Fourteen
Five days pass in a treacle-slow, golden stretch of time that feels almost dream-like to Hermione. She sleeps long and heavy, nearly from dusk 'til dawn through the night, broken only by the nightmares that Draco's presence makes easier to bear but can't banish. She's thinking of him as Draco again; she can't keep him at arm's length anymore, and she doesn't want to, although she still calls him Malfoy aloud. In between the nightmares, Hermione has stretches of sleep that are nearly peaceful, nestled against Draco, dreamless and still. When awake, she finds herself constantly attuned to him, even more than she was during her captivity.
They spend a lot of time in Hermione's room, and there she outright clings to him. It's the best there. Like a moment between moments. They spend a lot of time sitting in silence, just being together. Sometimes she curls up against Draco and reads quietly while she's tucked into his side, and sometimes, he reads too. A lot of the time she just sits there staring into space and tries not to think, and maybe that's what he's doing too. They are not psychologically healthy people – she knows that.
Sometimes they kiss; curled in bed at night, the lamps on low, everything painted in burnished gold. And usually, when they get started, Hermione finds herself desperately, urgently wanting to do more than that carefully demarcated kissing. But whenever she tries to do more – Draco willing to do whatever she wants so long as she leads, afraid of triggering her – the reality makes her skin crawl. It makes her want to rip her skin off, sick inside it, disgusted by everything, and it turns so sour she wants to cry. Sometimes she does. So for now, they mostly just stick to kissing, soft and needy, and Hermione thinks both of them are marinating in frustration.
Other than kissing, and sitting in her frustration and feeling horribly, irreparably broken, Hermione does spend a lot more time in the sitting room now, socialising. Mostly with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, but the others too, sometimes. It's weird and awkward, but it's nice at the same time. There's not a lot to do for entertainment, so they play wizarding chess and other games, and talk about safe topics like memories of school, and Hermione's always aware of exactly where Draco is in the room. Generally, he sits in the chair she used to sit in, tucked back in a dark nook by the bookshelf with a book on his lap, his eyes flicking periodically to her. The scar on his face is deepened by the shadows, and it makes Hermione's heart ache with feelings she can't explain.
Sometimes the talk slides into darker areas, and Hermione has to remember that the world didn't stop spinning the three and a half months she was gone. And while Hermione had been held captive, Ron and Harry had kept fighting the war. They'd seen people die. They'd killed people, or Ron had, at least. And they'd feared Hermione's fate for months, the strain of knowing where she was but being unable to save her slowly grinding them both down. Filling them with guilt. Neither of them is unscathed by the passage of time; Hermione notices the worried way Ginny watches Harry when talk turns toward the war, the way Harry's expression becomes haunted, and Ron's hard and angry.
It takes time for Hermione to put things together because she doesn't feel she can ask outright, but she puzzles it out over several days. Harry has been restricted to minor missions since Hermione's capture drove home how dangerous even operations like reconnaissance could be. Against his will, he's been stuck in an organisational role, shadowing Remus for the most part. Whereas Ron has demanded to be out on the front lines of the war. Joining dangerous missions, particularly raids on suspected Death Eater houses. There's a tension between Harry and Ron, running down deep. Harry wishes he could be out there fighting, and Ron resents that he isn't. And it seems Ginny is usually the one stuck refereeing when those tensions rise too close to the surface.
When word comes in that Katie Bell has died, five days after Draco's arrival, Ron gets very angry – so, so angry – and Hermione wonders what happened between them while she was gone. She sits on the sitting room floor, chess pieces scattered over the carpet, watching wide-eyed as Ron rails. The anger radiating off him hits all the triggers buried in Hermione's flesh and her mind, and she feels like vomiting, scooting back until she hits Draco's leg. His hand comes down to rest on her head, fingers soothing through her hair, and some of the wire-tight tension leaves her as she watches Ron fall apart, Draco at her back.
"She wasn't supposed to be there! I told her! I fucking well told her –" he shouts, tearing at his hair as he stares around him, furious and lost in grief. Percy, who'd brought the news, stands silently in the doorway, awkward discomfort written all over his strained white face.
"Someone had to do it, Ron," Harry says helplessly, and Ron whirls on him.
