Chapter Two: Crossing the Gulf

Crossing the Gulf

Staircase 5!

Hermione stood stock still. This note could mean only one thing: not only was Malfoy a student at Oxford, but he'd been placed in Hertford, the very same college as she...and so, not surprisingly, in Holywell Quad as well, where all first-years were housed. Either this was an utterly bizarre coincidence or strings had been pulled. As far as she was aware, they were the only two from the prep class at Hogwarts to have been admitted to this university. It would stand to reason that they'd be placed together to help make the transition easier for both of them, the fact that she'd been raised a Muggle notwithstanding. She was willing to bet that wherever more than one Hogwarts student had been accepted, there would have been a special request to house them together.

She glanced at her watch. 5:30. Enough time to have some dinner and do a bit of reading before... Butterflies flitted through her stomach momentarily as she slipped the folded paper into her pocket.

The next two hours crawled by. If there were a Guinness World's Record for the number of times one looked at a wristwatch within a certain time span, Hermione was certain she'd already beaten it by a mile.

Dinner might as well have been sawdust. She wasn't even sure what she was eating, just that it was there on the plate, and it was green and brown and rather ghastly.

Retreating to her room at Staircase 2, she made certain that both the inner door and the outer one were firmly shut. Then she flopped down on her bed, burying her face in the pillows. The butterflies in her stomach had grown into Thestrals, and now there was an entire herd of them rampaging through. She clutched a pillow to her stomach to quell her nerves.

Really, this was silly. What had she to be nervous about, after all? It was just Malfoy. Just Malfoy...

She'd had every intention of reading, but her book remained untouched in her lap as she snuggled back against the comfy armchair pillow, thinking. What in Merlin's name could he possibly want? They'd had a nice time at the café, granted, but he was probably just being polite in asking her along...fellow Hogwarts student, somebody familiar from their world, and she'd been sitting right there; he couldn't exactly ignore her, could he?...although come to think of it, when had Malfoy ever been polite because it was the right thing to do? Such an idea went against eight years of experience, against everything she knew of him since the age of eleven.

So... if he weren't simply being polite, then... No, that was ridiculous! The very idea... he couldn't possibly...

She turned resolutely to her assignment: Dante's Divine Comedy. But productive reading was not on the cards for tonight, apparently, because the next thing Hermione knew, she was waking from a nap and the bedside clock read a baleful 7:40 pm.

She stared fuzzily at the display for one frozen moment and then shot off the bed, galvanised into panicked action. What was she going to wear? Stupid, stupid, it doesn't matter, what's the difference, it's not as if it's a date or anything! Yes, but still. Right, the red one or the teal? She kept up the internal debate as she hurriedly scavenged through her drawers to find the right top and then the right jeans. Or what about that cute little denim skirt with the embroidery on the back pocket... Perfect!

Teal top with the three-quarter sleeves, first three buttons left undone. Good. Her cheeks pinking up, she bit back a giggle at her own daring. Denim skirt, black Capri leggings, black ballet flats. Yes. Silver hoops. Check. A quick sweep of mascara, just a hint of blush and a drop of raspberry lip gloss for shine. She assessed herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door and nodded.

Now...what to do about her hair! She tugged at it impatiently, wishing for the thousandth time that it was sleek and straight as a pin instead of the unruly mass of waves and ringlets she had to try and tame every single morning. Half up and half down? No, that made her look as if part of her head were exploding. She tried scrunching the waves with dampened fingers and that was okay, she supposed, but not wonderful. Finally, frustrated, impatient, and out of time, she twisted it into a messy bun, a few errant tendrils escaping here and there, and took one final look at herself. It would have to do.

Running her hands down her sides, she took a breath, turned and walked out the door, heading out to the quad to find the separate entrance for Staircase 5.

There it was, the wooden doorway framed all around in thick trails of ivy. Now...which floor out of the four? Quickly she scanned the board with all the nameplates. Ah. Malfoy, D. Room 12. Right, ground floor for the lecturer's rooms and then three more floors, four rooms to a floor. That would make it the third floor.

By the time she got there, it was 8:07 pm. Draco stood at the head of the stairs, waiting for her. He pointedly tapped the face of his wristwatch.

"Late! I expected better of you, Granger," he sighed, shaking his head in amused reproach. "Come in."

Pushing open the two doors, he beckoned her inside and then followed, making sure to shut them both behind him.

Like her own, his room was small. The furnishings were... minimalist, Hermione decided. Practically spartan, in fact. The bed was decorated with a simple, navy-blue duvet and a pair of soft pillows. The desk was extraordinarily neat and spare-looking...just a lamp, a blotter, a mug filled with pens and pencils, a phone, a laptop and a printer, which they'd learned to use in their prep class. A cork board was on the wall above it, but thus far, it was empty. A wardrobe stood in one corner. Apart from that, there was a chest of drawers, its top bare except for a brush, comb and shaving kit. The one exception to the overall asceticism of the room was the bookcase, which was crammed. Intrigued, Hermione made a mental note to have a closer look at his books later.

