CHAPTER SEVEN: VERBAL EXCHANGES AND OBSCURED AFFECTION
“Malfoy…”
“Don’t ask. I don’t know the answer. I don’t know anything anymore.” He said bluntly.
Hermione shifted nervously in her seat. He looked so miserable. He didn’t let a tear fall, but they continued to fight for freedom.
She knew what was needed… he needed answers. He needed solidity, not whimsical emotion. He needed a certain amount of toughness. Anything ambiguous would only make matters worse. Any vague, hazy, or indistinct answers would only add to his confusion and pain. He needed a firm foundation from which to build his confidence. She had to be all-knowing now, even if she didn’t have the proper answers. She at least had to offer him insight.
“Ask me.”
Malfoy stopped rubbing his temples and looked up with a confused expression plastered across his pale face.
“What?” he asked incredulously.
“Ask me what you want to know.”
“Well you’ve grown exceedingly cocky, haven’t you?” he said with a laugh. “What makes you think you have the answers to my questions? What makes you think I’d even care to hear your answers? You have no idea what I’m feeling, how could you possibly kn-”
“You’re feeling so much it’s as if you’re not feeling at all. You’re body is aching to go numb with confusion and agony but your heart won’t allow it. Your heart won’t allow it because your soul has just been stirred, as easily as if Evil itself just plunged a spoon into your spirit and began whisking. Your heart won’t allow it because it’s confused, shaking with mixed disbelief and knowing all at once. You’re heart won’t allow it because it has questions that need answering. So… ask me.” She stated, as if a teacher speaking to a promising pupil.
“H-How would you know that?” was all Malfoy could think to ask.
Hermione just peered through him with her piercing gaze, as if to say, ‘don’t be thick’. But Malfoy knew how- she’d felt it so many times herself it had become instinct to spot it in others.
After a long agonizing minute in which Malfoy contemplated which question to ask first, Hermione said:
“Don’t organize your thoughts. You’ll never manage. Just say them as they come… ask them as they come.”
“This is ridiculous. What right do I have to feel-”
“Every right in the world, Malfoy. You’ve had to endure a lot in the past week. News of your father… realizations and epiphanies on yourself and your life… then you’ve just had to sit and watch those you’ve despised mourn a death, making everything you previously knew questionable. Is Harry really so awful? Though, you know that answer: Of course not. He’s a fine wizard. But then that begs the question, are purebloods really so superior? Deep down you know that answer too: No, not necessarily. Which then leaves you questioning everything you’ve grown to trust, everything you’ve been raised to believe, and every action or inaction you’ve done based on that. Including hating me, Harry and Ron. Your social and personal life is being scrutinized and judged by your own heart, and you have no answers to mend its confusion. To top it off, you feel incredibly guilty about the War, for two main reasons: The first, your father was a key player in its configuration, and the second, you feel guilty about not helping us. You feel even worse that you let your Dad play you like a chess game for so long, and as a result, you’ve hindered Harry’s life; and now you realize that it is Harry’s life that gives us hope in this War. Which, of course, only adds to your frustration. Am I spot on or not?”
Malfoy took a deep breath. She was spot on. Though, he’d never heard her sound to sturdy and practical before. It startled him, seeing her like this. He knew it was what he needed, but it was odd having her drill him, despite that the sense of strength it gave relieved him.
Malfoy nodded. Then, with little to no thought, plunged into the first burning question on his mind.
“Did you ever battle my father?”
“Yes.”
Malfoy took a sharp intake of breath. He didn’t know why this surprised him. Deep down he’d understood this answer forever. He supposed it was because from whom it was coming. As he surveyed Hermione’s slim female figure, he wondered how on earth she’d managed escaping his father. How amazing, he thought, that she… this girl… be a soldier.
“What, happened?”
“We escaped unharmed.”
“Was there more than one occasion?”
Hermione thought.
“In a manner of speaking. First year- no, your father was not a factor. Second year- your father slipped Voldemort’s, or Riddle’s, diary into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron, setting both her and Harry up to battle him. Third year- no, your father played no decisive role. Fourth year- Harry met him when the Triwizard Tournament cup, which was a Portkey, sent him and Cedric into Voldemort’s grasp. Your father was there, and did his part in trying to kill him, but was obviously unsuccessful. Fifth year- Yes. We met him at the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic. We, as in Harry, Ron, Neville, Ginny, Luna, and myself fought a number of Death Eaters, your father being among them. Last year, obviously not, since he was in Azkaban.”
