𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃

Chapter 15

He, Him, It

Hermione picked at her napkin, frustrated and confused. Less than a year ago she would have been unable to look at the man across from her without pity in her gaze and now she couldn't even make eye contact.

She didn't look up as a waitress set their drinks down with unfelt greetings. The mellifluous and confident voice from the other side of the table thanked her and sent her on her way.

Oh, honestly, she was being stupid. She was a married woman with a daughter at home and this was beyond idiotic. She boldly met his soft silver eyes and managed to mostly cool the heat in her cheeks. She cleared her throat coarsely – at least that's how it sounded to her – and piped up, "What are you doing back here?"

Malfoy's eyes shifted away from her own in an almost cowardly display and she felt empathy well up in her throat. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve and answered into the general milieu, "We all have to face our demons eventually."

He took a quick swig from his beer and Hermione thought she had never seen anything so substandard. The man across from her, this gorgeous and aristocratic vision, deserved the finest wines and gold serviettes and she had taken him into a grubby local tavern. She tried not to appear as deeply embarrassed by this as she was. Instead, she focused on the slight trembling of his fine fingers as he raised the bottle and gently wondered aloud, "You're prepared for that?"

"We'll see." He said this with complete unconcern and somehow Hermione knew that that was a very condensed truth. She gave him a probing look and the man sighed tiredly but elaborated, "I ran – I ran from my home and my friends, I have to come to terms with that. Will you excuse me for a moment?" Malfoy enquired suddenly.

Hermione nodded eagerly, feeling off-kilter, and took the opportunity to try to regain her sensibilities. She still didn't think she had by the time he returned.

She watched as he pressed his forefinger into the worn wood of the table, tracing methodically and mindlessly over a water ring. Harry had done precisely the same thing with his thumb the last time they had met for drinks, and shame joined in with her other jumbled emotions. Harry, her best friend, that's whose corner she was in. Always. She picked at the label on her own drink nervously. "Harry, he's—"

Malfoy's drink slammed back down onto the table so hard that it left a ringing in her ears. His teeth were gritted and his jaw clenched so hard that she could see the muscles in his neck and cheek straining. "I don't want to talk about him," He hissed lowly.

"Of course not," Hermione placated quickly, leaning back in the booth slightly dejected. She glanced up at Malfoy to see the hard line of his mouth thin even further and tried again, figuring both he and Harry might benefit from being forced to actually deal with the dissolution of their relationship.

After all, Harry deserved her support if only to make up for the current thoughts she was harboring about Malfoy. Besides, he was genuinely getting better. Somewhat. "I just – Wouldn't you even consider seeing him? I think it would do him good."

Malfoy's knowing laughter was mocking and tired. "Because gods forbid he suffer," He said with a snort of dark amusement.

Hermione's features hardened at the dig at Harry and she stated forcefully, "He needs you."

Malfoy's head snapped up and any openness that had been in his face shut down instantly. His cheeks were red and his eyes were livid with fury. "Fuck you!" He practically snarled. "'He needs me'?" He parroted back in furious disbelief, a snide little laugh punctuating it. "He needs a goddamn living, breathing thing to break. And I am done being broken by that piece of shit. That man doesn't need anyone but himself and I won't be his anything anymore. I hope his suffering is beyond measure."

Hermione's eyes narrowed coldly and a small part of her hoped her next words stung Malfoy as badly as his had stung her. "I think it could help him, maybe even convince him to keep with the program, to stay sober."

Malfoy's smile was razor-edged and his hands were shaking tremulously. "Oh, I see, you mention he's getting help and I'm supposed to what, forgive and forget? Wrap myself up in Harry goddamn Potter until Draco Malfoy disappears once again?" Malfoy sneered as Hermione hadn't seen him do in over three years. "Well." He laughed without humor. "No one ever really liked him much anyway, did they?"

"I did," Hermione said so quietly she wasn't sure if he heard her. He was looking a bit queasy and his gaze wasn't meeting hers anymore. "I begged him to let you go—"

Malfoy jumped out of his seat so quickly you might have thought his chair was on fire. He snatched up his coat, breathing hard. "That's enough! I didn't come here for this, I didn't come here for him. I came here to live my life and he is not a part of it. Not anymore. Not ever again."

Hermione grabbed his arm before he could take a step. His skin was unnaturally warm against her cool palm and her face turned bright red as she released him. She composed herself and said in a hard tone, "Is that what you learned while you were gone, denial?"

