July 2002
Hermione looked up sharply and found Malfoy staring down at her from the road. She was too tired and angry to even feel embarrassed about being found drunk and crying in a creek.
"Bugger off, Malfoy," she said, smacking at the water with her hand so that it sprayed in his direction.
"Are you drunk?" he asked.
"No, you tosser, I am sitting in a creek entirely sober," she said with an eye-roll. "Go away. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see your nasty face. If I could obliviate your existence from my mind without risking the Order, I'd do it in a heartbeat."
She started crying again.
"Fucking hell," he said, staring down at her with the same expression of irritation he'd had when he told her about the unwanted manticore he found himself in possession of.
"Granger, you cannot sit crying in a creek," he finally said.
"I actually can," she retorted. "Aside from you, there's no one to see. I already warded the area. None of the Muggles will come around or notice me. I have planned my emotional breakdown carefully and you are ruining it. So—bugger. Off."
Her head felt very heavy, and she dropped it down onto her knees. It was growing very cold in the creek, but she was determined not to move until Malfoy went away.
There was a muffled thud, and then a hard grip suddenly closed around her arm, and she found herself being dragged up out of the water.
"Let go!"
She smacked Malfoy across the arm and kicked him in the shins as she attempted to wrench herself free.
"Leave me alone. You and Voldemort have ruined my life. Am I not even allowed to occasionally feel sad about it?"
"Granger, you idiot!"
Malfoy dragged her into his arms and apparated. They reappeared in the shack.
She stared around the room dazedly, clinging to him for balance.
"Why are we here?" she demanded, her voice wobbling as she stepped away and tried to draw herself up. "I hate this place. One of the richest wizarding families in all of Europe, and you make me come see you in this miserable house. As though I'm not already well-aware of the disdain you have for all of us Mudbloods. God, why didn't you just buy a whore house or a salt mine and make me visit you there?"
"I told you there was a taboo and you used the Dark Lord's name," Malfoy snarled. "That is why you cannot get drunk in a fucking creek regardless of how many damn Muggle repelling charms you cast."
Hermione blinked and stared at him.
"I hate you," she finally said.
"The feeling is decidedly mutual," he said, looking at her with an expression of disdain.
She dropped into a heap on the floor.
"I hate you so much," she said. "I was already all alone—and then you demanded me and made it even worse. At least before—if anyone cared enough to ask me if I was alright I could tell the truth. But now—I can't even do that. And now—even if we win I won't have anything to look forward to. Everyone else will be free and I'll still be owned by you. I'm just going to be alone forever—"
She buried her face in her hands and cried afresh.
"Harry and Ron are never going to forgive me," she said, and her whole body shook with the force of her sobs. "Even if this wins the war—they'll never forgive me."
Her crying subsided slightly after several minutes.
"I'm really not clear on why you expect me to care." Malfoy stared down at her with an indifferent expression.
She glared up at him. "You brought me here knowing that I was drunk. If you didn't want to hear about it, you could have just left me alone the way I repeatedly told you to. I don't see why you won't just fuck off."
He arched an eyebrow.
"Hexing and swearing at me all in one day. It would seem I finally got to you. I wondered what it would take to make you give up your sweet caresses and tell me how you really felt." His expression was taunting.
"Shut up!" she snarled before dropping her head onto her knees and hugging herself.
"But really—we're just scratching the surface, aren't we? Perhaps I should list everyone I've killed," he said, stepping slowly around her with a malicious smile. "There were several Muggles first, practice runs before I went back to school. Aunt Bella said it was necessary to be used to killing before doing it to someone I actually knew. Then Dumbledore. And more Muggles. Did you know I was even assigned to find your parents? You must have hidden them yourself because there wasn't even a trace to be found. No sloppy details or secret goodbyes like many of those other Muggle-born families. Although, that ignorance still didn't spare your neighbors. Bella was crushed by how thorough you were."
Hermione was staring at him in horror.
"Then the Creeveys. And the Finch-Fletchleys. And my Aunt Andromeda and her husband Ted. That one was rather personal for Bella, having a Muggle-born marry into the Black family was such a stain. It remained her sincerest regret that she never got to kill Nymphadora, especially after word got around that she'd gone and married a werewolf. Then after that—well, the dead tend to bleed together after a while but I believe it was more Muggles..."
Hermione could feel the warm fuzziness of her intoxication draining away from her as Malfoy kept talking. Listing name after familiar name. The glint of his silver eyes and the cold set expression on his face as he continued in his disdainful drawling voice.
"You know, Malfoy," she said quietly after a minute, "you spend so much time making sure I have just an excess of good reasons to hate you. It's odd."
He paused, and she stared up at him.
"It's not how humans work," she said. "Our brains are wired to rationalise things, so that the guilt doesn't eat us. We excuse. We blame. We find some explanation for ourselves that helps us sleep. People don't think of themselves as villains. They're killing to protect themselves, or their families, or their money, or their way of life. Even your master, he doesn't think he's a villain. He just thinks he's better than everyone else. He thinks he deserves to rule over everything. When he tortures and kills Muggles—it's alright because they're not really people. When he carved runes into your back for hours—it was alright, you deserved it because you failed him. In his mind he isn't a villain, he's a god. But you—you do think you're a villain. You think you deserve to be hated." She cocked her head to the side as she studied him. "I often wonder why that is."
