Monster

“Did you say everything I told you to?” Granger asked, gripping Potter’s arm like it was a lifeline.

Something inside Draco burst. Everything Potter had said in the trial had been a rehearsed lie, then. Of course it was; Potter was not known for his pretty words. Of course Granger had made all of that up to get Draco out. He wondered why they decided to save him of all people. Perhaps they thought he knew of the whereabouts of other Death Eaters or supporters of the Dark Lord. He wouldn’t tell them anything if they asked. They decided that themselves.

“Yeah, Hermione, it was great. Thanks for helping so much, I know you didn’t need to.”

Granger smiled. “It’s no problem, really.”

“And how are your parents doing?” Potter asked.

“Oh, they’re doing fine; Healer Westwick said that they were recovering their memories at an astounding rate. I went to see them for a bit this morning and they recognized me.” Granger’s eyes filled with tears. She hastily wiped them away. “Mrs. Weasley, when is Ron coming home?”

Mrs. Weasley set down a pot of soup and a loaf of bread on the table in front of Draco. “Ron’s still helping George with setting the shop back up, but he should be back home around nine tonight if you’d like to stop by.” She Levitated three goblets of pumpkin juice in front of each of them. “I have to go help the Order for a few hours, but I’ll be back soon. Help yourself to whatever you need, dears.”

She placed kisses on the top of both Potter and Granger’s heads and left without another word.

Draco ladled the thick cream-colored soup into his bowl, refusing to meet their eyes. As he was about to tuck in, he spoke up. “So, Potter, all that you said during the trial was a rehearsed lie?” His gray eyes met Potter’s emerald irises and heat blossomed in his chest.

Potter’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, of course not, why would you think that?”

“You got Granger to make that pretty story about how I was innocent,” replied Draco softly. He dipped his spoon into his soup and tasted it cautiously. It was onion soup, not his favorite, but he was suddenly ravenous. He tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf and chewed eagerly, almost forgetting his stunned audience.

“You’ve got to be joking, Malfoy!” Granger snapped. “Harry told me what he thought, and I simply helped him so that he could get you out of there! He legitimately thought you were innocent!” She stirred at her soup furiously. “You’re the biggest fool ever if you honestly think we’re trying to use you!”

A fine blush spread across Draco’s cheeks as he gagged on his bread. “And why wouldn’t you? What’s stopping you from interrogating me?” he choked out.

“Your innocence,” said Potter, a frown creating a crease in his brow.

Draco fell silent and returned to eating. He was not innocent. He’d never killed anyone, sure, but he had used his fair share of the other two Unforgiveable Curses. He flinched at the thought of innocent people crippling under his Cruciatus Curse. Those people were innocent. He deserved their pain.

“Malfoy, you don’t know anything about the location of any other Death Eaters, right?” asked Granger. Potter let out a hiss and she pursed her lips. “We might as well ask, Harry, it’s not like it’s going to really change anything.”

Chewing his bread thoughtfully, Draco pondered if he should lie. Would it save his reputation anymore to tell them the truth? He sighed heavily. “I don’t know where they are,” he lied, feigning ignorance. “We weren’t particularly popular with the Dark Lord near the end of the War,” he added truthfully.

Potter nodded. “We figured as much.”

Draco’s blood boiled, fury cascading over him in sweltering waves. “Oh, so you know me, Potter? You know what I went through all those damn months?” He stood up so fast that his chair fell to the floor with a clatter and his unfinished bowl of soup overturned, spilling its precious contents over the wood table top. “You can figure that my life was bloody fucking hell the last couple of years?”

He kicked the chair and it skidded across the wood a few feet. “Fuck you, Potter,” he rasped, using up the last of his voice.

Granger bared her teeth. “You insufferable prat!” she screeched, tugging out her wand. Draco flinched back, and for a brief moment he thought that the Mudblood was going to hex him. She simply waved her wand over his mess and righted the chair. “Harry has better things to do than to save your sorry hind from the mess you got into, but he saved you anyway.”

The she-beast rounded the table, her wand still pointing at him. “So maybe you should start being a bit more grateful and a lot less of an unappreciative git!” Draco backed into a counter and she continued to close in on him. She jabbed her wand at his throat threateningly and overwhelming fear incased him.

Granger was exactly like the witch that caught him. He shuddered with unwanted flashbacks of being stuck in a cell, caged like a dirty animal. Draco slid to the floor, his eyes glassy with tears. He grasped his knees to his chest and stared up at her in horror. He felt like a child again, facing punishment from his father. His lungs constricted and his gasped for air.

“Hermione!” Potter bellowed, yanking her away from Draco. “Can’t you see you’re scaring him?” His face swam in Draco’s vision and he shrank back.

Granger’s labored breathing was heard from the other side of the kitchen. “Harry, he’s impossible!” she protested.

Potter shook his head and refocused on shivering Draco. “Want any more food?” he whispered softly. Draco shook his head frantically. He wanted out of this room.

