What Kind Of A Man
The sound of hushed voices was the first thing to pierce the thick veil of sleep Hermione found herself under as she swam back to consciousness an unknown amount of time later.
She floated beneath the surface for a moment, luxuriating in the softness of her surroundings.
She had spent four years sleeping on a hard floor, waking up freezing and damp, her bones pressed against the cold stone.
In contrast she now felt like she was ensconced within a cloud.
The blanket that covered her body was thick and fluffy, the pillow beneath her head the softest thing she'd felt in years.
Everything smelled clean and she was warm, comfortable and safe.
Hermione allowed herself to drift a little longer, not ready to face the swirling confusion of emotions she felt pushing against her consciousness, waiting for her to acknowledge them.
‘Enough!’
The words were hissed, just loud enough to pull her out of her doze.
Hermione focused again, remaining still and forcing her breathing to maintain its slow, even rhythm.
'You need to tell her today, Malfoy. As soon as she wakes up. You cannot keep this from her-’
'Don't tell me what to do, Harry. This isn’t your place.’
She could hear the muted anger simmering in Draco's voice, his tone a low warning.
‘You’re my best friend but she is my wife. This is my f-’
There was a pause. His voice lowered.
'Of course she needs to know, but she's not ready. Look at her,' he whispered hoarsely. 'She's fragile.’
Making sure to stay still, Hermione cracked open one eye.
As her vision focused, she saw Draco standing in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space.
He was still wearing the bloodied white shirt he’d had on earlier, open at the neck, the stain around his collar dried to a dark maroon.
His hair was no longer sleek and smooth like it had been when she first saw him. It was tousled, sticking up where he must have been raking his fingers through it.
He was clearly exhausted, dark purple smudges blooming beneath his eyes.
As she watched, he dropped his face into his hands, angling himself away from her. She heard him take several ragged inhales.
Harry rubbed a hand over the rough stubble on his chin, his green eyes filling with a mixture of guilt and concern as he placed a tentative hand on Draco's shoulder, squeezing lightly.
'Alright, mate. It's alright,' he murmured gently.
'One step at a time, then. Let her rest. Let’s get some decent food into her, gauge how badly she's been affected.’
Draco finally looked up again, his jaw clenched tightly.
‘It’s bad,’ he said.
‘No one gets out of Azkaban after two years undamaged, Potter. Not even Granger.
‘She would have fought it more than most but I've known people to go completely insane in there after only a few weeks. She was there for two years.’
He glanced over at her, a quick flash of silver eyes. Hermione closed hers again quickly, not wanting him to know she was awake.
‘Her magic is delicate as well as her mind.
‘I need to be so fucking careful…if I move things along too soon, I could ruin any chance of-’
He stopped speaking and she could hear his throat working as he swallowed.
‘I can’t- I can’t lose her after all of this, Potter. I…I need her to be okay…we need her to be okay.’
‘I know.' Harry said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. You need to do what you think is best.
‘You’ve already achieved the impossible and she’s here, so don’t give up hope. Not now.’
‘What if they come looking for her?’
She could hear fine tendrils of panic creeping into the edges of Draco’s voice.
‘What if they find...’
‘They won’t,' Harry said. ‘The bomb went off in her cell. Everyone will think she’s dead. She’s safe. Everyone is safe.’
There was silence.
Harry sighed.
‘You need to get some rest, Malfoy. You look like shit. Why don’t you take five minutes to go and shower? I'll sit with her.'
'No. I can’t leave her. I need to be here when she wakes up.’ Draco’s tone was firm, brokering no argument.
'Okay, mate.’ Harry nodded. 'Of course. I'll send Moddles in with some tea. I’ve got an hour before I swap with Neville. Let me know if you need me.'
'I will.’
It went quiet for a moment. Hermione opened her eyes, watching as the two men embraced and Draco murmured something she couldn’t hear into Harry’s ear.
‘Of course. Don’t worry, we’ve got it all under control,’ Harry said.
With one last gentle clap on Draco’s shoulder, he left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Draco sighed and turned back to the bed, freezing momentarily when he saw she was awake.
A second later he’d crossed the room in two long strides, stopping right at her bedside, his thighs bumping the bedframe.
His eyes raked over her face, clear and unguarded for the briefest moment.
Hermione’s heart squeezed to see the worry there, the fear he was trying so hard to hide from her.
She shifted, pressing her hands into the mattress to push up on wobbly arms. Draco bent quickly and pulled the pillow up behind her, fluffing it so that she could lean back into a semi-sitting position.
