Mistaken Identities

Hermione stared at him lounging on theel bel bed like a big cat. As if they hadn’t just talked about torture and rape, as if he hadn’t just switched sides and admitted a momentary lusty thought about Dumbledore. He was asking her what next, looking at her with his steely blue eyes like they were trying to decide what to eat for dinner.

“Eventually, we have to contact Dumbledore and tell him. Then we need to figure out how this can be used to our advantage.” She crossed her legs and put her hands in her lap.

“Eventually? What do we do until then?” He pursed his lips in thought. *Oh my, he’s flirting with me. Draco Malfoy is flirting with me. What do I do?* She had butterflies in her stomach.

“Bed,” she stuttered. Inwardly she cursed. So what if she’d had incredible orgasms with him. It was irrelevant. “I mean, sleep. I need to rest.” It wasn’t dark yet but they hadn’t really slept much the night before and she wasn’t sure she was thinking clearly.

“Bed works for me." He practically purred it.

“Um, ok. You can have that bed.” She got up and pulled the drapes shut. It didn’t really work all that well. Finally, she waved her wand and magically sealed the curtains. She turned and paused in surprise. Draco was naked. She had a brief internal debate. Should she pretend not to notice? He knew she was attracted to him and stumbling around clearly encouraged him. So she whistled and was gratified to see him blush.

“You know hotel sheets in places like this aren’t all necessarily clean and definitely aren’t soft, right?” She said by way of encouragement.

“I didn’t spend all that time in school to sleep on scratchy sheets. I expect you to transfigure them.”

“Well, aren’t you a demanding brat! I hope you like scratchy, scratchy sheets O’ King of the Slytherins. I’m not your maid.” Hermione sauntered towards her own bed, waving her wand and creating a large, plump looking bed with a red and gold coverlet.

“Come on, play fair.” He was pouting, arms crossed over his chest, seemingly oblivious to his nudity. It was disconcerting to have the Malfoy pout directed at her. Normally, it was aimed at professors and female Slytherins. He winked at her and jumped onto her bed, snuggling under the covers.

“The colors leave something to be desired but this is a first rate transfiguration on the sheets. For a girl anyway.” He propped his hands behind his head and gave her a smug face.

“You know I could turn you into a frog, right?” Hermione grumbled at him.

“You’re one of the wonderful, pristine, so-good-it-hurts-to-look-at-you trio. You wouldn’t do something like that.” He was practically batting his eyelashes at her. She’d seen Draco lay on the charm for a woman before and resented his using it on her now.

“Save that shit for Pansy, I don’t think it’s charming.” She turned her back on him and transfigured the other bed, missing the flash of hurt on his face. When she turned back, his expression was cold and much more familiar. She waved her wand, spelling both wands to respond only to her. It was a neat trick, and a difficult one to master. “Sleep well, Draco,” before she finally crawled into bed.

He didn’t say anything and she wondered if he was already asleep. It didn’t really matter. She felt like someone had beaten her with a padded stick. There were too many revelations in too short of a time. He’d raped and tortured people. There was no getting around that. And yet, watching his face twisted in repulsion she felt sorry for him. It was an unfamiliar sensation. He hadn’t professed any joy in what he’d done. Quite the opposite and he could be useful in some way in bringing Voldemort down. But something didn’t quite sit right. She could feel her brain turning the facts around and something wasn’t adding up. Malfoy had played a key part in their capture during their sixth year and had seemingly joyfully participated in part of their torture. In fact, she’d probably only missed being raped by him and his psychopathic father because Voldemort had wanted his Death Eaters to be more original in their tortures. Original seemed to mean incredibly painful. So why the hell should she trust him? He’d watched some of the most horrible and humiliating moments of her life. How could any of them trust him? Madam Pomfrey had removed the scars but she couldn’t rid any of them of the memories. The therapist Dumbledore had sent them too could give them perspective but couldn't wipe their memories.

The three of them had only managed to live because some rogue Death Eater had let them loose. It hadn’t even been a double agent. Dumbledore and Snape had looked shocked when they had told their story. Malfoy had not been expelled, even though all three of them had begged, had pointed out that they knew he was involved. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, missing his customary twinkle. Snape had stood by the fireplace as dark and austere as ever. Then Snape did something surprising. He’d looked into his hands and asked them to not say anything. To let it go. Please. He’d said please. Two years before she would have laughed in his face. If anything, she’d learned that things change. She’d come to trust this man over her sixth year at Hogwart’s. Even Harry and Ron admitted grudging respect. The lessons in lying and spying had been expected. The instruction in martial arts had been a surprise. Who would have thought Snape had muscles under all that black? They were lessons that had saved their lives over and over. In all those months, he’d never dropped his guard, never said anything personal. She couldn’t say no and neither could Ron or Harry. Snape never mentioned it again and publicly nothing changed. Privately, the barbs started feeling less like barbs and more like teasing. And sometimes he smiled. It made him look like a different person. Sometimes, he said thoughtful things instead of nasty ones. He was her... friend was the wrong word and mentor sounded pretentious... he was something and he saw something in Malfoy, enough to try to keep him around. Could she do any less? *I am so confused.*

She felt into a fitful sleep. Hermione should have guessed tonight would have encouraged a bout of nightmares. It was a stress she didn't want to deal with. *Damn it! I’m on vacation!* She found herself back in the basement of that house watching as if she were watching the memory in the pensieve. This was always how she dreamed it. She'd watched it in a pensieve so many times that is was almost hard to remember it in the first person... which, really, had probably been the therapist's point.

