Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Notes:
TW: alcohol abuse, ptsd.
Chapter Text
Rosemary for Remembrance
Hermione Granger is lost.
Not in the physical sense of the word, as in lost without direction somewhere in the world. She’s lost metaphorically, as in she has absolutely no clue what is next for her. She would have honestly preferred the former, because being lost in a physical sense is more like a puzzle: and Hermione is good at puzzles.
She is practiced at being physically lost, like in first year when she, Ron, and Harry found themselves on the moving staircases and had tried to find their way back to Gryffindor tower. Or like in the Department of Mysteries in fifth year, when they’d had to escape from the Death Eaters. These were examples of the kind of ‘lost’ she could handle. She was a highly logical person, after all. She would be able to figure it out, eventually—use a compass, solve a riddle, retrace her steps.
There is no retracing your steps when you’re lost in the metaphorical sense. If she were to do that, she thinks she would only find herself back at Hogwarts, standing in the ruins of a battle that had killed her friends, peers, and mentors. She thinks that there, in the courtyard, was the last day she remembers having a sense of direction. There were paths that she needed to follow to start rebuilding her life: plan funerals for Fred, Tonks, Remus, and the dozens of other souls lost to the war. Fix the ruined remains of the castle, one stone at a time. Testify in the trials of Voldemort’s supporters and all of the Death Eaters that had been captured or surrendered. Tell Ron that she couldn’t find it in her to begin a relationship under the current circumstances, and face the repercussions of this rejection. These were all of the things remaining after the war, all of the things she needed to do. It should have been hard—and emotionally, it was, of course.
But there was some small, sick part of her that couldn’t help but enjoy the methodical, organized way in which these things presented themselves as a checklist to her. It helped to distract her from her own nightmares and the hours of sleep she was losing because of them. Waking each day with a task ahead of her was the only thing soothing about it all. It had been nice, while it lasted, cleaning up the mess that the war had brought. Terrible, but strangely comforting.
So now, with all items on this checklist scratched off, some twice, Hermione feels utterly and horribly lost.
Completely without a map.
As a young girl, she had always thought about the many options for her future. Working at the ministry, maybe, somewhere in Magical Law. Head of the Wizengamot, or a new position in Protection of Magical Creatures, where S.P.E.W. could take on a fully developed form under her leadership. If none of these worked out, she could always teach at Hogwarts, she used to think. With nearly perfect OWL scores, it hadn’t been a problem to pass her NEWTS with flying colours in her final year back at Hogwarts, only a few months after the end of the war.
She had every tool she needed to follow one of the many paths her younger self had paved for her. For Merlin’s sake, she had even used a time-turner in third year to stuff in as many classes as possible. She had taken every measure to ensure a future for herself beyond Hogwarts.
So why was she so stuck?
It was a terrible, unfamiliar feeling, to not have any clue what was coming next. Even in the years she spent at Hogwarts she always knew that something was coming next— some big task she would have to complete. Exams, homework, fighting off Voldemort, finding Horcruxes. Despite how awful some of these things had been, and all that they had taken from her, she had at least known that there was something coming. Something worth fighting for.
In her little one-bedroom flat in London, Hermione has no clue what is next. And this, she thinks, is the scariest thing she's faced yet.
“Go home, Hermione,” Kingsley had told her earlier this month when, finally, the last of the Death Eater trials had come to a close. She had watched with a sense of finality as Dolohov was pulled away in his cage to be sent back to Azkaban, and, collapsing into a chair with the weight of it all, this is what Kingsley’s final words to her were.
“Go home, Hermione. You can rest at last.”
Rest. Could she ever truly rest again?
She supposed that she was inclined to feel the same sense of definitive relief as everyone else. It had been over a year. The war was over. The bad guys locked up. Hogwarts rebuilt. The wizarding world back to normal. The word normal sounds foreign on her tongue. Things will never be normal. And she feels as though she will never quite understand the word ‘rest,’ again, either.
It had been eerie to watch how quickly Harry and Ron had slipped back into their normal selves. She found herself feeling as if it were her first year at Hogwarts all over again, watching the two of them whisper and joke to each other while she walked two steps behind; always two steps behind. Watching as Harry and Ginny fell into their relationship, finally getting to hold each other without worrying that they might be torn from each other’s arms by some evil force. All the while, she and Ron found themselves balancing on a tightrope, wobbling between years of history and a new future— a future that did not, as she always thought, include each other. Not in the way she used to want, at least.
Touching him was no longer second nature as it used to be. She couldn’t reach out and playfully hit his shoulder or brush past him at The Burrow without thinking about the tender way he had held her in their tent while they were searching for Horcruxes, or the stolen kisses they’d had at Grimmauld place while Harry slept. They had crossed a line that they could never take back, nor move forward with.
She had watched as they gracefully accepted Auror positions at the Ministry when they had been offered to them, not letting their physical or emotional scars get in the way of continuing to hunt down dark wizards and clean up what was left of Voldemort’s mess.
They’d come home and sleep soundly, wake up, and do it all again the next day.
Like Hermione, they’d come to testify at the trials of those who had done the Dark Lord’s bidding. This was the only time she felt as if she still belonged in their world: when they talked about the past. She wondered if they had anything in common anymore, other than the terrible things they had been through. Had they ever had anything in common, other than always being at the wrong place at the wrong time?
She remembers the night after the last trial when they’d gone to The Burrow for celebratory dinner, and she’d watched as Ron laughed at something George had said. Laughed. A deep, true, belly laugh that bubbled with happiness. Meanwhile, Fred’s body was in the ground of a mass grave, surrounded by bouquets of flowers that would eventually join his flesh in becoming part of the earth. And yet, they were laughing.
“You can let yourself be happy again, Hermione,” Harry had said later, as they nursed glasses of Firewhiskey long after everyone else had gone to bed. “After everything, you deserve it.”
Funny, she thought, what was there to be happy about?
Maybe the fact that her parents were somewhere on a different continent with no memory of her whatsoever? Or the fact that she’d never see Tonks again, and get to watch the colour of her hair turn from pink to purple. Maybe that she’d have to watch as Teddy Lupin grew up without either of his parents. Were these things that warranted happiness?
Would wounds like these ever close and fade into scars, like the awful letters on her right forearm? She thinks they won’t; that they’ll remain open and painful forever.
Bleeding.
She knows that no one has forgotten what has happened. That despite trying to move on, they still cry for the ones they’ve lost and wake up in cold sweats as they hear the killing curse shouted at them in their dreams.
She knows she isn’t the only one hurting. She knows that the pain is not hers to carry alone. But why is she the only one not able to begin healing?
So as she sits on the couch in her apartment, petting Crookshanks and nursing her second glass of Firewhiskey, she tries to obey Kingsley’s parting words in her head.
You can rest at last.
She tries to consider answering one of the many job offers she’s received over the past few months.
She tries to find words to write a letter to Neville, whom she hasn’t seen since summer.
She tries to pretend she has direction.
But the truth is, she can’t.
And in her 18 years of life, she has yet to come across something she can’t find some way to do, one way or another. It’s completely and utterly defeating.
So when the clock on her wall strikes midnight, she leans down to the orange kneazle in her lap, whispers “It’s my birthday” into his ear, swallows the last bitter sip of her Firewhiskey, and goes to bed.
~~~
“Happy Birthday, Hermione,” Ron grins in the lopsided way that used to make her heart flutter.
“Thank you, Ron. It’s very thoughtful,” she tells him politely, examining the bracelet in front of her as she crumples up the wrapping into a tight ball. It’s pretty. Red, gold, and yellow—Gryffindor colours—but also not very…her. She almost never wears jewelry. Ron extends a hand to help her put it on, and she gives him a deceptive smile. She’s good at those now; usually, people are none the wiser.
“Open the one from Harry and me now,” Ginny says, pushing another wrapped gift towards Hermione. They’re all sitting at the breakfast bar in Hermione’s apartment, remnants of Hermione’s birthday pancakes surrounding them.
They’ve gotten her a journal. It’s simple but quite nice. Leather bound, with an attached ribbon for a bookmark and lined pages inside.
“We thought it might be a good way for you to…” Harry hesitates, looking at Ginny as she nods in encouragement, “..get back to your normal self.”
He blushes slightly pink at the words. Hermione wants to laugh but restrains herself.
“Therapeutic, in a way,” Ginny adds in support, nodding at Hermione.
Hermione thinks this is ridiculous. Writing everything out that she already feels, all day, every day? She’d be writing pages and pages of the same words, she thinks.
She smiles, despite herself.
“Thank you. It’s lovely.”
Harry nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer, and jumps up to throw all of her wrappings in the bin. The bracelet feels alien on her wrist. Too heavy, like a shackle. She scratches the skin under it.
Ron begins to tell a story about someone they work with at the ministry, Harry chiming in every few words while Ginny laughs. Hermione goes through the motions – laughs, smiles, makes a joke about how much Moody would have hated him.
This is her new checklist, she thinks. How to act normal. Pretend to listen: check. Laugh when everyone else does: check. Smile when Ginny pokes fun at Ron for eating too much: check. Its torture.
An owl brings her The Daily Prophet, and even the routine of seeing Rita Skeeter’s name on the front page brings a little relief. Read The Prophet every morning: check.
She slips the owl a few coins and sends him back off through the window, finally glancing down at the front page.
The sneering face of Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban robes peers up at her over the crease of the folded paper.
The headline causes her to zone out of Ron’s diatribe as she hungrily unfolds it, hands shaking slightly.
"Lucius Malfoy, Convicted Death Eater, Dies Behind Bars Less than a Year after Trial"
She skims the article, eyes wandering back to the cold, sleep-deprived gaze of the silver-haired wizard she’d last seen in a courtroom at the ministry. His had been one of the first trials she’d attended, and one of the only ones she hadn’t spoken at. He’d been sentenced to 25 years. He’d not even lasted one.
“-ultimately died of natural causes … funeral will be a small affair… only family member outside of Azkaban is his son, Draco Malfoy, who was released from his own short-lived sentence last month –“
Hermione frowns. She’d forgotten that Malfoy had been released already. His was the trial she most remembers. The way he’d looked at her as she fought blindly for his freedom – as if he thought she was acting like some greater-than-thou Gryffindor with a saviour complex. She wished he knew that she couldn’t care less if he personally ended up in Azkaban or not. She only wished to tell the truth: that he, school bully or not, was certainly no Death Eater.
It’s strange how a year can seem like a lifetime ago.
“Lucky bastard,” Ron scowls, breaking Hermione from her ruminations. He’s looking at the paper that she’s placed in front of her on the counter. “-hadn’t even been kissed by the dementors yet. I was hoping he’d rot in there for a lot longer.”
Ginny comes to stand over her shoulder, reading as Hermione re-reads.
