What Kind of Man
Hermione cried herself into complete exhaustion until she sits on Malfoy’s floor, tears streaked down her face, her chest aching with the force of her own grief, with an occasional deep ragged breath that comes unpredictably and uncontrollably. Malfoy sits behind her, his hands somewhere between his body and her own on the floor. Every time she begins to cry again, his hands raise to reach for her, and she positions herself farther from him. She doesn’t want his comfort; she wants to travel back in time, pluck herself from this timeline of complete agony, and put herself in a bubble. The only thing Malfoy could provide for her at this point is a wide smile and to tell her he’s joking. And even then, she’d probably muster the strength to strangle him to death.
Her thoughts drift away from the misery at hand and back to her days at Hogwarts. Harry’s head bent over an essay, his wild black hair sticking up in all directions, sighing hopelessly until he finally asks Hermione for her notes. The way she’d lecture him, every time, about not paying enough attention in class and then handing over her notes anyway. The way he never failed to make her laugh. The deep and unfailing ally she found in him, the closest friend she’s ever had, the person for which she’d give her own life. Another ragged gasp inflicts itself as she reflects on this; if giving her life for Harry’s would work, would bring any resolution, would free him from his fate… she’d do it. She wouldn’t even think twice.
And then there’s Malfoy. Malicious little bully, antagonist of her school days, the one who introduced her to the word Mudblood. Her captor, the man who feigned benevolence upon discovery that others had been violent with her. The man who gave her hope that the world wouldn’t always be so dreary and desolate and then ripped it away from her. The man who simply stood there as she was tortured on the floor of his home, again. The part of her that enjoyed their moments of intimacy with each other have long frozen into cold, fossilized hatred. Her own mouth feels out of place on her body, knowing it has kissed his. Her body feels foreign to her, knowing it enjoyed the way he touched her. She wishes she could pull all of her skin off.
They sit silently for a long time. Hermione’s lost to her thoughts and her body is boneless. Her plan had been to discover where Harry is and find a way to escape the Manor, to escape Malfoy, to find Harry before he could. She thought she’d save his life and Harry would kill Voldemort and they’d all be free. She can see the situation now for what it is. Harry would have to give his life to end Voldemort’s; there’s no circumventing it. There is no escape. Her freedom would come at the cost of Harry’s blood.
And Malfoy? What happens to him then? Is he killed by his fellow Death Eaters for his treason, or does he create a power vacuum that he swiftly fills? Without Harry, there’s no champion for the Order. No champion against Voldemort at all. Without Harry or Voldemort… that ending has never occurred to Hermione before now. She has never considered that there may be generations of Death Eaters rising as Dark Lords, and that the numbers of witches and wizards willing to resist or fight are swiftly dwindling. It’s stupid to assume it’d all end with Voldemort, but that had indeed been her assumption.
With another unbidden gasp, Hermione speaks. She does not turn to face Malfoy. “Have you killed them?”
Malfoy’s silent, but she can sense the confused look on his face. From her periphery, she can see his crown of pale hair tilt to the side.
“My parents,” she clarifies dully, “have you killed them?”
She hears Malfoy draw a deep breath. “No. I didn’t—I was never going to hurt them, Granger.”
Her head snaps towards him. His eyes are wide, but the rest of his face looks reserved. Less smug and amused than usual, and Hermione appreciates the facade of decency.
“Most people lie and twist things to make themselves seem better,” she says. Every one of her words are envenomated. Malfoy simply sighs and nods. “But you. You make these enormous gestures to seem like you’re far more dangerous than you are. I remember you, Malfoy. I remember the scared little boy always running off to Daddy when his feelings were hurt or he was incensed about fuck-all.”
Malfoy stares at the hardwood, a muscle in his jaw working. His eyebrows are drawn. He almost looks hurt.
“I found your parents to make sure they hadn’t already been killed. You were right to hide them. When you and Potter and Weasley disappeared, the Dark Lord wanted them found and killed. I thought—I thought if you knew that they were alive and doing well, with the promise of freedom I’d already given you, you’d be more willing to help me.”
