With Closed Eyes

Title: With Closed Eyes
Author: cherryghostzero
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none whatsoever (aka-READ IT!)
Summary: After the War, Draco and Hermione find themselves in places they don't want to be. The only open option is to deal with the cards you've been given and seek for comfort in unlikely places.


Challenge
Quote: "Mend it, you pointless lump!" HBP pg. 205


Theme: In the muggle world


Magical Item: Cauldron


Author Notes:Flames will be graciously accepted. Yes, I am that desperate for reviews





With Closed Eyes



Hermione stared at the fire, the orange flames dancing in her eyes.

She wrapped her arms around her legs, firmly wedging her head between her knees. She absentmindedly petted Crookshanks, who was rubbing up against her leg in an affectionate way, purring in that deep, guttural sound cats always do when they wanted to be loved on. She was momentarily pulled out of her trance, probably by the volume of Crookshanks’s purrs, and looked at the clock, illuminated by the dancing firelight. It was one thirty in the morning, which means she had been absentmindedly staring at the fire for going on two hours. The room was scorching.

She sighed heavily and bent over her now crossed legs, reaching for a large black leather bound book. This was always an ideal way to pass the time, especially on the days when she felt like this.

It landed with a thump on her lap, Photo Album written in elegant silver stenciling. She opened the first page, as the memories of good times began to flood back, bringing a smile to her face that was rarely seen these days. The first page was always her favorite, a sort of introduction into the entire book, as well as her life. It was a large picture taken during their third year at Hogwarts- when things had been much simpler. Three friends stood before a green hilly pasture, the sun shining brightly behind them. Written below were three words that seemed to stare back at her with a false sense of happiness:

Best Friends Forever.

The rest of the photo album was pretty much up to standard; predictable to be truthful. A picture of Harry hugging Ginny Weasley, a picture of Luna Lovegood looking dreamily into the clouds, a picture of Neville Longbottom with a fidgety smile...the usual pictures of friends that would reside in a photo album.

And then she came to that one. She stared at it for a long time, tears starting to well up in her eyes and shine in the dim light. With an angry, high pitched groan she slammed the book shut, the clap shaking the empty room with noise. She picked it up with one hand, balancing the weight with her palm, and made to chuck it into the fire. That is, before she came to her senses and let the weight slide out of her grasp, the photo album falling to the ground with another loud thump as it came into contact with the rough carpet.

Crookshanks meowed loudly and pushed up against her hand, but Hermione didn’t respond. She just stared at the fire, determined not to cry. This lasted for quite awhile.

**------**

One floor below, a young man was having a tough time falling asleep as well. The entire apartment was filled with unpacked boxes, full of old clothes and books. The usual things that would accommodate a small, modest flat.

A rather disheveled man was sprawled on the sofa, his long legs hanging over the sides and dangling in the air. He looked just like the perfect person for the small, cramped apartment; someone who was moving on with their life after school. Except this wasn’t exactly the case for him. Things were much more complicated these days, it seemed.

He turned on his side and flopped over, now stomach up, staring at the ceiling. His head was trying to make the best of his pillow, which was, for the moment, a wooden armrest. He had a pillow in one of the boxes, but it was probably stuffed to the bottom, and he concluded he didn’t want to go rummaging for it. Besides, he heavily doubted that that would help anyway, considering that the last thing keeping him from sleep right now was how comfortable or uncomfortable he was. In fact, when he really thought about the situation at hand, he didn’t even want to sleep. Chances were he would have another nightmare.

No, sleep was probably the last thing he sought after at the moment, considering that the only thing he really wanted was some idea of where his life was headed. Right now, the future looked pretty bleak, considering he was lying down on the most uncomfortable sofa he’d ever had to deal with in his privileged life, he couldn’t bring himself to unpack whatever belongings he managed to bring with him, he was alone in the world, and damnit, if somebody could make the wizarding world decide not to hate his entire being, well, that would be great.

His throat was itching from lack of hydration and the cupboards were bare. And he just couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. There was on old piss stain on the carpet he didn’t feel like cleaning up either. He dug out the wadded piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it for the twentieth time that night, prepared to read it once more, and react to it with a fresh sense of gloom.



Dear Mr. Malfoy,

Sorry for the inconvenience, but I am requesting your presence at my office tomorrow morning at 9:00. We shall discuss the situation at hand concerning your father’s estate.

And written in a tidy scrawl was the last name Draco could’ve ever wanted to see.

Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic



With renewed hatred, Draco wadded up the parchment once more and shoved it into his pocket. How the hell he was going to get through this situation was a mystery. It even seemed pointless. It was obvious to Draco what would happen tomorrow morning at nine o’ clock. He would walk through that door, sit down in that chair, and listen to that old bastard try his best to make it sound like he wasn’t getting screwed over in the worst possible way. They were going to justify the removal of his father’s estate and pretty much all his money by reminding Draco once more of the ugly black scar on his forearm and how, in reality, he should be getting the Kiss right now. And once Malfoy Manor was gone and Gringott’s had emptied his family’s vault...what then? Get a job? In a world where every witch and wizard knows your name and despises you for being the only one that got away? The Ministry would never employ him, that was a given. He hadn’t had high enough marks in Potions to be a Healer (Slughorn’s fault), and he couldn’t think of any store in Diagon Alley that would want their customers to see his face everyday. Hell, even Knockturn Alley didn’t want anything to do with him.

And now he was here, in this shitty Muggle apartment complex, plotting his next move. He shivered and formed into a ball, not wanting to go fumble through his boxes trying to find a blanket. Besides, for some reason, he didn’t want to unpack anything at all. Perhaps because after all his possessions had been laid out and he could see what little he had left, it would be final. Draco Malfoy was poor. The thought made him cringe, but he couldn’t run away from the truth.

Come to think of it, that seemed like the only thing he couldn’t slither his way out of. The truth.

*------*

“Oh dear, I can’t say I’ve seen you before.” The old woman’s voice wavered as she held out her white-gloved hand to the pretty, young woman standing in front of her. Her entire form seemed to be trembling; she probably had the shakes, as most women her age did.

“Hermione Granger,” the young woman said taking her hand and smiling politely at the elderly woman with the old powdered blue dress on, covered in pink and yellow flowers. “Nice to meet you.”

The elderly woman smiled at Hermione. “My name is Ethel.” She tightly grasped Hermione’s hand before bringing it back to her cane. “My goodness, we rarely get young people in this complex.” It only took Hermione a couple seconds to realize that the entire complex was practically nothing but elderly people. She could plainly see why too, I mean, these apartments were an old person’s cream dream. Cheap, small, and cozy.

“How long have you been here?” Hermione asked, bringing a red plastic cup full of punch to her lips. It tasted like peaches.

“Oh, me and George have been here for fifteen years. We love it here.”

“So you’re married?”

Ethel smiled widely, flashing her dentures. “Of course, dear! Me an’ George have been together for going on forty years.” Ethel then showed Hermione her classic golden band, pouring forth on all the stories she had to tell about what a lovable guy George was and how they still persevered through all the hard times because they loved each other so much, et cetera. Hermione couldn’t help but be distracted throughout the entire conversation at the number of old men sitting against the walls, sipping punch and looking at her and Ethel. She was starting to feel somewhat uncomfortable, probably because these men hadn’t been in the presence of a pretty, young lady for ages. She could feel eyes on her breasts. She twisted her fingers and tried to deny the fact that she was being stared at, while at the same time trying to engage herself in the lovely conversation Ethel was making.

“How often do they have these things?” Hermione gestured towards the room they were in, strewn with red and blue balloons.

“Well, I guess you could call it the apartment get-together. We have it maybe three times a year. It’s really nice to meet new people and stay connected with the people who have been here for awhile.” She smiled widely. “Like me an’ George.”

“Sounds nice,” Hermione said distractedly, pulling the cup to her lips once more. She didn’t even know why she came to this thing anyway. That’s not to say Ethel wasn’t a pleasantly delightful woman, but Hermione had been expecting a party. With people her own age. Come to think of it, she came downstairs with the intentions of getting hammered. Perhaps to get her mind of the glumness that was last night. Now, looking around the room, she concluded that no one here would be serving hard liquor.

It was in these moments that the door burst open and a fair headed man walked briskly through the main room, ignoring the party, his eyes glued to the cheap, pink carpet.

“Excuse me-” Ethel made an attempt to introduce herself, probably ecstatic by the fact that she was sharing her apartment complex with yet another young person , but Hermione could tell before the old woman even opened her mouth that it was fruitless. He had an air of huffiness about him, and it looked as though the last thing he wanted to do was make pleasant conversation with an old, senile woman. And when he ignored Ethel completely and ran up the stairs, Hermione realized how correct she was in her assumptions.

Ethel had a look on her face that would make you believe that the world had denounced knitting. “Well, that’s a shame. I’ve never seen that young man before.” She turned to Hermione, placing a hand on her bony hip. “Have you seen that man before?”