“Aren’t we supposed to be making amends? Trying to forgive?” Hermione asks Ron pointedly as Harry pulls the paper gently from her hands.
“We can make amends all we want. Just not with anyone who played house with Voldemort while he killed our friends and teachers,” Ron barks. Hermione shrugs, taking a sip of the tea that’s gone cold in her mug.
This was another thing she was missing: anger.
She found it was hard to be so passionate about her anger at the people she’d helped lock up. People who had hunted and tortured her. Ron and Harry could spit venom about each and every one of them, while Hermione sat and listened. It was hard to be angry when she was numb.
“I wonder how Malfoy Junior is taking the news,” Harry says, laying the paper back down and sliding it away from him.
“Probably just thinking about all the money sitting in Daddy’s vault at Gringotts that’s under his name now,” Ron suggests, popping another chocolate chip in his mouth from the bowl they’d put aside for the pancakes.
“Can we talk about something else?” Ginny asks quickly, eying the way Hermione shifts uncomfortably in her stool, eyes downcast on the half-eaten breakfast on her plate.
“Hermione, have you thought any more about Kingsley’s offer?” Harry prompts, taking a sip from his coffee mug. His green eyes are gentle, questioning, careful. She knows he’s been tiptoeing around her, trying to get answers about what she plans to do now that everything has settled. Ron could care less, she thinks, because he never asks. Ginny’s offered to have Hermione do publicity for the Hollyhead Harpies, who are just beginning their first season back since the war.
“I’m not… I don’t know yet…” Hermione replies, trying to avoid her best friend’s eyes. She knows he is just trying to help. He’s worried about her like the rest of them are. She wishes she could explain to them that taking some willy-nilly startup job at the ministry was not going to make her happy. Nor would taking a teaching position at Hogwarts. In fact, she wonders if she’ll ever be able to go back there at all.
She would like to write a letter to whoever is in charge of the 'Post-War Gratuity Fund' that keeps writing to her and asking when she would like her money deposited into her vault at Gringotts. The rest of her friends already had theirs.
She thought it was ridiculous – the ministry trying to reimburse her for everything she’d lost in the war with galleons. What would she ever do with all of that money?
Instead, when she got the letter each month with its stupid amount at the top telling her that a deposit was pending, she burned it. Let it go to something more worthy, she thought.
“Aren’t you restless? Sitting in this flat all day? It might be nice for you to get out and work, even if it’s not forever,” Harry continues, and Hermione wills herself not to roll her eyes.
“Yeah, I’ll keep thinking about it,” she smiles tightly, praying someone will change the subject to something that’s not her.
“We still on for drinks tomorrow night? There’s that new place in Diagon Alley that I think we should try.”
It was Ron’s idea in the first place, to go out and celebrate her birthday on a night that they didn’t have to work in the morning. This was the only idea that Hermione was actually ecstatic about – a chance to down Firewhiskey and make bad decisions without anyone questioning her sanity. Her birthday is as good an excuse as any, and she thinks the buzz that the alcohol brings her might make it tolerable to spend the whole night with them, to pretend that she is as okay as they are.
“Can’t wait,” Hermione smiles. Ginny asks her what she plans to wear, and demands that Hermione bring her into her bedroom to show her what she has in her closet. When Ginny closes her bedroom door behind her, Hermione knows this is about more than clothes.
“We’re all worried about you, Hermione,” Ginny murmurs quietly as Hermione lays out a few dresses for the youngest Weasley to inspect.
“I’m alright,” Hermione says, her back to her, already tired of fake smiling. And it’s only 10 am.
“You don’t seem fine. And you’re not as good at lying as you think.”
Hermione sighs, tossing one last dress onto the bed, though she knows Ginny couldn’t care less about what she’ll be wearing tomorrow.
“I’m just… finding ways to adjust.” Hermione lies. She laughs at herself internally. You’re not even trying.
“Is there anything I can do?” Ginny asks as Hermione sits beside her, flicking through the dresses and inspecting each of them.
“No, Gin. I promise I’ll be okay.”
Ginny can tell this is bullshit. Hermione is smart enough to know that. She’s also stubborn enough not to care. She rakes her fingers absentmindedly through her wild curls, trying to tame them as Ginny goes on about how they are always there to talk when she needs to. Hermione gives her a hug, mostly to give Ginny some sense of achievement, but also to show her that Hermione can appreciate the effort she’s putting in to be a good friend.
Except she doesn’t get it, some awful part of her thinks. The other part of her tells her that these are terrible, selfish, untrue thoughts to have. Of course Ginny gets it – she lost her brother. She lost friends. She fought in the war too.
Ginny picks a short, unworn black dress from Hermione’s closet, ignoring the ones that Hermione has pulled out to consider. Hermione remembers buying it, even knowing that it was a bit too skimpy for her to ever wear in public. Back when she thought maybe one day she’d wear it for Ron. It still has the tags on it.
“It’s your birthday,” Ginny smiles softly, hanging the dress on the back of her door. “Live a little."
~~~
Diagon Alley is one of the few places that still holds visible remnants of the war. Some shops had returned to normalcy right away— renovating whatever broken, burned structures remained with a little bit of magic, and going back to business as usual. People still needed the buy things, after all.
Life stops for no one, for nothing; not even war.
About half of Diagon had been rebuilt— though not entirely returned to its original façade— while the other half had been left in ruins. Shops that had caught fire, exploded from spells cast by Snatchers and Death Eaters, abandoned out of fear by owners who never returned. This was the side of the alley that was slower to rebuild, a small portion of shops still blackened by smoke and ransacked of all its goods. This area of the alley had been affectionately renamed ‘The Strip’ which was a very unclever short form for what people had once referred to as ‘The strip of Diagon Alley that never recovered from the war.’
That was how long the shops had been abandoned. Long enough to be given a nickname for its lack of progress.
Hermione hadn’t walked down The Strip for a while now; she’d avoided it completely, knowing that a few of the shops had been places she used to go to get supplies for Hogwarts. Flourish & Blotts was one such shop, and she has no idea why she’s brought herself here for the first time in months on her birthday.
She stands on the cracked cobblestone in front of the building, looking up at the broken windows and the blackened door that had once been green. If she looks hard enough, she can still see a few surviving painted gold letters: Flo & l ots
It stands among about 20 other shops with the same, eerie darkness, just steps away from the open shops whose windows are flooding the streets with light. Of the 21 shops on The Strip, only three are shops that have reopened. This is the first time Hermione has seen them, beacons of hope in the blackness. Maybe the rest of The Strip will follow, and eventually, all of the shops will return in some form or another. She can only hope.
She could stand here all night, staring up at what was once Flourish & Blotts, and thinking about the time she’d seen Gilderoy Lockhart there, or of the very first time she’d come with her parents to collect her school books.
Memories are painful, Hermione thinks. Even if they’re good. It’s as if the goodness of them only reminds her of the terribleness of now.
She has to force herself to look away, to move her legs and continue to walk down the abandoned street. She spots an unfamiliar glow of neon lights around the slight bend towards the end of the alley. One of the reopened businesses, probably, though she doesn’t know which one. No one ever comes down here, so it’s absurd that someone has decided to open or reopen a shop at the very end of the alleyway. This is the end that used to jut off into Knockturn Alley—she hardly ever came down this way, even before the war.
She walks past a number of dilapidated shops, looking over her shoulder only once at the silhouette of Gringotts in the distance. Its creamy white pillars still stand tall after the war.
After the war, after the war. Everything is after the war. When will she stop referring to the present as after the war?
She stops in her tracks when she reaches the source of the neon glow, tilting her head up to look at the sign.
Scratch the Mark, she reads, in shades of neon green and pink, placed between the rounded windows of an old shop. The rest of the exterior is hardly touched – still stained with black smoke, patched up lazily here or there. The windows are covered in white posters with drawings and designs. It’s a tattoo shop, she realizes.
Hermione has never been reckless. Brave, quick thinking, and inclined to risk-tasking maybe— but never reckless. Quite the opposite actually. She had always had to be the one to clean up after Harry’s recklessness when his emotions got in the way of logic. Hermione liked to think she was rather balanced in the two: emotion and logic. She usually didn’t allow one to take precedence over the other, because as her two strongest assets, she needed them both.
But for some reason, a reason she’ll never understand, she pulls up the sleeve of her jacket and looks down at her forearm, eyes glancing over the small, fading letters that take up less than half of the pale expanse of skin— Mudblood. She steps forward, pushing the door open.
The jingle of a bell signals her arrival, and she looks around curiously, itching with the need to make a stupid decision.
The inside of the parlour is bare-bones— exposed brick wall on either side of her, lined with framed art and examples of tattoo designs. A few more neon signs emit the same colourful glow as outside, casting shadows on the black leather tattoo chairs and stools that line the walls. It’s relatively small, with only three chairs and a front desk, but Hermione feels exhilarated for the first time in a long time. Her eyes scan the room, and she’s in awe of the way the shop has seemingly been built over the ruins and utilized its broken, deteriorated walls to achieve such a, for lack of a better term, badass look.
She runs her fingers over a few frames displaying small tattoos, eyes flicking over each design with interest. They’re beautifully detailed, not tacky at all, and she thinks about Dean Thomas and the art he used to create. As she glances over each dainty design, her body is filled with an energy that she is unfamiliar with. An urge to stop thinking, to discard logic, to feel something.
Feel something. She’s forgotten what that was like.
“Hermione Granger?”
The voice startles her, and she jumps away from the row of tattoos she’s studying, turning around to face its source. She hadn’t heard the voice enough at school to recognize it straight away, but she places his face as she turns to see him, leaning his elbows on the front counter, face punctuated with both surprise and a mischievous delight.
“Blaise Zabini-” she breathes, eyes investigating his dark skin and sharp brows. He studies her with a calculated stare, on the defense, she thinks, as if he’s waiting for her to attack. “Do you work here?”
“I own the place, Granger,” he smirks, quirking up an eyebrow at her. Pushing himself off of the counter, he straightens and walks around to greet her. She tries not to let her face give away how taken aback she is by his admission. Blaise had never joined the Death Eaters officially, but his family was known for being Voldemort sympathizers. He’d gotten off easy at his trial, probation and the same court-ordered rehabilitation program that was forced upon many of the other children of Death Eaters, sympathizers, and pure-blood families who openly despised the muggle-born. She’d noted Pansy Parkinson, the Greengrass sisters, Theodore Nott, Adrian Pucey, and Draco Malfoy himself among the other unwilling participants of this rehabilitation initiative.
“You look surprised,” Blaise teases, leaning his back against the front counter and crossing his arms. He’s taller than she remembers, though she hadn't known him very well at Hogwarts. “Shocked that a former almost-Death Eater like myself can own a business in this recession?” he mocks, tilting his head at her as he awaits her response.
