Chapter 11
She froze, the hairs on the back of her neck rising.
That voice was unmistakable, even in its sudden menace.
Slowly, she turned, her wide eyes seeking him out in the shadows. There, half-cloaked in darkness beside the portrait, sat Draco Malfoy. His stoic face was a mask, revealing nothing of the tempest she sensed brewing beneath the surface.
Trapped, Hermione's breaths came short and fast.
She scanned the room for escape, but found only stone walls, dense with dark paintings and unknown stories which served as inspiration for Mr. Malfoy’s creativity.
He adjusted his seating position, extending his long legs casually as he leaned against the expensive armchair, his toned physique and impressive height cutting an intimidating figure in the shadows.
"I won't ask you again. What are you doing here?"
His voice was lethally soft, each word honed sharp as a knife. Hermione's heart stuttered, but she lifted her chin in defiance and took a slight step back.
"It wasn't on purpose. I'm lost," she stated, willing her voice not to shake.
"Why did you leave the bedchamber?" he asked, ignoring her attempt at explanation. His eyes bore into hers, lightning flickering in their stormy depths.
"I wasn't aware I was a prisoner within it," she responded tartly, summoning her courage.
"Miss Granger, has nobody told you it is incredibly impolite to meddle in affairs that do not concern you?" he spoke as he glanced down at her condescendingly. "Such as peering into rooms you have not been welcomed into?"
"I saw nothing, Mr. Malfoy," she replied evenly. "I believe you would find it best for me to take my leave now."
His eyes flashed to her finger, the index fingertip stained with black paint.
"You're lying to me, Miss Granger."
"I'm not. I will go now," she stated firmly, walking backwards towards the door.
"Stop," Draco gruffed, taking long strides to block her exit, his tall frame imposing.
"Do not lie to me."
Hermione halted, resisting the urge to shrink away as he loomed over her. His stormy eyes bore into hers, filled with frustration and simmering intensity.
She opened her mouth to deny it again, but the words died on her lips.
The paint on her finger condemned her plainly.
"And what do you care if I lie?" she spat, anger overcoming her fear. "You believe because you have brought me here under pretense of protection that I am obliged to respect you?" She kept her gaze averted, unable to meet the intensity of his eyes. "Yes, I saw the painting. I do not care to know how you gained such intimate knowledge of my dream or why I'm captured on your canvas, but you cannot blame me for wandering this house when I'm disoriented and alone."
Her chest rose and fell with shaky breaths, nerves threatening to overwhelm her as she stared resolutely at the floor.
A tense silence enveloped them, broken only by the clock's faint ticking. Mustering her courage, she finally voiced the question that had plagued her.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why did you paint me?"
At last she lifted her eyes to his, amber meeting quicksilver.
His stare was inscrutable, concealing any reaction to her bold query. For a long moment, he regarded her in pensive silence.
When Malfoy finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. "Some visions linger, even after waking. Demanding to be captured."
Confusion creased Hermione's brow.
She opened her mouth to ask for clarity, only to be halted by his upraised hand.
"Enough questions." His tone brooked no argument. "You should rest. We'll discuss this in the morning."
"It is morning," she whispered, eyes darting to the window where the first fragile rays of dawn were breaking over the horizon.
The tension hung thick between them, until Malfoy abruptly stepped back, turning his face from her searching gaze.
In the muted light she could make out the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hollows carved into his pale cheeks. Evidence of many sleepless nights lost in solitude.
Malfoy had unintentionally done as he always did - spent the whole night engulfed in his own thoughts, the hours racing by uncontrolled as he retreated into a private world of shadows and loneliness. He did not need anyone by his side; life had prepared him for isolation, hardened him to self-reliance. The empty manor echoed with ghosts of the past, reminders of all he had lost and could still lose.
In the lonely darkness he sought solace in his art, channeling passions too dangerous to be freely expressed.
She was but a muse - an outlet for his hidden talent. He concluded.
Nothing more.
As the sun slowly ascended, its light filtering through the room's cracks and crevices, the night's strange intimacy faded with the shadows. The darkened room began to see the first inklings of sunlight, and Draco began walking out of the room.
