Safety in the Storm

INTANGIBLE

'Tis strange - but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction.

--Lord Byron

No way.

No fucking way.

He held Hermione Granger in his arms; he held her life in his hands.

To him she had always represented everything he could never have, everything he could never be. She was the kind of girl he had never quite understood and because of this, had never forgotten. He remembered seeing her once at the beginning of their many years together at Hogwarts: hair in disarray, walking down the corridor, laughing with her friends, innocent chocolate eyes viewing the world with their optimistic sincerity. She had looked at him with only a passing glance, and his stomach had churned in disgust for her naiveté, but only because her eyes had seemed to belong in a different world, one that he was not, and could not, be a part of.

And throughout the following years at school, he had secretly wondered what marvels she knew that he didn't, where that intangible warmth in her sparkling eyes came from and why he had never seemed to be able to grasp it.

Looking into her bright eyes now, he was surprised to find that same childlike innocence peering up at him and he knew in that instant that he wouldn't be able to smother it. It would almost be akin to killing the hope that dwelt back in the deep recesses of his mind that he might one day learn her secret.

Even covered in gradually forming bruises, she seemed hopeful and... trusting. Not at all tortured with dark thoughts of murder or revenge as he was. It didn't seem fair. He had always been tortured by something. He had forgotten what it felt like to be carefree. Sometimes, in between rude barbs, Draco would find himself watching her, in potions class, while eating dinner, at the occasional Hogsmeade visit, it didn't matter. No matter where she was, she always found some new tidbit of information to happily store away, a new book to delve into, or another reason to smile. Watching her made him think maybe it wasn't something that plagued him but perhaps a *lack* of something. Years later, he would think back and find himself silently craving her and that little something that she embodied for him. Because he could. Because never in a million years would their paths cross again.

Boy, was he wrong.

"Draco?" she questioned again, her voice clearer but still scratchy as though she hadn't used it in years. It was then that he realized she had called him by his first name, not by his surname as she had always done so in the past.

And she remembered him.

Not that he cared, of course.

Without even realizing what he was doing, he slipped the miniscule vial of nightshade back into his pocket and pulled out his wand.

It had been a long time, longer than he cared to admit, since he had had the need to use a healing spell and he hoped he remembered enough to help her.

Help her?

The thought shocked him. How long had it been since he had helped someone besides himself? But a little nagging voice in the back of his mind knew exactly why he was helping her and would not cease reminding him. She was Hermione Granger, the girl he loved to hate.

His wand lightly touched her cheek and he watched with detached curiosity as the purple bruises faded to little more than smudged shadows. In a matter of seconds, her face was healed and he took a step back.

She sat up with a bit of difficulty and moved her face experimentally.

"Come on. I'm getting you out of here," he said, his voice sounding almost gentle, soothing. It seemed foreign to him.

Hermione blinked up at him through cloudy eyes and he realized that while he had been able to fix all the superficial injuries, she was still hurting on the inside. Typical. He had no idea what he could do to cure her completely.

A cough sounded from the hallway and Draco was reminded of their precarious position. "Come on," he repeated and held out a desperate hand. "We're running out of time."

Hermione nodded mutely and looked like a small, frightened child in need of assurance. But she took his hand willingly enough. He was elated that she trusted him. He hardly trusted himself sometimes.

He had to think quickly.

Just then, his rational side decided to kick in and he hesitated.

What the hell was he doing? Was he really willing to risk two years worth of work, of planning, of subterfuge to save her life?

That nagging little voice, although it didn't seem so miniscule anymore, was back with a resounding yes.

She was clinging onto his hand now as if it were a lifeline... and, well, technically speaking, it was. Gripping his wand tightly, he knew that all he had to do was make it down the stairs and then he could apparate. He closed his eyes, he took a few cleansing breaths. He was risking everything, including his life, for someone he hardly knew. Sure, he had seen her practically every day for seven years but they had verbally sparred and argued more than anything. Knowing how to push someone's buttons didn't necessarily mean that you knew them.

