The Gallows Chapter 8

“Hello…” Hermione felt strangely shy as Malfoy’s gray eyes flicked over her before falling back to the clothes across from him.

Carefully she set the tray down on the rug close to his shin before settling down on her usual spot, smoothing the skirt around her knees. He was dressed in a pair of black silk sleep pants and what looked to be a plain black t-shirt. There were scars etched across his biceps and forearms, nicks and scratches that looked similar to the ones she’d had after the battle, though they had been healed within a day thanks to dittany.

The only scar she bore now from the war was the word carved into her forearm, covered by a glamor her magic maintained day and night.

Malfoy, it seemed, was not given that privilege. His right hand covered his forearm where she knew a mess of old scars lay atop the faded dark mark — ones she assumed were self-inflicted — and she wondered if he’d covered it deliberately when he heard her arrive.

“You changed,” she hedged, picking up her goblet of wine and taking a long sip.

A pink flush crept across his throat, but he nodded, and she watched as his index finger traced a jagged scar across his forearm. Hermione took another sip, noting the slow rise and fall of his chest for a long moment before she put down her goblet and picked up her bowl of pasta.

“How was work?”

The fork froze halfway to her mouth and Hermione blinked. It was undeniably Malfoy’s voice — she could have picked out that heavy rasp anywhere. Slowly, she looked up from the plate. He was still staring at the clothes but there was something more… awake within his expression.

“It was fine,” she said, a little stilted. “Would you—would you like me to tell you about it?”

Another small nod, the flush across his throat climbing to his cheeks. So, she put down her plate and, in as much exciting detail as she could, she told Malfoy all about the illegal dragon trading case she and Dean were working on. How they were close to figuring out where the supplier was located, though Hermione was sure it was Finland from the majority of the breeds of dragons being seized across Great Britain.

And then she went back the beginning of her morning, telling him about the weather outside, how it felt to be back at work after a week at the manor (strange and a little overwhelming), though she left out the stares and conversation she’d had with Harry and Ron. Instead, she told him about the awful lunch she had, scarfing down half a bagel and forgetting about the other when she got lost in her work.

Malfoy’s knee shifted, nudging the plate of pasta just a little closer to her and Hermione’s mouth twisted with a smile. She picked back up the pasta, twirling some around her fork.

“Would you like to join me?” The words felt odd coming out of her mouth and she waited for the predictable silence.

But Malfoy took a deep breath, shoulders tensing. The hand covering his forearm spread wide before he slowly pushed himself to a seat. Hermione bit her lip to fight the smile threatening to creep across her cheeks in favor of shoving a forkful of pasta into her mouth. She tried her best to give him privacy as he settled himself against the wall beside her, but from the corner of her eye caught the way his chest rose and fell with labored breaths, the tremor in his hand as he reached for the bowl of soup.

Without thinking, Hermione grabbed the bowl as she might have for Harry or Ron, passing it to him. But Malfoy froze, a muscle twitching in his jaw and her stomach twisted.

“I don’t need your help.” The words were raw, as if they were blood slipping out of a wound. His hands did not wrap around the bowl and after a moment, she lowered it back onto the tray. “You… You are not my wife so there’s no use in acting like one.”

Hermione knew that he was right — that deep down where it counted, she was not his wife. And yet the words sliced across her chest like the cruciatus. She had spent the last week holed up in this closet with him at night, reading to him, encouraging him. Shame prickled across the back of her neck, sleuthing down through her chest to pool like a dead weight in her stomach.

The horrible realization that she had expected more from him had her placing down her bowl of pasta and rising to her feet. She picked up the goblet of wine and, without a word, left his room, refusing to give herself the satisfaction of slamming the connecting door behind her.

…

When she woke the next morning, Hermione found that she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to get out of bed. She dreaded the looks, the whispers behind her back, but she knew she couldn’t stand the stillness of the manor — it felt here as if she had fallen into an empty crypt. And so, with practiced movements she rose, smoothing back her curls and dressed carefully in her favorite skirt and blouse. It was easy not to look in the mirror, to avoid her reflection and what she might find there. Last night’s events still burned her cheeks, her mind replaying over and over Malfoy’s cold expression, the words that hurt more than they should.

The atrium was just as full as the morning before, though this time a flash of a camera greeted her before wide shoulders stepped in front of Hermione, shielding her from view.

“Harry,” she complained. It was a gift of hers, to infuse all her frustration and worry into his name.

But he didn’t rise to the bait, only placed a hand between her shoulders protectively to guide her towards the lifts. She knew his other hand was hovering on the wand settled in his holster and her cheeks burned, now with the embarrassment of looking as if she needed an escort. As if she thought so highly of herself now as Lady Malfoy.

Godric. Was she going to have to change her name?

They spent the ride in silence, Harry observing her every breath with a shrewdness only someone who had seen you at your worst and best could have. It didn’t surprise her when he followed to her desk, throwing up a silencing charm along with a modified muffliato to keep a wider boundary around her door.

“Tell me what happened,” Harry directed with the full force of his auror training.

Hermione clicked her tongue in an approximation of impatience, shuffling the papers on his desk. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

Harry leant against the opposite wall; arms crossed over his chest. “Ah, yeah? So why is it you look like you just got the public loo Bertie Botts flavor?”

