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Nightmares	By : Tnteacups Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 12275 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any money from this writing.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
“After the War”
Since they’d started dating, she and Ron had rowed much less frequently than they had as teens, but it seemed to be several months’ worth of rowing in a single go when he found her in the Leaky Cauldron, sloshed, and unable to decide if she was giggling, or crying.
He’d been upset, but tried to be gentle, tried to coax her home, taking her elbow, and trying to steer her toward the fireplace. She’d pulled away, latching onto the bar, and managing to slur that she couldn’t go home yet.
“Why?” He’d asked, confused. She never got drunk. She never avoided going home, and she never made such a public spectacle of herself.
“Gotta… fin’sh… drinking. Gotta forget, ‘n’ maybe…. Sleep?” She said unintelligently, unable to understand why he WANTED her to come home. She was a fraud, their whole relationship was a fraud, and he wanted a liar? It made no sense to her.
“Fraud? What are you talking about? What have you been lying about, Hermione?”
Oops, had she been speaking aloud?
“Nothing… He’s not important. I promise. I don’t care. Not anymore. Never did. He’s a liar. Only good idea he’s ever had was getting too drunk to think about it.”
“Think about what, Hermione? Who’s ‘he’? Are you… Seeing someone else?” Ron looked hurt. Whoops, she hadn’t meant for him to find out. But he couldn’t know. She hadn’t actually said, had she?
“No, not seeing someone else… well, I keep SEEING him, but… Not like THAT. We haven’t had sex… I don’t think it counts, anyway. It was a long time ago, but… it HAS to count, right? There was the miscarriage, so… it counts? Makes it real? Or… I don’t know. It wasn’t like with you. Wasn’t on purpose…”
“Hermione… Come home, we can talk about this there, please.” Ron’s face looked strange, angry, and sad, and worried. She reached up and patted his cheek.
“You look like him with that face, you know? Like there’s too much in your head, and not enough words to make it tangible. No way to say it. Have to see it to understand, so you watch. And what you see isn’t what you expect, and instead of hating, there’s something else, and you don’t want to, but it’s coming back, and you can’t forget, and so you start drinking. Please don’t start drinking, Ron, it’s really not good for you.”
“Come on, we’re going home, I think you need to get to bed.” He said, tugging her firmly away from the counter, and toward the fireplace. She struggled a bit, but gave up, his steel grip unable to be fought. She waved at a few of the people they passed, and whispered slurred words of wisdom as they went, hoping SOMEONE could learn from her mistakes, ‘cause SHE sure wasn’t.
The swirling green vortex of Floo Powder made her head spin. Nope, more than her head, her stomach was spinning too, and with a lurching feeling, she leaned forward, and puked on the living room rug, hands on her knees trying to balance, so she wouldn’t fall over, still feeling like the world was Flooing by without stopping.
“Come on, lie down, I’ll clean that up.” Ron was saying, tugging her toward the couch. She did as he suggested, hoping the spinning stopped, but when she was flat on her back, it only got worse, the earth tilting like a giant boat on the sea, rocking her around, making her close her eyes and groan, holding her head to stop the motion.
“Hermione… What were you talking about?” He was sitting at the foot of the bed, and she opened her eyes again, looking at the boy she’d loved since she was fourteen, wondering why he was still so caring.
“You’re so sweet, Ron, you know that? Even when we fight, you’re still sweet.”
“Who were you talking about earlier, Hermione? Who’ve you been seeing?”
“Can’t tell you, it’s a secret. If I tell you, you’ll get mad. I don’t want this to end, Ron. I love you. I think. I’m not sure what that means anymore… What’s ‘love’, anyway? How can you tell which one’s real, and which one’s the fake? Is it more real when it’s forged by pain and shared suffering, or when it’s been building since childhood, and cared for after the war?” She was trying to separate the two feelings, but the harder she tried, the more tangled they got. Draco had fancied her since childhood. Ron was sweet, but he’d never brushed her hair. Draco was intense, but she’d been forced together with him, not chosen it freely.
