Title: Tension and Release
Author: Wynn
E-mail: [email protected]
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harry Potter. They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc. No copyright infringement intended.
AN: Spoilers up to GoF with an AU 5th year. Fic set in AU 6th year. I've only read OotP once, as opposed to the three times for both PoA and GoF, and therefore don't feel comfortable referencing the book.
This and the Draco POV are companion pieces. They cover the same set of events, but from different perspectives. There are similar sections in both texts and this similarity is intentional. So, first up, Hermione. Then, Draco. Enjoy, and remember feedback is a wonderful thing.
Chaos
By: Wynn
Hermione Granger lived life according to a very simple plan. She would graduate Hogwarts first in her class. She would accept a job at the Ministry of Magic, hopefully as an Auror, possibly something regarding Magical-Muggle relations. She would become the youngest Minister in history, weeding out the corruption and chaos created by Fudge and his ineptitude. Anything more complex or detailed than her very simple plan would be completely and utterly destroyed by the chaos that was her life, that had been her life since her initial introduction to Harry Potter over five years ago. Harry drew danger to him like the moth to the proverbial flame, or maybe danger drew itself towards Harry like a predator in search of the most delectable prey. Intent. Insistent. Inevitable.
Whichever the case, life as best friend to Harry Potter tended to place one regularly in contact with life or death situations that existed within the clutches of fickle fortune. Sometimes good people died and evil people triumphed, no matter how much Hermione wished otherwise. She learned that fact the hard way, watching Harry, watching everyone, struggle with Cedric's death. So Hermione handled these uncontrollable, life or death situations as gracefully as possible, attempting to impose cool rationality onto explosive confrontations, using her intellect as her weapon of choice to ensure the survival of her and her friends.
But the emphasis of death over life grew the past few years, and she feared many of her friends would not live past graduation, that Voldemort and his sick followers would destroy everyone she knew and loved, would destroy her world so completely no amount of logic could make the pieces fit back together again. So Hermione stopped planning for the future, too intent on dealing with the present, too focused on surviving the past. She lived her life in a constant state of uncertainty, living day to day, placing one foot in front of the other, her future stretching before her like a highway at night, a murky cover of darkness carefully concealing its upcoming twists and turns.
Not that she minded the uncertainties she lived with every day. Not much anyway. If living a safe and predictable life was the price to be paid for inaction, for turning a blind eye and a cold shoulder towards the injustices of the world, toward the threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, she would pass. Hermione couldn't sit idly by and do nothing. Not when people were dying. Not when people could be saved. So she willingly threw herself from the frying pan into the fire, determined to aid Harry and Dumbledore any way she knew how.
But sometimes. Sometimes she longed for the simplicity and security of her life before Hogwarts. When everything made sense and fit into her notions of right and wrong, good and evil, acceptable and unacceptable. When she didn't have to worry about who to trust, who might be a servant of Voldemort, who might be trying to kill her or Ron or Harry or Dumbledore next. When her future was about as mysterious as an I Can Read book.
Sometimes late at night she'd wonder what her life would have been if she hadn't received that first fateful letter from Hogwarts. If she hadn't come across Harry and Ron on the train. If they hadn't rescued her from the troll, cementing their friendship in a foundation of absolute trust and unflinching bravery. But after a moment of contemplation, she'd brush away these idle musings. Wishing for alternatives accomplished nothing save wasting valuable time and energy, and there was much more Hermione needed to focus her mental and physical resources on than flights of fancy.
So instead of wishing for another life, Hermione struggled to impose order on the one she lived. Tried to live her life as calmly as possible, controlling what she could control, finding ways to deal with what she could not. And one aspect of her life she could always control was her studies. Hermione focused upon her studies with a fierce determination and intensity that Ron described as 'freakishly scary.' But he didn't understand. Her books provided a sanctuary, a haven, from the dangerous world around her. Answers to the unknowns could be found, if only she looked hard enough, dug deep enough. Her hard work determined her marks, not some other unquantifiable independent variable. Her destiny was hers to control.
