15

Chapter Fifteen

Thursday 27 February 2003: AM

The untied peacock-blue woollen robe flaps briskly about Draco's bare calves as he hustles down the stairs, the sash trailing behind him like a tail. He'd awoken from a dreamless, recuperative slumber a few minutes ago, yawning and stretching comfortably until he'd caught sight of the white gauze sheathing his left forearm.

The humiliating events in the wee hours of the previous night had deluged his consciousness like a savage summer hailstorm. The heinous nightmare; waking up bloodied and disoriented; Hermione refusing to heed his mandate to leave. Her skilled, pragmatic handling of his self-inflicted abrasions; the soothing comfort and healing pleasure Hermione had generously gifted with her willing, warm, beautiful body.

The memory of their tranquil, beatific coupling had triggered Draco to instinctively reach out to touch her again – but her side of the bed had been empty and cold. He'd roughly scrubbed at his face with both hands, trying to dispel the disquieting notion that Granger should be next to him when he woke up. Or that the far side of the big bed rightly belongs to her now.

Draco had blamed that mawkish reaction on residual nightmare hangover; it hadn't stopped him from bolting up to don his fitted boxer shorts and robe and departing the bedroom in search of Hermione. On the double.

Stepping off the final stair, Draco bypasses the alluring smell of freshly-brewed coffee coming from his kitchen and instead turns to the right to enter the lounge room.

He studiously ignores the sense of relief he feels when he spots Hermione sitting cross-legged in front of his wall of bookshelves, a dozen or so tomes stacked neatly beside her. She is engrossed in leafing through a thick paperback and doesn't react to his entrance.

Lost to the world, as usual. Typical of the brainy little bookworm. Draco is unaware of the indulgent smile wreathing his face as he watches Granger from the doorway. It is only when he advances to within a few feet of her position that Hermione jolts and swivels to face him.

"Oh! Um, good morning," she skates her free hand across the rumpled skirt of her teal satin wrap-around dress, pushing it down over her knees, faint colour staining her high cheekbones. "I'll put these back – I was just having a quick peek –"

"Relax, Granger – I'm not Madam Pince, hounding you out of the library on the dot of eight o'clock," Draco interrupts, lithely sinking onto the floor to sit tailor-style, mirroring Hermione's pose. "Take as many books as you'd like."

"Oh, no… I was just looking," Hermione demurs confusedly; but she casts a covetous glance at the tidy pile beside her and worshipfully traces the spine of the book in her lap.

"Which do you have there?" Draco leans forward to identify the title. "'The Earthsea Quartet'? Of course. Magic, danger and adventures galore… that could be your motto, Granger," he teases lightly.

"Don't forget the dragons," Hermione ripostes in return, a small smile playing around the corners of her cherry-pink mouth. Her earlier shyness has dissipated, replaced by a familiar air of bookish zeal. "Le Guin is all about the dragons… Draco," she smiles at her goofy pun.

Hearing his Christian name fall from Hermione's lips (for the first time ever?) knocks Draco about like a mid-air blow from a Bludger. He experiences the same sensation of runaway dizziness, as though he's lost control of his broomstick and is falling from a great height; he sucks down a deep breath and constricts his hands into fists as he strives to recover his composure.

It's weird, that's all. Discordant with our long-established routine of trading caustic snarks. Of course it's jarring to hear her call me 'Draco'. An aberration that won't be repeated, he assures himself.

Fortunately, Granger hasn't witnessed any of Draco's odd turmoil; her attention is concentrated on the four-part paperback in her hands. She flips it open to the page her index finger has been marking.

"I read 'Tehanu' just before I went away to Hogwarts for First Year," Hermione remarks. "I was enthralled with this particular passage –" she hesitates, peering at Draco from beneath her long lashes. "Never mind," she closes the book with a soft thud.

"Read it out – I'd like to hear it," Draco encourages. "Please." He unfurls his hands against his folded knees.

Hermione shrugs uncertainly but reopens the novel at Draco's nod. He keeps his pewter orbs focused on her bonny face as she begins to read aloud. Her recital is melodious, clear, and captivating.