Later, she found out the house had belonged to some wealthy muggle who had been killed for the sole purpose of providing a place to have a revel. Oh, and torture and kill the Boy Who Lived and his friends. Was it hour one or hour two when Lucius had moved on from blunt objects to sharp ones. He’d groped her body before slicing open gashes on her ribs with a large, silver knife.

“Perhaps we should move onto something more entertaining for us.” The mask obscured most of his face but she could feel the leer on her cheek. She kept her face blank, her eyes empty. This was just the beginning of the pain and she was going to make him work for the screams.

“How creative.” The tone was devoid of emotion. Lucius had growled in return and moved on to something more “creative”. The other Death Eater in the room had made every sign of enjoying himself, making suggestions and laughing at Lucius’ jokes. He had not, however, participated. Every time he was invited he demurred, saying he would rather watch a master work. This seemed to se tse the other immensely. She’d looked up then and met the second one’s eyes. She’d known Lucius was the first man; he simply talked too much to make it much of a secret. That was the moment she’d realized Draco was the second Death Eater. Her mind clicked and she realized it had been Draco who had tricked them out of the protective wards of the school, chasing after a panicked Ginny who wasn’t there. The hurt she’d felt had surprised her. Malfoy had never made much of a secret about where his loyalties were. She narrowed her eyes and sneered at him.

Hermione stopped the dream. It had taken her a bit but she was getting better at taking control of her dreams. The therapist Dumbledore had made all three of them go too had actually been helpful in teaching her to end the nightmares before they began. Sometimes, she couldn’t but it was a great deal better than it had been. She replayed the last bit again. Malfoy’s eyes had widened and he’d dropped his gaze. His hands clenched into fists and then tangled themselves in his robes. He’d realized she’d recognized him and he had been ashamed. Ashamed! It was part of the memory that had never been important to her before. Draco had left shortly thereafter and other Death Eaters had come to join in the fun. Lucius had gotten so much time to himself because of his status and she felt no obligation to dream the rest of the night. She skipped to the end, to their escape. There was something she needed to remember. Hermione could feel it.

The room had been dark, light filtering in under the rough wooden door and through the bars on the small window. They’d been trussed up, legs and arms tied together behind them. Harry’s breathing was labored. They’d done the most damage and the least amount of healing to Harry. There was no plan for him to live long, though it the torture for her and Ron was intended to last a while. At least, that was what their lovely hosts had told them.

“Harry?” Ron had whispered.

“Yeah, Ron?” Harry’s voice sounded strained and he paused between the two words as if searching for the strength to speak.

“I don’t regret any of it,” he’d replied. Harry hadn’t responded immediately and Hermione guessed he was trying to hold back tears. She was.

“Me either, Ron. Except getting caught,” he finally said. The laughter was strained and on the edge of hysteria but it was laughter.

The door had cracked open and a tall figure had entered the room. No one had said anything; they’d agreed not to say anything no matter what these wankers did. Hermione had blinked at the sudden brightness spilling through the doorway. The figure said nothing, just knelt next to Harry and Hermione caught the flash of a blade. She bit her lips, keeping her plea to spare Harry behind her lips. They never would. It had taken her a moment for her to realize he’d cut Harry loose. He’d moved to Ron next. Then he had hunched over her slicing her hands and feet free.

“Incendio,” he muttered, pointing at the ropes. Small snakes of flame curled up as the ropes burnt to ash. Finally, he held up three wands and dropped them in front of the door. Then he’d vanished. The three of them and healed each other and then proceeded to get out of the house, mopping up a number of Death Eaters along the way.

She ran over it again, feeling detached from the moment. His movements, his eyes ance uce under the mask, his mouth, his voice... She snapped awake and bounded across the room, pinning Draco underneath her. Her forearm dug into his throat, the rest of her body positioned to hold him down.

“What did he say?” She snarled at him.

“What?” Draco choked. He’d made a small sound of surprise when she’d landed on him but wasn’t struggling.

“The Death Eater who freed us. What did he say!” She pressed her forearm a little harder to to his throat. She could feel the muscles working under her arm. It seemed he was taking forever to answer, though she was pretty sure it was only a couple of seconds.

“Incendio,” he whispered.

“Damn it all!” She swore before she pressed her lips to his desperately.


A/N I must admit that I drew inspiration for the pensieve as therapy from the Harry/Snape fic Death Eater Takes a Holiday (at least I think that's where it's from). I like the fic and the idea so I must give credit where credit is due. Thanks for all the reviews. They really help keep me going. This chapter is a little longer so I hope people like it!