Duet 4: teenage_hustler and tygermine
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros. All fics posted at this community were written entirely for fun, not for profit, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Title: She Believed In Me
Author: teenage_hustler
Rating: PG, for some snogging and some swearing.
Word Count: 5,950
Summary: The night before the 10th anniversary of the final battle, and Draco has to give the opening speech. Hermione shows him how his story is one worth telling.
Warnings: Some swearing, some snogging.
Author's Note(s): To my recipient, this has been a pleasure and a delight to write! I hope you enjoy reading this, and thank you so much in advance for my fabulous gift in return. To my beta, C, YOU’RE A WONDERFUL WONDERFUL PERSON!!
Good afternoon, everyone. I can see you're all enjoying the appetisers--
No.
I hope this terribly hot weather has not soured your mood--
No.
So an English wizard and an Irish Muggle walk into a bar--
Oh cripes, no. Such humour fell well into the Weasley class of juvenile.
Draco sighed, crumpling up the piece of parchment he had more or less ruined with half-written opening sentences. Once he had drunk a mouthful of firewhisky, returned to his desk and rested his forehead in his hands, he felt marginally more in control. Not that that was saying much. If he was resorting to Weasley jokes, he had clearly lost pretty much all of the control he possessed.
He still stood by what he had thought when McGonagall had first asked him to do this: the woman had clearly long ago lost the sharp decisiveness and formidable intelligence that had made her such an excellent educator, and was now absolutely stark, raving mad. Draco could think of no other reason why, on the 10th anniversary of the defeat of the Dark Lord, she would ask him, of all people, to give the opening speech.
Aside from the many reasons for him not to give this speech (the most obvious of which being that he had spent most of the war technically on the Other Side), Draco was not one for standing on a podium and addressing the masses. This sort of caper was more for the Gryffindors and more foolish Hufflepuffs of this world. No, Draco’s preferred form of interacting with the masses was at something like a dinner party, where he could slither between tables and exchange pleasantries in intimate small groups. This was how Draco formed most of his political relationships, and it seemed to work exceptionally well. After all, not many twenty-seven year olds could claim to be Deputy Head of the Department of International Magic Cooperation, now could they? And Draco hadn't had to stand at a podium, wishing he had gone to the toilet when he'd had the chance and desperately trying to imagine the audience in their underwear, in order to get that position.
And now, staring at the smooth, aged surface of his several-hundred-year-old desk, Draco was really regretting that he had left the writing of this accursed thing until the night before.
"Hard at work, I see."
A hearty sigh seemed the only appropriate way to respond to such a greeting, so that was precisely what Draco uttered. It was just his luck, really. Here he was, suffering from a horrific dilemma - one that he would rather be suffering in private, thank you very much - and who should the Great Wizards Above bring for him to share the space with other than know-it-all, annoying bint Granger? No, really, Great Wizards. Why don't you just invite a loud, barking dog, the entire guest list of last year’s great British Morris Dancing Tournament, and an outbreak of the bubonic plague in here for good measure?
As much as Draco would have loved to continue cursing imaginary deities in the skies above, there was currently a very real Hermione Granger in the room, probably wondering if he was in fact mental or merely deaf, having not answered her for a good thirty seconds. He supposed it was his duty to articulate some sort of response.
“Yes.”
Not great, of course. But the best that he could do.
“So your speech is all written then? You’ve practised it at least half a dozen times? You’ve used the grammar-checking quill I gave you for your birthday last year?”
“Er…”
“Because that is certainly how far along I would be at this stage.” At this, Draco finally swivelled around to face Granger, only to be greeted with her treating him to a smirk that rivalled many of his own. That on its own was irritating enough, but she had added to the effect by looking impossibly attractive that evening. She had piled her frizzy hair into a haphazard bun on the top of her head, which was lovely both because it exposed her long neck and because it begged to be released whilst in the throes of passion. She was wearing the pale blue blouse and grey skirt she had worn to work but the high heels that had accompanied the outfit several hours ago had been ditched, and while Draco had always appreciated the extra length the heels gave Granger’s legs, there was something about the dressed-down, post-work, barefoot look that he found nothing short of irresistible.
It was very distracting, to say the least.
“Yes, well some of us have interesting lives to lead, social gatherings to attend, hands to shake and the like. So forgive me if I am not quite as prepared as you would be by now. For your information, I am almost finished.”
“You are? Brilliant!” Granger strode the length of Draco’s rather capacious office and sat herself on one of the Chesterfield loungers. “Show us what you’ve got then.”
“And ruin the surprise? What do you take me for, Granger?”
“You tell me. Either I take you for a fine orator whose talents have been in hiding until this point, due no doubt to a lack of speech-making opportunities, or I take you for a nervous ninny who hasn’t written a word because every time you attempt to do so you double over with nervous anguish.”
If she hadn’t hit the nail so firmly on the head, Draco would probably have made some effort to deny it. As things were, the best he could do now was be truthful. Sort of.
“Well… it’s been a while, all right?”
Granger shook her head before standing up and walking over to him. Without waiting for anything so much as permission, she pulled his head toward her and started gently stroking his hair. Draco closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation. He was still irritated with her, but if he was ever unable to enjoy the comforting touch of his wife, what good was he, really?
"When you die, I'm removing your knockers from the rest of your body and using them as a pillow for my remaining days," he said, nuzzling said knockers like a cat might its favourite owner's leg.
"You're the last of the great romantics, you are."
"Even the best of us get a little slack-jawed when what is being displayed is so magnificent."
Granger sighed, but it was a happy sigh. Draco could tell the difference. Feeling her hand on his, he reached for her arm and pulled her around. She sat on the edge of his desk, resting her stocking-clad feet on his thighs.
"I just don"t understand why I'm the one who has to do this," Draco said. An alarmingly honest moment for him, to be sure.
"Why not?" Granger took his hand in both of hers. "It makes all the sense in the world to me. This celebration is about how people have changed since the war, how we have grown, and what has happened to us as a result of the war. Someone with an interesting story is obviously the most ideal candidate for the opening speech.”
Draco raised a pale eyebrow at his wife. “And you believe me to be such a candidate, do you? Is that why you became so enchanted by me? My story?”
“I think ‘enchanted’ is a strong word,” Granger replied. “’Mildly disgusted for the longest time’, while still not accurate, is closer to the mark.”
“Yeah, that’s what all the girls I pursued told me. Making you mildly disgusted with me? That was all part of my plan to make you fall head over heels.”
“Really?” It was Granger’s turn to raise an eyebrow aristocratically. It was an art she had perfected over the years. “It was all part of your plan? Even first year?”
Draco feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
~*~
“What’s the matter, Potter? Bit beyond your reach?”
Hermione joined the rest of the class in gawking at Draco Malfoy, flying far better than most of them could ever hope to fly, with Neville’s Remembrall clutched in his fist. Even Hermione, who had only managed to read one book on the subject of broom-flying on such short notice, could recognise that the skill that she was seeing came from a mixture of talent and experience.