The irony of the situation isn’t lost on her. Blaise Zabini, who had barely escaped a sentence in Azkaban, now owns a business in Diagon Alley. Hermione, decorated “war hero,” lives in a shitty flat, and doesn’t even have a job.
“A little,” Hermione admits, moving closer to him with careful steps. “But not for the reasons you think.”
He raises both eyebrows, standing up taller now as she reaches him.
“And for what reasons are you surprised, then?” he challenges, dark eyes searching her face. She can tell he’s still unsure about her presence, not fearful, but intrigued. She swallows.
“I guess I just didn’t know you were an artist,” she states, motioning to the designs displayed around the shop.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Granger.” He states, his face remaining stoic as he analyzes her.
“Fair enough,” She replies.
For reasons she can’t explain, she extends her arm in front of her and pulls sharply at the sleeve of her jacket, allowing it to slide up to her elbow. She twists her arm, exposing the white scar on her forearm and holding it out to him.
“Think you could cover this?” she asks him, fist clenched, as he leans forward examines the raised letters. She watches him as recognition falls over his face, sharp, angular cheekbones moving as he clenches his jaw. His eyes flick up to hers, and he gives her a real smile, white teeth flashing at her.
“I’m sure I could help you out, Granger. If you’ll trust me.”
Hermione pulls her sleeve back down, straightening her back and holding her chin high to show him she is not afraid.
This is something she has been craving for a long time, she realizes. Something crazy.
“I trust you,” She states in an unwavering voice, her eyes piercing into his in an attempt to show him that she means this. And she does. She has no idea why, but she does.
“You know it's permanent, right?” He jokes, standing and leading her over to the first black chair by the wall, patting the leather with his hand in invitation. She sits, pulling her jacket off and placing it beside her as Blaise pulls black latex gloves over his long fingers.
“Thank you, Zabini. I’m quite aware.”
He shrugs, pulling a silver cart with tools and pots of ink over to him, and he starts to assemble the needle with practiced fingers. He’s handsome, she thinks, as she watches his focused eyes screwing things together and reaching behind him to plug a cord in.
“What are you thinking, Granger?” he asks, and he takes her forearm into his gloved hands now, twisting it slightly to examine it. The scar is long and thin, and it’s not perfectly straight, curving a bit at the end closest to her hand.
She knew what she wanted the second she came into the shop. If she closes her eyes and thinks hard enough, she can almost smell it.
“My parents used to grow rosemary in our garden,” she tells him, eyes closed as she feels tears prick at the base of her skull. “If you opened the kitchen window in the summer, you could smell it. Mum would cut some and bring it inside, cook with it, put it in a vase when it flowered. The whole house would smell of it. So would she.”
When she opens her eyes, Blaise is looking at her thoughtfully. She doesn’t cry; hasn’t in a long time.
“She used to say that rosemary was a symbol of remembrance. And there’s a lot of things I’ve lost that I’d like to remember.” She finishes, and he nods once in understanding.
“Rosemary it is, Granger.”
He tentatively draws it for her with his wand on her skin first, making sure she likes the design.
It’s beautiful. Minimal, thin black lines, no shading, delicate and unassuming. She nods at him, and he starts the needle, the soft buzz of it filling the air of the small room.
“What made you decide to do this? To open this up? Here?” she asks, gritting her teeth and trying not to move as the needle penetrates her skin.
It’s a good kind of pain. It makes her feel something. Her eyelids flutter as the needle runs along the sensitive skin of her forearm in slow, careful strokes.
“I started it as a way to offer my services to those who wanted their Dark Marks covered,” he admits, eyes remaining on his work. He uses a wet cloth to wipe away the excess ink after each stroke, reexamining, and diving back into each new line and curve. “And it grew from there.”
She blinks at him.
“You cover Dark Marks?” She prods further, and she can see one corner of his mouth lift in amusement. Hence the name of the shop, she thinks. Scratch the Mark. Clever.
“Yeah. Word on the street is they’re not very fashionable anymore.” He winks at her. “Those of us who had them and didn’t get carted off to Azkaban wanted to get rid of them. But you can’t: they’re cursed marks. So we decided to cover them up instead.”
She doesn’t respond, thinking instead about people she knows that actually took the mark. Theodore Nott. Pansy Parkinson. Adrian Pucey. Draco Malfoy.
“That’s great, Blaise.” She tells him as he wipes his cloth on her arm again, and she watches as the black ink bleeds into the cloth. “You’re very talented.”
He stops, rests the hand holding the needle on his knee, and looks up at her.
“Careful Granger,” he grins, pulling his glove up tighter on his hand, and leaning forward again. “I might just start to actually like you.”
Hermione actually smiles. He finishes a few minutes later, and Hermione can’t help but admire it. She can hardly see her scar anymore; certainly can’t make out the letters. She thanks him, staring at it as he uses his wand to heal it right away, muttering a spell so that the pain and redness are alleviated immediately. He cleans up, throwing his gloves in a bin and helping her off of the chair.
“How much do I owe you?” She asks, making her way to the front counter as she reaches into her small coin purse for some galleons.
“It’s on the house,” Blaise says as he goes around the back of the counter. “I always cover up Dark Marks for free.”
Hermione frowns, as he leans his elbows on the counter again.
“But this isn’t a Dark Mark,” she argues, looking down again at the dainty branch of rosemary that is now on her skin forever.
“It might not be the Dark mark, but it’s a dark mark nonetheless, no?” he states simply, and she realizes how intelligent his eyes are as he tilts his head at her again. She nods, once, and slips some money into the tip jar anyway.
“Nice to see you again, Zabini. And thanks. It's beautiful," she gestures to the tattoo on her skin.
Blaise only nods his chin at her, and she can feel his eyes on her back as she makes her way over to the door, bell jangling as she exits the shop and finds herself back in the darkness of The Strip.
She glances down at her tattoo again, coat draped over her other arm.
Rosemary for remembrance.
Though, she almost wonders if there are fewer things she wants to remember, and more things she’d rather forget.
Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Notes:
TW: alcohol abuse, language
Chapter Text
“I can’t believe you got a tattoo,” Ron frowns, staring at her forearm with his startling blue eyes and shaking his head. “Where’d you even get it?” he asks, taking a sip from his glass of Firewhiskey.
“A shop on The Strip,” Hermione answers, keeping her eyes down as she swallows her own mouthful of the terrible, fruity concoction Ginny has ordered for her. Admittedly, it’s something Hermione might have chosen for herself a long time ago, but these days she generally tended to go for something a little stronger.
“It’s just… so unlike you, Hermione,” Ron continues, mouth set into a strange grimace that she doesn’t think he knows he’s wearing. She turns her arm so the tattoo is face down on the table, sending Ron’s eyes elsewhere.
“Well, I didn’t really love the slur that was scarred on my arm either,” she says, and she sees Harry give Ron a look that says to drop it.
“I think it’s lovely,” Ginny tells her, sidling up to Harry where they sit in the booth across from her. Hermione smiles at her, gives her a whispered thanks, and downs the rest of her drink.
She wishes she could be happy like them, just for tonight. These are her extended birthday celebrations after all, and despite her sour mood (or just general well-being at the present), she knows that she looks amazing in the dress Ginny had chosen for her. She’d even felt some small satisfaction watching Ron gape at her slightly when she’d arrived at the bar in it, Ginny showering her with praises as they’d found a booth to sit at in a private corner.
It’s a Friday night and the bar is packed with witches and wizards, most of the tables and booths filled while the bartenders are kept busy at the bar top.
She should be wanting to have fun. To dance with her friends and laugh about old memories. She’s hoping that another couple of strong drinks might help with that.
The Firewhiskey brings a different kind of numb— a numb that covers up her regular numbness, makes her body warm, and time feel not real.
She wonders when she became this fucked up, at what point it was she realized that she’s not the same Hermione Granger she was a year and four months ago. Wonders if the other her is still in there somewhere, or if she’ll have to live with herself, like this, forever.
At some point, Harry had gone and gotten her another drink. Firewhiskey this time. Thank Merlin. She smiles at him. Down the hatch. A burning. A warmth. A numbness. It’s perfect.
She might even crave something stronger.
George and Lee arrive a bit later, give her a hug and wish her a happy birthday. Lee buys her a drink, and no one bothers telling him that she should probably slow down. She’s grateful that no one does.
The continuous supply of alcohol keeps her from showing everyone that she’d rather not be here. Helps her to check items off of her checklist. Ask George how things are at the shop: check. Pretend to listen as her friends laugh at stories about their old Gryffindor parties: check. Smile at all the right places in the conversation: check. Another glass of Firewhiskey: check, check, check.
Thank god she’s built her tolerance up, she thinks. Sixth year her would have been on the floor by now. Present her—no, post-war her— revels in the buzz she feels in every inch of her body. She feels the blood pumping through her veins. It’s a nice reminder. She almost never feels alive anymore.
She hears them all laugh, a hand slap the table of the booth, heads thrown back in pleasure. Why are you all laughing, she wants to ask. Everyone is dead. My parents don’t know I exist.
Another sip and her glass is empty. She should probably cut herself off. She’s drunk, teetering on the edge of too drunk. It feels too good to stop.
She wants to push her luck. She also wants to go home, cuddle on the couch with Crookshanks, stare at her ceiling for a few hours.
It’s exhausting, this particular checklist.
“I’m gonna go get another drink from the bar,” she tells Ron as Ginny talks about the upcoming Hollyhead Harpies season. Ron scoots over to let her out, and she wobbles as her feet land on the floor, the room spinning slightly.
Pretend she can stand up normally: check. Give Ron a smile to let him know she’s alright: check.
It convinces him, and he sits back down, laughing at something Ginny says. Hermione notices how no one even looks at her as she walks away – they’re too busy watching George talk with his hands as he describes an incident at the shop. She notices how the space her body had previously occupied in the booth is filled as Ron takes up more room than he had before. Completely erased, as if she was never there.
She almost stumbles her way over to the bar top, squeezing through groups of wizards and apologizing to the one she accidentally shoulders in the process. She chooses a spot at the end of the bar top where the wood curves as it meets the corner and stands in a place where she can no longer make out her friends.
She feels as if she can breathe better instantly- relaxes her shoulders and moves her jaw back and forth as she releases her fake smile. She pulls the hem of her dress further down her thighs, suddenly self-conscious about how short it is, how tightly it hugs her body. Her wild curls fall into her face, sticking to the light sheen of sweat that has accumulated on her forehead, and she tucks them behind her ear, swiping at the dampness with the back of her hand. It really is packed in here; claustrophobically so.
The bartender closest to her is occupied, making drinks with quick flicks of her wand for a group of witches a few stools down from Hermione. She watches them enviously; their easy giggles, the way their eyes dart around the bar as they whisper about which wizards are the best looking, the way they twirl their hair in their fingers. Hermione can remember a time that she used to be them – well, a less vain, less girlishly annoying version anyway. Mostly, she remembers when she was just as carefree.
