Idle Worship

Hermione woke with a start. It was cold, but she was sweating, her toes felt blue but the air was humid. She had every instinct to scream but she swallowed it. She bit down on her lips to keep them shut. She forced herself to breathe, half tempted to smother herself with her pillow. Admittedly, she was a little surprised that Malfoy hadn’t tried to do such a thing himself last night. Though, she mused, he would have used magic to suffocate her, not a pillow. But he didn’t. 

As horrendous as he was, Hermione didn’t believe him to be truly evil. He was bigoted, conniving, and an absolute wanker, of this she was sure, but not a cold blooded sadist. He just spent most of his life following one around. 

Moving as little as she could, she turned her head to the side to peer over at his cot. He looked younger in sleep. No scowl, no crease between his brows. 

Testing her previous theory, Hermione peered over the edge of her bed and found herself smiling something smug when she saw her clothes neatly folded at the foot. She still couldn’t be sure until she could distinguish the pattern, but her working theory was that any resetting the cave would do was linked to their sleep cycle. The skylight shone with dawn, but Hermione wasn’t sure how reliable it could really be. They would just have to do their best to count the days. The thought of counting days with Malfoy in a cave inspired her anxiety to return with a vengeance. Fuck. This was really happening. Fuck. 

She decided that a glass of water and something to eat was all she could do for now. She had enough problems already, she couldn’t handle adding hunger and dehydration to the equation. While she filled a glass with water, she started poking around the cabinets within reach. There was bread in the breadbox. It jellied itself when she took a bite and was surprisingly delicious. Every little thing that happened made less and less sense. 

She poured a second glass of water and made up a plate of toast for Draco, not intentionally, but out of habit. She always made three of everything when she was on the run with the boys. Even while they were staying at Grimmauld Place, she never quite kicked the habit. She didn’t want to think about that. About them. If she thought about them, she would worry. She would miss them. 

She left the glass and plate on the table, checking with a quick glance over her shoulder that Draco was still asleep. Not that she would have carried it over to him had he been awake, but he would expect her to do that, wouldn’t he? He probably had house elves and tutors and servants that delivered his meals wherever he saw fit to take them. 

With her teeth, Hermione held on to another piece of toast and grabbed her own glass of water. She sat back down on her bed, leaned back against the wall, and opened up the journal she had been reading the night before. She only lasted a page before she was too restless to even pretend to read. She envied the peace she could see in Draco as he slept. Blissfully oblivious to everything he would remember the minute he woke. 

She got up to rummage, albeit quietly, through more of the cabinets. She had been too caught up in the journals the day before, and Draco had still been foggy with a pounding head, so neither of them had got around to looking. Somehow, yesterday, the contents of the cabinets had seemed less important. She attributed it to the chaos, but today she wasn’t having any of it. Hermione needed to take stock and prepare for… whatever the hell this was.

Her search was quickly interrupted by the coffee pot she found three cabinets in. If she was sure of one thing, it was that finding their way out of here wasn’t going to happen in an afternoon. Coffee would help. A warm mug in her hands would help. Before the pot was even half full, she heard Draco stirring. 

“Good morning, Theodore,” Draco drawled while rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When he opened them and saw Hermione, he went rigid. Like a child sliding down the banister who was caught in the act. They just stared at each other for several seconds too long. Hermione, who had met her lifetime quota of bullshit somewhere between fourth and fifth year, broke the silence. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She suggested neutrally. She had no intention of befriending Draco Malfoy, however, she was confident that they had a common goal in escaping the hellhole. She also knew that Draco Malfoy was not stupid. If they could manage to work together, they would be out of there much quicker than if they went at it alone. Coffee seemed like a start. Draco scowled at her for a long time before he extended a hand and huffed out his assent. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and took him the steaming mug she had poured while he was debating whether or not to accept her olive branch. They both sipped their coffee until Hermione couldn’t stand the silence any longer. There had been a time when she preferred silence and solitude, but that part of her was drawn and quartered when she was sorted into Gryffindor. Adapt or die. 

“Are you and Theodore—” 

“We are not talking about Theo.” Draco cut her off abruptly. 

Hermione looked nervously back down into her coffee. Draco was… different. He was still cold and generally poor company. This was not news to her. But since she had last seen him, it had been years, he had softened around the edges. He was no longer cold just for the sake of it. The way he had snapped at her for asking about Nott, it hadn’t been just to shut her down. He sounded protective. Like Hermione would be about Harry or Ron. She was glad Draco didn’t ask her about either of them. 