“What was it like?”
“Terrifying. There’s nothing courageous about it. You just end up in the situation and have no alternative other than to fight.”
Malfoy shook his head.
“That’s not enough.” He racked his mind. “How could you face me in class after all that?”
Hermione wanted to answer that she didn’t know… that his was a very good question. But she knew that wouldn’t do.
“You and your father are not singular entities, Malfoy. We’re smart enough to make the distinction between him and you.”
He nodded.
“What’s happening now? This… ‘Order’ I’ve heard about…”
“It’s a secret organization of witches and wizards who’re fighting Voldemort.”
“What do you guys do?”
“Firstly, neither me nor Ron… or Harry, for that matter, is an official member of the Order. We attend certain meetings, and frankly we’ve had just as many encounters with Death Eaters as the adults… but we’re not official until we’re of age. We spy, we plan, we protect. Anything we can do to counter Voldemort’s- oh, for Heaven’s sake, I’ve had it. Say it.”
Malfoy had flinched every time she’d said Voldemort. She thought it was about time he grew up and spoke the name.
“What?”
“Say his name. Go on…”
Malfoy looked hesitant. Though he couldn’t refuse… he had too much pride.
“V- Voldemort.”
“Louder.”
“Voldemort! Happy?”
“Yes, thank you. Now- go one with your questions.”
Malfoy concentrated hard. What did he want to know? ‘Everything…’ he answered himself.
“I want to know everything. From when it began to where it is now… every last detail you can remember.”
Hermione sighed. This was going to be a long night.
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Hermione began her story with first year, and told Malfoy every last minor aspect of her years with Harry that she could remember. She told him all about the chambers through which Harry, Ron and herself had to work through to get to the Sorcerer’s Stone. She told him about Ginny and the Chamber of Secrets, beginning to end. She told him all about Sirius, which took longer than anything else. She told Malfoy everything that occurred in fourth year and in fifth, then worked her way up to present day. She explained in fuller detail things that the Order of the Phoenix had done and were doing at this moment to counter Voldemort’s plans. But through it all, she kept one final, essential piece of information to herself: the Prophecy.
Malfoy never thought to ask why Harry had been targeted in the first place. For this Hermione was thankful. She trusted Malfoy much more than she thought possible just a week ago, but she felt that the Prophecy was solely Harry’s right to tell whom he wished, and no one else’s.
When she’d finished, she took a deep breath and looked intently into Malfoy’s eyes. They looked like they were pleading for something…
“Malfoy?” she asked tentatively.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just… I just can’t believe… all those years. All those times I’d walked past you three in the halls…” his voice trailed off. “I had no idea,” he whispered.
Hermione smiled weakly.
“Well, you’re not Seer, that’s for sure.” She teased.
Malfoy gave a low sigh. He shifted his body so that he was staring directly into the burning, red fire before them. It danced a ballet of shadows on the walls.
“Ermm…” Hermione slowly began to feel less and less confident in her words. She’d succeeded in helping Malfoy, in bringing his consciousness back to sturdy ground. But now that she no longer had that duty to distract her, thoughts of insecurity and worry began to refill her mind.
“Thanks,” Malfoy whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
A fair few minutes passed in silence. Malfoy’s mind was suspiciously empty of deep thought now that he knew everything. He didn’t feel quite so out of place any more. Now he was more exhausted than anything else, both physically and emotionally. He looked to the clock atop the fireplace.
“Good Lord! It’s after three in the morning!”
Hermione snapped out of her depressing thoughts of the Weasley’s recent loss.
“What?!”
“It’s 3:25!”
“Oh, thank Merlin it’s Holiday break. No cla- oh, no!”
“What??”
“I promised Harry I’d talk to Dumbledore first thing tomorrow morning! He’ll be expecting an owl by lunch! Oh, there goes my sleeping in...”
Hermione flattened her back on the sofa and kicked her feet on the other side.
“I’m doomed,” she continued. “That means I have to be up by seven to make breakfast in time.”
“What do you need to talk to Dumbledore about?”
“Oh, everything!” she cried miserably. “I must find out what happened in Hogsmeade. Who was hurt, who’s injured, all that. Hopefully that’ll be a short conversation, if there were no causalities…” she had stood and was presently pacing the room, one hand clasped to her cheek and the other wringing the air as she spoke.
