a/n: Long chapter, I know. But it's necessary. Try to enjoy it, for I probably won't be posting another chapter for a few days. I really hope you like it.
CIVILITY OR MORE?
Hermione slowly sat on the red and gold sofa behind her, arms shaking madly. She kept peering at the letter as if it would offer some reassurance. For the hundredth time that day, tears stung her eyes, this time having free reign across her tired face.
Malfoy was caught in a battle of will. Should he attempt to comfort her? He tried rationalizing why he would do this, and didn’t think of anything remotely logical. But then he remembered Hermione’s earlier words: “…so I can’t give you a logical answer, Malfoy…” She had been nice without reason; he’d repay her out of the kindness of his heart… though just this once, he thought to himself.
He kicked his feet up on the nearest table and looked around as though slightly amused.
“The Dark Mark, at Weasel’s place?! Doubtful, isn’t it? It hasn’t been seen in ages, other than the Quidditch World Cup, and that wasn’t serious, they were just having a bit of f-” he cut himself short, instantly realizing something.
He remembered back to the Quidditch World Cup, replayed his father’s words in his mind. He’d told him they were just causing a stir, nothing serious. He’d told him it was all a big joke on the Ministry for being so uptight about security…
“Oh…” he whispered. It was all clear now.
It hadn’t been a joke at all. Then he remembered his harsh words to Hermione that night, and felt like snickering at his genius remarks; but he held back, still in wonderment about his own stupidity.
Draco Malfoy had never known his father to be a Death Eater, just one to dismiss compassion and Dumbledore as if they were degrading. He’d always imagined his father’s coldness towards the world to be a simple character flaw. He’d never imagined, until he was sent to Azkaban, that the rumors had been true… that his family was a lying lot of murderers… His eyes stung curiously with the resurface of this penetrating realization.
“It isn’t doubtful at all, Malfoy,” she responded, her voice barely audible, it intertwining with the crackling fire. She shook her head. “What- what if someone… someone is dead, Malfoy? Oh, you just don’t know… you just have no idea.”
Snapping back to reality, he straightened up in his chair, feet still propped up. He raised an arrogant eyebrow as he surveyed her.
“Well then come off it. Fill me in, Mudblood, since you know everything. I’m sure you’ve loads to say to me, and if I were you, I’d take this precious time in my company to spat it out,” he said.
“Oh!” she began, her sorrow quickly manifesting itself into fury.
Malfoy winced, knowing full well the blow that was coming. ‘I can’t believe I’m letting this happen,’ he thought. ‘She’s just a stupid little Mudblood, I should just leave her here to wallow in her self-pity.’
“So, you think I should get it all out, eh? Fine, then.”
She walked over to him, bending forward to meet his eyes. He rolled his own, murmuring something about her being a drama queen, and was just about to get up and leave without another word, when her next words stabbed through his stubbornness.
“I’ll start with you’re a no good, evil, dirty, insensitive, nasty little prat, and I’ve severely disliked you from the very moment I laid eyes on that cocky, sneering face of yours!”
Well, she thought to herself, that was a good start.
“You’re so arrogant, so caught up in your own little world as if you’re the only one who matters. You don’t give a rat’s ass about Crabbe and Goyle, you just like the convenience they offer of doing your dirty work! You have no idea what it’s like to be Harry, to have to live in a shadow of a legend that hasn’t even developed yet, to be known for some stupid scar on your forehead, as if that’s more important than all the things he’s done! And he didn’t save Ginny or stop Voldemort countless times because his name is Harry Potter, he did it because that’s his character, because that’s what’s right, whether your names Potter or not! And you don’t care! You don’t care about anything other than yourself! You tease him like it’s a hobby, you mock his parents and their sacrifice while your own are out there murdering innocent people! Muggles and Wizards alike! You think he’s the conceited one, but he didn’t ask for his fame! You think he consciously planned on being an orphan, living with miserable Muggles, and having his Godfather die?! That’s why he’s famous, Malfoy! A stupid scar that got him nothing but turmoil, nothing but a giant pattern of death in his life… and you call him conceited?! And you think you’re so clever because you pick on Ron’s clothes, as if that’s less superficial than picking on Harry’s scar! You’ve no idea what it’s like to live like him! Constantly one less than everybody else, because you’ve so many siblings that you’re only a small slice of it all! His best friend is the most famous wizard of our age, and he’s smart enough to know that wasn’t his choice! But it still gets hard to not get any attention, because all you’re considered is a poor little Weasley. You’re stuck too far up your own ass to see anything, anything at all Malfoy- you can’t see tragedy when it’s walking right down the hall next to you, you can’t see opportunity when it’s banging it’s fist off at your door, you can’t see beauty when it’s staring you in the face, you can’t see evil when it’s your own father, you can’t see good when it’s your own Headmaster, and you can’t see ignorance when it’s yourself, staring at you through a mirror!”
