Metamorphome

Chapter Seven: That Shouldn't Have Happened On Any Account

The weeks passed pleasantly, now that all three of the inhabitants of No. Twelve knew how to peacefully coexist. At Morrigan's request, they left some of the décor and candles up. Morrigan and Hermione got on rather well--Morrigan tried Hermione's patience occasionally, and Hermione got on Morrigan's nerves quite often, but both tried quite hard at the "tolerance thing," as Draco put it, and they seemed to be coming along. Draco, meanwhile, was watching Morrigan's growing process with mounting satisfaction. He hadn't thought it possible, and yet, before his eyes, was the evidence that it was.

His time spent with Hermione, too, was becoming far more enjoyable. She was nowhere near as cumbersome as he had previously thought her, and she had a lot more grace than the outward eye could perceive. Sometimes he sat back and watched her, musing over her movements and quirks with fascination. She smiled easily, her eyes crinkling upward into a joyful expression of consistent delight. Her laugh was steady and full, just as easy as her smile, full of mirth. She dearly loved to laugh, and used every opportunity she could. Morrigan provided her with an easy subject, every new mannerism sounding strange and alien coming from her mouth. Draco would watch them, a small smile playing upon his lips. He felt a strange possessiveness over them, as if he thought, This is mine, I forged this, and I keep it going. I am the only one watching, and that is how it should be.

With this strange case of security, Draco felt protective of them. Hermione's naïveté prompted much of it, her eagerness to help and love, along with her unguarded passion. He felt that her incompetent boyfriend was useless to protect her, and sometimes Draco felt that Hermione needed to be protected against the boy. Anyone could tell when they weren't talking. He always knew at Hogwarts when they were angry at each other. Hermione's lips were always pursed and she would be slightly less sufferable, snappier. He had found it a source of amusement then, seeing if he could test her, push her over the edge. Occasionally he'd been able to do it most beautifully, but other times, her independence and intelligence had thwarted him.

Morrigan was entirely different from Hermione. She needed him, in some strange way. She needed him to tell her that whatever she was currently doing was the right thing. She would never let him know directly that he had any influence over what she was doing, but she would use little gestures or furtive glances to ask his approval, and he would reply in kind. She needed to be shown, not necessarily protected.

Every day, Morrigan covered new ground, whether she knew it or not. She might allow Hermione's hand to touch hers when passing food, or she'd smile at Draco when he said something amusing. Although these things weren't huge steps, they were the proof of her changing mind. She could see that Hermione wasn't going to hurt her, and that Draco wasn't going to leave her, abandon her, as she was terrified he would do. She slowly began to trust them, allowing Hermione to plait her hair when she was helping the girl with her cleaning, or allowing Draco to correct her thesis on remedial charms (a current project to keep her academic mentality busy).

Morrigan was obviously attaching to Hermione and Draco, both of whom encouraged this attachment with enthusiasm, though differently. Hermione was friendly, offering her friendship and respect, while Draco listened to Morrigan, his eyes entirely on her when she spoke. The girl obviously admired him deeply for his regard toward her, and she was relentless in her ways to show appreciation. If Draco was having difficulty finding the right words for a certain spell he was trying to create, a sheet of paper with a fine selection of words to use would find itself to his bedside table; Morrigan would find her way to the kitchen to make lunch before he could, despite Morrigan having already made breakfast; or Morrigan would have already moved the heirlooms Hermione needed moved, despite Hermione nagging Draco to do it. No matter what she did, she would pretend like she didn't know what he was talking about if he thanked her for it or acknowledged it, so Draco learned not to bring it up.

Hermione and Draco decided that the basement was no longer an appropriate accommodation for Morrigan, and decided to move her into the room beside Hermione. Morrigan appreciated the move--an act of trust, no doubt. Draco locked her in every night out of responsibility, which she understood perfectly. She had settled into it and was given to long hours in the room, reading and writing.