“No.” Hermione hadn’t even seen the man just then, considering his head was bowed low as if he was inspecting the carpet for lint. Suddenly, Hermione had a quite clever and bright idea. “How about I go ask him to come down here and join us?” Not only would she get out of this terrible ‘apartment get-together’, but she would also cure her sudden curiosity for finding out just who that man was. Two fat birds with one stone. Part of her felt bad for leaving Ethel behind, but she figured all those horny old men would be due company.

“Well alright then, Helena. See you soon, dear.” She flashed her dentures one last time as Hermione waved and ascended up the rickety, mustard yellow stairs.

*------*

Draco collapsed onto the hard, stiff sofa, releasing a long, painful sigh. He hugged his newly recovered pillow tightly to himself, closing his eyes and not wanting to believe what was now written in stone.

Hell, he’d probably would’ve been better off dead. All those months when he had been fighting for his life, he should’ve just given up. He should’ve known he’d just get screwed over in the end. Because what had just happened to him was the father of all screwing-overs.

They had no idea, but yet all of them looked at that ugly black scar in unison, horror twisted in their virgin eyes. It was then that they made their decision. It was as if anything Draco had to say was completely useless. When they saw that skull carved into his skin, the decision was made. And now he didn’t have a home.

And to top it all off, somebody was knocking on his door. He shut his eyes and ignored it, coming to the informed conclusion that it was one of those old, useless Muggles coming up here with a stupid grin, expecting him to come downstairs and celebrate the practically mind-blowing fact that they all lived in the same shitty apartment complex. The thought made him sick to his stomach. He could just envisage all those toothless old Muggles with banana cream pudding dripping down their chin, smiling at him like little children who needed their diapers changed.

“Hello?”

He swore loudly. “What is it?”

“May I come in?”

He rubbed his temples, trying to prevent the impending headache. “No you cannot.” He could still feel the presence of someone standing behind his door, and he knew whoever had come here to pester him hadn’t quite given up. “That means leave,” he drawled.

“Well, sorry! Honestly, I just wanted to see who you were. And you dropped something on the floor.” It was true; Hermione had found a wadded up piece of paper at the top of the stairs in which she assumed belonged to the nameless man.

He angrily stomped towards his door and swung it open forcefully, looking at her blankly, his hand outstretched. “Give it back-”

It was silent as the two old enemies surveyed one another, mouths wide in astonishment. Hermione looked the man over slowly; white-blonde hair and pale skin. Who else could it have been? She had never seen anyone who looked quite like Draco Malfoy did. Well, perhaps Lucius. The sneer made her sure.

“Mudblood?” He spat it out nastily, as if the word was liquid poison. Somehow, the familiarity of this seemed to relax him as he slumped against the side of his door. She didn’t respond, so he continued with a vintage Malfoy scoff. “You would live here.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Yeah? And apparently you do too. How unfortunate.”

He raised his eyebrows and tried to block the small sliver of his apartment revealed by the door that stood ajar with his body. “I don’t live here, for your information, Granger.”

“Oh, you don’t? Sure seems like a lot of boxes in there.” She craned her neck and peered into his apartment, lips pursed.

His smirk faltered for a second as he searched for the right words. “Temporary, Granger. I thought you knew me well enough to know I’d never live in the same building as a Mudblood. Fear I’d have your stench looming on my dress robes. And nobody would want that.”

“Actually, Malfoy, from my knowledge of you, I’m really shocked that you would even stop at this building even if it were temporary. If my sources are right, which they are, of course, then this building is owned and operated by Muggles. Did you know that?”

“Of course I did, you dolt. You know, I’m not that stuck-up. I can bear to live with Muggles, if I must.”

“If you must? Oh, I am very curious as to what on earth would force Draco Malfoy into sharing quarters with Muggles.” Hermione looked at her surroundings. “I mean, this place is a dump.”

“I have my reasons,” he said darkly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own business to attend to.” He absentmindedly rubbed his temples again, blinking widely. The migraine was kicking in.

“Wait! Do you want to come downstairs?” She didn’t even know why she was asking. “There’s a pretty hardcore party going down.”

He actually laughed. “Hell no.”

Hermione fidgeted. “Well, what are you going to do?”

“Something much less pathetic.” He shut his eyes tried to ignore his throbbing headache.

“Like what?”

He swore lightly and glared at her. “Merlin, you annoying little twat, what’s it to you?”

