources that we shouldn't."
"I trust Kingsley, Neville."
"As do I, with my life. But who knows about the witnesses? Death Eaters are conniving little pricks, after all. They could be feeding us crap in the hopes that they find Hermione first."
"And the only clue we have to this woman's identity is that... she has none."
Neville nodded, his face blank.
"This is some bullshit."
"I know. Who even knows what that means."
One thing that made no sense was the fact that Hermione was still in Draco's custody; Harry knew his Hermione - she was a fighter until the very last stand. She would always be trying to get away from him, no matter what her ailment was. So why was she still with him? Why was everyone saying that they looked like lovers, or best friends, or brother and sister?
And why in the world would Draco ever choose to travel south? If he was running from the world, he would want to go north, or west. He would want to go to the United States, or Iceland, or even Canada. Even better, he would try Mexico, whose distance and lack of a magical population in magnitude and bulk, like Europe, made it hard for the Ministry to reach. And if Mexico, why not further south? Why not some small village in Chile?
By staying in Europe, he was increasing the chances that he would be found by the wrong people on both fronts. Even he had payed attention during the study of the government fifth year... he knew better than this.
"Should we tell Kingsley that we have doubts?"
"What would it matter? The evidence we have is pointing to Belgium now. They appear to be following a definite path. We can't tell him to look elsewhere because we have a hunch that this is a hoax."
Neville nodded again. "The Prophet sides with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Going against their investigation without evidence is political suicide."
Harry hated the world he lived in sometimes, where honest people like he and Hermione constantly got victimized by the closed-minded. "This is not my first suicide attempt Neville, yet here I stand."