On a night four weeks after Christmas, Hermione and Draco sat together, Morrigan already having retired, and talked quietly. They had been talking about Draco's Animagus registration, when talk turned to Morrigan's development.

"I think she's coming along nicely, don't you?" Hermione asked Draco.

He gave her a small smile and nodded. "Quite. I'm astonished how little resistance she gave. It was like she wanted us to change her."

"She'd do anything if you told her to," Hermione observed. "I think it was more your influence that caused her to make the change."

"Me?" Draco sputtered. "How so? She hated me before the transformation."

"I don't think so. She told you her story; she looked for your approval before she did anything. Obviously she held, and holds, you in high esteem."

"Don't be stupid," Draco snorted. "I was the only one she knew. That's the only reason she did that."

"Okay," Hermione teased, "Whatever you say."

"Hermione, you've shown her more with your wise words and your steadfast encouragement than I could have ever hoped to do myself. I didn't have any patience for that kind of shite. I'm still not sure if I do," he admitted.

"No, Draco," Hermione told him, reaching across the couch to put a hand on his arm. "I would love to take the credit for the metamorphosis, but I can't. You showed her it could be done. You led her away from all that she'd known. She trusts you, confides in you...and I've seen the way she looks at you."

"How?" Draco growled. He was pretty sure he didn't actually want to know.

"Like you're her cooler older brother. Like you know everything and she wants to be just like you."

Draco was surprised. He hadn't wanted to hear the other alternative from Hermione. It could only feel weird coming from her. "Oh. Well, she doesn't need me as an older brother. I'm not the best example."

"You're a perfect example!" Hermione exclaimed defensively. "You've undergone the change, too, Draco. You've shown her that it's possible to go from evil's child to...well, I don't know what, but it's something infinitely better."

"And you're so sure that I've changed?" Draco snapped, turning to look at Hermione, and she recognized something strange in his eyes. Unsure defiance.

"I--yes," she replied, alarmed. "Of course you've changed. You're sitting beside me as a peer. You've called me Hermione, and I call you Draco--"

"Hermione--"

"No, let me finish. We're friends, despite all your efforts otherwise. You know I care for you, and I have good reason."

"You don't know me nearly as well as you think you do," Draco warned, his voice disbelieving.

"I know you better than you think I do," Hermione retorted. "And I know you're more worried of hurting me right now than me hurting you." God, so am I, she thought. For so long these thoughts had been racing through her mind, doubtful and nagging. She was gravitating toward him, toward his tragic quietness, toward his handsome half-smile. She wanted him to talk to her how she had always imagined Ron would, and it was tearing her apart every time they were in the same room.

"Outside of these walls, it'll all change, Granger!" Draco snapped, his voice hard. "You'll be Weasley's girlfriend and Potter's best friend. And I'll be an outsider with, once again, no place. The Order doesn't like me, despite the fact they have to trust me. The Death Eaters hate me, even though they fear me. And I'll always be a Pureblood. I am worth more alive to the Death Eaters, traitor or not, than you will ever be as a Muggleborn. We can call ourselves equal, but we're in totally different places, you and I."

"Draco, are you trying to justify something else?" Hermione asked quietly.

Draco turned to look at Hermione, his eyes widening slightly. "No," he whispered.

"I think you are," she told him. "Stop it."

"Why? You are too sure that I've changed. I'm the same as I ever was," he started. "I've still got this evil thing on my arm, I still brought along the murder of Albus Dumbledore. I could have saved him. I could have put him on that broom and taken him before the others got there. But I didn't. I was a little boy with a promise and a wand, pointing it at a man that couldn't defend himself, or even hold himself up. He was leaned against a wall, Granger. He was using it as his support. He was dying. And I had to bring those damn Death Eaters into the castle. And Greyback," he whispered, his eyes filled with guilt, "he could have killed anyone. He could have hurt you or the Weasleys." Hermione didn't think now was the time to remind him Greyback had hurt a Weasley. "And after that, I still half believe that I can make up for those things by being as good as I can, by..." He looked away, thoughts on past events he couldn't possibly change.