“What are you talking about? Please, say something that makes sense, just tell me, what happened today?” He seemed to give up on her ramblings, and focused on something specific. She thought back, and counted out on her fingers the things that had happened.
“He told me he was a spy, I thought he was going to steal the baby, but he wasn’t, and then he said he loved me, and I didn’t believe him, and then he said I loved him, but that’s impossible, or at least, it was. And then I was drinking, and then you came…”
“Okay, that’s good. But who said they loved you?” He looked so confused, poor Ron. It was hard for her to wrap her head around everything, and she’d been in the loop.
“Draco. It was just a memory, but still. He said it. Well, I guess he said it over a week ago, but… I didn’t believe him then, either. But he said more today. Said it’s been a long-time coming, that it wasn’t just the month together that did it, not just the baby, but sort of… All of it? I kind of understand, I mean, he’s not a monster, he does have to have SOME feelings, right?”
“Hermione… Are… Why… WHEN did you see Malfoy? When he was at the hospital? Has he been bothering you since then?”
“No. Not bothering, he’s got the memories. Gotta see them, don’t I? That means I have to see him. But I don’t like seeing him. He makes it weird. Or do the memories make it weird? Is it weirder that he remembers, or that I don’t?”
“Okay, that makes no sense, but… What’s all that about a baby? Or, miscarriage? Was that you, or Malfoy? And if it’s Malfoy, why did he tell you about it?”
“So much blood. I think it hurt, but I don’t remember. He says I begged him to make me forget, so… I guess that’s why, but… I remember some of it. I remember the brushing, the sleeping, and… the beginning. That was why I went there in the first place, because I remembered, and wanted to know, you know? And he showed me. It was awful, Ron. I’m glad I don’t remember, but… His father, he smells all wrong, and I know that the missing week was even worse, and it’s good that I don’t remember, but what if something happened that I need to know? What if there’s someone they didn’t catch that’s going to come after me? What if Draco’s father hurts him?”
“Hermione, hush… It’s okay… I… I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s okay. Just sleep. I’ll figure it all out.” He helped her to lie back down. But when had she sat up? Oh well, the tears were trying to glue her eyes shut, and there was a heaviness over her muscles. Was it a blanket? It wasn’t warm, though. She fell asleep, and forgot what she’d been worrying about, forgot the blanket, and forgot Ron’s words.

* * *

Hermione woke with a splitting headache, a mouth drier than cotton, and the desperate need to pee. Had she really passed out on the couch? She fought free from the blanket, both glad for it, and ashamed that Molly must’ve seen her drunken stupor. She made her way in and out of the lavatory before she came across anyone else, and when she saw the shock of red hair, she smiled apologetically up at her boyfriend.
His face was red-tinged, and the way he looked at her was haunting. He looked hollow, and angry. She knew that feeling.
“I’m sorry.” She rushed to say, positive that he must’ve been worried about her staying out so late. Not to mention falling asleep on the couch.
“For what? Lying? Making the front page of the Daily Prophet? Or making me the laughing stock of the whole world?” He seemed more angry now, and she swallowed, wondering just what she’d gotten herself into last night.
“Ron… I’m so sorry…. I don’t remember much of last night, but I’m sorry.” She stammered, trailing after him as he stomped into his room.
“You know, I thought I could trust you, that you’d trust me with something like, I don’t know… Some long lost love for Malfoy, and your miscarried lovechild?”
“What?” Her heart stopped cold in her chest, and she stared at him in horror, not believing what she was hearing. It was impossible, and wrong.
“I’m not in love with Malfoy, and whatever you heard, it’s not like that. It wasn’t-”
“Wasn’t what, Hermione? Something I needed to know? Wasn’t my business? Or wasn’t what you wanted splashed across the front page?” He tossed a newspaper down on the bed, and she lurched to pick it up, scanning the front page quickly. Rita Skeeter had an exclusive inside scoop, she’d overheard the MOST interesting conversation between the Golden couple Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. A lovers’ dispute about another man, a lost child, and the young witch’s recent decline into alcoholism.
