There was only one potion left in his nightstand drawer. Draco had realised this the night before, which had put him in a tizzy. He hadn't been able to drink it, as he was too panicked at the thought of having none for the next day.
He had hardly slept that night, for when he did it had been punctuated by nightmares, panic attacks, and dark thoughts that he wished he had never had.
Several times during the night, he had been tempted to leave his room to get the razor he had found weeks earlier in the bathroom. He had managed to restrain himself. Wynn had come in through the window just as he was about to open the door. Saved at the last second.
The rest of the night had been a disaster. Draco had paced around his room for hours, all the while reminding himself that it would soon be daylight and he could get back to his routine without worry.
However, once the sun had risen, he had been unable to get out of his bed, on which he had lain after resisting the urge to jump out of the window for thirty minutes. He knew he wouldn't have fallen very hard, but perhaps the pain would have been enough to calm the rest. His head was spinning and his hands were shaking.
So when Granger came to bring him his breakfast, he didn't react. Not the first time, nor the second. She knocked a third time, to no avail. He was unable to move. It was too much for him.
It was as if all his limbs refused to move, as if they were fighting to stay still. Draco was Amorphous.
He wondered if Granger would open the door by herself, if she would dare to enter his privacy. She didn't. He heard her call out to him, unsuccessfully, before she set the tray down on the hallway floor and the sound of her footsteps drifted to the stairs.
He could now visualise the floor very clearly. There were four other rooms, according to the doors besides his own. He hadn't visited them yet, too afraid to discover anything dangerous. The floor of the corridor was covered with wood. There were exactly three hundred and thirty-two wooden slats. Some walls were covered with orange and grey floral wallpaper. Nine hundred and fifty-seven flowers. There were two lampshades, also orange.
Granger went down the first step of the staircase, then the second, to the bottom. He had counted thirteen steps. He had never been down any of them.
Counting helped him to relax. It made him feel better. Remembering all those numbers made him feel like he knew the place better. If he knew that the thirteen wooden steps ended on another floor, which—from what he could count from upstairs—contained at least thirty-three slats, then he had the feeling that he was getting used to this new environment. Perhaps this was an illusion.
If he had to be rational, he knew that it didn't make much difference. But he could convince himself of that.
His next and most urgent task was to return to the bathroom. He had to find more vials of potions at all costs, he was convinced he couldn't survive without them. His body was already crying out for more. He felt as if his veins were searching for their daily dose, as if his stomach was burning with fire for a drop of potion. His head was spinning and his hands were shaking.
It was unbearable.
But he was afraid. Afraid of not finding any, of running dry, of opening empty cupboards with vials that Granger would have cleaned. Because she had to have done it, hadn't she?
He'd wondered several times if she'd noticed the disappearance of all the others. And she must have noticed. She knew that he had stolen potions from her. There was no way she hadn't seen it, he had robbed her of everything.
And yet-she had never said anything. She hadn't made any remarks, looked at him strangely, hit him, cast any curses, poisoned his food or decided to stop providing him with meals. She had done nothing.
She had continued to come to him daily, drop off his trays, and leave as if he hadn't stoned her supply of dreamless sleep potions.
He couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand her. Why hadn't she said anything to him? Were these potions useless to her? If that was the case, then why did she have so many in her cupboard?
These questions tortured him. It didn't make sense. He didn't deserve such ignorance, she should have been angry with him.
He spent the whole morning brooding about it, imagining what a disaster it would be to discover empty cupboards.
Perhaps she was waiting for him to go there again to trap him?
This made him even more anxious. He couldn't rationalise what was happening to him. His head was spinning and his hands were shaking.
After hours of lying in bed, his eyes glued to the ceiling, Draco fell asleep, exhausted by his insomnia and the incessant activity of his brain.
Nightmares soon animated his sleep, bringing back memories of his mother, or images of her corpse.
His screams of terror were silenced. The house remained silent.
oOo
For the past few days, Hermione had had an idea. An idea that bothered her but wouldn't leave her mind.
She spent all day thinking about it and used every spare moment to make lists of pros and cons, and mental narratives of how such an idea might play out.
Her idea was simple: she wanted to offer to wash Malfoy's clothes the next time she did her laundry. She wanted to talk to him again. Help him. Give him the means to take care of his hygiene.
She had had the opportunity to see him several times in the last few days and the urge to do something for him was growing. Something more. Something useful.
Although she hadn't spent much time observing him during their meetings, which never lasted more than a minute or two, she had noticed that he seemed to carry a huge weight on his shoulders. Something she hadn't yet been able to identify. Something complex, deep. A mixture of pain, sadness and anguish.
Yet she was terrified. Terrified of talking to him again. To propose something to him. What would such a proposal entail? What would it mean?
Would it mean that she was interested in him? That she cared about him? Would it mean that she should continue to look after him? That she should do it more often? Every day?
She had the feeling that this would considerably change the routine they had both come to know and rely on but also their unspoken agreements. It would be as if she was suddenly suggesting to him that he could rely on her. But she wasn't sure she wanted that.
