come out of the shade (1/?)
title: come out of the shade
fandom: harry potter
pairing: d/hr
warnings: swearing, implied sexual situations; basically, don't read it if you cannot legally obtain a learner's permit in your state of residence.
genre: general ridiculousness
a/n: it has been far too long since i've written for harry potter, and even longer still since i've written anything i didn't completely detest (this story included). so i'm posting this more as a way to get constructive feedback, and hopefully to entertain a few people while i'm at it! so enjoy it if you can, and if you can't.... tell me why. please. ;) this story was also posted over at Hawthorne & Vine. oh, and the title is taken from a song by the perishers. it's brilliant, and you should definitely give it a listen.
summary: With a start, the image of the Draco in her dreams presented itself to her. “I don’t want to run away,” he said quietly. “Not this time.”
His eyes were smoke-like slate seen through a haze of fog and cold London streets. Pale lips parted so slightly she almost missed the action, but in him even the smallest of movements held significance. The familiar ache sparked to life inside of her and tensed like a feral animal waiting to devour its prey. She beat it down furiously, trying to wipe away thoughts of kissing those lips, tasting that tongue, and watching as white lids fluttered closed with pleasure.
It was almost more than she could bear, and her heart fractured with the thought of not getting what she wanted. “Granger,” he breathed. “What are we doing?”
She wanted to answer, to smooth away the curtain of blond hair that agitated his brow, but she found herself unable to speak. She didn’t know the answer to that question. In that moment, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
And so the thought passed by before it was ever fully formed, safely tucked into the confines of her memory. For the first time in recent memory, she found herself not wanting to think, or postulate, or theorize; there and then, all she wanted was to feel. To feel the shivery, feathery touch of his fingertips whispering to her skin. To feel the heady sensation of his eyes, heavy with mood, fixated on hers. To feel her heart grasped and lifted forcefully from its perch in her ribcage and pulled into the vicinity of her esophagus. It shouldn’t have felt so good, but it did. It did every time.
“Where is this place?”
Hermione’s eyes slipped from his only long enough to perform a cursory glance at their surroundings. “My parents’ house,” she replied quietly.
“Kinky.”
She swatted him. An ember of interest ignited and burned deep in his eyes. “Why did you choose this place?”
“I-I’m not sure. I wasn’t aware of choosing anything at all,” she said.
Draco snorted. “Of course not. Well I told you last time that you were up next to choose the place, didn’t I? But it’s not like you ever listen to me, you insufferable-“ his insult was cut off by her lips moving against his. She wasted no time on introductions as her tongue forcefully manipulated its way into the warmness of his mouth. His tongue joined hers, and suddenly their bodies were twisting together. She abruptly became aware that they were in her bed, the one she used to sleep in all that time ago when she still lived with her parents, when they still knew who she was…
His hand raked its way up her thigh, cutting off her train of thought. She slid herself on top of him, her fingers tightly threading through his hair and pulling it until it drew a moan from his mouth. Her lips found their way to the base of his throat and they moved a little lower to suck his collarbone. The strangest impulse to ask him if he liked this flashed before her and she almost laughed. Why did she care what he thought? This was nothing, she reminded herself. (Nothing but the mental manifestation of extreme stress and sexual repression molding itself into her old school nemesis that she passionately despised but was always strangely curious about.)
Yes, that’s just it, she thought as his hands slid just a little higher. It’s nothing at all but a strange mental trick. It’s not like you’ve ever even spoken to him since the war started, anyways. It’s just a dream. That’s all.
She gasped as he kissed her again, and velvety skies sprinkled with pinpoints of light danced before her eyes.
****
“’Mione, you wouldn’t mind getting supplies while we’re gone, would you?” Harry fixed his most winning grin onto her, and for a brief moment he looked his age for the first time in months. Hermione knew that he was only saying it to get her out of the house and to keep her from worrying too much about them while they were gone, so she bit back a furious retort about being treated like a pathetic, weak little girl.