She took quick, deep breaths as she finished, and stared him in the eyes as if daring him to speak. The seconds that passed seemed to take hours, and very slowly, Hermione began to calm down.
After a long, tense minute, Hermione was sure he’d explode on her, possibly even set a hex on her. His eyes were stone cold, unwavering, and it scared the daylights out of her. He didn’t look angry, he looked more hurt and misunderstood than anything else; and this notion made her want to plop down and cry again.
Malfoy stared her hard in the eyes, could see the sincerity of her words, which made his heart feel like it was being ripped out his chest. Half of him was ready to set her straight, give it back full blown, scream until she went deaf. But the other half just felt miserable. Since his father’s imprisonment, he’d had fewer guts to be the depreciatory, icy Malfoy that Hogwarts knew. It was as if, for the first time, true, pure emotion seeped through his chilly demeanor and pressed him to reflect on himself. ‘Maybe,’ he had thought countless times, ‘if my father had analyzed himself, he wouldn’t have become a Death Eater…’ All the clichés seemed to make sense to him now. Maybe it was true that his dad was just insecure, and that’s why he had to run on those power trips… maybe that’s why he felt he needed to be loyal to Voldemort, because he was powerful…
Either way, what struck Malfoy most was Hermione’s courage to say those things to him. He couldn’t help to gain a small bit of respect for her. His eyebrows raised, he tilted his head and gave a slight nod as if in confirmation of his newfound admiration.
Finally coming back to the current situation, he wondered, briefly, how she could think such things about him; it was so plain she’d fallen for his cold façade like everyone else in the castle. The fact was he was like that because it was almost demanded of him.
Plus, he'd found an easy target in those three and clung to that for dear life. He never even gave much thought to the likelihood that Harry was a good wizard, a good person; growing up in the Malfoy Manor, it was always a prerequisite that anything of or relating to Potter was sinful. He knew why that was now, but two years ago, he was only certain of his father’s judgment. How foolish he was.
And his new revelation at his foolishness was all that held him back from setting Hermione with a curse; for truth be told, she didn’t know what it was like to be him either. She had no idea the torture he’d endure at home, the overwhelming lack of compassion and love. Trying to be a normal human with feelings and passions at the Malfoy manor was harder than trying to suck water from a rock.
To Hermione’s great surprise, Malfoy didn’t say a word, but sat down on the sofa. She eyed him cautiously, like he was a ticking time bomb. She slowly sat, still staring, and waited for the inevitable- only it didn’t come.
“Well…” he finally began calmly as ever. “You’re in luck, Granger. It seems that your skillful articulation on how much you despise me was impressive enough so that I’ve decided not to kill you,” he finished with a smirk.
He looked mildly amused at her shocked expression, and so went on.
“But let’s get a few things clear. I admit I haven’t been too keen on Potter and Weasley, and I admit that may have been some wrongful judgment on my part… well, maybe. I’m still not fond of them. And I’ll even go as far to admit that sometimes I can’t see things for what they’re worth,” he thought bitterly of his father.
“But YOU owe ME quite the apology for being so presumptuous as to think you have any idea as to what it’s like to be me,” he finished acidly.
This took Hermione slightly off guard.
“I, errr… I never said I knew what it was li-”
“No, you didn’t, but it was implied in that tangent of yours, and if you deny that, you’re either excessively stupid or far more ignorant than you say I am,” he retorted.
“Ummm,” she thought for a moment. He was right on that one. “Yes, I suppose… sorry about that,” she finished as she looked around the room, eyes still bright with tears.
“Ok then.”
