The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy

Chapter 16: The Other London

Hermione woke up tired the next morning. She'd had the dream again last night, headier and more intense. This time, though, her eyes had been open. She hadn't thought, at any point, that it was anyone but him.

She lay in bed a while, looking at the ceiling, thinking.

The week had been, frankly, awful. Harry had noticed her change in attitude, of course. After three days of her silent treatment, when she'd been out in the garden for some air, her hands cupped around the bluebell flames she loved to conjure, he'd come to her and said, "Look, Hermione—did something happen with Malfoy?"

He already sounded suspicious, as if he were ready to fight Draco if he'd done something. Hermione had felt a rush of fondness for Harry then. She could have hugged him, if it wouldn't have set his hair alight.

"Not really," she'd said. "I suppose I just... I got my hopes up a bit, that's all. That he'd really changed." Her voice came out quiet and small, and it was a relief to be herself, not the persona she'd been putting on in the cottage.

Harry had held out his hands toward the bluebell flame, warming his fingers. After a moment, he said, "He sort of seems like he has, though, doesn't he?"

"He's—yes, I mean, in some ways, of course he has. Hunting the Horcruxes, being friendly with both of us... But have you ever actually heard him contradict the things he always used to say? All that pure-blood obsession?"

"Well, no," Harry admitted. "I suppose he just doesn't really talk about it anymore. It's still different from how he used to act, though."

"Yes, but..."

She hadn't been able to finish the sentence. But it doesn't feel like enough. Saying it would have shown her hand—would have shown how much she cared, unwillingly, what Draco thought.

Still, she thought Harry understood anyway, in that unspoken way he often seemed to.

She'd told herself over and over that distance was the only answer. Soon it would be easier to hold Draco at bay, and then she'd stop thinking about his opinions on Muggles and Muggle-borns with this feeling like teetering on the edge of a cliff. She'd told herself this was the only way to keep herself safe.

But part of her kept doubting.

All week, she'd thought Draco had seemed unhappy. It wasn't an obvious thing. He hadn't made any mention of her behaviour, though she hadn't really expected him to, proud as he was.

Yet there had been a shift in his manner. She'd seen hints of confusion, then dissatisfaction, even dejection. And through it all, he'd kept trying to talk to her. Over and over, he'd tried, always using the same casual tone, as if everything were still normal between them, as if this time he could break through to her, or this time, or the next. Every day it felt worse to be so abrupt. He'd brought up one of her favourite sub-branches of Arithmancy on Monday, and the effort it had taken not to enthuse about it had been excruciating.

Clearly he did feel their relationship was something more than convenience.

That's not the real point, she told herself, angry about the small, hopeful bubble that seemed to have swelled up in her. The point was his beliefs. The point was that she refused, point blank, to argue her own worth to him.

But then, yesterday, Draco had said he would come into Muggle London, and her thoughts had been thrown into disarray. She didn't know what to do with the information. He'd agreed to go into a sea of Muggles without complaint, without any smart remarks, without even a sneer or a look of disdain. All this, when scarcely a week ago he'd heard one simple reference to her upbringing and shorted out like a circuit?