Yet, the idea kept running through her mind and she couldn't find enough negative points to give it up. She knew that it would benefit them both.
Perhaps by offering to clean his clothing Malfoy would understand that he had a right to hygiene? Perhaps he would use the bathroom to wash himself? Perhaps he would wash his clothes—though she doubted he knew how to use a washing machine—if she offered? Perhaps he would get better? Perhaps… There were far too many good reasons and they didn't just benefit Malfoy.
By doing this, Hermione would feel useful. She would feel like she was doing something other than cooking barely edible food for someone she had said two sentences to since he arrived.
But did she really want it? Her conscience kept telling her that she did. It tended to push her to act, especially when she found herself unable to make a choice.
She had already been thinking about it for two hours, sitting on the edge of her bookshop counter, busy writing yet another list of pros and cons.
She sighed and dropped her biros to take her face in her hands. She had the feeling that she was running in circles. She felt like she wouldn't find any more answers if she kept making those damn lists. Which was probably the case.
Yet Hermione couldn't seem to get past it. Every time she came face to face with Malfoy, she'd chicken out.
And when she finally felt ready to propose her suggestion, the idiot wouldn't answer the door or come and open it.
She promised herself she would do it the next day. Or the day after that. She wasn't sure yet.
oOo
Draco stood at the bathroom door, arms at his sides, head straight and stared.
Another night, without a potion, had passed. A night of horror. Wynn had been hooting the whole time, terrified to see her friend in such a state. He had screamed, cried, tried to pull his hair out, and banged on the walls. He had rolled himself into a ball, scratched his calves, his face and his arms. He hadn't succeeded. He hadn't been able to sleep all night. His memories haunted him.
This time he hadn't waited for daylight to come out of his room and carry out his mission for the day. He hadn't needed to think. He had opened the door, checked that the corridor was empty, and closed his bedroom door, before daring to leave.
There was a storm rumbling outside, but he had never been afraid of it.
He had taken long breaths all the way down the path to the bathroom—a distance of two metres, which had taken him ten minutes to cross—to calm himself down.
And now he was facing the door, unable to move. He didn't know what to do. He had acted on a whim, after his body had once again spasmed from withdrawal.
He felt dizzy, as if the door was moving away, while he remained motionless. His head was spinning and his hands were shaking. He closed his eyes to prevent himself from fainting. He had to concentrate. He had to breathe.
Breathe in. Hold his breath for four seconds. Exhale.
A technique his mother had taught him, an hour before he was marked. The memory gripped his heart, just as it helped him to resign himself.
For her, he told himself. For his mother, to make her proud.
He opened his eyes again and took two steps forward. He gripped the handle and slowly, carefully, and turned it. He wasn't in a hurry, on the contrary. He wanted to do things right, to get used to this path, so that the next times would be even easier.
The door slowly opened, letting him discover what the bathroom looked like, which he had barely seen during his trance.
He could tell by the state of the room that Granger had come in behind him and cleaned it. His heartbeat quickened at this relationsation. If she had come in, she must have seen that he had stolen the potions. This only confirmed his theories that she knew.
However, he was still confused about his roommate's lack of reaction. She had done nothing. She hadn't mentioned anything to him . Surely this wasn't normal. She should have… She should have…
He closed his eyes once more and took a long breath to chase away these disturbing thoughts. He had to stay focused if he wanted to find more potions.
The room was covered with a rather basic white tile that went up to the ceiling, which was also white. He thought he would have to count the tiles, to get to know the place better. It was reassuring.
The sink was quite small and surrounded by a black cabinet with three large drawers. It was overhung by a plain rectangular mirror, which in turn was attached to two wall cupboards. There was also a cupboard to the right of the door, a toilet on the other side, and a very simple bathtub in the corner of the room, below a window that opened onto a new view.
He didn't bother to open the drawers or even to inspect the bath or the view. He remembered only one thing from his last trip: the potions were stored in the cupboards.
Barefoot on the tiles, he walked over to the sink, ready to open them, but froze as he faced the room's mirror, mounted on the cupboard doors. His trembling hands fell back down his body as his eyes went wide. He couldn't believe it.
His reflection. His face. His body. He hadn't seen them in so long.
It was still destructive, taking him back to those ten minutes in Azkaban, when he had to wash himself so as not to taint the image of those who had martyred him. He could almost have found it ironic, if tears hadn't come to his eyes when he noticed how pale his skin was and how cold his grey eyes were. He would almost be afraid. Yes, that was it. He found himself terrifying.
He looked away and put his hands on either side of the sink to regain his composure. He took long breaths and closed his eyelids. He had to regain control.
He raised his arm to the cupboard, which he opened with a jerk, making the mirror disappear in the same movement. He could no longer see himself and that was perfect.
However, he was faced with another shocking realisation. He couldn't believe it. He had to blink several times to realise that this wasn't a trick of his mind.
Not only was the cupboard full of vials of potions, but there was also a small paper note on which he could read, "Just take what you need".
He let go of the door and took a few steps back, overcome with surprise.
She had said nothing. She had done nothing. She hadn't threatened him. She hadn't hurt him.