Hermione sucked in a shuddering breath, tears filling her eyes as the horrid woman speculated about her very private tragedy. Had it been the lovechild of her and her secret beau, or had it been Ron Weasley’s murdered offspring that she’d not wanted to bring to full-term. Hermione couldn’t feel anything, not the paper between her fingers, or the floor underneath her as she collapsed, nor the tears streaking down her face.
“So, which was it Hermione? His or mine?”
“Don’t.” Hermione didn’t even realize she was speaking until the choked word forced its way from her throat. She couldn’t do this right now. The whole wizarding world knew she’d lost a baby, and now, half of them would be thinking she’d aborted it because she didn’t love Ron. Rita Skeeter and truly gone too far.
“Don’t what? Ask if you were pregnant with my child, or Malfoy’s? It was Malfoy, right? That’s who you were babbling about last night, unless there’s more that you managed not to mention.” Ron sounded bitter, and angry, and she couldn’t see him through her tears, so she tried wiping her eyes, but it didn’t help. They were coming too quickly.
“Ron, please. It’s not like that. Skeeter’s a liar, you know that.”
“But she heard it from YOU. I heard it from YOU. You miscarried. You were with Malfoy. And you said you love each other.”
“I… I don’t. Ron, I don’t. It’s not what you think, I promise. I’ll explain, I swear.” She choked out, feeling her chest beginning to sob, ruining her words.
“Ok, so explain. Why have you been seeing Malfoy behind my back, and WHY haven’t you told me that you were pregnant?”
“I didn’t remember, not until a couple weeks ago. Malfoy obliviated me, but… I dreamt about it. It was awful, Ron. I made him show me his memories of when I was captive at Malfoy Manor, and… It’s worse than I thought. I wasn’t imperiused in the basement, I was chained to the floor of the dining room for over a week while they took turns raping me. Is that what you want to hear? You want to hear that when Malfoy locked me in his room, it was the best possible option? You want to hear that the thought of having his baby wasn’t as horrifying as it should have been, that I thought he’d make a good father, or that he risked his life to keep me safe, because he secretly fell in love with me? None of that matters, because I didn’t CHOOSE it. I chose you, Ron.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me you weren’t going to the muggle doctor? You were at his house, weren’t you?” Ron sounded cross, still, and she buried her face in her hands, trying to stem the flow of tears.
“I… I didn’t want you to look at me differently. I didn’t want you to hate me for being a different person than the one I was when we began dating.”
“Are you a different person, Hermione?”
“Of course I am. How could I not be, after what happened to me? Half the time, I don’t even recognize myself. I pretend I’m the same, but on the inside, it’s all just crumbling, and nothing makes sense.” She cried, looking up at his blurry shape, able to tell his arms were crossed, and he was standing by the door.
“Well, maybe if you’d told me at the beginning, I wouldn’t have. But how can I trust you after this? I wouldn’t have cared about all that stuff that happened, but you lied to me, for WEEKS! You didn’t just keep your memories to yourself, you LIED. Now, everytime you’re gone, I’m going to wonder if you’re with HIM, or if you’re trying to drink yourself to death.” Ron spat, his voice full of anger and desperation. She slumped wordlessly to the floor, heard him sigh with frustration, and the door slammed as he left her alone in their bedroom.
She gasped in lungfuls of air, trying to calm her sobbing, trying to quell her tears with her hands, but nothing helped, and in her desolation, she felt even worse, because she craved HIM. She wanted to escape to the one place she knew she could find comfort and understanding. And it made her feel like an absolute backstabber, wanting the one place she shouldn’t, thinking of the single person Ron would feel the most betrayed by her seeking.
But she knew that if she was with Malfoy, she would feel angry, lusty, desolate, and nostalgic. Not guilty. When she was with him, it was hard to think about anything BUT him. And she knew, in the memories she’d been watching, that the miscarriage was coming up any day now. It filled her with a deep sorrow that begged to be seen through to the end. She had to know the rest. She had to know everything.