"Come. Mrs. Fitz will arrange breakfast for you, then the carriage will take you back shortly," he said, his voice now muted and detached.
The confessional hour had passed - it was time for her to go.
She followed him blindly to the kitchen, where the kindly older lady smiled softly as Hermione entered.
The aroma of sizzling eggs, fresh baked bread and cinnamon treats blessed her nostrils, making her stomach churn with hunger.
"Good morning, miss," Mrs. Fitz chirped in her lilting Scouse accent. "I bet you're a starving little thing, look at you."
Mrs. Fitz had been hired by the Malfoys over twenty years ago. Joining the staff as a nanny at just twenty-three, she had grown to run the manor with maternal authority. Draco loved her like a second mother, her kind heart and gentle soul the only solace from his parents' coldness.
She took Hermione's arm between her worn but nimble fingers, guiding her to the dining room’s table.
Her touch was soothing, radiating comfort and safety.
"Sit yourself down love, I'll fix you a nice hot plate. Can't have you fainting from hunger after the night you've had."
Hermione sank gratefully onto the seat as Mrs. Fitz busied herself at the stove. The cozy kitchen seemed worlds away from the icy tension of Draco's dining room, the dark table elongated to vast proportions.
In the kitchen there was only warmth - the promise of light after a long, dark night.
Mr. Malfoy sat at the opposite end of the table, his long legs spread comfortably as Mrs. Fitz brought two steaming plates from the kitchen.
Setting one down before Hermione, she patted her head and checked the condition of her injury.
"Just a bit of bruising, nothing too serious," she smiled, then turned to the tall aristocrat across from them. "You've done a fine job tending to her, Mr. Malfoy."
Hermione's eyes shot up to his in surprise.
He had been the one to treat her wounds?
To gently dab gauze on her forehead after her fall?
She had simply assumed it was Mrs. Fitz's doing.
"You taught me well," was all he said, a rare compliment falling from his lips.
With a fond smile at the boy she had helped raise into a man, Mrs. Fitz began to shuffle away. "A necessary skill to have after-"
She caught her words deftly as Draco's spine stiffened, his face closing off.
"My apologies sir," she murmured, looking down in deference.
"It's alright Mrs. Fitz, do go on about your day," he dismissed evenly, though his jaw remained tensed.
A loaded silence fell between them as Mrs. Fitz retreated from the room. Hermione studied Draco curiously, wondering at the secrets hinted at but left unsaid. He met her gaze briefly, quicksilver eyes unreadable, before dropping his attention to the plate before him.
She felt a strange sense of familiarity being around this version of Malfoy - her own time's Draco was much the same. Aloof, guarded, with dark mysteries lurking beneath his polished surface.
Hermione sensed the innate nobility within Draco, even shrouded as it was beneath his impenetrable armor. In her time, she had seen glimpses of the man he could become if freed from his family's darkness.
But here, the shadows still clung to him like a second skin, concealing any flicker of light.
Their meal passed in uneasy silence, neither willing to speak of the charged events and revelations of the night.
Draco kept his façade calmly authoritative, but behind his mask he held secret regrets over leaving Hermione's portrait out in the open. Not because of the painting's intimate contents, but due to the inquisitive nature of the woman he had unregretfully chosen as his muse.
He should have known she would not refrain from digging into mysteries that captured her interest.
Across from him, Hermione picked at her food, preoccupied with mentally replaying the strange events on an endless loop. She tried in vain to make sense of it all, to find reason behind how Draco could have captured her dream so vividly on canvas.
Had it been Legilimency?
A Seer's prophecy he had somehow intercepted?
She had sensed no intrusion into her mind, detected no deceptive magic attached to the painting. Only the uncanny feeling that part of her soul had been laid bare without her consent or knowledge.
Glancing up, she found Draco's mercurial eyes studying her inscrutably. Their gazes caught and held for a taut moment, before he looked away without a word, his thoughts unreadable.
"My family will be missing me, I should go soon," Hermione stated into the tense silence.
Using his hands to push off from the table, Draco rose abruptly without granting her another glance.