Malfoy glared at her and hissed, "Who are you to judge me, Mudblood?"

Hermione straightened up, completely repulsed. "Back to that, are we?" She demanded frigidly. "I thought you'd grown up, Malfoy."

Malfoy took a step back, his eyes wild and restless. "I'm far from perfect, Granger," He admitted finally. "In fact, I'm quite terrified."

Hermione, who had opened her mouth with a cutting retort on her tongue, snapped it shut with a clack. That had not been the answer she had expected at all. "Terrified of what?"

Malfoy slumped back into his seat bonelessly, exhaustion chiseling away at the droop of his shoulders, and dropped his head into his hands – the picture of defeat. "Of slipping back into what I was," He croaked. "Obsessed, idiotic, damn near suicidal. I loved him to the point of stupidity and complete and utter irrationality. I've spent eight months relearning what it meant to be Draco Malfoy, becoming my own person, and the first conversation I have upon my return is about him." Malfoy looked up at her with a trembling smile. "You see, it's everything I feared, because I am just an extension of him – how could I not want to know when he's all that's ever mattered?"

"Oh Malfoy, I never meant—"

But Malfoy cut her off so quickly that Hermione wondered if her voice had even registered. He shook his head wearily. "So, no, I haven't 'grown up,' Granger." He curled his trembling hands into fists and bit his lip. "I'm frightened of my own shadow and I have no confidence in my ability to be a real person – to have thoughts and opinions and reactions that deviate from his. But I'm learning," He added as an attempt at brightness. "And all that's really changed is that failure no longer means devastation; it means your next attempt will be smarter, quicker, better informed. One day, when I walk into a room, the first thing I'm associated with won't be him, or Death Eater, but something to be proud of. One day, I'll matter because I'm me."

Hermione placed her left hand over one of his clenched fists and squeezed as she asserted seriously, "You do matter."

Malfoy snorted. "Because of my relation to him. You wouldn't be here if not for him. Don't bother denying it, Granger. It's understandable." He eased his hand out from under hers and wrapped it tight around the base of his bottle, swallowing hard. "But one day that will change. That day." Malfoy smiled, a small sincere smile. "Will be a good day."

Hermione stared at her rejected hand and placed it back in her lap, not quite sure what else to do with it. "You're right," She agreed after a significant pause. And he was. It had been entirely unfair, not to mention insensitive, of her to even mention Harry. "I don't know what I was thinking of." She smiled uncertainly and asked, "How have you been and where have you been?"

Malfoy didn't answer and Hermione thought perhaps he would just leave until finally he enunciated a single word. "Abroad."

Hermione pursed her lips unhappily and decided to say nothing more until Malfoy inevitably left, the thick silence remaining undisrupted around them.

He sighed and drained his beer. "Italy," He said hoarsely. "My godfather lives there, he helped me to...pull myself together." He glanced around, clearly looking for a subject change and abruptly remembered her hand covering his. He tipped his empty bottle toward her lap and said coolly, "I see congratulations are in order."

Hermione clenched her hand in her lap, emphasizing the pale, rubbery skin of her left ring finger, and scowled. "Not many people would see that as a congratulatory offense."

Malfoy grinned, though it seemed a bit forced. "They don't know the ginger giant you were once married to as well as I do then."

Hermione's scowl deepened and she crossed her arms over her full chest, hiding her hand under her bicep. "We're still married, we're just...having difficulties."

"Of course," Malfoy said agreeably, though a doubting smile played over his lips.

She glared at him and ground out, "We'll be fine, Malfoy."

"I didn't hear me say any different," Malfoy quipped. They sat in the oppressive silence, Malfoy lost in his own thoughts and Hermione resentful and angry, glaring at him, until he finally snapped, "And what is it you're dying to say to me?"

Hermione jolted in surprise and confusion. "What?"

Malfoy frowned bitterly. "You've been staring at me since we've sat down, so what is it that you can't quite seem to quell?"

Hermione, who hadn't realized her staring had been quite so obvious, blushed brightly and mumbled, "I don't know what you're talking about. I – I'm simply glad you're well, Malfoy."

Malfoy's eyes raked her suspiciously but, apparently deciding there was nothing underhanded going on, he simply said graciously, "Thank you, Granger." He stood up and held out his hand to her, which she happily took. "I suppose I should get back to my apartment, and I'm sure the Weasel is awaiting your return."