She shrugged. “Just curious.”

Draco sighed heavily. “Well, if you must know, I’m probably going to knock back a couple of drinks and sleep. Awfully entertaining, huh?”

Hermione noticed that he was progressively becoming less foul. He even seemed less intimidating than usual, which was honestly very shocking to her. She’d never seen Draco in this light. It was a good light. “May I come in?”

Draco was very shocked and appalled to say the least. “Of course not.” He didn’t even know how to express his repulsion in words.

“Why not? What do you have to drink?”

Draco thought this was a very random question, yet he answered. “Not much. Some wine. Why?”

She shrugged, smiling. “Well, I have some drinks upstairs.”

“Like what?” He asked, trying to sound uninterested, although he couldn’t deny the fact that he was mildly enticed by the thought of bookworm Granger actually drinking alcohol.

“Um....well, I have some scotch. That’s about it. I nicked it from the kitchen downstairs a couple of nights ago. I was kind of shocked that those old coots even had anything other than prune juice!” She laughed at her own joke.

Draco was now very frightened by this new Hermione, but still unmistakably aroused. She was nicking things? As in stealing? “Fine, whatever, bring it down.” He turned his back and walked into his flat, slowly closing the door. “And knock when you have it,” he called through the sliver of door still opened.

She was beaming. “Mmhmm!” She turned and ran up the creaking stairs.

Draco groaned in annoyance and closed the door, almost simultaneously crashing down beside his sofa, grabbing his pounding skull. It was unbearable. He desperately grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine and took a deep swig, wishing the effects would set in much quicker. It wasn’t good enough, for the pain almost doubled, and he could feel a scream itching in his throat. His vision started to swim as he downed as much wine as he could, praying for the smallest amount of relief he could be granted. In the back of his dazed mind he could hear pounding on his door; probably the Mudblood. He moaned lightly and fell to the ground, hugging himself. The last things he heard before he blacked out was the sound of his door opening and the harsh echoes of his own screaming.

*------*

Hermione banged on the white door with peeling paint, following Malfoy’s orders despite her general dislike of him. She didn’t even know what she was doing. Had the long periods of loneliness brought her down to actually wanting to spend time with Draco Malfoy? She shifted the weight of the cold bottle of scotch to her hip and she knocked again, met with no response. She wondered if this was some kind of cruel joke- get Hermione’s hopes up and watch it all blow up in her face. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Malfoy! Open the door!” She pounded with her fist, the deep rhythmic beatings echoing down the long, empty hall. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered lightly, drawing out her wand. Now, it was true that Draco did give her plain, clear orders to wait for him, but it was also true that he hadn’t held up to his part of the deal. So why should she? Plus, she hadn’t used her wand for a couple of days, and the opportunity to use it made her giddy and excited. She banged on the door one last time before drawing her wand ahead of the door, flicking the tip with strategic, fluid movements.

“Alohamora.” The first thing that met her eyes was the shrill, chilling screams escaping from Draco’s mouth. She panicked and dropped the bottle of scotch; it’s contents spilling forth on his already filthy carpet. He was cradling himself on the ground, his white-blonde hair askew on his pale face. His translucent lids were lightly closed, his mouth slightly open.

“Malfoy?” She whispered his name lightly, almost silently. She pulled his eyelids back to reveal dilated pupils lost in a sea of silver. Hermione immediately remembered his behavior not so long ago when they were standing outside. His mutterings and cursings of pain had not gone unnoticed, although Hermione at the time had ignored it, thinking he was only making these gestures to make her think she was bothering him. But perhaps, she thought, it was more. She drew her wand again, moving it gracefully through the thick air.

“Wingardium Leviosa.” She slowly raised her wand- Malfoy floating gently along with its movements. He came to rest on his sofa, which was hardly long enough to capacitate his tall frame. His legs hung limply over the edges. Hermione pulled out a sturdy box and sat, waiting.

*------*

“Arghh,” Draco groaned, mechanically raising his hand to his throbbing head. The light made him wince as he groggily sat forth. And then he heard the only other thing he could imagine would make him feel ten times worse.

“Malfoy?”

He snapped his head sideways, his brain protesting in pain, to look at the girl sitting cross-legged on his box full of clothing. “What...the hell...”

“How are you feeling?” She asked sweetly, concern masked under her kindly voice.

“Like you give a damn.” He grabbed his head again and muttered. “Get out.”

She looked hurt, her brown eyes shining. “For your information I do give a damn, Malfoy. Why would I sit here for two hours waiting for you to wake up if I didn’t?”

