To Hermione's surprise, Malfoy apparated into the clearing several hours before sunset, dressed more casually than she had ever seen him in gray trousers and a light blue button-up, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was still a ridiculous ensemble for traipsing through the forest, and he still looked painfully expensive, but for Malfoy she supposed it was casual.
She watched as he settled himself under the tree and stared out into the forest, seemingly content to wait. It would be several more hours before the unicorn appeared, and Hermione briefly wondered if Malfoy was perhaps waiting for her, before she quickly banished that thought and began to assemble three sandwiches.
Sandwiches in hand, Hermione made her way outside, sitting down next to Malfoy and handing him the plate before snagging one of the sandwiches from it. Malfoy devoured both sandwiches as Hermione watched, nibbling thoughtfully at her own sandwich. "You're a bit early," she said, just as Malfoy was swallowing his final bite.
Malfoy merely shrugged. "I was bored," he replied simply.
Hermione stared at him, knitting her brows. "Oh, so you decided to come here, an empty forest, for a riveting time?" she asked sarcastically.
Malfoy turned to face her. "Now, Granger, it's not quite empty." He smiled at her, and Hermione felt as if all the air had been stolen from her lungs. When she didn't—couldn't—reply, he sighed and continued, "It's peaceful here. Tranquil. It's an escape from—" Malfoy broke off and his expression soured. "All that. Out there." His playful mood had disappeared, and now he just appeared to be angry.
Hermione abandoned her sandwich on the plate between them, and wrapped her arms around her knees, bringing them to her chest. She wasn't sure if it was the cool breeze whipping through the forest, or if it was Malfoy's ire, but she suddenly felt quite chilly. Without speaking, Malfoy withdrew his wand from his pocket and cast a warming charm over them. Hermione grinned into her knees. "What? No firewhiskey this time?"
He grinned back at her before producing the silver flask from his other pocket. "It's a bit early for me, Granger, but take a swig if you like," Malfoy said, handing her the flask.
Truthfully, it was a bit early for her, too, but Malfoy had already made her feel quite unsteady, and she supposed a bit of liquid courage couldn't hurt. She accepted the flask and took a small swig, the alcohol warming her insides as she swallowed.
Malfoy's grin had transformed into a smirk—as infuriating as always—as he watched her take another sip from the flask before handing it back to him and rubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand. It was a subtle, quick movement—so quick that Hermione wasn't even entirely sure if she saw it—but Malfoy's eyes dropped lower, to her lips, before he quickly averted his gaze.
Hermione's stomach flipped, and this time, she knew it wasn't because of the alcohol.
Now was not the time to analyze what that meant. Hermione shook her head and glanced back at Malfoy, who was now staring at the toes of his dragonhide shoes.
Rich wanker, Hermione thought, an insult she had always used to describe Draco Malfoy, but now it was a thought tinged with affection, which she would have never thought possible.
This was not a useful train of thought.
"What is it like?" Hermione finally blurted. "Out there, I mean." She felt guilty even as she asked the question—realizing she had no idea what the world was like outside of her little clearing. She had been so consumed with finding the last Horcrux, that she hadn't even bothered to think about what was occurring outside of her books. She felt herself flush out of shame.
Malfoy let out a heavy sigh. "It's bad, Granger," he said after a moment.
As per usual, Malfoy was not being particularly helpful. Hermione opened her mouth to accuse him of such, but Malfoy merely raised a finger. Hermione bit her lip and promptly swallowed her words.
"All of Wizarding England is under his control, and he rules it with absolute authority," Malfoy continued. "Everything—and I mean everything is a platform for His propaganda. The Prophet, Hogwarts, I mean, all of it." He sighed again, rubbing at a bit of dirt on his shoe. "You have to watch what you say every minute of every day, because chances are someone is watching you."
"Like a police state," Hermione interjected softly.
Malfoy glanced at her before nodding shortly. "Yes," he agreed. "He's just moved into Belgium, and I believe he aims to take over the entire peninsula before the year is out."
"What about the Muggles?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Truthfully, I'm not sure," he admitted. "I thought they'd be the first to go, but he's so focused on gaining power right now."
Hermione furrowed her brows. "What do you mean, I'm not sure?"
Malfoy smiled bitterly. "Well, I'm hardly privy to all of His plans, Granger. I'm not trusted enough for that."
