The Gallows Chapter 13

Waking up was strange.

First, it was the realization that the hangings above her were black, not white. Second, that the room was a wash of silver, emerald, and gray. Third, that Draco Malfoy was setting a cup of tea on the dark wood bedside table.

“Granger, it’s time to get up.”

Merlin, had Hermione slipped into another dimension?

With a groan, she pushed herself up in bed, shaking her hair out of her face. Summoning her wand, she cast a tempus charm and lit the bedside lamp. Half past five, plenty of time to get up and get to work by half six. How had he known that was when she woke on the weekdays?

Malfoy wandered into the bathing chamber, she assumed, to give her some space. But when she looked over to his side of the bed — well not his side, it was all his bed— it looked relatively unmussed, as if he’d already made it, folding back the sheets making it appear as if he had not slept in them at all.

She touched the sheets to find they were cold as well. How long had he been awake?

Taking a long drink of her tea, she finally pushed herself to her feet, padding quietly over to the connecting door to dress and ready for work, wondering if she should come back to eat with him before she left. Would this be the time to broach the subject of their… consummation?

By the time she dressed and knocked on the door, her stomach was fluttering and the back of her neck dewed with sweat. She had slept in the same bed as Draco Malfoy and now they were going to have breakfast and she’d be telling him that they should probably get to it or else all this work had been for naught.

The idea of having sex with him was as odd as the thought of sleeping in the same bed with him had been. She tried to imagine what he’d look like on top of her, the feeling of his body pressed to hers. Would he be loud? Would he finally find himself lost in something other than darkness and pain? 

She cleared her throat, shaking away the thought and the image conjured into her mind. His long hair swept to one side, lids half closed, the pale skin of his chest gleaming with—

“Are you all right?” his voice was soft, a little less of a rasp than last night.

Malfoy stood beside the coffee table, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a dark gray cashmere sweater. His hair was loose around his face, grazing the top of his chest and tucked behind one ear.

“Uh, yes, I ju—hungry.”

…

By Wednesday she still hadn’t brought up the timeline to Malfoy, though there had been plenty of opportunities. Especially considering she slept in his bed for the last three nights. The mystery of why his side of the bed looked so neat had been solved Monday night by the nightmare he’d had. Hermione woke to him mumbling in his sleep, pitiful cries slipping through his lips as he plead for mercy. There had been a few horrible moments of scrambling across the bed before finding him on the floor, curled up on the opposite side of hers.

Thankfully, it had only taken a few murmured words of comfort, though the one that calmed him fastest appeared to be: we’re safe. And they’d both fallen back to sleep with her hand held loosely between both of his only to wake with him already up and quietly moving around the room.

Hermione didn’t mention the new sleeping arrangements to anyone, though Theo had bustled into Draco’s room a little earlier than usual this morning, raising a brow at the comfortable way she sat on the bed, slipping on her heels.

Unfortunately for her as well, public scrutiny had not waned. In fact, as they approached the thirty-day mark of their marriage, it only to intensified. The second floor was off limits to anyone without an auror badge or pass from security, something Pansy had thrown a fit over until Ron had come to rescue her from the clutches of Harrison and Anthony Goldstein.  

Wednesday evening she’d actually been looking forward to returning to the manor. Conversation throughout the week increased between the two of them and she found Malfoy a thoughtful companion, asking her opinion on the books they read, or policies within the Ministry, or whether or not she liked her job different aspects of her job.

As she stepped out of the floo, she was a bit surprised to find Lottie standing beside another elf she’d only seen a few times in passing. The elf was old, with large swaths of skin hanging off his bones. He would have put her in mind of Kreacher a bit, if he hadn’t bowed his head respectfully to her.

“Uh, hello,” she greeted, feeling a bit like she was in trouble.

“Good evening, Mistress,” the old elf, Brystol she was almost positive his name was, started. “Apologies for the interruption, but we wondered if you would be ever so kind as to make a few decisions about some of the items we believe should be removed for safety purposes or else donated.”

Hermione almost laughed at the proper way the elf spoke, the way he inclined his head slightly as a gentleman might when speaking to a lady. She found it warmed something in her to see that the elves were so self-assured after many years on their own.

