Chapter Four
Hermione’s hands were still shaking slightly as she held the apple in front of her. She hadn’t had a panic attack in years. The last time had been just before the O.W.L.s, when she’d broken down in the library before the Transfiguration exam. There, she’d managed to pull herself out of it on her own, grounding herself with a few deep breaths before carrying on with her studies.
This had been different. When Malfoy had admitted he’d gone to Hogsmeade, the air had left her lungs instantly, leaving her trapped in a void with every terrifying thing that could’ve gone wrong. She’d thought she was going to die. That she’d survived the Manor for nothing, that she’d never see her friends again – until Malfoy’s words finally cut through the dark haze. Perhaps it had been the shock from hearing the softness in his voice. After all, she was used to his words having an edge, usually pointed to hurt her. But this time, they’d been quiet, calming. And when the haze had cleared and she’d seen him clearly, he’d been concerned – for her. It’d been an odd experience, one that clashed with the snotty, prejudiced picture of him she’d painted in her mind.
Hermione’s brows furrowed. As time wore on, she was becoming less and less sure what to think about Draco Malfoy.
“What were you reading?”
Hermione jumped slightly. “What do you mean?”
Malfoy stayed silent, not bothering to repeat the question.
Hermione shifted in her seat uncomfortably. The truth was, she’d been looking into the Dark Mark again – specifically, if it were possible to remove it. Hypothetically, of course. The Horcrux hunt was proving impossible, and the theory was just so fascinating… But no way in hell was she telling Malfoy that.
“Nothing, really. Just… just reading up on defensive spells.” She winced. Even she heard the lie in her higher-than-normal voice.
“Ah.” His tone was cool and detached, and Hermione felt a twinge of guilt for it.
Not that she should. After all, she wasn’t obligated to tell Malfoy anything – just to keep her promise to keep him away from the war. He’d done nothing to prove himself trustworthy, anyhow, so she brushed the guilt aside and stood abruptly.
“I’m going to go back to reading. You’re free to – well, you’re free to do whatever it is you’d like, I suppose.”
And with that, she marched back out of the tent, leaving Malfoy at the table, apple forgotten as he stared at the wall lost in thought.
**********
Sleep was proving impossible. Draco yanked the covers away as he stood, blindly searching for his boots in the dark and cursing his lack of a wand.
The afternoon had dragged on, Draco spending most of it staring into the glowing fireplace before he’d quietly retired to his room coincidentally at the same moment Granger came back in from reading outside. Now that he’d started to settle into his new reality, the full scope of what had led him here was starting to hit him in force.
The occasional hissing flame became Voldemort’s voice, taunting him as he’d lain on the floor of his childhood home, eyes stinging with pain but determined not to cry.
His mother’s voice floated through his head; her words gentle but chiding as she traced over the inflamed skin around the ugly mark.
His father’s voice broke through, hissing of blood traitors and mudbloods, his vehement disgust a sour taste in Draco’s mouth now as he thought of everything he’d seen: the blood on the Manor floors, pools of it running together, all the same shade of red… and now – now, as he fumbled for the door, his hand brushing a golden mirror – the brilliance of one Hermione Granger.
Always the exception to Muggleborn inferiority, his childhood hatred for the witch had stemmed from a mix of jealousy and incredulity. Though now that all delusion of greatness promised by his ancestry had dissipated, to his slight dismay he was beginning to find that he no longer had a basis for despising her. She was still an annoying know-it-all, yes, but he was surprised to find that he had developed a begrudging respect for her nonetheless. It was rather difficult not to after bearing witness to her spellwork.
His thoughts drifted back to the Patronus. He hadn’t known she could conjure one. From what he knew, they were notoriously difficult – so much so that he hadn’t known any in Voldemort’s army that could produce one. He wondered if she could teach him.
Immediately, Draco scoffed as he shook away the thought, striding towards the tent’s flap. Granger might be his temporary roommate, but they had nothing in common, their goals were as different as one could imagine… he anticipated much of his time would be spent trying to avoid her. He imagined she would prefer that as well; her cagey reaction to his question at lunch proved she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, earlier friendly conversation and his successful trip to Hogsmeade be damned. And why should she, anyhow? He’d sworn to himself that he’d be a neutral party in the war – though no longer aiding the Dark Lord, it’s not like he planned to help Granger, so it was perfectly fine that she didn’t want to tell him anything. Perfectly fine.
Draco tore the tent flap open in frustration, taking a deep breath of the crisp night air – and froze. Granger was huddled by the fire, bent over a book as the bluebell flames illuminated the crease of concentration on her forehead. Shit. Of all the fucking times to run into her.
He held his breath as he edged away from the tent and the fire, closer to the woods – maybe he could avoid alerting her to his presence, escape for a much-needed walk alone – and stepped on a twig. Fuck.
Granger’s head snapped up, and her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of him frozen, facing her with a look of mixed guilt and annoyance.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a walk.” Draco said shortly.
