Part Eight
There's only a week to go until Christmas, and despite the war – or maybe because of it – everyone has gone overboard on the festivity. The house is filled with the spirit of Christmas. There are chains of decorations festooning every wall – popcorn, and paper, and tinsel – and mistletoe at every doorway, a wreath on each side of every door, and the scent of peppermint a wraith haunting Hermione in every room. The Christmas tree is far too big for the small front hall, and everyone has to sidle past it awkwardly to go down the hall or up the stairs. No one suggests they shrink it or move it; no, it is large and bright with lights and hung with glass baubles, paper chains, clove-studded oranges, candles, and candy canes, and everyone just works around it.
Everyone seems infected by the Christmas spirit except Hermione, who is unmoved. Inoculated against it, perhaps. She just goes through the motions every day, fighting memories and thinking of Malfoy in that tiny, cold stone cell, wishing she was crammed into it with him. She asks Lupin about him daily and always gets a variation on – "Fine, as far as I know. We're still in the process of debriefing him." The feeling of missing him is like a ghost limb; that sensation after amputation that the limb is still present, itching or tingling or hurting. She keeps expecting him to be there, and he isn't. It's worst in the mornings and at night. It hurts.
There are things she likes, of course. The lack of fear is one of them; the crushing, constant terror that had hung around her neck like a millstone is gone, leaving only traces behind. It's an alien, wonderful feeling, and one that Hermione is still getting used to. When she wakes up in the morning, she may be alone and choked by memories, but at least she isn't afraid that she'll be forced to dress in whore's garb and dragged down to a revel. And she likes that even though Malfoy is locked in a cell somewhere that she can't get to, he's safe, and he's not having to do terrible things that rip him apart. She likes that she can watch Harry and Ron and everyone else talk together and laugh, even if she doesn't know how to join in anymore.
She helps Mrs Weasley make Christmas-themed gingerbread, listens to Christmas tunes on the gramophone – Harry waltzes Ginny around the sitting room one night, makes Christmas decorations sitting at the dining room table the Muggle way because of her continuing wandlessness, and writes cards for friends that Lupin says he can try to see delivered. But it all seems a little distant; Hermione can't really feel it. It's as though she's experiencing the world through a tiny, foggy window, the sensations dulled. Except for the times when she's lost in memories – then she feels everything, and it is so much she can't stand it.
"Merry Christmas, Hermione," Harry says brightly, looking up at Hermione as she stops on the bottom step. There's the sound of a gramophone playing Christmas tunes wafting out of the sitting room, and Hermione can see from here that the dining room is filled with people. There are more people in the hall behind Harry – Fred and George are in deep conversation with Angelina by the front door – and no doubt even more in the sitting room. Harry grins, broad and hopeful, his glasses askew and his hair sticking every which way, a Molly Weasley Christmas jumper explaining his rumpled appearance.
"Merry Christmas, Harry," Hermione says in response and smiles awkwardly as Harry flaps his arms pointlessly by his sides and takes a step back. Oh. Right about now would be when they'd hug if she could stand to be touched. Maybe she could stand it now, to be fair, but she doesn't feel like trying. No one has touched her since Malfoy held her in his arms in the Order's cell. It's both very lonely, and exactly how she wants it.
"Ron! 'Mione's downstairs!" Harry bellows as he rummages under the tree, and Ron comes skidding into the hall, grinning.
"'Mione! Merry Christmas!" He's developed the ginger scruff into a proper short beard, and it looks odd paired with his striped pyjamas and knitted jumper, but also a little adorable. Hermione finds herself grinning back for a moment.
"Merry Christmas, Ron."
"Here." Harry thrusts a wrapped present in Hermione's direction, and she can tell before she even opens it what it'll be. But they urge her to open it excitedly, and she pretends surprise when the jumper is revealed, playing along with the game they're all engaged in. She pulls it on over her leggings and chambray shirt; her favourite outfit, unsurprisingly. It says 'H' on it, just like Harry's, but to differentiate it from Harry's, Mrs Weasley has knitted it in wide red and gold stripes and made the letter black. It's garish and unflattering, and Hermione quietly loves it. She braves what feels like a crowd of people to go find Mrs Weasley, Harry and Ron accompanying her as welcome buffers.
Unsurprisingly, they find her in the kitchen. Perhaps more surprisingly, when they open the door, they find her boxed up against the pantry by Mr Weasley, his hands all over her, and her hair in disarray. Hermione swiftly shuts the door again, backing into the hallway by the back door, and she doesn't think Ron's parents heard them, not over the noise of the pots bubbling on the stove. She smiles to herself wistfully even as Ron rather childishly makes gagging noises. "Oh come on, Ron, they haven't seen each other in ages. It's kind of sweet." It's a little sad that she's envious of Ron's parents. And a little disturbing that she's imagining herself and Malfoy in Ron's parents' place. Her backed up against the wall, Malfoy's hands in her hair and clutching at her bum... She sighs.
