“Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”

— Jodi Picoult

________________________________________

The following morning, Hermione needed no reminder as to why she felt like a Flobberworm. Ron’s cold words and his face contorted into a ferocious fury were still fresh in her memory. Though, it did take her a while to remember just who had come to her aid last night.

When the image of Malfoy and her on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around each other came flooding through her head once more, her eyes darted straight away to the exact spot at the foot of her bed.

The blue blanket was spread out over the peach carpet, frilly pillows that had fallen from the rocking chair scattered, her book amongst them.

She remembered yesterday very well indeed. How Malfoy had gladly left the office without her needing to tell him (he always left before her anyway), which had then left her to look over some last minute papers regarding Nott’s inability to show up for scheduled meetings, and then on her way out receiving an urgent message from Harry. She knew Malfoy wouldn’t care where she ran off to so without further thought she’d arrived at his house as soon as possible. 

Hermione thought Harry or Ron merely needed some soothing and reassuring over the incident in Diagon Alley again; she hadn’t been prepared to come face to face with Ministry workers, who tried to get descriptions of the Death Eaters. But it was almost, always entirely useless to try and describe a fully cloaked Death Eater. But they did the best that they could. It was when, ‘And why was Mr. Malfoy involved? You would know, wouldn’t you, Miss. Granger? You’re currently living together, are you not?’ was asked, did everything, which had already been hanging delicately by a single thread, fall apart. 

She remembered standing in front of the door, wiping away at her eyes furiously and taking deep rattling breaths before entering her own flat as normal as she could. She remembered hearing the thudding of her own heart in her ears as she climbed stair after stair, one step, two step, three, four, five; and then entering her bedroom quietly, resisting the bizarre urge to kick the door shut after herself. Hermione remembered numbly picking up a book from the bedside table and sitting in the rocking chair, throwing the blanket on top of her. She remembered trying to read harmoniously and determinedly, but the words would not sink in – her eyes scanning across pages that may as well have been blank. Hermione did not remember at what point she threw the book at the wall, she did not know when she started to cry.

She now rubbed her singing eyes, no doubt also swollen, and sighed softly to herself as she glanced at the closed door. There hadn’t been much talk when Malfoy had stood and gone off to bed, she didn’t even think he looked back at her.

Hermione was almost afraid to go downstairs, the embarrassment and shame and fear of facing him becoming very real to her now. She wished she had cried quieter, or that she had kicked him out, or that he’d acted like his usual self and shouted at her to shut it. She couldn’t even wrap her brain around the truth that he’d comforted her. What she found even more peculiar was he hadn’t even considered a silencing charm on his room, that’s all it would have taken and he’d have heard no more from her.

It felt like a very long time that she stared at the door (so long she could almost hear it mocking her, just standing there in all its wooden glory), seriously debating with herself if she couldn’t simply live in her room for the rest of the year.

Hermione really didn’t know what it was about him that had her so intimidated. But she wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing, so with her head held high, she slowly descended the staircase, Crookshanks at her heels.

He wasn’t there.

At this time he was always stuffing his face with something apple flavoured, chewing noisily. Her theory was he either did this so as to get a reaction out of her or to test out her mood – the better she was feeling, the more likely she would be to snap at him. Crazy as it was. 

But there was no loud chewing this morning, and she almost missed it. Almost.

Mashing up some left over tuna, Hermione laid the bowl down for Crookshanks and made herself a cup of coffee, grabbed the copy of the Daily Prophet waiting for her at the door and sat down at the table.

She skimmed through it as she usually did, checking for Harry the missing wizards and witches collum as she had promised. For starters, she’d been highly sceptical, but as more and more moving photographs would appear in the Prophet, from a different picture each week to a new one every few days, she could no longer overlook it and was beginning to consider he was right. Thankfully, Hermione barely recognised the names or faces, and when she did it was never someone she had known directly.

Thursday it had been Walter Flunders, yesterday it was Luis Bagwater, and today it was…

There was a clunk as she knocked over the coffee mug, and steaming dark brown liquid seeped over the face of Theodore Nott.

***

“Yes… yes… oh god, yes!”

“Harder!”

“Oh… ahh, yes.”

Draco clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his sniggers as he pressed his ear firmer against his neighbour’s door. He could hear very plainly the headboard slamming repeatedly into the wall and was quite certain at any moment they’d break through it. They were really going at it, he had no idea how he’d never heard them from his room before: the sounds were noisy enough to be heard from three floors down. Crouching further, he listened even more intently, highly entertained.

