Like That
When Hermione wakes the next morning, she’s alone in the room. She stretches out underneath the blankets and finds that she’s pleasantly rested despite the upset in the night; the bed was quite comfortable. She doesn’t get to enjoy the quiet for long because Draco bumps into the room a few minutes later, a backpack slung over one shoulder, two cups of coffee in his hands, and a small paper bag squeezed into his elbow. He’s got what looks to be a coffee stirrer fitted between his teeth. When he sees that she’s awake, he offers a single nod, as though answering a silent question to himself. She looks away from him as he sets everything down. Her nails suddenly needed to be picked at.
“Breakfast. And I went and got some clothes.”
The various items thud against the desk and she spares a glance as her stomach rumbles in response. Draco sinks into the desk chair and scrubs his hand over his face. He looks exhausted.
“You didn’t sleep well last night,” Hermione observes. Draco offers a sardonic huff of air through his nose, nearly the pantomime of a laugh.
“No. Here.” He reaches across and hands her a cup of coffee—creamed and sugared to her preference—and takes a long sip from his own. “I know you prefer tea, but if your night was as good as mine, you’ll need the extra boost.”
Hermione sips from the cup, the smell and taste of it overpowering her personal preferences. It’s delicious. He passes her a paper-wrapped sandwich, a delicious combination of egg and sausage. She’s starting to feel stronger already.
They eat silently, neither of them really looking at each other. There’s a fragile balance between them, a careful ignoring; their glances are never more than fleeting, lest the ice break, and neither of them are ready to talk. There’s too much ground to cover. It’s too fraught. Hermione’s mind begins to wander, rifling through her memories and trying to parse out what’s real and what was a performance. From the way Draco’s avoiding looking at her, she thinks he’s doing the same thing.
Hermione finishes her breakfast and takes a long sip of her coffee, staring at the coverlet. She draws a long, shaking breath. The noise catches Draco’s attention and his eyes are on hers, waiting for her to speak. She breaks eye contact.
“There’s a lot I don’t understand,” she starts quietly. It feels like an understatement. “You’ve been so… cold and emotionally volatile. Threats and ridicule. You withheld information from me, information that would have encouraged me to help you, and you tried to make me think my parents were in danger. You… told me that Harry escaped and is living somewhere but that you were going to kill him and I had to be the one to present him to you. Do you understand how cruel that is?”
“Yes,” is all Draco says, as though he can sense that she’s not finished.
“And your actions, your motivations—they’re so confusing. You killed a man for being violent with me, but you never had a problem pushing me into walls or physically restraining me when I was—”
“Attacking me?” He interrupts now with a raise of his eyebrow and a sip of his coffee. She just sighs and nods. She supposed that line of reasoning tracks. He pushed her into walls almost ridiculously often, predictably often, but never roughly. He only ever held her wrists or constrained her when she was reaching for his wand or trying to kick him or otherwise battling. Even then, he didn’t respond with attacks of his own, even when she expected him to.
“And I don’t understand what you were saying about having me brought to the Manor, about wanting to get me out.”
He’s surprisingly tense when she mentions this, his eyes dropping to his hands and that familiar line of frustration running through his jaw. He takes a breath.
“You confused me too,” he says, settling back into his chair. He looks a bit sprawled this way, a bit resigned. She can see his exhaustion plainly and she’s suspicious his nights of not sleeping well stretch beyond the hotel. “To be clear, I killed Montague because he’s got a mind full of filth and what he did to you was pure greed and for his own satisfaction. Much like I said to my father, he was violent with you because he wanted to be, and I felt it was distasteful. There’s shockingly little oversight to the day-to-day operations of a Death Eater, and I don’t want a prison full of women he’s done horrible shit to just because no one thought to stop him. Or others like him. He was given his Mark for your capture and seeing as how I never wanted you captured in the first place, I couldn’t see myself looking past how proud of himself he was.”
Hermione’s eyebrows draw together. “Why didn’t you want me captured?”
He looks at her like the answer is obvious. “You’re Potter’s…” he trails off, and she can feel the word on his tongue. He sighs deeply. “Don’t make me say it. I knew you’d be treated terribly—”
“Why don’t you want to say it? Draco, you’ve been calling me that since we were children. Why now do you have a problem?”
“Granger,” he complains, rubbing his face again. “If you’re going to ask one hundred questions, at least let me answer them fully before you ask the next.”
Hermione glowers at him a bit, but nods for him to continue.
“I knew you’d be treated terribly. Especially badly, considering your circumstances. I realize this may come as a surprise, but I didn’t want my classmates killed. And you… much as you grated against my nerves, you’re just good. You’re not spiteful, you don’t have hate in your heart. Even for me, no matter how many reasons I’ve given you. That’s one of the reasons I was so…” he trails off for a moment and shakes his head, his eyes seeming clouded. “I tried to push you into feeling towards me the way I felt you should. I tried to intimidate you, threaten you, trigger the part of all of us that resents the people that disrupt our sense of security.”