And when she studied, she didn't have to think. Think about the upcoming war. Think about Cedric. Think about the possibility of living in a world without Ron and Harry and Ginny and Mrs. Weasley and everyone else she loved. Hermione filled her brain with Arithmancy and Potions and random History facts to beat back the tidal wave of emotions surging inside of her before she drowned under her grief and pain and rage. Books didn't care what sort of mood she was in. Books didn't shoot her looks of pity, looks of remorse, looks of anger, hatred, or jealousy. They were her refuge from the storm, her own beacon of light guiding her to a world that made sense and that she could make sense of. They kept her from going insane from the insanity she lived, breathed, and fought in every day of her life.
Sometimes. Sometimes Hermione thought she might be better off if she didn't care so much. If she didn't care about what happened to Harry and Ron; if she didn't care about the defenseless and powerless. If she could squash her emotions deep down inside her, lock her heart behind an adamantium cage and switch off her emotions as quickly and efficiently as a light switch. If she could look upon the world with cool, detached eyes and be solely ruled by objective logic instead of muddled subjective reasoning. Like him. Sometimes Hermione watched Draco in Potions, or across the Great Hall, and observed his aloof demeanor. He moved and breathed as though nothing affected him, like he was an impenetrable fortress of cool, calm, and collected the outside world could only penetrate on his command. And she wished for just an ounce of his poise, his indifference. Then she could be smarter, be faster, be better, with no guilt to slow her down, to take precious time away from researching and fighting and living and surviving.
But if being indifferent meant being an egotistical, smarmy bastard, Hermione would take emotionality any day. She would simply work harder at regulating her feelings, restraining them so she could function properly without breaking down into a sobbing, whimpering, simpering heap.
And it was this need for control that had brought Hermione to the library. If she had to sit and watch Harry brood about Voldemort, watch everyone sit helpless like ducks in a shooting gallery waiting for the inevitable to occur, waiting for the war to begin, waiting to die, Hermione felt she would scream. She needed a moment, just a moment, of concretes instead of persistent what-ifs. So she escaped to her sanctuary, claiming the need to begin working on Snape's essay that everyone knew wasn't due for another three weeks but accepted as the reason for Hermione's desperate flee from the common room. Typical Hermione. War's brewing and she's more worried about homework than dying.
It was just as well everyone thought what they did. Even if she could find the words to adequately express her emotions, her desperation for order and logical sense, the feeling of her mind fraying under the constant chafing of possibilities and potentialities, she doubted anyone would understand. Harry and Ron would try, of course. Try to make her feel better with a crack about Snape, or Malfoy, and she'd smile and they'd smile, but then conversation would inevitably drift back to Death Eaters and Voldemort and evil plans and war and death and what if, what if, what if, and Hermione couldn't deal with the hushed whispers and somber meditations. Not tonight.
Not tonight.
So when the first tingle of awareness prickled the back of her neck and she peeked through her mass of curls and saw the set of black school robes standing before her table, Hermione prayed. She prayed to a god she wasn't sure existed anymore to whisk this person away and leave her in peace. She peeked through her hair again and saw smooth, pale hands settle onto the back of a chair, saw the Slytherin crest plastered to the front of the robes, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sighing. Of course. It had to be Malfoy. It couldn't be Harry or Ron or someone reasonable she could politely chat with for a few moments before covertly suggesting they leave the library and her alone. It had to be him.
Her quill hovered over her parchment scribbled with notes on Snape's essay as Hermione debated whether to attempt to ignore Malfoy or give in and engage him in conversation. Conversation. Hermione nearly laughed. More like engage in verbal battle. She doubted Malfoy was capable of carrying on a civilized conversation; his entire vocabulary consisted of nothing but foul and hateful language, language he unleashed on everyone and anyone with a vicious relish and a cruel sneer that made Hermione shudder with revulsion. If the day came that Malfoy conversed civilly with someone, she felt she would die from shock because Hell most certainly would have frozen over.
Hermione checked again, and he was still standing there. Still. Honestly, didn't he have anything better to do than pick a fight with her? There were three other houses and six other years worth of students to torment, and he had to choose her. Tonight. Now. Hermione allowed the sigh to escape her lips as she placed her quill onto the table. She flipped an errant curl away from her face and glanced up at Malfoy.
His hands were clenched around the chair before him and his grey eyes were wide and locked on her. The sneer that normally marred his features was gone, replaced by an expression Hermione was too tired to attempt to analyze. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
"I-"
"I really need to finish this essay for Snape, and I have the project for Professor McGonagall I need to start working on, so whatever it is you have to say, just say it and go."