She could also recognise that Malfoy was a total prat.
She felt movement to her left and, looking over, saw Harry Potter climbing onto his broom.
“Harry,” she said, brushing through everybody else to get to him. “No way. You heard what Madam Hooch said. Besides, you don’t even know how to fly-”
Her words fell on deaf ears as Harry soared into the sky after Malfoy.
“What an idiot,” she uttered.
It was not remotely clear to which of the two boys she was referring.
~*~
“For someone so prim and proper, you’ve always had a nasty tongue, Miss Granger. Even then.” Draco ran his hands up her calves.
“I think it mellows towards people I like,” Granger argued.
“Really? So when am I going to experience this ‘mellowing’?”
“When I start liking you, the context would suggest.”
“Hmm.” Draco scooted closer to her, getting the same thrill from her hooking her legs around him that he got the first time she did it.
“It’s not really worth it,” he said.
“No, I don’t think so,” Granger agreed, leaning forward to kiss him.
Sweet Merlin, she was a good kisser. She wasn’t great when they started, but she was nothing if not a quick study, and she’d had ample opportunities to practice.
They broke apart after a few moments of indulgence. Granger ran gentle fingers along his jawline.
“So first year was when I realised you were a jerk,” she said.
Draco couldn’t tell a lie. “That’s pretty impressive. With a face this beautiful, it takes most people much, much longer.”
“Yeah, because most people become temporarily blinded by the arrogance radiating off it like a powerful energy source.”
“You call it arrogance. I call it being fortunate enough to understand just how fabulous you are.”
Being married to Draco had caused Hermione to become an expert in many things. Snogging, sensual foreplay, being unforgivably rude to a person whilst sounding as though you were casually discussing the weather, and, of course, the perfect eye-roll, which she executed now.
“It is also a face just itching to be slapped,” she said.
“Yes, as I recall you have already made that abundantly clear.”
~*~
Hermione was tired. She always felt tired these days. That damn Time-Turner was messing with her mind, and she knew there was no way she was going to be able to continue using it next year. The question was what subject she should give up.
She became aware of people up ahead when Harry and Ron detectably tensed up on either side of her. Shaking herself more awake, she saw the unmistakable blond head of Malfoy.
“Look at him blubber,” she heard him say as they approached. “Have you ever seen anything so pathetic? And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”
Hermione didn’t know if it was the tiredness, her love for Hagrid, her disdain for Malfoy and all he stood for, or a combination of all of the above. Whatever the reason, she snapped.
SMACK!
“Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic! You foul, you evil, you-“
When she drew her wand and felt Harry and Ron’s uncharacteristically gentle hands on her arm, telling her that he wasn’t worth her anger, she took a look at Malfoy’s petrified face and realised she was capable of being far more angry than she had previously thought.
~*~
“And that was when I knew I hated you.”
It amazed Draco that she could be so nonchalant now, when she had never made it a secret to him how angry she had been at the time. His cheek still stung whenever he reminisced.
She moved to kiss him again, and tempting though it was to let her, he placed a finger over her lips.
“That’s what I mean, though.”
“Hmm?”
“Well, you were hardly alone in thinking me a hateful jerk. So why in the name of Merlin’s hairy ballsack have they asked me to give this bloody speech? Surely people will start throwing vegetables at me as soon as I get on the podium?”
Normally, Granger would have replied to this with some sort of joke about the audience needing to dispose of their rotten tomatoes somehow, or something. Taking the piss out of each other; that was generally how their relationship worked.
But now, Granger quickly entered what Draco liked to call her ‘serious’ mode; a mode she normally saved for paperwork and discussions with her mother about future grandchildren. She cupped Draco’s face in her hands and fixed him with her most exasperated stare. Another little thing that being married to him had caused her to perfect.
“Draco, that’s not even close to the truth and you know it. The sort of person you were then is wildly different to who you came to be. That is a unique enough story in itself, you know. Many people didn’t change. Some stayed on the Dark side and would not be swayed. But you changed, and most people have come to see that. It just took a couple of them some time to do it.”
Draco snorted. Try a good six or seven years after the final battle, when someone finally thought to ask Potter about Draco’s actions while they had been trapped in the Manor. Until then, people had looked down their noses at Draco as though they did not know he was exceptionally wealthy and well-bred. It was quite rude, frankly.
“I guess it’s not as though I made it easy for them,” he conceded. “Acceptable though some of my actions may have been, I think some people are born to be and stay jerks forever.”
“I’m always the first to tell all of my relatives that you are a jerk,” Hermione agreed. “In fact, I don’t think my opinion of you would have changed at all, had it not been for that time in fifth year.”
~*~
Hermione was on the way to the library. Classes were over for the day, and she had some important reading to do. Several weeks ago, Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown had come to her, saying that members of Umbridge’s repulsive Inquisitorial Squad were bullying first years. Several weeks, a very cathartic yell at Pansy Parkinson, and pretty much no improvement later, Hermione had concocted the vague idea that she might be able to put some kind of protective spell on the first years. Her plan was nothing more than hypothetical at this stage, and she needed to study the relevant literature and see if such charm work was possible.
As she neared the library, she heard childlike sobbing coming from an open classroom. She slipped quietly inside to find a boy so tiny that Hermione thought he had to be a first year, hunched in one corner and crying. Her presumed duties as a Prefect immediately kicked in and she started to move toward the boy, when she heard an all-too-familiar voice from the other entrance.
“Jones?”
The kid looked up, failing to notice Hermione at all as he turned his head toward the probably quite imposing physique of Draco Malfoy.
“Mr Malfoy,” the child replied in a tiny voice, before frantically wiping his eyes in a pointless attempt to hide his tears.
“Why are you crying?” Malfoy asked, being the epitome of tact that he was.
“The… the other guys,” the child answered. “They tease me, and they… they call me ‘Mudblood’, and they say horrible things about my mum. They say I don’t deserve to be in Slytherin.”
Malfoy considered the kid for a moment, arms folded and eyebrows raised. Hermione, meanwhile, pulled out her wand, ready to Expelliarmus Malfoy to oblivion if necessary. While she had not seen him in action, it seemed abundantly clear to her that Malfoy would be one of the main perpetrators of this first year bullying Dean and Lavender had told her about. He had certainly never been above bullying people smaller or more emotionally fragile than him before.
“Tell me,” Malfoy eventually said, “how do you try to win a game of chess?”
If the child was confused by the purpose of the question, he did not show it. He shrugged “Normally, I try to make the other player believe they are going to win, then sneak my king across.”
“I see. What would you do if somebody near you had a piece of pie that you wanted?”
The boy sniffed a little, but Hermione could see him starting to smile through his tears.
“I’d try and make a deal with him. And if we could not make a deal, I would take it while he was not looking.”
“What if that did not work?”
The boy’s smile turned into a grin. “It always works.”
“Hmm.” Malfoy was clearly impressed, and even in this situation Hermione could not resist smacking her palm across her forehead.