The room she was in was light and airy, the walls a clean, fresh white. A small window was cracked to allow a cool breeze to flow through, bringing with it the intoxicating scent of outside. Hermione breathed deeply, savouring air that wasn’t dank and musty.
To her right was a bookcase stuffed with books, and a large oak desk in the corner. The room was cosy but functional, not much in the way of anything personal on display. Hermione wondered who usually slept there.
Draco watched her silently as she took in her surroundings, his eyes dark and serious.
He seemed to be studying her face, his eyes darting between her eyes, her mouth, her hair, lingering there for a bit before coming back to meet her gaze again.
Hermione brought a hand up self consciously to her hair, jolting slightly when her fingertips met soft curls where for so long there had been a matted, tangled mess. She glanced down in surprise.
She was clean, she realised. Dressed in a pair of soft blue flannel pyjamas that were far too big, laying on crisp white cotton sheets.
'It was just a Scourgify,' he said quietly.
'The house elves did it while you slept. I hope that’s okay. I thought you'd want to be clean when you woke up.'
'I.. yes, thank you,' Hermione replied. ‘It’s been so long since I didn't stink.’
He grinned a little at that, his lips pressed together, one side pulling up momentarily.
‘Those are Neville’s pyjamas by the way. He said you can keep them.’
Hermione smiled, running her hand over the soft cotton, marvelling at the sensation against her skin.
'How are you feeling?'
Hermione thought for a moment before she answered. Draco stared at her intently, his eyebrows drawn together in question as he waited for her response.
‘I…I don’t know,’ she said eventually.
As she looked at him, Hermione felt that fragility he’d spoken of so keenly.
The cracks in her psyche were deeper than she'd let any of them see, especially him.
If he knew just how bad it had been - the depths she'd been taken to in that prison - she felt sure he’d be destroyed.
Once, she’d prayed for insanity. Now she fervently hoped she could hold on, that she could claw her way back from the brink she’d been so perilously close to tipping over.
This man loved her, that much was clear.
For now she’d protect him the same way he was protecting her - letting out the rope bit by bit - not so much that either of them could hang themselves with it.
‘Are you thirsty?' he asked after a moment, reaching for the jug on her bedside table and pouring a glass.
Hermione nodded and took the cup from his hand, watching him over the rim as she sipped slowly at first, then gulped it all down as she realised how desperately thirsty she was. He watched her carefully, grey eyes tracking the dip of her throat when she swallowed, following the small drip that ran off her chin as she lowered the cup.
She swiped at it and lay back, feeling her body respond instantly to the hydration. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest.
'Okay?' he asked and she nodded, although she felt a little sick.
He took the empty glass from her hand and refilled it. It was slight but Hermione still caught the way his own hand shook.
Draco wasn't allowing himself to feel everything around her and still he was barely holding on. The knowledge was frightening, coupled with the conversation she'd overheard.
‘I’m just trying to get my head around the past twenty four hours,’ she murmured.
‘I can’t believe I’m here. It doesn’t feel real.
‘But... it’s also very difficult to know that there’s a huge chunk of my life missing. To know that we’re married but not be able to remember it happening. To feel so much for you, but not be able to remember why. How did Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and Pureblood, end up married to the last living Mudblood in Britain?’
Draco visibly flinched. She didn’t know which word had done it - Death Eater or Mudblood - but his face was tight.
He didn’t reply for a long time, first picking small bits of invisible fluff off the bedspread and then smoothing his hands down his knees, long fingers flexing over the dark material.
‘I promise I’ll show you everything,’ he said eventually. ‘I really want you to know me. To know us. You need to know that I’m not necessarily a good person. I definitely wasn’t when we met again three years ago. You made me better. You gave me something to live for.’
Draco swallowed hard.
‘That’s why we need to do this slowly,’ he murmured.
‘You need to remember our life gradually, so you can understand why things need to be this way.’
‘Could I force you to tell me, if I really wanted to?’ Hermione asked, thinking of her magic, the dark malevolent thing she felt under her skin, something she hoped would return to her as her strength grew.
‘Probably.’ He admitted.
‘Although I’m asking you not to do that. I’ll do almost anything you want me to, Granger, I’ve found it’s been an unfortunate side effect of being in love with you. But I’m asking you not to force this, for all of our sakes.’
Hermione wanted to ask him about Ron.
The words burned in the back of her throat, begging to be spoken aloud.
She knew Ron was dead.
She’d seen him die in the brief vision the Dementor pulled forward as it had closed in on her and Harry.