They’d all agreed (though Hermione swore she was coerced) to not include her in their raids of suspected Death Eater hideouts after she’d been hit by that curse from Bellatrix Lestrange. It was hardly worse than anyone else’s injuries, except in addition to a slight limp and a greatly lessened ability to run or exert herself for long periods of time, Hermione had also developed an unfortunate reaction to the dark magic, making her far more susceptible to even the most minor curses. A simple stunning spell could knock her out for a week, even if it only hit an arm or a leg.
Hermione detested it. Once she’d become aware of her condition, she tried to keep it from everyone, knowing how Harry would worry. The last thing he needed was another distraction, and Hermione was determined not to give him one.
Unfortunately, she had an uncharacteristic lapse in rationality and she awoke a week after a raid in the living room of Grimmauld Place with a scratchy throat and a brief but terrifying inability to recognize anyone in the room. She then realized that her cover was blown. She should have been more careful, she should have thought of what would happen the second she went out to fight and weathered a curse, but she hadn’t even considered it. She merely trusted that she would be lucky enough not to be hit by any curses in the near future and had put all thoughts of the condition out of her mind. It was one of the few moments she could pinpoint in which she had acted certifiably, undeniably moronic.
And so she forced what she hoped was a carefree grin onto her features and said, “Of course, Harry. I’d love to go get groceries. It’s the least I can do.”
His calculatedly contrite expression didn’t hide the gleam of triumph in his eyes. Hermione would have been angrier about that, but she knew that Harry was just relieved to have at least one person he cared about removed from the line of fire. After all they’d lost, she couldn’t help but sympathize just a tiny bit.
Still, she spent a few moments silently cursing the lot of them before she made her way onto the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place and disapparated into the alley adjacent to the local grocery store.
****
Hermione found herself stumbling into solidly warm arms as she attempted to apparate onto the top step of Grimmauld Place again. She always had problems with that; it wasn’t the precision apparition that gave her trouble, it was just balancing on the tiny step with six bags full of supplies for spaghetti that tripped her up. The person who caught her steadied her on the sidewalk and she turned herself around to thank them. She figured it was probably a muggle neighbor that would be very confused upon spying half of her body escaping the safety of the wards around the house, so she prepared herself for the task of having to find a logical reason for why that would happen in the muggle world.
“Thank you so much-“ Her breath caught in her throat as her wand whipped up and positioned itself at the base of Draco Malfoy’s throat. A friendly chagrined smile twisted into a sneer and dark eyebrows pulled downward so sharply she felt her forehead ache slightly.
“Put your fucking wand down,” she snarled. He complied, setting it carefully on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?” Hermione knew she had to talk fast-at any time Malfoy could touch the mark on his arm and bring a horde of Death Eaters down upon her.
“I came here to ask for amnesty, and to fight with the Order to bring down Lord Voldemort. As for finding your… quaint little hideout,” he said with a slight air of distaste, “Snape told me to go to a street called Grimmauld Place when the time was right. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time, but I felt the reward, since I suspected he was referring to the Order, would be well worth the risk.” He looked directly at her as he finished his sentence.
Hermione studied him, searching for any trace of facetiousness that could have been hiding in his features. “Why do you want to come to the Order? Why not just hide out somewhere?” She had trouble resisting adding like the treacherous, spineless little snake you are to the end of her query.
Malfoy’s eyes locked with hers in a way that was strangely familiar. She tried to place it, scoured her mind to find an instance in which he had looked at her in that way, as if they knew each other. With a start, the image of the Draco in her dreams presented itself to her. “I don’t want to run away,” he said quietly. “Not this time.” He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t speak again.
Silence settled between them, though her wand was still at his throat. “You will come inside. You will be restrained and interrogated. Your wand will remain in my custody. If we decide to keep you,” she said, not without malice, “you will remain here under our constant watch until we deem you trustworthy. If we do not, your memories shall be wiped, any of them, at our discretion. Your wand will be broken, and you will be sent to live far away from Britain. If you come back, you will be killed on sight. Those are our terms. We will not negotiate. Understood?”
Malfoy nodded. Hermione got the distinct sense that she was making a grave mistake as she breathed, “The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at number 12 Grimmauld Place.” His eyes widened slightly as the house appeared before them, but again he said nothing. Her wand remained at his back as she escorted him inside.
