Chapter 17: The Danger
The handwriting was narrow, linear, and neat.
Draco Malfoy.
"Oof," Harry said, smiling nonchalantly as he shook his head. "I don't envy you."
Hermione grimaced, taking the slip of parchment back from him. "I probably should have been expecting it."
"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "It's fine. You can beat him."
"I know that," she said defensively. "Of course I know that."
She did not know that at all. True, she knew she was an excellent witch. She knew she could outperform Malfoy, under the majority of circumstances. But she had to admit, she'd recently been rendered speechless by him, watching him duel. He was always difficult to read but in this environment he was almost frighteningly calm, scarily cognizant of his opponent's next move. Hermione had observed Cho's bewildered face progress rapidly through stages of desperation and recalled suddenly Blaise Zabini's look of undiluted shock when he'd been disarmed. Malfoy was almost certainly using legilimency and nobody but Hermione seemed to be the wiser – with the possible exception of Snape, she noted, who had held his chin in his hand thoughtfully, his dark eyes uncharacteristically luminous with interest.
She'd have to read Malfoy to be able to beat him, but her windows into his thoughts were few and far between, she realized. Even when he let her in, as he had been doing as of late, she suspected he was still careful to control what she saw. How someone who had seemed so unilaterally immature and single-minded for so long could have somehow evolved into the silvery, unreadable enigma before her was staggering. She wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, what he'd been through, to make him what he was. A better man, unquestionably. But a guarded one.
Perhaps a dangerous one, she thought darkly.
She thought of his face this morning, and the kiss he'd given her as he teasingly returned her affections. "I utterly abhor you," he'd said. She smiled. She knew what he meant. Maybe facing her would be different for him. Maybe she meant something to him.
She looked over at where Malfoy stood now, wondering if he'd seen her name on his own slip of parchment yet. He was sitting alone, watching Theo Nott duel Helen Dawlish, his eyes following their respective spell work as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. It was a closer match than the previous few had been and he was focused intently on Theo, nodding thoughtfully when his spells hit home. Hermione found herself silently supporting Theo as well, much to her surprise; she was finding him harder to resent, knowing the friend he was to Malfoy. Theodore Nott was not the first Slytherin that she'd misjudged, and she wasn't likely to make the same mistake again.
"How do you think I should beat him?" she asked Harry, not taking her eyes off Malfoy. She figured she had an excuse, for once.
Harry shrugged, his eyes volleying between Theo and Helen. "You know him better than I do, I suppose," he replied vacantly. "What are his weaknesses?"
"That's a very Malfoy question to ask," she commented, smiling slightly. Harry only made a face at her.
What are his weaknesses? she wondered, eyeing Malfoy. He looked up at her briefly, his face composed. She shuddered as she met his grey eyes. Whatever they were, hers certainly outnumbered them.
"You're not a very good coach, Harry," she whispered, though he did not hear her. The Great Hall erupted in applause as Theo finally sent Helen's wand soaring, ending the longest duel of the day. Hermione clapped politely, heart pounding as she felt Malfoy's eyes on her.
The remainder of the first round of duels dragged painfully, aware as she was of what awaited her in the afternoon. McGonagall had structured the tournament to accommodate two rounds of dueling each day, meaning that while she would face Malfoy that afternoon, the remainder of the tournament would continue the following day. During the break between rounds, Hermione only picked at her lunch, pushing food around her plate as she considered the possible outcomes of facing Malfoy. She couldn't even remember what she would have done, if none of it had happened between them and he was just the unbearable arsehole Draco Malfoy – if there had been no potion, no kiss . . .
She couldn't remember a time before him – the him that he was now. Astounding what a month can do, she thought, in the life of the young and reckless.
Harry, Ron, and Ginny chattered happily around her as they waited for the afternoon duels – well, she thought, correcting herself, Harry and Ginny are chattering happily. Ron is sulking.
Ron and Lavender were evidently in the midst of a muddled breakup, leaving him with no other option than to reintroduce himself to their little circle. He hadn't spoken to Hermione since the duel, which wasn't surprising. His injured look of shock as she'd disarmed him had been telling enough, and she knew, as she had told Malfoy, that it would take a while for Ron's injured pride to come around again. She found she wasn't all that sorry, though, and she attributed a bit of that to the influence of her silver-haired companion.
