TW: Eating disorders
Hermione had been tucked up in bed since returning from the kitchen, unable to sleep a wink for the rest of the night. She just couldn't.
She felt miserable, sick, crazy, and exhausted. She was lost, immersed in a whirlwind of different emotions that she couldn't stop.
Her head was spinning as she lay under her covers. Her mouth was pasty despite vigorously brushing her teeth three times. Her body was weak and drained, on the verge of fainting, but sleep would not come.
She'd inadvertently woken Albert and used the opportunity to let him into her room. His presence comforted her. At least, that was what she had been trying to get herself to believe over the last four hours.
She felt guilty. She felt like a fool. She wanted to tear her eyes out so she wouldn't have to look in the mirror anymore, to tear her hair out so she could move the pain in her heart somewhere else, or her teeth out so she wouldn't have to go through one of her compulsions again.
She hated herself for what she had just done. It was what kept her awake. Her nausea prevented her from consuming a second dreamless sleep potion.
The potions, while helpful, were proving increasingly dangerous to her system. She knew it. But she didn't want to do anything about it. She preferred to turn a blind eye and not think about it.
If she didn't think about it, it wouldn't exist, right?
Her sleep was normally perfect because of the potions, that was all that mattered. Not her acne outbreaks. Not her binge eating. Not her lack of taste in food. Not the pile of hair at the bottom of the bathtub after each brushing. Not the headaches that had been happening for a few days.
None of that mattered. She didn't want it to matter.
She couldn't worry about her own health, anyway on top of everything else. There were bigger things that plagued her mind.
She was afraid of so much. Afraid of Malfoy's reaction when he discovered she'd eaten all of the desserts he'd worked so hard on. Afraid of Pansy when she learned about it. Afraid of the pity that would be felt for her. Afraid of not being able to stop the compulsions that hadn't happened in a year. And most of all, afraid that she would have to stop taking her potions.
It would be a nightmare. She would go back to hell. If she wasn't already there.
Hermione squeezed her eyelids tightly and groaned in frustration. It was six in the morning, she should have been in the shower by now.
She didn't have the strength. Sleep was finally coming.
oOo
Draco had only been awake a few minutes, but he was already up and changed. He hadn't gone to shower, not used to doing so in Granger's presence, but was prepared to start the day.
As he did every morning, waiting for Granger's few knocks on the door, he leaned against the open window frame and waited patiently for Wynn to return from her night hunt.
The sun wasn't up yet, but Draco knew his owl would be here soon since she preferred to sleep inside.
Indeed, only a few minutes later, he saw her, floating in the sky as if she were dominating it. Her ashen feathers were reflected in the moonlight and her pale eyes stared back at him.
With a few beats of her wings, she reached him and landed on his arm as he held it out to her. Hooting, she rubbed her beak on Draco's shoulder, and he stroked the top of her head with his free hand.
"Hi,'" he whispered with a smile.
She responded with a loving peck before flying off to her makeshift nest in the corner of the room.
Draco watched her, then directed his eyes outside to watch the sunrise.
All he had to do was wait. Granger would be here soon and he could get back to his routine.
Still, time passed and she didn't come. Draco was getting impatient. He was walking in circles in his room and Wynn was getting annoyed too. She squealed in her corner and snapped her beak to convey her hope that Draco would finally leave the room.
He tried to calm her down with some petting, but she obviously preferred her solitude at bedtime. He sighed.
What was Granger doing? According to his watch, it was almost seven already, which meant she had to leave for work soon. He frowned.
Was Albert sick again? Was she on holiday without telling him? Or was she on leave?
He tapped his foot and gnawed at his cuticles as he stared at the door to his room. He hated that their routine was so destabilised. It disrupted all his plans. He was planning to prepare his first savoury dish after finding a Swedish recipe book in the library, but now he was in a very complicated situation: The unforeseen. He hated it.
The day before, he'd read the first recipe in the book eighteen times in order to make it that morning. It was Hasselback potatoes with Swedish meatballs. He hadn't looked any further, jumping at the first recipe he saw.
He was even planning to tell Granger that he would be making up his own lunch that day. He had mentally rehearsed the little speech he would tell her, and prepared himself for any kind of response. In case of refusal, he was ready to retreat to the preparation of a simple cheesecake in the morning.
But she hadn't come. So he couldn't ask her.
It was too much to bear. He was going in circles and panic was beginning to set in.
He resigned himself, caught by an impulse, and left the room. He walked up the corridor with his heart pounding and his head full of jumbled thoughts. He didn't really know what he was doing, what would happen or even if he would make it to the end. He preferred not to think about it, not to consider anything.
His knuckles made contact with the door to Granger's room before he really had time to realise what he was doing..