"Is that why He doesn't feed you?" she asked, with more anger in her voice than she had intended.
Finally, Malfoy looked her straight in the eye. "I suppose that may be one of the reasons," he replied with a small smirk.
Hermione felt herself scowl. She reached for what was left of her sandwich and shoved it at Malfoy, who laughed—that laugh, the one she liked—before taking the rest of the sandwich and finishing it in one bite. And, against his own advice, Malfoy took a large swig of firewhiskey from his flask.
"I thought you said it was too early?" Hermione said pointedly, grabbing the flask from him.
Malfoy shrugged again. "Ah. Well, I suppose it is the weekend." His infuriating smirk grew larger.
"Is it?" Hermione asked, acutely aware of how ridiculous her question truly was.
Malfoy cocked his head and arched a brow at her, studying her expression. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked quietly.
Hermione shook her head.
He sighed, leaning back against the tree. "It's Friday, April 28th, 2000."
"I know the year, Malfoy," Hermione snapped instantly, feeling guilty even as she did so. Inadvertently, she flushed.
"As much as you may disbelieve this, Granger, I was not trying to offend you," Malfoy replied, gently, and somewhat apologetically.
Hermione refused to meet his eyes. He hadn't been trying to offend her.
More importantly, Hermione desperately wantedto believe him.
Most importantly, perhaps, was that Hermione did believe him.
"Sorry," Malfoy said after a moment. Both his posture and voice had noticeably stiffened. He was staring at his fingers as he fiddled with them in his lap.
Hermione sighed, staring down at her own fingers. "No," she said, her irritation with him dwindling just as quickly as it had flared. "No," she repeated, softer this time. She sighed heavily, feeling all the oxygen leave her lungs. "So I was right, then."
Malfoy was watching her thoughtfully, his head cocked in her direction. "Right?" he asked.
Hermione nodded, staring down at the ground. "I thought it was getting close the anniversary," she replied softly. She grabbed a nearby twig and began to draw runes into the dirt.
"Ah." Out of Hermione's peripheral vision, she saw him nod. "Yes. The anniversary will be Tuesday this year," Malfoy replied matter-of-factly. "There will be a gala, as is tradition. The tables at Hogwarts will be filled with food—the finest foods you could possibly imagine, Granger, from every cuisine, in truly impossible quantities. People will be dressed in their most expensive clothes, drunk on the most expensive Champagne money can buy."
Hermione felt herself grow cold. Of course, to her the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts was an occasion meant to be mourned, but for Voldemort, it was a celebration. They had won, hadn't they? Of course they meant to celebrate their victory. Hermione looked over to Malfoy, who had his hands balled tightly into fists, his grey eyes were hard. It appeared that Malfoy was not as celebratory as the rest of the Death Eaters. "You sound as if you don't like it very much."
Malfoy laughed harshly. "No, Granger, I don't enjoy it." He did not elaborate, and was silent for several moments before finally announcing, "I wouldn't attend if I had any say in the matter. But of course, I don't. This year my date will be Astoria Greengrass." He laughed darkly, seemingly to no one in particular.
Hermione's heart clenched painfully at the idea of Malfoy on a date with Astoria Greengrass, a girl Hermione could only vaguely picture. A nearly faceless girl, dressed in her finest clothes and clinging to Malfoy's arm. Hermione suddenly felt somewhat nauseous, and forcefully pushed the image of Astoria and Malfoy out of her mind. When she finally looked back up at him, Malfoy was watching her intently, a small flush tinging the tops of his cheeks a lovely pink.
Briefly, Hermione wondered if he was cold. Suddenly, she felt her own cheeks begin to burn, and she realized that his flush was most certainly not because he was cold. Hermione snatched the flask from Malfoy's fingers and took a long swig.
"Oy, Granger," Malfoy said, reaching for the flask, "that's not water. At that rate you'll end up proper smashed. " He chuckled, his fingers prying the flask from Hermione's own.
Hermione's stomach flipped, as it was so prone to inexplicably do in Malfoy's presence. She pulled her fingers away from him, releasing the flask. Malfoy's own eyes had grown wide, and he took his own large swig from the flask before placing it back in his pocket. He ran his fingers through his hair, disheveling his normally perfectly coiffed hair so that several strands fell over his forehead and his eyes. He was far from unkempt, but in that moment, Hermione thought he looked positively wild. It was the most undone she had ever seen Draco Malfoy, and with a growing realization—and a growing smugness that felt completely alien to her—she realized perhaps she was the reason for his sudden frustration.