“In the middle of the night without a cloak?”
“Got a problem, Granger?” He snapped. “I couldn’t sleep, I’m taking a walk. I’m not going past the wards, I’m not summoning the fucking Dark Lord, I’m just clearing my head. Okay?”
Granger studied him coolly. “Okay.” She turned back to her book.
Draco’s brow furrowed as he stood, watching her. Well, that had been too easy. He was well and truly annoyed now, and spoiling for a fight. “What are you doing, anyway?”
She faced him again, exasperated. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Why are you still out here? It’s got to be past midnight, but here you are, freezing your arse off reading another bloody book. Does Gryffindor’s golden princess not need sleep anymore?” He winced slightly at the cruel edge that had crept back into his voice. Merlin, why was he doing this now? If she hadn’t fucking seen him…
She slammed the book shut. “Why am I – why do you think I’m out here, Malfoy? I’m out here keeping watch so that none of your family turns up to murder us! You don’t think I’d rather…” She shook her head angrily. “Just go.”
But he didn’t move. It was like being doused in cold water. Lucius and Bellatrix swam through his mind again for the millionth time that day, their mingled hisses and slurs reminding him what he’d come from – what he was – why Granger would never trust him – what he would always be.
It didn’t matter that in just the past twenty-four hours, he’d felt doubt prickling at the edges of all he’d once known. It didn’t matter that he’d brought them real food, that he’d felt that cold wave of relief when she’d calmed from her panic attack. None of that mattered, because despite Granger’s ‘war refugee’ description of him, he was still a coward – one who had wished her dead for several years before the holes were poked in his philosophy.
Even more frustrating than the fact that none of his recent actions mattered was the fact that Draco wished they did. He shouldn’t have cared. But he did, and it was the most confusing, annoying thing in the world.
With one last look at Granger, he stormed off into the woods. Fuck.
*
Hermione snapped her book shut and sighed, staring into the dancing bluebell flames. Damn it.
In the span of one day, she’d managed to somewhat gain Malfoy’s trust, have conversations with him bordering on friendly, and share a meal with him – and then his mood had flipped out of nowhere, and she’d lost her temper and ruined the fragile bridge they’d started to build between them.
Bringing up his family had been a low blow. She felt an uncomfortable prickle of guilt thinking about the way he’d frozen, face smoothing out into that perfect, icy mask of indifference before he’d spun around and left. Perhaps she owed him an apology. It wasn’t like she really associated him with his family… at least not anymore. It hadn’t been long, but she’d seen glimpses of kindness and even a good sense of humor in him since he’d arrived. Just enough to make her think that maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the cruelty that seemed to run through his family’s veins.
But then, perhaps he’d deserved it. After all, Malfoy had spent year bullying Hermione and other Muggleborns for their heritage, and she’d spent the better part of her school years fighting the insecurities his taunting had given birth to. What right did he have to be furious over her scathing opinion of his heritage?
If she’d thought he still believed all that shite, she might not have done it. But as it was…
She heard him before she saw him. Obviously making no effort to keep quiet, Malfoy came trudging out of the forest, scowling as he swiped at a thorny vine that had attached itself to his arm.
“Malfoy,” she called out hesitatingly.
He paused and glanced at her. The earlier annoyance was gone from his eyes, although he still appeared guarded.
Hermione hesitated. Malfoy simply waited for her to continue, standing where he was halfway between the forest’s edge and the tent.
“I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. About your family, that is. I know you’re not… you don’t…” she trailed off. She really was shite at apologizing. That’s what came of almost always being right, she thought regretfully.
“Don’t.” Malfoy’s tone was low. Gruff, almost. “Not wrong, were you? Aunt Bella might very well come out of the woods trying to kill you – us. Anyway, you should never apologize to me.” There was finality in his voice, and he turned to return to the tent.
“You’re not like them.”
She couldn’t believe she’d said it. Her cheeks lit on fire when he stopped and stared at her.
“Aren’t I, Granger?”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “No, you’re not. You’re here, aren’t you? I doubt Lucius would have deigned to ever share a tent with a muggleborn.”
Instead of snorting in amusement as she’d expected, Malfoy frowned. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t suppose he would have.”
She waited, for it seemed like he had more to say.
“I don’t –“ He started, then stopped. Malfoy looked away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Instead of elaborating, he simply sighed and walked back to the tent.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
Hermione’s mind was whirling. About what? About her? Muggleborns in general? If that were the case, that meant there was potential for him to change his mind completely. And maybe… maybe if he changed his mind about that, he’d change his mind about remaining neutral. Because how could he change his mind about that and then sit by and watch as she fought for her very right to exist?
She shook her head. To hope for that drastic of a change in Draco Malfoy, the king of self-preservation, was a delusion. Oh, but how her heart leapt at the thought…
Well. Time would tell, but I don’t know what to think anymore was a good first step. Possibly.