She shifted beside him and moaned softly in pain. Glancing down, he saw that she was favoring her left leg.

Suddenly, Draco felt a slight tug somewhere in his chest. It was a small pang of disenchantment at the crumbling of what had probably been a perfect life. She was most likely married (to Potter or Weasley, no doubt) with children nipping at her heels... or whatever children tended to do. He was envious. Not of the married and kids part but because he'd never had the perfect life. He had been fighting an uphill battle since he was a small child. In a strange way seeing her like this hurt him. The thought that a person could be as lucky as she was in having the perfect life had sustained him through many hard times back in school. But he should have known better. Optimism wasn't one of his strong suits and he was surprised it had prevailed in that case, because he now knew that in this world pain was inevitable.

She must've been brimming with questions. Why was he there? Why was he helping her? Why was he standing there staring at the door like a fucking pansy? But she didn't give voice to them, just kept hold of his hand, which was fast loosing feeling, and rubbed weakly at her eyes.

It was now or never.

He opened the door.

The beady-eyed guard in the hallway (Draco couldn't, for the life of him, remember his name) swiveled around, mid-step to face them. Draco watched his eyes widen in realization but it was too late. Draco had already been muttering the words and he watched as the memory charm seemed to arrest the man in mid-motion.

Praying to a deity he did not believe in, he pressed on and hesitantly glanced down the elaborate staircase. The coast was clear. A whimper sounded from behind him and he looked over at Hermione, surprised. He had almost forgotten she was there. Her eyes were saucers as she looked down at her leg.

"I can't--" Her head shook and a single tear slipped down her face.

He was such a fucking softie. Pulling her next to him, he slid his left arm around her to help take the weight off her leg.

"We just need to make it down the stairs."

She nodded again and they cautiously began the decent. "I--thank you," she whispered so softly he almost didn't catch it. "I don't know why you're here or why you're helping me but thank you." Her eyes looked tired and she stumbled.

Not knowing how to answer, he simply held her tighter. Surprisingly, they made it to the bottom without incident and, taking one last look around, Draco apparated them to the only place he could possibly go.

*****

It was an odd feeling, waking up to unfamiliar sounds and smells, vivid dreams and memories hovering just beyond her awareness. She sat up, feeling a wave of exhaustion crest over her, and squinted at her darkened surroundings as she waited for everything to come crashing painfully back to her. To her surprise (and confusion), it began to come back slowly, like moonlight through the misty edge of a cloud.

Marcus, the bloody betraying bastard... her research journal... only now did she cringe at the thought of all that hard work destroyed... that elegant yet terrifying bedroom that made her sick to think about... she had given up there, waiting for whatever horrors was in store for her... and Draco Malfoy.

A face from her past.

The boy whose name could instantly have Ron and Harry (and she had to admit herself as well) sputtering in indignation. To most who knew him in school, he had been the devil incarnate with his icy glare, biting insults and chilling good looks. Proudly, Draco Malfoy had been the cause of many young and innocent girls' corruption.

Yet in her hour of need he appeared out of nowhere, hardly said a word, and took her by the hand and led her to safety like a guardian angel. Okay, well maybe not an angel per say, but definitely a person she would now be in debt to... no matter how many shivers that thought produced.

He had saved her life.

The thought kind of made her nauseous.

Gingerly, she threw back the thick layer of old quilts and padded in her socks across the hardwood floor to the door. When he had apparated them, Hermione really hadn't paid too much attention to her surroundings. Between bouts of dizziness and struggle to keep her eyes open, she hadn't seen anything but the makeshift bed he pointed out to her. It was really no more than an old mattress dumped unceremoniously on the floor with some rather threadbare quilts but to her it had looked and felt like heaven.

Now, she creaked open the worn door and snuck a glance around. Instead of looking into a hallway though, she realized that the door opened straight into a yawning living room. It was sparse and with the high, vaulted ceiling and bare walls, one would think it might be empty or impersonal but Hermione instantly spotted the history that was immersed in the room. Every indentation and score in the yellowing walls, each tattered piece of furniture had a story making the room astonishingly homey. Although, in the back of her mind she thought that her reaction probably would have been much different if this place didn't represent a type of sanctuary for her.

