Chapter Text
1. Martyrdom
Everything on the other side of the window plane could be described as grey; clouds have gathered, embracing one another until they blended into a dark roof that shielded the castle from any traces of sunlight, the surface of the lake, usually standing still like a mirror, was disturbed by the wind and its rows upon rows of ripples reminded her of wrinkles and getting old and frail and withering away like the leaves of the courtyard trees that crumbled into dust over the past few days. With a sigh, Hermione peeled herself off the window and slid down the windowsill until she was folded almost in half and felt her neck cramping up. She closed her eyes and tried to make her mind empty. She thought herself deserving of the uncomfortable position - why, she wasn’t sure. The pain in her muscles felt right and she refused to make the journey to her bed, merely a few meters away across the room, deciding instead to focus on it and savour the hot sensation of pressure and tension.
Her ugly moment of sorrow was disturbed when the door clicked open and Ginny walked inside.
“That can’t be comfortable,” she said once she saw the other girl, and made a sour face. “You’re gonna get a headache.”
“You’re giving me a headache, Ginny,” muttered Hermione and sat back up. She decided against stretching her neck to replenish the blood flow there, leaving the beginning cramp undisturbed, like a candy hidden in a child’s pocket for later. “Don’t you have Quidditch practice?”
“Oh wow. ‘Thanks Ginny, for caring for me and my health. You’re such a great friend and I’m thankful’ Did I hear that right?” she mocked. Hermione’s face showed signs of embarrassment but before she could actually answer anything, Ginny was already gathering her up from her sulking place. “The practice is already over. Time flies when you’re having fun, huh?” she glanced at the untouched stack of books on Hermione’s bed and grimaced again, “Now get up. I’m not letting you waste away here. It’s dinner time. Change into your robes.”
Recognizing that this was not a fight she would win, Hermione smiled and complied with her friend’s orders, whispering a silent ‘thank you’ as they navigated the stairs together. Once in the great hall, Hermione found solace in Ginny’s distraction with other students, as she could eat as little as she wanted without being pestered for it. But she had been hungry, she realized when she ate her first bite, silently thanking Ginny again for caring enough to drag her out of her room to make sure she wouldn’t starve to death. As soon as she could, Hermione excused herself and Ginny made sure to glare silent warnings her way before letting her go.
She walked down the cold corridors in fast paced long steps at first, then slowed down to a regular walk that eventually degraded into a crawl, a series of stumbles that lead her from one wall to another without any purpose. She knew she was headed in the direction of the greenhouses, but then she turned around and her feet were taking her towards the stone bridge that led to the middle courtyard, and then she changed course once more and was headed to the clock tower. Different destinations swapped places on the stage of her mind, disappearing like the wizards on Chocolate Frog Cards, replaced by another place, each time more far away. Logically, she knew that she wouldn't arrive back at home in Surrey when she wandered the castle, but she kept planting her feet and touching the cold stone on the wall, and she walked on as if the place where she ended up depended solely on her imagination.
It was only when she saw the entrance to the dungeons that Hermione came back to her senses. Absent-mindedly, she sidestepped to make room for a pair of students wearing green ties, a pair of massive wooden doors closing behind them. She watched it and waited for it to close, the idea of the satisfying deep ‘click’ of it springing up something akin to excitement inside of her chest. She held her breath, seeing the gap in the doors closing and closing, until a hand gripped it from the inside, stopping it and then pushing it open instead. Hermione frowned and leaned against the wall behind her, watching Draco Malfoy emerge from his house’s common room. They caught sight of each other at the same time and both of them sneered.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, closing the door behind him. The click of it was utterly boring and Hermione sighed.
She turned on her heel. “None of your business.”
And she was walking back - where? she had no idea - not recognizing the path she took here in the first place, vaguely remembering that she must’ve muttered the password to get in here, until his voice stopped her:
“Wait. Granger.”
Hermione’s fingers fluttered at her sides, a mix of anxiety and excitement boiling inside of her. She turned around and guided her expression to be blank. The boy in front of her - the boy? the man? - was looking at her with eyes that reminded her of Hagrid’s whenever he was approaching a wild animal. She felt a need to scoff at the fact anything of Malfoy’s - a rude, insufferable, high-horse riding brute - could remind her of someone as kind as Hagrid. It was so much more confusing that he’d be looking like that at her of all people.
“What is it?” she asked impatiently, irritated all of sudden.