"Then why didn't you?" he snarls cruelly, an accusation, and Harry blanches and stumbles back a step. Ginny is just as ashen as both her brothers, her freckles standing out starkly on her face and her expression somehow grimly set and devastated at once. The redhead steps between her brother and boyfriend, expression agonised and mouth open, but before she can speak, Ron snarls a curse and stalks out of the room, shoving past Percy.
"Ron..." Harry makes to go after him, but Ginny pushes him back, hands on his shoulders.
"No. No, Harry. You'll just make it worse," she says miserably, and Harry's shoulders slump and he pulls off his glasses, rubbing his hand over his face. The atmosphere in the room shivers with tension, heavy and awful. Miserable.
"I hate this," he mumbles and sinks onto the couch while Percy still hovers there in the doorway uncertainly. Ginny stands in the middle of the room, looking torn before moving to Harry, leaning over him as he sits there defeatedly, murmuring in his ear what are probably meant to be calming words. They don't seem to be working. Harry looks as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, bearing down and crushing him beneath it. Like a skinny, short, black-haired Atlas, and he's only twenty; it's not fair. How is he supposed to stop the war?
"Percy, could you –?" Ginny asks after a moment, flapping a hand in the direction Ron had gone, and he shakes his head quick and definite, holding up his hands.
"Oh no. No, I don't think that'd be a good idea. Ron doesn't want me to talk to him. And I have to go now anyway. I have papers for Lupin, and other safe houses to visit today," he says apologetically, and Ginny makes a face at him, but he just shrugs and leaves with one last sorry. He's probably right. Percy isn't exactly a person one wants to bare their soul to. Hermione bites her lip. Shit. She makes the decision as she shoves herself to her feet, turning to Draco, who sighs heavily as he meets her eyes.
"I'm going to..." she says, gesturing toward the doorway, and he looks unhappy but nods as if he expected it, standing and snapping his book shut.
"Okay. I'll be upstairs then," he says and brushes his hand against hers before their fingers curl together; a subtle caress in place of a kiss. It's not enough. Despite Harry and Ginny's presence, Hermione pushes up on her toes and kisses Draco's clean-shaven cheek, their fingers still twined together. He huffs a breath on her cheek, and his fingers tighten on hers. "Be careful," he says, and she knows what he means. Ron is clearly on a hair trigger, and she isn't in any state to deal with stress. She's just as hair trigger in her own way. Going to talk to Ron at all is probably a bad idea. But no one else is going to do it.
"I will," she says as she draws away, filled with the warmth of his concern.
Hermione finds Ron sitting on the back porch, coatless and shivering slightly. He's crying. He looks up as she comes out, wiping at his face with his shirtsleeves before wrapping his arms around himself again, sniffling. She sits down beside him, wrapping her coat around her. Spring is burgeoning, a change in the weather that everyone can sense in the air, but it's still cold and damp outside. The sky is overcast, and there's a light drizzle that blows in on them slightly as they both perch on the top step, side by side in silence. Misting rain catches on Hermione's lashes and wets her cheeks, and she huddles into her coat. She should have put shoes on; she's in her socks and they're getting wet.
Ron sniffles again, wiping beneath his eyes, and Hermione takes a deep breath and tips against him. Leaning on him, her cheek pillowed on his shoulder, the material damp under her skin. It's the first physical contact she's willingly made with anyone except Draco in well over a quarter of a year, and it feels like falling. Taking a step off a cliff edge into space. Ron makes a small, surprised sound and looks down at her, blue eyes wet and red-rimmed, lashes glittering with water. Hermione takes his hand, her fingers folding around his, and he's cold and damp like the weather, but he squeezes her fingers gently. She waits.
"I know it's not Harry's fault," he says at last, voice raw with emotion. "I shouldn't have gone off like that." Hermione just holds his hand tighter, her cheek wet from his shirt, his skin chill beneath it. "I just – we'd been seeing each other a bit, me and Katie. I mean, not anything serious, really. When you're always at different safe houses, it's hard to have anything –" He breaks off and sighs. "But we...we were on a lot of the same missions, and afterwards, sometimes we'd, well –" He shoots her an uncomfortable glance as she looks up at him.
"I get the picture, Ron," she says dryly. She knows of the post-skirmish meetings that some people indulged in, when adrenaline was high and they were just glad to be alive – like an affirmation of life – and she's so terribly sad for him. "And I'm sorry."
"It just feels like we're going in endless circles, getting picked off one by one as we slowly get worn down, and I fucking hate it."