So she stood, and made her way to the shower, finally finding the strength to quell her tears, as she mechanically went about her day, scrubbing the previous nights smell from her skin, and combing out her hair while it was still damp, leaving it to dry into the beautiful spirals she’d been avoiding, ever since watching that memory. She threw on jeans and a t-shirt, and quickly scribbled a note for Ron. He didn’t want lies, so this time, he’d know where she was. Where to find her if he cared to come looking. She somehow doubted he would.
She found herself standing in Malfoy’s study faster than she’d thought possible, the apparation and many stairs seeming just a blur as she stood before the pensive, staring across at the blond who stared up at her. She looked hard at him, assessing, noticing things she hadn’t before. There was no decanter on his desk, no half-empty glass. There were still the dark shadows of sleepless nights under his eyes, but not the red rim of alcohol or tears. For the first time, he was staring across at her with that clear silver gaze, completely sober, and somehow seeming more dangerous. Drunk, he’d become predictable, but the piercing way he stared across at her made her nervous.
He pulled a new memory from his head, and dipped it into the Pensieve, wordlessly waiting for her to dive in, before he followed. She stood once more in his ornate bedroom, watching as their doppelgangers woke up, rather closer than they’d gone to sleep. She didn’t know how much of them was touching under the blankets, but she suspected it was more than just her toes on his leg.
As they sat up, she saw a blush on her own cheeks, and saw her eyeing the sleepy Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. He was sitting up, rubbing his face, his hair a mess, his black shirt rumpled, and his eyes watering as he yawned. He was beautiful, and as he gave her a friendly smile, and shuffled from the bed, heading to the bathroom as he did most mornings, she watched his back as he went, taking in the lines of movement, the slow graceful walk as he disappeared to get ready for the day.
The next thing she knew, the memory reformed in the bathroom, and she looked away as the memory boy bathed in the large tub. His hair was dripping wet, and he was floating on his back, staring at the ceiling with a slight smile on his face, obviously daydreaming. A loud bang pulled their attention to the door to the bedroom, and she saw herself fly through it, hand on her mouth, face looking pale as she ran right past the boy in the bath, and toward the loo. She heard the splashing water as Draco moved upright in the tub, his voice calling out her name as she rushed along the tile floor. He was moving out of the tub, how brow creased with worry when they heard the retching sounds. He could smell the bacon through the open door and knew Dippy must’ve brought breakfast. This must be morning sickness, Hermione thought, feeling a wash of strangeness as she couldn’t recall what it felt like. Draco threw on a plush white robe, and scurried his dripping feet along the cold floor, coming quickly to where she bent over the toilet. He reached down, and gently brushed her hair back, holding it out of the way, though it was too late to save all of it. Hermione felt her heart clench painfully as she watched him hold her hair and rub gently at her back, trying to soothe the discomfort of her pregnancy, whispering encouragement that she wasn’t sure she’d even heard.
After several minutes, she finally seemed done, and she flapped a hand weakly, as if trying to bat him away. He seemed to understand, and scoffed, stroking her hair, and snapping his fingers. Dippy appeared with a sharp crack, and he glanced from the elf, to her, his face wary.
“Dippy, breakfast looks lovely, but I think Granger’s not quite up to bacon and eggs. Bring porridge instead, please.”
The elf nodded, and disappeared again, leaving them alone together, with only the self-flushing loo making a sound as it washed away her sick.
“I think you need a bath.” He noted, helping her to her feet, and watching her carefully, in case she needed to retch again.
“Are you finished?” She asked, eyeing his wet hair, and imperfectly tied robe.
“No, but you can go ahead. Unless you’d like a hand? I promise not to stare.” He teased, his eyes sparkling with humor, but she looked at him a bit too long.
“Actually, yeah. I think I might need help getting all this out, sorry.” She muttered, holding up one strand of mess-soaked hair. She looked embarrassed to need his help washing the vomit out, but he just shrugged, and pulled her to the edge of the tub.
“Don’t be sorry. As the mother of my child, I’m obligated to help in any way necessary, including, but not limited to taking care of your hair, tucking you in at night, and providing a suitable, relaxing entertainment for the day.” He said as he moved away, keeping his eyes off of her as he’d promised, setting his robe aside, and sinking back into the tub, wading around as he waited for her to join him.
