Draco blinked and met Hermione's gaze. She was watching him curiously. She didn't seem as disturbed as before, no longer as tortured by the difficult and traumatic questions he had asked her.
She was curious, interested in what he had to say.
And who was he to refuse her? He didn't think he could refuse her if he tried. He wanted to open up to her and tell her everything. He wanted to recount, to explain. And he wanted her to be by his side, to comfort him, to keep stroking his hair.
"My mother and I tried to flee England as soon as V–Voldemort fell. My father had been caught, but my mother had always had a plan to get me out. She hoped Potter would win. The frenzy of victory allowed us to leave Hogwarts unnoticed. We had to get out of the country as quickly as possible to our Swiss home in Gruyère. We were almost there, we had collected all our luggage and were getting ready to leave. But–"
His throat tightened as he recalled the events of that day. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, a taste of anguish and terror. Torn between the fear of this drastic change in their lives and the fear of being caught by The Order. They were the bad guys, the ones they wanted to capture the sole culprits in this whole war. That fear was not a feeling he would ever forget, one that continued to haunt him.
His mother had never told him she loved him as much as she did that day. She hadn't let go of his hand once.
Hermione passed the tip of her index finger over his lips and he puffed out his chest, before exhaling.
"They stormed the manor. I don't know who was in charge after we left, but their objective was to make sure there wasn't a single remaining person from the Death Eater resistance not thrown behind bars. They locked us up at the Ministry as soon as Shacklebolt took power where we waited for the trials."
He closed his eyes and clenched his fist around the blanket. It was soft under his fingers. He took a deep breath and concentrated on the feel of the blanket in his fist, the sensations surrounding his body, his face.
"I think that was the nicest cell I ever lived in," he admitted with a mirthless laugh. "Potter had demanded that Mother was to be treated well and during that first month that generosity was extended to me by proximity. But it didn't last."
He remembered eating and drinking his fill. He had been able to use a clean toilet and had been given sheets and a fairly comfortable bed. He'd even had access to a bathroom, a luxury he'd taken for granted at the time.
He had been able to hug his mother and rest his head against her chest, as he used to do when he was a child. She had rocked him for many nights, promising him that everything would be all right. She had told him about her years at Hogwarts to pass the time. She had told him about a happy future, a future in Switzerland where they could rebuild their lives free from any worries. He had been able to look at her and imprint her face on his mind one last time. He had been able to tell her how much he loved her.
The guards had been polite, they hadn't insulted him once. They had been allowed to have visits from a few select people, much to his pleasure, those meetings took place in the daylight, away from his dark cell. That was the last time he had seen Blaise and Pansy, or even spoke to them before being locked up. The last time he'd been able to have a decent conversation with anyone, the last time he felt like he was in control of his mind before it became locked in a heap of ruminations. The last time he had smiled.
Back then he barely saw Theo. They hadn't crossed paths during the Battle and by the time he had been locked up it had already been several months since he had last heard from him. They had lost touch during the war and hadn't really been able to contact each other. Draco had sometimes wondered what happened to him.
"After the trials, I was sent to Azkaban," he continued.
He didn't dwell on them. He knew that Hermione had been there and had even testified. She knew. He had no desire to relive the humiliation he had experienced there.
All the screaming, the shouting, the insults directed at him. The restraining spells around his wrists, the wands stuck in his neck as he spoke. The murderous stares of the entire wizarding population. The feeling of suffocation, of panic. The sweat on his forehead and the dirty clothes he hadn't been able to remove. Images that had haunted him for weeks after his imprisonment. He'd been in a cage surrounded by vindictive animals.
"It was the beginning of my own personal hell," he admitted hoarsely.
He cleared his throat to get rid of the emotion that was starting to grip him. The caresses on his nose resumed and he squeezed his eyelids shut. The more he spoke, the worse it got.
"For weeks, for months, I lived in a cell with no light."
He didn't know exactly how long it had lasted. No one had ever told him. Eventually he had lost count.
"Several times a day, a guard would bring me water and a semblance of a meal. It was my only way of realising that time was passing. I was alone in my head, in my cell and with my thoughts. It was the worst torture of all. I was having–"
He breathed in slowly to give himself the courage to continue. He was struggling not to let his mind drift back to those memories.
"I was having so many nightmares that I wasn't really sleeping. In fact, I couldn't even tell if I was asleep or awake. Sometimes I even thought I could hear voices speaking to me; my mother, Blaise, or Pansy. And then there were all their voices, their screams. Everything mixed together, as if someone had recorded my memories and was playing them on a loop in the cell. It never stopped. It was so confusing that I couldn't even tell what was going on."
He fell silent. She was now caressing his right cheek. It was so light that he wondered for a second if he wasn't imagining it.
What he was about to reveal... He had never told anyone. He'd never told anyone. Blaise had asked him about it, but he'd never answered. He hadn't been able to.