Finally, the bartender spots her leaning onto the sticky wood at the corner, and leans over to ask what she wants.
“Firewhiskey,” Hermione says over the noise, and then, after a pause of consideration she adds, “A double, please.”
“Make that two,” says a voice from behind her. She’s able to recognize it now, considering she’d heard it only 24 hours ago. She turns to face him and watches cautiously as Blaise offers her a small quirk of his mouth, slipping easily onto the barstool beside where she stands. The bartender gets to work, pouring the dark amber liquid into two glasses.
“Zabini,” she nods at him in acknowledgment, trying to hide her surprise at seeing him here— at him approaching her in public. What a strange world it was, after the war.
“Granger.” He nods back, and he slips the bartender some money and tells her to keep the change. “Any regrets about that sprig of rosemary yet? Finally come to your senses and frantically search through tomes to find a spell that will remove it?”
He takes a steady sip of his Firewhiskey, and she follows suit, twisting her arm up for him to see.
“I have no regrets, Zabini,” she tells him as they simultaneously set their glasses down on the cherry wood.
“None at all, Granger?” he asks, and she wonders how he keeps his face so controlled, and yet so expressive at the same time. It’s his dark eyes, she thinks.
“I have many regrets, Blaise, but if you want a list we’d need at least another night, and definitely another few rounds of Firewhiskey.”
He smirks at her amusedly, and she wonders how many witches usually fall under the spell of his stare. She is strangely unaffected, though she understands the allure.
“Ah, looks like we do have something in common then,” he leers, taking another small, controlled sip. This is how Firewhiskey is supposed to be drunk, she thinks. In slow, polite sips over long conversations. She throws back the rest of hers in a quick gulp.
“What are you doing here?” Hermione asks as Blaise shoots her an impressed look when the empty glass is pushed away from her. She hadn’t meant for her question to come out so dryly, almost like a sneer.
“It’s been over a year, Granger. We reformed Death Eaters have gotten over our fear of being seen in public. We come here every weekend.”
“We?”
She raises an eyebrow at him, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting to suddenly be surrounded by the entirety of Slytherin house.
“Yes, we. Want to come over and say hi? Or does your propensity for Slytherin interaction stop at me? A one per day limit?”
“No, but I do think I’d need another drink if I’m going to have to talk to more of you,”
He chuckles softly, almost rolling his eyes, and orders her another drink. Once she’s received it, he motions with his head to the far end of the bar, furthest away from her friends. She follows, though she has no idea why.
Boredom, maybe. Another bout of recklessness, possibly. Unassailable curiosity? She thinks it’s the latter.
He leads her through the bar, darting through crowds and between tables and rounding a slight bend to a smaller, more private area in the furthest corner. The lights are dimmer here, she notices, and she can’t help but laugh dryly as she thinks about the Slytherins feeling more at home in the dark.
She only starts to realize that this was a terrible idea when she can finally see the faces occupying the larger booth.
First, it’s Pansy Parkinson, silky black hair and seductive eyes that turn deadly at the sight of Hermione. If Pansy was pretty at Hogwarts, she’s modelesque now, and Hermione’s confidence in her own appearance at the start of the night turns to a sobered modesty. Next, she spots the chocolate brown head of hair that belongs to Theodore Nott, who was another one of the Slytherins she’d hardly interacted with at school. Like Blaise, he’s also quite handsome; green eyes the same colour of his Hogwarts house, and a broad, muscular bone structure and chin, like a Grecian sculpture.
Adrian Pucey and Daphne Greengrass are too busy groping each other to notice Hermione approaching, but she is thankful for the relief of two more pairs of eyes not on her. She can’t help but notice the absence of the Slytherin she’d been most nervous to face: Malfoy. His blond head of hair is nowhere to be seen, and she remembers that he is probably in the midst of planning a funeral for his father.
“What the fuck is this?” Pansy asks Blaise, motioning to the Gryffindor as he and Hermione reach the booth. If Hermione wasn’t grateful for the Firewhiskey before, she is now. Pansy’s poisonous jab doesn’t even shake her.
“Well now, Pansy, surely you remember Hermione Granger? Gryffindor princess, golden girl, decorated war hero–”
“Yeah, yeah, I know who she is, Blaise. What I am still wondering is what the fuck she’s doing here,“ Pansy snarls, clutching her drink so hard that Hermione is afraid the glass will break.
“Play nicely, Pans,” Blaise smirks, as Hermione’s eyes wander to Theo. He’s assessing her with a bewildered scowl, less frightening than Pansy’s, but still intimidating. Hermione nods at him wearily, trying to keep her chin high. It is at this moment that Adrian Pucey un-suctions his lips from Daphne’s, and turns to look at her with wide eyes and a lazy grin.
“Hermione fucking Granger,” he says, pulling Daphne off of him gently, and twisting his body to get a better look at her. “To what do we, scum of the earth Slytherins, owe this pleasure?”
All eyes are on hers now, and if she wasn’t stupidly drunk she thinks she’d melt away into the floor.
“I’ve just run into Blaise at the bar, and I thought I’d come over and say hi,” Hermione states, hoping she doesn’t sound as uneasy as she feels. Pansy scoffs, snorts almost.
“Hear that, Theo? Granger thought she’d just come over and say hi. What sort of mind-fuck, awful alternate reality have we found ourselves in?”
Hermione meets Pansy’s eyes, feeling vulnerable under her wicked stare.
“I asked myself the same question when I willingly asked Blaise to tattoo me last night,” Hermione deadpans, looking back over at Blaise who is watching the entire interaction with a gleeful amusement.
“Hermione Granger got tatted?!” Adrian nearly shrieks, and he very suddenly leans across the table as he searches Hermione’s skin hungrily. “Let’s see then, Granger,” he encourages, and he’s somehow so convincing that Hermione complies.
She steps forward so that her stomach is pressed against the table of the booth, and she thinks this is maybe the closest she’s ever been to all of these people at once. Timidly, she rests her elbow on the wood and flips her arm, laying it down for Adrian to inspect. Pansy watches and raises an eyebrow as she inspects it, and Theo and Daphne look with curious eyes too. Adrian startles Hermione by grabbing her wrist, gently twisting her arm as his eyes rake over the delicate lines of the rosemary.
“Beautiful job, Blaise,” Theo muses when he’s finished looking. Blaise claps him on the shoulder in thanks, taking another sip from his glass.
“What is it? A weed?” Pansy frowns. Adrian releases her wrist and Hermione breathes a sigh of relief, recoiling her arm back to her side.
“Fuck off, Pans, and act civilized. We aren’t kids anymore,” Blaise reprimands her, motioning for her to scootch over so he can sit beside her in the booth.
More Firewhiskey. She takes a sip.
“You going to join us, Granger?” Adrian asks as he sidles up closer to Daphne. Daphne continually looks the least interested in Hermione’s presence, and she simply runs her fingers over Adrian’s muscled arm flirtatiously. She notes that everyone here must be as intoxicated as she is, based on the number of empty glasses scattered on the table.
“I’m not … I should probably get back to my friends,” she admits, eyes flicking over the staring eyes of the group of Slytherins.
“Does that mean Old Saint Potter is here then?” Theo asks, raising one corner of his mouth into a clandestine smirk.
“The weasel too, probably,” Pansy grins, taking a sip from her colourful cocktail.
“Well, maybe you’d like to ask them to join us,” Blaise suggests, and his grin anticipates the reaction from his friends.
“Fuck that-”
“Are you mad Zabini?”
And, Hermione’s own shocking response, “Absolutely not.”
Everyone stares at her as she shrugs.
“They can be a bit… well… stifling.” She admits, letting another swallow of her drink burn her throat. She should definitely stop after this one, considering she just admitted to her old school bullies that she doesn’t want to be around her friends tonight.
“Why are you all here together, then?” Adrian asks, and Hermione feels small pleasure from the menacing looks Pansy shoots everyone as they continue talking to her.
“We’re supposed to be celebrating my birthday, which was technically yesterday, but my friends were all too busy with their new lives do something on the actual day.”
Blaise sets his glass down and tilts his head at her.
“It was your birthday yesterday Granger? And you came to visit me? I’m honoured. You could have told me, you know, I would’ve thrown in a belly button piercing for free.”
Hermione actually cracks a grin at this.
“Shame,” she smiles, and she allows the foreign sensation of the uncontrollable upturn of her lips to mix with the tingle of the alcohol and the adrenaline she feels from this strange interaction. There is something intriguing about being unwanted, about not having to live up to anyone's expectations. She already knows what the Slytherins think of her. There is a sort of freedom in this.
“Well, come on Granger,” Adrian says happily, leaning towards Theo and pulling him with his sleeve further into the booth. “At least let us celebrate your birthday with another drink.”
Hermione eyes the newly empty seat in the booth and then lets her eyes flicker to each of the Slytherin’s reactions. Blaise and Adrian are smiling, Daphne and Theo look indifferent, and Pansy looks as if she’s just taken a bite out of a lemon.
And much to her own surprise, Hermione nods, and slides herself into the booth, a strange new sensation settling over her body. She knows she should go back to her friends: they’ll probably be wondering where she’s gone by now.
But the thought of going back and pretending to be her old self, nodding and smiling and checking things off of her internal checklist, suddenly sounds like the worse option out of the two.
And so, she chooses the Slytherins.
Adrian slides a glass of butterbeer towards her with a wink, and Hermione graciously accepts, allowing herself this final, much weaker drink.
It's then that she notices the other work of Blaise Zabini— the work he’d told her about last night when she had gotten her tattoo and asked why he’d opened his shop.
For Pansy, it’s a large collection of flowers and their respective foliage. Her tattoo is much fuller than Hermione’s considering how large and conspicuous the mark was. There is intricate shading and a deep set of colours- greens, purples, and blues. Most of the flowers are Pansies, Hermione realizes, thinking about the same flowers her mother used to plant in their window garden boxes.
Adrian’s is a compilation of a few things. A forest of trees, an arrow, a ship.
Theo has left the snake, adding details to differentiate it from the one used in the Dark Mark. He’s also added some sort of bird in midflight over the skull. A lark, Hermione thinks, from what she can see. His is the largest, and he has more on the other arm too, the most tattooed of them all.
Daphne never received the mark and seems to be free of tattoos.
Blaise has done an incredible job of covering up each of their marks. Hermione wonders how many he’s done, and what other sorts of designs he’s come up with to cover the horrible symbol on the arms of other reformed death eaters and almost-death eaters.