They sat in silence until they were both due for another cup. 

Hermione walked up to him, extending a hand to take his mug. He didn’t even look up at her, he just handed it over. At this rate, Hermione was wasting her time with olive branches. She would need an entire fucking grove of olive trees. 

“How’s your head?” She asked as she poured their coffee, her back still turned to him. She figured it might be easier for him to talk to her if he didn’t feel obligated to make eye contact. If they talked this way, not having to look at each other, maybe they could pretend that they were talking to somebody else. She could pretend that she was at Grimmauld Place, remaking Harry’s pot that always resembled battery acid or tap water, but never coffee. This coffee was delicious, but she wished that it wasn’t, just for the reminder of home.

“My head is fine.” He said obstinately. 

His head definitely still hurt, but he didn’t see any reason why Hermione was entitled to that information. She handed him the replenished coffee mug and then returned to the counter, pouring a mug for herself and sipping from it. 

When she turned around, he was staring at her. No, not just at her, but at her forearm where she had pushed up the sleeve to her jumper. She turned back around to face the counter again, her back to him, and wrapped both hands around her steaming mug before she spoke. 

“Would you quit staring? I know that you know there used to be a scar there.” Hermione didn’t know what she felt. A combination of things. A mixture of intrusive, self-conscious thoughts that she knew to be untrue. She knew that she had never deserved to carry such a horrific scar. She was just as much of a witch as Malfoy was a wizard. She didn’t owe him an explanation, yet, she felt so poised to give one. She was about to, but he spoke first.

“How did you remove it?” He inquired benignly. There was a tilt to his head that Hermione noticed as she turned back around to face him, still leaning back against the counter. Far enough away that she didn’t feel like he could just reach out and grab her. 

“With a potion.” She replied. She could tell that he was playing at something, but she had no idea what it was. Her arms had been uncovered the day before and he hadn’t said anything, so she knew it wasn’t anything pressing. She waited for him to elaborate, but Draco only nodded in confirmation. 

“Why do you ask?” Hermione drawled, a little annoyed with his odd behavior. At least when he was being mean, he was consistent. She knew what to expect and how to defer any hard feelings she might otherwise take personally. 

“No reason.” Draco said simply. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. 

“Do you miss it? I know you never had any problem deciding what to call me, but did you get off on seeing it? You would, wouldn’t you.” It came from somewhere deep in her, pure malice, rotten after being left to fester and ferment uninhibited for years. 

He snapped his head to look her in the eye, which is when she watched the retort jump to his lips. It never came, though, she watched it snap back like elastic. He carefully schooled his features, shutters closing across his face until there were no spaces left, no light coming in or out. He turned away from her. 

“I invented it.” His voice was short and detached when he said it, but not sharp. 

That got Hermione’s attention. 

“The poison?” Hermione snapped. 

“The antidote.” Draco snapped right back, with attention and his words. She could feel herself squirming under his gaze. 

He was capable of something other than ruin. He could hold things without breaking them. 

Hermione was speechless for more than a few seconds. His lingering gaze hadn’t been cruel, it was curious. Academic curiosity. And that was something Hermione understood. He stood as she approached him, pushing up her sleeve and brandishing her pale forearm to him. 

Unblemished. Absolutely flawless. His potion worked perfectly. He deserved to see that. 

He took half a step closer, but he did not touch her. Did not get too close. His hands stayed clasped loosely behind his back as he leaned ever-so-slightly forward. He had the poise of an aging academic admiring an ancient artifact. They were silent for a few moments as he studied her arm with rapt attention, like there was more there to see. Then Hermione remembered who the fuck this was. 

She tugged her sleeve back down abruptly, crossing her arms petulantly. “Forgive me if I can’t quite figure out how being a demonic lackey qualifies you to invent powerful medicinal potions.”

“I suspect the Potions Mastery helps.” Draco deadpanned. Hermione felt her eyebrows raise and couldn’t fully suppress her huff of indignation. 

“And when, might I ask, did you get a Potions Mastery?”

“December of 1999.” Hermione’s eyes widened. She wanted to punch him in the face. Again. The feeling admittedly subsided when she remembered that she personally benefitted from such Mastery.

“I didn’t get mine until January of 2001, however, I was a bit preoccupied. Being held hostage in your family home and roaming the continent looking for pieces of Voldemort’s soul were a bit of a scheduling nightmare.” Draco gritted his teeth. She wasn’t worth the fight. That didn’t stop him from picking it. 

