Chapter Six
Draco grumbled all sorts of grievances about risk-taking, hypocrisy, oversight and wild-haired witches as he kicked the snow around to remove the footprints outside the tent. The fire was long gone, ashes and firewood buried neatly under a blanket of snow. The sky looked promisingly dark with snow, leaving Draco confident the clearing would look pristine by the time they were gone. No future passers-by would discern even a whisper of the past few days.
Shaking the snow off his boots and shivering, Draco breathed a sigh of relief as he re-entered the warm tent, lit by the soft glow of the dancing fire. A glance at the couch told him Granger was asleep, and despite his sour mood, he made a considerable effort to be quiet as he removed his soaked-through boots and set them by the fire to dry.
He took the opportunity to study her as he stood with his back to the fire, soaking up the warmth. Asleep, she looked more at peace than he’d seen in years. The warm, dancing glow illuminated her smooth, freckled skin and her curls looked impossibly soft as they framed her – currently alarmingly hollow – cheeks. One dangled in front of her eye, and Draco’s hand twitched traitorously as he impulsively thought of tucking it away.
His eyes drifted lower, and his breath caught. Her left sleeve had been pushed up, and her right hand rested clutching her wrist gently. But above that… Before thinking of what he would do if she woke up, he was crouched on the floor next to her, unable to think as he stared down at the inflamed red M carved crudely into her left forearm.
Bellatrix. Haunting screams tore through Draco’s head anew as he was thrown back into the awful familiarity of that night. He’d forgotten… with everything that had happened that night, Granger’s torture had been the furthest thing from his mind. Even afterwards, when he’d looked her in the eye and shared a space with her, he’d completely fucking forgotten. And then when she hadn’t wanted to trust him… He wanted to puke.
But instead, he stayed where he was, frozen. This close, he could smell the faintest trace of cinnamon, could map the freckles on her cheeks like the constellations in the sky, and before his logical side could consider the consequences, found himself brushing a thumb across the raised scar on her arm, tracing the letter with a feather-light touch as he stared down at it, brows furrowed. Maybe he could –
Granger shifted, letting out a small sigh. Draco scrambled back instantly, heart racing. No. No, he absolutely could not. She had every reason not to trust him, would never have let him even see the scar, and if she found out what he’d just been doing… Draco shook his head. What happened to not taking sides? A disapproving part of his brain tsked. Attachment to Granger was a one-way street to the opposite side of the war, and the rage he’d felt upon seeing the ugly scar… Fuck. He couldn’t afford that.
Draco’s eyes drifted unwillingly back to the sleeping witch. He refused to notice her. He couldn’t afford to. Even so, he noticed the slight shiver as she shifted again in her sleep. It was only decent to put a blanket on her. Anyone would’ve done it, he reasoned as he tucked a worn quilt over her sleeping form. He shook his head, clearing the remnants of whatever inane fog had just come over him. Focus. Just pack the damn tent. Forget Granger.
Snow crunched under Hermione’s boots as she made her way across the eerily quiet streets of Hogsmeade. Keeping her head tucked and her hood up, she slipped between the worn cobblestone buildings, skirting her way back toward the edge of the woods. The money bag Draco had brought from the manor was significantly lighter, and her cloak pockets were bulging with nonperishable food, a couple squares of chocolate, first aid supplies, and that day’s edition of the Prophet.
Last night had been… odd. She’d woken on the couch to the sizzling sound of sausages on the stove, and experienced a moment of foggy panic when she’d turned to see Draco at the stove instead of Harry. When she’d blinked and gathered her senses, she registered the blanket draped carefully around her and froze. He’d done that for her…?
Quietly, she rose from the couch and approached the kitchen. He glanced sideways at her, and she could discern nothing from his gaze.
“Thank you,” she said hesitantly. “For making dinner. And –“
“Camp is packed. Let me know when it’s time to go.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his room, leaving a bemused Hermione to help herself to the (admittedly decent for someone who’d grown up that spoiled) sausages.