"Yeah." She sighs wearily. "It sucks," she says, an understatement if ever there was one, but somehow it's all there is to say.
"Can I –?" he asks and lifts his arm, and Hermione nods uncertainly; there's only one way to find out if she'll freak out or not. She doesn't. His arm around her shoulders is cold and firm, and now that she's leaning her head on his chest, Hermione can hear his heartbeat thudding in the cage of his ribs. Her hand finds his knee, curving over the ball of it. "I'm going to miss her," Ron says after a while, and he sounds like he's crying again, the words all distorted.
"I'm so sorry, Ron. It's not fair," she says, thinking of all the things that are horribly, acutely unfair. He sighs heavily, clearly thinking the same thing.
"The whole damned war is unfair," he retorts, arm snug around her, cheek leaning on the side of her head, and she feels hot damp that can only be from tears. "Katie's just one person out of so many. And I'm going to miss her...a lot. And she shouldn't be dead. But it's not just Katie. We've lost so many people now, and so many Muggles have died too, and been taken, and –" He stopped. "It has to end."
"It will." Hermione is quiet but sure, a thread of hope spooling in her chest, spiderweb-thin and fragile.
"You're optimistic," he says into her hair, and Hermione smiles faintly.
"To be fair, I didn't say we'd win. Just that it will end." She pauses. "But we will win. We have to." She doesn't know if she believes that, but she wants to, desperately. After the past few days with Draco at her side and the black, hopeless misery that had seized her lifting, it's a lot easier to imagine. That one day soon, they could be done with all this and actually start to heal. Although how she'd do that, Hermione has no clue. She feels like even if she heals, she'll be nothing but scar tissue. Just taut, papery scarring, ugly and vulnerable. A mass of adhesions, pulling on her organs and sending ripples of pain through her forever. Hermione shuts her eyes. So maybe it's still hard to be optimistic. But she has Draco, so she knows deep down in her bones that she'll manage somehow, scar tissue or not.
They sit in silence for a while again. The air is still damp and cold, but Ron doesn't seem bothered by it, and his breath is hot on her hair.
"I missed this," he says at last, and she knows he means the cautious hug after she's spent weeks shrinking from his touch. They're both sitting very still, and he's been careful not to move his arm too much, but she feels oddly peaceful as she is; no bad memories lurching up. Not yet, anyway. He sniffs and wipes his nose again. "You seem better."
"I know it doesn't make sense to you, but Malfoy helps," Hermione says quietly. "He...he makes me feel safe."
"It doesn't make sense." Ron sighs. "And I'm sure it can't be healthy, 'Mione. I don't like it. I want that on the record. But...if it works, it works, I guess." He shrugs. "We could all be dead within the week anyway," he adds with a pained grin. Hermione guesses that's the closest she's going to get to his blessing. She'll take it.
"Thanks, Ron." She leans into him a little more, patting his knee. They sit in silence for a while longer and then Ron sneezes and Hermione sits up, sliding out from under his arm and standing up. "Come on," she says, hugging herself as she pokes him with her damp, sock-clad toes. "You haven't cast a warming charm or anything. We should go in before you catch your death."
"You go ahead." He shoots her the sad echo of a smile. "I'll be in soon. I just want to be alone for a while."
It's been thirty minutes; long enough for Draco to feel worried. He feels edgy, pacing helplessly. Weasley was a wreck, and Hermione was too fragile to be propping up the redhead in his grief, and it just was a bad situation all around. More death. Draco's so fucking sick of death. He paces the floor, mind spinning round and round and going nowhere fast. He wonders involuntarily how Katie Bell died. Whether it was quick or slow.
He remembers her; the way he'd nearly been responsible for her death years before, when she'd been cursed by the necklace. One of his failed attempts to kill Dumbledore during 6th year; the year it all started going very wrong. He'd been trapped and desperate, and at the time, he'd felt simultaneously sick over what he'd done, and hated her for messing things up. For contributing to his failure. Now he just feels sad and guilty. He's hurt so many people so badly. Killed so many. He doesn't know how he's ever supposed to balance that ledger without his own death.