“Oh, there you are,” came a small voice from up the hall. “Listen Malfoy, there’s something you should –”

At the sound of her voice, Draco’s head snapped up so quickly he hit the doorknob, a flush creeping over his pale cheeks from both being caught and the events of last night rushing back.

Granger’s bloodshot eyes looked from him, to the door where groans were still issuing from, and back again. Judging by the way her lips twitched at the sides, she was torn between amusement and disapproval.

“What were you going?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shuffling his feet guiltily. “I was just, ah…” His eyes swept over the painfully boring and slightly cracked wooden door (perhaps they’d also had sex on that?) and said, “I was examining the wood.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Are they always so… loud?” he asked casually.

She leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Yes.”

“Then how come we don’t hear –?”

“I magicked the flat, as have most other residents. Zoe and Matthew, they can get very… obstreperous.”

His awkwardness faded, and soon he was smirking at her. “Peeved you couldn’t get any of your own, Granger?”

She smirked back. “Says the one with his ear practically glued to their door.”

Draco looked at her in mild surprise, his eyes fixed on that uncharacteristic smirk upon her lips. But then she flushed from under his intense gaze, and as soon as it had come, the smirk was gone and turned into an expression of unease. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and her gaze flickered away. Now it was she who shifted from foot to foot as though guilty.

“What?” Draco asked. 

She hesitated for several moments, and then said almost inaudibly, “Have you seen the Daily Prophet this morning?”

His brow creased. “Of course not. Not when I know they’re going to have negative stuff written about –”

“There’s something you ought to know, Malfoy.”

***

“Never leave me like that again,” Draco said pleadingly. 

Blaise gave him a cocky grin as he replaced his dozens of boxes back in their original spots around his flat. “If I had a Galleon for every time someone said that to me.”

“You’d have one.”

Blaise feigned a look of outrage. “How dare you.”

“You love me.”

Blaise rolled his eyes as he charmed more boxes to fly over their heads from outside.

“How was your mother by the way?” Draco asked after a moment, arms folded over his chest, watching box after box zoom past. “You were back sooner than I expected.”

He shrugged. “All right, I suppose. She’s not thrilled about another relationship failing her but she’ll be okay. She’s tough.”

“I hate to say it mate, but she’s had a lot of bad relationships. Remember that guy who had to poke everyone in the nose four times when he met them?”

Blaise grinned. “He was weird.” He paused. “I liked him.”

“Because you had a lot in common?” Draco teased, jumping back as Blaise made a box zoom past him much closer than was necessary.

“Nooo, I liked him because he reminded me of you. Freak.”

Draco smiled. “Twat.”

“So, if I may ask, what brings you over here? I understand perfectly the part about needing to see my sexiness, I am irresistible, but I’m also psychic and my mystical powers tell me you are in need to tell me something.”

Draco’s smile faltered. He had intended on coming here to see his best friend equally as much as he’d intended to tell him of Theodore’s disappearance. But he hadn’t thought further than that, being much too relieved to have Blaise back. He did not know how to say to someone that a friend, the boy who’d sat beside them in Potions for six years up until sixteen, someone they had known since eleven, was now gone quite possibly forever. So he just came out with it.

“Theo’s missing.”

There was a stretched silence. Blaise did not react at first. In fact, the only sign that showed he had heard Draco at all was when he smashed a box he’d been levitating through the door. From the cracking and clattering, Draco thought it to have been filled with cutlery.

Blaise’s smile had completely vanished when he looked at Draco now. It wasn’t often anybody ever saw the serious side to him.

Finally, he nodded. “I know.”

Another pause.

“You know, I can’t…” Draco gave a hollow laugh. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I think the last time I saw him was in Obscurus Books in Diagon Alley.”

 “A book store, of course he’d be in there.”

“It’s a wonder he and Granger were never buddies at Hogwarts, imagine the boring conversations they’d have had.” He was silent for a second before adding hesitantly, “We should never have drifted apart.”

Draco shot him an irritated look. “You wouldn’t’ve if you didn’t fight with him.”

“And what else was I supposed to do? Just allow for him to speak about you like that?”

“Everyone else hated me, it doesn’t –”

“It matters,” he cut in, holding up a hand to silence Draco, “because Theodore was supposed to be your friend, no matter what everyone else thought of you.”

“Daphne was his girlfriend, ‘course he’d take her side.”

