Once again, Draco stood next to Hermione, their shoulders only a few inches apart — he wondered if he was crowding her too much. There was only one other person on the lift, and he briefly considered moving a bit more towards the side. Despite his better judgement, he stayed where he was, close enough for him to catch the alluring scent of her perfume, as they rode the lift in silence. She seemed unsure of what to say and looked almost embarrassed.
Should I ask her about the project? Do I comment on how nice her hair looks today, or would she think I'm making fun of her? I could tell her that the colour of her shirt brings out the flecks of gold in her eyes.
No, probably not… Definitely not the last one — even if it's fucking true. Dammit.
He felt every millimetre of space between them, hyper-aware of their proximity — just like he had been before Potter had walked into the room. His fingers burned from where he'd touched her earlier. What an idiot he'd been… reaching out and touching her uninvited, like an animal. She'd felt bad about him being left out, that was all. St. Granger adopting another stray. So kind of her to take pity on poor Draco Malfoy: outcast of society, he thought to himself. She hadn't even been able to meet his fucking eyes when she'd asked him to come out tonight.
He had tried to maintain his walls without being a total prick, but clearly it wasn't working. He was getting too close and it wouldn't end well. There were really only two courses of action now:
Option 1: Push her out. It would be so fucking easy: all that would be required would be a few choice words, and she'd never speak to him again. But he wasn't sure he could survive the hurt he knew he would see in her eyes. The thought of (once again) causing her pain simply wasn't an option for him anymore.
Option 2: Drop the walls. They were in ruins already. There was no middle ground for him here — he knew he wouldn't be able to be near her while maintaining an aloof distance. And this project would last for at least another five months. Continuing like this simply wasn't sustainable.
Bloody hell…
Being around Hermione was an exquisite agony; the spectres of his past felt like his constant companion when she was near. He couldn't forget the way her screams had cut through him all those years ago, as she'd writhed on his drawing room floor under his aunt's knife while he'd done nothing… He was glad he couldn't forget: it reminded him that she deserved more — deserved better. A coward like Draco didn't even deserve to breathe the same air, but he couldn't stay away, even as it broke him.
When Shacklebolt had said he'd be working with Granger, he had argued — insisted that he assign anyone else. She shouldn't have to work with him. At the same time, he couldn't bring himself to refuse outright. If he was being honest with himself, he'd given in to the Minister's decision too easily. And now here they were: shoulder to shoulder, carefully maintaining their distance in the lift, which felt much smaller than he'd been aware of previously. Hermione had her arms crossed carefully across her chest, and Draco had his hands in his pockets, both of them trying to prevent any accidental physical contact.
The lift came to a stop at the ground floor, and Draco trailed behind in silence. As they made the quick journey to the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione glanced over her shoulder a few times, but didn't speak.
He watched her long braid sway as she walked, and it struck him once again that she was even more beautiful now than she had been at Hogwarts. She'd always been pretty, but there was a hardness to her now (as you might expect of someone who'd fought in a war), and a grace that had surprised him initially, but that suited her perfectly. However, to Draco's unending amusement, she was still easy to rile. He'd proven that over and over again — it was nearly impossible to resist the urge. He found himself craving it — watching her huff and toss her hair… the fire in her eyes… He shook himself.
The most miraculous part of Hermione Granger wasn't her intellect or beauty, rather that she was so good. Through everything, she'd always done the right thing for the right reasons, guided by an intense need to help others. She was truly an unstoppable force. Draco, however… Draco was broken. He'd tried to glue some of the pieces back together, but, like a child's art project, the edges didn't quite line up correctly, and there were pieces missing that he wasn't able to get back. In an effort to atone for his past, he'd been pouring himself into helping others, shoving his own problems into the background. Of course, he continued to work on himself (when he could stomach it) — but it was much easier to give advice than to take it. That was the difference between them: he was hiding, and she was a beacon of light. He was nothing like her.
Draco had been to The Leaky a handful of times since Weasley had taken ownership, but it wasn't a very welcoming crowd for people like him, so on the rare occasion he did go out, it was usually some place where he could fade into the background. Glancing around the bustling pub, he made a note to take Theo there. It could help aid in his recovery and get him back into wizarding society, instead of sitting alone in Draco's apartment. It was well known that Theo had stayed out of the war (despite his father), so it would be easier for him to form new social connections. He wasn't a pariah, like Draco.
Hermione entered first, and Weasley spotted her almost immediately. "Hi there, 'Mione!"
Draco ducked through the door frame and Ron stared at him, over-pouring a drink. "Ah shit," Weasley yelped, as liquor splashed over his hand. Instead of delivering the overfull drink to the patron who'd ordered it, he shot the drink back himself. "I have a feeling I'm gonna need that," he muttered under his breath.
Hermione sighed audibly and Draco realised that he'd made a mistake coming here. If he'd paused to think before accepting her invitation, he would have known that doing something like this, with her of all people, would be a spectacular catastrophe. But it was too late to bugger off now.
Hermione joined Potter towards the end of the bar, which suited Draco well. It was better to sit where he could survey the room and the main entrance; he didn't want his back to any of these wizards. He sat next to Hermione and stayed quiet, focusing on becoming invisible. Hermione joked with her friends and attempted to pull him into the conversation, and Weasley shot him the occasional suspicious glance, but after a few minutes he'd poured him a drink and then mostly ignored him. It was more of a welcome than Draco had expected, to be sure.