"Nervous, Hermione?" Ginny laughed, watching her pluck nervously at the inside of a roll of bread.
She felt herself turn pink. "A bit," she admitted.
"She wasn't nervous to face me," Ron grumbled, not addressing anyone in particular.
Ginny backhanded his shoulder. "That's because you're hardly any competition," she said. "Stop whining."
Harry laughed, his eyes glinting as he watched Ginny imitate her sullen brother. It could have been so easy, Hermione thought sadly, watching as Ron steadfastly refused to meet her eyes. Harry clearly loves Ginny – I could have loved Ron – it could have been so simple.
Too simple, she thought, her pulse quickening as she eyed Malfoy for the hundredth time that day.
"Stop worrying about him," Ginny scolded, following her line of sight. "You'll be fine."
She put down her tortured piece of bread, completely gutted of its inner contents. "Who are you facing next, Harry?"
He held up a finger, swallowing a large bite of steak and kidney pie. Hermione's stomach turned, watching him – she couldn't understand how he could eat so much at a time like this.
He cleared his throat, retrieving his bit of parchment from his pocket and unfolding it. "I'd forgotten to check," he said, squinting at the name. "Looks like Karl Limpley."
Ginny scoffed. "You're getting quite an easy ride, Harry."
He grinned, leaning back. "Eh, I'll take it."
"Who else is left?" Hermione asked, now absentmindedly swirling her glass of pumpkin juice.
Ginny counted off on her fingers. "You, Harry, Karl, Malfoy, Theo Nott, Padma Patil, Cormac McLaggen – " she paused. "Hang on, I'm forgetting someone – "
"Anthony Otterburn," Ron said bitterly.
Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Even Ron could beat him – "
" – What do you mean, even me – "
"Look, our prelim round had a rough go of it," Harry said, mediating. "There are more Gryffindors still in than any other house, and there's no shame in losing to Hermione – "
Ron grunted his disagreement incoherently, but Hermione wasn't paying attention. She noticed very few things, that afternoon. Harry beat Karl handily, Cormac McLaggen struggled to disarm Padma Patil, and Theo Nott demolished Anthony Otterburn – but she didn't have a clear thought until she heard McGonagall call her name.
Harry nudged her as she sat frozen at the edge of her seat. "Go," he said, smiling. "Give him hell from us, Hermione."
She wasn't sure if it was her imagination, but it seemed deathly silent as she climbed the steps to the platform, the final duel of the day. She stepped through the haze that her hologram portrait had left, watching Malfoy materialize across from her.
What to start with? she thought nervously, her fingers numbly tapping her wand. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to shake her irrational fear. You can do this, she told herself firmly. Even he would tell you the same thing. Malfoy himself would tell you you can do this.
She opened her eyes to look directly into his, surprised when she thought she saw a flicker of something in her mind. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision. The hazy image came to her again, an image of herself, dueling. She was standing opposite Malfoy, her wand up, and he was conjuring the line of fire spell, the same one Cho had used on him. She looked at the real Malfoy, standing before her, seeking understanding. He jerked his head slightly, a noncommittal nod; by Malfoy standards, she sensed this was meant to be reassurance.
Her eyes narrowed as they bowed to each other, and she walked to her starting position slowly, trying to gain clarity prior to starting. He'd wanted her to see that – was he being sincere?
Snape stood in the center of the platform, starting them off. "Wands at the ready," he said, before stepping back to the floor.
She bit her lip, still uncertain what to do; Malfoy faced her impassively, and she sensed he had given her as much information as she was going to get. She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, making a decision.
"One – two – three – "
A fiery, spectacular snake-like form erupted from his wand, sliding towards her. Expecting it, she parried with an equally graceful aguamenti, noting with admiration the beauty of their clashing spells.
Something else invaded her mind – a gust of wind coming her way, presumably mean to push her off balance. It made sense, she thought. Malfoy was using a variety of elemental combinations. And strangely, he was preempting them by revealing them to her.
She saw it before the spell left his wand and had the time to conjure a powerful protego, an invisible shield deflecting his spell. When his own wind spell rebounded he dissipated it quickly, anticipating its return. She felt herself smile as she took stock of the buzz of whispers around them; she and Malfoy were putting on quite a show, effortlessly countering the other, move by move. Not every spell he used was meant to truly disarm her – at one point he sent green sparks in her direction, just so that she could respond with her own glow of red. Each time, she saw his impending spell materialize in her mind, providing her with ample ammunition. She began to grow comfortable, falling into a pattern that gave her an unexpected sense of calm.