****
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN WERE YOU THINKING, BRINGING HIM HERE?” Harry screamed. Ron was oddly passive at this outburst. He sat, studying Malfoy and sizing him up. Hermione was unnerved at the sudden swap of temperaments between her two best friends.
“Harry, don’t you think we should at least question him first? He might have useful information, and he hasn’t called Voldemort yet, now has he?” It was Ron, and not Draco, who flinched at the sound of his name. Hermione wasn’t sure she could take all of these little shocks in one night. She disliked being surprised, and so a headache was slowly building behind her eyes as the night wore on.
“NO I THINK WE SHOULD KILL HIM NOW AND BE DONE WITH IT,” Harry shrieked. “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT HIS INFORMATION.” Hermione thought that maybe the war was getting to him, which was a disturbing thought to say the least, since Harry had always been the one in control and focused when times got hard. It was painful watching him succumb to the panic they’d all become acquainted with in the past year.
“Harry,” Hermione soothed, “how about we sleep on it and come up with a solution in the morning, you know, when things aren’t so… tense? The shock will have worn off by then, and we’ll be able to make a rational decision on what to do about the situation.”
To everyone’s shock, Ron nodded. “I agree with ‘Mione,” Ron added, attempting to avoid Harry’s betrayed expression. “We never know… maybe the slimy git will have something useful for us, something that might help us win. Isn’t that what matters now, winning?”
A grin spread across Hermione’s lips. “Exactly, Ron! That’s precisely it. We need to set aside pettiness and do whatever we must to win this war.” She couldn’t help but feel a bit… proud of Ron for it. Then again, she had been noticing a certain heaviness in his brow, a more serious quirk in his lips as of late.
“Well if you’re all quite finished squabbling like schoolgirls, would you please get on with it? Sitting tied to this chair isn’t exactly comfortable, you know,” Malfoy spat.
“Oh shut up,” Ron said mildly. Harry looked dangerously close to an explosion.
Sensing the need to commandeer the situation before things got even tenser, Hermione spoke up. “Well I volunteer to question him. Someone needs to do it, and I reckon you lot are all exhausted from today. Besides, I’m the only one who ever seems to remember where the Veritaserum is.”
She shot down feeble objections with a, “Now, off to bed with you!” and watched as they all scurried back to their beds. She reckoned no one wanted the job of interrogating the ferret into all hours of the night when they could have been sleeping, and she didn’t blame them for it.
“Now,” she whipped around to face their guest, “to deal with you.”
“It’s about bloody time,” Malfoy drawled.
Hermione’s eyes contorted into sharp slits. “Look, Malfoy, you might find your obnoxious tendency to complain bitterly about every little thing endearing, but I assure you that no one in this house will. And if you think we’ll grant you leniency and allow you to continue being a complete and utter arse because we’re all too kindhearted to kick you out for it, let me make it apparent right now that you are wrong. If you are to stay here-and it is entirely likely that you won’t-you will abide by the rules of the house. In addition, you will be civil to anyone who enters it, including me. That means: no baiting people into arguments, no insults, no name calling, no smarmy remarks, and no bigotry. Do I make myself clear?”
“Inescapably,” Malfoy replied flatly. His eyes, normally so full of spite and malice, were oddly empty now. Any trace of bravado had been wiped away from him. He was no longer the bully who made her miserable like no one else could in school. He was no longer a threat, an enemy, a danger; he sat before her as a nineteen year old boy with frown lines, slumping slightly in the chair he was magically confined to. In this light, she could see the dark blotches of bluish purple that settled just above his cheekbones. His forehead was creased and he looked thinner than she’d expected. He was still more muscular than he’d been at seventeen-running and hiding and fighting and natural growth had seen to that-but there was still something off about his build, as though he was meant to look another way. Seeing him thin and somehow smaller imbued a sense of wrongness that Hermione couldn’t explain.
