Young God
Any chance Hermione thought she had of not helping Malfoy find Harry went out the window when Malfoy threatened her parents.
She’s not sure what exactly Malfoy hopes she will tell him—she doesn’t know where he is. She didn’t even know he was alive. But the mission of finding him before Malfoy does is more important than ever.
Hermione sits at a table in the Malfoy library with her hands in her hair. She feels as though she’s lost her mind. There’s a mass of books splayed out in front of her, piles of handwritten notes. She’s written out everything she can remember about locations of Order outposts, Order members who survived the war (scarce lead, that is), people who may have had the means and motivations to hide Harry. She’s written lists of why Harry would’ve run in the first place. It doesn’t make sense to her in the slightest, but Malfoy’s right that Voldemort would’ve surely mentioned it at some point if he’d been killed.
When Malfoy strides into the library, hands in his pockets and whistling like the arrogant prat he is, Hermione glared up at him. He pretended not to notice.
“How goes the search?”
“What about Ron?”
They stare at each other for a moment. Hermione’s hands ball into fists with his silence.
“Ron Weasley,” she says, slower this time in case he didn’t understand. “I was led to believe he was killed with the rest of his family. Was that a lie, too?”
“Yes.” Draco’s face is inscrutable. “We think he’s with Potter.”
Hermione makes a strangled sound of frustration.
“None of it makes sense. They wouldn’t have left me here.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But clearly they have. It’s surprising, really, considering what fate typically befalls female prisoners.”
Hermione is full of revulsion and hatred. “I don’t understand how you can be so cavalier to joke about something like that, considering the violence and insanity you dispatched upon discovering your lackeys hit me.”
“I’m not joking.” Malfoy’s voice is low, and he leans over her. Hermione presses herself back into her seat. “Quite a horrible thing to do, isn’t it? Leaving a Mudblood girl in a world of people who want to hurt her? Your loyalty to your friends is admiral and quite gross, but maybe they didn’t return it.”
Hermione grits her teeth. He seems to love getting right in her face to say the most horrible thing imaginable. Hermione steels herself and leans closer to Malfoy, keeping her eyes trained on his.
“You’d know nothing about loyalty, except to the decrepit serpent that you call your Master,” she hisses. “My love for my friends is gross, as you call it? Your loyalty to a cause you don’t even believe to be righteous is pathetic.”
Draco lets out a low chuckle. He grips her jaw loosely, his face twitching. It’s the slightest break to the cold, falsely amused facade she’s seen. She refuses to let the physical contact cow her into breaking her lead.
“I’d be angry too if I were you,” she continues, “all that work, all that selling of your soul, meaning absolutely fuck-all. You destroyed your potential to make sure Voldemort ascends and Harry slips through his fingers, again, just waiting for the right moment to blow it all up.”
“He is just a boy,” Draco grinds out. A muscle in his jaw is jumping.
“So are you,” she points out. “Just blood and bones and flesh. You’ve never been able to accept that there’s nothing special about you. At least Harry believes he’s ordinary.”
“Look around you, Granger. Where are you?”
It’s all she can do to keep from rolling her eyes. “Pureblood Palace.”
Draco’s eyes glitter. “Exactly right. And where were you before that?”
“Death Eater prison.”
“Top marks. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me Harry’s going to make sure the Wizengamot executes you and your entire family.”
Draco’s mouth twists into a sneer and he uses his grip on her jaw to push her back into her chair. The movement is rough and he releases her, stalking across the library. He spins to face her once he’s put plenty of space between them. His face is a mask of anger. His hands clench and release at his sides. A thread of fear laces through Hermione; it’s exactly how he looked right after he killed Graham Montague. She wonders if she’s pushed him too far. After a moment, a chill runs over him from head to toe, and he looks perfectly relaxed again. He offers a single nod, a movement of resolution rather than a farewell, and stalks out of the library without a word.
Hermione sighs and rubs her face. If she’s being honest with herself, she’s not sure what she hoped to accomplish. She’s just tired of constantly being afraid, and the boldness of anger felt good. Really good.
Hermione pauses for a moment and pushes the pages full of her handwriting aside until she finds a fresh page. She begins to write everything she’s learned about Malfoy since she arrived here.
Was angry about D.E being violent with me
Ensured I had a bath and fresh clothes and food
Unshackled me after I didn’t kill him
Seemed to welcome the idea of me killing him
Wants my help finding Harry
Used Legilimency to see how the D.E acted but not to see what I know about Harry
Threatened to kill my parents
Didn’t leave me to die when he thought I was
Wants to kill Harry himself***
Seems to respond favorably when I call him Draco
Uses physical contact to be intimidating but isn’t violent
Is possibly mad
She puts stars after the point about Malfoy wanting to kill Harry himself because she doesn’t understand it. She hadn’t put much thought into it when they had the conversation, because it seemed obvious that Malfoy wants to kill Harry. He’s directly contributed to a few near-death experiences for all three of them. But why he wants to kill Harry himself rather than taking the glory and power from Voldemort it would afford, she doesn’t understand. In fact, it seems counterintuitive entirely. If Voldemort discovered that Malfoy killed him rather than bringing him straight back, Malfoy would be killed.
