Draco Malfoy (muddied) wrote in afic, @ 2011-01-18 00:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: draco malfoy, character: hermione granger, player: deb, x player: joan |
Who: Draco and Hermione
When: Monday, 17 January, 2pm
Where: Hermione’s office
What: a meeting, interrupted by a loud bang
Rating: R for violence?
Status: begun in gdocs, still in progress
The thing was, despite everything, life went on. It had been a week since he had been strapped down in the Ministry office, and several days since Narcissa had suffered a similar fate after refusing to leave London. But no matter what had happened, bills still needed to be paid, and for that, Draco needed his meeting with his accountant. Not to mention that he intended to have a discussion with Hermione, and this was far easier than doing so over the journals. He worked better in person.
He felt the familiar buzz of his mobile just as he rapped on Hermione’s door. As it opened, he had the small device in his hand, tapping at it as he’d learned in order to send a message back to Amelia. She had finished her interview earlier than either of them had expected, so he sent the name of a cafe he knew near the accounting office, telling her that he would meet her there when his appointment with Hermione was done. He needed to convince Amelia to forget this job and go back to Paris; Draco did not want Alyssa in London.
He glanced at Hermione as the door opened, half curious what her expression might be as he stood there, the mobile in the palm of his hand, as alien a device as anything else might be. It entertained him to know that people were surprised by his adoption of technology, which helped him keep using the devices, even through his occasional irritation. Nor would he ever let anyone know that he was anything less than comfortable.
He dropped into his seat with his usual lazy grace, watchful rather than smiling. “I would say we should place a privacy charm in effect,” he said quietly, “but when our wands are checked, they would want to know why.”
Hermione hadn’t slept much in that last weekend. Spending time with Hagrid, as incredibly comforting as that was, had the drawback of not being in her own bed. That, and Hermione was a staunch believer that sleeping potions were not to be abused. Even when your dreams were filled with images of... it. The brand. They always started out nicely, even sweetly. The one that seemed to haunt her over and over was of she and Ron, sitting in the field by the Burrow. They were dressed in all white, close. It felt romantic, it felt nice. But when Hermione leaned in to kiss Ron, suddenly the crowds grew dark, and Ron was holding the brand.
She usually woke up then, sweating. It wasn’t even the pain of the event, it was the humiliation of being branded. Of being given a mark that was supposed to mimic the Dark Marks, supposed to show that the Ministry could give them something that would last longer than Tom Riddle ever had.
As she stood to get the door for Draco, her hand shook slightly. She had kept a white bandage around her arm, hiding the mark from view. Her lavender blouse and black pencil skirt were neat, but her bushy hair looked as if she hadn’t even bothered with the most basic of products. Her eyes had deep circles, and they flit around the room nervously. Sitting down at her seat, she watched Draco’s arm, as if she could see his mark through his sleeve as well.
“I had one put onto it by a friend,” she said, coughing a bit. She wanted to snap out of it. She wanted to wake up, and know that she was still Hermione Granger. Not Hermione Granger the National Treasure, or Hermione Granger the ST. Just Hermione Granger.
One side of Draco’s mouth lifted in half a smile. “Forethought. I should have known. So we can speak plainly here, of whatever matters come to mind.” His gaze dropped to her arm, unable to avoid it, knowing the mark lay beneath that bandage. “It doesn’t help to know, I’m certain, but time does ease the pain as it heals.”
Leaning back in his chair again, his gaze drifted ceilingward for a moment before returning to rest upon Hermione’s features. His lips pressed together in a frown. “You’re too pale, and likely shouldn’t be here at all.”
Hermione closed her eyes, having heard that already. Harry who didn’t think she should go camping, Ron who... who was too ashamed to say anything at all. She swallowed a thick lump, looking back at him and doing her best to seem composed. “And what would you suggest I do instead? Wallow?” she asked, turning to her computer and pulling up his files.”I did enough of that. It doesn’t help anyone in the least, wallowing. Besides, if time is such a healer then I should find things to eat it up,” Hermione said, straightening her shoulders.
It was a good deal of bravado, anyone could see that. She was hiding her fears under a cloak of being well adjusted, even if her body was giving away the hints. Hermione was silent for a few moments, getting all of Draco’s things out and ready before finally asking the question, not even making eye contact.
“Who did yours?”
Draco watched her closely, noting the way she moved, and realizing that Mandy had been correct; his reaction had been abnormal. For a moment he wondered if he had simply become so used to repressing everything that it was impossible to feel human any more, but he discarded that thought as quickly as it came. He still felt pain. He simply knew how not to show it. Whereas Hermione’s pain was evident for anyone to see.
He smiled tightly, tone lazy with a sarcastic edge. “Potter. I was his first.” And the claim that it had hurt him more than it had hurt Draco still irritated him. He could see the psychological damage it had done to Potter, but that didn’t mean it had hurt Draco less. He doubted Potter truly understood the humiliation behind the brand. “And you?”
