The Gallows Chapter 12

Hermione sent an owl to Molly Weasley, apologizing for missing Sunday dinner again while the three Slytherins visited with Malfoy. Last Sunday she’d sent a similar note, and had received in return a long letter of assurances and love, complete with the offer to send over some food, but Hermione had politely declined, wondering how the elves would react.

This Sunday, however, a harassed looking Harry stumbled his way into the sunroom, falling into one of the chairs next to her with a sigh. Hermione looked up from the book she was studying, raising a brow.

“You all right?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair before removing his glasses and muttering a cleaning charm. “Molly sent me over with what appears to be an entire roast chicken, mash, veg, gravy, and a three-layer cake. Lottie — that’s her name, right?”

She looked him over, wondering where on earth he was hiding that much food. “Right...”

“Lottie was less than pleased by my arrival laden with food but she said the elves in the kitchen are preparing it to be served now.”

Carefully, Hermione set down her book, casting a glance out the window into the pouring rain and back to her best friend. “Do you want to stay? Blaise, Pans, and Theo are here.”

Harry’s cheeks darkened and he shrugged in a would-be casual way. “I wouldn’t say no to Molly’s cooking.”

She laughed, vanishing the book back to her room. “Weren’t you just there?”

He grimaced, scratching at the scar on his forehead. “She has it in her head that Charlie and I might be a match since Gin and I didn’t work out.”

Ah, Molly the matchmaker. It’d been a relief the day Percy proposed to Audrey, thus taking all the eligible Weasley men who were interested in witches off the market. Too often she’d found herself conveniently paired with Percy to pick flowers from the field for the table or else feed the chickens while the roast cooked. Molly still held out a small hope that she and Ron might change their minds about not pursuing a romantic entanglement, but that argument had been hard won over four years ago and Ron appeared now to be head over heels for Oliver.

“Well, I’ll go get them for lunch. You might have to hold your own for a bit while I sit with Malfoy so he eats.”

Harry’s brows ticked up. “Do you… do you think I could speak with him?”

She frowned, looking down at her hands. “I don’t think so, Harry — not today at least. Last night…” She blew out a breath. “Last night was tough for him and I think he needs some time before we introduce anything new, okay?”

Bright green eyes searched her face, no doubt noting the smudges of purple beneath her eyes. “Are you two making any headway?”

“As of this morning he’s agreed for us to be friends which, considering the fact that he wouldn’t say more than you aren’t my wife to me a few days ago seems to be a victory. Granted, he still said it right before he agreed to be my friend.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I suppose it’s a place to start considering the timeline.”

Hermione froze mid-rise from her chair. “Timeline, what do you mean?”

His throat bobbed with an uncomfortable swallow and slowly, Hermione lowered herself back into her seat. She recognized the tension around his eyes. It was the same look he got whenever he was forced to deliver bad news to families out in the field.

“Tomorrow will be three weeks since Malfoy was pardoned. Twenty-three days, which means—”

“Which means we have seven days to consummate the marriage,” Hermione muttered in a horrified whisper. “Oh, gods, Harry, what am I going to do?”

A hand covered hers, squeezing once. “Well, I would imagine you’re going to have to have an incredibly awkward conversation perhaps followed by what will be noted in Ministry history as the most awkward act of sex in the last two hundred years.”

…

Hermione, however, could not find it in herself to broach the subject that evening while she and Malfoy ate dinner. He looked a little better than how she’d left him at lunch, a small bit of color returning to his cheeks as he carefully ate his pasta and then drank the phial of nutritional potion.

“Do you want me to read for a bit?” she offered when their plates had vanished back to the kitchens and both were settled in with a cup of tea, a drop of pain potion and dittany mixed into Malfoy’s for his raw throat.

He was seated in front of the fire, his back against Hermione’s usual chair to face the room while she sat in his.

“If you don’t mind,” he rasped quietly, the muscles in his face relaxing as the pain potion worked through his system.

“Not at all,” she answered with a smile, summoning Pride and Prejudice from his shelf only for it float over from beside him.

But she didn’t ask why he kept the book on his person, just found their marked spot and read, occasionally stopping to sip some tea. It was close to midnight by the time she was nodding off and he reached over to gently take the book from her.

“Okay then,” she stifled a yawn, “well, I’ll come see you in the morning before I leave for work if you’d like?”

Malfoy only stared at her with his brows furrowed. All right then, perhaps he’d had enough of her presence for a while, that was fine. With another yawn, Hermione pushed to her feet.

“Goodni—”

A calloused hand wrapped around her wrist, his fingers overlapping. The hand was tremoring, the vibration slipping through his palm and up her arm. They were cold, his fingers, freezing like they had been the day of their bonding ceremony, but that wasn’t what made her breath catch. It was the look in his face, some strange mix of fear and hope warring inside of him.

“Stay,” he breathed, so low she wasn’t certain that was what he’d said.

She blinked. “You want me to stay?”

Malfoy nodded, the grip on her wrist tightening for a moment as if he was afraid she might run.