The only wall decoration was a poster above the bed, depicting a thin shingle of beach below an endless vista of sea and sky that shimmered in shades of pale blue, ivory, beige and a hint of lavender.

Draco had noticed her staring at the poster. "Like it?" he asked. "It's a Wolf Kahn."

"Who?" Hermione asked, feeling suddenly very ignorant. Clearly, Malfoy knew something about Muggle art, yet another surprise.

"Wolf Kahn. He's an American painter. Does these nature scenes that are very nearly abstract, but you can still tell what it is he's painting." He regarded the print for a long moment and then turned back to Hermione. "How does it make you feel when you look at it?" The expression in his eyes was completely without guile and genuinely curious.

"Well... " she began, studying the picture for a moment, "what I like about it is... the sea and the sky seem to blend together. You almost can't tell where one ends and the other begins. It's all one. It makes me feel... calm."

"Right!" Draco said excitedly. "That's it exactly! That's the whole point. Makes me feel that way too. Sometimes... "

He paused.

"Sometimes...?" Hermione repeated.

"Well, it's just... sometimes I'd like to just disappear into the picture, that's all." Draco gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "Stupid, really!"

"No, it isn't the least bit stupid. I know exactly what you mean. It would be lovely to be on that tranquil beach," she said softly, nodding. For a very brief moment, there was real warmth in his eyes as he looked at her, and then the moment was over and an awkward pause took its place.

Then he brightened.

"Would you like something? Coffee, maybe, or tea? Hang on..." He grinned suddenly. "I've got something really good!" He disappeared for a moment and then returned with a slender-necked bottle of crimson liquid, a small, plastic jug of chilled Perrier, two slices of lemon and a packet of shortbread. "Elderberry wine. I like it with a twist of lemon and a little bit of sparkling water." He pulled out the cork and poured some wine into a pair of glasses he'd fetched from the larger desk drawer. Adding just a splash of Perrier and the lemon slice, he handed one glass to Hermione along with the plate of shortbread. "These are very good too. Try one."

"Thank you!" Hermione smiled and took a small bite of shortbread, followed by a sip of the wine. It was really quite nice, very refreshing. "Mmm, lovely!"

Suddenly Draco seemed to notice that she was still standing.

"Please," he said apologetically. "Sit!"

And then, as Hermione went to sit down at the end of the bed, he moved to pull out his desk chair for her, and the two of them collided.

"Sorry!" they said together, stepping back, and Hermione blushed.

"Thanks," she added sheepishly, sitting down in the chair while he perched on the bed.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, enjoying their wine and biscuits. By the time her glass was empty, she still had no idea why he'd asked her to come, and he didn't seem in any hurry to tell her.

He seemed to sense the question in her mind. "I suppose you're wondering why I asked you here. More wine?"

Hermione nodded absently. "Yes, thanks." She held out her glass, and he refilled it along with his own, topping them up with a little of the effervescent water.

"I can't deny I was surprised to get your note." She brushed a loose tendril of hair out of her eyes and smiled. "So...how come?"

"Well," he replied, setting his glass down and going to the bookcase. "I thought I ought to give this back to you." He pulled a paperback book off a high shelf and turned. "Sorry for pinching it. Here." He held out his hand.

In it was her copy of Lord of the Flies. It had been relatively new when he'd taken it. But now it had the appearance of a book that had been read too many times to count. The cover was bent at the corners, and there was a distinct crease bisecting the centre. The tops of some pages were turned down slightly.

Hermione moved to take the book but then stopped, retracting her hand.

"No," she said quietly. "It's yours now. Keep it."

Draco stared at her for a moment and then sat down on the edge of the bed, the book still in his hand, gently running his fingertips over the crease.

"Thank you," he murmured. "It's meant a lot to me these last three years, you know."

"No, I don't know, not really. Why don't you tell me?" Curiosity had got the better of her, and the wine had relaxed her natural reserve.

His face was slightly flushed as he leaned back against the pillows, resting his wine glass against the top of one bent knee. Silence hung between them for just a moment before he began to speak.

"The first time I read it, I didn't really get what Golding was doing. It seemed to me that Jack and Roger were right to insist on hunting and running things. They were strong, and they were natural leaders, and most everyone fell into line behind them. No matter what. They knew if they didn't hunt, they would starve. It seemed to me that whatever they had to do was justified. Ralph and Piggy just seemed weak and foolish and not able to deal with the reality of the situation they were in. And I thought that Simon was stupid for crashing out of the woods the way he did. Of course they were going to mistake him for a wild beast and attack him! He ought to have known better!"

He spoke to her, but at the same time, seemed oddly unaware of her presence now, almost as if he were conducting a monologue in her earshot. His eyes flicked over her briefly as he tossed back the dregs of his second glass.

"Several months later, I... well, you probably know about the cabinet. And all the rest too. I didn't... I didn't want to do it, you know. But I was given no choice. Voldemort was going to hurt my family if I failed. I wanted to blot out what I was doing whenever and however I could. So I read. A lot. Whatever I could get my hands on. Anything to escape my own head for a while. I found myself drawn back to this book."

