Hermione bit her lip, went over to her satchel and withdrew an envelope. She gripped it nervously in her hands as she turned to face him.
“Moody said to give you this,” she said, glancing down at the floor. It appeared to have been carefully scrubbed.
She looked up in time to see his expression flicker.
“Of course, my orders for the week.” His mouth twisted briefly as he jerked it from her fingers.
She accepted the scroll in his hand and then stood hesitating. “Draco…”
“Run along home now, Granger. I have work to do.” His tone was cold. He turned away from her and ripped open the envelope.
Hermione stood for another minute, studying his back. He didn't look back at her. He disappeared without a sound.
The next week, he still wouldn't meet her eyes. He barely spoke to her. He'd train her for exactly two hours a week, hand over his intelligence reports, take his orders from Moody, and leave.
But he was alive; she got to see him and know he was still alive.
However, being alive did not appear to be something he cared about. He just looked tired. The rage around him felt smothered. He appeared to be existing out of sheer obligation.
After three weeks, she caught him by the wrist as he was accepting the envelope in her hand. “Draco, please — look at me,” she said, her voice pleading.
He jerked his hand away and looked up at her. His face and eyes were cold. “Is all this not enough for you, Granger? Is there something else you want?”
“No. I just — I'm sorry.”
He sneered. “Perhaps someday when I have time I can make a list for you of all the things that apologies don't fix.”
Hermione's hand dropped. “Draco, I—“
He was gone.
She returned to Grimmauld Place. Her chest felt hollow.
Everything felt void.
She wanted to get rid of her books, her journals, everything related to Draco. It felt vindictive and cruel to have a notebook with neat bullet points:
— Sensitive hands — cruciatus treatment useful context for physical contact
— Shoulders and neck
— Scars — very responsive
— Lower jaw near ears
— Cheekbones
As well as notes for herself:
— Definite interest in hair
— Loosen braids after foraging, pull a few curls free
— Wrists easy contact — find context for pulling up sleeves
— Likes neck/throat. Possessive trait?
— Wear collared shirts partly unbuttoned or v-necks. Borrow Ginny's blue boatneck shirt.
All the psychology books. The books on emotional trauma. On attachment disorders. On body language and involuntary physical cues. She wanted to burn it all.
She went up to her shared room with Ginny. Harry was currently on a mission in Scotland. The Order was trying to find a way to break into Hogwarts. It was the only place they were almost certain there was a horcrux to be found, but the castle was impenetrable. The Death Eaters were thorough when the prison was set up.
Hogsmeade had been nearly razed in the early years of the war. There was no Shrieking Shack tunnel or tunnel via the hump on Gunhilda de Gorsemoor. The Order kept trying to find a way past the wards without success. It was Harry's third mission there. Harry, Ron, Terry Boot, and Zacharias Smith had been sent.
Harry hadn't spoken to Hermione since Christmas.
She cast the unlocking charms on her bedroom door and pushed it open. As she walked in, she heard a quick gasp.
Ginny was huddled next to her bed quietly sobbing. She turned sharply when Hermione entered the room. Ginny's expression as she turned and caught sight of Hermione was anguished; her chest was stuttering sharply as she gasped rapidly through her open mouth. Even her red hair was wet with tears.
“Ginny,” Hermione said. “Ginny, what's wrong? What happened?”
“I don't know—,” Ginny forced the words out and then started crying harder.
Hermione knelt down next to her friend and hugged her.
“Oh god, Hermione—,” Ginny gasped. “I don't know how—”
Ginny broke off as she struggled to breathe. Choked hiccoughing sounds emerged from deep in her throat as she fought against her spasming lungs.
“It's alright. Breathe. You need to breathe. Tell me what's wrong and I'll help you,” Hermione promised as she ran her hands up and down Ginny's shoulders. “Just breathe. In to a count of four. Hold it. Then out through your nose for a count of six. We'll build up to that. I'll breathe with you. Alright? Come on, breathe with me. I've got you.”
Ginny just cried harder.
“It's alright,” Hermione kept saying as she started taking deep demonstrative breaths for Ginny to follow. She held Ginny tightly in her arms so that she'd feel Hermione's chest expanding and contracting slowly as a subconscious cue.
Ginny kept crying for several more minutes before her sobs slowed and her breathing slowly began mirroring Hermione's.
“Do you want to tell me what's wrong, or would you rather I go get someone else?” Hermione asked when she was sure Ginny was not going to keep hyperventilating.
“No — you can't—,” Ginny gripped Hermione's shirt roughly to stop her. “Oh god! I don't—”
Ginny started sobbing into Hermione's shoulder again.
“I didn't mean to—,” Ginny sobbed, “I didn't mean to. I don't know what to do.”
“Ginny, what's wrong?” Hermione was growing cold with dread. What had possibly happened to make Ginny cry so much?
Ginny was silent for several seconds. Then she drew a deep breath and held it for a moment. “I'm pregnant.”
Ginny burst into tears again.
Hermione jerked back and stared at Ginny in horror. She felt as though she'd been violently punched in the chest.
“How? D-did the contraceptive potion not work?” Hermione felt on the verge of a panic attack of her own. Oh god.
If the contraceptive potion had failed—
If Hermione were pregnant — she'd have to abort it. She couldn't be pregnant during a war. It was not worth the risk. Pregnancy would cause her magic to destabilise. She regularly used certain spells countering curses that were in the darker shades of grey. It was cumulative, and the exposure could result in foetal abnormalities. It might have already — if she were pregnant. Now that Padma had mostly replaced her, developing counter-curses was one of the most vital things that Hermione did in the hospital wing.
If Draco found out that she'd seduced him when she was fertile, he'd probably think she did it on purpose. He'd — he'd—
He'd hate her forever.
Even more than he already did.
The tips of Hermione's fingers were beginning to tingle as though there were needles pricking them.
Ginny's expression furrowed. She stared at Hermione's frozen expression as she smeared her tears away with the back of her hands. “No. I didn't — I was only taking it when Harry was here. Because of the taste, you know. But last month when I was in Ireland and he and Ron showed up at the safe house, I didn't have the potion with me. I thought, it was just once, the charm should be enough.”
Ginny sniffled and buried her face in her hands.
Hermione nearly collapsed with relief. There wasn't anything wrong with her contraceptive potions.
Hermione shoved the line of thought away and slammed her occlumency walls in place, forcing herself to focus on Ginny. She hugged Ginny reassuringly and pressed a kiss in her hair.
“It's alright. It will only take me a few days to get the ingredients to make an abortifacient.”
“I can't,” Ginny choked out the words and started crying again.
Hermione's hands on Ginny's shoulders tightened as she stared at her. She drew a quick breath. “You want to keep it.”
Ginny nodded, sniffling. “I have to. Harry — all he talks about is having a family. How after the war we're going to have children. Boys named James, Sirius, or Colin, or girls named Lily and Luna. That's — that's — everything he dreams of. If I got an abortion — it would break his heart. He'd say it was fine, but he'd be devastated. To him it would mean I didn't think he could win. And I can't keep something like that a secret my whole life. Knowing he'd be broken-hearted if he knew and just pretending.”