Hermione closed her eyes, not wanting to know that it had been Harry. Harry had really been apart of it, and her fingers froze on the keyboard for a few moments before she finally responded. “Ron,” she said, proud that the name came out normally. Having Ron brand her had been a special little hell for her, and when she’d gotten to her office that morning and seen his Christmas flowers- the one she’d charmed to last longer- she’d cried once more. And then thrown them out, unable to see them to be the sweet gift they had been given as.
Draco didn’t like the Weasel -- never had -- but a blind man could see the pull he had for Hermione. Lips pressed together, he said quietly, “I’m sorry. They are playing with your mind, Hermione. They knew it would be worse for you.” And he could see that, easily, like a move on a chess board. This was what he’d meant when he told Potter he was trying to get more information. He needed to know the small moves, to determine exactly what pieces were in play, and the psychology behind each move the Ministry made. Chess wasn’t played by moving ones’ pieces on the board; it was played by knowing where the opponent would choose to move. He needed to learn his opponent.
There was something incredibly comforting in how very cold Draco was right then. His analyzing of the system, his ideas about why it had happened. Not the emotional question that all philosophers asked (why is there pain?) but the more logical one of (why was this done?). She had thought she needed Hagrid that weekend, thought she needed the large giant to be quiet with her. To be there when she woke up in the night with a gasp, and not ask her what she had dreamed about. No.
It was funny. To think that she’d needed Draco Malfoy all along.
“Have you ever read about the Stanford Prison Experiment? Or the Milgram experiment?” she asked after a moment.
Draco considered the names, then shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I take it I have homework when I leave here?” One eyebrow arched as he leaned forward, intent. Talking to Potter had assured him that the other man wanted to make things right but was spinning his wheels, waiting to be told what to do. And the youngest Weasel seemed to be heading in the right direction with a bit of wit an intelligence to back it, along with a strong streak of vicious practicality and loyalty. But Hermione was the brains, and this was what he needed right now. Intelligent discussion of reason and understanding. This was how to find a way around what had been done, and a way to predict the next move and put the Ministry into check.
“And in return, I have a question for you.” Hands on the table, fingers open, a position of honesty as he remained intent on her. “Is the invitation to the revolution still open?” That eyebrow arched further as he waited.
That got a smile. The first smile Hermione had allowed to grace her face since the kidnapping, and it felt almost good. She ran her fingers through her bushy mass, nodding ‘no’ to him. “I suppose the Milgram experiment is the better example. It was a psychological study done by muggle healers. They set up a farce, and waited to see how people would react to authority. One person was seated at a desk and told that the was to teach a confederate participant a list of words, with a wall between them to keep the confederate and subject apart. If the confederate failed to remember the words, or answered a question incorrectly, the test subject had to give him a shock of 15-volts from his seat, which slowly increased with every wrong answer. The confederate actor would scream and pretend to be in pain with every ‘shock’. They wanted to see if authority, even one as mild as a stranger with a clip board, could get people to hurt one another- even without threat to themselves. Most were fine going over 135 volts, so long as they were told by the scientist that they would not be held responsible,” Hermione said, leaning back in her chair- almost comfortable.
“It’s funny, what people will do if it’s not their fault,” she said, her words soft. She wasn’t surprised that Draco wanted to rebel now, not after his response in the journals. Hermione nodded her head slowly, considering. “You can come to the meeting,” she said, knowing Harry might throw a fit. “We’re going to be incognito anyways- no one will know it’s you there. Just wait for an owl.”
Draco inclined his head in a polite nod of acceptance. “Gin--” he hesitated, and with a roll of his eyes said, “Ginny seemed to invite me as well, and there were others who seemed... accepting of my presence.” The look he gave her was quietly serious. “It would have done no good to be a part of it, if my part wasn’t wanted.” He had more that he wanted to say, but the muffled sound of an explosion drew his attention to the window. “Excuse me...” His brow knit together in a frown as he stood, walking over, not quite sure what he was seeing at first as the smoke billowed up. It was silent, kept from him by the glass, and he couldn’t quite see. But he knew the direction was towards where Chanson was, the cafe where he was to meet Amelia. He pulled his phone from his pocket again, thumbing it open to start a text message to make sure everything was alright.
When Draco saw the Dark Mark go up, his stomach went cold. His tone was sharp and clipped as he apologized by rote. “I need to make a call.” Phone pressed to his ear, he dialed the number for Amelia’s mobile, and listened to it ring without response. Impossible. Not this, not now. It must be a mistake. He leaned closer to the window, free hand against the glass as he peered through, trying to see exactly how close to the cafe the explosion had been while the Dark Mark hovered over it, taunting him. Jaw set, he pressed end on the phone and resolutely dialed it again.