“I have one more question then,” Malfoy said. “If a Gryffindor had trapped one of your Slytherin friends into a corner, and was spouting some malarkey about the need to stand proudly before your enemies and, most probably, get killed, what would you do?”
The kid took a moment to consider the question before asking, “How smart is the Gryffindor?”
“Why is that important?”
“Because if they were a stupid Gryffindor, I would probably confuse them by saying something smart, then taking my friend away while the Gryffindor thought about the answer. If they were smart, I might go over, say that they should sit down sometime and talk about it, then after a time had been decided, make sure my friend did not turn up. A smart Gryffindor would hopefully get the message.”
Malfoy grinned one of the rare genuine grins Hermione had up to that moment seen on him, and clapped the boy on the shoulder.
“Jones, don’t let anyone ever tell you again that you don’t deserve to be in Slytherin. Being Slytherin is about being smart, cunning, and doing what it takes to protect yourself and the people you love, far more than it is about your blood. And as your Prefect, I can assure you that you are a Slytherin, through and through.”
“Really?”
Hermione could not personally understand why anyone would be proud to be a Slytherin, but with the way the boy’s face lit up at Malfoy’s words, she supposed it had to be possible.
“Really.” Malfoy gave the kid another clap on the shoulder. “So promise me you’ll be the best Slytherin you can be?”
“Promise.”
~*~
“I quite liked that kid.”
“He seemed to quite like you too. Or look up to you, at least. Are Slytherins capable of just liking people, without there being something in it for them?”
“Not normally,” Draco admitted. “The closest I’ve probably ever got is with you, but you let me touch your boobs. Pretty much whenever I wanted.”
“True. And I would be foolish to believe that the fabulousness of my chest was not at least one of the reasons why you decided to marry me.”
“Incredibly so.”
“Nevertheless,” Granger continued, “seeing you cheering that kid up. That was the point where I thought that maybe, just maybe, you had a soul.”
“Well, I hope you haven’t told anyone.”
“No, no. That secret is safe with me.”
Draco grinned. It was a petty thing to be happy about, but he was glad she helped to protect his bad-boy reputation all the same. He made to kiss her, but something she said gave him pause.
“Wait. What did you mean by ‘that’ secret? Have you told people others?”
“Yeah, of course,” Granger answered, not remotely abashed. “I’m sure you’re keen for people to think you were indifferent to the war that was happening around you, but you would hardly have the reputation you have now if people did not know about a couple of things.”
“What sort of things?” Draco asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.
“Take what I heard about the end of sixth year, for instance.”
~*~
“So what do you reckon the Slytherins will be spending the summer doing?” Ron asked.
The three of them were on the Hogwarts Express, each rather lost in their own thoughts. Hermione was nutting out a timetable in her head. So I’ll want to be packed by Bill and Fleur’s wedding, definitely…
“Either getting their Marks or fleeing to somewhere far away, probably,” Harry answered. “Except Malfoy, of course. Snape will probably take him back to his parents, and they will have to answer to Voldemort together. They’ll be disgraced, no doubt.”
Hermione frowned at Harry’s prediction. “Surely Voldemort could not have believed that Malfoy would be able to kill Dumbledore?”
“No.” Harry shook his head. “Voldemort’s not stupid. He’d know that Malfoy wouldn’t have it in him to kill. Though, having said that, I’m kind of surprised that he didn’t at least attempt the spell.”
“Why?” Ron asked. “He was probably so scared that his trembling mouth couldn’t form the words.
“He was pretty scared, yeah,” Harry conceded. “But Voldemort was threatening to kill his family, and him. And Voldemort tends to act on his threats. So if he and his family were under threat, why did Draco listen to Dumbledore? Why did he lower his wand?”
Ron shrugged and resumed staring out the window. Hermione, meanwhile, was speechless.
~*~
“Draco? You all right?”
“Hmm?” Draco blinked. He had closed his eyes without knowing it. He also had backed slightly away from his wife. Sighing, he drew himself back toward her.
“Sorry,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. “I knew you must have known about what happened in that tower, but you’ve never mentioned it before. I guess I sort of… hoped you didn’t know?”
“Why?” Granger asked, her voice muffled by his jumper. She tightened her grip around him.
“Because I’m not proud of it. I wanted to be strong for my family that day. And I couldn’t do it. I mean, I’m glad I didn’t go through with actually killing him, but I wish I had not shown that fear. I don’t think I have ever felt more cowardly before or since.”
Draco was not fond of these sorts of heart-wrenchingly honest confessions. Unfortunately, his wife was insanely good at bringing them out of him. Really, if he kept her around for too long at a time he was in serious danger of turning into a bleeding-hearted Hufflepuff. And that was just unacceptable.
“Draco,” his wife now uttered, withdrawing from their embrace and holding him at arm’s length. “As is all too common for you, you are spectacularly wrong.”
Draco blinked, uncomprehending. “Come again?”
She took his hands in hers. “When Harry told me this story, I saw a different side to you. I mean, this was certainly the point where I started to like you as a person. Far from cowardly, that was probably the most courageous thing you’ve ever done.”
When it became clear that Draco was too confused by what she had just said to form any semblance of a sentence, let alone a coherent one, Granger continued. “Voldemort ordered you to do something. He said he’d kill you and your family if you didn’t do it. And let me tell you something, Draco Malfoy. Gryffindor though I may be, if someone that evil threatened to kill my parents if I didn’t carry out a job, I think I would have done it.
“But you didn’t. You knew the risks. You knew Voldemort was evil enough to carry out any specific threats he made. Yet despite that, you didn’t kill Dumblefore. You lowered your wand; you showed him mercy.”
“Only because I was too scared to kill,” Draco disagreed.
“No,” Hermione rebutted. “Only because you were too much of a good person to disregard a life.”
Draco shook his head. “I was in so much of a panic that day I don’t know if any of my actions can be seen as conscious, whether consciously courageous or consciously cowardly.
“Perhaps not,” Granger was at least willing to agree with this. “But in that case, I’d say seventh year proved your bravery once and for all.”
~*~
They had been caught. It was inevitable that they would be caught eventually, of course. As Hermione looked around the spacious yet smothering room, her eyes locked on Harry’s. Merlin, but he did look a fright. She would have to apologise later, she supposed, but to her credit he did look pretty unrecognisable.
“Draco!” That demented snake of a woman cooed toward one of the many entrances. Hermione tore her gaze from Harry’s as Draco entered the room. He looked… tired. And sulky. As though he were a petulant child being awoken from a nap. He looked them all - first Harry, then Ron, then finally Hermione - up and down, and his frown deepened.
“Draco,” Bellatrix called, her enthusiasm gleeful and childlike to the point of being disturbing. “Draco, tell us. Is this Harry Potter? Have we found him?”
Draco considered them all again, his gaze now lingering on Harry. Hermione had never been much of a religious person, but she was currently praying to any god who would listen that the unlikely would happen, and Draco would not be able to tell that it was Harry.