Draco sighed heavily, annoyance and frustration coming to peaks. “I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care either. Now, do me a favor and get out.” He swung his long legs over the side of the sofa and stood, swaggering to pick up the bottle of wine left on the floor. He took a deep swig as he grew pleasantly dizzy.

“You should lie down!” Hermione angrily grabbed his swaying shoulders and directed him back to his sofa, much to his protest.

“Don’t touch me, Mudblood.”

Hermione ignored him and continued with her ranting. “I’ll have you know that I’m a Healer in training at St. Mungo’s-”

Draco opened his mouth in mock astonishment. Hermione pressed on.

“So if you could tell me what your symptoms are, there’s a possibility I could help you.”

He laughed with such bitterness that it frightened her. “Oh really, you think you can help me?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“This is as good as it gets for me, Granger. I’m surprised you didn’t know more about my case, considering you apparently work at St. Mungo’s.”

“Your case?”

He scoffed at her. “You mean you really don’t know what happened to me after-” He faltered for a moment, hoping she would indicate that she knew what he was talking about. She didn’t. “After that night on the Astronomy Tower?” He sighed, feeling a great weight lifted from saying the location aloud.

Her eyebrows were softly furrowed in suspicion. “What I gathered was that you were brought into Death Eater ranks, but when Harry defeated Voldemort-”

Draco winced.

“-The Ministry said that they had no proof of you doing anything punishable by law other than your joining of the Death Eaters. But, apparently they reasoned that they couldn’t punish you, coming to the conclusion that you were brought into the group against your own will.”

“Yes, but I guess they didn’t release that to the public,” he said, almost talking to himself. “Didn’t want any sympathy for me...” He trailed off.

“Didn’t release what?” She was biting her lip in anticipation.

He looked at her gently before rolling his eyes animatedly and folding his arms. “What am I doing? I’m not telling you!” He leaned back nonchalantly and downed some more wine. His eyes trailed towards the broken remains of the scotch. “What a shame,” he said lightly.

“Oh!” She said in alarm. “Sorry about that.”

“Mend it, you pointless lump,” he said jokingly, his tone not matching the unkind words he had just shared.

Frowning, she flicked her wand and the glass disappeared along with the brownish stain. She smiled lightly before she was brought back into the situation. “What a minute, why won’t you tell me?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Well, we are neighbors now, right?” She asked brightly.

Draco sneered at her in disgust. “Until I get out of this rat hole.”

“That you are, for some reason unknown, living in yourself.” She wouldn’t let herself be distracted. “And if you want me to leave, than your going to have to tell me this secret that you speak of.”

He stood and faltered, grabbing the arm of the sofa with white knuckles. “Not gonna happen.”

“Malfoy!”

“What?” He asked, alarmed by the volume of her voice.

“That’s not fair.”

“What is?” He muttered, walking towards his bedroom. Hermione followed him and he didn’t protest.

“But it’s not fair to bring me into your situation and then shut me out!”

He snapped his head back at her once more, huffing with annoyance. “You brought yourself into the situation, Mudblood.”

“I did not.” She was silenced by the shock of his bedroom, which was barely worthy of the title. A small, dirty mattress was crammed into the corner, lying on the filthy carpet with nothing underneath it or on top of it. The rest of the room, which wasn’t much, was stained and empty. Peeling paint covered the walls.

“Damn,” he said lightly. “I have to go looking for my bloody blanket.”

Hermione perked up. “Is it in one of your boxes?”

Draco nodded, obviously not seeing the importance.

She frowned at him, drawing out her wand for the forth time that evening. “Honestly Draco, you are a wizard.” He sniggered at her as she raised her wand. “Accio blanket.”

A large, black velvet cover floated into the small bedroom, the Malfoy crest imprinted in silver. Hermione caught it and ran her fingers over the soft fabric. “Nice blanket.”

He snatched it from her, his cheeks reddened. “Give me that you stupid whore.” He held it close to him as if she had invaded his privacy by placing her unworthy hands on it.

“A ‘thank you’ would’ve been nice,” she said lightly.

“You’ll get a thank you when you get the hell out of my flat.” He scowled at her and snatched her wand, smirking.

“Hey! Give that-”

“Accio pillow.” He snatched the matching black velvet pillow from its spot in the air, grinning.

Hermione reached for her wand, her voice strained. “Malfoy, I swear, if you don’t give me that back-”

“Here,” he said blankly, throwing the wand to the ground. She scurried after it. “Now please, will you leave? I’d like to get some rest.”

