Roman Holiday

Chapter Seven

She’d sounded funny on the phone, sort of earnest and businesslike, no-nonsense - the way he imagined her talking to Potter and Weasley, when she was explaining their homework - but also too high-pitched. Talking too fast. A knife-edge of panic underneath the words.

Clearly, there’d been some sort of Event that he’d missed out on.

He had a feeling he was about to get filled in.

He opened the door to her knock and stepped back to let her pass. She ignored his unspoken invitation, remaining in the doorway. “I need to know something,” she said. “I need an honest answer from you.”

He started to make a wise-ass comment - she seemed to inspire that in him - but stopped the words before they formed. She was white-faced and wild-eyed and deadly, deadly serious. Crack a joke now, and he might end up with tentacles on his face again, the Ministry be damned.

“Come in and sit down,” he said. She shook her head.

“Later. Tell me first,” she said, her voice shaking. “Are you loyal to your father? To Voldemort? Or are you loyal to Dumbledore?”

Of all the questions she could have asked him, that was the one he was least prepared to answer. He decided to stall, and put on a manufactured scowl. “That’s your question? You woke me up at one a.m. to ask me if I’m a Death-Eater?”

She had the grace to drop her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s rude. But I need to know.”

Their eyes held for a long minute - his measuring, hers wide and too-bright. Finally, he pushed up his sleeve, held out his arm.

No mark.

“I’m not loyal to Dumbledore,” he said. “But I’m no killer.”

“The things you’ve said -“ She broke off. He shrugged.

“We can’t all be Golden Boys, Granger. Can’t all be heroes. The rest of us muddle along and say things we don’t mean.” He turned suddenly pensive. “Diggory. He was decent, and I liked him. I didn’t mean what I said on the train. I didn’t wish him any harm.”

She gripped the doorframe. He was surprised it didn’t crack, that’s how hard she was digging in. “And me, Draco? Do you wish me harm?”

“What kind of a question is that?” He was annoyed now. “Of course I don’t. Though I may rethink that answer, the next time you come beating down my door in the middle of the night to shout accusations at me.” He frowned as she pushed past him into the room. “Hermione, what the hell is going on?”

She started to sit on the bed, saw that it was unmade, and sank into a chair instead, putting her head in her hands. “Bad day,” she mumbled. “Very bad day.”

“Does this have something to do with your dinner plans? Your date?” Draco dropped into the chair next to her, started to touch her arm, and thought better of it. “Did something happen?”

“Date?” She laughed, a short derisive sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “No date.”

Except for the Billie Holiday and the candles. Hermione, you’re an idiot.

Stupid, incurable romantic. You thought he was too.

You trusted him.

You trusted yourself.

Oh, God. Don’t think about that now.

“Snape,” she said aloud. “Just Snape.” Draco looked puzzled.

“Professor Snape?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “What’s he doing in Rome?”

Hermione stood up abruptly and started to pace. “That,” she said, “is the million-dollar question.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “Whatever it is, he wants me far away from it, and he’s trying to scare me back to England.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Scare you?”

She snorted. “In the creepiest way possible. I can’t figure out if he wants me gone so I won’t spy on him, or if he’s just got some professor complex about me wandering around the city by myself.” She stopped pacing and stamped her foot. Draco half-expected the floor to crack. “Either way, he’s a bastard,” she said. “And I can’t BELIEVE that I’ve been defending him to Ron and Harry for the last five years. The pervert.”

“Pervert?” Draco frowned. “Granger, are you going to tell me what happened tonight, or shall I assume the worst?”

She shot him a dark look. “Don’t assume the worst,” she said tightly. “That, at least, didn’t happen.”

“What did?”

She considered him for a moment. “If I show you something, do you promise not to turn into a boy about it?”

He laughed. “Granger, you say the sweetest things.” She flushed.

“Sorry. No insult intended. It’s just that it’s … well, rather personal.”

“Show me,” he said, and she closed her eyes, as if praying for strength.

**

She’d changed out of the apple-green linen and into plain old jeans and a big cotton shirt that Giulia had probably stolen from Carlo. The shirt hung almost to her knees; she could have slept in it. Not looking at Draco, she peeled her jeans down.

“What were his words again? Oh, yes.” She stripped her panties down her legs and kicked them away. “I believe he wanted to ‘beat some sense’ into me.” Rage was bubbling black and hateful inside her, all mixed up with a serious case of guilt with a side order of shame. This little striptease was making her feel better, though. Something she’d initiated. Something she’d started, something she could stop. Recklessly, she reached for the hem of her shirt.

“Don’t,” he said, almost gently, and she paused.

“What? Don’t you want to see the gory details?” She laughed harshly. “Last I checked in the bathroom mirror, there were two or three distinct handprints. Bright pink. Very fetching. If you like your marks a little darker, of course, there’s a patch of lavender on one side that’s quite attractive …”

“Don’t,” he said again, and she sat down weakly on the bed as if she’d been deflated, drawing her knees into the shelter of the shirt.

“I told him I could handle myself,” she said dully. “And he proved me wrong. I couldn’t stop him.”

You didn’t WANT to stop him, a little voice in her head said. She ignored the voice, and filed that thought under Things Never To Tell Another Human Being.

Malfoy sat down next to her. “My father hits me,” he said quietly, after a long silence, and she looked up, startled. His mouth was a thin line, and he looked like he’d regretted saying anything.

“Why?”

His shoulders moved imperceptibly. “Who knows?” He shot her a world-weary sideways look. “There’s always a reason. But it’s never the REAL reason.”

He looked so sad, so resigned, so reluctant to be pitied. Hermione felt her instincts kicking in, that Need to Mother thing that she’d managed to subdue for the last two weeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, and laid a hand on his arm. He didn’t shrug her off.

“Yeah, well.” He smiled at her, a bittersweet twist of his lips. “Must be a Slytherin thing. Marcus Flint’s girlfriends are generally quite adept with ice packs and pancake makeup. And I pity the girl who goes out for an evening stroll with Crabbe.”

Long silence.

“Draco.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

He slanted her a glance. Little-girl lost, sitting there in a shirt three sizes too big, knees drawn up to her adorable chin. He thought about all the nasty things he’d said to her over the years, couldn’t find words for an apology, and took her hand instead.

“That depends,” he said. “Do you snore?”