"I…"
Hermione frowned. She was sure her interruption alone would have earned a sharp retort from Draco, not to mention her succinct dismissal of him and whatever problem he had with her now. Instead… he hesitated. Draco, who wielded words more gracefully and dangerously than anyone else Hermione knew, hesitated in responding. To her.
Strange. Most strange.
Malfoy straightened, thrusting his shoulders back and his chin into the air, as though he had resigned himself to some horrible fate and would face it head on. Through clenched teeth he said, "I would very much like to sit here, Hermione. If that is alright with you."
Hermione? Since when did Malfoy address her by her given name? What happened to Granger? Beaver? Mudblood? Her brain unable to process this twist on an already strange encounter, she failed to develop a suitable response to his declaration. Well, whatever game he was playing at, he could play it alone or find another victim. She didn't… she couldn't deal with this new angle of attack. Better to surrender the fight for the table and hoped immediate victory satisfied Malfoy.
Reaching for her parchment rolls and ink bottles, she muttered, unable to restrain bitterness from clouding her voice, "There are fifteen other tables in the library. Why you want mine, I don't know. But I'm too busy to fight with you-"
"No-"
His hand shot out, stopping inches from hers, and Hermione froze. She was trying, honestly trying to avoid a confrontation, and he just wouldn't let it be. Wouldn't let her be. Fine. If he wanted a fight, he would get one. Five years of frustration and rage at constant fighting, with him, with Ron, with Harry, with Snape, against miscommunication, against prejudices, against hatred, Death Eaters, Death itself, burned within Hermione. Even the calmest souls had their breaking points, and tonight Hermione Granger had finally reached hers.
Her gaze drifted from his outstretched hand, across the table, up his body, until they met his eyes. She raised one eyebrow. Voice soft, voice deadly, she said, "Pardon?"
Surprise flickered within his grey eyes. Surprise mingled with a trace of fear. Malfoy snatched his hand back, and Hermione could almost see the wheels of his brain turning, trying to work itself around her obviously unexpected rage. Honestly, what sort of a reaction did he expect from her? Welcoming smiles and open arms? Please. Whatever smooth talk he conjured to get himself out of the conundrum he'd created wouldn't work this time. If she couldn't have peace, she'd have war. On her terms. And she'd win.
"No… I didn't mean that you had to move. I meant… I wanted to sit here. At the table. With you."
Malfoy looked at her warily, gauging her reaction to his words, and for the life of her, Hermione couldn't understand why. He wanted to sit here? With her? Impossible. Only a Malfoy under the control of the Imperius Curse would ever consider lowering himself enough to sit at the same table as Hermione. She was beneath him. He'd told her as much with every hateful glare, disgusted sneer, and hardened scowl directed her way for the past five years. But now he approached her as if those five years never existed, as if he didn't hate her and she didn't hate him. "You want to sit here," she said flatly. "With me."
Malfoy nodded.
Or maybe. Maybe there was another reason he wanted to sit here. Maybe this was some sort of plan. Some sort of joke cooked up by Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies to humiliate her. She had her wand; she wasn't defenseless. And she knew they would never do anything to hurt her, not at Hogwarts. But humiliation. Humiliation was a whole different ball game, one they could play without risk of expulsion. "Is this some sort of joke?"
Irritation flared on Malfoy's face as he snapped, "No. It is not some sort of joke. I am attempting to ask you nicely if I can sit at your table and you're turning it into some marathon worthy event. It's a simple question, Granger. Can I sit? Yes or no."
Bloody hell. He was serious. Malfoy wanted to sit here. With her. And he actually attempted to ask her permission if he could sit down instead of just sitting down. He asked instead of taking. Wow. Hell had just frozen over, rendering one Hermione Granger completely speechless.
"Um…" She glanced around the library. The room looked normal, like the library she visited every day, so she doubted she'd been transported to some alternate dimension. There were no other Slytherins hiding behind the book stacks, waiting for the opportune moment or secret signal to strike. They were alone. She was alone with Malfoy. And he wanted to sit down.