His words are earnest, but he’s a liar. All he’s done is lie to her. There’s no reason she should believe him now.
“And the facade of having them killed—it was good cover for me. Granger, I had to do things a certain way—”
Hermione pulls herself off of the floor, using his bed frame to support her shaking legs. She shakes her head; even her anger is blunted through the haze of complete nothingness she feels.
“I really can’t handle more lies and excuses, Malfoy, please.” Her voice cracks and she swallows hard, willing herself to sound stronger. Be stronger.
Malfoy mirrors her movements by shaking his head and standing. He’s reaching for her again; she retreats.
“I knew he’d come,” Malfoy starts. One of his hands raises to rest on his chest. “I knew he’d want to look through your memories. If I’d told you, given you any hint as to my own plan, we’d both be killed. Potter would never be found, the Dark Lord would be free to reign until Potter dies of his own accord. I had to wait for you to figure it out. Even telling you about the missing Horcrux was a risk in the event you didn’t put the pieces together, because the Dark Lord doesn’t know that he is one. Please, think about it.”
Hermione stares at Malfoy for a moment. Her eyes feel red and raw. His body language and the expression on his face are vulnerable, nearly pleading. His hair lays messily from their tousle that landed them in the floor in a heap. He has one hand on his chest, one still extended towards her. He was named aptly, she thinks. Just like a dragon, he’s beautiful and capable of the most inconceivable atrocities.
The worst thing about him is that everything he says makes perfect sense; he weaves perfect webs of half truths and manipulation.
“If Voldemort didn’t know, how did you?” She challenges, her hand wrapping tightly around his bedpost. She’s still trying to steady herself.
“Severus. Severus was told by Dumbledore and he told me. We spoke after he killed Dumbledore. I told him I didn’t want to do this anymore, and he told me that if I wanted to escape with my life I’d have to facilitate Potter’s death at the hands of the Dark Lord, and he explained why.”
Hermione’s chewed the inside of her cheek so furiously that she can taste blood.
“That you didn’t want to do this anymore,” she repeats slowly, her eyes fixed on his. “What are you talking about?”
Malfoy straightens and cards his fingers loosely through his hair, further disturbing it. “Being a Death Eater. The Dark Lord’s bidding. All of it.”
Hermione can’t help but to laugh. The riotous suggestion that Malfoy wanted out is nearly more than she can handle. Malfoy shakes his head and presses on.
“I didn’t want this.” His voice is flat. “I never wanted this. This was my father’s war. I didn’t want to kill anyone.”
“Oh! Were you held at wandpoint, Draco? Threatened with torture or death? Were you forced to allow intruders into the castle, attempt to kill the headmaster, aid in the destruction of Hogwarts, and whatever else you did to ascend to being—what was it—the most devout and loyal in Voldemort’s ranks?”
Her voice raises as she ridicules him and she leans forward. She’s baring her teeth with every word. Malfoy falls silent for a moment and she can see how quickly his breaths are coming. She realizes with a start that he looks… frightened.
“Yes.” His voice is a whisper. “Yes, I was.”
The rush of emotions threatens to choke Hermione. He looks so boyish again, so ashamed, so regretful. Even Malfoy couldn’t put on a face that convincing.
When she speaks, her voice meets his volume. “What?”
Malfoy turns away from her now. She realizes for the first time that he’s bare chested again and she can see how tense he is by the way his muscles contract and relax under his skin. One hand is on his hip and the other is squeezing the bridge of his nose. She feels the utterly confusing and horrible urge to rest a hand between his shoulders. To console him.
“It’s hardly the most surprising thing you’ve learned tonight. I did the things I did and I can’t run from that, I can’t pretend I didn’t, but I was forced to fight. Forced to take the Mark, forced to…” his head drops back and he draws a shuddering breath. “I’ve been a prisoner too long, Granger. Why else would I be trying to kill him? I don’t want this, I never did. You may have noticed some key differences between myself and the others.”
Hermione swallows; her throat is dry. “The… hitting.”