“Girlfriends come and go, friends are forever.”

He scowled. “You’re sounding like a Gryffindor.”

“To be honest with you, I don’t give a damn. It wasn’t your fault what happened to Astoria, it couldn’t have been helped –”

It was Draco’s turn to hold up a hand for silence. “Don’t go there, Blaise. I really would rather forget it.”

“Fine. I just don’t think he should –”

To his luck, Draco was saved from replying when there was a tapping at the window. Both their heads swerved around to see a horned owl nestled on the windowsill, his chocolate feathers ruffled from the chilly morning breeze. Blaise strode over to let him in and went for the letter, but the owl gave him a very dark look and took flight to Draco, landing with a dignified hoot on his shoulder.

Blaise pouted, something he’d always unintentionally done when he was put out about something.

“What?” Draco asked without looking up, untying the letter from the owl’s leg. 

“I wanted a letter,” he whined.

Draco snorted and unfolded the parchment. Blaise scurried closer so as to read over his shoulder. The owl glared at him.

Draco,

It has come to my attention that you were seen with wanted Death…

He skipped that. Natalie Hopkins’ ramblings went on for three solid paragraphs in writing so dainty and selective it didn’t even look handwritten. She was scolding him as though he was a misbehaving child, completely missing the point that he wasn’t even her child or part of their family yet. The only woman who had the authority to preach him like this was his own mother, and even then he hardly listened.

There was only one particular sentence that caught his attention. He read it over three times, the words gradually seeping into his brain, and then swore loudly; the owl on his shoulder took refuge on a nearby chair, Blaise gave a startled jolt beside him.

Of course, bringing along Ms. Granger would not only give me the delightful opportunity to meet her, but it would also allow myself insight to your friendship with her, which I can only assume is a strong one. Why else would you be living together? If possible, I’d like to docket this meet-up sometime early next week. Dates and times will be further discussed by me with your mother and you’ll be notified as soon as possible.

Have a splendid day, and do think about what I said.

Natalie Hopkins

“Well, bringing her couldn’t be all that bad, could it?” asked Blaise hesitantly. “She’s really not that –”

“She’s horrible, no matter what you say,” Draco snapped, crumpling the parchment into a ball and hurling it at the wall.

“Mate, come on. You’re a bit unreasonable when it comes to Granger.”

“You’re on her side?” he demanded incredulously.

“No, but –”

“God, do you even know what I have been through with her since you left?”

“Obviously not. So tell me. Tell me why you can’t be civil with her.”

Draco groaned. He’d really set himself up for disaster. But Blaise, for whatever reason, was his friend. So he told him everything that had happened, failing to avoid mentioning when he’d hit her, which Blaise had not been impressed with. When he’d finished, both were sitting on the plastic covered couches, Draco looking ahead at nothing in particular as Blaise watched his every move, silent for the most part.

“You comforted her,” he finally said, and Draco shifted under his intensified gaze. “Why?”

“It wasn’t intentionally,” he said defensively.

“There are a variety of ways to have quietened Granger without going to her directly.” 

“What do you want from me Blaise?” he snapped. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“It’s just I’ve known you all my life, and never do I think I’ve seen you look after someone other than –”

“Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth. And though Blaise didn’t finish the sentence, the last word hung in the air around them like a heavy rain cloud: Astoria. “I wasn’t looking after her, it was  late and I wasn’t thinking properly and it was her birthday and –”

“People can only lie to themselves for so long before the truth hits,” said Blaise quietly, “and when it does, it’s a harsh awakening.” 

***

SMASH.

“Now what did you do?” Hermione called wearily, and when all she head in response was Malfoy sniggering to himself, she looked up from her book and called a little louder. “Malfoy! What did you do?”

“Have you always had three cats?” came his voice casually from upstairs.

“No, there’s only one,” said Hermione, rubbing her forehead. She could feel a headache coming on. Malfoy had practically fallen through the door a little more than an hour ago and was very drunk. So far, he’d managed to break two vases and five plates, tried wearing a flashing Christmas sock on his head which did not belong to him, so where he’d gotten that would be forever a mystery, and had attempted to speak with the television, apparently convinced the people inside it were trapped. At first Hermione had tried to slip him a Draught of Peace potion in hopes of slowly wearing him out to sleep, but Malfoy had caught her and then proceeded to take shelter upstairs in the laundry room, certain Hermione was a sadistic murderer with three cats; a ‘sadistic crazy cat lady murderer’ he had called it.