Shit.
She was drunk.
Fine. So in her drunken state, she could admit to herself that she actually found Malfoy quite attractive. Logically, it made sense. He was objectively good-looking. Why wouldn't she find him attractive? The math—the proportions—the ratios—they all made sense on paper. Scientifically, he was a good-looking man. She could admit that—that was fine.
Fine. Fine. So Hermione found Draco Malfoy somewhat attractive. She could live with that reality. The more pressing question in her mind, however, was—perhaps?—did Malfoy find her attractive? She had grown into her looks, that much she knew. She was no longer the buck-toothed girl desperate for friends—she was the Brightest Witch of Her Age after all, gods-damn it, and she thought smart was incredibly sexy—
And oh—
She was drunk—
And staring—
Oh, and thank Merlin, he was staring at his dragonhide shoes, appearing to be thinking very hard about something, and hopefully—hopefully—he had not noticed her practically salivating over him.
Hermione shook her head, clearing her somewhat fuzzy mind, and pulled her knees into her chest so she could watch her own shoes.
They were silent for a long time, and Hermione was struck once more at how comfortable she had become in Malfoy's presence. The silence could have been awkward, or heavy, but it simply—wasn't. And yes, fine, maybe she had grown to enjoy his company. Hermione shifted, looking back towards Malfoy and finding that he had leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, his disheveled hair falling across his face.
Hermione couldn't help her grin. "Well, you may not like attending, but there is some good news, I suppose," she mused.
Malfoy opened his eyes and blinked at her in confusion. "What's that?" he asked.
"At least you'll get a proper meal," she said, meaning it as a joke, but finding that she was actually quite serious.
He smiled at her—a real smile, and gods, he looked so different when he really smiled—and chuckled. "Yes, I suppose that is true. It will be a nice change of pace. I have been growing fond of the sandwich ála voleuse, but I have a feeling that will not be on the menu."
Hermione glared at him. "Voleuse?" she repeated.
Malfoy grinned, leaning back against the tree again. "It's French for thief."
Hermione smacked his bent knee playfully, her stomach flipping as she touched him. "You did not just call me a thief!" she exclaimed, her face growing hot once more. "And in French, no less. You snob."
He had closed his eyes again, and his grin had transformed back into a smirk. "Oui, mon chéri, je le sais."
"Snob," Hermione repeated under her breath, crossing her arms over her chest.
After a moment, Malfoy spoke again: "My family is rather French," he said quietly. "I grew up speaking it."
Hermione turned towards him, interested. "I didn't know that," she replied.
Malfoy shrugged. "There was no reason for you to. If I recall, I wasn't so interested in your heritage at school either."
He'd said it so casually, as if he'd not just dropped a literal bomb between them—decades of hate, years of teasing, years of hurt—Hermione suddenly realized that perhaps in her loneliness, and apparent attraction to Malfoy, she had forgotten all of it. She had assumed, and ascribed certain motives and ideas to him that she didn't truly know.
Because he'd seemed different. But did that truly mean that he was different?
No, of course not. She'd never asked. Had only assumed.
But she knew also she was right. He was different. The fact that he was sitting here with her, leaning against a tree with his hair disheveled was all the proof that she needed that he was different.
She turned away from Malfoy, the arms across her chest tightening into a protective hold. "Well, yes," she replied rather lamely.
Beside her Malfoy shifted, moving closer to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, but removed it the instant she flinched, leaving Hermione wishing very much that she hadn't, because his fingers were so very gentle, and felt so, so good—
"I'm sorry," Malfoy said, as he drew his hand back.
She didn't want him to be sorry.
"It's just—" he cut himself off, raking his fingers through his hair, disheveling it further. "It's not the same as it used to be, Granger."
He looked to her, waiting for a response, but she had none. Hermione's words were caught in her throat.
"The hate—" Malfoy continued, wincing. "It—was easy. When it wasn't real. When I was a child, it wasn't really—it wasn't real. It was easy to hate, when there weren't lives at stake. But it—it started to change. By my sixth year, I realized I was too far in. That's when I saw that it was real." He was silent for several moments. "I saw that it was real, and that's when I realized that all of it was fake."