“And what exactly is my entertainment for the day?” She asked, her face holding a bit of playfulness as she quickly stripped, her face flaming red.
“Books, of course. You love them, you don’t have to run around to get them, and you can read them in bed. Perfect for your state.” He said to the water, his head turning only a half an inch as he heard the splash of her entrance.
“My ‘state’ is hardly a state at all, Malfoy. I’m not even showing yet.”
“Yet.” He agreed, finally turning as she approached in the water. He did manage to keep his eyes on her face, blinking a few times to quell the urge to look lower. Not that he needed to, he’d already seen her naked several times, Hermione thought bitterly. “You know, even though it’s nearly debilitatingly terrifying, I’m actually looking forward to it.”
“Of course YOU are. You don’t have to look forward to actual childbirth.” She muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, despite his lack of staring.
“I still have to put up with YOU for nine months though. Not JUST you, either, but a hormonal, demanding, testier version of you that all pregnant women are rumored to become.” He teased, his hands alighting on her shoulders to turn her to face away from him. She watched herself take a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves as Draco led them to a small tray at the side of the tub that had a pitcher, and several vials of soap. They were thankfully labeled, ‘shampoo’, ‘conditioner’, ‘soap’, ‘bubbles’, and ‘scrub’ all etched right into the glass sides. Hermione knew she’d only have used the three she recognized, but with Malfoy right there, her curiosity seemed to get the better of her. She did trust him, at least, not to let her do anything dangerous with him there. So she picked up the bottle labeled ‘bubbles’ thinking it must be similar to muggle bubble bath, as he grasped the pitcher and began thoroughly wetting her hair.
“I could just dunk my head under, you know.” She shot over her shoulder, uncorking the bottle. “What’s this do, anyway?” She asked before he could retort.
“Here.” He held out his hand, and she handed it to him, watching as he poured a small stream into the water next to them. She shivered as a nearly electric thrill of magic went through the water, the blue liquid expanding faster than she could see to taint the entire tubful of water, and it didn’t stop. It seemed to expand out of the water, popping slightly as it bubbled over the surface, the blue foam it created stopping only after it had created a thick layer to the very edge of the bath.
“Wow.” She muttered, duly impressed by the magic bubble bath. Draco set the bottle aside, and went back to his job of caring for her hair, not seeming to mind in the least about the slimy mess in some of it, and washing it with the same care he brushed it with. He combed his fingers through it after covering them with conditioner, and she saw her own eyes close as he worked. She seemed to be enjoying being taken care of, but the watching Hermione felt a surge of sorrow at watching them fall into comfortable silence. She turned to the present Draco, forcing a sneer to cover her discomfort.
“Did you learn how to condition my hair from your mother, as well?” She mocked. He gave her a confused look, unsure how to respond to her hostility.
“Is there another way to do it?” He asked, genuinely perturbed. She looked away with a huff of breath, not willing to admit that if there was, she’d never used it.
“Granger, I read the paper this morning.” He seemed to be trying to start a conversation, so she ignored him. “Is everything alright?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?” She smiled at him for a split second, before she let her smile fall, and let sarcasm enter her tone. “My boyfriend is furious with me, half the wizarding world knows about my miscarriage, and think it was intentional, to hide one lover from another. Everything’s perfect, Draco.”
“Hermione, please don’t do this.” He seemed hurt, but what he had to be hurt by, she couldn’t imagine.
“Do what?” She absently watched the pair of themselves in the tub. He’d finished washing her hair, but had picked up the soap, and was washing her back with a sudsy cloth, while she leaned forward, letting him work. How pliant she’d become.