“I also invented a potion that prevents full lycanthropic transformation. Previous renditions all focused on preserving the mind during the transformation, but nothing has been able to suppress the physical transformation. My potion preserves about seventy per cent of human features including speech capabilities. The transformation is still horrific, but it is extremely useful for individuals who don’t have the option of running loose in the woods somewhere during the full moon.” 

“You invented Lycandiaquine?!” Hermione nearly stomped a foot. She had written a glowing review for the potion after receiving a sample of it before it was released, specifically commending its utility in the inpatient setting. Preventing a full transformation allowed for the preservation of physical healing processes during the full moon. Before the potion, lycanthropic patients had to be relocated to the cells at the ministry and often came back in worse shape than when they had been admitted, forced to start from square one with whatever treatments they had been admitted for in the first place. 

The fact that she had called Draco Malfoy’s brain-child progressive, revolutionary and magnificent made her want to scream. Her life lately, particularly the past three days, had the tendency to make her want to scream. 

It was Draco’s turn to raise his brows. 

“I take it you’ve heard of it then?”

Hermione groaned, letting her head hang forward in exhaustion.

“I’m a Healer for Godric’s sake, of course I’ve heard of it. It is a major advancement in lycanthropic healing, as you are well aware.”

“A Healer? I thought you spent all of your allocated do-gooding hours chasing wonder boy and his favorite idiot around the Scottish countryside.” Draco mused. 

“Don’t talk about Harry and Ron like that.” Hermione snapped. “It’s a lot easier to patch them up now that I’m trained to do it. I had to heal Ron once without much more than basic healing charms and half a vial of dittany. I wasn’t keen to do it again.”

“And by your standards, the basic charms are what, at least half of what they teach the Mediwitches?”

“I thought it would be enough. It wasn’t.”

“I can’t say I know many people who would pick up an entire career on a whim for the sake of being prepared. You really are an insufferable know-it-all. ”

“That’s what they all said until it was me who was patching them up after your lot took over St. Mungo’s.” Hermione gripped the edge of the counter.

“They’re not my lot.” Draco snapped. 

“Could have fooled me.” Hermione drawled, goading. 

“I’m not doing this with you, Granger. I’m just not.” Draco said in a tone so long-suffering she almost believed it. 

“We’re stuck with each other until we figure out how to get the hell out of here, so it doesn’t really matter what I think, as long as we can agree to work together for the time being. Hell, I’d even consider an ongoing partnership if it includes serving some of our own justice against whoever put us here.” Hermione whipped back around to face Draco again, suddenly enraged. 

The inability to fully process the circumstances of their current reality made them both extremely temperamental. It would hit them in quiet moments, sometimes in loud ones, the gravity of the situation. One minute they would be bickering harmlessly, and then Hermione would get the urge to storm off and complain to Harry about it, and then she would remember why she couldn’t.

Following their capture and imprisonment at Malfoy Manor, Hermione made the wise decision to spend some time regrouping. Seeing her tortured was one of the only things she had ever seen shake Harry and Ron, and is probably the reason they listened to her when she said that they needed to do more research. Develop a plan. Prepare. Roughing it in the woods and running from Snatchers was obviously getting them almost nowhere.

Hemione took the time to train as a Healer and get her Potions Mastery. It normally would have taken years of training at the Healer Academy, but given her existing wealth of knowledge, her reputation, and the state of the wizarding world at the time, the Order’s Healer was more than willing to take Hermione on as her apprentice.

While the setbacks on their Horcrux hunt were infuriating, they all agreed that there was no point to wasting their energy trying to collect water with a sieve. Harry was the worst, pacing holes in the floor at Grimmauld Place, itching to get his hands dirty and help with anything. 

Ron, who Hermione was worried would lose his mind after three days of being couped up, was surprisingly docile. He helped a lot around the house, often in the kitchen. He found so much peace in being with his family that he didn’t even complain when someone asked him to help with the dishes. 

After nine long months of this, Ron grew softer than he had ever been. He noticed things. When Hermione would work herself into the ground in the makeshift infirmary, he would bring her a cup of tea and make her sit with him for an hour while she drank it. He made sure that every Monday night, the three of them stayed up late with a bottle of Ogden’s and laughed like their lives weren’t theirs. He would drag Hermione from the potions lab and Harry from the war room and make sure they ate.

Ron grew soft. Harry and Hermione grew restless.

In more accurate terms, Harry and Hermione were going to rip their own bloody eyeballs out if they didn’t get to blow something up soon. So when Remus told them that the Order was going back on the offensive and needed bodies, Harry and Hermione were the first to volunteer. Ron took on more responsibilities at Grimmauld Place to prepare for the inevitable influx of boarders. This would have torn them apart once. The most peculiar thing was that it actually managed to bring them closer together. 