"I…" Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across the bridge of her nose. So this was what insanity felt like. Like she was perfectly normal while the world around her had gone completely mad. Interesting. "I must be going mad," she muttered. "Sleep deprivation does tend to do that to a person. And Harry's always told me I need more sleep…" But Hermione knew, deep down, this wasn't insanity. This was an opportunity. A choice. For some unknown reason, Malfoy chose to extend the olive branch to her, to offer something other than insults and malice, and she could accept it and see where this rabbit hole led or she could reject it, reject him, and stay out of Wonderland.
The choice boiled down to fear. Was she too afraid to see what lay beyond the next few moments? What lay beyond Draco's aloof demeanor? Or would she risk it? Risk getting hurt by the boy who had hurt her most the past five years?
Fortune favors the brave, or so they say. And Gryffindors were nothing if not brave. So maybe this time fickle fortune would land on her side.
Drawing in a deep breath, Hermione murmured, "I know I am going to regret this." She opened her eyes, looked straight at Draco, and placed her bets on the riskiest of all gambles. Hope. "Yes, Malfoy. You can sit down."
Draco let out a relieved breath and eased down into the chair he had been applying the grip of death on. He wanted this. He really wanted to sit here, and it wasn't because of some sick Slytherin scheme or forced action from the Imperius Curse. Hermione was forced to amend her initial assessment of Draco as nothing more than a callous bastard. More seemed to be going on behind those grey eyes than he let on.
They gazed at each other for a moment, silent, before Draco rolled his eyes and said, "You can relax, Granger. I'm not here to hurt you."
"I suppose you're here for pleasant conversation then. A meaningful chat between enemies."
"Something like that, yeah."
"Run out of victims in the Slytherin dungeon to listen to you? I can't imagine why you can't find intelligent conversation there. I mean, Crabbe and Goyle alone must provide countless hours of deep, philosophic thought."
"Oh, like Potter and the Weasel are any better. If it wasn't for you, they would have flunked out of Hogwarts their first year. I can't imagine you having any conversation with them extending beyond 'Must. Kill. Dark Lord. Now.' and 'Please, sir, can I have some more?'"
Of course, Hermione always tended to overestimate the goodness within a person. Maybe nothing more was going on within Malfoy than spite and sarcasm. And if all he was going to do was insult her friends, she didn't want to expend the energy to try to puzzle out the mystery that was Draco Malfoy.
"If this is your version of a meaningful conversation, Malfoy, I'll pass. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do." She cast him one last glare and then opened her Potions text, forcing her gaze on the tiny lettering on the parchment. Hermione realized Malfoy responded to her own sarcastic remark about the intelligence level of his friends and his entire house, but it wasn't as though her statement was far off the mark. Even Malfoy had to admit his two lackeys weren't the brightest crayons in the box. She just stated a plain fact. A bit nastily, maybe. But it was a reflexive action, one ingrained from five years of fighting. And it wasn't like Malfoy made any special effort to curb his own snark. He pounced on the first opportunity presented to insult Ron and Harry.
Hermione paused in her mental diatribe. Great. Now, she was rationalizing being nasty to Draco Malfoy, the reigning Prince of Mean. As if this night couldn't deviate any farther from normalcy.
Out of the corners of her eyes, Hermione saw Malfoy lean back in his chair and fold his arms across his chest. His grey gaze was fixed on her, plainly stating his refusal to give up and leave. Why couldn't he just go? Obviously a pleasant conversation would never occur between the two of them. All they had were insults. Why prolong the awkward torture any longer? What did he hope to accomplish by continuing this farce of a civilized encounter? Why couldn't he initiate himself into the land of social harmony with some other unwilling victim? Why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be now?
And why was he still here?
Quill gripped to the breaking point, Hermione threw it down upon the table and sighed. Her breath came out in a sharp gust of frustration, and she very nearly screamed as a faint smirk appeared on Malfoy's face. He wanted to talk? They would talk. They would have the best conversation ever and then he would go away and leave her alone.
Hermione mimicked his pose, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. "You want to talk, let's talk. What is it you want to talk about, Malfoy? School? Quidditch? Secret Death Eater plans? What?"
Malfoy opened his mouth. A nasty glint appeared in his eyes signaling the imminent arrival of some wicked language. But before the comment escaped his lips, he snapped his mouth shut, abruptly biting off the words poised on the tip of his tongue. His brows drew together in contemplation as his eyes scanned across the book laden table. A moment passed and then a triumphant expression appeared on his face. "Do you ever read anything other than school books?"
