Her heart was beating harder than it had when he'd abruptly pinned her down.
“Try not to be dying in my presence and I won't feel like I have to. I don't want you training me when you're hurt. You already know that.” Her hand went up and closed around his wrist to still him. His eyes flicked up and met her own, and she studied him seriously. “Get a healer, Draco. A good one. Put them on retainer, and call them when you're hurt. Please. Please get a healer.”
He just stared at her, and it felt like her heart stalled from the intensity. Her pulse thrummed under his fingers and she watched as his pupils slowly expanded, swallowing the silver of his irises. The heat of his skin was bleeding into her, and she could feel his breath against her face.
His face drew infinitesimally closer. Her heart was beating so hard she wondered if he could hear it. Her breath caught, and her fingers tightened around his wrist. Everything was warm, and they were so close. He was so close.
He dipped his head lower, until their lips were almost touching. Then he laughed.
He jerked his hand free of hers and sat up. His expression was cold as ice, and he sneered down at her.
“Did you really think I'd kiss you?”
Hermione stared at him.
He tilted his head back and chuckled bitterly. “You know, it amazes me that someone like you has managed to stay friends with Potter and Weasley for so long.”
Hermione flinched. “Someone like me?”
He stared down at her and quirked an eyebrow, his expression was impassive, but she could see the resentment in his eyes. ”Someone with no lines they won't cross. With Potter and Weasley's righteousness, I would have expected it to end things for you by now.”
Hermione stared at him and her mouth twitched. She pressed her lips together hard. He smirked and cocked his head slightly. “What? Did you think I was referring to your blood?”
She dropped her eyes. Yes, she'd go with that. No good would come from admitting that he was right; her ruthlessness had essentially ended her friendship with Harry and Ron.
She sat up and reached back to adjust the pins holding her braids. “You were the first person who ever called me Mudblood.”
Draco shook his head in faint disbelief. “Surely you at least know this war isn't about blood purity.”
“I know that it isn't.” She jutted her chin up. “But most of the Wizarding world doesn't appear to have noticed that.”
He straightened his robes and shrugged. His mask was dropped back into place; his expression was indolent and aristocratic. Hermione stared at him, trying to absorb the profound contradiction that was Draco Malfoy. Assassin. Order Spy. Pureblood heir. Muggle philosophy and history hobbyist. Death Eater General.
The more she knew of him, the less she understood him.
He leaned against the headboard of the bed and eyed her. “War requires easy extremes. Otherness. When I say my name is Malfoy, I immediately contextualise myself within history. The Malfoy name has nearly a thousand years of traceable history in England. People know who my parents are, my grandparents, and my great-grandparents. We have entire history books and hallways of sentient portraits to carry and maintain the legacy. But you — your family history is as muddied as a creekbed. No one knows who your parents are or what kinds of genetic disease you may carry or what your magical potential may or may not be.”
He tilted his head to the side and ran his eyes over her from head to toe as though he were appraising a horse.
“It's easy to be suspicious of people those you know nothing about. When something is frightening it's easy to hate. Muggle-borns with odd clothing, and electricity, and rumors of your strange weapons. Your parents are the reason the Wizarding world has been forced to live in the shadows of secrecy for hundreds of years. Yet the moment a Muggle shows a hint of magic ability, we're expected to welcome them into our world so they can violate our traditions and steal our jobs.”
Hermione snorted and turned herself so that they were closer to each other once again. Draco's eyes widened for a moment before he stifled his surprise. Hermione closed the space between them and stared up at him.
“Is that why you hated me in school, Draco, because I was going to steal your job?”
Chapter End Notes
Illustrations by Avendell, follow her on tumblr and instagram.
Flashback 20
December 2002
Draco quirked an eyebrow as he met her eyes.
“You stole my class ranking, which was worse. I'd been tutored at home, prepared my entire life for Hogwarts. My father had my life planned for me: top of my class, prefect, Quidditch captain, Head Boy, internship at the Ministry of Magic, and eventually a member of the Wizengamot and then Minister of Magic. The ministry career he lost due to his participation in the first Wizarding war; I was supposed to do it all. But then, first year of school and an inferior little Mudblood girl managed to exceed my marks in every class.”
He reached out and laid his hand across her throat. Hermione's breath caught slightly, and he tightened his hold, just enough to draw her face closer to his.
Draco's eyes glittered, and his tone was almost light, as though he were daring her to flinch. “I have to admit, I really hoped you'd die during second year when the Chamber of Secrets was opened. I did actually earn my place on the Slytherin Quidditch team before my father bought brooms for the team, but thanks to your little comment the whole school assumed my father just bought my spot.” As he spoke, he slid his thumb up her throat to her jaw and then pushed against the bone to force her head back.
He was trying to force her to flinch. Hermione kept meeting his eyes. They were darkening.
The room felt warmer.
He kept talking.
“It was easy to believe that Muggles and their spawn were responsible for the problems in the world. It certainly felt that way in my life. Between half-blood Potter, whose life was an endless stream of dumb-luck and favouritism, and you, and then the impoverished Weasleys being exhibit A for what happens to blood-traitors. There wasn't any reason not to believe the Wizarding world wouldn't be a better place without you and your ilk.”
“I didn't realise you thought about me that much,” Hermione said.
She could feel heat slowly radiating through her body, spreading outward from his hand, but also between her shoulders, across her skin and unfurling somewhere in her lower abdomen. She shivered faintly as she kept meeting his eyes.
His mouth twitched. “My hatred of you paled in comparison to my rivalry with Potter. You were an irritant. Despite your grades at least you were ugly, socially awkward and obviously insecure.” His lips curled into a faint smirk. “Beating me academically wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't been friends with Potter. He dragged you into the spotlight and needed you enough that he couldn't deny it. If Potter hadn't mattered, you wouldn't have either.”
Hermione felt something in her stomach suddenly drop, thinking back to the initial suspicion she'd had; that demanding her was some kind of revenge or retaliation against Harry. She'd almost forgotten about that fear.
He smiled and leaned forward so that he was looming over her as he continued to hold her by the throat and stare down at her face. Their bodies were almost touching, and she felt a renewed awareness of how much bigger he was, how much he could hurt her if he wanted to. That she was trying to break inside a sealed vault, and she didn't know if there was anything but rage on the other side.