Maybe there’s a sliver of humanity left in him. That seems to ring true because of the way he’s treated her since she arrived. Maybe he knows if he kills Harry, he could be saving him from a worse fate. Maybe if Hermione can find that sliver of humanity—exploit it—she can gain his trust. Gaining trust would allow her some leeway. Leeway would allow her to find faults in her ornate prison and get to Harry first.
Hermione stands, gathers her notes, and drops the list she’d written about Malfoy into the fireplace. She begins another tour through the Manor where she’s looking for him without a clue where he is. Pinky informs her that he’s in his quarters. When Hermione asks for directions, Pinky looks scandalized, but gives up the information easily.
Hermione stands in front of the door to Malfoy’s bedroom. She pulls at her fingers, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then, she knocks.
After a moment, the door swings open. She’s face-level with Malfoy’s bare chest. She takes a shocked step back, clearing her throat. Her eyes quickly raise to his. He’s looking at her expectantly.
“Um—can we talk?”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow but steps aside, gesturing for her to enter. She takes a slow few steps into his bedroom. It’s exactly what she would’ve expected. A four poster bed stands regally at the center of the room, made of deep cherrywood and intricately carved. The walls are decorated with Malfoy regalia and artwork; one painting in particular features a scene of intimacy. A man and a woman laying on their sides, his hand wrapped around her throat and his mouth at her ear, her face set in an expression of lustful enjoyment. Hermione’s cheeks flush.
“I always knew you were a prude,” says Malfoy. He’s leaning against the wall by the door, arms crossed. Watching her look around. “Is a painting truly enough to embarrass you?”
“I’m not a prude.” She feels the comforting flash of irritation and wants to lean into it. No, that’s not why she’s here. With the way he’s lazily leaned against the wall, half dressed, looking at her like she’s the cream and he’s the cat… it’s difficult not to indulge in vocal violence.
“Is that why you’re here? To prove your alleged lasciviousness?”
“No. I wanted to—I wanted to give this to you.” She reaches towards him with one arm, offering a handful of pages. Notes for where Malfoy could look for Harry. “And apologize for the way I acted earlier. You’ve been kind to me. I shouldn’t have been so… reactive.”
Malfoy allows her to stand there for a moment, just watching her. Then, so fast she didn’t have time to react, he reaches out and grabs her wrist. He pulls her close and spins them around, pushing her back into the wall. She dropped the notes in the process.
Goddamn it. This was not what she had planned. She looks up at him, shocked, her breath coming hard and fast.
“You came to my bedroom to apologize for being a little shit?” He grins at her. His teeth glint in the low lighting. “Unexpected, to say the least. But maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not a prude.”
His eyes trail over her front and it’s all she can do not to shake out of her own skin. He’s looking at her like he’s drinking her in, like he’s indulging but exhibiting some kind of restraint.
“You’ve become quite lovely, do you know that?” He’s leaned in close now, his breath stirring a loose curl at her temple. She shakes her head and leans away from him. Everything smells like soap and expensive cologne and cedarwood. It’s pleasant, but she wants out.
His head dips to brush his mouth against her ear. She presses her lips together to stifle a startled yelp. She’s not afraid… but she is quite disturbed. His hand raises to rest lightly over her throat, his fingers just barely brushing against her skin. Against her better judgment, she shivers.
“Draco,” she whispers, wanting to appeal to that sliver of humanity. And ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.
“Next time you lie to me, Granger, try to sound more convincing.”
His grip on her throat tightens. Not enough to cut off her airflow, but it’s definitely a sensual action on his part. It makes her dizzy. She swallows.
“Besides, I don’t expect you to be sorry.” Malfoy pushes off of her, smirking broadly. She stands frozen against the wall, her heart pounding. She feels like she’s sweating. “Act how you want. Come to my room in the middle of the night if you want—but know what message that sends. Find Potter and I don’t give a good goddamn about what else you do here.”
Hermione can’t even formulate a response. Had she really sent some kind of signal that she wanted something… sexual from him? Merlin, that couldn’t have been farther from her intention. Draco swings the door open.
“Off you pop,” he dismisses her, gesturing for her to leave. Hermione brings her consciousness back to the front of her mind and finds her feet, scrambling out of Malfoy’s room posthaste.