He wanted to talk about… books? Hermione supposed the topic of conversation wasn't too far fetched. Everyone knew she loved reading, and she seriously doubted Malfoy could converse with Crabbe and Goyle about literature. But the fact that it was Malfoy who wanted to talk about literature shocked her. She knew he was intelligent, ranking right behind her in class standings. But she never figured him for a pleasure reader. She never figured Malfoy for a pleasure anything. Looking over her school books strewn across her table, Hermione said, "Yes… Mostly during summer break. I don't usually have time during the school year to indulge in extracurricular reading."
He smirked. "Too busy saving the world with Saint Potter and the Boy Blunder, I suppose."
Anger flared within Hermione at his derogatory comment. He was so… difficult. Prickly, with sharp edges and hard planes. Nothing could ever be smooth around him, least of all a conversation. Malfoy spoke again before she could end the exchange. "So what do you read when you have the time?"
"Lots of different things," she said slowly, shoulders lifting in a careful shrug. Normally, Hermione would praise someone for possessing the drive and determination to see even the most difficult tasks through to the end. But this was bordering on willful obstinacy. He must want to drive her insane. That was the only logical explanation for this, for him, for them speaking together. He can't really want to speak with her that much. It didn't make sense. He hated her. Everyone knew that. It was a plain and simple fact. Like the sky being blue or the grass being green. Malfoy hated Hermione. But a tiny seed of doubt implanted itself within Hermione's mind, digging roots into her worldview and refusing to disappear. Maybe there was more than just the hate. Or maybe he wanted there to be more than hate. And Hermione had to see. Had to know. Had to understand. "I doubt you would know any of the authors. They're mostly Muggle writers."
"Indulge my curiosity."
Indulge his curiosity. Or add ammunition to his arsenal. She bit her bottom lip and debated what to tell him and what to keep to herself. There was no way she would admit her love for Victorian romances, not even under Veritaserum. Even if his intentions to converse with her were honorable, or as honorable as a Malfoy could be, he would still ridicule her for loving Austen, James, and the Bronte sisters. Both Harry and Ron had, and they were her best friends. What else could she talk with him about? Poetry? No. For all of her adaptability and open mindedness, Hermione doubted she could handle a discussion of poetry with Malfoy. That would just be too strange. Modern literature? No. The Industrial Revolution was probably a quaint little dream to the traditionalist Malfoy family. Anything dating after the 19th century would be unknown and uninteresting to Malfoy. What about Milton? Shakespeare? Chaucer?
Inspiration struck. Classical literature. It was perfect. High on adventure, magical creatures, death, and mayhem. "Well," she began, voice soft and a bit hesitant, "I like a lot of classical literature. I've read some of the ancient Greek playwrights. I really love Homer's The Odyssey. Much more than The Iliad. The Iliad's full of fighting and bloodshed and whinging, which frankly gets boring after a thousand lines or so. But The Odyssey has all sorts of mini-adventures and exotic creatures. I first read it before I knew I was witch and that there was this real world with magical creatures residing in it." Amusement tinged her voice as she remembered the first time she read The Odyssey, before she knew the truth about the myths. "And before I knew that Homer was a wizard and most of the creatures he wrote about were real."
She paused, mind sifting through her memories of times past, of simple, pleasure filled moments spent curled up on her bed, spent in another world, another time, another life. It was… nice. Innocent.
Malfoy shifted, breaking Hermione from her reverie. She felt her cheeks grow hot in embarrassment at having been observed reminiscing. At having been vulnerable. Fingers twisting a lock of her hair, she cast a surreptitious glance in Malfoy's direction to see if he noticed her lapse in concentration. If he had, he certainly wasn't showing it. Head tilted to one side, Malfoy's gaze was fixed not on her face but on her hand. On her hair. His expression was soft, almost contemplative. She doubted it was a face he showed others.
"Malfoy?" she asked quietly.
He started, eyes widening and snapping to her face. The tips of his ears tinged pink. "Yes?"