Hermione was pleasantly surprised by the oddly low amount of nastiness in his request. She figured he should be rewarded for being a little more humane to her than usual. “Fine, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He laughed at her. “And I won’t let you in.”

“Well then, I’ll just break in again.”

“That’s illegal you idiot.”

“So? It might be illegal, but it saved your life today.”

“You did not save my life! In fact, I probably would’ve been better without your pestering! That only seemed to irritate my headache.”

Hermione smiled mischievously. “So, it was a headache? What a baby!”

Draco looked furious. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you filthy little Mudblood.”

She frowned at him. “You know, this name-calling is going to get really old.”

“Not to me, you stupid bitch.” He giggled in delight. “Now get out.”

“Fine,” she said simply, walking towards the door to his flat briskly. “But don’t think I won’t find out what your secret is!”

He rolled his eyes and huffed angrily, watching her walk into the hallway.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ferret!” She giggled uncontrollably as he slammed the door in her face.

*------*

Hermione found it quite amusing that Draco really thought she wouldn’t figure things out on her own. She was Hermione Granger, after all, and he should’ve known that her inquisitive nature would get her through any obstacles required, so long as she was curious enough. And was she curious enough. It was only after she found out this ‘secret’ that she wished she would’ve just let everything fall into place the natural way instead of sticking her nose into places that it shouldn’t have been.

One of those places was the File Room on the first floor of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Off limits of course, but whoever designed the security system should’ve also been aware of Hermione’s all too overpowering probing nature. All it required was a simple ‘Alohamora’ and a rudimentary knowledge of stealth. The walls were lined with manila folders, filled with specific information detailing any malady or injury any patient of St. Mungo’s had ever bore since the beginning of the establishment itself.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” she whispered with glee as she searched for the envelope with his name on it. It was somewhat difficult to find, but after a fair amount of toil and frustration, there it was. She raised her head with caution before sliding her nimble finger beneath the seal, the envelope tearing easily. Slowly, she pulled out the contents of the file and let her eyes trail over it, horror slowly taking her over with every line that passed under her vision. She had to get back immediately.

*------*

He sat with the last glass of wine, slouching on his ‘bed’, which was for the moment creaking in protest. Quite early for a drink, but he didn’t care. Why should he? Conventional rules really didn’t matter anymore, did they?

They most certainly do not, he thought with smugness as he took a long, burning mouthful. He still held his childhood blanket to him with tenderness, letting the cool, soft fabric touch the gruesome carving on his forearm. It was soothing to him, and he let out a pent up sigh of relief. He was surprised she didn’t see it yesterday; it had been exposed during the entire span of her stay. Possibly she did see it, but he doubted it. It always burned when eyes were on it. Well, he couldn’t be sure of that; perhaps it was just the shame in the pit of his stomach from having eyes rest on the one symbol that seemed to mark the turning point in his life where things went from bad to much, much worse. Maybe it was both.

So he drank his wine and ate his bread, which was the last of his food rations. He didn’t know what he was going to do about that, but he’d get to it eventually. He could always boss Granger out of some food.

It was then that he heard the most peculiar sound that seemed almost foreign- the sound of an owl tapping on his small, dirty window. Startled, he rushed to the small rectangular window and opened the latch, letting the barn owl perch itself on his pale forearm. It stared at him with stern, yellow eyes as it handed him a rolled up piece of parchment. He read it. The barn owl hooted darkly before flying out of the window gracefully, heading directly upwards into the afternoon sky.

*------*

She sat before the bubbling cauldron, glancing every now and then at the window and every now and then at the door, waiting for an action to occur behind either one at any moment.

It happened at the window first.

She dashed and let her owl into the cramped apartment. Delilah the barn owl looked at her with tiger-like eyes, bearing no response from the recipient of her original letter. It was somewhat ridiculous to expect one. He did live a set of stairs below her. So it was the door she sat her sights at next, waiting for a knock or perhaps a bang. Well, from him, probably a pound.

But soon she found out that Draco opted for none of these- he simply swung the door open and marched straight into her small living room looking somewhat livid. He held a crushed piece of parchment in his trembling hand.

“Who do you think you are?”

She decided to be good-humored about it, even though that was probably the stupid thing to do. “Hermione Granger. Or at least I’m pretty sure. What about you?”