“I don’t know.”
Hermione opened her eyes, not having realised she’d closed them. Draco was looking at them all with disdain, any curiosity he might have had over them completely gone from his face.
“What?” Bellatrix stared at her nephew as though he had sprouted an extra head and suddenly randomly decided to tap-dance. “Draco, look very carefully now. If even a small part of you knows this is Harry Potter, you must say. You know how impatient our Dark Lord is.”
“I know,” Draco sulkily answered, making obvious efforts to avoid her eyes. “But I really don’t know. Sorry.”
Bellatrix flung her hand up into the air as though about to strike, and Hermione screwed her eyes shut. When no slapping noise came she tentatively opened them and saw Bellatrix breathing heavily, visibly trying to calm down.
“Fine,” she said, and the next thing Hermione knew Bellatrix had her arm in a claw-like grip and was pulling her away from Harry and Ron. “If you don’t know, Draco, I’m sure I can … persuade this little Mudblood here to divulge.”
“No!” Harry and Ron both yelled, Ron attempting to leap forward and grab her, but they were both quickly held back by Death Eaters as Bellatrix pulled Hermione into another large room and tethered her to the large wooden table in the centre.
Then, there was pain. Hermione’s memory was fragmented--the cool wood of the table beneath her, the ornate ceiling she found herself staring at, and an eerie voice telling her that it would all go away if she confessed that the boy with the disfigured face was Harry Potter. But other than that, all she knew was pain, and that she could not tell Bellatrix the truth. Thinking back, she supposed it helped that she knew that Bellatrix was lying - the pain would always continue, no matter how much she confessed. This was Bellatrix’s playtime, after all.
There was also another voice at one point. Soft-spoken and sulky, all she heard it say was something like, “…pointless… they’ll never tell… even if it is him…”
Hermione had no idea how long the pain lasted. It could have been two minutes, two hours or two days. But eventually it seemed to stop. Her muscles ached so terribly she could not move. But fresh pain was not coming anew, so it must have been over.
She heard Bellatrix speak from what seemed like a distance. “I’m bored. Take her to the cell.” Then she heard a door close, and she was alone in the enormous room. Her cheeks, already streaked with sweat and her crying, quickly became damp again as her tears started anew.
She felt arms slowly lifting her, holding her shoulders and keeping her upright. As she blinked her tears away and her vision cleared, Draco Malfoy’s face came into sharper focus.
“Granger,” he murmured, his hands running down her sore shoulders. “I don’t have much time. I have to take you back to your cell. So please, listen to me. Blink if you understand.”
Hermione attempted to nod first, and she could understand why he had told her to blink. Every little movement was almost unbearably painful. She focused again on Malfoy and blinked. Once.
“Granger, I’m sorry,” Malfoy said. If Hermione had been capable of more movement than blinking, she would have arranged her face into a genuine expression of surprise. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry about the bullying, about the abuse, the name-calling. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done these past seven years. Because you were right. You are the right side, and I want you to win, so I can continue to live my life how I want to live it. And if I could have my time over again, I would do things differently. I would have you near me.”
Every experience they had shared in the seven years they had known each other flashed through Hermione’s mind. The frustration, the outright anger, the surprise, the admiration, and finally the affection. Because somewhere along the line, she had come to care for Draco Malfoy. She wanted him to survive this war, and she wanted to be near him when it was over.
To move was painful, but she had to. She lifted a hand and placed it upon his face. He leaned into it, closing his eyes. She could tell that he was scared, but thanks to him, there was new hope.
“We will get through this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Malfoy’s eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. “And when we do, we will do things differently.”
~*~
“And I think that was the point when I fell in love,” Granger concluded, before smiling and saying, “Now Draco, there’s no need to cry.”
“Me? Crying? Never. It’s an eyelash,” Draco replied, sniffing and rubbing his eyes.
Granger patted him on the shoulder. “If you want to run with that, we can.”
“I rather do.” Joking aside, that day was probably simultaneously the best and worst of Draco’s life. To this day, he could not say whether he loved her at that stage, but he certainly cared about her. Seeing her being subjected to that sort of torture was nothing short of heart-wrenching. But it was also the point where he realised that he was not a helpless pawn, doomed to a life of serving a man (if that was even an accurate description of what Voldemort had been) he so violently hated. He could do things to stop it. He could make a difference. And that day was when he realised that there was somebody who believed in him enough to do this.
“Hermione,” he said - one of a handful of times on record that he had called his wife by her first name. “I get that not revealing Potter to my family was something you Gryffindors would class as ‘heroic’, or whatever. But what I did was minute compared to what any of you lot did. You lot were on the ‘good’ side the whole time, whereas I was only there - barely there - at the end. So why was I asked to speak about my war experience?”
“Because, Draco,” Hermione answered, “yours is the story we want to hear. The rest of our stories are all the same. We were always meant to be the good guys. We were always told we were the good guys. You weren’t. Even after the war was over nobody trusted you. You had to find your own path, and you had nobody to help you. But you still found it, and that, Draco, is why you are a hero.”
“A hero?” Draco thought of himself as many things, but a hero had never been something to which he thought he could possibly aspire.
“Yes.” Granger gave him a quick kiss. “Well, you’re my hero, at least.”
Draco grinned at his beautiful wife, and this time he initiated the kiss.
“You know,” he said, when they broke apart. “You’re wrong about one thing.”
“Just the one?”
“Rare, I know.” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, and he responded by taking her hand in his. “I had one person to help me.”
It was her turn to grin. They might have continued gazing at each other like those nauseating couples Draco often saw hand in hand at Diagon Alley, had he not suddenly made an inarticulate noise of triumph and told her to get off his desk.
“Why?”
Draco gave her one last kiss and took his quill out of its ink pot. “I think you’ve done it, Granger. You’ve made me realise what I’m going to say,” he said, starting to write.
~*~
“And now,” McGonagall’s voice boomed magically across the Great Hall, “please welcome Draco Malfoy!”
“Any last advice?” Draco whispered to Granger as she gave his tie one final straightening tug.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Just be yourself.”
Draco snorted. “You’ll forgive me if I tell you that you’ve said more inspiring things in your time, I hope?”
“Well yeah, but only because you’re then admitting that I say inspiring things.” She gave him her cutest smile. “Anyway, if you’re being yourself, at least nobody can tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
As Draco took to the podium, he had to concede that Granger made a good point.
As hundreds of people gazed up at him, Draco spared a brief second to imagine them all in their underwear, just so he could say he had done it.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “Until last night I was nervous as hell about standing here and talking to you all. I had writer’s block as I have never had it before. But then I talked to my beyond brilliant wife, and the answer came to me. So tonight, I shall be telling you my story, and how one amazing person’s belief in me saved my life.”
He stole a glance at Hermione, whose smile was infectious as she beamed up at him. He felt his own face lighting up as he turned to the rest of the audience.