He knew the others suspected, but he never confirmed their silent questions. It was far too hard. Everything would become real. He wouldn't be able to overcome it, to evolve, to move on. It would be too terrifying, too destructive. And he didn't want to see pity in their eyes again. He didn't want them to feel sorry for him, to pity and protect him. He wanted to move on, to forget.
Should he tell Hermione? Could he trust her?
What would she say? How would she react?
Perhaps she would laugh at his weakness. Perhaps she would say that they had been right. Perhaps she would stop stroking his nose, or his cheeks, or his hair. Perhaps she would no longer look at him in the same way. Perhaps she would be afraid of him. Perhaps they would lose all of the progress they had spent months building.
But Draco decided that he would tell her, and then he would explain. She reassured him with simple gestures, she listened to him without interrupting, without appearing to be in shock and without lowering her gaze to him in pity. She was there without imposing her presence. She was there, and it felt right. She was the only one he... trusted.
Draco's heart beat confidently in his chest and that was all that mattered to him.
"Every day," he murmured, running his thumb over the soft wool of the blanket, "they'd come for me to take me– to take me to the warden's quarters."
He felt a tear roll down his cheek. Hermione was there to softly wipe it away. He was grateful. He might have been ashamed if his thoughts hadn't turned to much darker, much worse memories. It was all there, nothing else had any place in his mind. No emotions, no pleasant sensations. He was concentrating on his past, on what he had experienced.
It was as if he was going through his memory like a dictionary. He searched for his memories without studying them, without trying to understand them, just reciting them without paying too much attention to their darkness. He read them straight through and didn't dwell on them for too long. He did his best not to let this negative filter reach the rest of his body, his head.
To no avail. He felt vulnerable, as if everything happened again.
"That's what I called it in my head," he then justified himself. "I don't even know if it was really where they lived and took their breaks. It's what I imagined when they took me there."
She remained silent and he was grateful for that. He had to go on, he had to tell her, he had to free his mind. If he stopped now, he wouldn't be able to finish.
"They– they would hit me," he said aloud for the very first time.
A slight hiccup rose in his chest, but he immediately silenced it. He wanted to keep his cool, to show that he was over it, that he wasn't afraid of them, not any more. For once, he wanted to be brave.
She stroked his nose, everything was fine.
"Every day," he continued, once again clenching the blanket in his fist. "I was so confused I didn't really understand what was going on, who was there, or who was talking to me. But I felt everything. Every blow, every slap, every– every–"
He fell silent again and Hermione flattened her hand on his cheek to stroke it with her thumb. It was so soft and tender, a direct contrast to what he was saying. The whiplash gripped his heart. He felt nauseous. She didn't deserve to hear that. She was so patient with him.
"They wouldn't stop until I passed out. I'd always wake up when they dragged me on the way back and I'd lie on the cold floor to ease the pain."
He swallowed. His legs ached at the mere thought of what they'd been through. A migraine was beginning to creep up between his eyes and he frowned.
A second later, Hermione's index finger came between them to relax them. It worked, which caused him to inhale deeply. There was something... magical about it. Her presence was reassuring, comforting. It was encouraging, even. He wanted to carry on. For himself. For her.
"They would check every day that I wasn't dying. They would stop their blows just in time, they never crossed the line. They had planned everything, prepared everything."
Hermione's hand mingled with his blonde locks again and he let out a small sigh of contentment. It was so pleasant, so sweet. His heart felt lighter.
"After weeks, they finally changed my room. It was a bit larger and, above all, there was a window overlooking the sea. I felt like I was being taken to heaven the first time I went in. It didn't have that smell of blood and of– of horror, like the first one."
He laughed with irony as he recalled the joy he'd felt the first time he'd entered this cell. He'd thought he was living again when all he'd done was start digging his grave. He had felt that he was entering a lighter, easier life, that his nights would be less painful and haunted by his past. But he had been wrong.
"Hell quickly took over again. It was no longer every day, but alternate days. After weeks, I ended up recognising their faces and even their voices. I was their whipping boy. That was the only reason I left my room. I wasn't allowed showers or clean toilets. I had– I had this sort of hole in the corner and–"
He forced himself to keep quiet so as not to burst into tears. It was traumatic. His fingers were trembling and he felt as if he was sinking into his memories. The dictionary was shattering, everything was black, overshadowed by his sensations. There was no hope, no way forward. He felt like he was there again.
He squeezed his eyelids so tightly that his eyes hurt. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks to his lips. Hermione didn't wipe them away, not this time. She stood silently by his side, like the support he had never had.
She listened to him, she was there. And that was enough.
He stopped talking. He was suddenly tired. He didn't feel like going on any more, he didn't need to. He'd said enough, he was afraid of saying too much. And he decided that it would be sufficient. For once, he had said enough.
The minutes passed slowly and in utter silence. Draco had the feeling that he was reliving his memories and Hermione's fingers on his skin could no longer calm him. It was too hard, too demanding, too... too much.
The blanket had become rough under his fingers.