"'I go back into the dark! Before the moon I was. No one knows, no one can say what I am, what a woman is, a woman of power, a woman's power, deeper than the roots of trees, deeper than the roots of islands, older than the Making, older than the moon. Who dares ask questions of the dark? Who'll ask the dark its name?'". Her voice catches a little on the last sentence; she keeps her gaze on the printed page, as still as a mouse.

Melancholy eddies around them. Hermione forces out a self-deprecating laugh.

"Just a silly little kid, determined to stare into the dark and ask its name." She sits the book atop the stack.

"Le Guin is considered anti-feminist by many," she muses, sinking an incisor into her lower lip. "Strictly gendered; female magic doled out as leftovers. But I always feel empowered when I read her works." She shrugs again, countenance brightening and shoulders straightening.

Hermione smiles affably at Draco, cocking her head to the side. "How are you feeling, Malfoy? After… last night?" she adds, her attention shifting to his bandaged arm.

"I'm well," Draco replies. "Thank you. For helping me. With - the scratches."

He adds woodenly, "It was kind of you. But you should have left when I told you to go."

Hermione bluntly dismisses his remonstration. "Pfft. Like I've ever obeyed your commands," she scoffs.

You do in bed. Draco refrains from voicing the retort; his knowing smirk is enough as Hermione reddens.

"I realized this morning that I should have used 'Episkey' on your wounds," Hermione gabbles the words in a rush. "I wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe I'm more Muggle than I give credit for."

"No, you were right to use the first aid kit. Spells don't work on – on the Mark," Draco divulges bitterly. "And no matter what I do to it… it always heals perfectly. 'Like magic', I suppose you could say," he mocks with a harsh grimace.

"No matter what you do to it?" Hermione echoes, frowning mightily. "What have you done, Malfoy?". She crosses her arms over her chest and trains a disapproving, judgmental glare at him.

"What haven't I done? It's impervious to counter-spells, healing potions, topical poisons, blades, fire, and ice," Draco sharply snaps back. "I drew the line at acid and amputation." He comprehends that he's said too much when Hermione's expression shifts from critical to appalled.

"Don't look at me like that, Granger – and for Salazar's sake, don't start bloody crying!". The woeful, empathetic sadness suffusing Hermione's face has Draco feeling as guilty as if he'd just kicked a kitten.

"You wanted to cut off your own arm?" Hermione shakily whispers. She turns her head to furtively swipe beneath her eyes and swallows a telling sniff.

"Not seriously. I'd rather have a repulsively defaced arm than not," Draco gentles his tone, fiercely regretting his confession.

"It's not repulsive! Or defaced!" Hermione hotly defends. "No more than my 'Mudblood' scar is… Or do you think it is a hideous mutilation, too?". She hugs her arms about her torso tightly and hunches her shoulders.

"No! Of course not! That's – that's completely different," Draco bellows. "I chose to accept this revolting brand, Granger – you were assaulted and victimized by my demonically insane aunt."

"You were just a boy – what choice did you really have?" Hermione argues.

Shaking his head obdurately, Draco rebuts, "I was sixteen – old enough to make my own decisions."

He scowls in frustration. "Let this drop, Granger. I really don't want to waste words on the rotten thing any longer."

Hermione nods, refusing to meet his perturbed gaze.

"My scar… I can't heal it, either," she timorously owns. "Not that I've tried – um, your methods; but glamours and potions don't make one whit of difference to its appearance. I used to spend a small fortune on Muggle make-up."

She raises her head defiantly. Tiny droplets gloss the lashes bordering her tempestuous carob-coloured eyes.

"But then I thought – this isn't my shame. Now I treat it like a battle scar. Plus I rub Vitamin E cream into it every day and tell myself it's fading," Hermione lampoons with a weak chuckle.

Draco capitulates to the compulsion to reach out, clasping Hermione's little hands. He circles his thumbs across her palms and softly imprints his lips on her forehead. He cannot speak over the lump in his throat; her unflagging, optimistic bravery is profoundly humbling.

Hermione is the first to pull away; she kneels before the book pile, glancing shyly at Draco.