“Don’t treat me like I don’t matter.” He said in a quiet voice. Hermione swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, not daring to speak. She’d already chased Ron away. Should she really risk an argument that might drive Malfoy away as well? His voice surrounded them, her own laughter echoing off the walls as the pair of them in the tub continued to chat, his memory convincing hers to wash his back in return. The smile that was on the wet man’s face, his eyes closed as she ran the soap over his shoulder, made her want to cry. She was still unwilling to let him see her naked, but she was touching him freely, and he was clearly enjoying it. Beyond the minimum the situation called for, he seemed to truly enjoy spending time with her like that, open, playful, with just a hint of tension between them. She couldn’t forget that there were parts she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t forget that he already knew what she looked like naked. She couldn’t forget that the one thing tying them together had been the result of the worst time of her life. Yet still, she smiled her own small smile at the back of his head and a low murmur of appreciation passed his lips, she knew from the slight blush on her cheeks and the way her eyes skimmed his nape, shoulders, and the bubbles blocking the rest, that she must have been curious. What did he look like? What would it be like to make love to the father of her child, to touch his skin, and elicit the same noises of appreciation without the act of washing?
She almost forgot she was watching the memory until the blushing version of herself had finished soaping his back, and scrambled for the edge of the tub, demanding he not look as she quickly toweled herself dry and hurried back into the bedroom, passing her current version, unaware that her blazing cheeks had a witness, that Hermione herself would be watching her own past scurry with shame from her own interest in the blond.
The blond who was both sitting in the tub, smirking at the closed door, and leaning against the memory wall, watching her with worried eyes, and a tight lipped frown. One of them was content with how far she’d come. The other was waiting for her to say something as the memory darkened, and swirled into another.
“What makes you think you matter?” She asked pitching her voice low, to hide the slight waver in it as the bedroom reformed around them, the dark room indicating night as the main door opened, and Draco joined them, shrugging out of his robes, and falling exhausted into his bed next to the bleary-eyed witch who’d only just barely stirred at his entrance.
“I was worried when you didn’t come back.” Her own voice whispered in the dark, thick with interrupted sleep. The blond scooted closer, pulling her boldly into his arms, and burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her like she was a comfort.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. Go back to sleep.” His voice was slightly shaky, and Hermione couldn’t blame her past self for pulling him closer, instead of pushing him away. She wrapped her arms around him, and held him until his breathing had evened out somewhat, and the slight tremble of his arms had lessened.
“What happened?” She asked, but there was really only one thing that made sense. He’d been before the Dark Lord, probably punished for some slight error of someone related to him.
“Potter broke into Gringotts. He’s safe.” The last was offered as a comfort as she stiffened in his arms. “Prat flew out on a dragon, of all things. It was Bella’s vault he broke into. I- I’m worried. One more mistake, and he’ll kill us all.” Malfoy’s voice broke off, and he squeezed her tighter. “Hermione… I need you to know, if he kills us-”
“He won’t. Don’t say that.” She was instantly more awake, sitting up slightly, arms still around him, but eyes staring worriedly at him as he rolled slightly away, out of her embrace, and onto his back, one arm over his eyes, clearly distraught, and beyond tired.
“No, I need to say it. It’s a very real possibility, and we need to plan for it. If he kills us, they’ll come for you. They won’t be able to get into the room while I’m alive, but as soon as I’m dead, anyone could come through that door. But you will also be able to leave.” He removed his arm, and looked at her meaningfully.
“I’d hoped they’d forget about you, but… They haven’t, so… If we die, I’ve instructed Dippy to bring you my wand. As mother of the next Malfoy heir, they fall into your service in the event of the rest of the family’s death. If we’re killed, you’ll only have a few moments to escape before they come for you. Apparate far away. Take Dippy with you. All the house elves know how the Manor’s wards work, and they can walk you through expelling all unwelcome guests. Do you understand?” He seemed almost frantic, and Hermione’s eyes were wide, the realization hitting her hard that if the Malfoy family died, she’d have control of the house. She could flush Voldemort out into the open.
“I understand.” She nodded, her counterpart watching, feeling deja vu as she thought about exactly what it would feel like to fall into the role of master of Malfoy Manor. It wasn’t something she’d actually ever thought about, despite her pregnancy, and it brought up questions of blood magic, family wards, and the legitimacy of bastards.
“They have no idea about the baby. They still think I’m the last heir, and if my family dies, the house wards will fall, and they’ll be able to put up their own. It may confuse them for a few days why the wards haven’t failed, so you’ll need to act fast. Do you think you can get to safety before they realize there’s another Malfoy?”