So now she was on the lounge chair, book in hand, and was keeping an ear out of any sounds of Malfoy dying or passing out. Unfortunately, he was very much far from it at the moment, but she knew it had to be soon. He was very good holding his liquor, if it had been Hermione, she’d have been out cold long ago.

“Where’s my… wand go?” His words were beginning to slur.

“No idea,” she lied, shoving his wand further under the pillows. No way was he going to be armed. “What did you need if for?”

“I wanna cut this pineapple.”

“Mhm, great well – wait, what?” Her head jerked up. “Where did you get a pineapple from? I didn’t buy any.”

“I dunno. I just wanna cut it.”

“Why…?” Hermione asked slowly, her head inclined in the direction his voice was drifting from.

“What do you think?” he snapped. “To see Spongebob, of course.”

It was at this point did Hermione begin to think allowing television into the wizarding world was not a good idea.

“I’ve always wondered, how does his house have corners if he lives in a pineapple?” he went on. “And how does Patrick nearly drown in an underwater beach?”

“What?”

“You know that episode where Spongebob gets to be a lifeguard, and then he has to save Patrick from drowning and –?”

“Yes, yes, I remember. I just didn’t know you liked that show.”

He gave a very drunken laugh that came to an abrupt end when hiccups took over.

What felt like hours later, when in actual fact it had only been twenty minutes – twenty minutes filled with drunken musings and outbursts about very trivial things – did Hermione finally hear a loud thump. She closed her book and went up the stairs.

Malfoy was slumped against the laundry door that was left ajar, his legs sprawled out and arms limply slouched at his sides. His eyes opening and closing as if struggling to stay awake. But that wasn’t what had Hermione’s mouth forming a small ‘o’. It was Crookshanks. What may have appeared to be a very interesting hat was in fact her fluffy ginger feline nestled on Malfoy’s head as though there was no bed in existence more cosy.

She blinked a few times to assure herself that she wasn’t also drunk, and pulled out her wand to levitate Malfoy back to his bedroom, Crookshanks jumping off him with a start and a very grumpy look at Hermione.

Malfoy mumbled and sniggered to himself the whole time he was hovering in the air ahead of her, and when she finally placed him softly on his large bed, he gave a sudden jerk and was sitting up, looking around wildly.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, wondering if he would yell at her for being in his room, or maybe just because she had disrupted him.

But his reaction was nothing like that. Instead, when Malfoy’s grey eyes fell on her he became noticeably more relaxed and leant against the headboard. Hermione watched the rise and fall of his chest carefully for any change that would tell her he’d snapped out of it, but it didn’t come. He stayed calm and watched her with an expression of curiosity, as though only realising she was there.

“Granger,” he said in such a quiet and reluctant voice it reminded her greatly of the tone she’d used when she was a child and had asked her parents for second helpings of candy, which had always been a bold move considering they were dentists. “I never meant to slap you.”

Hermione found it odd that he brought up something that had happened months ago. And even more strange that he still seemed to be dwelling on it when she’d long ago put it behind her. She’d heard of many stories about abusive husbands, boyfriends or even friends, and those girls who’d put up with it because they were sure it never meant anything serious. And Hermione had told herself that if anything like that were to happen to her, under no circumstances would she forgive him. But for reasons she’ll later wonder about, she accepted it. Not entirely, she did not think she would never really let it go, but she also couldn’t ignore that this was a big milestone for Malfoy – to admit he was wrong out of his own will.

“I know,” she told him, still hesitating beside the bed. “But if you ever pull something like that again Malfoy, I won’t be any where near as tolerant. I’m only accepting because I’m sorry about what I said.”

He was overcome with a fit of bubbly hiccups, Hermione waited until he’d subdued them, and when he next spoke, firewhiskey was much more apparent on his breath. “I had it coming.”

Because she didn’t know what else to say before leaving – she didn’t feel they were on friendly enough terms to say a proper goodnight – Hermione reminded him of some paperwork to do before Monday that didn’t even exist, and she awkwardly made to leave. 

But then a strong hand enclosed itself around her wrist, and gently tugged her back. She looked down at him, completely at a loss.

“What are you –?”

“I really hated you, Potter and Weasley,” was all he said.

Hermione blinked several times, studied the soft, yet somehow rough hand still holding onto her arm, and finally looked at his face. He looked very out of it, she was sure he couldn’t possibly stay conscious for long.