He looked so relaxed; his every move was effortless, stylized, and graceful. His face never betrayed an ounce of emotion but she knew him well enough to know he was enjoying himself, finding in her the perfect opponent for the kind of elegant spell work she'd come to expect from him. She was happy too, in the moment, hearing the murmurs of admiration coming from the crowd around them.
She turned his battalion of conjured birds into a small hurricane, directing it toward him, blinking as the latest image materialized in her mind. He would be using a shield spell – that's easy enough, she thought. It would give her the upper hand, allowing her the next move.
She straightened, pausing to wait for his rebuttal. The timing would be simple – her charmed hurricane would reach him, he would respond with the protego, she could – oh, what did she have left in her arsenal –
Her musings were abruptly cut short as her wand ripped itself from her hand, her ears ringing as the Slytherins jumped out of their seats, cheering loudly. She blinked rapidly, utterly bewildered. What happened?
He was holding her wand out to her, but she barely registered his voice. "Granger," he said evenly. "You seem to have misplaced something."
She snatched it back from him, backing away. She watched as her portrait disappeared from the tournament banner, her mind still foggy and uncertain.
"Very well fought, Miss Granger," she heard Professor McGonagall say. Her voice seemed very far away. "A very close match – "
"No," she said suddenly, realizing what had happened. "No, it wasn't – "
McGonagall looked taken aback. "But it was, my dear – "
Hermione saw Malfoy's tall, pale form slip into the hall, away from the clamoring members of his house. She rushed after him, ignoring McGonagall's protestations. The Hall was so full of students boisterously voicing their opinion on the duel that she didn't have to attempt any concealment in order to get away. Nobody was looking at her.
He was walking briskly, his shoes tapping purposefully on the stone cobbles that lead to the courtyard. He must have heard her hurrying after him, but he gave no indication. It was only after they'd exited the castle that she finally saw fit to call out to him, tired of the chase.
"Malfoy!"
He stopped, turning to face her. "Granger," he said, clenching his fists as though anticipating an explosion.
"You planned that, didn't you?" she demanded. "That last one – that was legilimency, like you did to Blaise – and Cho – "
He had the decency to look a little bit nervous, but lifted his chin defiantly. "It was a duel, Granger," he said stiffly. "Eventually someone had to win."
"But you – "
He sighed in frustration. "Look, Granger, I'm sorry that I – I'm sorry about what I did," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "You're a better wizard, and by all accounts you could have won." He paused, biting his lip as he struggled to find the words to explain himself. "But dueling is about knowing your opponent. Knowing their weaknesses."
"I know that," she snapped angrily. She waited for his response, but he merely watched her. "Well?" she demanded, stomping her foot. "What's mine?"
"You trust me," he said simply.
For a moment, she was floored. "That's a weakness?"
He shrugged. "Isn't it?"
Evidently. She shifted her weight uncomfortably, avoiding the question.
"I did what was necessary, Granger," he said, still somewhat defensive.
"You fed me your spells," she said, prodding him. "Why? Why not just beat me outright?"
"What fun would that be?" he asked tersely.
She didn't know what to make of him at the moment. On the one hand, he couldn't have let her win – he wouldn't have. That would have been the very thing he told her not to do with Ron. Could he have beaten her without manipulating her? Maybe not, she thought, giving herself the benefit of the doubt.
"Are you angry?" he asked uncertainly, peering into her eyes.
She paused before answering.
"Well?" he asked, prodding her.
"I'm thinking," she said, pursing her lips.
Was she angry? She didn't like being beaten, and she didn't like that he'd tricked her. But it was only a duel, and he seemed sincere – and as he said, someone had to win.
She wished, for a moment, that she had what he had – that raw, killer instinct, to take the weakness of her opponent and turn it into her strength. He certainly is dangerous, she thought, filing that observation away. Better to be on his team, then.
"No," she said finally. "My pride's a bit bruised, though."
"Well, that's not so bad," he said, a tremor of tenderness in his voice. "Bruises heal."
She nodded, stepping towards him. "Don't do it again, though," she cautioned, pointing a finger at him menacingly. "I don't much enjoy the feeling of being deceived," she added, poking her finger into his chest, "And particularly not by you."