She hadn’t seen him since then. Hermione let out a frustrated sigh, which crystallized in the freezing winter air. Low-hanging branches brushed her shoulders with snow as she gingerly picked her way through the brush. Malfoy’s presence had turned her days into an enigma. One minute he was almost teasing, friendly even – the next he was angry and withdrawn, and the next he was ignoring her completely. It gave her a migraine just thinking about it. And he’d covered her in the blanket… why?
“No,” she said firmly to herself. “You are not going to read into that.”
But he’d said he didn’t know what to think anymore. She’d told him she needed time, and that he did too. Likely why he’s been shut in his room all day.
The thought gave her a curious reassurance. It shouldn’t have mattered in the first place why he was acting so cold (who would expect otherwise? This was Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake) but the thought that he might finally be overcoming some of the prejudice he’d grown up with made her heart flutter with the tiniest bit of hope.
The shreds she’d seen of Malfoy when he was distracted and joking… those hinted at someone she could see in a different light. It shouldn’t have mattered, but the thought of peeling back that icy mask brought the twitch of a smile to Hermione’s face.
By the time she arrived back to camp, her steps were lighter. A glance at the door told her Malfoy was still in his room, so Hermione took her time to make sure everything was packed in her beaded bag – Malfoy had admittedly done a rather excellent job of cleaning the tent – and carefully folded the Prophet to tuck into her cloak for reading later.
But as she turned it over, she froze. A headline blared up from the cover accompanied by a photo of a roaring dragon with chains dangling from its neck… and two very recognizable figures on its back.
Her breath caught and Hermione had to sit down as she took in the story with wide eyes.
HARRY POTTER SEEN: UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 LAUNCHES ATTACK ON GRINGOTTS WIZARDING BANK
On the morning of January 17th, Undesirables Harry Potter and Ron Weasley launched a devastating and unprovoked attack on Gringotts Wizarding Bank, resulting in numerous injuries and the unfortunate deaths of two of the bank’s employees. It is reported that Potter entered the bank disguised by way of Polyjuice potion as one Rodolphus Lestrange, accompanied by Weasley and an unnamed goblin accomplice, who were also disguised. After coercing employees to allow him to enter the Lestrange vault, employees proceeded to tip off Ministry authorities to the imposter. Rodolphus Lestrange was known to be killed by Order members in an attack in rural Wiltshire, leading to the immediate alarm of employees when approached by the disguised imposter. The imposters were apprehended inside the vault, and after causing deplorable damage to the historical treasures inside it, proceeded to weaponize a resident dragon, torturing it into digging its way out and flying away. Unfortunately, officials were not able to apprehend the dragon or the imposters. It is unclear if anything has been removed from the vault. See page 13 for the Ministry’s plans to rebuild Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
She let out a long, shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. They were alive, they hadn’t been caught… Hermione was further than ever from being able to reach them, but just knowing they were alive was enough for now. And they’d broken into Gringotts – she felt a surge of pride in her friends, it was exactly the right move. Bellatrix had turned whiter than a ghost when she’d thought the Gryffindor sword had been stolen from her vault. Hermione could only hope they’d managed to find what they’d been looking for. And the last interesting bit of information: she hadn’t known Rodolphus was dead. He’d been at the Manor when they were captured, and she knew that he hadn’t been killed by any one of them during the escape. She also doubted any Order members had shown up after the fact. Malfoy would have mentioned it, she was sure. She shook her head in confusion. Either way, he was dead, which meant one less member of Voldemort’s Inner Circle they needed to worry about.
Tucking the paper away in her cloak, she shelved thoughts of Harry and Ron for the time being and knocked on Malfoy’s door. “Time to go,” she called.
She was outside doing one final check of the camp when he joined her, dark circles ringing his eyes as he purposefully looked everywhere but at her.
Fine. If he was going to keep acting like that, she could do that too. He needs time. Don’t push it, she warned herself. She bit back the urge to break the heavy silence, instead flicking her wand and watching the tent disappear, neatly folded, into the beaded bag. She snapped it shut and turned to her companion, who looked like he was positively itching to ask how the hell she’d done that.
“Ready?”
He wordlessly offered a hand, still not meeting her eyes. Hermione suppressed a shiver as she slid her hand into his, not missing the way his indifferent mask slipped ever so slightly as their finger intertwined. Before she could read any more into that, she’d spun on the spot and they were gone.