[ hp ] this game of pretend
this game of pretend
draco malfoy, hermione granger. draco/hermione
war!au. let's play pretend, shall we?
When he is released from captivity, his gait is different. Not quite Draco, really - it lacks the arrogant swagger, the almost imperceptible limp that came from the injury he'd gotten on one of the missions. It's a tiny, miniscule detail, but - but Hermione can't stop thinking about it.
She goes over that day a thousand times in her head. Hermione had been one of the first at his bedside. He'd looked at her at least three times before his features settled into an expression of recognition - and she'd known that her hair was a wild tornado of tangled curls; that her cheeks were thinned and nearly hollow; that her eyes were rimmed red with tears - but she hadn't looked that bad to the point where she was unrecognisable.
She'd thrown her arms around him and pressed her nose to the crook of his neck, burying her face in his white-blonde hair, and he'd hesitated - only two seconds, but it was enough - before returning her hug. His shoulders were rigid and his arms were stiff, but they forcefully relaxed a moment later.
She'd attributed it to the injuries. Bruises and fractures and all that.
Now, she isn't so sure.
-x-
Something's changed him, in his time of captivity. He doesn't look at her quite the same - his smile was little more than an awkward tug at his lips, his smirk more reminiscent of their Hogwarts days. Most of the time, there's an irate look on his face - as if everything and anything irritated him.
"Draco," she'd said one day, and touched his shoulder subconsciously. His reaction was immediate: he'd swivelled around and gripped her wrist so tightly pain shot up her arm in tiny little pinpricks, his eyes cold and furious and filled with disgust. Hermione had frozen where she stood and couldn't do anything but stare, because she recognised that look and didn't recognise it at the same time.
Then he'd released her and massaged his wrists as if they'd been burned.
"Dinner," she'd managed to say. His face quickly morphed into one of indifference, but she noticed that he'd avoided physical contact with her as much as possible.
-x-
She does not voice her doubts aloud, for fear that they might be true - fear that they might become true.
There are red welts on his forearm marking the Unbreakable Vow he'd took with her.
Hermione refuses to think about what it means.
-x-
"What's your problem?"
Her face is matted with dirt and wet with rain, mixing to smear mud on her skin - a faint reminder of what he'd called her years and years ago, of what he'd believed she was. A sneer twists his expression and her throat swells, just a little.
He turns to walk away. She gets up from where he'd shoved her accidentally (the action had been so childish, but cruel and hurtful and significant at the same time) and runs after him, her wand out. "Coward!" she spits, and makes him look at her. The wood of her wand jabs into his throat to the point where she knows it hurts.
A retort is on his lips and his hands grab her shoulders painfully, but Harry intervenes before anything else happens.
"What's going on here?" His gaze flits from Draco to Hermione. Draco lets go of her shoulders and stalks away, his fingers curling into tight fists.
Hermione inhales, once, twice, shutting her eyes against reality and logic and reason because just for once, she'd wanted logic to fail her. "Nothing, Harry," she breathes, and turns to walk in the opposite direction.
"Hermione," Harry catches up to her retreating figure, his inquiring gaze boring into the back of her head.
She doesn't look him in the eye.
-x-
Hermione has a theory.
It's one possibility among hundreds, but it's one that she knows is most likely.
And so she goes into her room one night. He's sleeping, just as she'd expected, but something's off. There's a vial on his side table; when she lifts it to her nose, she can smell the unmistakable scent of the potion he'd been drinking all this time. Her heart runs a mile a minute and her bones feel brittle, but she has to do this - she has to know. With this thought, she raises her wand (and her hands are shaking; she can't help it, but she doesn't want this to be true -) and lifts the Disillusionment charm placed on his body.
His sharp features dissolve and soften into a face she barely recognises. She can feel her breath rattling beneath her ribcage as she tries to breathe, little pinpricks stabbing at her chest. His eyes open and she raises her wand up, jerkily, once more.
A smirk curls his lips as he sits up.
"Clever girl," he says smoothly.
"Don't move or I'll kill you," she threatens shakily, running the two unforgivable words in her mind. Hermione knows she can say it. She has to say it.
He ignores her, running his finger down her cheek, gripping her chin to make her look at him. "The Unbreakable Vow," he muses, "Very smart. The effects still last through the potion." His eyes narrow, "Do you know what that means, you stupid, filthy, girl?"
Her wand jabs into his throat once more.
But he doesn't move to hurt her, doesn't lunge to grab his wand. Instead, he lies down on his bed and smiles cruelly at her. "I can't hurt you," he informs her, "no matter how much I try. He loved you down to his bones."
Her breathing is shallow and harsh. "Loved?"
He gives her a look, one of raised eyebrows and scathing retorts. He reaches towards the vial and a curse jumps to her lips.
"I'll kill you," she snarls again instead, but then his tanned skin morphs into pale, pale features, white-blonde hair seeping into his roots.
Draco Malfoy - no, not Draco - flashes a malicious look at her and tugs at the covers by his feet -
"Goodnight, Granger," he says, and his eyes close.