Harry laughs. "God, they were really going at it." He smirks. "Careful, Ron, you might end up with another sibling." Ron rolls his eyes and thumps Harry on the arm. It's a lovely moment, the three of them together in the hallway, laughing and smiling. And then –
"It's polite to share, Justin!" someone chides playfully, and Hermione is ripped backwards through time. Standing very still and silent as the memory crashes over her, nails digging painfully into her palms.
Voldemort's high, clear voice before the dinner began – I know you want to keep the whore to yourself, Draco, but it isn't polite not to share.
She suddenly feels sick, and any idea of eating Christmas lunch is gone. All she can think of is fingers invading her, groping her, pushing into her mouth, the collar tight around her throat, the cuts and the sour taste of their sweat.
"Hermione?" Both Harry and Ron are looking at her, filled with worry, and she blinks back to herself, trying to shake off the worst of the memories. They claw and rattle in the back of her head still, but she forces them down as she has every day for the past two weeks. It's getting harder every time, trying to scrabble up from the devouring horrors without him there to pull her out. Her chest hurts, and her eyes prickle, and she finds her hand going to her throat, encircling it carefully, remembering the bite of the collar as a physical echo. Her smile is gone.
"Sorry," she says and it comes out scratchy. "Um." She feels dizzy. She feels memories, pressed into her skin. "I just need somewhere quiet for a minute."
Both boys' faces crumple slightly before Ron nods and straightens, mouth firming. "Course, 'Mione. We can go outside for a bit." The back door is right there for them to escape out of, and Harry casts a warming charm while Ron disappears and comes back a few moments later with a plate piled high with finger foods. Ron stands, leaning against the porch stair railing, while Harry sits on the bottom stair and Hermione sits on the top, arms wrapped around her middle, a phantom tightness around her throat. Hunched down. Hair falling forward around her face. She feels sick to her stomach, and the memories cling, swirling in her head like poison.
Ron and Harry are undemanding. They have learnt not to push her – the few times they have, she's either shut down entirely or retreated upstairs, unable to cope with the pressure. They pick at the plate of food and talk; light, easy conversation, the sky grey above them, the wind sharp.
"It's Christmas, for Merlin's sake! Please, Remus. Please." She hugs herself, standing crammed up by the tree, staring pleadingly at Lupin, who is unexpectedly, unacceptably implacable.
"The Healer said a month, Hermione." His eyes are sympathetic. She's pulled him away from spending time with Teddy for this – who Andromeda and Ted have brought in for the day – and yet she hardly feels guilty at all.
"It's been over half that –" fifteen long, horrible, exhausting days to be precise "– and the Healer doesn't know a damned thing!" She's angry, flinging an arm out furiously, feeling too hot in her Weasley jumper. The little she ate of Christmas lunch sits uneasily in her stomach, which lurches and twists. Hermione had been so certain Lupin would say yes. How could he deny her on Christmas Day? But she's been pleading with him for several minutes, and he isn't budging. She'd been so sure.
"The Healer is concerned with your well-being, Hermione. And I trust her judgement."
"Please, Remus." She imbues it with all her desperation. All her need. "Just five minutes. Five minutes." That's long enough to see him. Long enough to press her body against his warm, hard one. To push her mouth against his. And this time, she won't be tentative and careful, of herself or him. She can picture it. Open-mouthed and panting, her fingers in his hair, her body arched against his. Hermione fights to suppress the little shiver of frisson that runs through her – it's not only an entirely inappropriate time and place, but it's pointless. Her fury spikes. She can't control her emotions well anymore. They run riot, and she is at their mercy.
"Five minutes, Remus. I just want to see him. To know he's okay."
"But he is okay. All prisoners will be getting a special dinner today even, for Christmas."
"Fuck the dinner!" Hermione snarls, snatching a bauble off the Christmas tree and flinging it to shatter against the front door, shocking herself. "He doesn't want dinner, he wants me." The words end in a wobbling sob as embarrassment overwhelms her anger, and Lupin repairs the bauble and sends it zipping back to the tree. And then he gives her a flat stare.
"I'm not a Healer, so I have to trust in what she says. And she says you're uncooperative, you haven't spoken to anyone since you got back, you're severely traumatised, and you have an unhealthy attachment to Draco Malfoy," he lists, gently but factually. And the hell of it is, he's not entirely wrong. That's the infuriating, hateful fucking thing. The technicalities might be correct, and yet it's completely and utterly wrong in all of the essentials. It's factual, but it's not true.
There's nothing unhealthy about the careful tenderness in Malfoy's eyes as he tucks Hermione's hair behind her ear.
"But –" she tries to protest, but he holds up a finger, and she snaps her mouth shut, lips pressing painfully hard together, fingers flexing at her sides; tension shuddering through them and making them into curling claws.