“But first, I’ve got a terrible joke for you all. So an English wizard and an Irish Muggle walk into a bar, right…”
THE END
Title: She Believed In Me
Author: teenage_hustler
Rating: PG, for some snogging and some swearing.
Word Count: 5,950
Summary: The night before the 10th anniversary of the final battle, and Draco has to give the opening speech. Hermione shows him how his story is one worth telling.
Warnings: Some swearing, some snogging.
Author's Note(s): To my recipient, this has been a pleasure and a delight to write! I hope you enjoy reading this, and thank you so much in advance for my fabulous gift in return. To my beta, C, YOU’RE A WONDERFUL WONDERFUL PERSON!!
Good afternoon, everyone. I can see you're all enjoying the appetisers--
No.
I hope this terribly hot weather has not soured your mood--
No.
So an English wizard and an Irish Muggle walk into a bar--
Oh cripes, no. Such humour fell well into the Weasley class of juvenile.
Draco sighed, crumpling up the piece of parchment he had more or less ruined with half-written opening sentences. Once he had drunk a mouthful of firewhisky, returned to his desk and rested his forehead in his hands, he felt marginally more in control. Not that that was saying much. If he was resorting to Weasley jokes, he had clearly lost pretty much all of the control he possessed.
He still stood by what he had thought when McGonagall had first asked him to do this: the woman had clearly long ago lost the sharp decisiveness and formidable intelligence that had made her such an excellent educator, and was now absolutely stark, raving mad. Draco could think of no other reason why, on the 10th anniversary of the defeat of the Dark Lord, she would ask him, of all people, to give the opening speech.
Aside from the many reasons for him not to give this speech (the most obvious of which being that he had spent most of the war technically on the Other Side), Draco was not one for standing on a podium and addressing the masses. This sort of caper was more for the Gryffindors and more foolish Hufflepuffs of this world. No, Draco’s preferred form of interacting with the masses was at something like a dinner party, where he could slither between tables and exchange pleasantries in intimate small groups. This was how Draco formed most of his political relationships, and it seemed to work exceptionally well. After all, not many twenty-seven year olds could claim to be Deputy Head of the Department of International Magic Cooperation, now could they? And Draco hadn't had to stand at a podium, wishing he had gone to the toilet when he'd had the chance and desperately trying to imagine the audience in their underwear, in order to get that position.
And now, staring at the smooth, aged surface of his several-hundred-year-old desk, Draco was really regretting that he had left the writing of this accursed thing until the night before.
"Hard at work, I see."
A hearty sigh seemed the only appropriate way to respond to such a greeting, so that was precisely what Draco uttered. It was just his luck, really. Here he was, suffering from a horrific dilemma - one that he would rather be suffering in private, thank you very much - and who should the Great Wizards Above bring for him to share the space with other than know-it-all, annoying bint Granger? No, really, Great Wizards. Why don't you just invite a loud, barking dog, the entire guest list of last year’s great British Morris Dancing Tournament, and an outbreak of the bubonic plague in here for good measure?
As much as Draco would have loved to continue cursing imaginary deities in the skies above, there was currently a very real Hermione Granger in the room, probably wondering if he was in fact mental or merely deaf, having not answered her for a good thirty seconds. He supposed it was his duty to articulate some sort of response.
“Yes.”
Not great, of course. But the best that he could do.
“So your speech is all written then? You’ve practised it at least half a dozen times? You’ve used the grammar-checking quill I gave you for your birthday last year?”
“Er…”
“Because that is certainly how far along I would be at this stage.” At this, Draco finally swivelled around to face Granger, only to be greeted with her treating him to a smirk that rivalled many of his own. That on its own was irritating enough, but she had added to the effect by looking impossibly attractive that evening. She had piled her frizzy hair into a haphazard bun on the top of her head, which was lovely both because it exposed her long neck and because it begged to be released whilst in the throes of passion. She was wearing the pale blue blouse and grey skirt she had worn to work but the high heels that had accompanied the outfit several hours ago had been ditched, and while Draco had always appreciated the extra length the heels gave Granger’s legs, there was something about the dressed-down, post-work, barefoot look that he found nothing short of irresistible.
It was very distracting, to say the least.
“Yes, well some of us have interesting lives to lead, social gatherings to attend, hands to shake and the like. So forgive me if I am not quite as prepared as you would be by now. For your information, I am almost finished.”
“You are? Brilliant!” Granger strode the length of Draco’s rather capacious office and sat herself on one of the Chesterfield loungers. “Show us what you’ve got then.”
“And ruin the surprise? What do you take me for, Granger?”
“You tell me. Either I take you for a fine orator whose talents have been in hiding until this point, due no doubt to a lack of speech-making opportunities, or I take you for a nervous ninny who hasn’t written a word because every time you attempt to do so you double over with nervous anguish.”
If she hadn’t hit the nail so firmly on the head, Draco would probably have made some effort to deny it. As things were, the best he could do now was be truthful. Sort of.
“Well… it’s been a while, all right?”
Granger shook her head before standing up and walking over to him. Without waiting for anything so much as permission, she pulled his head toward her and started gently stroking his hair. Draco closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation. He was still irritated with her, but if he was ever unable to enjoy the comforting touch of his wife, what good was he, really?
"When you die, I'm removing your knockers from the rest of your body and using them as a pillow for my remaining days," he said, nuzzling said knockers like a cat might its favourite owner's leg.
"You're the last of the great romantics, you are."
"Even the best of us get a little slack-jawed when what is being displayed is so magnificent."
Granger sighed, but it was a happy sigh. Draco could tell the difference. Feeling her hand on his, he reached for her arm and pulled her around. She sat on the edge of his desk, resting her stocking-clad feet on his thighs.
"I just don"t understand why I'm the one who has to do this," Draco said. An alarmingly honest moment for him, to be sure.
"Why not?" Granger took his hand in both of hers. "It makes all the sense in the world to me. This celebration is about how people have changed since the war, how we have grown, and what has happened to us as a result of the war. Someone with an interesting story is obviously the most ideal candidate for the opening speech.”
Draco raised a pale eyebrow at his wife. “And you believe me to be such a candidate, do you? Is that why you became so enchanted by me? My story?”
“I think ‘enchanted’ is a strong word,” Granger replied. “’Mildly disgusted for the longest time’, while still not accurate, is closer to the mark.”
“Yeah, that’s what all the girls I pursued told me. Making you mildly disgusted with me? That was all part of my plan to make you fall head over heels.”
“Really?” It was Granger’s turn to raise an eyebrow aristocratically. It was an art she had perfected over the years. “It was all part of your plan? Even first year?”
Draco feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
~*~
“What’s the matter, Potter? Bit beyond your reach?”
Hermione joined the rest of the class in gawking at Draco Malfoy, flying far better than most of them could ever hope to fly, with Neville’s Remembrall clutched in his fist. Even Hermione, who had only managed to read one book on the subject of broom-flying on such short notice, could recognise that the skill that she was seeing came from a mixture of talent and experience.
