The young witch chewed her lip thoughtfully. She had known that it had never been Malfoy's idea to kill Dumbledore, and that he had been threatened with death upon his failure. Harry had told her all this, somewhat begrudgingly after she had asked him about what he'd heard that night, but it had never dimmed her hatred for the Slytherin. Mourning Albus and preparing for war had gotten in the way of trying to understand it...Trying to understand him...
She realised then that despite the certainty of Voldemort's wrath, he had still failed to murder Dumbledore, and it completely sobered her. He hadn't done it, even though his life had been threatened if he failed.
She shook her head and huffed as McGonagall led her down the corridor towards the exit, and her stubborn breath fluttered down the passage.
No. It was irrelevant. So he wasn't a killer; that didn't dampen his other vile qualities. He was still a vindictive bully and very much evil.
But...
Nevertheless, something jerked in her head. Something close to the crux of intrigue, and she wondered if that was why she had bothered to leave him a warm meal. She hadn't really figured out where that act of kindness had come from yet.
"Professor," she started reluctantly as they walked. "Why don't you think he did it?"
Hermione couldn't ever recall seeing the headmistress look hesitant or uncertain, but she did at that moment. "I guess only Mr Malfoy knows that," she said finally as they reached the door and paused. "And perhaps the reason isn't so important."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe the only important thing is that he didn't do it," McGonagall offered, her thick accent rich with a wisdom and age that Hermione always found enlightening. "And I would recommend that you focus on that for the rest of his stay."
The teeth on her lower lip stabbed a little harder. "Alright," she agreed. "I'll do my best."
"And that's all I ask," the ageing witch said. "Would you like me to walk you to your quarters?"
"I'll be fine," she dismissed, taking some steps to leave the headmistress behind. "Goodnight, Professor."
She took her time walking back to her room, considering exactly how she was supposed to keep an eye on Malfoy when all she wanted to do was lock his door and never see him again...Kind of...Her earlier thoughts about Dumbledore made her question if the level of her disgust for him was justified. She would have to think about that.
Hermione half expected Malfoy to be waiting for her; ready to pour the pot of stew over her head for offending him in such a manner. She knew he'd view it as an insult to his pureblood pride, but the guy needed to eat. End of.
If she suffered a stew-inflicted scold for her naïve attempt at kindness then so be it.
But he wasn't there.
And the pot was empty.
He actually ate it...?
Another unwilling smile caused by Malfoy stained her lips, and she felt her intrigue flourish in her chest. Maybe the magnitude of her hatred towards him wasn't justified. Then again, maybe he was just that hungry, and she was always too quick to seek the good in people.
.
.
Fucking hell...
He woke up with salty licks dashed across his face, and he genuinely had no idea if it was sweat or tears.
Sodding nightmares.
The weekend had passed pretty quickly with more steaming meals from the Mudblood and dull passages from two books. Only ninety-nine to go. He'd only left his room to use the bathroom and collect the food. If he didn't run into Granger, then he could pretend that it wasn't her that left the food.
He could pretend that he wasn't accepting her gestures of kindness.
Because the very prospect made him want to slam his head into the wall until be blacked out. Or perhaps vomit, but he couldn't spare the fluids. Especially when he woke up sweating everyday.
He didn't know what was worse; that she took the time and effort to create the food, or the fact that she always thought to make sure it was hot for him, with what he assumed was some sort of warming charm. Why not just leave it to go cold? Why waste her magic on making sure he enjoyed the meal? It was bloody humiliating.
It was Monday, and she was in the shower again, which meant he had woken far too early if she hadn't even gone to lessons yet. The soothing thrums of water danced into his room like a damp dream. He desperately didn't want to return to the nightmares. They were violent now, and he was starting to physically react. They hurt; pulsed in his temple for hours afterwards, and he couldn't stop the trembles that racked his body either.
They were breaking him...
One of her shower-blissed moans shuddered into his room, and he would swear his headache was eased slightly. He licked his lips and waited for the next one, just to check.
Another feminine purr a moment later.
Yes, it was definitely clouding his brain and chasing away the throbbing in his skull. He wanted to question it, but he didn't dare.
Instead, he found himself leaving the bed, tugging the blanket behind him to combat the Autumn morning. He cocooned himself in the thick fabric and settled against the wall which separated his room from the bathroom. He would hate himself for it later, but by Merlin's grave, he was willing to do anything to chase away the painful aftershocks of his nightmares.
.
.
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