“I can.” She replied, making her future self proud. She knew she’d be already planning her escape, mapping out places to Apparate, safe places to hide, and possible allies.
“Make sure you take Dippy. She’s the only one that knows about the baby, and most loyal to me. If you want to hide, she can take you to our villa. It’s hidden, unplottable, and out of the country. You’d be safe there.” He almost sounded like he was pleading with her. She knew herself better.
“You know I won’t run.” Was all her memory said, laying her head on the pillow next to his with a rather sad look of apology. He closed his eyes, silently accepting her decision. “But promise me… If you have any sort of a chance… Don’t let him kill you?”
He opened his eyes, and looked at her, rolling onto his side so he could better see her, a small, forced, playful smirk hovering over his lips.
“Worried you’ll miss me, Granger?” he teased, his eyes far too serious for the tone he tried to convey. Hermione watched herself swallow, cheeks red against the white pillowcase, the dark room not quite hiding the change in color.
“As if.” She retorted, her eyes scanning his face, seeing the same things the current Hermione saw. Fear, stress, fatigue. She wanted to help, to aid the war effort, to ease his double life. There was nothing she could do, trapped in his room, playing both slave and cloistered mother-of-the-heir. Nothing she could do but comfort him.
She reached out to him, drawing her arms around him again, pulling him back to her chest, offering him a portion of the comfort he needed. She wouldn’t care that she could feel the warmth from his skin, wouldn’t mind so much that the feeling of his hands on her back were unfamiliarly exciting. She wouldn’t feel so bad about feeling for him while she was doing what little she could to repay the risks he was taking. For her. For the baby. Their small deadly little secret family.
They seemed to have crossed some line between friendly enemies with a shared interest, to something more. She couldn’t tell who moved first, but she watched as they kissed, caught up in the moment, the emotions, the swirling feeling of belonging that was nearly tangible through the pensieve. He was holding her delicately, kissing her slowly, and she took the lead, rolling on top of him, touching his hair, his bare chest, arching against him as he ran his hands down her back.
“Stockholm syndrome.” The watching witch muttered, embarrassed by the ferocity with which she seemed to be accepting her previously pretend role as his plaything. The way he was touching her, the expression on his face as he grabbed her and practically threw her onto her back, kneeling over her, was entirely different from the mask she’d seen in other memories. This was real, something he wasn’t forcing, something he wasn’t putting on for a crowd, and something he wasn’t just sitting back, guiltily allowing to happen. He wanted this. And he pulled away.
“No.” He panted, holding her hands away from his body, even as her legs wrapped around his thighs, trying to entice him back into her embrace.
“Why not? It’s not like you haven’t done this before.” Hermione sounded hurt, and when she saw the offended shock of his face, she changed tactics. “I haven’t. Malfoy, I’m pregnant, but I have no idea what making love feels like. Is it wrong to want the full experience? To have SOMETHING to relate to how I got in this state that’s not some horrifying speculation?”
“No. Not wrong at all…” He conceded, letting go of her hands, so she could pull him back to her, her crimson cheeks hidden by hair as she kissed him. He pulled away again. “But I can’t.”
“Why not?” She let go of him, crossing her arms, looking stung as he fell to the side, burying his face in the pillow for a second.
“Because for me, it still feels like I’m forcing you. You’re still a prisoner here, and despite how very much I’d like to pretend THIS is how we conceived our child, passionate and willing, I’d always wonder if it was something in being stuck with me alone that made it seem like a good idea. I’d always worry you’ll regret me being you ‘first’, if you had other choices. Right now, you can’t remember our other… experiences. I don’t want to take that innocence from you, when you might decide someone else deserves to be that memory. If you still want me after the war, I’ll be more than happy to continue this. Just… Not like this, trapped, and desperate.” He pleaded, apologetic, and entirely too sweetly.
She watched as her past self was taken in by the words, settling comfortably next to him, displeased with the unsatisfied arousal, but pleased that he obviously wanted her, and was only objecting on moral grounds.
“After the war.” She agreed, curling up with him, still wanting to be close.