Hermione continued to stare at him, wanting him desperately to continue. She wanted to know. She had to know.
Malfoy shook his head, staring down at his shoes. He pulled the flask from his pocket and took another long swallow. He sighed. "None of it is real, Granger," he said quietly. "None of us are better than anyone else. Certainly not because of our blood." Malfoy scoffed. "We all bleed the same."
Faintly, Hermione realized she was trembling. She wanted to reach out to him—she wanted to touch him, to comfort, to—something. Anything. She didn't exactly know what. But she had one final question, so she asked it: "Do you really believe that?"
He looked squarely into her eyes. "Yes," Malfoy said firmly. "The only one who's blood isn't red is His. He's the only one who's not human."
Hermione could scarcely breathe. She had known that he was different, but to see it now, to have him freely admit it—she was in near disbelief. "You know He's not even a pureblood," she said, not even thinking before the words left her lips.
Malfoy laughed bitterly. "Somehow, I'm not even surprised." He pulled a nonexistent thread from his immaculate trousers. "Nothing surprises me anymore, Granger." He paused, then looked at her again. "Save you, I suppose," Malfoy continued quietly. "I never would have expected to find you out here like this."
She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the sky was growing dark quickly. Hermione opened her to mouth to ask—what, exactly?—just as Malfoy brought his fingers to his lips, signaling for her to be quiet.
Internally, Hermione huffed, but she quieted and wrapped her arms around herself. The night was steadily growing colder. Silently, Malfoy cast another warming charm, for which she was grateful. If she drank anymore firewhiskey, she might do something truly stupid.
The unicorn appeared shortly after it grew dark, trotting excitedly into the clearing with his head held high, his mane whipping about beautifully in the light spring breeze. He was a stunning creature, and Hermione held her breath as he pranced—clearly showing off—afraid that she would scare him away and Malfoy would not be able to retrieve the horn he needed for the Order.
Malfoy had none of Hermione's reservations, clearly, as he stood and leisurely made his way to the unicorn, his hand outstretched. "Hey, handsome," he murmured quietly, scratching at the unicorn's chin. The unicorn dropped his muzzle into Malfoy's hand, closing his eyes in enjoyment. Malfoy took another step forward and leaned into the unicorn, whispering into the animal's ear.
After several moments, the unicorn grunted and lazily cocked his back foot, seemingly agreeing to Malfoy's request. Still rubbing the unicorn, Malfoy withdrew the knife from his pocket and began to gently peel at the animal's horn. Now that Hermione understood the action, she could see that Malfoy was truly not hurting the unicorn. In fact, he was barely taking any horn at all. When he was finished, Malfoy pocketed the bit of horn he had retrieved and rubbed the unicorn's forehead. "Thank you," Malfoy said quietly before taking several steps back. The unicorn nickered, gave a happy kick, and trotted back into the forest.
Malfoy remained where he stood until the unicorn could no longer be heard. He dropped his outstretched hand and slowly returned to where Hermione sat. He did not sit and Hermione understood that he was about to leave. "When will you be back?" she asked, looking up at him.
He did not meet her eyes. "I will be very busy the next several days because of the anniversary," he said blandly. "Monday would be ideal, but I don't think I'll be able to sneak away without questions." Malfoy paused, finally glancing down at her with a look that made her shiver. "If the gala goes as I expect it will, I'll be able to sneak away late Tuesday evening."
Hermione nodded. "I'll wait for you," she said quietly. "Tuesday."
Malfoy's eyes grew wide for just a moment before he looked away. "Tuesday," he agreed, his voice stiff. "I'll see you, Granger."
With a crack and a flash, he was gone.
The next several days passed in a haze for Hermione. She slept. She ate. She searched for Horcruxes. On a particularly warm day, she headed to the lake nearby for a bath. She stayed in the water until long after her skin was pruned as she stared up at the cloudless sky.
Time seemed to have stopped in the absence of Malfoy's visits. Hermione had begun to expect him, and in his absence, she wasn't entirely sure what to do.
She hated to admit it, but Hermione was waiting for him.
What was even harder to admit, was that she was worried about him.
As expected, Malfoy did not return to the clearing on Monday. Against her better judgement, Hermione fixed several sandwiches and waited just outside her wards. By midnight, the sandwiches had become stale, Hermione was freezing, and no unicorn appeared.