"When I got here, the house was abandoned and in a rather worrying state," Hermione suddenly confided.
Draco was brought back to earth with a snap of his fingers. He was there, he felt her close to him, against him. He could hear her and he was listening to her. His ears were no longer blocked by the incessant buzzing caused by his memories. His cheeks were no longer covered in the tears he had held back for months. His shoulders were no longer flattened by the weight of everything he had kept silent.
He was there, he was present. And he was confident.
"It belonged to my paternal grandparents, the Granger-Landry, for generations. It's at least a century old and I wonder how some parts of the building are still standing. I inherited it at the–"
She cleared her throat.
"A few years ago. I went there several times when I was a child. I used to meet cousins I'd only seen here and spend time with my grandmother. She passed on her passion for reading to me. Most of the books in the library belonged to her. When I'd come here on holiday, I'd spend hours up there reading whatever she recommended."
She traced random patterns on the skin of Draco's face and he felt goosebumps cover his body. It was divine.
"They died just before I went to Hogwarts," she explained with a sigh. "No one had lived here since and I got it back because– because my parents aren't here to take it over."
Draco froze upon hearing this. He didn't immediately understand what she meant and just imagined that the Grangers still lived in England.
"They're in Australia," she then said in a voice hoarse with emotion. "I sent them there the summer after our sixth year. I–"
She fell silent and took a long breath.
"I erased myself from their memories. For their safety, to make sure nothing would happen to them."
Draco's breath caught in his chest. He couldn't believe it.
She'd given up her life for the war, to protect her family, to stay alive. She had sacrificed herself and no one had ever mentioned it.
Draco imagined doing the same, erasing all memories of his mother that concerned him. His throat tightened at the thought. It was worse than death. To see his loved ones pass on without any memory of him.
Just as he was about to ask her something, she cut him off to continue her story.
"I had to redo everything when I came here. It took me months. But it was a good way of clearing my head and grieving, too. I think. I was isolated and it was exactly what I needed."
She inhaled with difficulty and Draco wanted to support her as she had done for him. He turned his head until his face was against her stomach. He wanted to show her that he was there, that he wouldn't go away and that she could talk as much as she wanted, as much as she needed.
"I met someone here," she then confided. "She was my grandparents' neighbour at the time. I'd bumped into her a few times when I was a kid, but not enough to remember. She reminded me by telling me about all the times my cousins and I had landed in her garden while playing. Her name was Marie Laroche, but I never called her by her first name."
Draco closed his eyes to listen. Her voice was calm, quiet and gentle. It was a melody to his ears and if he hadn't been determined to listen to the rest of her story, he could have fallen asleep like that.
"She gave me Albert," she told him. "He was the last of a litter and no one had adopted him when she was looking for families for the puppies. She offered to take him in and I couldn't refuse. We've been together ever since."
She had a smile in her voice, and he didn't need to look up to see it.
"He's my best friend," she whispered.
A comfortable silence fell between them. Hermione seemed lost in her memories and Draco was concentrating on their coordinated breathing. It was so pleasant, so peaceful. He felt good, free.
"What happened to Marie?" he asked then.
"She died."
Draco's throat tightened as he nodded slowly. Hermione didn't dwell on the subject and he didn't ask any more questions. He didn't want to disturb the moment.
"I inherited her horses," she resumed after a few minutes.
He looked up at her, his eyebrows raised. Horses? He had never seen them, no one had told him about them. Hermione smiled at him, her cheeks turning pink.
"Their names are Hera and Ares and they live in the barn behind the house," she explained. "They spend most of their time outside when the weather's right, which is why you've never seen them. At the moment it's too cold for them to get their hooves outside, but otherwise they often get lost in the acres of woodland and return at nightfall to rest."
"I like horses," he whispered, taking his eyes off her. "We had one at the manor, or rather a Granian. My father demanded that I learn to ride when I was about five or six."
"You rode?" she wondered with a chuckle.
He grimaced, but his features relaxed as she ran her finger between his eyebrows.
"I don't know if you can really call it that," he admitted, staring at the ceiling. "I had lessons several times a month before I went to Hogwarts, but I wasn't allowed anywhere near the stables outside of those hours. It was quite strange actually, but I enjoyed every minute with Eleazar when I saw him."
"Why couldn't you see him more often?"
"I think my father was afraid I'd get too attached," he replied, shrugging a shoulder. "But it did just the opposite. When he realised, he sent him to a specialised magic centre and I never saw him again. I stopped riding a year before we started school."
He saw her nod out of the corner of her eye as she ran her index finger over the bridge of his nose once more. He wondered which of them was more relaxed from the caress.
"I'll introduce you to them," she promised, lowering her eyes to meet his. "You can ride them as much as you like, I'm sure they'll be delighted."
Draco smiled. One of those smiles he had forgotten over the years, one of those he rarely gave.
"Will you come with me?" he asked, turning his eyes to hers.
She smiled back.
"I promise."