Silence. For five whole minutes neither spoke or made a single move. Hermione kept glancing over to him, but he seemed content on focusing his concentration on the fire. She was just about to suggest he leave and go to bed when he said,
“I don’t want your pity, Granger.”
“Ok…” her voice fell to barely a whisper. “Then you don’t have it. But… how about my sympathy?” she asked tentatively.
“And what’s the difference?” He looked at her with disgust, mouth still clenched tight.
“Well… pity is sort of, showing mercy for someone because of a bad circumstance. Sympathy is showing compassion -for- their circumstance,” she said meekly, hoping it made as much sense to him as it did to her.
He was taken aback by her sudden display of benevolence and wit. He eyed her, as if seeing her for the fist time.
“Answer me this: how can you go from screaming at me like the insane git that I’m sure you are, to offering me compassion and sympathy?”
“Because…” her voice faded, as she tried to articulate what she was feeling. She took a heavy sigh. “…because those angry words, they’re just words. They represent years of pent-up anger and stress, they don’t represent my personality. They… well, they were an inaccurate depiction of what I feel now, here and today. Because now I only feel sadness, now I feel despair for us all, and there’s no room for anger anymore. That tirade was… it was just a projection of the old me,” she stumbled on.
Malfoy took in these words. This whole situation left him quite amused; not in the way a carnival leaves you amused, but the way an extremely ironic circumstance does… like the bad taste of medicine in your mouth that you eventually grow used to out of necessity.
His mind raced back to her little speech, and it stopped on a particular phrase:
“You said you severely disliked me… you didn’t say hate. Why?” he asked bluntly.
“Well, because the only one I hate is Voldemort. Hate is too powerful and too evil to let it consume your emotions for anything more than one person. And I don’t…” she felt embarrassed already, and she hadn’t even said it. “I never hated you, Malfoy. You can still be such a git… you say these things, these smart comments, and I just don’t know what I’ve don’t to deserve them. But, you’re right, I don’t know anything about you, so I can’t very well judge without being a fat hypocrite. So… we can try to be friends, can’t we?” her voice faded.
Malfoy peered into her soft, round, hazelnut eyes. It was an abnormal day for the Slytherin. He was so used to his façade of cocky superiority. But since the news of his father’s true identity, and his father’s ‘death’, so much in him had changed. He was slowly becoming the Draco that was always inside gasping for air to escape… the one that thrived and refused to die no matter how many snide remarks he threw out. The one that allowed him to sit in the presence of a 'Mudblood'… the one that made him so naïve about his father, yet so determined to never be like him.
While he was looking into her eyes, he saw the hurt, the pain, and the sorrow. His forehead wrinkled in concern on sheer impulse, and he was strangely attracted to Hermione’s eyes now.
They spoke such truth, truth and honesty that Malfoy had never known. He unconsciously moved closer, placing him a mere ten inches away from her face. Her hair lay in gentle, moose curls around her face, and the gold across the room seemed to reflect itself in her eyes.
Her presence taught him emotion, sincerity, and kindness- three more things Malfoy had never known. Staring into her this way made his emotions feel ripe, alive, like they’d just come out of a deep hibernation. He didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to end that strange feeling, but he became suddenly very aware of himself, and pulled away.
“I don’t know about friends. I -might- settle on civility. But don’t get your hopes up.”
************************************
Hermione scribbled a response and sent Hedwig on her way. Soon afterward, Malfoy stood to leave. As he did, Hermione shot up from the sofa.
“Oh, leaving?”
“Well, yeah… it’s nearly 10:30. I’m not supposed to be walking the halls this late as it is,” he said.
“Right, of course…" She smiled nervously.
Malfoy noticed her state of edginess and quickly became quite proud that he had such an affect on her. Though, he rolled his eyes wondering, ‘How could she be so blunt one minute and so meek the next?’
He took a few steps toward the portrait hole.
“Unfortunately, I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early,” he commented.
He thought about his choice of words- ‘unfortunately’… well, Granger’s going to have quite the time reforming me. He gave her one last glance before he left the common room, and Hermione was almost certain he’d given her the smallest of winks.