Ron and Hermione buried and paid their respects to the relationship that died before it was anything at all. Hermione marvelled at the natural leader and quick thinker she saw in Harry, especially in the moments when everything was going wrong. Though it used to make her roll her eyes incessantly, Ron’s clumsy way of loving became something that was a comfort to her. Ron learned how to show Hermione that he cared about her in quiet ways that didn’t come with the pressure of becoming something more. Harry was able to talk to Ron without worrying that he would brush off everything serious in favour of a joke. He could also count on him to do just that when they both needed it. 

After three days in the cave, Hermione was finally able to piece together the last thing she remembered. She was at The Burrow, celebrating her birthday. Hermione had tried to call the whole thing off, but Molly was insistent. She and Harry were leaving in a few days to follow a lead on a Horcrux, and they would be gone for her birthday. 

Molly made a full spread and everyone had half a drink too many. Some were bandaged and bruised, but everyone they loved was sitting around the table and everything felt so indulgently mundane that they were able to forget about the state of the world for an evening. 

Arthur had been learning how to use his new Muggle camera. He took a picture of Hermione, Ron and Harry that she knew she would one day show to her children when they asked what mum looked like when she was younger. Sandwiched between the boys, Hermione smiled boldly and was trying to stifle laughter at something Harry and Ron were saying. Ron wore a dopey smirk that made her want to pinch his cheeks and Harry was smiling bigger than she had ever seen him smile. They weren’t the same kids who started saving the world when they were eleven, but the camera had captured them just right, and in that moment, she could see those kids in them.

“Do you think you can pack up your grievances long enough to work with me, Malfoy?” Hermione snapped at him. It felt good to snap at Draco, if only for the familiarity of it. 

“You assume you know everything, which you do not, and the whole of it is quite ironic, if you ask me.” 

She hadn’t asked him.

“I told you I wasn’t doing all of this with you.” She made a messy gesture of waving her hands between them. “Cut the shite. Tell me why it’s ironic, as you are so obviously dying to share, and then we can get on with our day.” Hermione huffed. Draco chuckled under his breath.

“Got somewhere to be, Granger? I could do this all day.” 

Hermione gave Draco a look that told him he wouldn’t live to see the end of the day if he even tried. A still-bemused Draco composed himself to indicate his readiness to actually speak with her. 

“I recognise that I have done wrong in the past, much of which affected you directly. I have no intention of denying that. But did it ever occur to you that in the last five years, I might have changed?”

“No.” Hermione responded immediately. Draco has always offered her one thing above all others, and that was consistency. He consistently belittled her. He consistently antagonised Harry and Ron. He consistently picked fights he knew he could win because they weren’t fair fights to begin with. And he had never done anything to suggest that there would be a change in the pattern. Until now. Until he was trapped in a cave with her, and something about him was different, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She had answered too quickly, with too much bite. 

“I still think you’re a horrible swot.” Draco hummed.

Hermione scoffed. She no longer felt bad for snapping at him, because he deserved to be snapped at. Any hint that she was warming to him was quickly frozen over whenever he opened his mouth.

“But not because of your blood status.” That caught Hermione’s attention. She locked eyes with him and squinted angrily, but he didn’t say anything. He was going to make her ask.

“What is it that makes me such a horrible swot, Malfoy?” Hermione said through gritted teeth. 

“You consider yourself inherently better than anyone that you do not respect infallibly. You want people to know that you are the smartest in the room, so you foster opportunities that allow you to prove your internalised superiority. You have strong morals, but they also fuel your saviour complex, which you use as an excuse to look down on anyone whose morals and motivations you do not understand. You want everyone you perceive as morally inept to rise to your level, yet you sit on a self-imposed pedestal because you get off on the idea of being the Golden Girl that you claim to despise but ultimately became.” 

Draco was quiet for exactly half a second before Hermione took three steps forward and punched him in the face.

“I asked for that, but you’re only angry because you know it’s true.” Draco turned his face to the side to spit blood. Hermione shook out her hand, already feeling which knuckles would bruise the most. She didn’t even bother pretending that her hand didn’t hurt, she was too pleased with herself for having punched Malfoy in the face.

“Seems you’ve been thinking about me all these years, are you obsessed with me or something?” Hermione felt drunk with rage and adrenaline and spoke entirely unfiltered, exactly what came to mind. She was still trying to process everything that Draco had said, all the reasons why it stung. She didn’t have the capacity to care what she was saying.