Malfoy opened his mouth but instead of saying anything, he beckoned her to follow him down the hallway. She felt angry he did it so confidently, so sure that she would follow, and she did so just to spite herself: her own disappointment was a sour taste on her tongue that she’s started to like recently. He led her past thick columns and three sets of armor before he found an alcove with a wide bench and sat down on it. It was obvious he wanted her to sit down too, and she wondered whether he’d think she was crazy if she laid on top of it like she did on the windowsill back in her room. She settled on sitting on the other side, as far away as she could from him, her back straight and proper.
“Why are we here?” she asked then, her tone impatient still.
“I’ve been watching you. Don’t give me that look, it’s not hard to see that you’re acting weird. Like you’re sick. Like you’re not even here. Nothing like your usual buzzing annoying stick-up-the-arse self.” She scoffed and frowned when she realized it sounded ridiculous because Malfoy wasn’t speaking with spite, but pity. She felt herself getting angry. She was agitated enough when Ginny would pity her, but Malfoy’s pity was an entirely different level of embarrassment; a slap to the face and a cold bucket of water poured on top. And there he was, looking at her all cautious and speaking slowly and clearly like he was Madam Pomfrey: “I think I can help you.”
“Help me?” she almost laughed and stood up, stomping down the hallway, “I’m not interested in your pranks, Malfoy. Leave me alone.”
“I can hurt you,” he called after her, calmly.
And she stopped in her tracks and felt the blood in her veins still as well. She turned to him with a look she liked to think was full of contempt, but all Malfoy saw was desire. He leaned back against the cold stone and looked down on his hands. It seemed he took no pleasure in telling her any of this and it drove Hermione crazy.
“Was that a threat?” she asked firmly, watching him like a hawk.
“An offer.”
She laughed again but neither of them was fooled and the smile slid off her lips quickly. He lifted his head so she could see him clearly, and Hermione felt herself tremble. Those grey eyes that were once a striking feature had become merely a part of his tired look, a compliment to the bags under his eyes and the shadows in the indents of his skin. His hair has grown longer but thinner and it curled above his ears, full of split ends, now brushing his brows as he looked through his fringe at her.
“You’re not looking overly healthy either, you know,” she blurts out without thinking twice about it.
He smirks and she notices how his nose stays pulled up, sneering as he clasps his hands together. “Merlin, Granger. You’re not all there, are you?”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about, Malfoy.”
“Of course you do,” he sighs deeply and stands back up, looking at her with that insufferable misplaced care again, “Consider my offer.”
She mocks him the same way and recoils. “I’ve had more than enough of your bullying. Why on earth would I want you to hurt me?”
“You tell me, Granger,” he says and waves her goodbye.
Perhaps it was because of that encounter that Hermione finally found her way back to the tower, finding on the way that it was already dark outside. Why was time passing so fast? She kept the chat with other girls to a minimum and quickly showered and dressed for bed. Ginny didn’t give her any suspicious looks when she lied that she went to visit Hagrid and was tired because they took a walk in the forest, which Hermione considered a tell sign of her lying skill improving. Perhaps she didn’t lie entirely, she thought as she remembered the look on Malfoy’s face. With a shudder, she wrapped herself in her comforter and was happy once she felt the sore muscle on her nape pulsing once more. She fell asleep thinking she might wake up with a headache.
The bizarre meeting stayed in her head for days, gnawing at her consciousness, teasing the wicked parts of her brain, baiting her like one would a hungry dog with a piece of meat. She felt herself spiral into a well of childhood and recent memories - all bad and uncomfortable - and she kept asking herself Why would she want him to hurt her? Why would she want to be hurt? Didn’t he hurt her enough? It was a mix of logical desire to find out and the illogical desire to be hurt that brought her back to the dungeons. She didn’t quite have a plan, deciding instead to seek out the hallway Malfoy had brought her to. There she sat down on the bench and waited, bouncing her leg in a feeble attempt to combat the anticipation that was crushing her. She was already there; she was already doing something stupid, she thought it didn’t matter anymore that she openly felt excited by the idea of Malfoy’s offer. It didn’t occur to her to ask why it was so.
When he arrived, his slow steps alerted Hermione before she could even see him - did nobody else use this hallway? - and she stood up straight, peeking out of the alcove to see him standing next to a wall, leaning against it with his side. She expected to see a smirk on his face but he looked perfectly blank. He stood too far away for her to make out if his eyes still pitied her and she decided she didn’t need to find out. Pulling her chin up, she approached him and he silently turned around and led them to the duelling room, of which he had keys for some reason. The room was cold and deserted and Hermione wondered when was the last time she heard of the Duelling club. Fleetingly, she wondered whether they disbanded and if the room now served no one.