Hermione dragged her feet to the fireplace and sat on the floor, legs crossed. What was she getting herself into? She reflected on the day, and realized exactly how draining it had been. She had to say farewell to her two best friends, make up three tests, completed all her Herbology assignments, hung out with Draco Malfoy, and recently, dedicated herself to establishing some sort of relationship with the prat.
Worse above all, it was quite possible that one of the Weasleys was dead… ‘Dead,’ she thought wretchedly. It was just now sinking in. And as though hearing it for the first time, she pictured Ron and Mr. Weasley driving up to their home, only to see an omen of death. She closed her eyes, silent tears spilling from her lids. Rage, sadness, vindictiveness, and grief all seemed intertwined in her innermost emotions.
She’d really bitten off more than she could chew this time.
Attempting to calm herself, she thought about the coming day. Organizing a schedule always eased her mind. Her first priority would be surviving another visit from Malfoy.
All in all, however, she thought she had quite the genius plan. Not only would befriending Malfoy make the Christmas holidays much easier, but she’d have someone to talk to, and she’d prove to Dumbledore how mature she was.
But even now, after reflecting on the practicality of it all, she couldn’t get the image of Malfoy’s staring eyes out of her mind.
She gazed into the fire and saw them there too. He’d looked at her as if he didn’t completely detest her. True, they had gotten a lot off their chests tonight, and true they were being civil for once, but the look he gave her wasn’t one of mere civility- it was one of higher emotion, one of…
Her thoughts were cut off by the need to rest. She vaguely felt her had flop onto hard floor, her cheeks still damp with tears, and quickly fell into a fitful sleep.
*************************************************
“Harry! Ron! Get out!” Hermione sprang up from the floor, screaming. The fire was barely crackling, and the darkness that penetrated the windows told that night was still upon her.
She quickly turned around, looking every which way, expecting to see her nightmare become reality.
She’d dreamed the Death Eaters had figured the location of Headquarters, and were on their way. Only she knew because, somehow, she’d heard Voldemort telling them where it was… she was sending them a message, her head in the floo powder-filled fire, yelling at them to leave Grimmauld Place, when she’d woken.
It had seemed so real, so vivid. Then she remembered Harry’s dreams, and how they’d come to be actual visions, and her heart began to race frantically. She didn’t have a connection with him as Harry had, but she was so sure it were real… sometimes fate lets you in on secrets, that’s what this must have been.
Making up her mind, she flung herself towards the portrait hole, and instantly felt the consequences of sleeping on the wooden floor with a bad shoulder. The entire left side of her upper body swelled with pain; she was certain her arm was ready to detach itself, but she stumbled through anyway. She raced towards the Entrance Hall, trying to get to the teacher’s lounge- surely someone would be there.
But just as she reached the last step on the grand staircase, her bad ankle gave out and she tumbled down with a loud smack against the cold floor. The air had been beat out of her, and she felt numb all over. She made a futile attempt to stand, but she was just too weak. Rolling over, she thought maybe she’d conjure a message and send it to McGonagall for help, but soon realized she’d left her wand in the common room. Feeling defeated, scared, and helpless, she propped her body up against the bottom step, hoping against hope that someone would come rescue her, frustrated tears filling her eyes.
And, as if mocking her for her lack of faith, a higher power answered her wish, as Draco Malfoy stalked out of the dungeon doors, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“Hello?” he called. It was too dark to see Hermione at that distance.
“Malfoy! Oh, I never thought I’d be so happy to see you,” Hermione laughed as she spoke.
“Granger? That you? What in bloody hell are you doing?”
“Please, help me up, I need to get to McGonagall,” she pleaded.
Malfoy walked over, eyes squinting as they fought to adjust to the dim light. When he finally saw her propped against the stairs, legs sprawled out awkwardly, he felt his heart do another turn in his chest, and rushed to help her.
“Thanks,” Hermione whispered. He placed her right arm around his shoulder, holding it with his right hand, and stabilized her body by gently grasping his left arm around her waist. Her head rested perfectly against his shoulder, and at every turn of his own he smelled the sweet rose petal scent of her hair. He closed his eyes at the pleasure of it, but quickly regained his senses and began walking, feeling ashamed of himself for his brief moment of weakness.
“Wait! Where are we going?”
“To Slytherin common room, Gryffindor Tower is too far. We’ll never make it up the staircase.”