Hermione had never in her life done anything daring, something that could truly blow up in her face and destroy everything, if it went wrong. She had done things close, but she hadn't crossed that line. Even worse, on the other side of that line were those things that blew up in your face when they went right. And she was treading that line with both feet, preparing to leap.

They were surprised when they met in the middle, but not for long. Their mouths connected, their eyes closed, and they were alone, save for the beating of their hearts and the rushing of their blood.

I'm kissing Malfoy, Hermione whimpered mentally. I'm going to be in it so deep... "It." What had she meant by that? Of course, her mother had always used that phrase to mean deep, deep trouble. That was most likely what it meant.

What the hell am I doing? Draco thought to himself angrily. I'm going to ruin everything for her. We'll never be able to let go of this incident, fortuitous or deliberate, and we'll both be scarred forever. But he didn't care right now. All he could feel was her mouth on his, her hands in his, both their hearts beating loudly in synchronization.

They pulled apart, and both of them were breathing heavily, although not for lack of breath. Their eyes were wide, their mouths slightly agape, Hermione's hand on her chest, Draco's folded uselessly in his lap. Suddenly Hermione began to giggle, even though it was coming out shrill and slightly hysterical. The giggle turned into quite a bout of laughing, doubled over in her seat, her face red.

"What's so funny?" Draco demanded crossly. "That was a rather dramatic moment and now I feel rather insulted."

Hermione sat up in her seat, slowly composing herself. She covered her mouth with her hand, closing her eyes and breathing in through her nose, still snorting with ill-concealed laughter. Finally, she opened her mouth and said, "I've been wanting to do that all week, and it's just funny because..." She fell into another fit of laughter.

"Because of what?" Draco snapped icily.

"I wanted to kiss you for other reasons, of course, but I've been kind of wondering what it would be like kissing you. I thought it would be good, and it was, but it was quite a bit different from how I imagined it?"

"You imagined it?!" Draco yelped, pulling back.

"Oh yes, several times," Hermione admitted, seeming to have lost all hold of reality and propriety. "I kind of imagined it as a sexy kind of kissing. You know, Prince of Slytherin, the Whore of our year and all."

"Oh really?" Draco asked angrily, crossing his arms across his chest. This must have come off as a rather feminine gesture to Hermione, because she snorted laughingly. "Well?"

"Well what?" Hermione chuckled.

"Well, if it wasn't 'sexy,' then what was it?"

Hermione thought for a moment, staring pensively at the ceiling. "It was like...kissing in the rain."

"Is that some kind of Muggle cliché?" Draco asked her with a blank look.

"It's a girl cliché, silly. And boys have it, too. I've never been kissed in the rain. I bet it would be nice," Hermione said dreamily, then turned bright red. "I didn't just say that aloud!" she moaned unhappily.

"You did," Draco replied with a smirk. "You're such a typical woman, Granger."

"No, I'm not," she sniffed dismissively. "Anyway, now what?"

"Now," Draco told her, standing and moving away, "I go to bed. Good night."

"Sweet dreams," Hermione called at his retreated back.

Alone, she sat back, biting her lip. She had kissed Malfoy. For one thing, it had been damn good. She couldn't regret it just because it had been so...something. Electrifying. Different. Ron's kisses were so consistent, and although he was pretty good (due to her persistent teaching), he never changed anything about it. That was another reason to think twice about what she had done. Ron. He would be crushed if he found out she had kissed another man, especially the man he fancied his nemesis. Way to give him another reason to hate Draco, Hermione thought, very suddenly angry at herself. Add girlfriend thief to Draco's list of crimes against humanity.

You kissed him, another voice said.

I met him in the middle, she growled at the voice angrily. He kissed me, too, and even if I was the one that initiated, he kissed me back. There was no forcing anyone's lips.

Still, this is your fault, not Draco's. And if this comes back to haunt you, make sure Draco doesn't get the crap end of it. He didn't do anything wrong. You didn't have to kiss him.