“Good,” she said, shaking off the thought. “I’m going to get the Veritaserum. If anything in this room is even remotely different when I come back, it’ll be your head.”
fandom: harry potter
pairing: d/hr
warnings: swearing, implied sexual situations; basically, don't read it if you cannot legally obtain a learner's permit in your state of residence.
genre: general ridiculousness
a/n: it has been far too long since i've written for harry potter, and even longer still since i've written anything i didn't completely detest (this story included). so i'm posting this more as a way to get constructive feedback, and hopefully to entertain a few people while i'm at it! so enjoy it if you can, and if you can't.... tell me why. please. ;) this story was also posted over at Hawthorne & Vine. oh, and the title is taken from a song by the perishers. it's brilliant, and you should definitely give it a listen.
summary: With a start, the image of the Draco in her dreams presented itself to her. “I don’t want to run away,” he said quietly. “Not this time.”
His eyes were smoke-like slate seen through a haze of fog and cold London streets. Pale lips parted so slightly she almost missed the action, but in him even the smallest of movements held significance. The familiar ache sparked to life inside of her and tensed like a feral animal waiting to devour its prey. She beat it down furiously, trying to wipe away thoughts of kissing those lips, tasting that tongue, and watching as white lids fluttered closed with pleasure.
It was almost more than she could bear, and her heart fractured with the thought of not getting what she wanted. “Granger,” he breathed. “What are we doing?”
She wanted to answer, to smooth away the curtain of blond hair that agitated his brow, but she found herself unable to speak. She didn’t know the answer to that question. In that moment, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
And so the thought passed by before it was ever fully formed, safely tucked into the confines of her memory. For the first time in recent memory, she found herself not wanting to think, or postulate, or theorize; there and then, all she wanted was to feel. To feel the shivery, feathery touch of his fingertips whispering to her skin. To feel the heady sensation of his eyes, heavy with mood, fixated on hers. To feel her heart grasped and lifted forcefully from its perch in her ribcage and pulled into the vicinity of her esophagus. It shouldn’t have felt so good, but it did. It did every time.
“Where is this place?”
Hermione’s eyes slipped from his only long enough to perform a cursory glance at their surroundings. “My parents’ house,” she replied quietly.
“Kinky.”
She swatted him. An ember of interest ignited and burned deep in his eyes. “Why did you choose this place?”
“I-I’m not sure. I wasn’t aware of choosing anything at all,” she said.
Draco snorted. “Of course not. Well I told you last time that you were up next to choose the place, didn’t I? But it’s not like you ever listen to me, you insufferable-“ his insult was cut off by her lips moving against his. She wasted no time on introductions as her tongue forcefully manipulated its way into the warmness of his mouth. His tongue joined hers, and suddenly their bodies were twisting together. She abruptly became aware that they were in her bed, the one she used to sleep in all that time ago when she still lived with her parents, when they still knew who she was…
His hand raked its way up her thigh, cutting off her train of thought. She slid herself on top of him, her fingers tightly threading through his hair and pulling it until it drew a moan from his mouth. Her lips found their way to the base of his throat and they moved a little lower to suck his collarbone. The strangest impulse to ask him if he liked this flashed before her and she almost laughed. Why did she care what he thought? This was nothing, she reminded herself. (Nothing but the mental manifestation of extreme stress and sexual repression molding itself into her old school nemesis that she passionately despised but was always strangely curious about.)
Yes, that’s just it, she thought as his hands slid just a little higher. It’s nothing at all but a strange mental trick. It’s not like you’ve ever even spoken to him since the war started, anyways. It’s just a dream. That’s all.
She gasped as he kissed her again, and velvety skies sprinkled with pinpoints of light danced before her eyes.
****
“’Mione, you wouldn’t mind getting supplies while we’re gone, would you?” Harry fixed his most winning grin onto her, and for a brief moment he looked his age for the first time in months. Hermione knew that he was only saying it to get her out of the house and to keep her from worrying too much about them while they were gone, so she bit back a furious retort about being treated like a pathetic, weak little girl.
