“Then the Creeveys. And the Finch-Fletchleys. And my Aunt Andromeda and her husband Ted. That one was rather personal for Bella, having a Muggle-born marry into the Black family was such a stain. It remained her sincerest regret that she never got to kill Nymphadora, especially after word got around that she'd gone and married a werewolf. Then after that — well, the dead tend to bleed together after a while but I believe it was more Muggles...”
Hermione could feel the warm fuzziness of her intoxication draining away from her as Malfoy kept talking. Listing name after familiar name. The glint of his silver eyes and the cold set expression on his face as he continued in his disdainful drawling voice.
“You know, Malfoy,” she said quietly after a minute, “you spend so much time making sure I have just an excess of good reasons to hate you. It's odd.”
He paused, and she stared up at him.
“It's not how humans work,” she said. “Our brains are wired to rationalise things, so that the guilt doesn't eat us. We excuse. We blame. We find some explanation for ourselves that helps us sleep. People don't think of themselves as villains. They're killing to protect themselves, or their families, or their money, or their way of life. Even your master, he doesn't think he's a villain. He just thinks he's better than everyone else. He thinks he deserves to rule over everything. When he tortures and kills Muggles — it's alright because they're not really people. When he carved runes into your back for hours — it was alright, you deserved it because you failed him. In his mind he isn't a villain, he's a god. But you — you do think you're a villain. You think you deserve to be hated.” She cocked her head to the side as she studied him. “I often wonder why that is.”
Malfoy's face had grown colder and more closed as she was speaking.
“I'll save you all the effort,” she said, and her mouth quirked up at one corner. “I hate you. I don't require you to do anything more to convince me. I hate you. More than anyone else aside from your master. I hate you. I hold you partly responsible for every person who has died so far in this war and every person who will die. You don't need to convince me that you're a monster, I already know it. Healing you when you're injured is not because of my bleeding heart. And not hexing you when you're severely wounded isn't sentiment. It's simply the last bit of decency I have left. All the rest of my goodness has already been destroyed by you. So — despite what you fling in my face, I will not let you have it. Now — fuck off.”
Goodness, it felt nice to have finally gotten that off her chest. She'd probably regret saying it all later, but in the moment she only felt relief.
Malfoy smirked faintly. “Good to know.”
Hermione laid back on the floor and stared at the ceiling.
After several minutes of silence it was clear he was not going to go away. She gave up driving him off. She was overwhelmed by her desire to talk. She sat up on the floor.
“What are you like drunk, Malfoy?” she said, turning her head to look at him. He was standing beside her and staring down where she sat at his feet.
He looked surprised by the question. “Quieter. And angrier.”
She snorted. “Of course. Heaven forbid you be anything interesting.”
“I didn't have you down as a weepy drunk.” He raised an eyebrow and conjured a chair, which he straddled beside her. It occurred to her that he probably couldn't lean against anything. She wondered how much it might have hurt to pull her out of the creek and then apparate when she was struggling and trying to fight him off.
“I wasn't always,” she said wistfully. “Talkative, always. But alcohol makes me emotional. I used to be a happy drunk. I was just — ridiculous. I went to a party where the punch was spiked and I got so smashed. Harry had to silence me while he and Ron were dragging me through the halls. I was giggling so uncontrollably. Peals of laughter just — bouncing off the walls. Filch nearly caught us.”
“When was that?” he asked.
“My birthday. I turned seventeen. It was — it was the day before you killed Dumbledore.” Her jaw trembled slightly, and she looked down at her fingers as they traced a knothole on the floor. “I — was supposed to have been in the hallway the next day. Prefect duty, to help the first years. But I was so hungover. I slept late. I've often wondered — if it would have made any difference...”
“It wouldn't have,” he said.
“I've always cried since then. Always. Not that I get drunk often. I tend to say things that piss people off.”
“You always do that,” he said, giving her a pointed look.
“I say more things that piss people of,” she amended. “Anyway — tonight it was drunk or high or abusing potions.”
“And the creek?”
“I don't have anywhere to go. I can't go to a pub. Or get drunk around anyone in the Order. It's not like Moody is a shoulder to cry on.”
“Potter and Weasley?”