From what Hermione knows of the trial, Theo, Adrian and Pansy had all received Dark Marks in the final days of the war, as demanded by their parents. Adrian only had his for three days before the battle of Hogwarts— three days, and then a lifetime. Three days to be forced into that life, and then a lifetime to face the consequences. She is suddenly very thankful to Blaise for what he has done for them.
“What do you think, Granger?” Blaise asks as she sips lightly at her butterbeer, “Want to take up my offer on that piercing?”
Hermione is about to produce some witty, Slytherin-like answer when she sees him out of the corner of her eye.
Draco Malfoy looks the same as he did at Hogwarts, but also entirely different.
He’s gotten taller, she thinks, by at least a head, and his lean Seekers build has collected a bit of subtle muscle, just obvious under his clothing. Same grey eyes, startling in their sharpness, and she remembers the fear that this gaze used to instill in her. His white-blond hair is disheveled on top of his head, the obvious effort of needy fingers that have been grasping at the roots. His lips are dark pink, almost red, and slightly swollen, she can see, as he licks his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. His skin is still creamy white, stretched over sharp cheek and jawbones. His handsomeness almost distracts from how awful he really looks – dark purple under his hollow eyes, clearly inebriated as they find hers.
He’s wearing that damned white oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows. The top two buttons are undone, the collar loose and crooked, and she can see the line where his sectumsempra scar begins, just under the prominent line of his collar bone. The oxford is tucked into a pair of black dress pants and she’s surprised, based on the top half of him, that his belt is still secured tightly around his waist.
The cause of his unkempt appearance hangs off of his right elbow, smiling, her fingers playing with the hair behind his ear as he grips her waist with one hand, trying to hold her up in her staggeringly high heels.
Seeing him feels like sinking into an ice bath, while her insides are simultaneously on fire. It both scares and excites her, for some reason, and she doesn’t understand it. All she knows is that she can’t look away.
“Well look what the fucking cat dragged in,” he muses in a familiar, snarky drawl. His voice is smooth like she remembers it, but lower, she thinks. His eyes are glued on her as he pulls the girl on his arm along with him.
“Or should I say lion?” he finishes as he arrives in front of the booth, gently pushing away the girl’s hand from his hair with an annoyed scowl. His grey eyes never leave her, searching, searching, with his familiar hardened gaze.
“Malfoy, you know Hermione Granger,” Blaise says, observing his friend with an unimpressed look before he surveys the girl, who is hanging onto his arm like he’s the only thing holding her up.
“I believe I do, Blaise,” Draco quips through clenched teeth, “What I’m really wondering is what the fuck she’s doing sitting with you lot.”
Hermione can’t seem to look away from him, either. He’s a mess— reddened cheeks and lips, clearly returning from a romp with this witch in the bathroom. He’s definitely drunk, from the way his eyes lazily move under his pale lids, and the slow fumble of his movements, which remain graceful even under the influence of alcohol. Of course they do. When was Malfoy any less than graceful, despite his general awfulness?
“While you were off doing… whatever it was you were doing,” Adrian begins, looking unjudgementally at the oblivious girl gripping Malfoy’s white oxford. “We were just celebrating Granger’s belated birthday with a butterbeer. Would’ve been rude of us not to offer some sort of gift, would it not Draco?”
Draco sneers at Adrian, pulling the girl’s hands from his shirt and moving her off of him before helping her slouching form into the empty booth next to them.
“Mummy’s not around to make sure you’re being polite anymore, Pucey,” Draco scowls, and he steps forward to rest both hands on the table, right beside where Hermione sits. At first, she can only smell the booze on his breath, the hint of Firewhiskey that she’s sure is currently emanating off of herself as well. But then as he stands beside her, she can slowly start to make out the scent of him, and it nearly sends her into shock.
It’s warm, spicy even, but in a mild sort of way. Tobacco, maybe, the smallest hint of vanilla, earthy herbs, and, to Hermione’s distress, the overwhelming scent of rosemary. It smells like home, like everything she wants to remember, everything she’d gotten this tattoo for. She wants to breathe it in, suck it desperately into her lungs and curl up in it like a blanket. But Draco’s voice snaps her out of it.
“Are you sure you’re in your right mind right now, Granger?” he asks, and his face is slightly unreadable. He doesn’t carry his usual disgust – no curl of his upper lip that she’d remembered from the days he’d called her a mudblood. But he also doesn’t exactly look happy to see her.
“Malfoy,” she nods at him. “Nice to see you too.”
“Where’s lover-boy Weasel and wonder boy Potter tonight?” he clips, grey eyes examining her as he runs a hand through his hair. The blond used to make him look cold, pompous, ghostlike, but it fits him now, she thinks. She hasn’t seen him since his trial, since he’s been released from Azkaban, and he looks as though he’s finally grown into himself. Attractive, even. But Hermione would never admit this to anyone.
“They’re here somewhere, actually,” she says to him, waving her hand lazily in the direction of her friends, who surprisingly have not come to find her yet.
“So why aren’t you with them, then?” He spits, eyes flicking to Blaise and Adrian briefly. She’s trying not to let her gaze wander to the veins protruding from his arms, or his sharp collarbone and the small expanse of chest peeking from under his opened oxford. Trying not to let the smell of rosemary overwhelm her logic, and allow her to be convinced that this man wasn’t her childhood bully before the war. That he hadn’t called her terrible names once, tormented her and her friends for years, and watched as she’d been tortured in his own home.
“Maybe I don’t want to be,” she answers, jutting her chin out. She’s trying to balance the indisputable power dynamic she’s always felt whenever she’s around him; the way it always feels like he’s a step, an insult, a sneer ahead of her.
No matter how smart or brave Hermione is, Malfoy has always had a talent for making her feel less, always been quick to out-wit her or make her feel inferior. She remembers how powerful she’d felt the day she’d punched him in the face. She wishes she could take such violent measures all the time, to feel that same power again.
“Getting bored of saving the world all the time? Weasel not exciting enough in the sack?” he cracks, and she feels a heat creep onto her cheeks.
The nameless girl in the booth reaches out for Draco, all wide flirtatious smiles and hair, and Draco simply ignores her, pushing her gently back against the cushion. She knows, by the look he’s giving her that he already knows he’s winning. He has the power again, and he hasn’t even had to blurt out a slur to do so. Hermione blames the hypnotizing scent of rosemary and spice coming off of him. Had he always smelt like this? It was almost as intoxicating as the booze.
“Saving the world? Been there, done that,” she snaps at him with a proud smile. “Maybe I’m here because I just wanted to change things up a little.”
The corners of his mouth turn up into a slightly malevolent grin, and she feels her throat constrict as he lifts a hand from the table and places it on the leather right beside her head, leaning in so that his face is right beside hers. She can smell the alcohol stronger now, and his smell might almost choke her if she wasn’t so frozen in surprise and fear. He dips his mouth just above her hair, over her ear, and she can tell he’s grinning as he whispers,
“Oh, I’m sure I could change things up for you, Granger.”
Taunting. Sinister.
Her breath hitches in her throat, and her heart is beating wildly in her chest as he pulls away, letting the hand drop from the leather backrest and back to the table. He’s watching her as he takes the glass of Firewhiskey straight from Blaise’s hand and swallows the last large sip of it. Hermione feels herself swallow, and she tries to remain stoic; tries to keep her face unreadable.
“Move over Blaise,” he snaps to the dark-skinned boy, and Theo is now pressed against Hermione’s side as the booth makes room for Draco.
“What’s your friend’s name?” Theo asks him as Draco settles himself across from Hermione, jaw clenched as if he’s in pain.
“Fuck if I know,” Draco retorts, and he begins to fix the collar of his oxford, pulling it down and smoothing the crease.
“Lovely, mate,” Blaise rolls his eyes at the blond, eyeing both him and his newly emptied cup with a subtle distaste.
“What a catch you’ve turned out to be, Dray,” Pansy deadpans, and Draco shoots her the middle finger.
“Been a while since you’ve been properly fucked, Pans? You’re acting like an uptight bitch again,” Draco sneers, turning to the dark-haired girl with a malevolent grin.
“Fuck you, Draco,” Pansy frowns, as her cheeks go red. “You’d think after a good snog you’d take a break from being an asshole for a second.”
Draco smirks, leaning his broad shoulders back onto the leather cushion behind him and tilting his head to either shoulder to crack his neck.
“Then you obviously don’t know me as well as you thought you did, Parkinson,” he sighs. Hermione glances down at his forearm for the first time with a sweeping curiosity.
Her heart catches in her throat. Draco Malfoy has no tattoo covering up his old dark mark, like the other three. There it is, dark and haunting, untouched on his forearm where he’d received it years ago before he’d failed his mission to kill Dumbledore.
The sight of it unsettles her and she can feel bile rise in her stomach and up into her throat. Why does he still have it? Why hasn’t he covered it up like the rest of them? A cold, familair fear rises up in her for the first time in a long time. She’d fought for him at his trial, convinced the Wizengamot to shorten his sentence, that he wasn’t a death eater. Why is he the only one of them to keep the mark?
“Is no one else completely put off that Granger is casually sitting with us at a bar right now, and she hasn’t once tried to hex us yet?” Malfoy asks. Blaise shoots Hermione an apologetic look and lifts his arm to drape around Draco’s shoulders.
“Hermione came to me about her own need of a cover-up job,” Blaise explains, and he nods at Hermione to reveal her new tattoo. For the hundredth time that night, she flips her arm to show Malfoy the sprig of rosemary covering her mudblood scar, and Draco’s face drops.
His expression is unreadable, though it lies somewhere between surprise and disbelief, and definitely somewhere towards discomfort. It had happened in Malfoy Manor, after all, and while he watched.
“I’d never pinned you as the tattoo type, Granger,” he gulps, pale grey eyes flicking up at hers.
“I would have said the same about you before sixth year,” she replies, instantly regretting it. Maybe all of that Firewhiskey hadn't been a good idea, after all.
She watches the anger rise up in him, the crimson creep up his neck and cheekbones, the muscle in his jaw ripple as he grinds his teeth and squints his eyes. There is a fire behind his eyes that she recognizes, one she hasn’t witnessed in a long time. She reprimands herself for adding the necessary fuel that has stoked it.
“You don’t know anything about me, swotty Granger,” he spits, leaning forward and glaring dangerously at her. “ -and I’d remind you that you chose to come to my trial and defend me. You chose to tell the court all about your Gryffindor forgiveness. It was you who begged them to see me as more than a Death Eater. I never asked you to do any of that.” His hands are clenched in fists on the table, breathing suddenly erratic, his chest rising up and down rapidly.
“Maybe I should go,” she says, almost at a whisper, and she sets her half-finished butterbeer on the table, the glass thudding against the wood as her hand shakes.