“No, no, no, we must find McGonagall! I’ve had an awful dream, and I’m positive it’s real, she has to know!” Hermione’s voice was full of panic.
“Hold on, let me guess… it was about Potter and Weasel, wasn’t it? It was just a nightmare, Granger, get hold of yourself,” he sneered.
“No, you don’t understand, this happened to Harry before, he was seeing visions through Voldemort and they were real! If he hadn’t acted on them Ron’s dad would have died!” she yelled, trying to make him understand.
Even now they were wasting time. Malfoy could hear the urgency in her voice, but he was still stunned by this new information- Potter had been seeing visions through Voldemort?
“Potter saw visions through You-Know-Who?” he asked skeptically, exactly as he’d thought it.
“Yes, yes! He did, and I don’t have time to explain Malfoy, please…”
“Look, Granger, no one knows how to get to the teacher’s sleeping quarters, and we don’t know the password to Dumbledore’s office, so we mine as well get you lying down. Potter’s connected to the prat through that scar of his, but your connection wouldn’t make sense,” he finished.
“Haven’t you ever heard of fate, Malfoy? Sometimes there’s nothing magical about it, and sometimes it’s random and, and you know, hard to figure out, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to it!”
“I tell you what,” Malfoy went on, his voice calm. “I’ll take you to my common room, and I’ll get my head into wherever they are through the floo network and make sure they’re good, ok?”
Hermione thought about this for a moment. Even if they were good now, the Death Eaters could still be on their way…
“And,” Malfoy continued pointedly, “If there’s no answer or if they’re in mortal peril,” he spat sarcastically, “I’ll rush off and find a teacher or die trying, right?”
She wasn’t sure about this, but her back and leg were really starting to go numb, so she shook her head yes. He began gently pulling her along through the dungeon doors, and she took noticed of how sweet he was being. Then, she immediately noticed the climate change; it was much colder in here.
After two winding staircases and a few long corridors, they reached a seemingly solid stone wall. Malfoy glanced at Hermione, realizing he’d have to disclose the password to get in. With a mild sigh, he said,
“Parselmouth.”
Faint from the pain, Hermione randomly said, “Oooo, Harry’s a Parselmouth.”
Malfoy sniggered at her obvious state of confusion. “Yes, I think the world found that out second year, Granger.”
He slowly helped her through, careful not to bump her head on the way. He felt her shiver so sat her down on the sofa in front of the fireplace, and watched her take in the decorations. Everything was silver and green, with the occasional black thrown in for variety. The sofa he’d sat her on was a deep emerald green with black pillows. She sat, shivered again, and Malfoy walked up to his dormitory for a blanket.
When he came back down, he was surprised to see Hermione writing something on parchment.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You’re probably right. There’s no way that dream could’ve been real, I was probably overreacting. But I’m still worried, so I’m sending him a letter by owl post first thing tomorrow. I want to know more about what happened after they got to Headquarters anyway,” she responded. “…and about, well… the umm… the Dark Mark.” She coughed uneasily at the thought of it.
This, however, was not completely true. In the couple minutes he had left her alone, she did come to terms with the impossibility of her nightmare, but still had plans for Malfoy to check it out- until she remembered that he’d need the address of their whereabouts, which she was definitely not disclosing to him.
“Oh, alright then.” He said simply.
He walked over, sat down next to her, and wrapped her body in his own soft, black blanket. She pulled it tighter around herself, and got a faint whiff of his scent- she couldn’t quite place what it was, but she liked it enough to inconspicuously bury her face in the blanket.
“Umm, I just wanted to say,” Hermione murmured, finally breaking the silence. “That… well, thank you …for everything. For being nice to me, helping me…” she added with a half smile that made Malfoy’s stomach get an awful fluttering feeling.
He looked past her and into the blackness of the common room, and nodded.
Suddenly, as if being slapped across the face by a large bag of bricks, he realized how thoughtful he was being. When did that begin? He became abruptly afraid that she’d see his new vulnerability and hurt him… he didn’t want to be nice for too long, afraid that she’d come to read him like a book, gain power over his emotions. He couldn’t show weakness. With this, and feeling more awkward than he’d ever felt in his life, the old defense mechanism sprang back into action.
