Bad Reputation

The Infirmary

She arrives as Malfoy is waking up from several magical sedatives. Pomfrey tells her his ribs are broken after he was disarmed, Stunned, beaten, and pushed down a flight of stairs for good measure. The students responsible will be expelled by the end of the day.

He is bruised everywhere. Around the eyes. Across the jaw. His arms, his wrists. His entire midsection is an ugly hematoma, which Hermione knows even magic can't erase in a day.

She sits beside him and takes one of his hands.

He looks up at her with swollen eyes, then looks away.

"Go away, Granger," he says wearily. "I'm not worth it."

"Shut up, Draco. And you are."

His eyes snap to hers as she uses his name for the first time.

They sit in silence for awhile, anger and fear trembling between them. And something else.

"The brutality of it," she says, bitterly. "Not just the violence. The illegal use of a strictly controlled substance to —"

"Shut up, Hermione," he bites out. "It's fine. I know how to resist Veritaserum."

She's puzzled. "How? Do you carry an antidote? Did you —"

He looks at her with stony grey eyes. Eyes like cathedral walls. And she realizes.

The way he opens and closes. The way he can let her all the way in, then shut her all the way out.

"You're an Occlumens," she says.

He nods. "Snape taught me. Nobody knows, even Dumbledore."

"Snape? Why?"

"I asked him to. Back when I realized there were secrets I might want to keep. It just felt safer. Easier."

By reflex, her fingers curl around his. He doesn't stop her.

"But if you can resist it...why did you say anything? Why did you reveal it all to them? Your reputation — "

"Bugger my reputation," he says hoarsely. "I'm tired of lying. Just because I'm a teenage boy doesn't mean I want to fuck anything or anyone that moves. I still get a choice. I still get to say no. Even I get to hope — I get to hope for — "

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, abandoning the sentence.

Hermione hesitates.

"Did you say anything else?"

His eyes open. And sharpen. "You mean, did I say anything about you. Right?"

His fingers uncurl from hers.

"Are you ashamed?" he asks.

"What do I have to be ashamed of?"

He laughs bitterly. "I don't know. Accepted a well-paid position to tutor the alleged Whore of Slytherin in the very basics of touching another human being seems like a bit of a downgrade even for you."

She flinches.

He continues. "I didn't mention you or our little agreement while I pretended to confess everything to them. But now it's just you and me. So let's have it out."

He swallows in spite of himself. "Would you be ashamed if others knew about us?"

Would I be ashamed?

Am I ashamed that I can't stop thinking about kissing you? That I can't wait for the next lesson? That I've fallen in love with how intelligent and funny and truthful and tender you are? That I can't wait to learn everything I can not just about your body — but about you?

Then her heart twists.

What if, once the lessons are over, this is...over? What if this is just practice for him being with others? What if none of this was real?

Then her brain does what Hermione Granger's brain does best: identify patterns.

The session in Flitwick's classroom: practice.

Kisses #1 and #2 in Hogsmeade: practice.

Kisses on the Quidditch field: practice.

CPR on the Quidditch field: practice.

He's a Slytherin. A Malfoy. He said it himself, using people is second nature to him. It's what they do.

And now he's done it to you.

Quietly she asks, "Is there anything to know about us?"

He closes his eyes again. "Merlin," he rasps. "Sometimes you really are the Dimmest Witch of Your Age."

"Wh — what do you mean?" she says, hope rising in her chest: dangerous, fragile.

He shifts in the bed. He's fading, but there are things left to say.

"Granger, when I said in the library that I'd never had the opportunity to kiss the person I wanted, I had someone specific in mind."

She can't speak.

"I had her in mind since the day I first saw her. Years ago. But I was also frightened of how certain I felt about it. It felt too early. It felt too powerful. And she...isn't the kind of person I was taught I would ever want. Or should ever want."

A tear escapes his eye and runs down his cheek, but he keeps his eyelids stubbornly closed.

"I tried to want other people. And I tried to make myself do the things in the script. I got so close, but every time, I stopped it. I'm not proud of this, but — I said cruel things to people to explain why. To push them away."

He sighs. "It's probably how the stories started. People felt teased, reeled in, and then they felt humiliated. They wanted something I seemed ready to offer, and I didn't give it to them. And I told them it was because there were things wrong with them. As if they were stupid or deluded for thinking I would ever want them. As if their desires were something to be ashamed of."

He gestures to his battered body. "Honestly, I had this coming. I don't mind."

"Nobody deserves — "

"This witch, though," he plods ahead. "This witch I wasn't supposed to want. I wanted her anyway. Every time I saw her talking. Every time I heard that stupid mouth of hers flapping. Every time she shouted out the answer in class."

"Draco —"

"Every time she defended her stupid friends to me and my stupid friends. Every time I saw her mouth move, I felt like I wanted to burn it all down. Because she couldn't possibly want me back. I felt like the most stupid, deluded boy on earth for thinking she could ever want me."

Everything is breaking apart inside her.

He continues quietly. "I knew I could never have or even deserve a chance with her. But every time I saw her shrink her wand and twist it up in her big, stupid hair...I wanted to bury my face in that hair. I wanted to put my fingers in it. I wanted to feel it next to me on a pillow. I wanted... "

"What did you want, Draco?"

"I wanted you to be my first, Hermione. For everything. That's what I want everyone at this fucking school to know about us."