“Yes,” he agrees, turning to face her again. His eyes are red-rimmed. “The hitting. Among plenty of other things, horrible things. I am a vile person, you were right when you said that, but there are many flavors of vile. Flavors that I am not and have no desire to be.”
Tears prick the corners of Hermione’s eyes and she irritably rubs at them. She doesn’t have it in her to cry any more, especially not for Draco Malfoy—allegedly forced Death Eater, the current target of all of her anger and grief.
She tries to focus on those feelings, tries to bring some of her focus back. “Why wouldn’t you seek out the information through Legilimency? Why bother boarding me in this house and dealing with what you knew to be an unwilling informant?”
“I knew you didn’t know anything yet.” Draco leans against the wall. He looks exhausted, just as exhausted as Hermione feels. His palms rub together. “I knew if there was some well-developed plot to remove Potter, you’d be part of it. So his survival was unknown to you. I know what I said. I framed it as you holding some kind of secret so I could rationalize holding you to the Dark Lord. I knew you’d be able to figure it out, and… I wanted to save you from it all. I wanted you in my grasp so I could ensure you made it out.”
Hermione’s head is spinning and the tears that run down her cheeks are the only way she knows that she’s crying again. She’s so overwhelmed. She wants to dismiss it, say that none of it makes sense… but it does. As he’s speaking, pieces click together. It’s different from the tiny crumbs of information he’d feed her, ranging from seemingly insignificant to bombshells with no elaboration—he’s explaining. His actions, previously confusing and ever-mutable, have context now that make sense. She just can’t decide if he’s telling the truth. She’s not sure what he’d get from lying, and if she’s honest, part of her refuses to believe him simply because she doesn’t want to. But she’s Hermione Granger; she can’t ignore simple logic. Pieces of information that just click together.
She has no idea what he did to ascend Voldemort’s ranks and she’s too afraid to ask, but the only person she’s seen Malfoy kill was Graham Montague. And he did it because of her. She assumed it was a power display, but what if it was something more? What if he truly did aspire to protect her?
The question pops into her mind and immediately out of her mouth. “Why?”
Draco stares at her with an expression of warmth mixed with something weary. It catches her off guard; her tears flow more heavily, but the empty feeling in her chest begins to abate. He raises his hands towards her again and pauses, waiting to see if she’s going to back away from him again.
Against her better judgment, she doesn’t.
He steps towards her and cradles her face in his hands, tilting her head so she’s looking up at him. The eye contact is devastating, but the warmth of his hands on her face is comforting in a way that she wishes disgusts her instead of compels her. It’s a moment that stands still in time. Something has dissolved between them, something ugly and hateful, some kind of distance that maybe only existed in their minds. Her hands rest on his hips and she can feel his bare skin above his pajama pants.
“Because you’re good,” he whispers, his thumbs brushing tears from her cheeks. She can see his own brimming just above his lower lashes. “Because you’re everything I should’ve been. Because if you don’t get a happy ending, no one does. Because I knew you would’ve been braver than I was, and you were smarter than me, and I hated you for it. But I never hated you, not really.”
Her bottom lip trembles as she listens to him. “Start over,” she demands quietly. “Explain it to me in its entirety. How we got here.”
Draco takes a shuddering breath and nods. “I will,” he promises, “but wait here. Just a moment.”
His hands leave her face and he steps away from her, walking to the far end of the room and disappearing into a closet. With the sudden absence of warmth, Hermione has to cling to the bedpost again. She wants to sink to the floor and close her eyes and not open them again until things are resolved, and she’s safe, and things make sense, and she can understand the feelings she’s having.
Draco comes back holding a long, narrow box. He’s pulled a button up shirt over his shoulders, but it hangs open over his chest. She sees him swallow before holding the box out towards her. Nervously, she takes it. She wonders briefly if it’s a bomb, the next surprise of the evening.
When she opens the box, she thinks she would’ve been less surprised if it was a bomb. Instead, amongst thick satin cushioning, is a slender and cylindrical piece of wood. Snaked across the length is a delicate wooden overlay of vines.