He sighed shakily and she sensed relief in his tone. "I won't," he said, a glimmer of sincerity in his eyes. "I promise. I won't use legilimency on you again."
She nodded, her initial anger assuaged. She placed her hands on his hips, holding him experimentally, and looked at him meaningfully.
"To the victor go the spoils," she said, tilting her face toward his. He glanced around and then dipped his head to brush her lips with his. She sighed, smiling.
"You know," she said, trying to maintain an air of breezy confidence, "We could always duck into that first floor classroom – we have a few minutes before dinner, nobody would notice – "
He laughed, cupping her chin. "No, Granger," he said, kissing her again.
"No?" she repeated numbly, looking at him.
"I don't want a hurried fifteen minutes, Granger," he clarified, voice husky. "I want to own every inch of you, and I plan to take my time doing it."
. . . . . . . . .
In the end, Draco met her in the prefects bathroom late that night. His thoughts were consumed by her, rendering him useless even as Theo and the other Slytherins clapped him on the back during dinner. Even Professor McGonagall had something to say – "The best duel we've seen in years, Mr. Malfoy, truly a thing of beauty" – but he was impatient to be with Granger, to hold her and be held, a simple pleasure he could not remember having wanted before.
Did it matter that his next match would be with Potter? Certainly not. He'd defeated the "brightest witch of her age," and what was the so-called Chosen One compared to that?
He was exuberant with relief when she had not angrily rejected him, as he had feared she might. He was actually surprised at how quickly she accepted his explanation – though he had been sincere when he promised not to deceive her again – and had marveled inwardly at how easy it was to be honest with her. To simply ask her forgiveness, and more remarkably, to receive it. He was beginning to wonder if he was having an effect on her infamous moral compass, drawing her into the murky waters of what was and was not fair game.
All is fair in love and war – but this, of course, was neither.
Probably.
They met in the bathrooms by chance, though he would gladly have sought her out intentionally. They'd been alone, both returning to their dorms late in the evening and both choosing an opportune time to bathe. He'd held out his hand to her wordlessly and she'd taken it, kissing him fiercely as they stumbled into the shower, concealing themselves magically behind the opaque shower doors. He'd worshipped her skin with his lips, licked falling water droplets off of her as she moaned at his touch, pressed her back to the cold tile as he thrusted upwards, and held her shakily as they came, her hands gripping his hair.
And then, not wanting to be alone, he'd taken her to his room, his pristine sanctuary, where he lounged across his bed and watched as she took stock of his things. Her hair was still wet and her skin maintained a sort of dewy quality, golden and glowy in the soft light of his room. If he hadn't spent all night with her, he'd have thought she'd used a beauty charm. It seemed inhuman, for her to look so blissfully perfect.
"So many books," she remarked, fingering the spines of the leatherbound covers.
"I read," he said simply.
She picked up one of the books, gently stroking the cover. "King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table," she read, tilting her head with interest. "This is a first edition, isn't it?"
He shrugged. "Benefit of being – what was it? – ah. Wizard royalty," he replied airily.
She sat on the bed next to him, her eyes still wandering around the room. "You don't have much in here," she commented.
"I don't like clutter."
"No," she agreed. "You don't seem like you would."
He picked up her hand, kissing her fingers. "You don't have much in your room, either," he pointed out.
"No," she said, "But I do keep pictures around." She glanced around again, running her hand across his duvet. "Emerald green bedding, of course – "
" – of course – "
" – but other than the books – "
"I have a calendar too," he said. "Don't forget that."
She laughed playfully, curling into a ball next to him. "Right."
He reached out and touched her cheek. "I'm glad you're not too upset with me," he said, venturing a return to their earlier subject.
"Honestly, I think it would be a waste of my time," she said, stretching out beside him and facing him. "I don't seem to have very much control when it comes to you."
"I know the feeling," he said wistfully, watching the warm, golden flecks in her wide brown eyes.
"Just don't do it again," she reminded him, and he opened his mouth to argue.
"I already told you – "
"Don't lie to me, in general," she said, closing her eyes. "I don't appreciate liars."
"I don't know if you should want anything to do with me, then," he said truthfully, retracting his hand.