Every day a small part of him wishes he'd stayed behind that night he and Hermione had escaped because the guilt eats at him. Particularly what he did to her. Like the twig that broke the thestral's back, the cherry on top of all his other sins. He doesn't deserve to live. Draco knows that. And he definitely doesn't deserve to be with Hermione. If the world was a just place, he'd be burning on one of Voldemort's bonfires right now, after having been tortured to death. He knows that. Most of him is glad to be alive, and he's certainly glad to have not been tortured. But part of him thinks death would be easier.
Draco thinks about death, and he paces, half of his mind always on Hermione. Wondering if he should check on her. If she's okay. If she's not okay, she might need him. But if she's fine, she'll be annoyed at him barging in on her and Weasley. He grinds his teeth and keeps pacing, caught in indecision. Every decision he could make seems wrong, so he paces.
Hermione's damp and bedraggled when she walks in nearly an hour after he'd left her in the sitting room, and Draco freezes mid-step. She looks cold and her hair is halfway to wet, her expression sad, but she's in one piece. In fact, her cheeks are flushed pink with the cold, highlighting the way they're not as hollow as they were nearly a week ago, and despite being teary, her eyes are bright instead of dull. He lets out an internal sigh of relief, something in his chest unwinding just a half twist, still standing there like an idiot just staring at her.
Hermione smiles at him as she pushes the door shut. Her socks leave wet marks on the wood floor and the rug, and her leggings are darkened to the knee with rain, though her shirt is dry. Clearly Weasley forgot to cast an Impervius charm. Draco frowns.
"You haven't been pacing this whole time, have you?" Hermione asks with a hint of amusement as she crosses the floor to him, pulling her fingers through her tangled hair. She stops just in front of him, and he finds himself looping his arms around her waist without consciously deciding to do so. She leans back in his arms and looks up at him, her fingers still dragging through her hair.
"It's exercise." He shrugs, keeping his expression as neutral as he can. It's true, after all.
"Did you miss me?" she asks, a faint little grin flashing her teeth. There's sadness behind the smile, but that she can smile at all is amazing. That she can stand to have him touch her is bewildering. His fingers press against her shirt, denting into the softness of her. Fuck, she feels good.
"Yes," Draco says automatically, honest without thinking. "I was worried." His mind is filled up by her. Her face goes all soft at his admission. She's so fucking beautiful, and in his grasp, his hands hard on the small of her back as if he has the right. It's hard to think as she slips her arms around him and plasters herself to his front. She buries her face against his chest. He dips his head and rests his lips lightly against the crown of hers. Her hair smells nice. Like rain and shampoo. Arousal creeps up, unbidden and insistent, and entirely inappropriate. "How did it go?"
"I don't know," she says, muffled into his shirt. "Fine, I guess. I think he appreciated the company, but I didn't think of anything amazingly wise or comforting to say." She sighs, and Draco recognises the helplessness in the sound. The desperate desire to know what to do or say to make things even a little bit better, but coming up absolutely, uselessly empty. He's felt that way so much over the past four and a bit months. "About all I could say was how sorry I was. And that it sucked."
"That's all anyone can say, Granger," he tells her softly, tugging lightly at the straggling strands of her hair. "There's no comforting saying that'll make someone feel better when they've just found out a person they care about is dead. All you can do is be there." He grins humourlessly. "Or get them drunk."
Hermione sighs again. "I know. And I can't get him drunk at two in the afternoon." She pulls back enough to look up at him, mouth all twisted and eyes liquid and dark. "I let him hug me, though."
Draco feels a writhing trace of jealousy that he stamps down hard. "Well, that's good, isn't it?" he ventures because she's told him how she's been avoiding touching people. Not that it hasn't been painfully obvious. She's even been avoiding Teddy Lupin when his parents bring him to HQ. "Progress."
Hermione shrugs and nods. Sighs again. "I guess. Yeah. And I suppose at least he wasn't alone." There's a wobble in her voice. She doesn't tell him what they talked about, or whether Weasley and Katie Bell had been an item, or anything more at all. And he doesn't ask. If she wants to tell him, she will. "I can't believe Katie's dead," she says at last, hands playing with the buttons on his shirt. "So many people died just while I was...gone." The last word comes out in a whisper. She sniffles and wipes her face. "Katie. Demelza. Zacharias. Alicia... Everyone keeps dying. It's not fair."