“You can still kiss me if you want, though.” He was back to teasing, relieved that she hadn’t taken offense, and trying to relieve his own tension.
“Goodnight, Draco.” She said primly, closing her eyes, her face resting on his chest comfortably, her arm wrapped around his torso as they drifted to sleep, his hands cradling her in slumber.
“Why do I think I matter?” The voice surprised her, and she faced the watching Malfoy, almost having forgotten their argument as they’d watched themselves get closer. He held out a hand to the pair that was falling asleep, just as the memory lightened, heralding the morning, but an identical image to the one they’d just left. They were still snuggled on the bed, his eyes slowly blinking open, a smile stretching his lips as he looked down at the weight on his chest.
“That doesn’t count, Malfoy. I can’t remember it, and it means nothing to me.” Hermione lied. Feeling her own heart lurch in her chest at the sight of Memory-Malfoy brushing hair from her sleeping face, masking his delight when she stirred, so she woke to only a slight smile, and gentle fingers tracing her shoulder.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He murmured, while the current version of himself looked livid.
“I don’t believe you.” His voice was almost dangerous, and he stepped closer to her, daring her to back away, and prove that she had even some feelings about what they’d been experiencing the past few weeks. “You may not remember the exact moments, but now, you know exactly how I acted, what’s been happening, and how much I risked. You can’t claim that it means nothing, even from a third-party perspective.”
“I don’t feel anything for you.” She lied, standing her ground, staring up into silver eyes that blazed with anger.
“Not gratitude for helping your friends win the war?” he asked, inching closer.
“Maybe gratitude, then.” She conceded, trying to keep her anger as a mask. His being so close to her was making her head spin. Was is possible to smell someone inside a pensieve? Because she could swear that the scent of his cologne was surrounding her.
“You don’t feel guilt for keeping me a secret from Weasley?”
“Ok, I feel guilty about that. Your point?” She snapped, trying to ignore the pair of themselves in the background that kissed hesitantly, before one rolled from the bed to start his day.
“You don’t feel anger that I raped you, locked you up, and erased your memories?”
“Yes, I’m angry about that!” She half shouted, feeling her anger skyrocket with every word he spoke.
“And you don’t feel sad at all that we lost a child, even if it was barely formed?”
“Fuck you, Malfoy!” She shoved at him, and he grinned a malicious, unhappy grin.
“So you feel all these things, yet… I mean nothing?” He sneered, looming above her, making her feel suffocated. She waved her wand, escaping the pensieve that was displaying what seemed to be him, explaining as he buttoned a shirt, how he would get a message to McGonagall about a secure location she should check if the Malfoy family perished. He was promising to get her back to the Order, even as he pulled on his Death Eater robes, said he’d be back in two days, and kissed her one lingering goodbye.
“Don’t run away from me, Granger!” He’d followed her from the pensieve, glaring daggers as she stumbled away from the desk, away from the memories she didn’t have, away from him.
“I’m with Ron. You CAN’T mean anything to me!” She shouted at him, feeling tears sting her eyes. She felt as if she’d been slammed into a brick wall, unable to move forward with her family, unable to move backward, where there were potholes she could fall into. Surrounded on all sides by people wanting to help her, wanting to be with her, wanting everything from her, and above, looming silver and blond that threatened to eclipse everything.
“Hermione…” The choked sound of his voice forced her to look at him, leaning across his desk, watching her, his eyes filled with pain. “That was the last one. You’re all caught up. You never have to come back again.” He said curtly, straightening, he stalked from the room. Hermione stared at the empty space he’d occupied behind his desk, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall. She could feel the hot tears in her eyes, refusing to let them fall, her mind a vortex of unruled thoughts of Malfoy, Ron, The Weasleys, Harry. How many people had she let down since the end of the war? How many people had she let down with that single Prophet article? How many times would she continue to let them down?
She slowly walked through the hallway and down the stairs, barely seeing her surroundings as she forced her feet to move. She had to go home. To the Burrow, to Ron. She had to try to make things right, before they got so wrong there was no fixing them. She had to leave Malfoy, and all he evoked, behind.
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Nightmares