heart like an empty room
As he watched her describe how she yearned to tear apart the world that had tried to kill her, he knew then that she had a place in the empty room that was his heart. He felt in awe, seeing the weight of her want. Always his desires had been dictated by others. Mother, Father, Aunt, Dark Lord. Hermione Granger’s desire was born of an obstinateness so large he knew it was world-altering.
Already a few weeks had gone by since she had shown up at his doorstep, frightening him out of his wits. It alarmed him, how quickly he had grown accustomed to her presence in his home. How much he had come to enjoy orbiting around her, in careful synchronicity. In the morning, they would rise and carefully revise the detailed steps of the potion, having agreed that they should memorize them lest anything at all impede their ability to consult their books. She had doubled over laughing upon discovering her wore reading glasses. He had felt his face heat up.
“What’s wrong with wearing glasses?” he huffed.
“Exactly how long have you needed glasses?” she asked.
He swallowed his embarrassment. “I didn’t like wearing them in front of other people at school.”
“Is that why you were always looking so pinched during school?” She wheezed between guffaws, “You were squinting at the blackboard?!”
He sniffed imperiously. “As an adolescent, I cared deeply about my appearance. Besides I couldn’t well tease Potter for wearing glasses and then show up to class wearing some. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.”
Her laughter echoed brightly in the dim potion’s room and he found that he was unable to stop himself from smiling.
In the afternoons, they spent hours prepping ingredients, properly drying, macerating, crushing, distilling. One evening he heard her stomach growl loudly. Suddenly he felt a deep concern. “What is it exactly that you eat in your tent?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“Mm?” he drew her from her thoughts. “Oh, all sorts, whatever I get my hands on really.”
“‘All sorts’ doesn’t sound particularly nutritious.”
After a healthy amount of bickering, he found himself kneeling in front of her tent’s refrigerator, rifling through frozen meals, grapes, beer and cheese. Concluding his inquiry, he stood with his arms crossed and shook his head. “This won’t do at all.”
She protested loudly, in turn calling him “deeply patronizing,” “rather sexist,” and “prissy” before eventually taking a seat at the dinner table. He set down a plate of mushroom risotto in front of her which she promptly began devouring. Sensing his amused gaze on her she surreptitiously attempted to conceal her enjoyment of the meal, pausing to take a dainty sip of water.
“This is rather nice, thank you” she said putting down her glass.
She is so stubborn.
“I would prefer you join me for dinner rather than retreat into your tent to eat like an adolescent boy. You need your strength. Can’t have you fainting on the potion room floor.”
“I would never faint on the potion room floor and I resent the insinuation that I would,” she sniffed. “Besides it’s not like Harry and Ron’s cooking is any better.”
“Of course, now it all makes sense, I understand the bonds that tie the Golden Trio together. It’s beer and Tesco meal deals.”
“Oh shove off!” she laughed.
After that, she joined him for dinner every night. He would cook, and she would wash the dishes. It soon became his favourite part of the day, watching her - her back to him, hair haloed by the yellow kitchen light as she absentmindedly hummed under her breath.
“You’re rather good at cooking,” she said one night after two helpings of rosemary butter and squash ravioli.
“When I was in Azkaban all I could think about was the food I wanted to eat when I got out,” he started before stopping himself. ‘When I was in Azkaban,’ what a demented way to start an anecdote.
“What exactly does one do in Azkaban?” she asked. “Sorry, that was a rather rude thing to ask.” She added hastily.
“No, it’s ok. Well, the first two years I was there, there were still dementors, so most of my days were this unending blur of terror and despair,” he said pragmatically.
How to explain it? For some unknown reason, he wanted her to understand, wanted to show her his exit wounds from leaving the world that so wanted her dead.
“When you’re fed on by dementors, it feels as though they scoop out your insides and put them back in all wrong. You start to forget who and what it is you are. Instead, you become this cobbled-together thing made up of the worst feelings, memories and nightmares you’ve ever had. That you don’t even remember having, because you stop knowing yourself.” He paused briefly. “Then they passed the regulation outlawing the use of dementors. So the next year I spent trying to piece things back together. It was very tedious. Trying to figure out what was real. The last year I did a lot of thinking, about everything that led me to that place. It was dark and damp and awful but I had my head and that made it tolerable.”