They’d all agreed (though Hermione swore she was coerced) to not include her in their raids of suspected Death Eater hideouts after she’d been hit by that curse from Bellatrix Lestrange. It was hardly worse than anyone else’s injuries, except in addition to a slight limp and a greatly lessened ability to run or exert herself for long periods of time, Hermione had also developed an unfortunate reaction to the dark magic, making her far more susceptible to even the most minor curses. A simple stunning spell could knock her out for a week, even if it only hit an arm or a leg.
Hermione detested it. Once she’d become aware of her condition, she tried to keep it from everyone, knowing how Harry would worry. The last thing he needed was another distraction, and Hermione was determined not to give him one.
Unfortunately, she had an uncharacteristic lapse in rationality and she awoke a week after a raid in the living room of Grimmauld Place with a scratchy throat and a brief but terrifying inability to recognize anyone in the room. She then realized that her cover was blown. She should have been more careful, she should have thought of what would happen the second she went out to fight and weathered a curse, but she hadn’t even considered it. She merely trusted that she would be lucky enough not to be hit by any curses in the near future and had put all thoughts of the condition out of her mind. It was one of the few moments she could pinpoint in which she had acted certifiably, undeniably moronic.
And so she forced what she hoped was a carefree grin onto her features and said, “Of course, Harry. I’d love to go get groceries. It’s the least I can do.”
His calculatedly contrite expression didn’t hide the gleam of triumph in his eyes. Hermione would have been angrier about that, but she knew that Harry was just relieved to have at least one person he cared about removed from the line of fire. After all they’d lost, she couldn’t help but sympathize just a tiny bit.
Still, she spent a few moments silently cursing the lot of them before she made her way onto the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place and disapparated into the alley adjacent to the local grocery store.
****
Hermione found herself stumbling into solidly warm arms as she attempted to apparate onto the top step of Grimmauld Place again. She always had problems with that; it wasn’t the precision apparition that gave her trouble, it was just balancing on the tiny step with six bags full of supplies for spaghetti that tripped her up. The person who caught her steadied her on the sidewalk and she turned herself around to thank them. She figured it was probably a muggle neighbor that would be very confused upon spying half of her body escaping the safety of the wards around the house, so she prepared herself for the task of having to find a logical reason for why that would happen in the muggle world.
“Thank you so much-“ Her breath caught in her throat as her wand whipped up and positioned itself at the base of Draco Malfoy’s throat. A friendly chagrined smile twisted into a sneer and dark eyebrows pulled downward so sharply she felt her forehead ache slightly.
“Put your fucking wand down,” she snarled. He complied, setting it carefully on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?” Hermione knew she had to talk fast-at any time Malfoy could touch the mark on his arm and bring a horde of Death Eaters down upon her.
“I came here to ask for amnesty, and to fight with the Order to bring down Lord Voldemort. As for finding your… quaint little hideout,” he said with a slight air of distaste, “Snape told me to go to a street called Grimmauld Place when the time was right. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time, but I felt the reward, since I suspected he was referring to the Order, would be well worth the risk.” He looked directly at her as he finished his sentence.
Hermione studied him, searching for any trace of facetiousness that could have been hiding in his features. “Why do you want to come to the Order? Why not just hide out somewhere?” She had trouble resisting adding like the treacherous, spineless little snake you are to the end of her query.
Malfoy’s eyes locked with hers in a way that was strangely familiar. She tried to place it, scoured her mind to find an instance in which he had looked at her in that way, as if they knew each other. With a start, the image of the Draco in her dreams presented itself to her. “I don’t want to run away,” he said quietly. “Not this time.” He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t speak again.
Silence settled between them, though her wand was still at his throat. “You will come inside. You will be restrained and interrogated. Your wand will remain in my custody. If we decide to keep you,” she said, not without malice, “you will remain here under our constant watch until we deem you trustworthy. If we do not, your memories shall be wiped, any of them, at our discretion. Your wand will be broken, and you will be sent to live far away from Britain. If you come back, you will be killed on sight. Those are our terms. We will not negotiate. Understood?”
Malfoy nodded. Hermione got the distinct sense that she was making a grave mistake as she breathed, “The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at number 12 Grimmauld Place.” His eyes widened slightly as the house appeared before them, but again he said nothing. Her wand remained at his back as she escorted him inside.