She could also recognise that Malfoy was a total prat.
She felt movement to her left and, looking over, saw Harry Potter climbing onto his broom.
“Harry,” she said, brushing through everybody else to get to him. “No way. You heard what Madam Hooch said. Besides, you don’t even know how to fly-”
Her words fell on deaf ears as Harry soared into the sky after Malfoy.
“What an idiot,” she uttered.
It was not remotely clear to which of the two boys she was referring.
~*~
“For someone so prim and proper, you’ve always had a nasty tongue, Miss Granger. Even then.” Draco ran his hands up her calves.
“I think it mellows towards people I like,” Granger argued.
“Really? So when am I going to experience this ‘mellowing’?”
“When I start liking you, the context would suggest.”
“Hmm.” Draco scooted closer to her, getting the same thrill from her hooking her legs around him that he got the first time she did it.
“It’s not really worth it,” he said.
“No, I don’t think so,” Granger agreed, leaning forward to kiss him.
Sweet Merlin, she was a good kisser. She wasn’t great when they started, but she was nothing if not a quick study, and she’d had ample opportunities to practice.
They broke apart after a few moments of indulgence. Granger ran gentle fingers along his jawline.
“So first year was when I realised you were a jerk,” she said.
Draco couldn’t tell a lie. “That’s pretty impressive. With a face this beautiful, it takes most people much, much longer.”
“Yeah, because most people become temporarily blinded by the arrogance radiating off it like a powerful energy source.”
“You call it arrogance. I call it being fortunate enough to understand just how fabulous you are.”
Being married to Draco had caused Hermione to become an expert in many things. Snogging, sensual foreplay, being unforgivably rude to a person whilst sounding as though you were casually discussing the weather, and, of course, the perfect eye-roll, which she executed now.
“It is also a face just itching to be slapped,” she said.
“Yes, as I recall you have already made that abundantly clear.”
~*~
Hermione was tired. She always felt tired these days. That damn Time-Turner was messing with her mind, and she knew there was no way she was going to be able to continue using it next year. The question was what subject she should give up.
She became aware of people up ahead when Harry and Ron detectably tensed up on either side of her. Shaking herself more awake, she saw the unmistakable blond head of Malfoy.
“Look at him blubber,” she heard him say as they approached. “Have you ever seen anything so pathetic? And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”
Hermione didn’t know if it was the tiredness, her love for Hagrid, her disdain for Malfoy and all he stood for, or a combination of all of the above. Whatever the reason, she snapped.
SMACK!
“Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic! You foul, you evil, you-“
When she drew her wand and felt Harry and Ron’s uncharacteristically gentle hands on her arm, telling her that he wasn’t worth her anger, she took a look at Malfoy’s petrified face and realised she was capable of being far more angry than she had previously thought.
~*~
“And that was when I knew I hated you.”
It amazed Draco that she could be so nonchalant now, when she had never made it a secret to him how angry she had been at the time. His cheek still stung whenever he reminisced.
She moved to kiss him again, and tempting though it was to let her, he placed a finger over her lips.
“That’s what I mean, though.”
“Hmm?”
“Well, you were hardly alone in thinking me a hateful jerk. So why in the name of Merlin’s hairy ballsack have they asked me to give this bloody speech? Surely people will start throwing vegetables at me as soon as I get on the podium?”
Normally, Granger would have replied to this with some sort of joke about the audience needing to dispose of their rotten tomatoes somehow, or something. Taking the piss out of each other; that was generally how their relationship worked.
But now, Granger quickly entered what Draco liked to call her ‘serious’ mode; a mode she normally saved for paperwork and discussions with her mother about future grandchildren. She cupped Draco’s face in her hands and fixed him with her most exasperated stare. Another little thing that being married to him had caused her to perfect.
“Draco, that’s not even close to the truth and you know it. The sort of person you were then is wildly different to who you came to be. That is a unique enough story in itself, you know. Many people didn’t change. Some stayed on the Dark side and would not be swayed. But you changed, and most people have come to see that. It just took a couple of them some time to do it.”
Draco snorted. Try a good six or seven years after the final battle, when someone finally thought to ask Potter about Draco’s actions while they had been trapped in the Manor. Until then, people had looked down their noses at Draco as though they did not know he was exceptionally wealthy and well-bred. It was quite rude, frankly.
“I guess it’s not as though I made it easy for them,” he conceded. “Acceptable though some of my actions may have been, I think some people are born to be and stay jerks forever.”
“I’m always the first to tell all of my relatives that you are a jerk,” Hermione agreed. “In fact, I don’t think my opinion of you would have changed at all, had it not been for that time in fifth year.”
~*~
Hermione was on the way to the library. Classes were over for the day, and she had some important reading to do. Several weeks ago, Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown had come to her, saying that members of Umbridge’s repulsive Inquisitorial Squad were bullying first years. Several weeks, a very cathartic yell at Pansy Parkinson, and pretty much no improvement later, Hermione had concocted the vague idea that she might be able to put some kind of protective spell on the first years. Her plan was nothing more than hypothetical at this stage, and she needed to study the relevant literature and see if such charm work was possible.
As she neared the library, she heard childlike sobbing coming from an open classroom. She slipped quietly inside to find a boy so tiny that Hermione thought he had to be a first year, hunched in one corner and crying. Her presumed duties as a Prefect immediately kicked in and she started to move toward the boy, when she heard an all-too-familiar voice from the other entrance.
“Jones?”
The kid looked up, failing to notice Hermione at all as he turned his head toward the probably quite imposing physique of Draco Malfoy.
“Mr Malfoy,” the child replied in a tiny voice, before frantically wiping his eyes in a pointless attempt to hide his tears.
“Why are you crying?” Malfoy asked, being the epitome of tact that he was.
“The… the other guys,” the child answered. “They tease me, and they… they call me ‘Mudblood’, and they say horrible things about my mum. They say I don’t deserve to be in Slytherin.”
Malfoy considered the kid for a moment, arms folded and eyebrows raised. Hermione, meanwhile, pulled out her wand, ready to Expelliarmus Malfoy to oblivion if necessary. While she had not seen him in action, it seemed abundantly clear to her that Malfoy would be one of the main perpetrators of this first year bullying Dean and Lavender had told her about. He had certainly never been above bullying people smaller or more emotionally fragile than him before.
“Tell me,” Malfoy eventually said, “how do you try to win a game of chess?”
If the child was confused by the purpose of the question, he did not show it. He shrugged “Normally, I try to make the other player believe they are going to win, then sneak my king across.”
“I see. What would you do if somebody near you had a piece of pie that you wanted?”
The boy sniffed a little, but Hermione could see him starting to smile through his tears.
“I’d try and make a deal with him. And if we could not make a deal, I would take it while he was not looking.”
“What if that did not work?”
The boy’s smile turned into a grin. “It always works.”
“Hmm.” Malfoy was clearly impressed, and even in this situation Hermione could not resist smacking her palm across her forehead.