“Music to my ears,” Draco sniffs. Hermione stands, tries to remain passive as she looks around the booth at the group of Slytherins. Daphne remains quiet, eyes downcast on the table. Adrian and Blaise both shoot Draco angry looks and flick their eyes back to Hermione apologetically, and Theo casts his eyes down at his lap as if to avoid the confrontation, eyebrows raised.
“Thanks for the birthday drink, Adrian,” she smiles calmly at him. Adrian shoots her a charming smile, saluting her with two fingers.
“It’s been lovely everyone,” she says to them, looking around at each of them, and watching Draco cast his eyes onto his lap.
“Blaise,” she nods, and he returns it softly. She turns on her heel, trying to act as sober as possible and hold her head up high. She eyes Draco’s girl in the empty booth, now passed out vertically on the cushioned seat, and she stops in her tracks and turns once more to the blond boy, lifting a brow.
“You should probably take your friend home, Malfoy, before she gets sick all over the place.”
She doesn’t take the time to see his reaction; only turns back, legs carrying her almost regretfully back to her friends. She can feel his eyes on her as she disappears into the crowd.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Notes:
TW: violence
Chapter Text
Hermione has now attended more wizarding funerals in the past 3 years than most wizards attend in a lifetime.
There’d been Albus Dumbledore’s extravagant memorial on the Hogwarts grounds, where almost every wizarding creature in Britain had been in attendance. There was Fred’s funeral, followed by a joint funeral for Tonks and Remus. There was Lavender Brown’s, Snape’s, and of course, Dobby’s intimate ceremony on the beach near Shell Cottage. There’d also been a series of smaller ceremonies for other witches and wizards that Hermione hadn’t known well, such as Colin Creevy.
But Lucius Malfoy’s funeral was nothing like the others.
Hermione knew that it had been a ludicrous decision to attend, but something strange within her had urged her to go. She pictured Draco at the bar the other night, just as drunk, if not drunker than she had been, with the girl on his arm. Just two days after his father had died and there he was. Not that Hermione was judging, considering she had also been using Firewhiskey to blanket the pain she’d been feeling about her own year-old losses.
Something in seeing him that night, in knowing that he had no one, had pushed Hermione to put on her most modest black robes and arrive at the ministry to attend the funeral of a Death Eater who’d once tried to kill Ginny by placing Tom Riddle’s diary among her school books.
It was a small room that Hermione had never seen before, plopped in the lower floors of the ministry among the courtrooms of the Wizengamot. She’d purposefully arrived a few minutes late so that she could slip in, unnoticed, and stand at the back. When the ceremony was over, she’d simply slip out, without anyone even noticing she’d been there.
Lucius’s funeral was the antithesis of Dumbledore’s— not even a picture of him over his casket to memorialize him. There were only about 15 people in attendance, and Hermione could make out Andromeda Tonks among this small crowd, the young Teddy Lupin nowhere to be seen. Hermione hardly recognized the rest of the small group of attendees: only the blond head of hair belonging to Draco Malfoy sitting in the front row, head faced down at his lap.
She watched him observantly as a man spoke a few terribly vague, unsentimental words about Lucius, completely avoiding the fact that it had been him who had housed the Dark Lord at his home for months of the war, or that he’d been one of the original Death Eaters at his side. Hermione didn’t mind this, though. He was dead – gone forever, never able to hurt anyone again. For the sake of anyone left who cared about the man, and, for Draco’s sake, a few light words of remembrance were fine enough.
Draco, she noticed, was wearing another one of his infamous black suits, though he filled it out more than he had used to. She couldn’t see his face, and it left her wondering whether he would shed a tear for his father or not. She hoped he knew that he was allowed to be sad. No matter how terrible the man had been, how he’d treated his son, Draco was allowed to mourn him. Somehow, though, she doubted that Draco would let himself – grieving or not.
Hermione admittedly also has a bit of sympathy for Draco. Despite his poisonous words, questionable actions, and constant torment of her and her friends, she’d always known that most of his actions were comprised of circumstance, of ignorance and the way he had been raised. She thinks that even Draco Malfoy might recognize that all the galleons in the world cannot make up for the feeling of love and friendship. And so, despite every reason she shouldn’t, Hermione feels for him.
She’d never like or respect him, and he would always be a wicked prat, but she would always feel a bit of empathy for him, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise.
The ministry worker performing the ceremony says a few closing words, and, with a soft wave of his wand, the casket holding Lucius Malfoy's body sinks into the floor like a ghost itself, to be sent off to the Malfoy family vault.
And that’s it. It had lasted no longer than fifteen minutes, and it was over. A terribly depressing sendoff, Hermione thinks, even for a war criminal. She straightens herself where she stands in her corner, and watches the small crowd stand in their chairs, knowing this is her chance to slip out.
Just as she pivots herself towards the door and takes a small, tentative step towards the exit, she looks up to find Draco Malfoy’s stunned eyes on hers.
Fuck, she thinks. She’s out the door quicker than she can take a breath, pacing down the hallway at a pace akin to a jog. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The golden bars of the lifts come into her sightline just as she hears his shoes, furious in their will and speed, and hears his voice, echoing through the corridor.
Fuck.
“What the fuck, Granger?”
It comes out in a growl, a snarl, and it sends a shiver through Hermione’s body. Stiff with fear, she turns, wide-eyed as Draco Malfoy practically charges at her, his black suit almost camouflaging in with the black brick lining the walls.
He looks angry; white-blond hair falling messily into his eyes, scarlet cheeks against alabaster skin, jaw clenched so hard she thinks it must be painful. There is rage behind his eyes as he is suddenly in front of her, and a jolt of pain shoots up her body as he shoves her forcefully into the wall, fingers digging into the skin of her arms so hard she’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.
“Taking cheap shots at me the other night wasn’t enough, now you have to come to my father’s funeral to shove it in my face some more?” he spits, lip curled up in that dangerous, familiar way he’d always done at school.
“No-” she gasps, wiggling her arms to try and escape his furious grip. His hot, angry breath is on her face as he pulls her forward and pushes her back once more, dipping his face frighteningly close to hers. She can barely look at him, fear and confusion blinding her eyes.
“What then?” he snarls, eyes searching hers in anger, fear, hurt. “Come to give yourself a good laugh? Didn’t feel good enough being on the winning side, you had to extend the feeling a bit by coming to watch my dead father’s body disappear into the ground? Hmm?”
Behind the anger, his lip trembles, and Hermione uses all of her strength the pull her arms from his grasp. He has her backed against the wall still, and she finds whatever small sliver of courage in herself that remains and tilts her chin up at his scornful frown.
“I’m not here to do any of those things, Malfoy,” she almost shouts back at him. She can feel the hot sting of tears arrive behind her eyes, out of fear or pain she’s not sure, and she wills them not to escape. She must not show any weakness right now.
Malfoy then uses one arm to balance himself, placing one palm on the wall beside her head, while he bends his other at the elbow pressing the side of his forearm to her clavicle in a kind of hold, pinning her to the cold brick as he tries to control his sharp, uneven breaths. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as his eyes search her face.
“Then why, Granger? What possible reason could there be for you to be here right now?” he hisses through clenched teeth, anger still bubbling as Hermione tries to control her own breaths, keep her head up and not cry.
“I- I’m not…”
“Go on then!”
She swallows, running her eyes over the tight, furious features of his aristocratic face.
“I’m not entirely sure,” she breathes fearfully when no excuse comes to her mind. Their heavy breathing falls into a singular, synchronous motion.
He falls silent, eyes assailant as they search her face for any sign of malice or ill will. The muscles of his angular jaw ripple under his clenching, and she’s remiss to find that he still smells like rosemary, warm and spicy and comforting, which is ironic considering how afraid she is right now.
Finally, he drops his arms, taking a step back suddenly, quickly, as if being close to her has burned him.
“This must be some fucked up ploy to get closure. It’s been a year, Granger, suck it up and move the fuck on, yeah? You won.” He snarls, and he runs a distraught hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in a deranged manner as he falls against the wall opposite to her, skull bouncing sickeningly on the dark stones.
“I’d hardly call this winning. You think I’m happy that your father’s dead?” she clamours, voice breaking slightly. “That the reason I came here was to get closure?”
Malfoy looks over at her, eyes narrowing as the corners of his lips turn down.
“He did try to kill you and your friends. Allowed you to be tortured in our home, under his watch. Why should you not want to watch him be sent away to rot?”
Hermione is stunned for a moment, as she tries to find the words she needs to explain herself.
“Well you’re wrong,” she says sharply, pushing off of the wall, straightening her mussed robes and tucking a piece of wild hair behind her ears. “I stopped believing in closure a long time ago, and started accepting the fact that it’s up to me to grow, and forgive.”
“How very Gryffindor of you,” he scoffs, grey eyes rolling up towards the ceiling.
“I had no intention of coming here to upset you,” she admits, and his cold eyes meet hers again.
“So what? Growth? Forgiveness? The man’s dead, Granger, he’ll never know anything of your stupid, misplaced forgiveness now.”
“I know. And that’s on me. I should have told him a long time ago.”
She watches as his face drops, and his anger is suddenly etched with confusion.
“I’m sorry if I ruined today for you. It wasn't my intention. And I’m sorry for your loss,” she states with finality. Then, with a small, almost apologetic nod towards him, she turns on her heel and towards the lifts, the scent of rosemary lingering as the lift doors close on the bewildered face of Draco Malfoy.
~~~
“Ah, Miss. Granger!” Kingsley greets her with a smile as she steps into his office, offering her a seat in one of the chairs facing his desk. It’s strange, seeing her friend from the Order as the new Minister for Magic. Of course, he is perfect for the role, but she feels awkward if she acts too formal around him, and even more awkward if she treats him as she used to. It’s another strange balancing act she finds herself in after the war.
“What brings you here today?” He asks, taking his own seat and folding his hands together. Kingsley has always had a kind face, Hermione thinks. She used to find it so reassuring, so calming. Looking at it now, she’s never felt so nervous.
Mostly, because she wonders if what she’s about to tell him is going to ruin her chances of ever working with him, and if she’s about to completely lose his respect.
“I wanted to talk to you about the job you offered me,” Hermione says, giving him a small, nervous smile. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, wanting more than anything for this moment to be over with. Her afternoon has already been more painful than she’d planned, and she has bruises forming on her arms to prove it.
“I was wondering when you’d come to me with your decision,” Kingsley says, leaning forward onto the desk in interest. Hermione knows it’d been far too long since he’d originally asked her, and she was extremely lucky he’d even left the position open for her. If they hadn’t had such a personal relationship, he probably would have filled the position months ago. This is also part of the reason she feels so terrible that she is about to turn it down.
She swallows, feeling the heat of anxiety rise up her neck under her curls.
“I’d like to thank you for your extremely kind offer, Minister Shacklebolt,” she begins. He raises an eyebrow at her formality.