****
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN WERE YOU THINKING, BRINGING HIM HERE?” Harry screamed. Ron was oddly passive at this outburst. He sat, studying Malfoy and sizing him up. Hermione was unnerved at the sudden swap of temperaments between her two best friends.
“Harry, don’t you think we should at least question him first? He might have useful information, and he hasn’t called Voldemort yet, now has he?” It was Ron, and not Draco, who flinched at the sound of his name. Hermione wasn’t sure she could take all of these little shocks in one night. She disliked being surprised, and so a headache was slowly building behind her eyes as the night wore on.
“NO I THINK WE SHOULD KILL HIM NOW AND BE DONE WITH IT,” Harry shrieked. “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT HIS INFORMATION.” Hermione thought that maybe the war was getting to him, which was a disturbing thought to say the least, since Harry had always been the one in control and focused when times got hard. It was painful watching him succumb to the panic they’d all become acquainted with in the past year.
“Harry,” Hermione soothed, “how about we sleep on it and come up with a solution in the morning, you know, when things aren’t so… tense? The shock will have worn off by then, and we’ll be able to make a rational decision on what to do about the situation.”
To everyone’s shock, Ron nodded. “I agree with ‘Mione,” Ron added, attempting to avoid Harry’s betrayed expression. “We never know… maybe the slimy git will have something useful for us, something that might help us win. Isn’t that what matters now, winning?”
A grin spread across Hermione’s lips. “Exactly, Ron! That’s precisely it. We need to set aside pettiness and do whatever we must to win this war.” She couldn’t help but feel a bit… proud of Ron for it. Then again, she had been noticing a certain heaviness in his brow, a more serious quirk in his lips as of late.
“Well if you’re all quite finished squabbling like schoolgirls, would you please get on with it? Sitting tied to this chair isn’t exactly comfortable, you know,” Malfoy spat.
“Oh shut up,” Ron said mildly. Harry looked dangerously close to an explosion.
Sensing the need to commandeer the situation before things got even tenser, Hermione spoke up. “Well I volunteer to question him. Someone needs to do it, and I reckon you lot are all exhausted from today. Besides, I’m the only one who ever seems to remember where the Veritaserum is.”
She shot down feeble objections with a, “Now, off to bed with you!” and watched as they all scurried back to their beds. She reckoned no one wanted the job of interrogating the ferret into all hours of the night when they could have been sleeping, and she didn’t blame them for it.
“Now,” she whipped around to face their guest, “to deal with you.”
“It’s about bloody time,” Malfoy drawled.
Hermione’s eyes contorted into sharp slits. “Look, Malfoy, you might find your obnoxious tendency to complain bitterly about every little thing endearing, but I assure you that no one in this house will. And if you think we’ll grant you leniency and allow you to continue being a complete and utter arse because we’re all too kindhearted to kick you out for it, let me make it apparent right now that you are wrong. If you are to stay here-and it is entirely likely that you won’t-you will abide by the rules of the house. In addition, you will be civil to anyone who enters it, including me. That means: no baiting people into arguments, no insults, no name calling, no smarmy remarks, and no bigotry. Do I make myself clear?”
“Inescapably,” Malfoy replied flatly. His eyes, normally so full of spite and malice, were oddly empty now. Any trace of bravado had been wiped away from him. He was no longer the bully who made her miserable like no one else could in school. He was no longer a threat, an enemy, a danger; he sat before her as a nineteen year old boy with frown lines, slumping slightly in the chair he was magically confined to. In this light, she could see the dark blotches of bluish purple that settled just above his cheekbones. His forehead was creased and he looked thinner than she’d expected. He was still more muscular than he’d been at seventeen-running and hiding and fighting and natural growth had seen to that-but there was still something off about his build, as though he was meant to look another way. Seeing him thin and somehow smaller imbued a sense of wrongness that Hermione couldn’t explain.
“Good,” she said, shaking off the thought. “I’m going to get the Veritaserum. If anything in this room is even remotely different when I come back, it’ll be your head.”