A wand. Her wand, the wand with which she learned magic, the wand that was taken from her when she was captured. The shock brought a stop to her crying, and the enormous crest of emotions threatened a resurgence of tears. She’s grateful, excited, confused, and weary. Her eyes flash to meet his as her fingertips brush across the handle; her magic sparks at her fingertips. Long unused.
Before she can even ask, Draco explains. “They killed Olivander. The Dark Lord did, I mean. Searching for information about the Elder Wand. It occurred to someone, at some point, that we shouldn’t be destroying every wand that’s confiscated. I managed to take this one without them noticing.”
Draco told her once that he’s glad she doesn’t have a wand for many reasons. What were they? Have the fears subsided?
“I never thought I’d see it again,” she says, shaking her head lightly. She finds that she’s afraid to take it out of the box, afraid that it’s going to be some kind of cruel trick—that he’ll accuse her of attacking him, exact some cruel penance for his own vulnerability.
He watches her with grave gray eyes. “I’d like us to continue as equals.”
Hermione’s eyebrows furrow. The circumstances behind her capture, imprisonment, and residence at Malfoy Manor is contingent on them not being equals. He keeps talking as though he’s forgotten exactly where she stands—what side of the war he chose.
He didn’t choose, nags a voice at the back of her head. She shakes her head to silence it and carefully wraps her fingers around the familiar hilt of her wand. As she pulls it from the box, sparks fire from the tip: red and gold. It hums pleasantly in her hand and energetically, she feels as though she’s eaten a meal after being famished for months.
Hermione takes a deep breath. She has a plethora of options at this moment, but it will only last a moment. She can see in his eyes that he’s not Occluding—she could cast Legilimens, dip into his mind, root out what’s true and what’s a lie. She could kill him and run.
Her eyes dart from her wand to Draco’s face and her resolve weakens. She slides her wand into the waistband of her pants. Draco exhales a noticeable breath of relief.
Hermione’s exhausted, down in her bones. She carefully moves across the room to sink into the emerald armchair near the door. Her face falls into her hands and she scrubs at her eyes, raking her hands across her scalp. Her eyes are swollen and tender and she wants more than anything to go to bed and forget this night ever happened.
When she sits, Draco leans himself on the edge of his bed and crosses his ankles in front of him. She leans her elbows against her knees and holds her head as she looks at him.
“I’m going to tell you everything,” he says. He sounds sincere. “But you need to know that we’re in danger now. We have to leave. Tonight.”
Hermione fights a long, anguished groan. Her intention is not to sound like a whiny teenager, but rather to communicate the fact that she has no fight left in her tonight. She’s cooked. Draco just shakes his head.
“If he returns and goes through your memories—Granger, you’re a rather exceptional natural Occlumens, but it will be a repeat of his last visit. You know firsthand how difficult it is to Occlude effectively when under the influence of the Cruciatus, that’s why he combines them.”
“But I did it,” she argues. “I managed.”
Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Was the information he got from you false?”
“No,” she mutters, shaking her head. “No, it wasn’t that.”
His head tilts to the side. Gods, he can’t just let something go, can he?
“What was it?”
If Hermione had more energy, more fire, more… anything, she would lie or deflect. “It was the memory of… us. In my bedroom, the other night.”
Draco’s mouth opens as though to make a witty remark, or perhaps he’s just shocked, but he just nods slowly.
“Oh,” he says, his tone a perfect mask of disinterest despite his face, “I see.”
Hermione loses her battle with the groan and buries her face in her hands. Draco pays her no mind.
“Be that as it may, confessing this information to you has endangered us both. I need to alert the Dark Lord that you are agreeing to lead me to Potter, and we need to leave. We need to find him, Granger, I know it’s horrible but—”
“He’s in Romania.”
Draco freezes. Hermione simply stares numbly at her hands. It’s the only place that makes sense, the only place she could think of. Charlie Weasley’s connections. After a moment, she looks up at him. The look of shock has not faded from his face. Her mouth twists into a sardonic smirk and she breathes a mirthless laugh. “You’re right. I am a talented natural Occlumens.”