Chapter 2
“He did what?”
Hermione was sure she’d misheard, and Agamemnon stopped eyeing Hrima as if he could take the rabbit down and scrambled up into her arms. Voldemort had Marked his inner circle with the same snake and skull symbol he’d cast into the sky whenever he’d gone on a murdering spree. She knew it thanks to history classes, and knew subtle hadn’t been his style. But he was dead. Long dead. Dead since Harry had been a baby, and any of his followers with a brain had all turned out to be under the Imperious, or so they claimed. The stupid ones -- and the ones too loyal to recant -- were in Azkaban. Lucius Malfoy had been one of the first to use the imperious defense but, then, he could afford an excellent solicitor. Thoros Nott quickly followed suit and, as little as she liked her foster-father, she could admit he didn’t seem to be harboring a tendre for Voldemort on the sly.
“Marked him,” Theo said grimly. “Draco claims he did it willingly.”
Hermione could believe Draco would go to his grave defending his father. He’d taken more than one helping of familial pride from the buffet table of life. What she couldn’t believe was that he was telling the truth. He wasn’t stupid enough to have taken on a permanent scar for a movement long dead. She let out a strangled sound because she didn’t want to flat out tell Theo that was utter tripe, but she couldn’t manage to wholly contain herself.
Theo, who’d always been able to read her, nodded. “Even if he did, he’s regretting it.”
“So, he’s not a total fool.”
“Hermione,” Theo said, and now he sounded tired. “Just… let this one be. Don’t ask him about it. Don’t lecture him about it.”
“Just put up with his lily white, privileged arse in my flat,” Hermione said. That was great. That was so beyond great she couldn’t even quite wrap her mind around how fabulous and wonderful this was going to be. Even internal sarcasm didn’t do the trick of making living with Malfoy seem like anything other than a chore and now that she knew about his Mark, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. That was a certain kind of hell she hadn’t considered. At least her parents loved her right up until the moment they’d forgotten her. They hadn’t tried to make her – what, the mascot? -- of long-dead, delusional madman. “Malfoy. Jesus.”
“Glad we’re decided,” Theo said. He scooped up a book-bag, paused, then reached in and pulled out her notes. “Thanks for these, by the way.”
Hermione plucked them out of his hand. “No problem,” she said. “And Theo?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure there are two full baths, because I’m not sharing a shower with Malfoy’s hair products.”
. . . . . . . . . .
School finished the way it always did, with tests that seemed an eternity away until they were there, and with them a sudden rush to pack trunks and return long-ago-borrowed items. Daemons hid under beds as Hogwarts students hauled out books to take back to the library and shoes they thought they’d lost.
Hermione had her trunk packed a week before it was time to leave. Her roommates didn’t ask, and it wasn’t as if she would have told them if they had. You could live with other people for seven years and not become friends. You could live in a house for longer than that and not be a family.
Thoros Nott hadn’t sent her the traditional congratulations gifts. Other seventh years opened boxes filled with chocolates and fancy new quills and piles of galleons. Harry had a box with a new jumper and an old watch that had belonged to Molly Weasley’s brother. Ron had a jumper and a new watch, and both of them were pleased, showing the watches to anyone who would look.
Harry patted her awkwardly on the arm after she dutifully admired his gift. “Nott’s an arse,” he said, stroking Angitia’s head. The snake hissed, and Harry hissed back. Hermione tried not to be jealous he could speak Parseltongue, and it wasn’t as if she and Agamemenon didn’t talk. They just had to speak English. “Things’ll be better for you now, don’t you think.”
Agamemnon, perched on her shoulder, rubbed her face against Hermione’s neck, though whether he was agreeing with Harry or hiding a feline look of disbelief she didn’t know. “Anything away from Thoros would be better,” she said.
“The offer’s still open,” Harry said. “That townhouse is huge.”