And he waited. He waited for what seemed like hours. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears and his ragged breathing overriding any outside noise. Sweat was beginning to form on his forehead. His temples ached.
Then the door opened wide and he met Granger's surprised gaze.
Time stood still. Her eyes were piercing, scanning him as if she would jump at his throat at any moment. Or maybe she was afraid? Draco wasn't sure.
She wore a long grey t-shirt that fell to her knees. Her hair was more tangled and wild than when they were in school. A few years ago, would have made the snide remark that occurred to him over it, but instead it remained stuck in a corner of his mind.
Granger looked so exhausted that he was on the verge of closing the door and apologising for having disturbed her. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. Maybe she told him she wasn't working today and he hadn't remembered? What if he'd woken her up for nothing?
Apprehension gripped his gut.
"Malfoy?" she whispered, in a voice as weak as it was surprised.
She would have his death, he was certain. She would send him back to Azkaban and he would rot there for the rest of his life while chastising himself for ever daring to knock on her door. She would damn him.
He didn't know what to do. It was as if all his motivation was gone. He felt miserable.
Since when did he lose his words like this, like a Hufflepuff scolded by a teacher?
The comparison came to him automatically, which surprised him. It had been a long time since he had thought something so sarcastic, so... nasty. It was strange. Not unpleasant, but not pleasant. It just wasn't him anymore.
He gritted his teeth and pushed the thought to the back of his mind. This was not the time.
He focused on Granger and locked his gaze onto hers. He did his best not to appear hesitant, but rather confident, as he had been in the past.
"Aren't you working?" he asked directly.
She frowned, looking confused by the question. He noticed her left hand tightening on the handle, while the other gripped her wand more firmly. He stopped himself from making the slightest move backwards.
He was not afraid. He was not afraid. He was not afraid.
"Not today," she finally answered, in a hoarse voice.
Had she been screaming in the night? Was she having nightmares too? These were the first thoughts that came to his mind. After all, he could think of no other explanation for why her throat seemed to be so hoarse.
"You–"
He cleared his throat, embarrassed, but refrained from looking away. He wasn't such a coward.
"I'm going to make breakfast," he managed to formulate, digging his nails into his palms.
He didn't really give her time to react, nor to answer. He just saw her widen her eyes, before he turned and fled, almost running, down the corridor.
He rushed down the stairs to the kitchen and locked himself in. He had no idea where this sudden burst of courage came from, but he arrived breathless and proud.
Proud. Again. He was proud that he managed to talk to Granger, that he had acted on his own and imposed his will. It had been a long time. So long.
He leaned back on the counter, his hands spread wide, his head down and his eyes closed. His breathing was ragged, but he didn't care.
Pride coursed through his veins, swelling his heart and warming his spirit. It was comforting to find his bearings within his own body, within his own identity. It had been years since he had felt... himself.
He promised himself he was done being so afraid. He would reach for what he wanted and seize it, forcing himself if he had to. He looked up at the ceiling and smiled, feeling as though he owed this determination to more than just himself.
"I'll do it, Mum."
For both of them.
oOo
There was a faint, but apparent smell of burning in the air as Hermione finally made her way out of bed and downstairs. Albert trailed close behind her, equally curious over what was coming out of the kitchen in the form of smoke.
She frowned and moved forward cautiously as she discovered it. The kitchen door was closed, but smoke was coming out of the hatch. She glanced at it and widened her eyes at the sight before her.
The countertop was covered with plates loaded with food. Scrambled eggs, cut-up fruit, pancakes, beans with tomato, toast, jam, butter...
She'd never seen such a feast anywhere else but Hogwarts.
But the most astonishing thing was to see Malfoy standing in front of a pan and frying what appeared to be bacon. The bottom of the pan was charred, which explained the smell, but the slices of bacon looked perfect.
Studying his face, Hermione noticed how focused he was on his task. His eyebrows were very slightly furrowed, his gaze narrowed on the strips of bacon and his shoulders were raised.
It was then that she noticed how much her housemate's appearance had changed in a few weeks. He looked much less skinny, even stronger. His back was no longer hunched and his clothes didn't float around his frail body anymore. No wounds were visible on the few areas of skin he showed–only pink and white scars.
Moreover, his face did not look like an inferius'.
And as she thought about how pleased Pansy must be, he looked up at her and their eyes met.
His eyes widened when he saw her. She realised that the grey of his irises extended far enough that his pupils, even when dilated, did not mar the unique colour.
He exuded a whole host of emotions and Hermione felt her heart miss a beat as she faced him. He looked so relaxed, even after seeing her. There were no dark circles around his eyes and his face was a little flushed, probably from the heat coming off the pan. It was such a contrast to the man she had discovered in her guest room months earlier.