Malfoy had completely forgotten about Hogsmeade.
“Then I need to find out what he has to say on the Order and all that… we need to arrange concrete plans. It’s not safe with all our members spread out… there’s Snape and Kingsley who’re spying for us, Merlin only knows where they are… The Weasleys, Tonks, Lupin and such are at Headquarters… then Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape are here! Oh, it’s useless Malfoy! We’re too unorganized-”
“You don’t know that. Truthfully, you haven’t the faintest what they’re up to. If you had, you wouldn’t need to ask Dumbledore.”
Hermione looked like she’d just been smacked. She stopped abruptly in the center of the room.
“Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what I do and do not know about-”
“Granger- calm down…” he said slowly. “Calm down. You were just steady as can be a minute ago, what in bloody hell happened between then and now?”
“I- I got my senses back, that’s what happened!” she resumed her pacing.
"Or lost them again..." Malfoy commented under his breath.
“It’s hopeless,” she continued. “Have you ever thought about what this all really is?! It’s a grumpy old, narcissistic, genocidal man, who, coincidentally, happens to be one of the most powerful Wizards of our age, trying to- to kill a teenage boy! That’s what it is! It’s madness! Percy’s dead, Malfoy! Does no one understand that someone- oh, Percy is dead!” she cried.
“…And we’re sitting on our fat arses chatting like a big lot of prats… I just can’t imagine this War turning out well. I can’t imagine us winning, there being no Voldemort to contend with… I can’t imagine anything ahead other than more death…”
She heaved an audible sigh.
“I know that’s awful of me. And I’m trying so hard to stay optimistic, for Harry’s sake, but realistically… I can’t imagine a happily ever after.” Her voice faded.
Malfoy lifted himself from his seat at grabbed Hermione firmly by each shoulder.
“Listen to me. You told me-” He sighed, his cheeks tingling red. He was remembering her kind words back at the Three Broomsticks… the ones she spoke about him representing hope…“You told me that- ugh, look at me, Granger. Look.” He said, staring her hard in the eyes.
“This is Draco Malfoy, in Gryffindor common room, talking to you. No-”
She had just giggled a little, and turned her head as if to say she got the message.
“No- don’t look away. Look at me.” His voice was serious and strong. Hermione turned back to him with wide eyes.
“Now- a week ago, did you imagine this? Did you imagine that it would be me here with you, and not Potter or Weasley? Did you imagine this- me, you- last week?”
Her eyes relaxed into a faint smile.
“No,” she whispered.
“When you were hurt down in the Department of Mysteries, did you imagine you’d survive? When you were six, did you imagine you’d be chummy with Harry Potter? Did you imagine you’d escape from Rookwood? Just three days ago, did you imagine me to be this way?”
“No,” she whispered back. She still looked him dead in the eyes.
“No. No, you didn’t- you couldn’t imagine those things; because they all seemed so unlikely, so impossible. But they happened anyway. You’re no Seer yourself, Granger. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you are.”
He slowly released his grip and let his arms fall limp to his side.
Hermione smiled up at him, small little tears swelling in her deep brown eyes.
“T- Thank you... Draco.”
Malfoy stood rigid at the sound of his name on her tongue. He nodded with a very weak smile, and very red cheeks.
Hermione seemed in much better spirits now. She grabbed Malfoy’s robes and pulled him onto the sofa with a broad smile.
It was nearing four in the morning, and they agreed they mine as well stay up the whole night. And so there they sat, in front of the fireplace, talking. Nothing about the War or Voldemort, just about their lives. Hermione told him about her parents, her Muggle pets (she had three dogs and some fish), and about Viktor. Malfoy was slightly stunned to hear about him, but he kept himself composed. He told her about his life up until Hogwarts, how he almost went to Durmstrang, and above all, about his father.
Time sped past in lightening speed. Before Hermione could finish telling him about S.P.E.W. (which he found highly amusing), the first light of day teemed through the painted windowpanes, casting a long, glittering beam across the red and gold rug.
*******************************************
Hermione rushed into the Great Hall at exactly seven. Malfoy came walking in behind her, hands in pockets, casting a sneering smile across the Hall. Nothing would ever completely rid him of his innate arrogance.
“Professor McGonagall!” Hermione called when she reached the teacher’s table. “Where’s Professor Dumbledore?” she asked pleadingly.