Malfoy's face had grown colder and more closed as she was speaking.
"I'll save you all the effort," she said, and her mouth quirked up at one corner. "I hate you. I don't require you to do anything more to convince me. I hate you. More than anyone else aside from your master. I hate you. I hold you partly responsible for every person who has died so far in this war and every person who will die. You don't need to convince me that you're a monster, I already know it. Healing you when you're injured is not because of my bleeding heart. And not hexing you when you're severely wounded isn't sentiment. It's simply the last bit of decency I have left. All the rest of my goodness has already been destroyed by you. So—despite what you fling in my face, I will not let you have it. Now—fuck off."
Goodness, it felt nice to have finally gotten that off her chest. She'd probably regret saying it all later, but in the moment she only felt relief.
Malfoy smirked faintly. "Good to know."
Hermione laid back on the floor and stared at the ceiling.
After several minutes of silence it was clear he was not going to go away. She gave up driving him off. She was overwhelmed by her desire to talk. She sat up on the floor.
"What are you like drunk, Malfoy?" she said, turning her head to look at him. He was standing beside her and staring down where she sat at his feet.
He looked surprised by the question. "Quieter. And angrier."
She snorted. "Of course. Heaven forbid you be anything interesting."
"I didn't have you down as a weepy drunk." He raised an eyebrow and conjured a chair, which he straddled beside her. It occurred to her that he probably couldn't lean against anything. She wondered how much it might have hurt to pull her out of the creek and then apparate when she was struggling and trying to fight him off.
"I wasn't always," she said wistfully. "Talkative, always. But alcohol makes me emotional. I used to be a happy drunk. I was just—ridiculous. I went to a party where the punch was spiked and I got so smashed. Harry had to silence me while he and Ron were dragging me through the halls. I was giggling so uncontrollably. Peals of laughter just—bouncing off the walls. Filch nearly caught us."
"When was that?" he asked.
"My birthday. I turned seventeen. It was—it was the day before you killed Dumbledore." Her jaw trembled slightly, and she looked down at her fingers as they traced a knothole on the floor. "I—was supposed to have been in the hallway the next day. Prefect duty, to help the first years. But I was so hungover. I slept late. I've often wondered—if it would have made any difference..."
"It wouldn't have," he said.
"I've always cried since then. Always. Not that I get drunk often. I tend to say things that piss people off."
"You always do that," he said, giving her a pointed look.
"I say more things that piss people of," she amended. "Anyway—tonight it was drunk or high or abusing potions."
"And the creek?"
"I don't have anywhere to go. I can't go to a pub. Or get drunk around anyone in the Order. It's not like Moody is a shoulder to cry on."
"Potter and Weasley?"
"Since they don't know about you—how would I explain anything?" She wasn't going to mention that they had both gone off without her to hunt horcruxes.
"I can't believe you couldn't just leave me alone," she said. "Why were you even there?"
"I had a feeling you were going to go do something asinine. Call it a sixth sense."
She rolled her eyes. "I don't see why you'd care. Your secret would die with me. I'm sure you'll still find a way to get whatever it is you want without me."
"I'm sure anyone Moody sent to try to replace you with would only be more irritating," he said with a faint grimace. "Think of it as an additional favour to your Order. I'm keeping their healer and Potion Mistress alive."
She snorted. She was starting to feel incredibly sleepy. The thought of sleeping made her think of Colin. Tears welled up in her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
"What now?" Malfoy said as her sobs subsided. He sounded bored, but when she looked at him, he glanced away. He'd been watching her.
"I'm going to dream about Colin tonight," she said sadly, dropping her head against her knees.
"You were delusional when you said you could ever kill anyone. You can't even handle them dying at someone else's hand," he said, shaking his head dismissively.
Hermione stiffened and stared up at Malfoy.
"I don't think there's anything particularly awful about dying. I know it's war. People die," she said. "What I care about is the manner. You have no idea, Malfoy, what it's like to have someone die while you are doing everything in your power to save them. He died slowly, screaming the whole time, and I was trying to save him. That's what haunts me. All those deaths in my mind... that's the type they are. That's why they haunt me. They were in my hands—I was trying to save them—and I failed—"
She choked slightly and her voice cracked at the final words.
Malfoy looked at her and seemed considering for the first time.
"Why does Colin matter so much? You weren't close. Why is that death the one that still remains so significant to you? You've seen worse deaths since then."
She hesitated. She had never spoken about it to anyone. Not really. Not for years.