“But?” he asks, and she suddenly feels caught. Her face must have given her away.
“But, regretfully, I can’t take the position right now,” she admits, casting her eyes onto his desk. It feels good to have finally said this out loud, but it’s also strange, saying no to something she would have jumped at the chance to take, before the war.
Before the war, before the war.
“I see,” is all he says, giving her a sad, closed-lipped smile.
"I may regret it later, but I’m afraid my heart just wouldn’t be in it right now. And I would be doing both of us a disservice, I think, if I said yes without really meaning it.”
Kingsley looks at her, and for a second she believes that maybe he’s the only one who has seen through her façade so far. There’s a palatable worry and sadness to his eyes, an understanding that she’s seen her friends try to offer with false sincerity, no matter how much they care about her. And she knows they do.
“I understand, Miss Granger,” comes Kingsley’s low, smooth voice. It’s calm and sincere, and it makes Hermione want to run into his arms and bawl, even though they’ve never had that sort of relationship before. She restrains herself and nods once instead.
“How have you really been, Hermione?” he asks suddenly, dropping any sense of authority or ceremony. Suddenly, it's two old friends talking.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Hermione lies, but she knows he has already seen through her. Kingsley continues his empathetic smile, sighing and searching her face softly.
“I know things have been particularly rough on you. The world goes on, and yet, we wonder how. How can it, when we’ve been through so much? Lost so much?”
Hermione glances up at the kind-looking man, tears collecting at the corner of her eyes. She hasn’t cried in months.
“I’m just not exactly sure where I'm supposed to go from here,” she admits, swiping a warm tear from her cheek as it falls, heavy and terribly burdening. “It feels like moving on would be betraying those who won’t ever be able to move on. And everyone around me can find it in themselves every morning to get up and do what they need to do. But it just feels… impossible.”
This is the first time she’s said any of this out loud to anyone but Crookshanks, and it feels strange, so long after the war, to admit this to someone. But Kingsley does not show any sense of tiredness regarding her confession. There is no fake hope that he offers, no ‘cheer up Hermione’ or, ‘it gets better.’ He only nods, allowing her to feel heard.
“I’m afraid no one can give you what it is you need for that, Miss. Granger. No one but you. It is a personal journey, and it is never an easy one. No one can force you to heal, or tell you that you are no longer allowed to mourn. You must find out what it is you can do for yourself right now, no matter how small, and trust that the Hermione Granger we all know is somewhere in there.
"I have no doubt that you will figure out your place in the world once again soon. And no one doubts that you will not forget those who were lost to our cause, and remember the sacrifices they made to fight for the things they believed in. But they, as much as any of us, would want you to keep fighting so that their lives were not taken in vain.”
Hermione wipes more tears from her face, giving Kingsley another small nod. She’s not sure if he’s right or not. She’s not sure the old Hermione Granger will ever return again. But there is still comfort in his words, an awareness of the fact that things will not always feel so hopeless. And she desperately wants to believe him.
“Thank you, Kingsley,” she sniffs, giving him a weak smile. Her emotions have exhausted her, and she wants to go home and drink Firewhiskey until she falls asleep. But there is one more thing Hermione has on her mind. She’s been thinking about it since her birthday, wondering if she’s absolutely crazy to think that this could be the thing she needs right now.
Out of all of the options that have been presented to her, this one is the least secure. It’s risky, expensive, and everything could go wrong. But it’s hers. And like many of her decisions lately, she feels a sense of urgency in her body, a tingling in her spine, and a wild beating of her heart. Taking risks is like a drug. Throwing away logic and following her whim is so strange and unfamiliar to her, that it feels like she’s injected something foreign into her veins.
Everyone expects her to be the Hermione from before the war. This risk allows her to escape the pressure of this.
“What is it that you want, Hermione?” he asks, breaking her from her whirling thoughts. She looks up at him, leaning forward in her chair.
What is it that she wants?
“Kingsley, do you know who owns the abandoned buildings on The Strip in Diagon Alley?”
Kingsley assesses her for a second, his curiosity piqued.
“Some businesses have been claimed by their previous owners, and are awaiting reconstruction. Others have been abandoned and are now property of the Ministry. Why do you ask, Miss Granger?”
Something within Hermione alights, like a spark. She blinks, sitting up straighter in her chair.
“Would those abandoned shops… well, would they be up for sale?” she asks, heart skipping faster under her ribcage. Surely this was a mistake.
“Why yes, I believe so. Is there a shop you’re wondering about in particular?”
“Flourish & Blotts?”
Kingsley eyes her, stands, and walks to another desk behind him. He uses his wand to open a large filing cabinet and searches through the thousands of papers shoved away in it. One piece of paper finally floats up, and Kingsley catches it in his hand, bringing it back over to the desk and returning gracefully to his seat.
“It looks as though the prior establishment at Number 64, Diagon Alley, is in fact, for sale. Do you know of someone interested, Miss Granger?"
~~~
The next day, when Hermione sends an owl to whoever is in charge of her Post-War Gratuity Fund and tells them that she’d like to receive her deposit in full, she is asked to come into Gringotts to have her identity verified in case of fraud.
“We were under the impression that you were not very… interested, in the deposit, Miss. Granger,” the head Goblin had told her sheepishly. She explained that she had recently decided to make a large purchase, and would be needing the galleons rather unexpectedly. Despite their mystification, the funds had been deposited later that afternoon, and now, Hermione is standing in front of the destroyed, burned down, and emptied Flourish & Blotts, key and paperwork in hand, with a vault almost emptied, nearly as quickly as it had been filled.
There, on the top piece of paper in the stack she holds, is the statement that verifies Hermione Jean Granger as the brand new owner of Number 64, Diagon Alley. A red ‘SOLD’ sign has been pasted with magic to the remaining glass on the window.
“Don’t you think this was all a bit… rash?” Harry asks her from where he stands beside her, the two of them looking up at the crumbling frame of the old book shop with analytical stares.
“Not at all,” Hermione replies, and she steps forward, pushing the old skeleton key into the door and twisting. The door opens with a loud grunt, the wood giving way only after Hermione has given it a good shove. She places a small splinter of wood under the door to keep it open, allowing the slight breeze to push through into the shop.
It’s the smell that hits her first— smoky and thick, as if not an ounce of fresh air has entered the space since it had been abandoned. She almost chokes on it, and the ashes and wood coals crunch under her feet like snow.
The place is barely recognizable. All of the books that had previously lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves are gone. They’d been burned by the Death Eaters, or stolen, and the few that remained were unreadable- scorched by the fire that had destroyed the shop. The floors are covered in ash, dust, and pieces of the structure that had fallen from explosion. What had once been full of colour was now completely turned to shades of black and grey, wall to ceiling. Smoke-stained walls and crumbling remnants of doorways, staircases barely recognizable. Splintered wood lies broken on the floor, and all that remains of the hanging signs that used to point the direction of certain sections of the shop is the metal chains, dangling still in the stale air.
“What do you think?” Hermione asks the spectacled boy, coughing slightly as she breathes in the dust and ash. She hears Harry make his way carefully in, and the two of them gaze dumbfoundedly at what had once been their childhood bookshop.
“You want my honest opinion?” he asks.
“Always.”
“I think it’s quite literally a giant pile of rubbish.”
Hermione cracks a smile, looking over at the pained expression on her best friend's face.
“Well then I’d better get to work, hadn’t I?” she grins lightly at him, and she steps over to what’s left of the front counter, running a finger along the surface before pulling it up and inspecting the blackened tip.
“I suppose if we all put our wands to work, we could manage to fix it up in a few weeks,” Harry notes before blowing a puff of air on one of the empty bookshelves. The dust flies up into a smoky cloud and Harry coughs, waving his hand in front of his face to dismiss it.
“Oh, I won’t be using magic,” Hermione states with a shrug, turning to Harry to see his reaction. Harry looks at her, stunned, and pushes the brim of his glasses up on his nose.
“Pardon me?”
“I’m going to fix it up the muggle way. No magic.”
Harry looks at her as if she has three heads, and then his face drops into a look of concern as he steps toward her.
“Hermione, forgive me if this sounds too forward, but have you gone mental?”
She’s unsurprised that Harry has responded like this— she’d expected it, even. And she knows how crazy it all sounds. With the state that the shop is in, it could take months, maybe longer to get it back in working order without magic. Especially without any experience.
When she was eight she’d watched her father redo the bathroom in their house. He’d stripped it down completely, bare wood and electrical, replaced the tub, toilet and sink, redone the drywall, painted, and decorated. He’d also had help; even hired a company to assist with the plumbing bit of the installment. It had taken weeks to completely re-do the tiny space, and her father had experience with it all. Hermione, for everything she could do, had never lifted a power tool in her life.
But this was something she needed. Using magic was too easy. She wanted the challenge. Craved the difficulty and monotony, needed the time-consuming nature of starting something from scratch. She couldn’t rebuild her life back to the way it had been before the war: but she could rebuild this.
“Maybe,” she admits, looking around the shop in admiration. “But it feels nice to finally have a purpose. Even if it seems small and unimportant.”
“I thought you’d take the job at the ministry… the one Kingsley offered you,” Harry says, watching Hermione with a strange, befuddled look as if she’s a stranger to his eyes. She wishes she could make her friends understand that she could not handle a job at the ministry right now.
“It just doesn’t feel like the right thing for me at the moment, Harry.”
He scrunches his nose and motions with his hand at the decrepit space around them.
“But this is?”
She closes the gap between them and takes Harry’s hand in her own, giving him a reassuring smile (check) and trying her best to make him understand that this is what she wants. This broken, destroyed, ugly building that represents how she feels about her own current state of mind. This is what she needs to heal.
“Please trust me, Harry.”
He assesses her again with concerned green eyes, but ultimately shakes his head, muttering ‘okay’ and allows Hermione to show him the equally horrific state of the upper level. One of the staircases has a few holes in it, and they have to take caution as they climb them, in case another one decides to give out.
“I was thinking of adding a little spot for reading. A few sofas where friends can come and hang out,” she explains to him, showing him with her hands where things would go in her vision. Harry nods his approval, spinning on his heel to take in a 360 view of the shop.
“I knew we hit it off the other night, Granger, but I didn’t think you’d go so far as to buy the shop down the street. You could’ve just asked me out, you know.”
The voice echoes up to them from the lower level, and Hermione leads Harry over to the railing, making sure not to lean on it, in the likely case the wood won’t hold their weight. Blaise stands just inside of the doorway, looking up at them with a charming smirk.
“Blaise,” Hermione greets him with a soft smile, at the same time Harry says-
“Zabini?”
Blaise grins when he sees Harry, his face positively dripping with mischief.
“Hello, Potter. Taking a break from saving the world to tour this dump?”