"No. It's not." He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear; even weighed down by the rain it gets everywhere. "I'm sorry, Granger." He can't relate, really; he didn't particularly know or like any of the people she's listed. Draco's sick of death – of seeing it, of causing it – but none of it touches him in the way it does her. They're her friends. People she cares about. People, she's lost. "I'm so sorry." Hermione's blinking back tears, and he wipes away one that escaped with his thumb. She sniffs and looks down at herself, still held loosely in the cradle of his arms.
"Ugh. I'm all wet." She wrinkles her nose. And with that, Draco figures Hermione's done talking about anything serious, and he's not going to push her. She's maintaining a fragile balance, and he's not about to jeopardise that. He kisses her temple instead.
"Do you want me to get you a towel?"
"I'm not that wet." She pulls fresh clothes out of the dresser and then plops on the edge of the bed, holding out a foot and wiggling her toes. "Help?"
"You don't need help, Granger," he says, an obligatory response, and she makes a pitiful face. He hides a smile.
"Please, Malfoy?" And then he's peeling off her wet socks for her as she leans back on the bed on her elbows, watching him. Draco's noticed that while Hermione might avoid touching others, she takes every chance she can to exchange touches with him. Maybe she's trying to desensitise herself. Or maybe she's just enjoying the fact that they can touch without fear they'll have to hurt each other. It makes him think of all the times she changed his bandages when they were at the manor. All the times he touched her then, in small, careful ways.
Either way, he's not complaining, exactly. He loves all the little touches. He just wants more. He's ravenous for more, no matter how much he tries to bury his arousal somewhere deep down.
He's an utter bastard for it and he knows it, but Draco wants to do so many things to her. Obscene, unwelcome things. But he can't stop thinking about them. It's been nearly a week of tentative kisses, and he hasn't jerked off once; he's afraid of what memories his mind will drag up at the moment of climax, so his showers have been cold and short. He's a twenty-year-old man, and Hermione keeps pushing for more and then pulling back when she realises she can't handle it, and that's fine, he understands it – except it's leaving him frustrated as hell, and while his mind understands, his body doesn't.
Her feet are pale and pruned, and he wrinkles his nose teasingly as he strips her first sock off. "Gross, Granger." It's a fucking lie; Draco would probably suck on her toes right now if she let him, and he's not even into feet. He just so desperately wants part of her under his tongue, in his mouth, like some kind of oral fixation. He imagines things he can't do, involuntarily stripping her in his mind. Fuck. Draco bites his tongue sharply and focuses on the pain, afraid he's going to spring an erection just from touching her feet, which would be inappropriate and embarrassing.
And Hermione's eyeing him shrewdly, a weird expression on her face. "Really?" she asks, disbelieving, and Draco belatedly realises he is halfway to hard, and it shows. Shit. Shame worms through his belly, and he feels the weird need to apologise. She covers her face, and her shoulders shake, and he realises with intense relief that she's laughing. "My feet?"
He's not sure what to say but settles for a vague honesty. "More my imagination." It comes out a little rough and low, and she drops her hands from her face, chewing her lip as she looks up at him.
"Oh," is all she says after a second, and her voice is a little shaky, her smile mostly gone. But she doesn't seem unhappy.
Once her second sock is off and dropped forgotten on the floor, Hermione lifts her hips and shoves her leggings halfway down her thighs without warning. Merlin. Draco doesn't know where she thinks she's going with this impromptu striptease, just that he's probably going to end up in a cold shower feeling like an arsehole – but oh fuck. Her thighs are creamy and soft looking, leading up to her cotton knickers. They're red, and have lace trim along the top band, and a little satin bow. He gulps. His fingers twitch at his sides as he crouches there, staring dumbly.
Draco wishes he hadn't told her that he was a virgin before...then; he feels like it's put him off balance somehow. He averts his eyes as she slides her leggings further down, dragging a hand over his face. She gives him whiplash. "Salazar's sake, Granger, what are you doing?"
"You don't have to look away, you know," Hermione says, and then a hint of bitterness creeps in as she sits up and yanks her leggings off over her feet. "You've seen it before."
"Granger." Whiplash, and fuck, it hurts. He swallows hard. "Granger, don't." It's a plea, not an order. She sighs and sits forward, elbows on her thighs as she slumps and presses the heels of her palms against her eyes.
"Sorry. Sorry, I know that's not fair," she says, all tight and miserable, and he hates that she's apologising. He grabs the pyjama trousers off the bed beside her and kneels at her feet.