“I have one more question then,” Malfoy said. “If a Gryffindor had trapped one of your Slytherin friends into a corner, and was spouting some malarkey about the need to stand proudly before your enemies and, most probably, get killed, what would you do?”
The kid took a moment to consider the question before asking, “How smart is the Gryffindor?”
“Why is that important?”
“Because if they were a stupid Gryffindor, I would probably confuse them by saying something smart, then taking my friend away while the Gryffindor thought about the answer. If they were smart, I might go over, say that they should sit down sometime and talk about it, then after a time had been decided, make sure my friend did not turn up. A smart Gryffindor would hopefully get the message.”
Malfoy grinned one of the rare genuine grins Hermione had up to that moment seen on him, and clapped the boy on the shoulder.
“Jones, don’t let anyone ever tell you again that you don’t deserve to be in Slytherin. Being Slytherin is about being smart, cunning, and doing what it takes to protect yourself and the people you love, far more than it is about your blood. And as your Prefect, I can assure you that you are a Slytherin, through and through.”
“Really?”
Hermione could not personally understand why anyone would be proud to be a Slytherin, but with the way the boy’s face lit up at Malfoy’s words, she supposed it had to be possible.
“Really.” Malfoy gave the kid another clap on the shoulder. “So promise me you’ll be the best Slytherin you can be?”
“Promise.”
~*~
“I quite liked that kid.”
“He seemed to quite like you too. Or look up to you, at least. Are Slytherins capable of just liking people, without there being something in it for them?”
“Not normally,” Draco admitted. “The closest I’ve probably ever got is with you, but you let me touch your boobs. Pretty much whenever I wanted.”
“True. And I would be foolish to believe that the fabulousness of my chest was not at least one of the reasons why you decided to marry me.”
“Incredibly so.”
“Nevertheless,” Granger continued, “seeing you cheering that kid up. That was the point where I thought that maybe, just maybe, you had a soul.”
“Well, I hope you haven’t told anyone.”
“No, no. That secret is safe with me.”
Draco grinned. It was a petty thing to be happy about, but he was glad she helped to protect his bad-boy reputation all the same. He made to kiss her, but something she said gave him pause.
“Wait. What did you mean by ‘that’ secret? Have you told people others?”
“Yeah, of course,” Granger answered, not remotely abashed. “I’m sure you’re keen for people to think you were indifferent to the war that was happening around you, but you would hardly have the reputation you have now if people did not know about a couple of things.”
“What sort of things?” Draco asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.
“Take what I heard about the end of sixth year, for instance.”
~*~
“So what do you reckon the Slytherins will be spending the summer doing?” Ron asked.
The three of them were on the Hogwarts Express, each rather lost in their own thoughts. Hermione was nutting out a timetable in her head. So I’ll want to be packed by Bill and Fleur’s wedding, definitely…
“Either getting their Marks or fleeing to somewhere far away, probably,” Harry answered. “Except Malfoy, of course. Snape will probably take him back to his parents, and they will have to answer to Voldemort together. They’ll be disgraced, no doubt.”
Hermione frowned at Harry’s prediction. “Surely Voldemort could not have believed that Malfoy would be able to kill Dumbledore?”
“No.” Harry shook his head. “Voldemort’s not stupid. He’d know that Malfoy wouldn’t have it in him to kill. Though, having said that, I’m kind of surprised that he didn’t at least attempt the spell.”
“Why?” Ron asked. “He was probably so scared that his trembling mouth couldn’t form the words.
“He was pretty scared, yeah,” Harry conceded. “But Voldemort was threatening to kill his family, and him. And Voldemort tends to act on his threats. So if he and his family were under threat, why did Draco listen to Dumbledore? Why did he lower his wand?”
Ron shrugged and resumed staring out the window. Hermione, meanwhile, was speechless.
~*~
“Draco? You all right?”
“Hmm?” Draco blinked. He had closed his eyes without knowing it. He also had backed slightly away from his wife. Sighing, he drew himself back toward her.
“Sorry,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. “I knew you must have known about what happened in that tower, but you’ve never mentioned it before. I guess I sort of… hoped you didn’t know?”
“Why?” Granger asked, her voice muffled by his jumper. She tightened her grip around him.
“Because I’m not proud of it. I wanted to be strong for my family that day. And I couldn’t do it. I mean, I’m glad I didn’t go through with actually killing him, but I wish I had not shown that fear. I don’t think I have ever felt more cowardly before or since.”
Draco was not fond of these sorts of heart-wrenchingly honest confessions. Unfortunately, his wife was insanely good at bringing them out of him. Really, if he kept her around for too long at a time he was in serious danger of turning into a bleeding-hearted Hufflepuff. And that was just unacceptable.
“Draco,” his wife now uttered, withdrawing from their embrace and holding him at arm’s length. “As is all too common for you, you are spectacularly wrong.”
Draco blinked, uncomprehending. “Come again?”
She took his hands in hers. “When Harry told me this story, I saw a different side to you. I mean, this was certainly the point where I started to like you as a person. Far from cowardly, that was probably the most courageous thing you’ve ever done.”
When it became clear that Draco was too confused by what she had just said to form any semblance of a sentence, let alone a coherent one, Granger continued. “Voldemort ordered you to do something. He said he’d kill you and your family if you didn’t do it. And let me tell you something, Draco Malfoy. Gryffindor though I may be, if someone that evil threatened to kill my parents if I didn’t carry out a job, I think I would have done it.
“But you didn’t. You knew the risks. You knew Voldemort was evil enough to carry out any specific threats he made. Yet despite that, you didn’t kill Dumblefore. You lowered your wand; you showed him mercy.”
“Only because I was too scared to kill,” Draco disagreed.
“No,” Hermione rebutted. “Only because you were too much of a good person to disregard a life.”
Draco shook his head. “I was in so much of a panic that day I don’t know if any of my actions can be seen as conscious, whether consciously courageous or consciously cowardly.
“Perhaps not,” Granger was at least willing to agree with this. “But in that case, I’d say seventh year proved your bravery once and for all.”
~*~
They had been caught. It was inevitable that they would be caught eventually, of course. As Hermione looked around the spacious yet smothering room, her eyes locked on Harry’s. Merlin, but he did look a fright. She would have to apologise later, she supposed, but to her credit he did look pretty unrecognisable.
“Draco!” That demented snake of a woman cooed toward one of the many entrances. Hermione tore her gaze from Harry’s as Draco entered the room. He looked… tired. And sulky. As though he were a petulant child being awoken from a nap. He looked them all - first Harry, then Ron, then finally Hermione - up and down, and his frown deepened.
“Draco,” Bellatrix called, her enthusiasm gleeful and childlike to the point of being disturbing. “Draco, tell us. Is this Harry Potter? Have we found him?”
Draco considered them all again, his gaze now lingering on Harry. Hermione had never been much of a religious person, but she was currently praying to any god who would listen that the unlikely would happen, and Draco would not be able to tell that it was Harry.
“I don’t know.”