"His death was the beginning of the end of everything," she said, looking down and noticing a snagged thread on her shirt. She tugged impulsively at it and watched the knitted fabric tighten and bunch until the thread suddenly snapped and a hole appeared. She repaired it with a flick of her wand. "He was the first person who died entirely under my care. Harry saw it happen. And after that—I realised that what the Order was doing wasn't enough. That defense wasn't enough. And I started saying so. But Harry disagreed. To him—dying is the worst thing. It's leaving. So, killing in any way is evil. Self defense. Mercy killing. Any kind. That—disagreement—sent us in different directions in the war. Nothing was the same after that. That's why I ended up a healer while everyone else went to the battlefield together."
"Somewhat ironic."
"One person using Dark Arts in the battlefield isn't enough to make a difference. And if I'd been insubordinate and tried to recruit people into my thinking—it might have split the Order."
"If you were fighting again, how would you kill?"
"Quick. There are spells to stop hearts. Curses that suffocate. Slicing hexes to the throat. I'd do things like that. I'd probably even use the killing curse if I had it in me—but Harry would probably never forgive it."
"How does Potter plan to defeat the Dark Lord?"
"It's—there's a prophecy. Harry thinks the answer is the prophecy." she said vaguely. She wasn't sure if the Power of Love was a real Order strategy, but Malfoy didn't really need to know the details.
"Fantastic. We're all betting our lives on the-boy-who-won't-kill and a prophecy. We're doomed."
"Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald without killing him," Hermione said.
Malfoy looked unimpressed.
"Where did you study healing?" he asked her. She looked over at him with surprise.
"France at first," she said, "but the war crossed the channel quickly and it was safer for me to transfer than risk being found there. So I went to Albania; their Old Magicks Department had the best fundamentals for healing Dark Magic. I was there for a while. That's where I learned the treatment I've used on your runes. You're lucky—I'm probably one of the only healers left who knows the treatment since the hospital was destroyed. Then Denmark, for spell analysis and deconstruction. After that I went to Egypt; their hospital was the most specialised for curse breaking, but the situation was—unstable, so I got transferred to Austria within a few weeks. I was in Austria until the Order brought me back."
"A lot of people thought you died, or ran," Malfoy said, studying her with hooded eyes. "Until the Dark Lord wanted to know why the Resistance was surviving after their hospital was razed, and Severus mentioned that Potter's little Mudblood friend had been recalled from her journey abroad, healer and potion mistress to boot. It caused a slight stir among the upper-ranks."
She looked at him sharply. So he'd known what she was when he made his demands. She wondered if that had played any part in his decision.
The conversation stalled. After a few more minutes Hermione stood up.
"I'm sober enough to apparate now," she said.
"You're not going to go off and get drunk somewhere else are you?" he asked, staring at her suspiciously.
She shook her head.
"No. You have quite thoroughly killed my buzz. And I'm sufficiently cried out."
He looked faintly relieved. "Don't splinch yourself," he drawled after her as she went out the door.
Hermione didn't. When she got back to Grimmauld Place she went up to her potion cabinet and downed a sobriety potion. The headache and nausea promptly dropped down upon her with all the subtlety of a sledge hammer.
She dropped her head down onto the worktop and groaned.
Trust Draco Malfoy to not even allow her to get drunk in peace. Sodding bastard.
She had expected sobriety to fill her with horror, but she felt surprisingly unrepentant for finally lashing out at him. It certainly hadn't seemed to surprise or upset him. He'd been waiting for it.
She found herself entirely at a loss about how to interpret or process all that had occurred.
She fumbled through the cabinet for a vial of headache relief and downed it, trying to focus.
Draco thought of himself as a villain.
That was an important realisation. Possibly the most important one she had yet made regarding him. The inconsistency that was in the heart of him.
She wracked her mind replaying everything he had said that day. Now that she'd vented all of her rage at him, her mind felt suddenly crystal clear.
" Then the littler one stepped in a badger hole and broke his leg. He started crawling through the grass. Quite an easy target for a killing curse. The second person I cursed in the back with it. You know...the killing curse. It takes something out of you. It's not something just anyone can throw around. Not repeatedly. Colin could have kept running. If he had he might still be alive today. But he stopped. For his dead brother he stopped, ran back, and tried to drag the body with him."
Hermione froze.
He could have killed Dennis Creevey in an innumerable number of crueler, slower ways than the killing curse. With a broken leg, Dennis was no flight risk. He would have been the perfect lure to draw Colin back. But—rather than just stand over injured Dennis and catch both boys—Draco had killed him, humanely. Possibly in the hope that a dead brother would drive Colin off and spare his life.
Hermione felt ready to fall over at the dual realisation that struck her.
Malfoy had been trying to spare Colin.
But, possibly of greater significance for Hermione, Malfoy didn't regard that detail as redeeming.
He'd been certain she'd become completely mindless with hatred for him once she knew he'd been involved at all. The unintended admission that he'd been trying to let the boys escape wasn't a way of trying to excuse himself. She suspected he didn't even register it as such.
Malfoy considered himself a villain because of what he did. Which implied that he didn't want to do it. Which implied that his desire to aid the Order might be sincere and not merely a means to some other end.
Hermione drummed her fingers on the worktop thoughtfully, re-evaluating once more everything she thought she knew of Draco Malfoy.