"Don't apologise either," he says, as he slips her pyjamas over her feet and up to her knees. She looks up, eyes watery and cheeks blotchy red from more than just the cold now, and takes the trousers' waistband, shimmying them up her thighs as Draco stands and backs up a pace. "I just – I don't think that counts. It can't. Or I just can't..." He doesn't know how to explain. He feels stricken. Like a monster. If all the times he's seen her naked, or in that awful lingerie, or being abused – fuck – he cuts his thoughts off before he can spiral any further. He wants to be sick, remembering, and he wishes he could burn it out of his brain. But if those moments somehow count in their relationship, then he can't do it. Because they make him want to die. He stares at her mutely, not knowing how to communicate that without falling into a thousand pieces.
"Okay." It's a whisper. "It doesn't count." She gulps, a few tears spilling over, and she scrubs them away roughly. Angrily. "But it still happened."
"I know." Then there's a long silence in which Draco wishes very badly that he were dead before he drags himself together by sheer force of will. Hermione is sitting on the edge of the bed, small and broken, and he doesn't have time to wallow. "What do you need?" he asks her, trying to be gentle but not sure he succeeds. "What can I do?"
She wobbles a smile through her tears. "You," she says quietly, then: "Come here," and he does, and that tipping-point balance is maintained a little longer.
Days later he bumps into Potter in the kitchen late one night. It's been nearly two weeks since he left the cell. The boy-who-lived is in plaid pyjamas and rummaging in the cupboard as the kettle begins to faintly whistle. He spins around with a biscuit clenched between his teeth, startled, when Draco walks in. He removes it and shoots Draco a tight half-smile, pulling down an opened packet of biscuits from behind a stack of tins. "Hi," Potter says awkwardly, putting the biscuits on a tray with two cups. His hair is sticking up more than usual, his pyjama shirt buttoned wrong, and he's clearly making a midnight snack; Draco assumes for him and Ginevra. Probably post-coital. Gross.
"Potter." Draco considers making some jibe about the midnight snack being for Ron Weasley, but doesn't. He's tired, his head is aching, and he woke from a nightmare to Hermione crying in her sleep, trapped in her own horrific dreams. He's pretty sure this one had been about what he'd done to her. About the night he'd claimed her.
"You're up late." Potter leans against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, watching Draco as he gets down two mugs.
"Nightmares," Draco says succinctly as he looks through the array of teas available. Hermione asked for chamomile. There are about two dozen Muggle teas stacked there on the bench in colourful boxes: chai, raspberry and liquorice, vanilla and pear, and it takes a minute to find the box of chamomile. "Why do Muggles have so many teas? And these aren't even teas. They're like...sad fruit juices, mostly. What even is cinnamon apple pie? How is that a tea?"
"I dunno." Potter shrugs. "Justin loves them. Every time he does the grocery shopping, he comes back with a different, weird tea. The rooibos is rather nice, though."
"What? Is that even a word?" Draco makes a face as he drops a Yorkshire teabag in his mug and chamomile in Hermione's.
"Rooibos? Yeah. It's Afrikaans, I think."
"Huh. Is there enough water in the kettle for us?" Draco misses having his wand. It makes everything so much faster and easier. He's not sure why Potter lets the kettle come to the boil in Muggle fashion; maybe he's just used to it, from growing up living with his Muggle relations. Draco digs through the cupboard while he waits. There have to be more biscuits in there somewhere, and while he isn't hungry himself, he's always trying to get Hermione to eat.
"Should be. Is 'Mione okay?"
Draco doesn't mind that Potter doesn't even consider it might have been him suffering a nightmare. He'd rather Potter didn't think of him as weak, or vulnerable. He doesn't want Potter to know that he'd jerked awake half an hour ago, drenched in sweat with a scream locked behind his clamped-shut lips. He finds a pack of chocolate digestives. No. An open packet of gingernuts. No. He shoves a few tins aside. Merlin, he can't stop picturing it.
The dinner had featured heavily; that had been almost worse than claiming Hermione, for Draco. Sitting there making small talk, laughing and exchanging pleasantries while Hermione was being violated right in front of him. Making jokes about it. Watching them use her... He feels sick to his stomach, stuttering to a halt as the memories rise up again, so fucking vivid.