He knew I had a boyfriend. He knew I was off limits.

Stop trying to pin the blame on everyone but yourself.

Shut up!

If you insist...

The voice that was undoubtedly her conscience fell silent, and Hermione was left with no more thoughts. She refused to allow herself to dwell on it for too long, and therefore picked up her book, Anna Karenina, from the coffee table. She'd once read it when she was fourteen, and it had been difficult then. But now she was used to this kind of book, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. She opened it, preparing herself for Tolstoy's depressing atmosphere, for his crushing romance. Her admiration for such a man increased tenfold for every book she read by him, and she'd read this book before, so it was like he was getting a bonus. Every time she reread a book after going through a major change, her view of the book changed accordingly, and therefore she had two impressions of that book--or more, depending on how many times she'd read the books...and how much she'd changed.

She sighed dramatically. This book, thus far, had proven that she'd indeed changed. But by how much?

* * *

Draco took off his robes, placed his wand on the stand, and lay down in his bed. He reached over and shut off the light, placed both palms under his head, and closed his eyes. His guard down, every thought he'd been holding off rushed at him like pit bulls on a raw steak.

She has a boyfriend.

You're going to end up hurt.

She's going to end up hurt.

The Weasel's going to end up hurt.

It didn't mean anything--it was driven by lust.

She doesn't mean anything.

Oh god, what the hell did I do?

Morrigan would be so hurt.

Draco's eyes snapped open immediately. Morrigan? he mouthed to the dark. What does she have to do with this?

Everything, responded his conscience, and he shook his head to rid himself of the thought, but it wouldn't go away. Morrigan is crazy about you. She holds you in every esteem Hermione does, possibly more.

The problem, Draco snapped angrily at the annoying little tittering voice, is that it's slightly more complicated than that. Hermione is the more obvious choice--

Draco stopped mid-thought. CHOICE?! "Oh Merlin," he moaned angrily. "I'm to choices." He rolled out of bed and began to pace.

He didn't know either of them well enough to even begin liking them romantically.

Sure you do, that nasty voice said. You've done far more with girls you've known far less.

"I'm different now," he snarled aloud.

Ha! Look what happened with Hermione. Or have you forgotten her lips on yours, her hands in yours, her heart beating with yours, her tongue--

"Stop it!" he hissed. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, getting back into bed.

This is, of course, more than a mental attraction, the voice said again, surprising him. He had been thinking of it in reference of mental attraction, then, not physical attraction. "That's a change," he grumbled.

They're lovely girls, and if you're going to judge by looks, Morrigan would be undoubtedly the most obvious choice. Those lovely dark blue eyes, the long black hair, fair skin, high cheekbones, silky voice as smooth as chocolate, perfect hips--it's no wonder the Dark Lord kept her close. She was like poisoned chocolate--a deadly delicacy....

"Stop thinking like that!" Draco cried aloud. "She's immature and naïve, and she doesn't understand her own emotions."

Ah yes, that. It's actually rather endearing. But she does hold you in high esteem, doesn't she? And what about Hermione? She obviously likes you quite a bit. She's smart and charming, sweet and sincere. How could you say no to that?

Easily. She has a boyfriend. She's not my type.

The voice chuckled. She opened you up, she made you charming. She made you sincere.

"I was always that way," Draco whispered. "I was just careful about who I showed it to."

Sure, sure. Have you forgotten? "I'd rather be Flaherty's friend than a snot-headed Gryffindor who can't mind her own business."

That was before.

Exactly. Before you were charming and sincere. But no, that couldn't be. After all, that statement is the object of sincerity.

Gee, you're so nice.

Hey, I'm you. The cynical, always-right side of you. You should let me come out into the open more.

I used to do that. And then I said some regrettable things.

No, it was your judgment that allowed those words to pass your lips. I merely spawned them.

Yeah, you are a pretty big asshole, aren't you?

What's that supposed to mean?

That I'm better off without you.

No you're--

Draco turned over on his side and almost immediately fell asleep.