The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy

Chapter 21: A Meeting With the Malfoys

Draco lay awake for a long time on Sunday morning. All was quiet. At this moment there was no sign that the sleepy Potter Cottage was the epicentre of the nation's rebellion against Lord Voldemort. Headquarters was blanketed in the deep hush of dawn about to come, the only sound Hermione's deep breathing.

As Draco watched her shadowed face, she frowned lightly in sleep as though even now she were solving a conundrum. He had realised over the past few days how much he enjoyed watching Hermione, at rest or in motion, directing the others or chewing a quill thoughtfully. Even more, he relished the moments she seemed to remember him out of nowhere, pausing mid-step and scanning the room until her eyes caught his.

Draco had watched Hermione Granger hurrying through the halls of Hogwarts for six years, and yet somehow—all that time—he'd failed to see her at all. Now he didn't want to blink, lest he miss a second.

Dawn was rising outside, however, and it was nearly time for him to go to Halfhold Hill.

In the hubbub of meeting preparations, Draco had managed to suppress his dread for the past few days, but now, looking at Hermione's sleeping face, a new fear struck. What if his parents' presence at headquarters changed her feelings toward him? Surely, with his mother and father living alongside Hagrid, Hermione would think more and more about third year. Draco remembered himself in the hospital wing that year, clutching his perfectly healed arm, owling home to say that the injury should be grounds for firing the blundering halfwit responsible.

He rose to his feet and began to dress, suddenly unable to keep looking at Hermione, even feeling the need to put distance between them. A wave of embarrassment and frustration was cresting over him. His parents had been strict when they wanted. They could have sent Draco a return owl telling him to heal quickly and get back to his schoolwork soon... but no. They'd seen an opportunity to cleanse Hogwarts of Hagrid. How many times had his father referred to the gamekeeper as a disgrace to the school, a savage, Dumbledore's pet barbarian?

How many times had Draco done the same?

As Draco fastened on his winter cloak, he tried to clear his mind, but since the Manor, the thoughts had grown inescapable. He had even begun to dream of things he'd said and done before this year, which replayed over and over in his subconscious so vividly that he awoke feeling unrested. Every single action bore undercurrents of shame or guilt. When he brushed his teeth, he remembered Hermione's front teeth growing painfully long, her eyes filling with tears as he and Crabbe and Goyle were wracked by paroxysms of laughter. When he ate, he thought of her furious words in the Room of Hidden Things when she'd demanded he answer for Dobby, who had been beaten near-daily while cooking his meals and cleaning his clothes.

Draco told himself the endless rumination was idiotic, that it was functionally useless, that—in Dobby's case, at least—he had been too young to really understand... but it went on and on. It made him want to push Hermione away, to keep her from being contaminated. It made him want to cling to her, terrified that she would come to her senses and go.

Draco's eyes slipped to the clock on the wall. It was time.

He let himself watch Hermione for one last moment. She was stirring, now, in her cotton pyjamas.

He Disapparated.

Halfhold Hill was freezing and windswept, the sky a tortured purple. Draco looked around, and for a single moment he thought he was alone, that it was another false trail.

Then two figures came out from behind the single massive tree whose roots were sunk deep into the hill. His father, tall and still too thin from Azkaban, hair on the silver side of blonde. His mother, her cheeks chapped red by the wind.