"I should leave for work soon – I'll just put these back," she points to the collection of volumes.

Standing upright, Draco helps the surprised witch to her feet.

"Don't worry about that. Granger – I have to tell you something. And you're not going to like it," Draco warns, leading her around the back of the three-seater blue couch and guiding her to sit down upon it. He doesn't provide Hermione the opportunity to protest his high-handedness as he snugs in beside her and retains his hold on her right hand.

Best to ensure she isn't able to tear off in a righteous fury when I tell her about the predicament caused by Zabini's meddling, Draco reasons.

Apprehension writ across her features, Hermione stammers, "What is it, Malfoy? Are we – are we finished? Our… our 'arrangement'?". She attempts to yank her hand away but is unable to break Draco's infrangible hold.

"No! Sit still and just listen… please," Draco tacks on clumsily, cursing himself for not telling Hermione about the confounded ultimatum last night.

I didn't want to ruin the evening. So I'll ruin the morning instead. Brilliant. Draco takes a moment to frame his explanation.

"Granger… I have an appointment to see Potter at the Ministry, early tomorrow. I'm going to tell him about the roofie potion, and the danger you're presently facing," Draco tells her in measured tones.

"Wait – let me explain," he forestalls her impending objection. "I asked Blaise Zabini to discreetly ask around about any incidents similar to your own; but the presumptuous fool took it upon himself to go directly to the Ministry's star Auror and promised my witness testimony in return for pertinent information," Draco spits out churlishly.

"You told Blaise Zabini what happened to me? He's a worse gossipmonger than Rita Skeeter!" Hermione's voice is laced with hurt at the perceived betrayal of her confidence.

"I certainly did not – I told Blaise and Theo Nott a very brief summary of your drugging. I never mentioned your name, Granger. Neither of them know that you are involved, and I intend to keep it that way," Draco pacifies the upset woman tucked into his side.

"I know you didn't wish to involve the Ministry. But in light of the information Blaise traded – we must tell Potter. You're not safe. It's not the first time these swine have struck: they are mobilized, cunning, and insidiously dangerous. And viciously, irredeemably evil."

"What… what aren't you saying, Malfoy?" Hermione's face blanches as she searches Draco's bleak face. He grips her hand a little tighter in silent support and concisely apprises her of the assailants' 'practice runs' and the concomitant Auror investigation.

Draco maintains a static pitch and pace until the time comes to impart that the would-be kidnappers and rapists likely meant to forcibly impregnate their victims; he briefly debates withholding that final foul detail. But no: Hermione expects and deserves the truth, however repugnant it is.

"They intended to keep the French witch captive as a breed-slave, Granger," Draco reluctantly communicates. He grits his teeth as he watches Hermione's face slacken in shock.

Forcing himself to continue, Draco expounds, "They told her that her children 'would carry on the great glory of the Dark Lord's legacy'."

"These perverted, scurrilous, filthy scum should be drawn and quartered – and their tattered remains fed to sharks!" Draco has trouble containing his savage thirst for the as-yet-nameless criminals' demise. Occlumency defences be damned. He draws his other arm protectively around Hermione as she shudders in delayed reaction to his bleak news.

"Hey, hey, it's going to be alright, Granger. We won't let anything happen to you. Shh, ma petite. Take a moment."

Draco rocks her against his chest, disturbed by how passive and limp Hermione feels in his arms. Her state of inertia is worryingly irreconcilable with her usual energetic, proactive response to dangerous drama.

"I'll handle Potter, don't worry," Draco promises, carefully tipping Hermione's chin, urging her to meet his gaze again. Her complexion is wan and waxy with distress.

Hermione's eyes are dry and stark as she tonelessly decides, "I'll tell Harry myself – you don't have to be there. This isn't your problem, Malfoy. I can handle it from here."

"You are not going in without me," Draco instantly vetoes that daft idea. "I won't countenance any argument over this, understand?".

Hermione refuses to answer; she glares mutinously at Draco and stiffens in his arms.