"And when you first got here, I know you thought you wouldn't cope without Draco. But look at you. Here you are! You're getting better, Hermione." Lupin smiles encouragingly, and Hermione presses her knuckles to her mouth hard enough to hurt. Crushing her lips between bone and teeth. She wraps her left arm around her middle and digs her fingertips into her waist, deep and cruel. The pain is welcome. "The Healer knows what she's doing. This is just some space, to help you get back on your feet." Lupin's voice drops, and the next part he says quietly and with an infinite kindness. "After what he did to you, Hermione, you need that. You need some space."
Hermione stares at him wide-eyed, thinking about Malfoy's processing, and veritaserum, and whether Lupin would ask about that. She chooses to believe he's only talking about what she already implied because if she doesn't, she will collapse on the stairs right here. The thought of Malfoy being forced to talk about the details of those things makes her sway on her feet. She clutches the bannister. Lupin wouldn't do that. Surely he wouldn't. Or would he? Perhaps he'd just consider it part of the debriefing. He looks at her now with concern and compassion, and she can see he thinks he's doing the right thing. Tough love. Ripping off the plaster quickly. Protecting her from her own broken feelings.
Hermione feels a horrible, mortifying rage and humiliation shiver through her.
"No, I don't," she croaks. "I don't need space." But Lupin's not really listening.
"Maybe you should have a Calming Draught and go rest," he says, still filled with worried compassion. "Today's been a big day." And then Tonks calls him from the sitting room, laughter in her voice, and Hermione can see the way his attention slides away. His mind is with his wife and son now. He wants to be with them, and she can't blame him, but can't he see it's the same for her? She wants to be with Malfoy.
"Please," she says, small and begging, but it's never going to happen, and she knows it. Not until the time is up. Hermione could kill that fucking Healer, she really could.
She only wanted five minutes.
Hermione thinks as she sits curled up against her pillows, jumper flung on the end of the bed and a book that she doesn't feel like reading beside her, that perhaps they are so insistent about not seeing him because of how uncomfortable it makes them feel. Because of how much they hate thinking about the way she is with Draco Malfoy, with all the terrible things he's done – to so many others, as well as to her. They hate the way she needs him. And the Healer has given them an ironclad excuse to not have to deal with seeing Hermione cling to her rapist like he's the only person in the universe. Harry and Ron had agreed that, yes, they would have done the same in order to save her, but they don't really understand. It's all intellectual to them. Hypothetical. It makes sense, she supposes, as much as she hates it. After all, how could they understand? She doesn't understand it herself half the time.
The bed is cold as Hermione slides under the covers. Malfoy is present in his absence.
She wishes now she'd told them just how badly she'd been forced to hurt Malfoy when she first arrived. How she'd tortured him. She had blood on her hands too – it wasn't just Malfoy who'd done terrible things. She had hurt him until he was incoherent and screaming, begging her for mercy, no longer cognizant of what was even happening. She had known then how it felt to be him, inflicting suffering, and even doing it only once had nearly destroyed her. It wasn't as bad as being the victim, but it still ruined the soul. It had torn her to shreds on the inside.
Since then, she's tried to tell them, but they dismiss it. Minimise it. Brush it off. All her friends see is what they want to see; that Malfoy hurt her.
The Dreamless Sleep is bitter on her tongue, the vial dropped carelessly on the bedcovers as she curls into a miserable ball. "Merry Christmas, Malfoy," she murmurs, voice wobbling and wet, and smudges a hot tear away from the corner of her eye.
She's not coming.
It had been a vain and stupid hope, but Draco had clung to it anyway. It was Christmas. Surely they would let her see him if she wanted to. But maybe not. Or maybe she didn't want to see him. His dinner lies untouched on the floor, and he lies on his back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling blankly. The Order have been fairly accommodating so far, though, which makes Draco fear it's more likely that she doesn't want to see him. That would be for the best, really. Only…he feels very alone.
He thinks of his parents. Draco usually doesn't let himself even consider them, but it's Christmas. Lying in his small cell, he wonders where his parents are. Whether they're even still alive, or whether his escape with Hermione doomed them to death. His last letter to his mother had been an apology, and a plea for her to run – with his father in Europe playing the part of an obedient Death Eater, his mother was alone at the Malfoy Manor. As helpless as a mooncalf if Voldemort wanted vengeance. If he'd stayed behind instead of going with Hermione, Voldemort likely would've been satisfied with merely torturing Draco to death. He should've stayed – or returned, after taking Hermione to the Order.
Because now Draco's alone anyway. Alone on Christmas Day – and with the weight of nightmarish memories, his own self-hatred, his parents probably dead, and Hermione gone, his life seems more pointless than ever. He would rather embrace oblivion than live with this.
"Merry fucking Christmas," he mutters, a lump in his throat.