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.