Draco inhaled the deep fragrances looming from the cauldron sitting in the middle of the room. It seemed to settle him somewhat, allowing his blazing mind to settle on the situation at hand and how it ought to be dealt with. “You had no business sneaking around and finding my file! I don’t care if you want to help me, because I don’t want it!” He inhaled deeply. “How dare you come rearing that big bushy head of yours into my personal business? How would you like it if I did that to you, huh?”

She hummed to herself and spoke in a sing-song voice. “Wouldn’t matter. You couldn’t get anything on me.”

“Oh yeah?” He was in a heat of anger and words started spilling out before he knew what he was saying. “I heard you’re the reason Weasley died. I heard he died because you weren’t strong enough to defend yourself. He died saving you, didn‘t he?” He took pleasure from the hurt on her beautiful face. “Is that true?”

She was on top of him in a heartbeat, her wand pointed at his heart. Her breathing was ragged and her eyes were like two deep, brown tunnels of fury. “You shut your mouth,” she said plainly. “You pathetic bastard.”

“Pathetic? Me, pathetic? Tell me, Hermione, how did you feel when you realized that it was all your fault. How did it feel when you realized that perfect little Granger couldn’t save her best friend? I hear Potter doesn‘t even talk to you anymore...how sad.” She was tearing up before him, yet he continued, determined to make her feel raw pain. “Did you love him?”

“Shut up.” She shook her head and sniffled. “I hate you,” she said quietly.

“What was that?”

“I hate you!” She dug the wand painfully into his chest.

“Hate me, Granger. Hurt me. I don’t care.”

She slapped him hard across the face with all the strength she could muster. Draco’s cheek lay against the cool carpet, his eyes cloudy with unreadable emotions.

“Do it again,” he said softly.

She did, this time on the opposite cheek. She was crying now, tears steaming down her smooth face. “I hate you!” She slapped him again. “I hate you!”

Draco started to laugh with glee. He saw the fear and confusion on her wet face.

Instead of going in for another attack Hermione simply got off him and walked to the cauldron looking devoid of any human feeling. “I know about what happened to you, Draco, and I was sorry for you. I thought that you deserved my sympathy; you were tortured while trying to fulfill a noble cause.” She was referring to the short time Draco had served as a spy for the Order. “But I’m not anymore.”

“Good,” he said, still lying on his back. “I don’t want your pity.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as she filled a plastic cup with the cooling potion. “There’s a difference between pity and sympathy.” She knelt down beside him. “Here, take this.”

He didn’t even look at her. “What is it?”

“A potion I made. It should make the headaches go away for awhile; the nightmares should occur less frequently.” She watched as he propped himself up on his elbow and took the cup without question. “A lot of the Dark Magic You-Know-Who used on you will be permanent, but at least we can lessen the affects.” He lifted the cup to his lips and took a long drink. It tasted like cinnamon and mint. “How are the scars?”

“Fine,” he said weakly as he took another long drink.

“Have they gone away? Did any amount of potions or medicines work on them?”

“No and no.” He finally looked up at her and she almost gasped at how pale his eyes were in the dancing firelight. “I can deal with it though; that’s only appearance. It’s the other things that matter.”

“True,” she said distractedly. “Although you should still be applying something to them daily. Wait here for a moment.”

While she was gone, Draco surveyed her small ‘living room’. She had done the best she could with what she had to work with, which wasn’t much. It was still cozy though...even pleasant. It smelled delicious.

A large leather bound book caught the corner of his eye and he reached out for it, the words ‘Photo Album’ looking back at him in curvy silver font. The opened the first page and scoffed, although deep down he was feeling just the slightest tinge of jealously.

Best Friends Forever.

The book almost flipped itself open to a page near the end of the book; it was somewhat creased from being open on that certain page more often than the others.

The picture moved like all Wizarding photos, but the simple fact that the man in the picture was dead seemed to make the fact that it was moving seem somewhat creepy to Draco.

It was a picture of Weasley with his hands in his pockets, looking around nervously with an aloof smile on his freckled face. He was standing before the Quidditch pitch with practically the entire Gryffindor house standing behind him cheering.

Ronald Weasley. 1986-2004

The page was wet with fresh, recently shed tears. Draco was hit was a staggering wave of guilt as he solemnly closed the book and placed it in it’s original spot.

It was then that Hermione walked in the room carrying a large jar of foul smelling ointment. Draco gagged on the fumes. “Put that away, Granger!” He shouted through near-tears. It smelled like rancid meat and aloe.

She pursed her lips. “Raise your shirt, Draco, and let me see them.”