“You want to duel?” she asked him plainly, not hiding the disappointment in her voice, it tasted different.
“No, it’s just a room where we won’t be bothered.” He shrugged and walked towards the small stage, sitting down on its steps. She followed suit when he started staring at her, and went and sat down next to him. Neither of them spoke. The silence enveloped them and she felt like she was supposed to know what to do next, and she didn’t. A silent voice in her head told her to raise her hand and ask and write down notes, but she dismissed it. The buzzing excitement that followed her all the way inside the room seemed to have dissipated; taken away by the cold of the dungeons, and she was left with the sticky awkwardness of sitting alone with her childhood bully. She wanted to huff with cold and frustration when he finally spoke:
“I’m going to touch you, Hermione.”
She winced and turned to him, seeing him still facing his hands that he had joined in between his spread knees. He looked up and faced her. “I’m going to touch you,” he repeated slowly. She knew she was staring at that moment, her face a mix of shock and fear, but all she could think about was the fire that suddenly flamed inside of her gut. He looked perfectly calm and his eyes held hers so confidently she didn’t dare look away.
She swallowed and whispered: “How?”
He shifted closer and she leaned back. “However I want to.”
And he let her gravitate back towards him, not reaching out to her until she sat right next to him, their legs and elbows touching. She started to shake and hopelessly tried to stop it, willing herself to remain still.
“Okay,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. He blinked then, finally, and she thought she saw him smile a little before his face returned back to a blank slate. “Will you hurt me?” she asked.
“Only if you ask me.” He lifted his hand then, let Hermione take a look at it, turning it in the air to show her his palm, and then he brought it up to her to cradle her cheek. Softly, slowly, like he was afraid she’d burn him otherwise.
She took in a breath when he touched her. His touch was cooling, soothing a wound she didn’t know she had. She looked back into his eyes and saw his pupils blown wide. She was sure she was looking into a mirror. “Hurt me.”
She noticed his eyes flicking down and her eyes fell closed, focusing on his touch grazing her throat, settling on top of her collarbones, his long fingers forming a necklace around her neck. She started feeling pressure and took a deep breath while she still could. Malfoy’s thumb circled the center of her collar bones and then gently pressed into her throat and relaxed right away, his palm moved up and under her hair, and his hand was cradling her neck from behind. Hermione’s eyes opened up when his thumb started rubbing circles into her nape, tracing the knobs of her spine. She looked utterly lost, staring into his eyes as her lips fell open with a sigh of relief when the knot under her skin started to untangle.
“Do you sleep well?” he whispered.
“What?”
He patiently repeated his question, his eyes never leaving hers.
“No,” she answered.
He hummed in response and she felt his thumb send a shiver down her spine where he kept touching her. She closed her eyes once more. It felt heavenly in a way that was shameful. She shyly craned her neck so he could massage it better and he followed her movement like he could read her thoughts, and she almost teared up. Then she felt his breath on her cheek.
“You think too much. I can hear it over here.”
His other hand came up and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, carefully, almost shakily. She swallowed the pool of saliva in her mouth and tried to listen to his voice. He would hurt her any moment now. That’s why she was here after all. No sense in overthinking it. But his hand kept brushing her hair, stopping at every tangle to not tug, then cradling her cheek like before, a shy graze of a touch upon her cheekbone. He sat a step higher behind her and she didn’t realize before he was settling her head into his lap, brushing her hair and painting long heavy strokes down her neck and shoulders. She all but melted on the spot, her mind an empty, bright room of ultimate silence but endless possibilities that she was too comfortable to investigate.
“Hermione?” he asked after some amount of time, all of which she could best describe as weightless static. She hummed in response, barely holding onto her consciousness. His hands stopped touching her, falling away and resting on his thighs by her face instead. She opened her eyes, seeing him upside down, looking down at her with what she interpreted as a smirk.
“Will you hurt me now?” she asked.
He reached to her face, stroking a single line across her forehead, down her temple, cheek and jaw. She wondered if he could feel her tremble.
“Next time, I will.”
She didn’t question it, not when he held her up and supported her while she convinced her legs to function again, or when he led them back outside the room and locked it behind them. He turned to her and stuffed the keys and both his hands into his pockets. Then he smirked, the kind that turned into his sneer.
“See you around.”
And he was off.