Hermione shakes her head, her lips drawing together tightly. She resisted the idea that she doesn’t resent him, doesn’t hate him, doesn’t think he’s a monster. But she’s looking at him and knows he’s right. No matter how angry she’s been with him, there’s been an undercurrent of knowing he’s human and trying to find the soft underbelly of Draco Malfoy.
“It’s a bit irritating, actually, how easy it was for you to get under my skin.”
Hermione just looks at him for a moment. She wishes she could read his mind instead of having to ask what he means. She tilts her head instead, a silent question.
“I’m not under any misconceptions about you kissing me that night, Granger. You did it because you were trying to bend me into a shape that benefited you. It worked.”
That is a shock—he’d been so angry when he left, told her that she was just as vile as he is. He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“I thought that you’d be scared off if I made you believe that sex was what I wanted from you. If not scared off, at least uncomfortable enough to keep your distance and stop provoking me into getting in your face. When you turned the game against me… well, after you showed me the dream you had, I thought it was genuine attraction. Out of your control, of course. Then that night, you were trying to push yourself, and I realized you did exactly as I said. You made it believable. Perfect little Gryffindor.”
Hermione’s cheeks burn. It’s not embarrassment exactly, but she can’t exactly place it. She drains the last of her coffee and leans over to set the empty cup on the nightstand. Draco’s long fingers tap against the lid of his. They’re both quiet for a few minutes, just letting things sink in.
“You’re going to tell me you don’t need protection, but I assigned myself to make sure you pull out of this. You’ve lost everything and it’s my fault. I was horrible to you growing up. It was too late by the time I realized how fucked up everything was. I was permanently branded, the Dark Lord lived in my home. I couldn’t resist or I’d be killed—not to mention my family. I never really wanted it, but it was expected of me, and every semblance of resistance was met with threat of violence or death. I knew I’d have to find a way to kill him myself. When Severus told me that Potter’s a horcrux, it complicated things. Immensely. It was around the time of your capture. The Dark Lord wanted you tortured for information and I convinced him to allow me to pull information out of you myself. For his own mission, he agreed, and I knew I needed to act fast. It wasn’t fast enough, and I’m—I’m sorry.”
Draco finally pauses to take a break, and he seems to be breathing quickly. Hermione’s struck with a burst of sadness, of warmth. He looks so earnest. His eyes are open, he’s not Occluding. She can see the guilt written over his features at the recollection of Voldemort’s cruciatus. The boy she knew growing up, the bully who never spared her a moment’s kindness, the monster of a man she thought he was… but he’s everything she originally conceptualized. Indoctrinated. She didn’t believe Harry sixth year when he told her Draco was recruited, she didn’t believe he could do something like that. She realizes now how naive it was to think he had a choice.
“I don’t want him to die, Draco.” Her voice is quiet and mournful. It’s an insufficient response to everything he’s said, but it’s all she can manage. The words hang between them thickly. Draco stands and slowly walks towards her, carefully sitting on the bed afront her. He looks as though he’s giving her a chance to back away. She doesn’t.
“It’s the only way to kill him,” Draco says, and his fingers twitch on the surface of her bedding. “It’s your only way out, Granger. Even if I could tuck you away in a perfect corner of the world, the IWC is not getting involved. They’re too afraid. The Dark Lord will expand his reign, you will be captured, and I won’t be able to protect you, because I will have been killed for aiding your escape. And that part, I don’t even mind. If I knew I could get you away from all of this, and it would work… I’d do it. Regardless of consequence.”
This is a bold confession. Her eyes widen as she searches his face for any hint of facetiousness, mocking, deceit. All she finds is moonlight. Her fingers twitch towards him on the coverlet, and she balls her hands. Much like Draco, she’d spare Harry’s life at the expense of her own, but her life is far from the only one in danger.
Draco rests a hand over hers and she can hear him swallow. His thumb brushes against the back of her hand.
“How do we find him from here?” Her throat is dry. “We can’t exactly walk around with a picture of him asking if anyone’s seen him.”
“No,” he agrees, his voice lilting slightly with amusement. “No, that could get back to him. You said it was Charlie Weasley’s connections that led you here, yes?”
When she nods, he continues. “Let’s follow that lead first. We’ll find those connections, see if we can pick up a trail.”
“I don’t know anything about those connections.”
“Dragons are a bit difficult to hide, Granger, it can’t be that hard to track down a group of wizard dragon tamers.”
Her head tilts slightly as she looks at him. She thinks, again, that he was named aptly; beautiful, elusive, and commands attention.
Draco stands and rubs the palms of his hands together. “I went into town and grabbed some clothes. Look through them, let me know if anything doesn’t fit.”
“You really didn’t need to—”
Draco rolls his eyes, face settling in a smirk as he regards her. She’s sitting up in bed, blankets wrapped around her waist, hair loose around her shoulders, her bra the only scrap of clothing on her upper half. “Much as I’m enjoying the view, Granger, I doubt the Romanians will have even half the appreciation they should.”
Hermione narrows her eyes and opens her mouth to reprimand him for being crass. He offers a laugh and a shake to his head. “Predictable, Granger. So predictable.”