Hermione forced a smile. Huge and filthy and inhabited by a single house-elf who hated Muggle-borns, wasn’t that keen on half-bloods, and wanted to murder Sirius Black out of hand. She’d rather live with Thoros forever. At least he didn’t sharpen a knife while looking meaningfully at her and mumbling about thieves. “Thanks,” she said, “but Theo found a pretty nice place.” He had, too. It was in Muggle London, which surprised her until she considered Draco Malfoy’s little problem. Voldemort’s fanatics weren’t likely to traipse past a bunch of non-magical filth. The ones she wouldn’t keep away, the neighborhood would.
Plus, it lessened any chances of Thoros dropping by unexpectedly. Some wizards could walk though Harrods, daemon on their shoulder, and not draw a second look. Others liked their pointy hats and purple robes too much to pass, not that Thoros would want to.
“If that’s what you want,” Harry said in a voice that made it clear he couldn’t imagine wanting anything of the sort. “At least he’s not like most of that House,” he added. Hermione’s eyes darted over to the Slytherin seventh years. They were all laughing a little too loudly and talking about their planned trips to the continent in a way that made sure everyone could hear. We’re rich, all their posturing said. And you aren’t.
Theo stood a little apart from the group. He had a new watch on his wrist but he wasn’t waving it around. He looked, if anything, a little bored. Draco Malfoy must have felt her eyes, because he looked over at he and Harry and his smile shifted from the grin of a smug child showing off his new toys to a downright smirk. He lifted his hand and gave her a little wave and Hermione rolled her eyes.
“What’s that all about?” Harry asked.
“He’s going to live with me and Theo,” she said. Harry looked so horrified she added, “I mean, only until he finds his own place,” even though that wasn’t at all true. She didn’t want to deal with Harry going off on how all Slytherins were lying bastards and Voldemort supporters, especially now.
“Figures,” Harry said. “Rich fucking prat can’t get off his own arse long enough to find his own flat.”
“Typical,” Hermione agreed.
“Why doesn’t he live at home?”
“Would you want to live with his parents?” Hermione asked archly, and Harry let out a hoarse laugh and slapped her on the arm as if she’d made the best joke over.
“You can always come over if you need to get away from them,” he said. “We’ll keep a bedroom empty for you.”
Empty, as long as one didn’t count the things living in the curtains and under the bed. Draco Malfoy might be insufferable but she was pretty sure she’d still take him over the ten-inch magical spiders and boggarts infesting 12 Grimmauld Place.
. . . . . . . . . .
It took three days for Hermione to decide maybe she would prefer the large spiders. Theo had done as she asked and found a place with two full baths, and hers was right off her room, so she should have been spared Draco’s hair products, but he had a habit of leaving them around. Blue goop crept out of glass jars with open lids and tried to escape down cracks in the wood floors. Yellow slime dribbled out of an overturned flask and congealed on an end table. He left plates with jelly on one side of the kitchen and a knife with butter on the other. He didn’t tie bags of bread closed and they got stale. He put milk back after he drank it all and left damp towels on the sofa.
The flat itself was airy and bright and lovely. Large windows looked out over a park and built in bookcases flanked a fireplace Theo had somehow convinced the Ministry to hook up to the floo network. Agamemnon had commandeered a spot in one window from which he could see the birds and he would sit, tail twitching, making tiny chirping noises while Draco’s daemon curled at his side, dozing.
It honestly annoyed her how well their daemons got on. And it also annoyed her that it was clear Draco had never cleaned up after himself in his life. Yes, Hogwarts had the house elves, and Nott Manor did too, and she was sure the Malfoys had at least one. She still picked up her own room, and if that had been a ‘don’t coddle the Muggle-born’ thing, well, Theo had adapted to having to wash his own dishes without a problem.
When she went to spread out a pile of archival Daily Prophet’s on the table and couldn’t because it still had the greasy newspaper from Draco’s fish and chips dinner the night before, complete with a cold chip that made her feel queasy just looking at it, Hermione decided she’d had enough. She put all the papers Harry had ‘borrowed’ for her from the Ministry back in her canvas bag, stomped over to Draco’s bedroom, and pounded on the door as hard as she could.
He didn’t answer, which was typical, but she could hear his daemon playing with something, and she decided she was going to give her spoiled, miserable prat of a housemate a piece of her mind about his slovenliness whether he wanted to let her in or not.