It was with that thought that had her allowing Malfoy to pull her a little closer. He would be out soon, no matter how well he may be able to speak. 

“I know you hated us,” she said as though he was a small boy, and then when she noticed how close he was to falling off the edge of the bed, said, “How about you straighten yourself up? If you fall, that’ll be no help to the headache you’re going to have in the –”

“No, no, no. You’re not listening to me, Granger,” said Malfoy, looking highly frustrated all of a sudden.

“Because you’re drunk Malfoy,” she said fervently.

“A drunken mind speaks a sober heart,” he said wisely, though he was swaying dangerously from his attempt to sit upright and it ruined the seriousness of his words.

She tried again. “You really need sleep.”

“No, be quiet for once because I have been meaning to say this for a long time and it’s bloody time somebody heard it.” His eyes bored into hers, almost challenging her to interrupt again.

Hermione, knowing she would have to put up with a very disgruntled and drunken Malfoy if she refused, gave an annoyed groan and nodded to show he had her attention.

“No matter what happened,” he continued, “it always had something to do with you lot. You always had some kind of fan club running after you and treating everybody nicely, but when it came to the evil, slimy Slytherins it was a whole different story. The whole school hated us. But I don’t suppose you’d have noticed that, would you? Being too wrapped up in your own heroic plans for that.”

He was slurring again, and Hermione, frowning deeply, had to bend down a little towards his bed to hear clearer. 

“Once a kid was sorted into Slytherin – whoosh!” He made a flying movement with his hand, narrowly missing from knocking himself in the face. “That was it, the kid was a goner. I still remember looking around and seeing the looks on everybody’s faces, every sorting, there was always that same expression of disgust on every kid’s face once someone was sorted into the ‘Bad House’. We were all outsiders. Especially during the war when, just because of Pansy’s outburst, every single one of them was sent down to the dungeons. McGonagall didn’t even offer any of them to stay from what Blaise told me. We were always the evil ones…” He trailed off, seemingly lost in whatever it was he was remembering, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice just how soft his features were when he wasn’t being snide with her. She kneeled down on the floor and rested her hands on the bed, now looking up at him rather than down.

“And what’s a little kid supposed to do when they’re sorted into Slytherin?” he went on, his voice dropping lower and lower from drowsiness. “What’s an eleven year old supposed to do when even teachers are eyeing him like the next Dark Wizard? When your whole school’s against you, what do you do? Nothing. So for seven years they’re all made to endure the blind hatred throw their way and a lot of the time it’s that that makes them so cold and mean and weld up hatred inside. Because nobody gave them a chance. Sure, some didn’t go out of their way for that chance, but no one else in the other three Houses had to go out of their way or prove to someone why they should be liked. Seven years we are judged and hated… the outcasts. But then, there comes along a group of people who know exactly what that’s like, who have been through it all, and they offer you to join them, where a whole heap of others are that were just like you, where you’ll feel needed and wanted and accepted. Powerful. And suddenly, becoming a Death Eater doesn’t sound so bad anymore.”  

A sadness Hermione knew would be impossible to explain to anyone fell upon her and weighed her down. She bit down on her lip, again having no idea what to say. Somehow, she felt it didn’t matter; the fact that he’d gotten it off his chest seemed to be the most important thing right now.

“Granger,” his voice was very soft, she knew he was not far from drifting off.

“Yes, Malfoy?” And her voice was also gentle, feeling that if she would speak normally, this strange… bizarre… yet incredibly gentle moment between them would be shattered.

“Stay?”

“Pardon?”

Malfoy was quiet so long; she thought he’d fallen asleep. But then Hermione saw him shift so he now faced her better, and his voice was even weaker than before. “Stay with me.”

Three simple words, yet they had the power to render her speechless. And that was something hard to come by when you were Hermione Granger. So she didn’t say anything to that, not only because she hadn’t the slightest clue how to, but also because his eyes were definitely drooping now. He probably didn’t even realise what he’d said, she assured herself.

True to her words, not long after, the ability to stay awake was tarnished, and Malfoy slouched against the headboard in what Hermione could only imagine being a horribly uncomfortable position. Hesitantly, she took off his shoes, almost dying in the process from the smell, tugged his body further down the bed so she could rest his head on the pillow and finally draped the sheets over him.

He didn’t stir once. 

________________________________________

Next chapter; something arrives in Hermione's office and Draco finally tells her about the dinner, but what neither of them knows is the surprise visitor that'll join them.