He contented himself by watching Hermione from the side as she smiled and laughed with her two oldest friends — two of his oldest enemies. Though he and Potter got on well enough these days, there would always be some level of tension between them; and the Weasley clan certainly wouldn't be inviting him over for Christmas any time soon. Sensing his discomfort, Hermione asked if she could owl Theo and invite him. Seeing no harm in it and hoping that he might act as a buffer between all the Gryffindor energy in the place, he agreed. She continued trying to bring him into the conversation (even bringing up quidditch at one point, which he knew she hated), but he stuck to giving short, safe, noncommittal answers. He was too anxious to engage in any more meaningful conversation, and wondered whether Theo would bother to show up.
What a sight we must be right now, he thought. The Golden Trio and the Death Eater — sounds like a rubbish bedtime story. He scanned the room for reporters and to see if anyone was looking at him, but no one seemed to pay him any mind, tucked from view as he was. He noticed not even Potter attracted many eyes, as he was clearly a regular here.
He wondered (not for the first time this evening), how he'd ended up here. She'd asked if he'd go, and he had said "yes," simple as that; there hadn't been another option. What he should have done was said "no" and gone home to drink himself into oblivion alone, like a respectable gentleman. Instead, he watched Hermione drink another Butterbeer, a bit of foam sticking to her upper lip. He was transfixed by it, and his fingers twitched involuntarily; Draco wanted badly to reach out and wipe the foam from her lips, with his finger, his lips, his tongue — he wasn't picky, really. He needed to know if they were as soft as they appeared. With his thoughts venturing into dangerous territory, he knew it was past time to go back to his apartment, but Weasley had just refilled his bourbon. He hadn't realised his glass was empty, but it would be downright rude to leave now.
Some time later (long after he had lost count of how many times Weasley had topped him off), he had decided that drinking himself into oblivion with other people was rather nice. Theo had finally shown up and waved at him, settling into the only open seat next to Harry, and greeting Ron, Hermione, and Harry like they were old chums. Draco, well into his cups, rolled his eyes — not that he'd admit it, but he was jealous of his friend's easy ability to interact with others. Making friends had never been easy for Draco, and thanks to his (reformed) Death Eater status, it was impossible now. He knew it shouldn't bother him, but it did, more than he liked to admit.
Hermione's laugh was as free and unrestrained as her hair; he just wanted to run his hands through it. Now that they were all on their way to being sloshed, she frequently leaned back towards him as she spoke, nudging his shoulder or touching his arm, trying to draw him into the conversation. He felt drunk on her presence. Every time she touched him, he had needed something to distract his hands, reaching for his glass instead of reaching for her… He realised, through the haze of intoxication, that all he'd been doing was creating another problem which was quickly surfacing: he was really quite smashed. His comfortably numb brain was having more difficulty reminding him of all the reasons he should stay away from her. He probably should have eaten the chips that Weasley had brought out for them, but he wasn't about to eat with his fingers, and Weasley had laughed at him when he'd asked for cutlery.
Draco enjoyed the warmth that he felt after a few drinks; he was always so cold, and this was one of the few times that he wasn't. He felt warm now, but much warmer than usual, and he didn't think he could fault the liquor entirely. His collar felt uncomfortably snug, and each time Granger touched him in that offhand manner, it felt like tiny bolts of energy hitting him. He told himself that this was nothing specific to him. Clearly, she was just one of those people who got too friendly when sloshed. He needed to get a handle on himself, and he was in no fit state to Apparate, but he could Floo home. Despite that knowledge, he couldn't bring himself to leave.
Just then, Hermione roared with laughter at some stupid joke from Weasley. Her body shook with mirth as she leaned back and nearly fell off her stool. She reached out to steady herself, her hand landing on Draco's upper thigh. He jerked involuntarily, grasping the bar top as heat flooded him. It was imperative for him to leave; this was getting out of hand, but he needed a few minutes before he could to stand without embarrassing himself. Attempting to alleviate the heat that was coursing through his veins, he undid the top buttons of his shirt and pushed his sleeves up to the elbow.
Ron's laughter was the first to die. "What the fuck is that?" he said, his tone accusatory.
The alcohol had slowed Draco's reaction time, and before he could register what Ron had said, Hermione had turned and her eyes locked onto his left forearm. Her eyes were wide, her face frozen in horror, but only for a few seconds as she saw the ink (and Dark Mark) on his forearm. Fuck.
"I have to go," Hermione whispered. Face pale, she bolted for the door.
Draco stood quickly, and the room tilted. Harry stepped in front of him, placing a warning hand on his chest as he tried to follow.
"Don't," Harry warned.
"I know. I'm sorry…. Fuck!" Draco squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his hair with both hands in frustration, the pain temporarily clearing his mind. "I shouldn't have come out tonight…'" his voice broke, the liquor making it difficult to keep his emotions below the surface. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to meet the judgement he knew he'd see on their faces. The bar had gone quiet. "I… I'll see you tomorrow, Potter."
"I'll make sure she's alright. Go home Draco," Harry said, in a pitying tone. Theo and Harry exchanged a meaningful look, and Theo nodded; some unspoken conversation passed between them.
"Draco—" Theo's hand came down on his shoulder and he shrugged him off, angrily.
"Sod off, Nott," he said bitterly. He pulled out a fistful of Galleons and slammed them onto the bar-top. Without another word, he left and Floo'd to a pub closer to his apartment, bought a bottle off the bartender, and went home to drown himself in cheap whisky.