“Yes, actually.” Draco drawled.

“I spent my entire adolescence fixated on hating you for being muggle born.  I spent months deconstructing my entire belief system, which is not something I think I’ll ever be finished doing, and I that’s when I came to the conclusion that I never hated you for being muggle born. My qualms with you are of your own creation.” Draco cleared his throat.

“I believe I used some rather unsavoury language towards you after I hit my head. I was disoriented and I obviously still have some subconscious prejudices that I haven’t worked through yet, but I regret having used such language, and for that I apologise.” 

Hermione was tempted to pinch her leg or check her pulse. An apology from Draco Malfoy was easily the most unbelievable thing that had happened to her all week, present circumstances included. Instead, she covered her face with both hands and groaned. Draco looked at her like she had sprouted wings. She dragged her hands down her face, pulling at her cheeks before dropping her arms with a huff, all the fight gone out of her. She still had plenty of fight left in her, but not for this. Not for him.

Hermione glared at Draco. He pinched his face to match and glared back.

“Things were simpler when I hated you completely. Mutual loathing suited us quite well. I’m sorry I punched you. I’m making more coffee, and then we’re going to sit down and make a plan. Deal?” 

“And why do you operate under the assumption that forming an alliance and loathing one another are mutually exclusive?” Draco said cooly, though the eyebrow that quirked up made Hermione laugh as she walked over to the coffee pot. 

Draco’s mouth pinched up at the corner and Hermione would have sworn he looked amused. Draco couldn’t decide which was more comical. That Granger had sounded an awful lot like a Quidditch coach detailing the steps of a new play, or that she seemed more at ease around him after the conversation they just had. He would have expected her to swing in the opposite direction and be outright hostile and volatile with him, but instead he watched her make a second pot of coffee.

Though it was entirely uncharted territory between them, when she set two mugs on the kitchen table and set one of the leather books next to each, it felt a lot like respect. 

Hermione knew her attempts at peace were futile and they would be bickering again by dinner, but she felt the shift. That maybe, against all odds, Draco would not be the worst company in the world. Lucky for her, she was not a betting woman. She would have wagered her own life against the likelihood of this development.

The things Draco said sat in her throat and tasted like acid. His delivery left something to be desired, but he was right. Gods, she hated that he was right. He may have taken creative liberties with the details, but the bulk of his assessment rang true.

She kept getting distracted, stealing glimpses at him over the top of her book while he pretended not to notice. Especially during the years that they did not see one another, he was more of an idea of a person than he was an actual person to her. He was frozen in her mind as they boy she once knew, and his defining features had been inflated and distorted until he was a list of attributes that she couldn’t remember the origins of. 

Without even lifting his eyes from the book, Draco spoke like he was being supremely inconvenienced and unafraid to offend whoever had dared to disturb him. 

“Granger, I can only pretend not to see you staring at me for so long. Read your book, we can compare notes when we’ve finished.” Hermione immediately returned her attention to the book in her hands, embarrassed at having been caught. 

She was still reading the Parkinson ancestral journal. The more she read, the less she understood. If they ever found their way out of the damn cave, Hermione was going to refer Pansy Parkinson to a very good mind healer.

She couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. There were too many things for her to think about, so she was naturally unable to focus on any of them. The cave. Harry. The books. Draco. The Order. What Draco said. The cave. Draco. The Horcruxes. Draco had been thinking about her. Draco. Draco apologised. Draco. Draco. Draco.

The thought that seemed to pester her more than all the others was the person who had come to mind when Draco was describing her, building display cases to highlight and immortalise her darkest corners. The way he described her sounded an awful lot like the way she would describe him. The things she loathed about him, he saw in her. And what was all that about deconstructing his beliefs? She would only believe that after she saw it in the flesh. She did not approach the possibility that she already had. 

It made her absolutely irate that he had seen so much of her with nothing but his memory and a new perspective. Was she really that easy to read?

She also pointedly ignored the ease that she felt in his presence after their argument. Like a cord had been cut, tension dissipated. Of course, it supported his theory that she valued respect above all else, even to a fault. 

She respected his honesty and self-awareness. She respected that he was working to better himself. She respected that he had examined and reflected on their relationship in school. She respected that he apologised to her over something she had already forgotten. 

It didn’t mean that she respected him entirely. There was no scenario in which he could be called easy or uncomplicated; she still did not understand him in the slightest. But there was something in the comfortable silence at the kitchen table underground that made Hermione question everything she knew about Draco Malfoy.