Hermione opened her eyes, not having realised she’d closed them. Draco was looking at them all with disdain, any curiosity he might have had over them completely gone from his face.
“What?” Bellatrix stared at her nephew as though he had sprouted an extra head and suddenly randomly decided to tap-dance. “Draco, look very carefully now. If even a small part of you knows this is Harry Potter, you must say. You know how impatient our Dark Lord is.”
“I know,” Draco sulkily answered, making obvious efforts to avoid her eyes. “But I really don’t know. Sorry.”
Bellatrix flung her hand up into the air as though about to strike, and Hermione screwed her eyes shut. When no slapping noise came she tentatively opened them and saw Bellatrix breathing heavily, visibly trying to calm down.
“Fine,” she said, and the next thing Hermione knew Bellatrix had her arm in a claw-like grip and was pulling her away from Harry and Ron. “If you don’t know, Draco, I’m sure I can … persuade this little Mudblood here to divulge.”
“No!” Harry and Ron both yelled, Ron attempting to leap forward and grab her, but they were both quickly held back by Death Eaters as Bellatrix pulled Hermione into another large room and tethered her to the large wooden table in the centre.
Then, there was pain. Hermione’s memory was fragmented--the cool wood of the table beneath her, the ornate ceiling she found herself staring at, and an eerie voice telling her that it would all go away if she confessed that the boy with the disfigured face was Harry Potter. But other than that, all she knew was pain, and that she could not tell Bellatrix the truth. Thinking back, she supposed it helped that she knew that Bellatrix was lying - the pain would always continue, no matter how much she confessed. This was Bellatrix’s playtime, after all.
There was also another voice at one point. Soft-spoken and sulky, all she heard it say was something like, “…pointless… they’ll never tell… even if it is him…”
Hermione had no idea how long the pain lasted. It could have been two minutes, two hours or two days. But eventually it seemed to stop. Her muscles ached so terribly she could not move. But fresh pain was not coming anew, so it must have been over.
She heard Bellatrix speak from what seemed like a distance. “I’m bored. Take her to the cell.” Then she heard a door close, and she was alone in the enormous room. Her cheeks, already streaked with sweat and her crying, quickly became damp again as her tears started anew.
She felt arms slowly lifting her, holding her shoulders and keeping her upright. As she blinked her tears away and her vision cleared, Draco Malfoy’s face came into sharper focus.
“Granger,” he murmured, his hands running down her sore shoulders. “I don’t have much time. I have to take you back to your cell. So please, listen to me. Blink if you understand.”
Hermione attempted to nod first, and she could understand why he had told her to blink. Every little movement was almost unbearably painful. She focused again on Malfoy and blinked. Once.
“Granger, I’m sorry,” Malfoy said. If Hermione had been capable of more movement than blinking, she would have arranged her face into a genuine expression of surprise. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry about the bullying, about the abuse, the name-calling. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done these past seven years. Because you were right. You are the right side, and I want you to win, so I can continue to live my life how I want to live it. And if I could have my time over again, I would do things differently. I would have you near me.”
Every experience they had shared in the seven years they had known each other flashed through Hermione’s mind. The frustration, the outright anger, the surprise, the admiration, and finally the affection. Because somewhere along the line, she had come to care for Draco Malfoy. She wanted him to survive this war, and she wanted to be near him when it was over.
To move was painful, but she had to. She lifted a hand and placed it upon his face. He leaned into it, closing his eyes. She could tell that he was scared, but thanks to him, there was new hope.
“We will get through this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Malfoy’s eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. “And when we do, we will do things differently.”
~*~
“And I think that was the point when I fell in love,” Granger concluded, before smiling and saying, “Now Draco, there’s no need to cry.”
“Me? Crying? Never. It’s an eyelash,” Draco replied, sniffing and rubbing his eyes.
Granger patted him on the shoulder. “If you want to run with that, we can.”
“I rather do.” Joking aside, that day was probably simultaneously the best and worst of Draco’s life. To this day, he could not say whether he loved her at that stage, but he certainly cared about her. Seeing her being subjected to that sort of torture was nothing short of heart-wrenching. But it was also the point where he realised that he was not a helpless pawn, doomed to a life of serving a man (if that was even an accurate description of what Voldemort had been) he so violently hated. He could do things to stop it. He could make a difference. And that day was when he realised that there was somebody who believed in him enough to do this.
“Hermione,” he said - one of a handful of times on record that he had called his wife by her first name. “I get that not revealing Potter to my family was something you Gryffindors would class as ‘heroic’, or whatever. But what I did was minute compared to what any of you lot did. You lot were on the ‘good’ side the whole time, whereas I was only there - barely there - at the end. So why was I asked to speak about my war experience?”
“Because, Draco,” Hermione answered, “yours is the story we want to hear. The rest of our stories are all the same. We were always meant to be the good guys. We were always told we were the good guys. You weren’t. Even after the war was over nobody trusted you. You had to find your own path, and you had nobody to help you. But you still found it, and that, Draco, is why you are a hero.”
“A hero?” Draco thought of himself as many things, but a hero had never been something to which he thought he could possibly aspire.
“Yes.” Granger gave him a quick kiss. “Well, you’re my hero, at least.”
Draco grinned at his beautiful wife, and this time he initiated the kiss.
“You know,” he said, when they broke apart. “You’re wrong about one thing.”
“Just the one?”
“Rare, I know.” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, and he responded by taking her hand in his. “I had one person to help me.”
It was her turn to grin. They might have continued gazing at each other like those nauseating couples Draco often saw hand in hand at Diagon Alley, had he not suddenly made an inarticulate noise of triumph and told her to get off his desk.
“Why?”
Draco gave her one last kiss and took his quill out of its ink pot. “I think you’ve done it, Granger. You’ve made me realise what I’m going to say,” he said, starting to write.
~*~
“And now,” McGonagall’s voice boomed magically across the Great Hall, “please welcome Draco Malfoy!”
“Any last advice?” Draco whispered to Granger as she gave his tie one final straightening tug.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Just be yourself.”
Draco snorted. “You’ll forgive me if I tell you that you’ve said more inspiring things in your time, I hope?”
“Well yeah, but only because you’re then admitting that I say inspiring things.” She gave him her cutest smile. “Anyway, if you’re being yourself, at least nobody can tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
As Draco took to the podium, he had to concede that Granger made a good point.
As hundreds of people gazed up at him, Draco spared a brief second to imagine them all in their underwear, just so he could say he had done it.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “Until last night I was nervous as hell about standing here and talking to you all. I had writer’s block as I have never had it before. But then I talked to my beyond brilliant wife, and the answer came to me. So tonight, I shall be telling you my story, and how one amazing person’s belief in me saved my life.”
He stole a glance at Hermione, whose smile was infectious as she beamed up at him. He felt his own face lighting up as he turned to the rest of the audience.
“But first, I’ve got a terrible joke for you all. So an English wizard and an Irish Muggle walk into a bar, right…”
THE END