A Wonderful Fortuitous Love

14. A Drunken Mind Speaks a Sober Heart

“Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”

— Jodi Picoult

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The following morning, Hermione needed no reminder as to why she felt like a Flobberworm. Ron’s cold words and his face contorted into a ferocious fury were still fresh in her memory. Though, it did take her a while to remember just who had come to her aid last night.

When the image of Malfoy and her on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around each other came flooding through her head once more, her eyes darted straight away to the exact spot at the foot of her bed.

The blue blanket was spread out over the peach carpet, frilly pillows that had fallen from the rocking chair scattered, her book amongst them.

She remembered yesterday very well indeed. How Malfoy had gladly left the office without her needing to tell him (he always left before her anyway), which had then left her to look over some last minute papers regarding Nott’s inability to show up for scheduled meetings, and then on her way out receiving an urgent message from Harry. She knew Malfoy wouldn’t care where she ran off to so without further thought she’d arrived at his house as soon as possible. 

Hermione thought Harry or Ron merely needed some soothing and reassuring over the incident in Diagon Alley again; she hadn’t been prepared to come face to face with Ministry workers, who tried to get descriptions of the Death Eaters. But it was almost, always entirely useless to try and describe a fully cloaked Death Eater. But they did the best that they could. It was when, ‘And why was Mr. Malfoy involved? You would know, wouldn’t you, Miss. Granger? You’re currently living together, are you not?’ was asked, did everything, which had already been hanging delicately by a single thread, fall apart. 

She remembered standing in front of the door, wiping away at her eyes furiously and taking deep rattling breaths before entering her own flat as normal as she could. She remembered hearing the thudding of her own heart in her ears as she climbed stair after stair, one step, two step, three, four, five; and then entering her bedroom quietly, resisting the bizarre urge to kick the door shut after herself. Hermione remembered numbly picking up a book from the bedside table and sitting in the rocking chair, throwing the blanket on top of her. She remembered trying to read harmoniously and determinedly, but the words would not sink in – her eyes scanning across pages that may as well have been blank. Hermione did not remember at what point she threw the book at the wall, she did not know when she started to cry.

She now rubbed her singing eyes, no doubt also swollen, and sighed softly to herself as she glanced at the closed door. There hadn’t been much talk when Malfoy had stood and gone off to bed, she didn’t even think he looked back at her.

Hermione was almost afraid to go downstairs, the embarrassment and shame and fear of facing him becoming very real to her now. She wished she had cried quieter, or that she had kicked him out, or that he’d acted like his usual self and shouted at her to shut it. She couldn’t even wrap her brain around the truth that he’d comforted her. What she found even more peculiar was he hadn’t even considered a silencing charm on his room, that’s all it would have taken and he’d have heard no more from her.

It felt like a very long time that she stared at the door (so long she could almost hear it mocking her, just standing there in all its wooden glory), seriously debating with herself if she couldn’t simply live in her room for the rest of the year.

Hermione really didn’t know what it was about him that had her so intimidated. But she wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing, so with her head held high, she slowly descended the staircase, Crookshanks at her heels.