Truths
The third level looked much like the rest of the house: dark wood panelling; portraits hung in elaborate frames; a long, dark, seemingly endless hallway.
They walked down the hallway in silence. Whatever tension had existed between them when Hermione had first arrived seemed to have disappeared or, at the very least, been put on pause.
Maybe it was the darkness of the house. Maybe it was the bottle of champagne that Malfoy had clutched in his hand, that he took occasional sips from as they walked.
Or maybe, her capacity to feel on edge had already been exhausted and she was now depleted of all care and anxiety, physically unable to feel any more. A sort of burn-out, except it was brought on by evil in the form of a blonde named Daphne Greengrass, and not overzealous exam preparation.
Either way, she didn’t feel on edge or uncomfortable as they walked side by side through the quiet and darkness of the Manor.
She glanced at Malfoy out of the corner of her eye as they walked.
He seemed looser, more relaxed. His pristine school uniform—white shirt, blazer, and tie—had been replaced by a loose fitting, black collared shirt. The shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, its top buttons undone. Strands of white-blonde hair hung over his eyes and he occasionally lifted a hand up to his face to sweep them back.
Hermione looked away before he could catch her staring.
Malfoy stopped at the third door on the left. He took a key out of his pocket and slid it into the lock, twisting. “Don’t want people snooping,” he said under his breath.
The room looked so much like the rest of the house that at first Hermione thought that Malfoy had brought her to a guest bedroom. Slowly, though, she noticed little details: the soccer cleats thrown precariously into the corner of the room; a grey hoodie slung on the back of a plush armchair; a GHG banner hung directly above the dark wooden headboard.
A little pile of books rested on the side table beside the bed, and a copy of Jane Eyre was lying face down on the floor.
Malfoy’s room. Contrary to what he’d said before, no balloons, lights, or glitter were in sight.
She hesitated in the doorway, unsure of whether to go in or not. Malfoy made his way across the room and straight to his closet, putting the bottle of champagne on his dresser as he went.
She watched as he rummaged through his clothes before throwing a ball of fabric at her over his back. Hermione caught it in her hands. “This should cover the stain,” he explained.
She unravelled the jumper in her hands, made from a soft, green-coloured cotton. She could tell the jumper cost more than a month’s worth of shifts at the King’s Hearth just by running her fingers over the fabric. She slipped it on. It was big on her, coming down to just above her knees.
“Are you and Pansy very close?” she asked as she folded the sleeves over. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing there anymore—at the party, in Malfoy’s room, at Godric’s Hollow—but her curiosity was never something that she could contain for long.
“She’s an old family friend. We practically grew up together. Pansy’s probably the closest thing I have to a sister, for better or for worse.” Malfoy sat on the edge of his bed, watching her fiddle with his jumper. Hermione suddenly regretted the way she had spoken about Pansy during detention, all those weeks ago.
“I heard you, you know,” she said after a little while. “You and Theo, on the staircase a few weeks ago. Before I…” she trailed off, recalling the crack of her fist on his jaw.
Malfoy froze, his eyes widening. Her interactions with him reminded her of fencing – a constant back and forth, stab and jab, with one person always coming out on top. At that very moment, Hermione had just landed a surprise attack, catching her opponent unaware.
He recovered quickly, blocking her blow.
He shifted on the bed, leaning back on his arm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, nonchalant, his face carefully cleared blank.
“What’s the favour that you owe Theo?”
Malfoy’s eyes darkened.
“I heard you, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Strike. “I only got an invite to this party because you owe him something, right?”
For a while neither of them moved.
“Theo’s not as good of a person as you think he is.”
If they really were fencing, Malfoy would have just landed a clean jab in her gut.
Hermione shook her head, frowning. “You don’t know what I think.”
“I can guess pretty well. I see the way you look at him.”
Hermione shook her head again. “He’s nice to me. He’s the only one who’s nice to me.”
But that wasn’t true, she realised as she said the words, fingering sleeves of the jumper that he had just given her.
Malfoy stood up. He must be done with this, thought Hermione, slightly disappointed. But Malfoy simply made his way to his dresser and picked up the bottle of champagne. He took a swig, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as the drink went down his long throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before holding the bottle out to her.
If they really were fencing…Hermione wasn’t sure what this move was.
She took the bottle, taking a swig. The only thing she could think of in that moment was how intimate the gesture was, how her lips were now on something that his had touched.
“You don’t want to go back down there?” she asked after a minute had passed. She could feel the champagne making its way through her, warming her from the back of her throat to the bottom of her stomach.
“And be accosted by Daphne? No thanks.”
Hermione’s face soured at the mention of her.
Malfoy’s keen eyes spotted the change in her expression, like a bald eagle spotting prey from miles away.
“I’m sorry about your dress,” he said. For a second, Hermione could’ve sworn he sounded sincere.
“It’s fine.”
Malfoy sat back down on his bed. After a moment’s hesitation, Hermione sank down next to him. They passed the bottle back and forth, neither of them saying a word.
Hermione’s eyes landed on the copy of Jane Eyre that she had spotted earlier. She gestured at the book with her chin. “I didn’t know you were into classics.”
“I’m not, really.”
“What about that pile of book on your bedside table. What are they?”
“Mostly biographies, or autobiographies.”
Hermione frowned. “Then why are you reading…?”
He didn’t answer; he just took another swig of champagne and stared at a portrait of a long-dead Malfoy that hung above the dresser directly opposite them.
“I saw you carrying it around at school and got curious,” he said. It was as if the words had slipped out of his mouth, as if he couldn’t contain them any longer.
“Oh?” Hermione said, her brows rising.
Malfoy took another swig.
Hermione cleared her throat and changed the topic, unwilling to linger in that unfamiliar territory for much longer. “Why do you read biographies?” she asked as Malfoy handed her the bottle again.
“I like reading about how different people have lived their life. I like knowing that there’s different paths out there. It’s comforting. I…I like knowing that even if I mess up, or take a wrong turn, that I can always turn back, or go down another route.” He was still staring at the painting. “All these people, so different on the surface, but so similar at their core. And all of them have been through something, trials of some sort. Family, friendships, inner doubts. No one has had it easy. That’s comforting too, knowing that I-” he cut himself off, as if suddenly made aware that he’d been rambling.
Hermione picked up the thread. “That you’re not the only one?”
Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.” He turned to look at her. “You know-” he began, his voice lowering. However, before he could finish, a loud crash sounded from the party downstairs. They both jumped, startled out of the little bubble that they had created.
Hermione had forgotten where she was, who she was with.
Malfoy groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The sound went right through Hermione, making its way through her just like the champagne had. She shivered in her jumper.
“I think we’d better go downstairs.” Malfoy stood and offered Hermione his hand. She took it, feeling his cool fingers against hers. He dropped her hand as soon as she had stood up and started making his way out of his room. Hermione flexed her fingers.
“You can keep the jumper,” he said, glancing at her from the open doorway. “Green suits you.”