As she stepped further into the room, the flames in the stone fire place flickered in the fading light of the afternoon, casting an eerie glow over the room, the shadows making strange patterns on the back of the fireplace and the walls around her. Hermione found herself being careful not to make a sound. It seemed so still, so serene. She was afraid to ruin it.

And then she spotted him. The bane of her adolescent existence, the boy who tormented her mercilessly. The man who saved her life. A walking contradiction.

He was sprawled out on the slightly worn couch, heavily breathing in a deep sleep. Unable to help herself, she found she was moving closer to study his slumbering face-- chiseled bones, arresting lips, platinum strands of flaxen hair messily framing his face, and impossibly long eyelashes resting on his aristocratic cheeks. He had indeed grown into a very attractive man... a paragon of good looks. He appeared so harmless, so innocent as he lay there. It was disquieting, to say the least.

Dragging herself away, she continued to explore the tiny cabin. Around the corner she found a bare kitchen no bigger than the one in her own house (which just went to show how small it actually was) and a tiny alcove straight ahead set up as a dining area. Or maybe it should be called a breakfast nook. It really wasn't any larger than a few feet, nestled between floor to ceiling windows. But what really got her attention was the porch beyond it. Though she could see the dampness, it was no longer raining, giving her an amazing view of dense birch and oak trees, dripping still from the torrent they had received. It was beautiful.

*****

He awoke with a start, jolting up into a sitting position, heart racing, head throbbing and wand pointing out ahead of him. Except, as he squinted, he realized it was pointed at nothing. Just a ghost in the dark, a remnant of some already forgotten nightmare. The fire was almost out now, only down to the softly glowing embers at the bottom, and he realized his quick nap had ended up lasting a couple of hours. Wearily, he ran his hand through his hair a few times and then stretched his aching back.

That couch hadn't gotten any more comfortable over the years.

And then he saw that her door was open, the bed unmade, the room empty.

She was awake.

The notion was petrifying. For a moment, he was irrationally tempted to lock himself in the bathroom and never come out. It was so unlike him. She had been so trusting, so unconcerned with his motives. But now, without the urgency that imminent danger brought, the questions would start. Questions that he wasn't prepared to answer.

Yet his curiosity got the better of him and he snuck a peek into the kitchen. It was empty. Draco stepped noiselessly into the darkening kitchenette. He could see her form on the porch, a dark silhouette against the dying sunset which flashed on the trees, her arms wrapped around herself. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to turn up as he saw her slightly bounce on the balls of her feet in a vain attempt to warm herself up. Carefully, he backtracked to the couch and grabbed one of the discarded quilts before making his way toward her as quietly as he could. As he slipped through the open door, he found himself stopping inches behind her. Inhaling the faint, sweet scent of her hair, of her, his hand grazed across it feather light; she did not even feel him.

*****

She sensed a presence behind her before she heard the hushed shuffle of feet. She closed her eyes. She didn't want to see him, didn't want to talk to him. She was perfectly happy living in her nice world where there were clear-cut lines between good and evil.

She knew with a doomed certainty that Draco was about to shatter that illusion into a million shards.

But if this confrontation was bound to happen (and the only way out that she could think of was to leap over the railing and run into the forest like a madwoman... it was a shame she left her shoes in the other room), she was determined to have the upper hand. After a moment, she turned and greeted Draco soberly, her face, what she hoped was a carefully controlled mask.

He hadn't changed much; his air of confidence still made her nerves go haywire. Silently, he offered her a blanket and she took it. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to break the silence, but nothing came out. Frowning, she noticed him smirk.

"You know, you could start by saying thank you." His voice was imperturbable and nonchalant. Immediately, she felt her certitude slipping and she desperately tried to keep a hold of it.