She opened her eyes and looked at him curiously for a long time before she spoke. "Malfoy, you should really tell me – "
He sighed dramatically, sitting upright. "Granger, trust me, we can't talk about this – or anything really," he said with frustration. He leaned towards her, pulling her face to his to kiss her again. "We don't really need to talk – "
"Stop it," she said, the kindness in her voice belying the severity of her intent. "You have to tell me, Malfoy," she said softly. "You have to let someone in – "
"I don't," he said indignantly. "I'm fine, Granger, I don't need you to save me."
"Malfoy," she said suddenly. "Remember what you said, about knowing your opponent's weaknesses?"
"Yes," he said warily.
"You're letting this destroy you," she said simply. "That's your weakness. You're crumbling from the inside."
"Crumbling?" he winced. "What a terribly emasculating choice of words, Granger."
"It's true," she said ruefully. "Would I even be here, if I hadn't seen you at the moments you were falling apart? The memory from the dining room, the day in the bathroom, the nightmare – "
"I'm clear on the timeline, thanks," he said smoothly, cutting her off. "That's different."
"How?" she said, propping herself up to be at his eye level. "You let me in – "
"I haven't let you in," he said, shaking his head. "Obviously I haven't, or you wouldn't be having this conversation – "
"Well then tell me, Draco Malfoy," she said abruptly, "Who else can say they know your fear? Who else knows your heart?"
"My heart has nothing to do with it," he said without conviction.
"Here is what I know," she said, with the air of someone laying their cards on the table. "I know you are a Death Eater. I know you have been given a task."
She paused, eyeing him. He said nothing; it would be stupid to deny it, stupider still to confirm it.
"And," she said, leading up to a monumental reveal, "I know that you are worried about a vanishing cabinet."
He gaped at her. "I – what?"
"Don't ask me questions, give me answers," she urged. "I can help you."
"You can't help me, Granger!" he said, his temper rising. "You don't understand, you can't possibly know – "
"Whatever it is, Malfoy," she said desperately, "Whatever it is, please – trust me, let me help you – "
He threw himself onto his back, clapping his hands over his face. "I cannot do this again, Granger," he said, his voice muffled. "I can't keep doing this. I'm protecting you, don't you see that?"
She was silent. After a moment he removed his hands from his face, placing them rigidly at his side.
"This task you have," she said, "Is it very dangerous?"
He was careful not to let his face change. "Stop," he said simply, staring at the ceiling.
She eyed him as she gingerly bit her lip, thinking. "Obviously it's something you're doing against your will – which I assume means your life is at stake," she said, thinking out loud. He turned his head away, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of confirmation.
"You're worried he'll kill you if you don't do what he asks," she ventured, more of a statement than a question.
"Maybe we can hide you," she said suddenly. "Maybe the Order can protect you – nobody would connect you with me, You-Know-Who would never suspect – "
He laughed mirthlessly, finally facing her.
"And what about my family, Granger?" he asked pointedly. "I'm supposed to just leave them in his hands?"
"Maybe we can fake your death!" she said, reaching. "We could – "
"Or maybe I should just let him kill me," he said, voice even.
"You-Know-Who, you mean?" she asked, horrified.
"No," he replied, thinking again of the monumental unlikelihood of his success. He shook his head. "Never mind, Granger – just let it go."
There was a pause as they both considered the implications of his words. "Let you go, you mean?" she asked softly.
He suddenly felt very lost, very scared. "Maybe," he said.
He listened to the ticks of his clock as minutes passed in silence, him lying still on his bed and her looking at him, her head propped up on her arm. Eventually she shifted and he felt the absence of her weight beside him, closing his eyes as it occurred to him that she might be leaving.
Say something, he urged himself. Don't let her walk away. You'll never be the same. You'll never not want her.
Don't let her go.
He sat up quickly. "Granger – "
She was standing. Not headed toward the door – just standing.
"Which side of the bed do you sleep on?" she asked, clearly unaware of his torment. He looked at her quizzically. "Oh," she said, "don't worry. I'm not leaving."
She climbed into the bed and he followed, pulling her to him silently. "Good," he said, his voice muffled in her hair.
"Don't be an idiot, Malfoy," she whispered. "It's already much too late."
. . . . . . . . .
a/n: The next chapter is the one I've been dying to write – it ends part I of this story. Going to get it to you all in the next 24 hours.
By the way – thanks for the awesome chapter-by-chapter reviewing! I loved it. I love all the reviews, but that was a first!