“Don’t mistake this for friendship, Granger. That would be my nightmare,” he drawled.
She looked up at him, her face scrunched in confusion.
“You were doing so well there,” she sighed.
“You know, I really can’t figure why you care so damned much about how I act,” he bellowed. What did she know anyway? She was lucky for the brief spell of consideration he bestowed upon her…
“Wh- what? Malfoy, you hurt my feelings! That’s why I care! Y- you act as though you think I’m the filthiest thing alive!”
“Believe me,” he practically yelled in tones of superiority, as he glanced casually at the ceiling. “…it’s no act,” he spat.
‘I hate how she thinks she can train me like a dog,’ he thought acidly. ‘Who does she think she is? In fact, I can’t believe I’m even sitting here with her.’
“Malfoy, you- you can’t possibly mean that, you were just being so nice…” She couldn’t believe this random sprout of hostility. Wrapping the blanket tighter around her, she stared vacantly in his direction.
“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t mean! You see? I try to be civil with you and you come off all high and mighty on me. You know, this really isn’t going to work. I’m pureblood anyway, so it clearly wasn’t meant to work.” He turned away, refusing to face her. ‘Ignorant Mudblood,’ he thought.
“I- I can’t believe you’re saying… Malfoy, why are you being like this?”
“BECAUSE!” he screamed, fury pulsing through his veins. “YOU ACT LIKE YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I’VE GONE THROUGH MY WHOLE LIFE! AND YOU HAVEN’T THE FAINTEST CLUE! AND YOU’RE TRYING TO CHANGE WHO I AM! WELL YOU CAN’T! SORRY IF I’M NOT UP TO YOUR STANDARDS, BUT THIS IS ME, WICKED AND EVIL, SO DROP THE SYMPATHY ACT! I’M A LOST CAUSE, ALRIGHT?!”
Hermione was stunned. She looked fearful, her eyes wide with shock… she was much too afraid to move, let alone speak. She was conscious of her trembling hands, but more so of her tearful eyes. ‘Don’t let him see…’ she thought miserably, and turned away. She felt so alone now. Harry and Ron were gone, the War was asphyxiating them all like a snake wrapped around an infant’s neck, her family was hundreds and hundreds of miles away, and all she had- or thought she was beginning to have- was Malfoy. And as second rate as that was, it was something to keep her from going insane with anxiety.
After a long minute, Malfoy gave her a disgusted look and stalked away into his dormitory, roughly slamming the door behind him. She didn’t want to be left alone…
“Malfoy?” she called sheepishly. He didn’t answer. Tears spilled down her face, her vision was so blurry now…
“Malfoy, p- please come back…” she cried as she pleaded.
He still didn’t answer. She buried her damp face in the blanket, and sobbed harder than ever, as she relived every bad thought she’d had in the last 48 hours in her head, and pondered on how lost she felt… some corner of her mind, however, began to feel ashamed and mortified over her lack of will.
A moment later she heard a squeak that was the unmistakable sound of a door opening. She immediately ceased her crying as best she could, and looked up to see a very blurry figure of Malfoy standing over her.
Before she lost her nerve, she said, “I- I don’t think you’re a lost c-cause, Malfoy… you’re not a b- bad person, and I never meant t- to make you f- feel like you were,” she sobbed.
‘How pathetic,’ he forced himself to think; Though Malfoy’s hardened face did softened slightly.
“It’s j- just,” she continued, “…everything is so wrong… and unfair… Harry…”
She stopped, unable to control her steady flow of tears. She still couldn’t make out what Malfoy looked like, but she noticed his figure wasn’t as stiff.
Eyes alight with mild concern and a tinge of regret, he listened carefully, but still refusing to sit beside her.
And finally, all her thoughts spilled out as quickly as her tears.
“I love Harry so much, it’s not fair everything happens to him! W- why does it have to be Harry? If he d- dies, I swear I’ll die t- too… I d- don’t know if I could live knowing they were g- gone forever… if anything bad happens to any of t- the Weasleys… if one of them is hurt, I’ll- I’ll KILL Voldemort, I will! I swear I will… And n- now they’re both gone, and I can’t be t- there with them, and… it’s b- breaking my heart…”
She looked hopefully into his face, praying that he’d understand, even a little… praying that he heard the sorrow in her voice, saw it in her every gesture. Little did she know, his heart was melting… and he found himself quite humiliated of his outburst.