"Be reasonable, Granger – Potter is expecting the 'mystery witness' to show, and he won't be satisfied with any redacted version of events that you're planning on reciting. Best to be candid and disclose all, including my involvement," Draco rationalizes.

"Should we tell Harry that we're having sex, too?" Hermione snipes as she attempts to wriggle away. "Or are you reserving that juicy tidbit for some time down the track? Like Christmas?".

She succeeds in standing up; her barbed query has staggered Draco into loosening his embrace. He is spurred into speech when he spies Hermione fetching her work satchel and black greatcoat from the cherrywood coffee table. She puts on both with jerky movements, staying Draco with a curt hand gesture as he gets up to aid her.

"By all means, inform Potter," Draco enounces cuttingly. "I do hope you know the counter-spell for 'Sectumsempra'; I ask for purely selfish reasons, you understand."

His words have the desired effect: Hermione ceases fiddling with the adjustment strap of her satchel to furiously upbraid, "Harry would never do that again! He's been riddled with guilt ever since!"

"Yes, well, I'd rather not risk a repeat performance of bleeding to death on the floor – so let's skip the full reveal tomorrow, if it's all the same to you."

Her fierce loyalty to Potter is as irksome as ever. Draco experiences an uneasy mix of admiration and resentment.

"It's none of his business, in any case." Draco risks standing closer to Hermione; at least the angry witch doesn't have her wand at the ready.

"My appointment with Potter is scheduled for half eight tomorrow morning – will you meet me there?". He raises his left hand to skim her velvety cheek, sighing at her intractability.

"Please, Granger." Hermione doesn't resist as Draco glides his fingertips down her face, stopping their descent at the jittery pulse of her carotid artery. He tenderly strokes the rapid beat twice before letting his left arm fall back to his side.

Her long eyelashes flurry against her petal-soft skin as Hermione choppily exhales.

"I wish you wouldn't touch me while we're arguing, Malfoy. It's unsporting." Hermione's words are scarcely audible; Draco isn't certain that she meant to express them aloud.

She clears her throat. "Very well. We'll see Harry together. But I shall be the one to tell him what happened to me… and 'I won't countenance any argument over this, understand?'" Hermione flings Draco's earlier decree back at him, aping his autocratic tones with startling precision.

Hermione's unerring mimicry generates a begrudging guffaw from Draco, and the rampant tension is broken. Hermione's lips compress as she smothers a small smile of triumph.

"I'd best be on my way – nose to the grindstone and all that," Hermione shifts toward the fireplace.

"Have you had breakfast? You should have something to eat before you leave," Draco settles his hand on her hip.

"I helped myself to some toast, and coffee – I left you half the cafetière, but it's probably cold as charity by now," Hermione confesses.

"And I used the en suite bathroom in the other upstairs bedroom to shower, earlier. I didn't want to wake you. Sorry." She fiddles with her cross-body satchel strap again.

"No need to apologize. Use whatever you wish. Let me know if there's anything else you require while you're here and I will procure it." Draco clamps his lips shut to halt the spill of eager offers.

Why am I gushing like a busted tap? Pipe down, duffer.

"Um, OK. No, I'm fine. Thanks." Hermione is side-eyeing him as though he's sprouted angel wings. She shuffles closer to the hearth.

"Be safe, Granger." Draco jams his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Until tomorrow," Hermione rejoins. Her luminous caramel eyes catch his; all of a sudden, she hurtles back to where Draco stands and angles up to crash her warm lips onto his in a burst of heat and hunger.

Busy little hands steal beneath the loose lapels of the blue gown as Hermione charts the contours of Draco's muscular bare torso. He groans into her ardent mouth: set aflame and aching to reciprocate her caresses.

But Hermione terminates the sultry kiss as swiftly as she'd initiated it; she races back to the lit fireplace, hastily snatching and dispersing a handful of Floo powder before ducking beneath the mantle. The flames convert to green as she enunciates, "The Ministry of Magic" and is whirled away.

Draco touches his tingling mouth. Its restive throbbing is emulated by his (now) wide-awake loins. He stares at the vacant ingle, flummoxed.

Damned if I know what that kiss meant… but I definitely didn't want it to end.