And, besides, the bedroom doors didn’t have locks so he couldn’t keep her out.
“Draco Malfoy,” she said in a ton Ron would have called scolding as she turned the knob and pushed the door into his room. She had her mouth opened to say a lot more. She had a veritable speech planned. Speeches, plural, about food and courtesy and what a slob he was and consideration and every single one of those words fled her brain at the sight of the pale young man in a t-shirt sitting on his bed and tracing his fingers around and around a dark pattern on his forearm.
Draco jerked when he saw her and the forlorn misery disappeared at once into a much more familiar sneer. “If you’re looking to borrow a few galleons, Granger, go ask Theo,” he said, but he couldn’t hide the Mark on his arm, and she couldn’t unsee the fear no matter how much he tried to cover it up.
“I need help with the dishes,” she said. “And most of them are yours.”
His eyes flickered from her face, back to his arm, and them back to scan her expression. “We should get an elf,” he said.
“Or you could wash your own plates.” God, she wanted ask so many questions. Had it hurt? What the hell had his father been thinking? They didn’t think Voldemort was coming back, did they? Because that was absurd.
Draco grabbed an oxford and pushed his arms into the sleeves but didn’t bother to button it up. The blue fabric covered the Mark, and he looked unexpectedly good in trousers, an undershirt, and that open dress shirt. It was a huge improvement on his usual neat as a pin school uniform.
“Why do you care so much?” he asked. “You planning to bake up some cupcakes or something.
Hermione snorted. She doubted she’d be able to make anything even approaching a cake. Hogwarts didn’t exactly have a class on household charms, and she hadn’t lived in a place that didn’t have some sort of staff making the food since –
“I wanted to do research,” she said very shortly, cutting off the thought of why she’d grown up in a house with staff. “And the table was dirty.”
“Research on what?” Draco asked. His sneer was more pro forma than sincere. He pulled out his wand, flicked at and said something she couldn’t quite make out, and the flat righted itself into a state that would please even the fussiest of elves in a trice.
“What was that?”
“Tidying spell.” The lifted eyebrows, the slight tilt to his smile. Oh, he was such a bastard. He knew magic from being around it all his life, she didn’t, and how he was enjoying this moment of superiority. He’d learned cleaning spells at his mother’s knee, and all she had was what they’d taught at Hogwarts and a foster father who had done his best to not notice she existed. That and two parents with wiped memories who she planned to find.
“Good,” she said flatly. “Maybe use it more often.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t tell me what you were researching.”
“No, I didn’t.” Hermione began to spread her purloined papers out on the table. She had to get these back to Harry as quickly as possible. He wasn’t that keen on helping her do research and if she made it difficult for him at work, he’d quit. These were all from the year she’d been kidnapped. Good. Maybe somewhere in them she’d find notes about what the Aurors had done.
Draco sat down opposite her and pulled one paper toward himself. “Bit out of date,” he said, but when she stretched forward to drag it back away from him, he held it up and out of her reach. “You really that interested in the recipe of the month? I can promise you, they weren’t any better a decade ago.”
“Give it to me,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. If she used accio, she risked tearing the old paper, and Harry might get in trouble.
Draco held it higher. “Or do you like the stories of how our dear leader Grindelwald has made the world a safer place, keeping the Muggles out of trouble. Didn’t they used to have wars? Guns? Killing themselves all the time? And now their world is much simpler. Smaller, I admit. Less populated. But simpler.”
“They used to have freedom,” she said. They used to not get summarily killed by an Auror for stepping out of line. Not that many of them had any idea who or what policed their side of the magical divide. Troublemakers died. That was all. It was for the Greater Good.
“Are you a crusader for Muggle rights?” The look on Draco’s face was poisonous and delighted all at once. “You aren’t questioning Grindelwald’s wisdom, are you?”
“I just want to find my parents,” she snapped. “Nothing you would care about. So, pass it back over.” Agamemnon hopped onto her lap and hissed at Draco, who seemed speechless at that response.
It was his daemon who answered her. “Then you’re looking in the wrong place,” she said.