He barely gathered enough courage to sit down, and say quite hesitantly, “Sorry.”
She wiped her eyes and was finally able to see him properly. He looked slightly perplexed, and extremely worried.
His eyes shifted back and fourth between hers and her hair, which was scattered across her face. After a little thought, she gave a mischievous sort of grin, and mockingly said,
“I don’t want your pity.”
He stared at her, utterly taken aback. Then realizing what she was playing at, he broke out into a laugh. They smiled at each other for a long time, Hermione occasionally wiping her eyelashes free of tears.
“So…” he began softly to break to silence, “I heard about the battle and all that, I mean, I saw them coming at the match… I’d just gotten the Snitch, too,” he said in hopes of making things a bit light hearted. “But… I mean, what happened to your shoulder and all?”
“Broke it,” Hermione said through the blanket. “And my ankle too. The bones are all right, but they’ll only stay so if I take that dreadful potion twice a day for a few weeks. They’re bruised like mad though, which is why it hurts.”
She looked up at him and noticed his wrinkled forehead. She smiled a bit and thought, ‘maybe this won’t be so hard after all’. Still, it was a very odd sensation, sitting there in the Slytherin common room with Malfoy. Just a few days ago, this situation seemed far less likely than being killed by a Death Eater. Hermione felt like part of her world was being turned upside down by this new “civility” between them… or maybe, it was turning right side up.
Malfoy was having similar feelings. He still thought it all must be some sort of nightmarish dream, intended to shock himself into an analysis of his life. Nothing about befriending her made sense, and this blatant lack of logic irritated him… But the more he considered it, the more he realized that his whole outlook had been shaped by his father, who had turned out to be Voldemort’s right-hand man. Perhaps it wasn’t so ludicrous.
Nonetheless, Malfoy was having a hard time adjusting. He hated looking in her eyes like this… it made him feel weak, vulnerable, and this new experience with raw emotion was leaving him very unnerved.
Unexpectedly, he thought of something that he thought might help her wounds…
“You know…” he gave her a quizzical glance, and then rushed back up the stairs. A moment later he’d returned with a small red vial.
“What’s that?” she questioned.
“It helps with bruises, I noticed. It’s meant to warm you up, but when you rub it on a bruised spot, it alleviates the pain for a bit. I’ve used it loads of times when I’ve come in sore from Quidditch. Which shoulder is it?” he asked.
“Ohh…” she pointed to her left one, feeling a bit awkward.
He handed her the vial, but she stared at it hesitantly for a moment. She looked back up at him, and saw that he clearly misunderstood.
“What is it? Look, I’m not tricking you, alright? Though, I can’t think why not…”
“No, it’s not that, it’s…” she felt very uncomfortable now.
“What, then?” he was dreadfully confused and it showed in the eyebrows that were disappearing into his hairline.
“Well, it’s more my shoulder blade than my actual shoulder… and, it- well, what I mean to say is, I can’t reach it myself,” her voice fell at the end of her sentence.
So did Malfoy’s face.
‘Damn me!’ he thought to himself. 'Why did I have to go get the bloody vial?'
Now he either made it awkward by rubbing it on for her, or he made it even more awkward by refusing to do so.
After a mental smack, he decided on a bit of comic relief.
“Oh damn, Granger, you really are dependent. Hand it here, then.” He said with as much energy as he could muster. She slowly handed him the red vial, and turned her back on him even slower. She heard him take the top off, and decided to do the same.
‘Oh, this is so embarrassing,’ she thought glumly.
She tossed the blanket from her shoulders and very gradually lifted the back of her shirt, revealing smooth, bare skin, and a decent sized black and blue bruise.
She heard Malfoy gasp.
“What? What is it?” she asked nervously.
“Noth- nothing, it’s just, err, really bruised, is all.”
He’d really gasped at the sight of her bare skin, not the bruise; he’d gasped at seeing the fire’s light dance playfully on Hermione’s nude, soft back. He’d gasped at the way her long, chocolate curls hung across her exposed shoulders. He’d gasped at how beautiful it was.