McGonagall looked forlorn and restless, as if she’d stayed up the whole night as well.
“He’s not here, Ms. Granger. Is there something I can help you with?”
Hermione’s panic rose to insurmountable heights. Luckily, Malfoy was now behind her, and had an easier time keeping himself composed. Using the same Malfoy wit that saved Hermione from Rookwood, he strolled next to Hermione and casually leaned forward.
“Would you happen to know when he’ll be returning, Professor?” he said with a wry smile.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t say with any accuracy when the Headmaster will be back. For the last time, is there anything I can help you with?”
Malfoy glanced sideways at Hermione and saw that her mouth was hung stupidly open as if about to speak; only no words escaped her lips.
With no prefacing his deliberate question, Malfoy inquired,
“We want to know what happened in Hogsmeade yesterday.”
McGonagall’s face slackened. Her lips tightened and pursed, she looked hastily to each side. No other teachers had yet arrived. The wrinkles in her tired face shown more clearly than ever.
“Are you certain this is a suitable topic to be discussing with two students, Mr. Malfoy?”
Malfoy intentionally spoke before Hermione’s frustration made her yell something rash.
“Professor McGonagall, you know as well as anyone that Granger here is no typical student. She’s helped Potter conquer Voldemort-”
McGonagall clenched her eyes tightly. Malfoy was slightly surprised to see her, of all people, react this way to his name. He felt that if he could manage to say it, certainly the head of Gryffindor house could hear it without flinching. Though, he continued as if not noticing.
“…conquer Voldemort countless times, thereby being not only an asset, but a protector of Hogwarts and the wizarding world. If I may speak freely, Professor, it’s a bit disheartening to have you be so forgetful of this so quickly.”
Their new friendship was now apparent to McGonagall, and she eyed them both curiously.
She gave a brief nod, then spoke in a firmer voice than previously used.
“Indeed. Well, then, Mr. Malfoy, if you would be so kind?” she motioned him to leave.
Malfoy looked offended.
“Professor-”
“No no, you were quite right. Ms. Granger does deserve to know what’s been transpiring, though I never heard mention of your merit.”
Hermione gave Malfoy a nervous glance.
“Fine.” He said, and sulked away.
“Follow me, Ms. Granger.”
Hermione kept closely behind McGonagall as she led her into a room off the side of the Great Hall. Hermione recognized the location to be the one where Harry was taken after his name shot out the Goblet of Fire.
Closing the door with a swift snap, McGonagall turned to face Hermione, lips pursed.
“Now, what exactly is it you want to know?”
“Well, errr… everything?” she answered tentatively yet honestly.
McGonagall gave a brief snigger. “I see.”
“Umm… did anyone- was anyone hurt yesterday at Hogsmeade, Professor? What happened?” she clenched her eyes, afraid to know the answer. But it was no matter- for it didn’t come.
McGonagall sighed. “I will leave it to the Headmaster’s discretion- you’ll have to wait on that one, Ms. Granger. I’m not altogether sure how- what, I mean, to tell you.”
McGonagall tried hiding her grief, but it showed in her rather lackluster eyes.
“Well, errm… where is Professor Dumbledore?”
“At Headquarters.”
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and slumped into a much more relaxed position.
“Oh, Thank Merlin...”
“He went very early this morning. As you can imagine we have…” she paused, fishing for the proper way to phrase her word. “….we have much to be thinking about.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Hermione nearly yelled in triumph. She was so thrilled to hear that they were organizing, planning.
After a moment, Hermione spoke again in an almost official tone.
“You and Professor Snape ought to be there as well… err, ma’m.” she added.
“Ms. Granger, please rest assured we are formulating plans as best we can. If you must know, all the Order will be here tomorrow night. That is why Professor Dumbledore left. He is gathering as many members as possible and bringing them back here.”
Hermione had to catch her squeal of delight in her mouth.
“Oh, that’s- that’s wonderful!” she could have hugged McGonagall.
“Yes, well…”
“Harry and Ron too?!”
“Yes, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley as well…” her face seemed to unwind into a sad expression. Hermione could tell she was worried for Harry and distraught for the Weasleys.
“So, err… will- will I be able to see everyone?” Hermione asked lightly.
McGonagall thought.