"Granger's fine. She thought tea might help her get back to sleep," Draco says aloud, blandly. She hadn't told him what the dream was, but when he'd shaken her awake, she'd been terrified of him for two long minutes before comprehension finally dawned in her eyes. And then she'd huddled in a ball and cried. When he'd tentatively reached out to comfort her, she'd jerked her head up as if she could sense him and snapped a vehement don't touch me!
It had been ten minutes before Hermione had lifted her head and looked at him with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and asked for a cup of tea in a tiny voice. Draco honestly still wasn't sure if she wanted tea or if she was just trying to get rid of him for five minutes. He finds a packet of hobnobs. Yes. They'll do. Merlin, he feels so tired – wrung out, and useless to Hermione right now. She probably can't stand the sight of him.
"Does she still have nightmares a lot?" Potter asks, and Draco isn't sure how much the other man actually wants the details, and how much he's just trying to fill in the awkward silence.
"Can't you hear?" Draco asks shortly, being difficult. He knows they can on the rare occasion; like the time Ginevra had come running in. He's pretty sure they can hear anything much louder than normal speaking volume, considering neither Hermione nor Draco can cast a muffliato. He hates the lack of privacy. But in truth, most of the time neither of them makes much noise when they wake from nightmares; Hermione's tears aren't particularly loud, and Draco is always silent as far as he knows. So Potter probably can't hear. The kettle's whistle gets louder and Potter lifts it off the hob.
"No," he says, shooting Draco an annoyed look. "Don't be a git, Malfoy. You know we can't."
"Hnh." Draco leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, waiting for the kettle. Potter glares at him, pouring his drinks and shoving the kettle on the cork mat by the stove. He scavenges up some marshmallows to throw in the cocoa he's made as Draco pours the remainder of the water into the tea. There's just enough.
"I heard 'Mione freak out once three nights ago," he begins, and Draco remembers that night. It had been a bad one. She'd woken screaming. "I wanted to go running in because, honestly, it sounded like you were hurting her –" Draco flinches at that, cheeks flaming hot "– but Ginny told me not to. That she did a while ago, and..." Potter eyes Draco "...you took good care of 'Mione. That it was 'very sweet'," he quotes, distaste in his voice, and Draco flushes hotter. Ginevra clearly shared all the details.
He glares at Potter as the other man goes on. "That's all I've heard, though. And I'm sure she's had more nightmares than that, going by how exhausted you both look in the mornings."
"Yeah," Draco allows, jaw tight, headache worsening. "Several times a night, usually. Sometimes more, sometimes less." He pauses. "Why, Potter?"
"She's my friend. I worry." Potter adjusts his glasses nervously. Shrugs. "And I don't want to bother her. She's – she's a lot better than she was before you got here, but I know she's still not great. I don't want to risk making things worse. Causing a setback."
"Yeah, don't do that, Potter," Draco says, tone so dry it's arid. Potter scowls. "Really though," he says seriously, "don't. Don't mention, well, anything. I don't even usually mention anything unless she brings it up. She's walking on a knife's edge right now, and if she falls, it won't go well."
"Understood. I'll keep not saying anything, then," Potter says with a hint of annoyance and picks up his tea tray.
"Wait. Potter –" There's something Draco should have told Potter and Weasley a while ago, but he hasn't had the chance. The shorter man pauses in the doorway, expression curious. "Thank you. And Weasley too," Draco says, prying the words out but meaning them. "For not telling Granger what I said under veritaserum."
Potter's expression stiffens and turns grim. His eyes are steady as he meets Draco's, his features so hard he could be carved from stone. "Don't thank me, Malfoy. Don't. I'm doing my best to forget we even had that conversation because you really do seem to be good for Hermione – god knows why – and if I think about it too much, I end up wanting to kill you," he gets out, expression sickened and features twisted in contempt. "We haven't told her because of what it would do to her, which is also why Ron and I are being civil to you. For her sake. It's got fuck all to do with you." Potter adds, swallowing thickly: "And yes, I know you didn't have a choice when it came to doing it. But that you could enjoy it? Fuck. Honestly? You make me sick, Malfoy."
Draco watches him leave without a word, frozen, a leaden feeling sinking through him. He can't argue with anything Potter said. The Gryffindor isn't wrong. There's a hollow misery dug into the pit of his stomach as he finally stirs himself to go back upstairs. When he gets up to the bedroom, Hermione's asleep again already. Curled in a ball on her side of the bed. He feels so hollow.