Now, however, he only felt the instinct to be revolted that he was about to touch her. Nonetheless, her suppressed this as best he could.
With slightly trembling hands that he couldn't explain if his life depended on it, he tipped a small bit onto her bruise. He began soothingly, slowly, rubbing it in, and at first Hermione shuttered at the feel of his hands on her; but she quickly got used to it, as her body soaked up the warmth. She let her head fall to one side, exposing her neck a little, and let out the smallest of moans. Malfoy heard it; he tried pretending that he hadn’t, but his scarlet cheeks deceived him.
He was very cautious not to hurt her- his hands motioned ever so carefully around her shoulder blade, and the fluttering feeling, as if he’d just fallen a hundred feet, came back with gusto.
He wanted to lean back, to allow the fluttering to die down, but he had to continue, else she’d know something was wrong. She turned her head around so that her back faced him at an angle so she could see him. He shifted over on the sofa so he could make eye contact with her, and as soon as he did, instinctively pushed her locks out of her face to get a better look. Hermione closed her eyes and swallowed hard, her cheek tingling with warm where his gentle hand has just been. And then, just as if to tease her, Malfoy whispered,
“Ok, you should feel it now.” And he stopped with a mischievous grin. He knew she was just putty in his hands right then, and he loved knowing that he had this impact on her. He leaned back, hands behind his head, and continued to give her a half smile with the infamous raised eyebrow.
“Oh, yeah… thanks, that helped,” she added shyly.
And without thinking, he reached up and grabbed the top of her shirt and very gently pulled it back down. He reached for the blanket, pulled it over her shoulders, and watched in awe as she turned back around and saw the now familiar gold flicker in her eyes. Her eyelashes were long and dark, and Malfoy remembered seeing tears spilt from them.
Instead of the previous smug grin, he realized that his heart was racing- his hands tried taking on a mind of their own, but several times, he stopped them right before they had caressed her face. A couple curls still hung flirtingly across her eye, casting a slight shadow on her soft cheeks. She stared at him intently- it made him feel like she was seeing through him, and the part of him that was the true Draco, but also that vulnerable part that he loathed, loved it. He secretly wanted so badly for her to see through his façade, to understand that his attitude is all he has sometimes in a family, a world that hates him- to know he’s really, deep down, just mildly insecure and very uncertain.
Hermione’s heart began to race now, as she saw the ice behind Malfoy’s eyes begin to thaw. She felt like she saw a bit of his soul, a bit of the real person that lay behind all those layers of false arrogance. She knew it must be difficult growing up in the cynical, cold-hearted Malfoy Manor. She knew there was so much more to him… once again, she found herself deciding what sort of look he was giving her. She was mesmerized by the soft light on his face, his hair lying playfully across his forehead. Without knowing, Malfoy had leaned in much closer- Hermione felt his body’s heat, mere inches away from hers… she felt his gaze grace her lips, and felt butterflies embrace her stomach at the same time. She leaned in too, so close now… she wondered- would he?
‘No, way… this is insane,’ she thought roughly. And she pulled herself out of the trance, and noticed Malfoy had done the same.
She took a deep breath, tried clearing her mind, but it was useless. She didn’t want that moment completely lost- she wanted it preserved forever in memory. It was testimony of Malfoy’s hidden compassion, and Hermione felt strangely flattered that she’d been given that gift. She opened the blanket up and motioned for him to share it with her. It was evident through the scrutinizing look on his face that he was tremendously reluctant.
“I promise, I won’t bite,” she giggled.
He raised an eyebrow, but the look of longing she gave him melted away any apprehension he had. He tucked himself next to her, with a perfect blend of disgust and desire forcefully streaking through him; the oddest sensation he’d ever felt.
He closed the blanket around them as she rested her head on his broad chest. He took a deep breath of her hair’s compelling, sweet scent, but, of course, immediately denied to himself that he’d done so. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he thought nastily. ‘I- I’m touching her. What have I come to?’
But these thought were just the projection of HIS former self, and that same part of him that yearned for escape knew it.
Hermione felt his heart beating and hesitantly admitted that it was one of the most beautiful sounds she’d ever heard.
She noticed, though, that it was beating rather fast.