“I hadn’t given thought to it. But, I suppose it’s only natural you attend the meeting. Harry doesn’t go through anything without you beside him, does he?” she stated, with little amusement in her voice.
But that didn’t matter. Hermione smiled broadly up at her and involuntarily gave a small hop in the air as she shot towards the door.
“Thank you professor!”
McGonagall nodded tightly. “I’ll come fetch you when they arrive.”
Hermione skipped out the door and skidded to a halt in the middle of the Great Hall. There were only about eight students who stayed behind over break, but all their pairs of eyes were fixed on her as if she had four heads.
She looked eagerly around for Malfoy, but no shots of silver-blonde raced across her eyes, so she continued running into the Entrance Hall. She found him there, leaning against the staircase with an air of impatience.
“Malfoy! They’re coming!” she shouted as she ran to him. “They’re coming tomorrow night! All of them!”
“Oh, lovely… just in time to ruin Christmas. Brilliant timing.” He spat sarcastically.
Hermione thought: ‘Christmas?’ It had slipped her mind completely. ‘Tomorrow is Christmas Eve…’ she remembered. Then, recalling Malfoy’s comment, looked him in the eyes with her own hurt ones.
“Oh, don’t take it so harshly, Granger. I’m only joking.” He said, though with no hint of laughter.
“Well…?” he pried.
“What?”
“What about Hogsmeade?!” he snapped.
“Oh… she- she wouldn’t tell me,” Hermione said with worried eyes.
“Oh,” was all he replied.
“Malfoy…” she nearly whispered. “I don’t think the answer would have been good. She’s having Dumbledore tell me… I can’t help but worry that means-”
“You can’t know what it means. Just- don’t think about it for now. We’ll know soon enough anyway.”
She nodded slowly, and then coughed to clear her throat. Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair and looked around the hall with a manner of mild confusion.
But it only disguised his thoughts. After hearing that the Order was coming to Hogwarts, he began to feel extremely out of place again.
This lead him to remember what it felt like when it was just he and Hermione, no strings attached; which, in turn, brought his mind to the moment they shared at the edge of Hogsmeade. He was so close then… so close to recognizing what that new feeling was in the pit of his stomach. He was right on the verge of labeling it… but that blasted bird had ruined it.
And that moment seemed so far away now. He’d learned too much since then, experienced too many new feelings to recall with any certainty whether he hadn’t just made that one up. But when he looked her in the eyes, or felt the tug of her hand on his robes, and especially when her rose-pedaled scent reached his senses, his deeper consciousness knew- one cannot fabricate such a feeling. Nonetheless, there, behind closed doors, it stayed; there, in the depths of a newly found soul, hidden behind insecurity and arrogance, was admiration… respect… love.
And, in a place not far off from that one, was the innate necessity he had to mask his innermost emotions with a façade; and usually, as was his trademark, the façade manifested itself into bitter coldness and cockiness- one that, even when temporarily forgotten, never fully left his personality.
Malfoy pulled himself out of his stupor. He had been staring blankly down the corridor.
“Well,” he began, “I’m going to Slytherin common room. I’ll… see you later.”
He began to walk away, leaving a slightly confused and very hurt Hermione in his wake.
“Oh,” she said loudly to catch his attention. He had almost reached the dungeon doors. “I… I sort of thought that- that we’d… never mind.” She finished with a feeling of defeat.
“What?” Malfoy prompted.
“No, nothing…” she turned around and slowly headed toward the grand staircase.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, sticking both hands in his pockets. He could tell she’d thought they’d spend the day together. He admitted it was logical, seeing as how the previous days had gone. ‘How pathetic…’ he thought rashly, ‘…can’t even gather enough of that Gryffindor courage to ask me to stay.’ He sighed.
“Granger,” he called out. “Come on. We’ll… play chess or something.” He offered a weak smile.
Hermione’s eyes lit up with happiness. She skipped her way to him, but stopped as she felt like a silly school child.
“Alright, but I can’t play well…” she confessed.
“Well, I’ll teach you.” He said as he opened the dungeon doors. Halfway into the dungeon, he turned to her with an amused chuckle and said,
“But don’t expect I’ll let you win.”
He gave her a mischievous grin, winked, and raced down the stairs.
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A/N: The past two chapters (including this one), have been transitional ones. I'm sorry they've been relatively boring, but they're necessary. Plenty of more interesting aspects will begin to emerge next chapter. ; ) Please review!