What the Room Requires

Chapter Twelve

 

 

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DAY TEN

HERMIONE

           

            Despite my earlier optimism, I was now reaching the end of my rope. The door in the ground hadn’t supplied us with anything new for five days. The wind blew endlessly, which was good for kite-flying at first—until I broke the kite. Well—I didn’t break the kite. It broke while I was flying it. And therefore, Draco blamed me. And after that, the wind became abrasive, harsh, and tiring. The exact same thing could be said about the conversation.

With growing uncertainty and alarm, I watched things between Draco and me gradually change. Or rather, relapse. With the restoration of his foot and the settling familiarity of the room—and without being interrupted by a single nightmare or diversion—Draco did the infuriating, but natural, thing. He began closing in on himself, rebuilding, putting up walls. Regaining his equilibrium. It didn’t matter what we’d been through together, because for him, that was unstable ground—awkward and uncomfortable—and he avoided mentioning any of the nightmares like they were the plague. So, step by step, like he was climbing a steep hill, he made his way back to normalcy.

And then I recognized him again. Like water had been wiped away from a lens. All at once, he was the same cruel, superior Draco Malfoy I’d known since first year, without visible flaw or tenderness. In fact, he was harder, with a more potent presence.

He still talked to me, but either he was thinking out loud about how mundane this field was, or he was offhandedly jabbing me. He was comfortable now, casual, but instead of opening up to me as I had hoped, he now put no more thought into his insults than he did into his remarks about the weather. It was like keeping company with a wolf.

I missed Harry and Ron so much. It literally made my blood hurt. I would lie awake at night, in the silence (because Draco refused to sing when I asked him) and feel my heart pump pain to the ends of my fingers and all the way down through my legs. With every passing hour, I grew more and more lonesome for a friendly word, a happy smile, that feeling of being wanted and loved that I’d so often taken for granted. And it only got worse when Draco opened his mouth.

Every single time he spoke, I valiantly fought to keep control of myself. I bit back every retort, every bitter comment I could have made in reply. I constantly reminded myself that this had been my aim: I wanted him to talk, I wanted him to feel comfortable. However, it seemed that the more congenial and inoffensive I tried to act, the more he degraded me and ran me down. As if I was a house elf or a servant. I didn’t think he was even conscious of it, but I did know I couldn’t bear it much longer. Especially as startling despair began to seep into my chest, like poison that I couldn’t extract.