“That was when you sent me the letter.”
He was surprised by the accuracy of her inference. “Yes. I’m afraid it probably wasn’t my best work. Was still a little bit loony. Not that I am any better now.” He was trying to come off as aloof, but his tone was rather too serious for his liking.
Merlin don’t frighten her.
“I helped craft the legislation outlawing dementors. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“Please, don’t apologize to me. You of all people shouldn’t apologize to me.”
“I’ll apologize to whomever I want.” She bit out. “And right now, I want to apologize to you.”
There’s really no telling her what to do. “You are impossible you know that right.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you mean by that. Oh, before I forget, would you mind if I used your floo tonight?”
“Are you headed out?” he said feigning casualness.
“Oh no, there’s no need. Just making a quick call.”
“Let me clean up then,” he said as he moved their plates to the sink.
Much to his surprise she proceeded to plop down in front of his fire grate and fiddle with the ties of his bag of floo powder. So, it’s not some private conversation then.
He couldn’t hear the name of the address she spoke into the green flames over the sound of the running water. He strained to hear – a male voice, her laughter. He sounded vaguely familiar. He turned off the water while soaping a large pot.
“There’s no need to worry Charlie, truly. You know how I get when it comes to work I just get caught up in it.”
Charlie Weasley, the one that works with dragons? Are they colleagues?
“But where even are you? Ron and Harry say they haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Both Ron and Harry quite literally have their arms full with the babies. I’m staying at a friend’s place, he’s helping out with my project.”
He felt a rush of warmth inside him. Does she consider us friends or is she saying that to assuage him?
“Who is this friend?”
Having for the most part of his life been in the throes of some complex net of jealousy, Draco could detect the emotion buried in Charlie Weasley’s words. Some dark thing inside him preened.
“He has the requisite set of skills to assist me in this particular project,” she said, hardening her tone.
The man on the other side of the fire sighed. “I’m just worried about you. And I miss seeing you at the office. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?”
She seemed to soften slightly. “I will Charlie. I’ll write you ok?”
The flames gave a dull roar as her call came to an end. He could hear her stomp towards one of his reading chairs and aggressively sit down.
“Everything alright?” he asked, casually wiping the large pot that he had so meticulously scrubbed in his attempt to listen in with a checkered blue dish towel.
“I just don’t know why everyone is terribly concerned with how I spend my time,” she grumbled lowly.
“I think your friends just care for you.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help. I don’t expect everyone to drop everything – lives, babies, jobs - just to help me do this one particular thing for myself.”
“I’m sure a lot of your friends would be willing to should you ask.” Merlin Draco stop putting your foot in your mouth.
“Poor little Hermione Granger, incapable of accomplishing anything without the rest of the trio? Is that what you think?”
“Merlin, no! I’m just wondering why-”
“So we have dinner together a few times and you feel like you’re entitled to know everything about me?”
“No, no of course not,” he stammered. Her hackles are perpetually up. But then again it makes sense when it comes to me.
“Right, I’m afraid we’ve been lacking professionalism when it comes to all this,” she said as she gestured vaguely around herself. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she grit out before storming out of his back door towards her tent.
Fighting the swell of panic that rose unexpectedly within him, he returned the pot to the stovetop before exiting the house through the front door. When the dull roar in his ears subsided, he found himself crumpled into a sitting position at the edges of the murky pond, Equuleus neighed delightedly at the sight of him before trotting over. The kelpie – seemingly unaware of its bulk –collapsed into Draco’s lap, squirming until his face lay between his arms.
“Do you ever have spats with the other kelpies?” he asked, absentmindedly rubbing the spot between the creature’s eyes, which let out a rumbling sound.
“I like being near her so much. And it feels so wrong because I hurt her so badly back then” he said to his equine companion. “What would you do if you were me?”