No. She had preferred to restock the cupboards when she saw that he had stolen potions.
He couldn't believe it. He had to hold on to the sink to keep from fainting. It was unbelievable. This was beyond all his expectations, if he had any for her.
And as he closed his eyes to try to think and understand what could have gone through Granger's mind to make her do such a thing, there was a noise to his left.
He turned abruptly and met his housemate's uncertain gaze. He raised his eyebrows in terror and backed up to the bathtub until his knees knocked against it. His heart began to race and his eyes filled with fear.
"I didn't take anything!" he exclaimed helplessly, while innocently raising his hands to the sky.
oOo
Hermione woke with a start at the sudden rumble of thunder. She sat up in a panic. She could already feel the effects of the sleeping potion fading and it made her wince. They were getting weaker with each passing day and her research into an improved recipe wasn't making much, if any, progress.
She fell back against her pillows and sighed. Another full night was lost, for when she looked out of her bedroom window, she saw that it wasn't yet light.
Knowing that she would be unable to go back to sleep, she threw back her covers, retrieved her wand from under her pillow and got up. She was terrified of spending too much time brooding in bed anyway.
Albert was still asleep at the foot of her bed, so she was as quiet as possible and headed for the bedroom door. She was terribly thirsty. She regretted the fact that her room had a full bathroom and a toilet but that they were dysfunctional.
She tiptoed out of the room and gently closed the door. She sighed, relieved not to have woke her dog.
However, just as she was about to turn around, a strange noise was heard on the other side of the corridor. She was startled and turned around, expecting an intruder to threaten her with a Muggle weapon or a wand. Her nightmares were coming true.
She faced an empty corridor and frowned.
Still on her toes and tightening her grip on her wand, Hermione moved with a pounding heart to the corner of the corridor that led to the rest of the floor. Unlike her other panic attacks, she didn't need to hold on to a wall to stay upright. She was far too focused and walked slowly forward, always on guard. She was ready to fight. She could hear her blood pounding in her ears.
When she reached the corner of the wall, she leaned against the wall, took a deep breath and dared to turn her head towards the other end of the corridor.
Nothing. There was still nothing. No one was waiting for her. No one was threatening her with a weapon.
However, as she lingered on each wall, each door and each floorboard, she noticed that one room was open. The second to last. The bathroom.
She decided to continue on her way to it, without dropping her wand. It had been a long time since she had used her once legendary courage. It had been a long time since she had felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
A hypothesis—one that seemed absurd—had just popped into her mind.
What if Malfoy had come out of his bedroom? What if he was the one making all that noise?
She didn't have to wait long for an answer. She had been right and her heart slowed considerably as she realised it was only him.
He was leaning against the sink and seemed to be struggling to catch his breath. The cupboard—which she had filled a week before—was open.
He was wearing blue and grey striped pyjamas that she had never seen before. To tell the truth, they looked dirty rather than grey, but she pushed that information from her mind. There was no room for judgement.
She also noticed that he didn't seem to be floating in those clothes, unlike the others she had seen him wear. Perhaps he had put on weight. Or maybe these were the only ones that really fit him.
She then thought that this might be the opportunity she had been waiting for days and kept putting off. The opportunity to propose something to him, to change things.
However, before she had time to signal her presence, he suddenly turned towards her and widened his eyes in surprise. He stepped back and raised his hands in the air.
"I didn't take anything!" he exclaimed in a trembling voice.
She raised her eyebrows, surprised that he would react like that. Why was he justifying himself? Since when was he so defensive? Was he afraid of her? She hadn't said anything, nor had she imagined anything of the sort.
He looked terrified, ready to cower in a corner at any moment. He was shaking and she looked up at his hands, which were twitching.
She swallowed. She didn't know what to do. She had the terrible feeling that he would have done anything not to let her hurt him. The impression that he was at her mercy and that an order from her would be enough. It made her nauseous. She felt sick.
"You should take a shower," she said. It was the first thing that came to her mind.
He opened his mouth and closed it again. He tried to step back again, unsuccessfully. The bathtub prevented him from doing so.
"I–I can wash your clothes also, if you don't mind," she continued while looking away. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. She wanted to think about something other than the strange hold she had on him.
Was it because she had her wand and he didn't? She noticed that he kept glancing at it. Hadn't the members of the Ministry given him back his wand? Hermione was sure that this wasn't one of the restrictions imposed on former prisoners. She had read them so many times…
She stared at him for long seconds, without moving. She was waiting for an answer. She wanted him to answer her. She had to, for her well-being and that of her housemate. She wanted to do something for him, it had become an obsession.
After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded. It was slight, almost imperceptible.
She replied in kind and carefully put her wand away to show him that she meant him no harm. No sudden movements.
She didn't even pay attention to the uncontrollable beating of her heart.
She took one step back, then a second, and turned, ready to leave and let him use the bathroom, hoping he would use it.
"The potions are yours," she whispered before walking away.
And that's it! See you on Thursday for the next chapter! It will be illustrated ;)
Thanks to Acciobraincells and DontStopHerNow for their support.
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