“Of course,” she answered, allowing them to lead her down the hall towards the sunroom.

But instead of turning to the right as she usually did, they continued on, the hall growing steadily darker. Gooseflesh prickled on her skin, her stomach flipping once before clenching. Swallowing thickly, she shook her head, trying her best to keep up with the elves as they stopped before two ornate doors.

Cold sweat dewed on the back of her neck and for a moment she saw double. The drawing room, filled with boxes, and another, filled with people. With Greyback in one corner, crumpled to the ground, Narcissa and Malfoy and Lucius cowering in the other. She inhaled sharply and the scent of dust and pine mixed with blood and polished wood.

“Mistress?” Lottie’s voice was distant, as if her head was shoved beneath water.

Her left arm burned beneath her blouse, hand spasming, and she squeezed her eyes painfully tight. But instead of darkness, she saw Bellatrix Lestrange’s face. Those rotted, gnarled teeth, the sickening stench of her breath crawling across her cheeks.

Where is it?

“Not real,” she murmured, pressing her fingers to her lids. “Not real, not real, not real.”

A hand touched her knee and she skittered back, hitting the wall across from the double doors, the wall Greyback slammed Ron into before throwing them into the dungeons beneath the manor.

Oh, gods. This manor, the manor that was now her home.

She took a deep breath, trying to pick out the scents that had not been there before. Fresh bread, the lilies she and Ginny cut on Sunday and placed in the vase near the traveling parlor. The spring rain blowing through the open windows of the sun room.

Not then. Now.

“Get rid of it,” she grit through clenched teeth. “Or ask Malfoy. But—don’t—don’t ask me.”

Lottie took her clammy hand and, with a snap, delivered her into the bathing chamber of her bedroom. With mechanical movements, Hermione undressed, lowering herself into the magically filling bathtub while she stared at the opposite wall without truly seeing the frosted glass or the garden beyond.

It took her longer than she would have liked to admit for her breathing to calm, for the numb shock to wear away until she could properly wash the sweat from her body, purging the last of her fear. Unlike Harry, Hermione had never seen a mind healer for what happened in this very house or in the war. But she’d believed that through time and space, she’d come to terms with the mark upon her arm and the black spot upon her soul — as if Bellatrix had left behind a single thumbprint on her consciousness. Perhaps this was an indication she was wrong.

By the time she dragged herself from the bath and dressed, it was well past nine. She grimaced, pulling on her oversized t-shirt from the London Marathon (Ginny convinced her to run it two years ago and Hermione vowed never again) and padded to the connecting door.

Malfoy was there, seated on her side of the bed. Catching sight of her, he jumped to his feet.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, the words sluggish as if each one weighed a stone.

“Lottie said they showed you the drawing room…” His rasp was soft and when she finally looked at him there were spots of red high on his cheekbones.

Hermione found that even the unspoken question was another weight she wasn’t sure if she could carry. “I don’t want to talk about it, Malfoy… if that’s all right.”

He gave a soft hum — a noise she hadn’t heard from him before — and crossed to the tray settled on the coffee table. “Eat something.”

Shaking her head, she pulled back the sheets before crawling into bed. “I’m not hungry.”

The scent of apples and spice filled her nose, burning away the last of the blood and dust scent clinging to her. The bed dipped and the scent of apples grew stronger.

“Will you extinguish the lights?” Malfoy’s voice was careful and she opened her eyes. He was staring up at the ceiling, the way he always did when he first got into bed.

That reminded her that she needed to track down his wand. She knew it’d been confiscated upon his arrest, which meant it was still somewhere in the Ministry.

“Why do you even bother getting into bed when you always end up on the floor?” The question came out too harsh, but Hermione found she didn’t have the energy to try to fix it.

Malfoy swallowed, his tongue dipping out to wet his lower lip, but when he didn’t respond, she flicked her hand, plunging them into darkness. After a moment, the covers shifted as he turned towards her, the scent of mint mixing with spice.

“Because, just for a little while, it’s nice to pretend.”