“Bath?” Draco choked out.

The Gryffindor boy nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that sounds good. Need some help getting up?”

Draco nodded and Potter reached out for his shaking hands. He allowed himself to be pulled up, and stumbled into Potter’s chest, where he received a heady rush of Potter’s manly man smell. It made him want to whimper.

“Come on, now,” mumbled Potter, hitching Draco further into standing position. They started forward, Slytherin and Gryffindor, giving Granger a wide berth so that Draco didn’t cower in fear. Together they stumbled through a bare hallway to a small bathroom.

Once Draco was perched on the closed seat of the loo, Potter asked the inevitable “Do you need someone to help, or…?” It had an awkward edge to it that made Draco grin.

“No, Potter,” he rasped, “I might be able to do this myself. I would like clothing to change into afterwards, though.”

It was like someone had cast Incendio into Potter’s mind. “Oh yeah. I hope you don’t mind some Muggle clothes of mine.” Draco must have made a face because Potter began to mumble quickly and apologetically. “I mean, we’re about the same size and everything and it’s all I’ve got to loan since I’m a bit low on clothing of all means. I suppose I should go shopping soon but since trying to get you out of jail and helping to rebuild Hogwarts and trying to find Death Eaters –” Potter cut off as if he had said something he shouldn’t had.

“It’s fine,” muttered Draco, high color spotting his cheeks. They would never find the rest of the Death Eaters. And if they did, by Merlin, he almost doubted many of them would get out alive.

“Er… I’ll go get the clothes,” said Potter. He turned and hastily walked back out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Draco forced himself into a standing position and began to shed his tattered, grimy robes. He tried to not look into the mirror, but simple curiosity and narcissism got the best of him. Throwing caution to the wind, he looked at his reflection with a gasp.

“Oh, my hair,” he groaned, fingering the limp, oily clumps of platinum hair. It was only the tip of the iceberg, though. Slowly, Draco found more disgusting things wrong with his appearance. Thick honey-colored stubble coated his cheeks and chin, and his eyes were sunken into his pale, dirty face. He took a step back and examined his jutting ribs and shoulder blades, flinching as he touched random yellow bruises on his body.

Stumbling into the bath, he stood, unaware of how to get the thing working. It didn’t have a tap similar to the baths in Hogwarts, but a holey metal contraption on the wall that pointed straight down at his head. The bath didn’t have all four walls either; one was probably not even a quarter of the length of his wand.

Oh, how he missed his wand.

Draco looked around, still wary of turning the water on without another wall to catch it. He was sure flooding the bathroom would be frowned upon by Andromeda. Plus, he didn’t want to feel like the slightly more filthy and corporeal version of Moaning Myrtle.

Somehow, he found that the half-partition of a glass wall that covered half the opening of the bath could separate and slide, closing off the bath from the rest of the room. Now he only had to turn the water on.

“Water on,” Draco demanded. Nothing happened. “Start,” he tried again. He nudged the metal thing on the wall with a hesitant finger. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he muttered angrily. Maybe if he pulled on the ball thing that was waist high. He tugged gently on it and nothing happened. He pushed down and still, no water. He pulled it up and suddenly, tepid water was pouring from the holey device on the wall.

Draco jumped back. It was like a warm summer rain. He wished it was hotter. He experimented with nudging the knob to the right and the water turned icy. Shivering, he leaned forward again and nudged it back to the left and the water slowly warmed back up to a delightful heat. Warily, he stepped into the stream of water and sighed in pleasure. If only all rain felt like this, in this weird, vertical bath.

After a couple minutes of soaking in the water, he grabbed the least feminine shampoo on the shelf and squirted a generous amount into the palm of his hand. It smelled familiar, almost like Potter. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. Trying to think of less arousing thoughts, he scrubbed the shampoo into his hair with a force that would make his mother frown. She always did tell him to take special care of his hair, especially since she wanted it to someday be as long as his father’s own blonde mane.

Draco rubbed the shampoo into his hair vigorously, his ripped fingernails scraping his scalp almost painfully. Bubbles splattered on the tiled and glass walls surrounding him, and he was nearly blinded by some of them.

Regretfully, he turned his back to the stream of water and began to rinse away the soap in his hair. He tipped his head back so the suds would stay out of his eyes, enjoying the pounding water on his forehead and sore skull.

The door opened on the other side of the room and Draco froze, watching as Potter walked in with a pile of clothes and a towel. “Sorry it took so long, I had to find some pants–” Potter stopped in midsentence as he caught sight of Draco’s naked, wet, soapy body. “Fuck,” Potter hissed. Covering his eyes with one hand, he set the clothing down on the lid of the loo and hung the towel on the rack beside the bath. “Sorry,” he said breathily as he hurried back out of the room, almost forgetting to shut the door behind him.

Draco, blushing furiously, returned to bathing, refusing to take into consideration why Potter was so out of breath.