"I made breakfast," he blurted out as if it wasn't already obvious.
In spite of herself, this drew a smile from Hermione.
"Thanks," she replied in a low voice.
She decided to indulge in the good smells of the kitchen. Maybe she wouldn't be able to eat, but she would make sure she got to Malfoy. She owed him that much.
She'd been so surprised to see him at her door that she hadn't dared say anything when he'd run off downstairs, remaining motionless, until Albert joined her and snapped her out of her thoughts.
She'd fallen back to sleep against her best friend with a light mind. Malfoy was in charge of breakfast. It was fine. Really fine.
Now that she was facing him, sitting in a high chair on the other side of the counter, Hermione was aware of how much things had changed in a few months.
Sure, she'd had plenty of clues, which she'd taken into account each time, but it had never been enough to change her mindset. Malfoy had remained an intruder in her head, someone who would eventually leave and not be a part of her daily life for long.
But now... things were different. Calmer. More serene.
"I'm sorry," she blurted, picking at her nails.
She saw him flinch out of the corner of her eye as he placed the bacon on a plate.
Although all these smells were beginning to make her nauseous, she didn't react to them. She wanted to be there. She wanted to stay.
"Sorry?" he repeated, confused.
He sat down opposite her and began to help himself to the various dishes he had laid out on the counter. She watched him discreetly.
He seemed so comfortable that it bothered Hermione. Not that she didn't appreciate him doing this, on the contrary, but rather that she couldn't understand why she couldn't do it herself. She didn't dare do anything in his presence, everything was calculated and thought out in advance. She never let her guard down, nor did she let herself go.
But him... He seemed so quiet that it made Hermione's insides tighten.
"For eating everything you cooked," she replied in a whisper.
She felt ashamed. She felt herself blush under the puzzled look he was giving her. An inquisitive, heavy look. It was as if he was trying to read her mind.
For the first time since Malfoy's arrival, perhaps even the first time in her life, Hermione Granger felt intimidated by the blonde. No resentment, no anger, no disgust. None of that. No. Intimidation.
It was as if she was afraid of disappointing him. Like she was afraid he might resent her, that he might walk away.
It didn't make sense. A few minutes earlier she was still taking him for an intruder. She chided herself inwardly.
"I hadn't noticed," he said as he began to eat.
She saw through his lie quickly, but made no comment.
Why wasn't he telling her the truth? Was he afraid too? She was the one to blame for all of this! She was the one who had eaten, well, devoured everything he had prepared.
His conscience suggested that perhaps he didn't feel comfortable enough in her presence to tell her. Or maybe he didn't care. Or maybe–
"Could you buy some parmesan cheese?" he then said.
She looked up at him. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at his plate and eating his scrambled eggs. He was holding his fork in his left hand, which told Hermione that he was left-handed, unlike her. It was the kind of thing she never noticed.
His initiative surprised her. She had thought the day before–after coming home from work–of asking him for a list of ingredients he might need, but had resigned herself to waiting a little longer. She had imagined that he might not be ready, that he might not need it.
The more time passed, the more he surprised her.
"I'll go grocery shopping tomorrow," she nodded then. "You–"
She hesitated. What would happen if she offered? What if she started to panic again, like when he'd arrived? What if they got even closer?
He looked up at her, waiting for an answer. She swallowed. She clenched her toes in her socks to give herself courage. She had been doing this since she was a child.
"If you want, you can write me a list of things to buy. Well, not just for today," she stammered, blushing. "You can do it when you need something and give it to me when I pick up your laundry."
Again she saw him widen his eyes. She bit her lower lip as she looked down at her plate. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him nod.
"Aren't you eating?" he asked in a low voice.
No animosity, no concern, no pressure. Just a simple question.
Yet it made Hermione anxious. Did he expect her to eat everything he had prepared? Would he be offended if she didn't help herself?
"I didn't know what you liked, so I–"
"That's fine!" she cut him off in a far too high-pitched voice.
She snarled inwardly. Wasn't she capable of having a normal conversation with someone?
She hastily pasted a smile on her lips, then helped herself to the scrambled eggs and bacon. Despite her nausea, she forced herself to eat. It was getting worse and worse, but she swallowed it all.
"It's delicious," she said with her mouth full, already helping herself to some more.
Malfoy's gaze was unreadable. He looked both intrigued and worried. She did her best to avoid him. She was eating. She was eating. That was all that mattered.
"Thank you," he quietly replied.
His tone was neutral, firm. She didn't dare look up. He hated her, she knew it.
That was what she repeated to herself throughout the day.
He hated her. He thought she was pathetic.