Eyes narrowing, Hermione scrutinized Malfoy for a few moments. She didn't understand what had just happened, but she knew it had to be important. That the line they had been struggling across since the beginning of this bizarre conversation had finally been crossed. Vulnerabilities on both sides had inadvertently been shown. Turning back was not an option. And even if it was, Hermione doubted she'd turn her back on this. On him. Not when she'd barely scratched the surface of his protective shell. Not when there was so much else to learn about Draco. Tongue darting out to moisten her lips, she said, "Do you, um, read books? When you have the time. That is, when you're not out torturing fist years or sacrificing goats to the Dark Lord."
His fists tightened and anger sparked in his eyes, but only for a moment. Draco froze as he focused upon the small grin on her face, and she would have laughed at his deer-in-the-headlights expression if she wasn't afraid he'd bolt at the slightest sound, slightest movement. The moment passed, and then Draco relaxed, body melting back onto the contours of his chair, devil may care smirk appearing on his face. "Yes, those pesky Dark rituals take up so much of my time, what with the laborious incantations and special dance required. But I have been known to, on occasion, read a book."
"And what type of book is exalted enough to hold the interest of Draco Malfoy?"
"One with lots of fighting and bloodshed and whinging."
She smiled at the sly look upon his face. The notion that she was flirting with Draco and that he was flirting back with her flickered through her mind, but she brushed it away and refocused on the conversation. "So you've read The Iliad?"
"Of course. It's a family tradition. Helen of Troy's a distant relation to my family."
"Seriously? I don't believe you."
Draco shrugged. "Believe what you want. Doesn't make it any less true. One of her cousins married into the Malfoy family. Used her Veela charms to seduce Belial Malfoy away from his first wife. Quite the scandal back then."
Hermione couldn't stop the full fledged grin from blooming across her face at the story he was spinning. "Now you expect me to believe that Helen of Troy was a Veela?"
Arching an eyebrow, Draco asked, "Do you honestly believe a normal, human woman could start a war that lasted for ten years?"
"No, I don't suppose so." She shook her head. The smile still danced on her lips. Wonders never ceased. First Draco was civil. To her. Now he was borderline charming. Strange how someone usually so vicious could also be mannered and sociable. Pleasant even. Although Hermione knew that many Muggle serial killers were very friendly and charming when the need arose. And she had read reports of Tom Riddle's charismatic personality. Not that she was comparing Draco to a serial killer. Or to Voldemort. But his father was a Death Eater, and Lucius must have had some influence on Draco, and Hermione doubted the influence to be very positive.
As much as she might have wanted to, Hermione couldn't deny the crueler aspects to Draco simply because he chose to be agreeable for a few minutes. Memories of vicious taunts and smug smiles flashed in her mind. Of manipulation and cheating and malice. And once again, she wondered why he was here. Whether or not this entire conversation was a set-up, a front for Draco to slip past her defenses and blind side her when she was vulnerable. The smile faded from her face while she regarded Draco. She didn't think that was the reason he was here. To hurt her. To manipulate her. But she didn't know. And the only way she would know is if she asked.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak as her gaze locked with Draco's. His expression was resigned. Worn. Tired. Like he knew she was about to question his motives, why he came to the library, why he sought her out. And she dropped her eyes to the table, unable to unleash all of the inquiries inside of her. He had opened up to Hermione. Let down the bastard visage he perpetually wore. Pulled back the curtain and allowed her to peek behind the veil. And she couldn't betray that trust. Not even to satisfy her own curiosity. Best to end this interlude before she got in too deep. Just in case she was wrong about him and he was here to hurt her.
Her eyes flickered back up to his, and voice neutral, she began, "So-"
"You can ask, if you want." His words were rushed, stumbling over one another in a desperate flee from his mouth. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, but his eyes were wide, open, intense. "I won't… I want…"
He wanted her to ask. Wanted her to know. Wanted her to understand. She searched his eyes, looking for any signs of deceit, of dishonesty, of deception. Hermione couldn't find any, and her ability to detect lies had substantially improved over the last few years. It had been a matter of survival, of saving herself from unknown potential dangers. If she asked the words she wanted, needed, had to ask, she thought maybe, just maybe, one of the known dangers would somehow be eliminated. That this was the point of no return, and if crossed, everything would change and nothing would be the same ever again.
"Why did you come here, Draco?"