In the vision she’d heard herself screaming, saw the way she'd practically sicced Draco on Ron like he was her attack dog.
She’d shrieked in triumph as Draco had sent the Avada towards Ron’s chest without a second's hesitation.
Draco’s face had been dark with fury, his eyes burning with the same hatred she’d seen in her own.
He looked so different now to the man from the vision.
That man had looked terrifying, ruthless.This one was terrified. Of her? Of the things he wasn’t telling her? She couldn’t be sure.
He sat back, taking a deep breath and swiping a hand over his face.
‘I know how frustrated you must be. I’m sorry, I-’
His words were cut off as a house elf appeared, a steaming teapot in her hand. She was clearly a free elf, wearing a little flowered dress and a bow clipped into the sparse hair on top of her head.
'Thank you, Moddles,' Draco murmured, taking the teapot from her and setting it down.
The elf smiled, turning to look shyly at Hermione.
'Welcome back, Miss,' her little voice quavered.
'We have been waiting so long for you. Master Draco is so happy you is finally home.’
Hermione smiled blankly at the sweet elf. She had no idea who she was. The last elf she remembered living at Grimmauld was Kreacher.
The elf stood looking between them both for several minutes, her little head turning back and forth, a beaming smile on her face.
Hermione didn’t know what to do, she cut her eyes to Draco who hid a small grin of his own.
‘The cups, Moddles?’ he prodded gently after a moment and the elf squeaked, disappearing with a loud pop and then reappearing a moment later with two china mugs and a sugar bowl. She clicked her fingers and a second later a plate of biscuits appeared along with a jug of milk.
Hermione’s mouth watered as she took in the array of biscuits.
‘Moddles has brought everyone’s favourites, Master Draco,’ the elf said proudly.
‘Hobnobs, Shortbread and..’ she stopped suddenly, gazing down at the plate.
Hermione followed her eye line.
There were several other types of biscuits there and they all looked delicious.
The elf appeared flustered, her cheeks pink. She disappeared again without another word.
Draco was also looking down at the plate, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He didn’t speak for a long moment.
‘I’d actually kill for a Hobnob,’ Hermione said eventually, more to break the silence than anything else.
Draco snorted, the short burst of laughter seeming to take him by surprise too.
‘Some things never change,’ he said with a small smile, picking up the plate and holding out to her.
Hermione reached forward and took a Hobnob.
She nibbled at it, her eyes almost rolling back into her head with pleasure as the buttery, oaty taste of the biscuit coated her tastebuds.
Hermione hadn’t eaten anything with flavour for so long.
She crammed the rest of the biscuit into her mouth with a groan and reached for another, even as she choked on the crumbs and coughed, sending a spray of biscuit out towards Draco.
‘Woah, there,’ he murmured, his face a mixture of concern and amusement.
‘Let’s slow down a bit. I doubt you’ve had that much sugar in a while. Take your time.’
Hermione rolled her eyes again. She really wanted another biscuit. She was tempted to just grab another one, but really she knew Draco was right. Her stomach had shrunk from years of starvation. She’d need to go slow.
Draco picked up a shortbread between his finger and thumb, bringing it to his mouth. She watched the way he did it, so careful and polite, a product of good breeding.
‘Why can’t I remember us, Draco?’ she asked quietly.
‘Why can’t I remember our wedding day? Two years I was stuck there and I never thought of you once. The last thing I remember of you was at school. We all came back briefly for seventh year. I can’t remember anything after that.’
Draco put the biscuit back on the plate, dusting the sugar from his fingers. He was silent for a long time.
She looked at his face, watched him appear to wrestle with himself for a moment before he came to a decision.
‘Because I hid myself from you,’ he replied eventually.
‘Why?’
Another protracted silence.
‘It was for the best, believe me,’ he said. ‘I knew that getting you out was going to be difficult, if not impossible. I had to be very careful.
‘The thought of you stuck in there, waiting, knowing what was on the outside- who was on the outside. I thought you’d have tortured yourself with it.
‘If I had any hope of getting you out… of you being somewhat... whole… you needed to have forgotten. Because it would have driven you mad.’
How could she tell him she thought she’d already gone a little bit mad. That she’d wanted to go mad. She hadn’t fought it, like he’d said. She’d welcomed it. Maybe if she’d known she had something to live for, she would have tried a bit harder.
She wouldn’t have encouraged the guards to curse her quite so much. She wouldn’t have tried so hard to die.
‘Was it that, Draco?’ she said, her voice tinged with bitterness.
‘Or was it so they didn’t come for you, too? Because you were an ex-Death Eater in a relationship with a Muggleborn?