"You may leave whenever you wish" he spoke plainly, then turned on his heel, striding from the room toward his bedchambers. "Goodbye, Miss Granger,"
He departed before she could respond, his long legs carrying him swiftly away as if in escape.
But instinct drove Hermione to call after him.
"Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy."
The echo of her soft farewell lingered in the empty hall. Draco's steps faltered briefly at the sound, before resuming their rapid pace.
His jaw clenched, brows furrowing.
Goodbyes were final. And though unspoken, the events of last night still lay heavy between them, demanding resolution.
He could feel her eyes on his back as he retreated down the corridor.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he caught a last glimpse of her standing small and forlorn in the dining room’s doorway, watching him go. Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest before he forced himself to face forward once more.
Distance was needed.
Her presence was too disruptive, with her endless questions and searching eyes.
It was better this way.
Soon she would be gone, taking the chaos she carried with her. Order would return. His world would be solitary and calm once more.
Yet even as he crossed the threshold of his chambers, her voice echoed through his mind.
“Why- Why did you paint me?”
In truth, Draco had no clear understanding of why he had painted Hermione with such intensity.
She had come to him first in a dream - emerging from darkness and mystery to walk beside him through a sparkling obsidian lake. Her wild curls had flowed behind her like a banner as she glided into the black waters, glancing back with an unspoken invitation for him to follow into their unknown depths.
Upon waking, the image had refused to leave him.
It had lingered before his mind's eye, haunting and tantalizing, until he could resist no longer.
He had seized his brushes to try and capture her evocative beauty, painting with a passion bordering on obsession. Stroke by stroke, she had materialized onto the canvas.
Even when the last brushstroke was complete, satisfaction had eluded him. The painted image failed to embody the primal pull he had felt in the dream.
It remained lifeless, two dimensional - an echo of true enchantment.
It simply was not Miss Granger in her infuriating entirety.
So he had thrown himself into painting her again and again, each attempt more desperate than the last. Chasing after some nameless, elusive quality just beyond his grasp.
She haunted him, his muse and tormentor both.
No matter the iterations, he could not recreate the magic of that first vision. And her real-life presence in his manor only deepened the frustration.
Hermione drifted from the dining room at the sound of a calming breeze, her slip flowing softly as she followed a corridor lined with towering windows. As she walked, the panes grew larger, flooding the marble halls with hazy daylight.
Brilliant greens came into view, along with vibrant pinks and champagne-colored blooms creeping up the glass.
Stepping through an ornate doorway, she found herself ensconced in the manor gardens.
Flamboyant red flowers and clusters of delicate bluebells welcomed her, their sweet aromas and undulating petals beckoning her forward.
She trailed her fingers lazily through blossoms as she meandered along gravel pathways, transported to a world outside of time.
Bees hummed indolently between bobbing heads of foxglove and larkspur, hypnotic in the lingering chill of the morning.
All thoughts of strange dreams and mystifying paintings receded from her mind, washed away by the soothing cadence of birdsong and rustling leaves. Tension eased from her shoulders with each step deeper into this sanctuary, its beauty balm to her unsettled soul.
Hermione wandered deeper into the sprawling gardens, her footsteps aimless and unhurried.
Glancing back, she saw the imposing manor now appeared distant and less suffocating from this vantage point amidst the floral abundance. Though it would likely never seem a welcoming home in her eyes, from afar its dark grandeur was somehow softened, less intimidating.
She traced the soaring columns and arched windows with her gaze, fancying that she saw a curtain flutter as if someone had been watching her meanderings.
But no figure appeared in the paned glass, just the manor glancing back at her.
A series of clouds drifted across the sun, and she shivered, the coolness raising goosebumps on her bare arms. The gardens seemed to hold their breath, colors becoming muted and less vibrant beneath the veil of gray.
Suddenly, fat raindrops began slamming down mercilessly, unleashing a torrential downpour.
Within seconds Hermione was drenched, her thin lace and cotton slip plastered against her skin.