Looking around the room, she wondered what exactly he meant. If she was being perfectly honest, her back was killing her after sleeping on the floor last night and she didn’t particularly want a repeat performance.

“Would you want to try sleeping in the bed?” she offered, gesturing to the untouched four poster on the opposite side of the room.

A heavy silence hung between them as Hermione realized exactly what she was asking. Yes, technically he was her husband, but at that moment it felt like she was propositioning him. She barely bit back her frown as she remembered that sooner or later she would have to proposition him.  

Malfoy rose slowly, nodding once. Since he spent most of his time sitting, Hermione always forgot how much he towered over her. His long hair fell forward into his eyes as he looked down, hand still wrapped around her wrist.

“Well…” Hermione cleared her throat, taking a step towards the large four poster. “Let’s get to bed then, it’s late and I need to be up early for work.”

His grip loosened until his palm was pressed to hers, their hands lightly clasped as she pulled him towards the bed. It was quiet, save for the thudding of Hermione’s pulse in her ears, and she used her free hand to turn down the sheets on the side of the mattress closest to the hallway door.

“Here,” she murmured, letting go.

Her throat bobbed with a swallow as Malfoy slowly sat on the mattress and awkwardly arranged himself under the sheets in an unpracticed way. Moving over to the other side of the bed, she paused, a blush heating her cheeks when she remembered that she usually didn’t sleep in a bra or leggings. She deliberated, pausing awkwardly at the opposite corner of the bed and made a quick pro/con list:

Pro: You’ll sleep better.

Con: You’re sleeping with Draco Bloody Malfoy

Pro: He’s already seen your bare legs.

Con: It was in the midst of him having a panic attack you dolt.

Pro: You really, really hate sleeping in a bra.

Finally, with a sigh, she shucked off her leggings grateful for the oversized t-shirt she’d bought last Christmas when she’d gone to check up on her parents. With a wave of her hand, she extinguished the candles and fire before removing her bra and sliding between the cold sheets.

She tried not to think about how, an arm span away, Malfoy lay next to her.  Instead, she rotated the pillow until it rested the way she liked under her head and shifted onto her side.

“What’s in Melbourne?” his rasp was soft but made her stiffen all the same, another reminder that she was currently sharing a bed with Draco Malfoy.

Carefully she rolled onto her other side so she could make out his profile in the dark, the graceful curve of his nose, the soft roundness of his full lips. An aristocrat’s wet dream less than a meter away.

“My parents.” Her fingers curled around the edge of the pillow, tucking her chin closer to her chest.

“They live in Australia?” The question was a mild one, but there was surprise lingering around the edges of the words.

With a sigh, she shifted a little deeper into the soft sheets, breathing the scent of apple and spice, realizing for the first time that it was Malfoy’s scent sliding to her across the small space.

“They do.”

She could practically hear his frown, knowing she was usually much more forthcoming with her answers.

“That’s very far away,” he commented.

Licking her lips, she nodded before remembering he couldn’t see her. “It is.”

The bed dipped and she realized he’d turned onto his side, his attention a caress in the dark. “Do you see them often?”

“No, I don’t.”

His curiosity was heavy on the air, she could almost taste it the way the scent of him coated her tongue. But for once, she had to be the one to give obtuse answers. If he wanted to know, then he could ask, but she would not crack this part of herself open on her own for him to peruse as if it were a semi-interesting novel.

“How long?” The words were rougher than usual.

“Hm?”

“How long have they been in Australia, Granger?”

How strange it was for this to be their first real conversation, here in the dark of his room, in his bed.

“They moved to Australia in the summer of 1997.”

The spell lingered in the air around her, as if it had just been cast. Her parents had been seated at the kitchen table, looking over a travel magazine when she wiped their memories. Hermione watched in horror as they froze for five long, terrible minutes, before finally waking as if from a dream. Right before they turned, she disillusioned herself, waving her wand to hide all the photos in the house where she was pictured.

Hermione had stood there for longer than she wished, watching her father call the travel agent to make their plane reservations while her mother chatted happily about all the opportunities in Melbourne. Maybe a sweet shop, she’d said, or a flower shop — what do you think, Dave? Hermione eventually slipped through the back door and through a hole in the worn fence onto the sidewalk once their bags were packed and movers had been scheduled.

David and Jean left that very night, the rest of their things following a few days later.

The house sold a month or so after their departure, though Hermione hadn’t known until after the war. She’d come back to collect her things only to find out they’d all been donated to charity by the new homeowners.

“Oh,” Malfoy breathed, finally understanding at least a little of what she’d been unwilling to say aloud.

Fingertips brushed her left forearm and she jumped, the touch fleeing a moment later.

She gave her best approximation of a shrug before remembering again he couldn’t see her. But she found her throat too thick to answer, so she didn’t, allowing the silence to lengthen between them. Sometime later, right before sleep took her, however, she could have sworn she felt the ghost of fingertips across her palm, a hand sliding against hers to hold in the dark.