But the kelpie had drifted off, his fur growing warm with sleep. Unwilling to wake him, Draco reclined onto the warm grass to observe the stars. He traced the constellations of the most ancient and noble house of Black in his mind’s eye until he too succumbed to asleep, hands tangled in the kelpie’s thick mane.
∆
He woke up to Equuleus gently nibbling on his sleeve, his snout wet with morning dew. As he gingerly sat up he felt the familiar soreness deep inside his bones sharpen. This is going to be a long day.
He found her already busying herself in his potion room, noisily macerating amidst the comically large pile of squill bulbs they had acquired a few days prior. She huffed in his direction in greeting and he forced himself to stifle a combined yawn and sigh.
The quiet pained hours stretched on as he itched to talk to her about the various potions books they had combed through together, which they had spent hours talking over. Or for at least a congenial silence rather than the one that stretched taught between them, poised to snap.
Her mind was a miraculous thing – spinning together various bits of knowledge – history, arithmancy, ancient runes - into some gleaming insights that left him feeling like a giddy schoolboy. He occasionally caught himself fantasizing for some alternate past in which he had not been himself, heir to the houses of Malfoy and Black, but had instead been someone free to study alongside her in the library, able to casually discuss the inner workings of their shared magical universe.
“Did you sleep outside or something? You’ve got grass in your hair.”
“I thought we were keeping things professional,” he said a little more sharply than intended, the achiness inside him dulling his sense of propriety.
She let out a little displeased noise in response, whipping her head back to her task, macerating harder than the textbook dictated.
He watched her anger retreat as the hours trickled by, her frame sagging slightly in its wake. From personal experience, he knew how anger and grief could grow so entwined it made it hard to sense where one began and the other ended. Irrationally he wanted to lift it from her, the way one would cast a counter curse. I wonder what it is that is causing her so much sorrow.
As their daily tasks drew to a close she abruptly stood and marched quickly out of the room. He retreated to his living room to collapse onto his reading chair, his mind mercifully too tired to give her and him and how they would proceed forward amidst the awkwardness any more thought.
Suddenly he startled awake, blinking away a vivid nightmare. The glint of light on bared fangs, his mother’s hair spilling from its tight coil as she lay convulsing on the floor.
“I’m sorry I surprised you. I, um, made dinner. As an apology.”
He was so confused he rubbed his eyes automatically. But she continued to stand before him, clad in a large maroon knit sweater holding a weathered black pot between her hands.
“Oh uh, thank you?”
“I was being unfair to you. You’ve been nothing but helpful and I may have projected some assumptions onto you.”
“Well, um. That makes sense. With me being who I am and all,” he said lamely, unsure of what to make of a world in which Hermione Granger had apologized to him twice in one week. “If it helps, I actually believe you are the most competent third of the Golden Trio.”
He marveled at her expression which seemed to crumple in relief. “Right, good, okay. Shall we eat?”
“Did you mean what you said, that we’re friends?” he said as she plated her creation, tiredness granting him some semblance of courage. It was embarrassing how much he wanted it to be true. To be friends with her. To be able to continue filling the every day alongside her.
To his relief, she smiled brightly at him in response. “Yes, I think I did mean it,” she laughed. “I’m sure your aunt is turning in her grave! Oh god, I’m sorry for bringing up your deranged aunt.”
He burst into laughter, “No I’m sure she is.”
“One thing about me is that, well, despite being clever I am rather tactless. I’m sorry for biting your head off over some imagined slight.”
He felt that now familiar warmth inside him that he had come to associate with her. “It’s alright. I’ve been told I am rather tactless myself.” He dug into her conciliatory meal. It was soggy and tasted vaguely of soy sauce. “What exactly is this that we’re eating?”
“It’s a stir fry.”
“It’s a pre-packaged Tesco stir fry mix isn’t it.”
“Well, I still had to fry it in a pan.”
She beamed at him, and he found it suited her features immensely. And he knew instinctively that his own face was a mirror of hers; incisors bared in glee, eyes bright.