He closed his eyes for a minute, remembering.

"When I read it again, what Jack and Roger were doing seemed... I don't know... just wrong, somehow. Childish. They were playing at being tough warriors, but they were kids. They were in over their heads. They couldn't control it anymore. None of them could. And nobody was listening anymore. Nobody was thinking. They just followed. I knew what that felt like. It's as if they weren't human anymore; they were like animals, except animals are better than that. Animals aren't deliberately cruel like people can be.

"I was scared shitless, Granger. I felt like I was losing myself a little more every day. I felt like Simon. Except that he had no clue what he was walking into. I knew. I fucking knew."

He sighed explosively and covered his eyes, momentarily a bit dizzy. Hermione's own eyes had filled with tears. She turned away, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

There was more, though, and there was no stopping it now.

"Have you any idea what it feels like to be trapped that way? Chained to a fucking psycho! But the scariest thing was how nobody seemed to question any of it. Me, Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, Parkinson, Nott... we all just bought into it, swallowed all that shite with a bloody please and thank you." He sat up and looked at her, his face blotchy and his eyes red. "We were being played, Granger. And I don't know about anybody else, but I was scared out of my fucking mind!"

He was hunched over now, his face in his hands. She could hear him taking gulps of air to steady himself. Impulsively, she sat down next to him on the bed, reaching a hesitant hand out to rub slow, gentle circles on his back. Finally, he raised his head and looked at her.

"I'm sorry. You didn't need to hear all that." He swallowed hard, looking away again. What the bloody hell had just come over him, spilling like that? He hadn't intended the evening to go like this.

"No, no, it's okay. Really! I'm glad you told me." Hermione shook her head, her throat tight. She paused and then added softly, "I understand."

Her hand was still warm on his back when he turned his head. His eyes were huge and very dark as they regarded her, never breaking contact; she knew, suddenly, that he was going to kiss her, and what's more, that she was going to let him.

His mouth was soft and cool and sweet like rain, his kiss gentle and fleeting, light as a moth's wing. And then he sighed and put his arms around her, drawing her close and resting his forehead against hers.

"Stay with me for a while," he whispered against her skin. He felt so very tired all of a sudden. "Please. I... I don't want to be alone."

"All right," she said quietly.

Slowly, carefully, they lay down together on his narrow bed, Draco on his side and Hermione curled around him, her arm looped about his waist. He twined his fingers in hers, and she could feel his shuddering breaths gradually slowing and steadying and falling into a regular rhythm. His sleep was fitful, and he would wake many times before morning, always finding her hand again before dropping back off.

She lay awake for a long time as he slept, and then she finally slept too, her dreams haunted by images of him with Ralph, Piggy, Jack, and poor, sad, lost Simon.

*

At 5:45 am, Hermione awoke and for a moment, had no idea where she was.

She was fully dressed, her shirt rumpled and her skirt hiked up; she had a headache and the world's worst taste in her dry mouth...and her arm was wrapped firmly around Draco Malfoy, of all people. His arm was flung over hers, her hand sandwiched between both of his and his fingertips moving lightly on her skin as he slept.

"Malfoy," she whispered, and then, "Malfoy!"

When she got no response, she tried again. "Draco!"

She knew he'd awakened because for just a second, his hands tightened convulsively around hers. He rolled over to face her, his eyes widening in momentary surprise. Then he remembered.

"Hey," he whispered. His head felt terribly heavy, and his eyes began to slide shut once again.

"Hey." Her voice was soft. "It's morning."

"I know," he murmured, burrowing into his pillow. A sleepy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Fancy that."

"Shall... shall we get up, then?" Hermione suddenly felt very awkward indeed.

Draco opened his eyes, raising himself up on one elbow to look at her. "I don't know about you, Granger, but 5:45 in the morning is not what I call a civilised hour for human beings to be awake. Go back to sleep!" He flopped back onto his pillow and with a muffled groan, rolled over again.

Hermione was utterly nonplussed. Good job she wasn't a betting person because the odds of finding herself in this particular situation with this particular person were long, to say the least.

A small giggle bubbled up and burst out of her. Just as her eyes were closing again, she heard laughter, soft and husky, in reply.

TBC

Disclaimer: These characters (except for original ones) are not mine, and I do not make any money from this story.

A/N: Thanks, hugs, and bouquets of flowers to my trio of marvelous and devoted betas, whom I'm proud to call my friends as well: kazfeist, floorcoaster, and mister_otter. You guys are the best, bar none!

What we in the US refer to as the "first" floor of a building is known as the "ground" floor in Britain. Therefore, Draco's room at Hertford is on the fourth floor for Americans, but the third for Brits.

In the oldest Oxford colleges, there are two doors for every student's room, an outer and an inner door. If you want privacy, you make sure both are shut. If you don't mind people stopping in, you leave the outer door open and just close the inner one.

The poster that Draco has hung on the wall above his bed is a print of Wolf Kahn's "The Gulf," painted in 1998.