Draco stayed silent, returning her assessing gaze. Her head spun from the stare, but she held his gaze. A minute passed before he spoke. "When you read it's for pleasure, right? Because you want to read the book. Because you enjoy it." Hermione nodded and he continued, "I don't. Every book I've ever read has been chosen by my father because he feels there's something I can learn from it. Something that will help me in life. I've read the Bible: 'Know thy enemy, Draco. Better than you know thyself.' I've read books by Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Voltaire. Muggle history books. Magical history books. But I've never… I've never read anything I wanted to read. Never done anything I wanted to do, not unless it was already cleared by my father. And I just… I wanted-"
He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut. His grip tightened on the chair and his breathing increased. He looked to be in pain, like it hurt to force the words of honesty from his body but he was determined not to break. Hermione knew how much the truth could hurt. Knowledge never came easy. Acknowledging, learning, the truth was hard and painful. Easy lay with ignorance, with simplicity.
"There's something… more." Draco bit his lip. "And I'm tired… I…"
He shut down, drawing back into himself so rapidly it left Hermione gasping. The walls tumbled back down, locking in whatever he tried to release, and Draco shoved away from the table. His chair fell to the floor, unacknowledged. He didn't look at her as he spun and stalked across the library. Draco didn't look at Hermione. But Hermione watched Draco. She saw the frustration twisting his face. She saw the tension clenching his fists. She saw the rage in the set of his shoulders, the strength of his stride, the stiffness of his spine. He was angry with himself, but whether from revealing too much to her or not enough Hermione did not know. She only knew that if he left the library, he wouldn't come back. This interlude would fade away, pushed as far and as fast from his mind as he possibly could make it. Relations between then would return to normal. Maybe they would be even more vicious in compensation for the vulnerabilities Hermione had seen. And she didn't want that. Not when there was a chance. A chance to make things different. A chance to make things better. For both of them.
Hermione slid out of her chair and sprinted across the library after Draco. She reached out. Her fingertips brushed over his robes, and he froze, stopping so suddenly she nearly crashed into him. Balancing herself, Hermione stretched her hand across his back. Her touch was light, delicate for this delicate situation. She needed to proceed with caution, or she'd push him over the edge. The wrong edge. Back to Lucius. Back to Voldemort.
"You don't…" Hermione sighed and took a moment to gather her thoughts, to gather herself together. She had one shot. Failure was not an option. Taking a deep breath, she tilted her chin into the air and straightened her shoulders, ready to take the plunge off this Cliff of Insanity. "You don't have to say anything. I understand. Well, not really, but I do, sort of, if that makes any sense at all, which I'm sure it doesn't. You don't have to answer my question. But if you did, I wouldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't break your confidence. It's yours to tell. Not mine. So you don't, you don't have to leave. You can just sit. We can just sit. Or we could talk. I mean we haven't even touched on Roman literature, and one can't have a discussion on classical literature without discussing Ovid. Virgil, too."
He trembled beneath her palm, and Hermione resisted the urge to smooth her hand across his shoulders. Draco lowered his head. A lock of hair, pale, nearly colorless strands, fell into his eyes, twin swirls of turbulent grey. "Why?" His voice was low and rough. Hollow. "Why would you want me? Want me to stay?"
Because I know you. Because I want to know more. Because I know you want to be more than a mindless servant to Voldemort. Because I know you can be more than a mindless servant to Voldemort. Because I need to know that someone can be saved from this insane war. Because I need to believe in redemption and forgiveness and hope. Because. Just because.
She said simply, "Because you want to be here." Pausing, she moved her hand against his back, feeling the lush cotton, the corded muscles, beneath her palm. "And I think I want you to be here too."
He turned towards her. A faint flush stained his cheeks. Residual pain clouded his grey eyes, but bright rays of hope peeked through the gloom. Her breath came in fast, shallow pants, and Hermione fought to control herself, control the novel emotions fluttering inside her, but she fought a losing battle. She realized her hand hovered above his chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, and she drew her hand back towards herself. Draco followed her hand with his, reaching out to brush one of her unruly curls. His finger twisted around the auburn lock of hair, and Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the mesh of ginger on white. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to look at Draco. His eyes locked with hers, and she said, "So… are you staying?" Her voice was not breathless. It wasn't.
She waited. His gaze flickered from her eyes down to her captured lock of hair and then back again. A slow smile bloomed across his face. A genuine smile. Not a smirk or a scowl or a sneer. But a simple smile.
And he said, "Yes."
* * *