A biting, sarcastic barb was on the tip of her tongue but Hermione thought better of it. Instead, she simply looked him solidly in the eye and spoke clearly. "Thank you."

Draco arched an eyebrow at her and she felt the familiar flush of warmth rush up her neck to her face. Her momentarily ironclad confidence was failing her miserably.

"You know," she managed to stammer before once again steeling herself. "If you had wanted to have an impromptu reunion, an owl would have sufficed quite well. You needn't have sent a thug to kidnap me." She instantly rued having said something so confrontational.

She heard him chuckle, and realized it was of a different texture and timbre than the one that had tormented her so many years before. Now it seemed chilled, almost as if he'd seen darkness and barely escaped its clutches. Once again, she felt guilty for making light of a situation that he HAD to be uncomfortable in, despite his calm appearance. He ran a hand through his already fairly messy hair almost nervously. Was it the fact that he wasn't used to playing the part of the hero? Or was there more to it? Did he just happen to be in the right place at the right time? Had he even WANTED to help her? He stopped his chortling and turned to lean against the doorframe, his eyes still unreadable.

He cleared his throat and she looked down at her feet uncomfortably. "And here I thought the thug was a nice touch," he replied in a deep, rich voice. "But it makes me wonder, where was your precious Potter? Why wasn't he there to rescue you from the big bad man?" She looked up at him, squinting in the growing darkness. Although his words were biting, she could see a sparkle in his eyes.

Smiling, she sucked in a breath of surprise at his sarcastic reply, suddenly feeling warm. He was fighting back. She might be afraid to see Draco the compassionate hero, but Draco the bastard who always went too far was someone she could handle with no problem.

"Of course you would think the thug was a good idea; you are a Malfoy, after all."

There was a flash of something in his eyes and they narrowed slightly. Was it pain? Anger?

Hermione decided to change the subject. "Where are we?" she asked, turning her back on him to stare out at the glistening bark of the birch trees in the moonlight. Draco slid up next to her, mimicking her actions by leaning against the wooden railing.

Glancing over at him, she was surprised to see a dimple flicker briefly in his cheek before he answered thoughtfully. Funny, she had never noticed it before. "Ireland... northwest part of Donegal. We're actually pretty close to Glenveagh Park..." He trailed off and traced a finger along one of the wooden beams supporting the slotted roof above them. "This cabin belonged to my mother."

Hermione nodded then shook her head in disbelief. If someone had told her twenty-four hours before that she would be in Ireland, in a secluded cabin, having a fairly decent conversation with the man who Ron had dubbed 'Satan Spawn,' she would've sent that person to St. Mungo's. It had been an odd day.

*****

She was breathtaking. Standing there, hair flowing gently in the breeze, innocent eyes bright and sparkling in the strengthening moonlight, she reminded him of an innocent time of his own, when he was eight, playing in the woods outside of his grandmother's house.

It was a sweltering day; he had just dried off from a dip in the mere in the woods. It was in a secluded meadow overhung by enormous oaks whose branches swayed gently in the breeze, making the sunlight dance along the leaves on the ground. As he was walking back, a soft, musical giggle emanating from somewhere off to his left distracted him from his trek. Without thinking, he turned and followed the carefree laugh and was intrigued to catch a brief glimpse of white luminescence through the trees.

Ducking from alder to oak, barefoot and shirtless, he almost tripped as she came into view.

A fairy.

At least he thought she was. He had always thought that they were smaller, though. He had never seen one before and found that he was frozen in awe over the little creature's beauty. She stood a little bit shorter than he was, flitting around on glittery, translucent wings that held him enchanted. He wanted to touch them, run his fingers down the silvery lengths.

"What's your name?" she asked in a small voice.

He jumped and looked at her suspiciously. His father had taught him that fairies were too stupid to have mastered human speech.

"Draco," he said slowly, scowling. He didn't like it when he was wrong about something. An overwhelming urge came over him. He wanted to feel her innocent delicacy, wanted to see if it was tangible. "Can I touch you?" he asked, taking another step forward.