She gasped as icy rivulets ran down her neck and back, the floral perfumes washed away by the sharp scent of ozone. Thunder rumbled ominously above as she sprinted for the shelter of the manor, the stone path cold under her slippered feet.
Her curls hung in sodden strings, framing her face.
As she stepped into the sunroom, seeking refuge, a dark figure stood before her.
Draco was silent and observant as a pool of water began to form around Hermione's feet. Rain dripped from the fabric, creating a growing puddle on the tile floor.
Hermione jumped at the sight of him, startled by his sudden imposing presence. She stood frozen, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath after her desperate dash through the downpour.
Mr. Malfoy found himself utterly speechless as his eyes fixated on Hermione.
The air grew thick with tension as he watched her, his gaze locked onto her form. Her attire, now barely there, clung to her body with an unforgiving grasp. The fabric, so tantalizingly transparent, revealed nearly every inch of her with unabashed pride.
It molded to her like a second skin, accentuating every enticing curve and contour.
His gaze traced the delicate lines of her figure, from the gentle swell of her breasts, adorned with hardened nipples that strained against the fabric, to the seductive curve of her waist, leading down to the swell of her hips. The fabric clung to her waist, hinting at the treasures that lay beneath.
Hermione's breaths quickened in pace, her chest rising and falling with an intoxicating rhythm. The sheer vulnerability and raw divinity she exuded made Mr. Malfoy's pulse race with an insatiable something he knew not to acknowledge.
His eyes locked onto the gentle shape of her hips, imagining the softness of her skin beneath his hands, the way her body would yield to his touch.
The man stood there, consumed by a potent storm of conflicting emotions.
He despised her, loathed her very existence, all because beneath that raging sea of hatred, an undercurrent of desire surged relentlessly.
It wasn't a lack of physical capability that held him back, but rather the overwhelming magnitude of his wanting.
The intensity of his desire for her was so potent that it frightened him, threatened to unravel him.
Miss Granger was the sole creator of his impropriety.
"It's raining, Miss Granger," Draco spoke low, unmoving as they simply stared at one another.
Hermione swallowed, averting her eyes briefly from his intense gaze.
"It is," was all she could muster in reply.
Rain drummed steadily against the panes of the sunroom, the only sound breaking the tense silence between them. Rivulets of water continued to slide down Hermione's skin, dampening the fabric clinging to every curve.
She shivered, an arm crossed protectively over her chest.
Whether from cold or unease under his scrutiny, she could not say.
Draco's face remained impassive, but his jaw muscle twitched with unnamed emotion. His silver eyes roamed slowly, unable to refrain from tracing the alluring silhouette she presented.
Lightning periodically lit the dim room, highlighting her features in flashes of light and shadow.
She looked unearthly yet vulnerable, a water nymph captured out of her element.
"Oh goodness me girl! You must be freezing your little bones off!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitz, rushing toward Hermione with a thick brown blanket to warm her chilled, rain-soaked skin.
She wrapped it securely around Hermione's shoulders, briskly ushering her from the sunroom toward the bedchambers in search of warmer...or any attire. Hermione clutched the coarse wool tightly, grateful for its warmth and cover.
Draco remained rooted in place as they departed, only exhaling once Hermione's form disappeared from his peripheral vision.
He realized then that he'd been holding his breath unconsciously, not releasing it until she was gone from sight.
The lingering image of her rain-drenched silhouette still smoldered in his mind.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to regain control.
She was his only affliction.
As Hermione dressed in the adjoining room, Mrs. Fitz stood waiting outside upon her request. When Draco strode by, the matron gently pulled him aside.
"I've notified the girl she cannot return home just yet, sir," she explained apologetically. "The conditions do not allow for safe travel - no carriage could ride properly in this storm. And we both know Miss Granger cannot go by horseback."
Draco's jaw tightened, but he nodded in understanding.
Mrs. Fitz continued delicately, "We also cannot charm the carriages to weather the terrain surrounding the manor, as you know it does not respond well to magic."
It was true, the ancient magic ingrained in his ancestral lands reacted unpredictably to foreign spells. Apparition was impossible within the grounds.
Miss Granger would be forced to remain until the tempest passed.