He started walking away, rewrapping his scarf and pulling on his jacket, when she called out tremulously, "It was nice seeing you, Malfoy. Perhaps we could meet up again?"

Malfoy turned slowly on his heel, considering her, and – with a smile – said, "Perhaps."

Draco's posture deflated as soon as he was out in the street. Running into Granger on his second night back? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right! Having all those memories of her and Weasley and-and him thrown back in his face; it was enough to cripple even the strongest of men.

He had gone from collected and self-sustained to heaving the contents of his stomach into the bar's toilet in a matter of moments. His guts were still knotted and twisting and even the fresh air wasn't doing him much good. And for her to mention him? Draco was glad he hadn't had anything left in him to come up, at the very least.

He aimlessly staggered home, feeling queasy and full of indignation and broken all over again. He hated it here, he hated Snape for sending him back so soon, he hated Granger for existing, but most of all he hated him. He hated him for having friends, for having a life without him, for not having to fly off to a different country just to forget about him, for not being so utterly weak and fragile, he hated him for not caring.

He had only been in London forty-eight hours and already he felt as though the work he had done in his eight-month respite had completely unraveled. He was back at square one – stupid and alone and lovesick.

Draco dragged his keys out of his pocket and trudged down his hallway, nearly running into a very solid something that was standing right in front of his door. A snide, pained voice made him look up, shame-faced. "Your landlord said he saw you. I didn't believe it."

Draco swallowed heavily and reached out for the man only to have him back away from his touch. "Blaise, I—" He started sorrowfully.

"You just abandoned me," He interrupted, his voice shaky and accusatory. "Were you even going to tell me you were back?"

"Of course I was," Draco rejoined without hesitation. He said it without even knowing it was true but, after he lingered on it a moment, he realized there had never been a question of him seeing Blaise again. The answer was always going to be yes.

The man swiped at his eyes and shot at him, "Did you get my letters?"

"Yes," Draco answered truthfully, moving closer to his door so he could lean against the frame, a headache banging at his temples.

"But you didn't write me back!" Blaise reminded in righteous fury. "Even though I begged you to – You just let me think..."

Draco dragged himself up and moved towards Blaise, whispering, "I'm sorry, Blaise."

Blaise threw off his hand with vehemence and jutted out his chin. "Yeah, well, fuck your apologies, Draco. I thought we were friends."

Blaise turned on his heel to stalk off down the hall when Draco grabbed his shoulder once again. "Blaise, wait, don't go – come in, please."

"Why should I?" He growled, glaring at Draco's offending hand.

Draco's knees started to shake and he knew he wouldn't be able to stand on them much longer. He squeezed Blaise's shoulder tightly and snapped, "Because I've bloody missed you and I'm not sure how much longer my legs will hold me up."

Even as he said it, his knees gave out beneath him and Blaise just barely caught him before he fell. He maneuvered Draco in his arms and opened his door, grunting, "What happened," as he walked them closer to Draco's worn couch.

Draco collapsed onto the uncomfortable cushions and put his head between his knees, overwhelmed and cursing Severus to all seven levels of hell. He inhaled deeply and said on his out-breath, "I just need...deep breaths."

Blaise sat down next to him, concern softening his crinkled black eyes, and placed his hand on the back of Draco's tousled blonde hair. "Did you see him?" He asked carefully.

Draco's eyes shot wide, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks, his expression murderous, and his haywire magic broke free of the little control he had. It seemed to burst from him in every direction and the apartment gave something that resembled a lurch as Draco's vision went dark with ravenous vengeance.

He felt Blaise's hands on him, on the back of his neck and buried in his hair, forcing his head down and throwing him under the shelter of the larger boy's weight. Draco could hear the sound of crashes and something fragile shattering but it seemed far off and unreal as it labored under the noise of the blood rushing in his ears.

He tried but he couldn't pull his wrath and grief back into himself, it was beyond his ability to subdue his magic and he gave himself over to the weak and worthless emotions warring within him in an easy surrender. He just didn't care anymore. He didn't care if, when his eyes opened again, his apartment was leveled, he didn't care if it imploded and took him with him. He was just so tired, tired of the constant fight, tired of feeling so ineffectual, tired of feeling altogether.

He could vaguely hear Blaise roaring something over the earth-shattering clamor but it was lost to him as his eyelids fluttered and his limbs went numb and boneless, his vision finally darkening.