Hermione returned to her tent and crawled into her bed, wrapping the blankets around herself. She couldn't sleep, however, and spent the majority of the evening twirling the coin Malfoy had given her between her fingers, trying—and failing—not to think about him. To not think about what the coin meant. To not think about what it all meant.
All meaning her rather confusing attraction to Malfoy.
By Tuesday afternoon, Hermione was practically twitching with anticipation. She hadn't slept nor eaten, preparing sandwiches for Malfoy in lieu of her own meals, and with his clear dread towards the anniversary of the gala, Hermione was unsure of what to expect from him—and if she should expect him at all. Perhaps he wouldn't be able to sneak away after all. Hermione chewed anxiously at her bottom lip.
Hermione ignored her anxiety and prepared two turkey and cheese sandwiches just as the sun was beginning to set. Sandwiches folded neatly into napkins she had stolen from a takeaway restaurant, she made her way out of the tent and settled herself against the trees, hopeful that Malfoy would appear.
It was past midnight, and Hermione's lids were growing heavy with sleep when a sudden crack awoke her completely. Her eyes shot open, and she found herself watching as Malfoy trudged through the clearing. He was dressed impeccably—as always—in sharply tailored tuxedo and a crisply pressed set of black robes. On his feet, a set of dragonhide shoes. New, if she had to guess.
To put it simply, he looked stunning.
He also looked exhausted, and perhaps a bit intoxicated. As he walked towards her, Hermione could detect a distinct uneasiness to his gate. It both scared and thrilled her. She wanted to see him unraveled.
Malfoy pulled off his robes as he approached, tossing them down where he normally sat. They would have been crushed, but Hermione pulled them from the ground before Malfoy threw himself down onto the ground. "I'm exhausted and I don't have the patience for questions tonight, Granger," he said in a dead voice. "So if you could just save them—"
"I only have one," Hermione interrupted.
He turned to look at her, his grey eyes red where they should have been white, and then surrounded by giant purple circles. He didn't just look tired—he looked sad. "What is it, Granger?"
"Are you okay?"
Malfoy looked surprised for a moment, then his eyes drooped again, further this time. "No," he replied quietly.
Hermione nodded, expecting as much. She scooted closer to him until their outer thighs touched. "Actually, I have two."
Malfoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Yes?" he asked irritably.
She held the wrapped sandwiches up to his face. "Are you hungry?"
His eyes opened, and instantly the irritation on his face melted. He laughed, taking the sandwiches from her. "Actually, yes," Malfoy replied, unwrapping the first sandwich and nibbling at it. After he had finished, Malfoy looked over to her. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It's not you that I'm angry with."
"I know," Hermione replied simply, staring out into the dark forest.
Malfoy did not respond, but instead pulled his flask from his pocket, taking a long swig that audibly emptied the container. Swallowing, Malfoy tossed the flask to the ground and indelicately wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.
Malfoy rolled his jaw. "No," he said simply. "I'd like to sit here, quietly, and wait for the unicorn.
Hermione reminded herself that it wasn't her that he was angry with. It wasn't her—he was simply angry, and she so intensely wanted to provide him with some comfort—some sort of respite. She was already directly next to him, so she did the simplest act of comfort she could think of—she rested her head on his impeccably tailored shoulder. He tensed briefly, and Hermione thought briefly of pulling away, but almost immediately, he relaxed.
Several moments later, Hermione felt him rest his chin on the top of her head. "I'll tell you whatever you'd like to know tomorrow," Malfoy said quietly.
"Okay," Hermione agreed.
It wasn't long before Malfoy's breathing changed, becoming heavier and slower against her hair. She didn't have to look to know that he was falling asleep. It was late, and cold, and the unicorn hadn't made an appearance yet. "Malfoy," Hermione muttered quietly.
He didn't reply.
"Malfoy," she repeated, louder.
Against her, Malfoy shifted. "Fuck," he said. "It's late. I should go."
Truthfully, Hermione didn't really want him to go. But she couldn't voice that out loud. Not yet. Instead, she nodded. "Yes," she agreed, handing him his robes. "Tomorrow?"
Malfoy nodded jerkily. "Tomorrow," he replied, somewhat insincerely.
"Tomorrow," Hermione repeated, intent to hold him to his promise.
a/n: Hope you're enjoying so far-we're about to get into the real meat of things. See ya next week, friendos! Until then, thoughts are always appreciated.