‘Because you know that under the post-war Ministry that’s enough to get you thrown into Azkaban, too. Maybe you just wanted to save your own skin. Maybe you knew you couldn’t handle it.’
He shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. A lock of blonde hair fell over his eyes and he swept it back angrily.
‘Of course not,’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘I didn't do it to protect me. I did it to protect you.’
‘But why? I was in Azkaban. I was a Muggleborn- a Mudblood. I was never getting out. What was there to protect me from?’
He looked anguished. ‘Stop saying that word, Granger.’
She felt defiance flare in her chest.
Who was this man to tell her what she could and couldn’t say?
Who was he to keep deciding what she knew and didn’t know?
After everything she’d survived, the hell she’d gone through for two years that he couldn’t possibly understand?
Why was she letting someone who was effectively a stranger decide everything for her whilst not giving her any decent explanation as to why?
‘Why should I?’ she snapped, vindictiveness burning its way up her throat.
‘You used it often enough when we were in school. I heard it every day while I was in Azkaban. It was the whole reason I was there. Do you think they were nice to me there, Draco? Do you think they didn’t tell me every day how disgusting I was, how my kind has infected the wizarding world?’
Hermione couldn’t stop. Years of anger and hatred and loss of control were scorching her insides. She needed to get it out, and this man, who kept looking at her like she was something so breakable, suddenly felt like the perfect target.
‘MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD!’ She taunted. ‘You married a Mudblood, that’s what I am, filthy and foul-’
‘I SAID, FUCKING STOP!’
Draco suddenly looked furious, his voice shockingly loud. He rose from the chair, pushing it back with a loud scraping sound.
Hermione witnessed, just for a moment, a glimpse of the man she’d seen in the vision the Dementor had shown her.
He looked almost unhinged, his clenched jaw razor sharp, his grey eyes flinty, burning with fury. She could see his magic curling around him, dark and dangerous.
Draco suddenly looked like a very powerful man.
Instead of scaring her, it stoked Hermione’s own flames. She wanted to match it.
Her own magic that had felt so weak for long began to build in her chest. She felt it moving under her skin, reigniting something long dead within her.
She wanted to push him harder. Show him that she wasn’t powerless after all. She wanted him see just how fucking vengeful she could be.
‘Stop being such a COWARD!’ she burst out. ‘I’m not asking you to tell me everything. I just want to know WHY? Why did you leave me down there alone? If you were able to Obliviate me that means you must have been there the day I was captured. You’re supposed to be my husband.
Aren’t husbands supposed to protect their wives?’
She knelt up, scrambling towards him over the bed so she could put two hands on his chest and shove. Draco didn’t move, it was like shoving a brick wall, the hard muscle under her hand making her painfully aware of how wasted her own body was.
It made her infinitely angrier.
‘What kind of a man are you?’ she shrieked. ‘What kind of a husband are you?’
‘A FUCKING GOOD ONE!’ He bellowed, his eyes glinting with rage.
‘The best I thought I could be! I did what I thought you’d want - I wasn’t just protecting you, Hermione - I- FUCK!’
Hermione’s heart was pounding in her ears, she couldn’t look anywhere but at Draco, all the intense feelings she had for him intermingled with years of anger and helplessness and frustration.
She grabbed a fistful of his shirt, trying to pull him close but he refused to come, trembling with a restraint she desperately wanted to break.
Instead, she pushed her face against his so that they were nose to nose, her brown eyes burning into the molten silver of his.
‘Tell. Me.’
He suddenly blinked, all the fight going out of him, as though this standoff had been just what he was afraid of all along. As though he’d known it was inevitable.
‘You want to know, Hermione?’ he muttered, stepping back. All right. You get your way as usual. Here, you can see.’
He held her gaze as he murmured some words again and suddenly, images began flickering behind Hermione’s eyes, terrible images at first. Things she knew couldn’t be true.
She saw herself. Ron. Draco. Then suddenly, someone else. The person Draco was protecting.
The person Draco had prioritised instead of coming after her immediately. Someone who definitely couldn’t have protected themselves.
Her heart suddenly stopped.
Everything else faded away. Ceasing to exist.
This wasn’t right, she’d have remembered.
She could never have forgotten something so monumental.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, gasping for air as she sat back down heavily on the bed.
Draco slumped on the chair, his eyes blank, his face pale. He pressed a white-knuckled hand to his mouth, seemingly horrified with himself.
‘Draco?’
His eyes came up to focus on hers.
‘Draco,’ she said again.
‘Where is our daughter?’