Grudgingly he did, although the fresh guilt prevented him from voicing his dislike of the situation into words. Hermione, of course, ignored the light sneer on his face as she surveyed the torn remains of Draco Malfoy’s torso.

He was a slim man, with cat-like long muscles- scars adorning almost every available space of smooth, pale skin. They were savage and deep- angry slashes that carved random oblong spaces on his chest and stomach. Hermione almost felt sorry for him again before she caught the foul look he was giving her.

“Alright then, do what you need to do.” He looked at the jar of ointment with a twisted face.

She gathered a dollop of the yellowish substance on her middle and index finger, its raw scent wafting its way towards her flared nostrils. Bringing her two fingers down, she massaged the ointment into the deep scars, softly moving in a circular motion. Draco let out a quick stifled sigh and held his breath. Hermione felt strange about this; she had done this quite often at St. Mungo’s, but never had it felt so intimate. Never had it felt so...sensual.

His head was lolled back, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed . The sensation was immediate. As soon as the foul ointment came into contact with his ravaged skin he was met with a tingling cooling effect that he found quite pleasant. He enjoyed the feeling of her hands on his skin. He relished in it and felt the rushing desire to touch her, too. He held back though, and let her continue with her work.

The scars continued lower and lower, the edge of one trailing further down his stomach then was exposed. She slightly pulled his trousers lower and massaged his jutting hip bone. Meanwhile, Draco was feeling orgasmic.

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione brought her ointment-less hand to her mouth as she caught sight of a deep, savage scar on his side; it was different because this one actually spelled a word. In deep, dark read letters the word ‘obey’ was carved in pointy, graceless handwriting. “Who did this to you?”

He slowly brought his head up until he could see her completely. “Him.”

She shook her head, her curls bouncing. “But...but why?”

With hesitation he answered. “I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t do what he told me. He gave me that one when I returned from that night at Hogwarts.”

“When Dumbledore...” she nodded her head forward with her eyes on him.

“Yes.”

“But you did do what he told you to do!” She shouted incredulously. “Although it was very wrong, you found a way to transport all those Death Eaters into Hogwarts, one of the most impenetrable-”

“I know, I know. Spare me the citation of Hogwarts: A History.”

She continued. “So what did he have to be upset about?”

“Honestly, I think he wanted me to die. He didn’t even think for a moment that I would get that far, and when I did, he at least expected me to fail on the main mission.”

“Which was?”

“Killing Dumbledore. But, as you know...”

“You couldn’t,” she said somberly.

“Therefore Snape had to do it for me. And the Dark Lord was pissed about that. That and the fact that I was still alive.” He chuckled softly.

“That’s so...” Hermione searched for the right words. “That’s so...wrong!”

“No, Hermione, it’s real. This,” he looked at the scar, “is the world we live in. Not everybody is like you.”

She felt oddly flattered. “What do you mean, like me?” She asked with a hint of a smile.

He looked her straight in the eye. “Kind and caring...not everyone gives a shit like you do. And I’m being serious.”

“Thank you, Draco.” She smiled at him and dabbed a small amount of ointment on the gruesome scar. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“Well...” he shrugged and hung his head back again, closing his eyes at the wonderful sensation. The room was silent after that for a small while, as Hermione softly massaged his chest, bringing him great pleasure.

After awhile she stopped. “I think that’s it, Draco.” she pulled his cotton shirt over his bare skin and fastened the lid back on the jar. “I’ll be back in a sec-”

As she was standing up, Draco felt the sudden impulse to grab her face and bring her lips to his. And he followed those impulses, savoring the feel of her soft, smooth lips against his chapped ones. At first she felt the need to struggle, but before she had the chance to she started to grow light in his arms, leaning deeply into it and reciprocating every kiss equally in passion. They both savored it- the small ‘pop’ of suction as their lips came apart and the feeling of completeness as they came together again. She sunk into his warm embrace and lowered her lips, letting her head fall into the small space between his shoulder and his neck, trailing her fingers on his back. He ran his fingers through her slightly tangled hair and separated the knots with his long fingers. “I just felt like I needed that. I’m sorry.”

She smiled into his shoulder. “Don’t be...I think I needed it too.” Hermione looked up into his eyes and saw the honest smile on his lips; strands of striking blonde hair splayed on his forehead and falling before his face. He looked beautiful in the glinting firelight, and in a single fluid movement she took off his white cotton shirt and rested her head against his ripped and torn chest. She closed her eyes.

They were warmed by the fire roaring beneath the hearth.