Her hovering became slightly erratic and then she disappeared behind a tree in a flash.

"I don't know," she squeaked. "I've never been touched by a human."

"Will you let me try?"

The fairy girl giggled again and came out of hiding to land on a fallen, moss-covered tree branch. Her warm, blueish-white incandescence was alluring and his fingers stretched out of their own accordance.

"Okay," she tittered nervously.

Leaning forward, he extended out his splayed fingers.

He was so close.

He wondered if she would feel as wispy as she looked.

Almost--

"Draco!" At the sudden sound of his grandmother's voice, the girl gave a shriek and was gone in a blink.

Dismayed, Draco turned around glaring but once he saw his grandmother's warm and affectionate gaze the glare melted away. She bent down and tenderly pulled him into her arms.

"Nanna, did you see the fairy?" he asked, pointing to the spot where she disappeared.

"Ah," she said in her soothing voice. "I wondered what was taking you so long. You must've met Seraphima. Her curiosity always seems to get the best of her." She pulled away and looked at him pointedly. "Just like a curious, little grandson of mine. But actually, she's not a fairy. She's a nymph."

His nanna stood up and began to steer him back to her house.

Draco looked up at her. Should he tell her?

"She almost let me touch her."

His grandmother stopped mid-stride. "Oh, honey," she breathed, squatting down to be level with him. "We can't touch nymphs... they're too pure... it hurts them."

Nodding, he glanced back into the woods to find Seraphima waving a small hand. He grinned sadly and waved back. For some reason he couldn't define, it hurt him to know that he could only stand back and observe something so magical... so, as his nanna had put it, pure.

It had been the last time he had ever seen a nymph.

Yet now, watching Hermione tilt her head back, close her eyes and take a deep breath of the damp forest air, he was brought back to that moment and his chest ached. In his mind, Hermione was the same as the nymph. She was pure and innocent and one touch from him would corrupt her... hurt her.

Standing right next to him in the dim glow of the eerily blue moon above, she didn't seem real; she was an intangible warmth. She filled him with a sense of wonder that he hadn't experienced since that day with the nymph. He felt vulnerable, open to her emotions in the secluded privacy of this familiar place which at one time he had hated, but had now turned into an unexpected refuge. Maybe it was just the moment, or maybe it was just impulse, but for that second, something inside of him cracked slightly and he wanted nothing more than one thing. To touch her.

But Draco had always prided himself on his self-control, so he simply averted his eyes. Unfortunately, he must've been a little out of whack that day because he only lasted a few moments before he heard her sigh heavily and he turned back.

She was facing slightly away from him, giving him only a view of her in the shadows. He noticed though that while she still had a childlike appearance, now that her thoughts were unguarded, he saw a ghost of darkness, a haunted expression flicker briefly through her eyes. Its sudden appearance sent an unfamiliar tremor through him and without a moment's hesitation, he clasped her hand in his.

So much for bloody self-control.

But to his immense relief and utter amazement, she did not protest, did not pull away, only squeezed his fingers softly in return, her gaze remaining on the moon above.

They stayed that way for a while, long enough for Draco to forget the life, the revenge he'd walked away from hours before. But when she withdrew her hand from his, it all came crashing back down upon him.

"Why?" The word was uttered so quietly he almost didn't hear it.

But almost didn't count.

Slowly, he turned away from her, the excuses sticking unsaid in his throat.

"Because it was you...." He wasn't sure if she heard him, which was just as well, so he let the sentence hang unfinished in the air between them. She remained silent.

Finally, he could take it no longer and looked at her.

"I think I'm going to go back to sleep." Hermione straightened up and slipped the quilt from around her shoulders. She opened her mouth as if to add something, but nothing came out. Instead she stepped forward, her lips landing on his with a light, fluttery nymph touch; soft, warm, quick... and then she disappeared like the nymph had so long before.

Stunned, he could do nothing but watch as she vanished into the shadows, making her way back to the old mattress in the back.

*****

TBC...