With an exasperated sigh that sent her papers flying, she rushed to grab them. Her hands splayed wide on the desk, head hanging limply on her neck, and again she saw Malfoy’s face in her mind.

So, in a quiet voice, she explained what happened. The unspoken misstep she’d made, the words that hurt more than she thought they should. How she could not quite understand what it was she’d done wrong.

“Do you want to know my opinion or do you want me to tell you everything is going to be okay and buy you a croissant?” Harry asked, voice gentle.

“I want you to tell me everything is okay and buy me a croissant,” she replied in a monotone.

“Well, too bad.” The auror robes rustled with his shrug before he threw himself into the uncomfortable chair in front of her desk. “You rushed him, Hermione.”

A spike of embarrassment shot down her spine. “I did not.”

Harry’s brows raised, the lightning scar rippling with the movement. “Didn’t you? That was a huge step for him. Not only to ask you a question, but to then… you know… sit up?” He shook his head, leaning forward on his elbows. “And then you rushed him.”

“I helped him with his—”

“You rushed him. A man who has been out of Azkaban for less than a fortnight and has yet to leave the safety of a closet. A man who was once a boy who refused to rely on anyone, who only by threat of death was willing to accept help from a wizard who was killed moments later.”

Hermione spluttered, her hands fisting into the parchment before her before she smoothed it. “It was nothing.”

Her best friend blinked. “To you? To me? Of course it was nothing. But to him? That little act of kindness after you have already saved his life? It was a step too far too fast.”

The words hit her like a series of slaps to the face. She chewed on the inside of her lip, eyes flicking back and forth before her as if she were reading text on a page. Harry was content to watch as her brain worked, it seemed as he had for so many years. She thought through all he said, weighing it against the evidence she’d gathered before, finally, her shoulders slumped and her forehead hit the table with a thunk.

For the rest of the day, she wondered if perhaps they had lost any ground they might have gained. What exactly would she come back to tonight? Would he be in the same clothes from yesterday? Her walk down to the cafeteria didn’t help her anxiety. Each step was punctuated by another person turning, nudging their companion. A stranger called out to her, another reached for her elbow to stop her from walking away. She abandoned any hope of lunch and raced back to her office as quickly as she could, throwing herself into the seat with ragged breaths and pressed her fingertips to her lids.

This will pass. This will pass. This will pass.

Hermione had decided to work late until Cormac McLaggen swaggered into her office at ten ‘til intent on inviting her out for a drink and sent her scrambling towards the floo.

“I mean, it’s not like you’re really married to him,” were the only words she was able to make out from Cormac before she slid into the grate and stumbled out onto the marble floor of the manor.

The walk up the stairs felt more like a funeral march as she stripped off her outer robes, throwing them unceremoniously onto the floor of her bedroom promising herself she’d clean them up later. Their usual tray appeared a moment later, a much heartier soup than the night before for Malfoy and this time a roast for her.

“Lottie,” she called softly.

The house elf appeared with a pop, looking expectantly up at her. “Yes mistress?”

“Would you mind taking Malfoy his dinner? I don’t believe it would be wise—”

“Master Draco only eats the food mistress brings,” Lottie said quickly, cutting across her.

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut. “Surely not.”

Lottie nodded enthusiastically, running a tiny hand over her perfectly pressed tea towel. “Lottie is telling the truth. Lottie brings Master Draco breakfast and lunch but Master Draco is not eating it, no he is not. He waits for Mistress to bring his food.”

A rush of air escaped her lungs and she clutched the edge of the bedframe. “He told you that?”

The little elf’s brows furrowed. “Master Draco is not saying much of anything, but Lottie has eyes.”

And with that, the elf disappeared with another pop.

“Bugger,” Hermione cursed.

Wishing to delay the inevitable as long as she could, she slipped out of her work clothing and into her comfiest clothes. If she was walking into a battle, she preferred not to be wearing a pencil skirt.

When she could no longer put it off, she grabbed up the tray with a little more force than necessary and made her way into Malfoy’s bedroom, stopping only to knock at the last moment. Before she entered, she took a deep breath, reminding herself of what Harry had said that morning.

You rushed him.

As quietly as she could, she made her way over to the closet, toeing it open with one socked foot. A small squeak of surprise slipped through her lips and she stumbled back a step, the tray rattling before she righted it.

Malfoy was sitting against the wall as he had yesterday, but unlike yesterday he wore a pair of soft looking dark green sleep pants and gray shirt. His hair was damp again, loose waves he must have inherited from Narcissa curling around his shoulders.

At the sound of her squeak, he turned his head ever so slightly. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Hermione replied, a beat too late.

Awkwardly, she went through the usual steps of setting down the tray and settling herself on the floor. Except this time, Malfoy watched her from the corner of his eye. His legs were bent, forearms resting over his knees — the position might have appeared relaxed if it wasn’t for his hands clenched tightly into fists, the soft tremor rippling up his arms.

“Malfoy I…” The words died on her tongue as his eyes squeezed shut.

I’m sorry for yesterday.

I’m sorry for putting you through this.

I’m sorry I forced you to live when all you wanted was to die.

So instead, she picked up Pride and Prejudice and shook it at him. “I think it might be time for us to take a trip to Hertfordshire.”