“Hermione?” Harry looks over to her in search of an explanation, and Hermione begins her way back down the stairs, ignoring him. She makes her way over to Blaise, who looks porcelain in his perfection compared to the shabby state of the building around them.
“I needed a hobby,” she explains to the dark-haired man standing in the front entrance, as he crosses his arms and looks around with a neutral gaze.
“Bankruptcy is a hobby?” he jokes as Harry joins them on the main level, looking at Blaise hesitantly.
“I will not go bankrupt!” Hermione frowns, crossing her own arms in front of her chest. Blaise raises his hands in surrender, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
“Hey, I have no doubt that if anyone can pull it off it will be the great Hermione Granger. Are you slumming it to help Granger sweep up all the mess then, Potter-ella?” Blaise lifts a chin in greeting as Harry makes his way over to them, still apprehensive about the Slytherin man’s presence.
“Just checking in on Hermione’s sanity, same as you,” Harry answers, seemingly deciding that Blaise’s light jesting is playful enough to engage in civil conversation. Blaise smiles at Harry’s response, and they’re almost sizing each other up.
“Well my shop’s just a few doors down the street, so I’ll keep a good eye on her and we can keep in touch.”
Harry lifts his brows in surprise, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his Auror robes.
“You have a shop open on The Strip?”
Blaise’s eyes dance over at Hermione, who clearly hasn’t told her friends anything about their back-to-back encounters.
“I’m guessing Granger never told you where she got her little tattoo done, then,” Blaise looks accusingly at her, the ghost of a playful smile tugging at his lips. Harry shakes his head no, and then both boys are looking at her.
“Well come on then, Potter,” Blaise says suddenly, waving a hand towards the door of the shop and out onto the street. “I’ll show you what I’ve been up to since the good old Hogwarts days.”
Harry looks almost fearful at first, turning to Hermione as Blaise spins on his heel and begins to exit the shop. Hermione gives Harry an encouraging smile, and a wink, to assure him that the likelihood of Blaise hexing him was minimal.
“What a strange day…” Harry mutters to himself as he follows Blaise out the door, looking back at Hermione once more as if he’s taking what will be his final look. Hermione rolls her eyes at him and turns back around to take in her shop.
Her shop. This place is all hers.
It feels childish, but in her giddiness, Hermione actually spins— arms out at her sides and head thrown back, relishing in her new space. She lets out a giggle as she plants her feet the keep the dizziness from tipping her over onto the ashy floor.
There’s an old armchair off to one corner of the shop, sturdy, but covered in ash and dust. Hermione casts a quick Scourgify on it, telling herself that one spell on a chair is okay for the purpose of celebrating her new adventure. She collapses into the cushioned seat and pulls a small, silver flask of Firewhiskey from the inside pocket.
She continues to look around at what remains of the shop that is now hers, as she untwists the cap off of the flask and holds it up in the air for a solitary toast to herself.
“To starting from scratch,” she whispers before pulling the cold metal to her lips and taking a sip of the warm Firewhiskey.
As the liquid pours down her throat, a burning sensation that she’s grown used to, she thinks that this was the right decision. For the first time in a long time, she’s not dreading tomorrow. Instead, there is actually a small bit of hope inside her, warming her chest along with the whiskey.
“Daydrinking now, Granger?” the voice startles her, shoulders shooting upwards as she stands from her chair, whipping around to face him as the warmth in her chest mixes with something else. Draco Malfoy is leaning on the doorframe with one shoulder, one eyebrow quirked up under his blond fringe. His face is stoic otherwise, but she watches as his eyes perform a quick once over of her from afar.
“If I wasn’t already convinced by your appearance yesterday, well… this is just the icing on top of the cake. Granger has officially gone mad,” he finishes with a challenge, and he pushes off of the doorframe with his shoulder and saunters towards her. She’s suddenly very aware of the disastrous state she knows her hair is in, and all the bits of ash that have collected onto her clothes.
“Why does everyone keep saying I’ve gone mad?” she asks, watching him as he begins a slow circle around the shop. She’s frozen in place in front of her chair, the events at the ministry yesterday running through her mind like a warning.
She turns to follow his slow walk, observing as he appraises the decaying structure with a demure gaze.
“I don’t remember Granger-of-old ever aspiring to be the owner of a shithole like this, nor carrying around a flask of something that I get the feeling is not pumpkin juice.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asks him, still gripping the flask in her hand.
He stops, turning to face her, and Hermione realizes once again how terrible he looks— clearly sleep-deprived, evidence being the rings of purple under his eyes and unnaturally pale, almost ashen skin; even for him. He looks how she usually feels.
In lieu of a response to her question, he begins to walk toward her, forever holding his aristocratic posture, and stops right in front of her. Hermione feels her breath catch in her throat, remembers the way he’d grabbed her yesterday and pushed her into the wall.
Then, he reaches down, eyes never leaving her face, and snatches the flask into his own hand, gently pulling until she releases it. Hermione watches him raise it to his lips, delicately pressing the metal to them and throwing his head back as he takes a sip. The whiskey sloshes around in the flask as he lowers it from his mouth, and then a flash of his pink tongue runs over his bottom lip as he holds it back out to her.
“Definitely not pumpkin juice,” he says, and when she still hasn’t taken the flask back, he pushes it into her hand, turning away as she finally grabs it.
“So what’s your point then?” she asks, releasing the breath she was holding as she twists the cap onto the flask and shoves it back into her jacket pocket. “Relishing in watching my slow downfall?”
He huffs a laugh through his nostrils.
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for yourself, Granger? Your side won, remember? If I were you, I’d be celebrating with a flask of Firewhiskey every afternoon too.”
He’s taunting her still, trying to get a reaction. She’d taken the power yesterday as she left him outside of the lifts at the ministry, and he was here to get it back.
“I stopped celebrating minutes after we won the war,” she tells him.
‘Yeah, yeah, fucked up Gryffindor morals or whatever,” he scoffs, stopping his slow walk to lean back against the bookshelves. Hermione decides to cut to the chase.
“Why are you here, Malfoy?”
“What, I’m not allowed to stop in and say hello to an old schoolmate?” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a grin.
“All you’ve done is insult me.”
“Hardly, Granger, you just don’t know how to have any fun.”
“I’d hardly call the way you’ve treated me the past 8 years ‘fun,’” She retorts, an edge in her voice that she hadn’t used in years— one she’d reserved only for responding to Malfoy’s provocations.
She watches his nostrils flare slightly, the way his grey eyes become stormy at the prospect of a fight.
“What happened to all of that goodhearted forgiveness you were going on about yesterday?”
“I think you’ll find some offenses take longer to forgive than others,” she states, and he pushes himself off of the bookshelf, striding towards her. She holds her ground, planting her feet and raising her chin as he approaches.
“And what, my father the Death Eater gets a nice, light sentence? One year locked up and he gets the Granger stamp of approval?” he spits, anger rising in him again as he clenches both fists at his side.
“My forgiveness is not reliant on a tattoo and a title, Malfoy. You may not have done all of the terrible things your father did, but-”
“But I still took the mark? Still called you a terrible name? Still almost killed your beloved Professor Dumbledore?”
He’s almost as close to her as he was yesterday, only Hermione hasn’t cowered at his height, nor his intimidating sneer this time. She’s the one who closes the gap now because she no longer allows herself to be afraid of him. She stares up at him, eyes squinting in challenge.
“For the record, Malfoy, I had forgiven you months ago. Forgive me if I forgot to send an owl about it.”
She spins on her heel, making her way behind the register desk.
“So I suppose I should be thanking you then, for your forgiveness? Life is all rainbows and sunshine now that Golden Girl Granger has forgiven me?” He takes long strides towards the counter so that they face each other again. She’s thankful that there is a counter in between them, because she suddenly has the urge to repeat the punch to the jaw she’d given him in third year.
“I’m merely suggesting that in the spirit of ‘moving on’ and ‘reconciliation’ you try and keep your big mouth shut, and stop continuously trying to provoke me!”
She’s shouting now, and she is suddenly thankful that hers is one of the only shops besides Blaise’s that’s open on The Strip, for surely people would be able to hear her.
“I’m trying to provoke you!?” he scoffs, his voice now raised and thick with irritation. “You’re the one who keeps showing up everywhere! Coincidence, is it, moving so close to Blaise’s shop?”
“Blaise, unlike yourself, has chosen to be completely civil and, dare I say, kind to me! And besides that, I have every right to buy whichever shop I want, Malfoy!”
They’re both standing defensively, eyes locked onto each other in a stand-off and practically breathing fire, when Harry and Blaise reappear inside the shop, strolling in as if returning from a pleasant lunch and smiling like old friends.
They stop in their tracks when they see the face-off between Draco and Hermione, eyes flicking back and forth between the two with startled looks.
“Everything alright, Hermione?” Harry asks, snapping the two of them from their stalemate.
“Just peachy, Potter,” Draco smirks, finally releasing his gaze from Hermione’s and turning to face the two men in the front entrance. “Just congratulating Granger here on her brand-new purchase.”
“Yeah, sorry Granger, I just couldn’t wait to tell everyone that I’d be working down the street from you from now on,” Blaise smiles, and Hermione brings herself back around the desk. “Draco didn’t believe me, said he’d have to come see for himself.”
Draco raises a brow at Blaise, joining him by his side and eying Harry and Hermione with an amused look.
“How are you, Malfoy?” Harry asks in a strained voice, clearing his throat after as if it had been difficult to vocalize. Draco narrows his eyes at him, clearly surprised at Harry’s civility. He’s now avoiding Hermione’s eye, obviously anxious to leave.
“Just dandy, Potter, but as much as I’d love to ask you the same, Blaise and I have somewhere to be,” he deadpans, turning to Blaise who offers a soft nod in agreement.
“Indeed. I guess I’ll see you around, neighbour,” Blaise smiles at her, then tips his head at Harry who returns the gesture. Draco finally meets her eye, a twinkle of mischief in his grey irises.
“Enjoy the rest of your pumpkin juice, Granger.” His eyes flash at her as he turns and follows Blaise out the door and down the cobblestone towards Blaise’s shop.
“Since when are you so well acquainted with Malfoy and Zabini?” Harry asks as Hermione finally allows her shoulders to relax and her breathing to go back to normal. She falls into the cushioned chair again, brushing curls from her face.
“I’m not,” she bites, then pauses, softening her tone. “Blaise is alright. Malfoy is his usual, ridiculous self.”
“He’s been through the wringer this past year; his trial, Azkaban, his father dying. I don’t blame him for being a little on edge.” Harry shrugs, using his arms to pull himself up to sit on the front counter. Hermione doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she hasn’t wiped it down yet.
“I can’t tell if he’s still a terrible person or just an annoying prat,” Hermione huffs, leaning her head back onto the cushion of the chair.
“Well, I imagine you’ll be seeing him around more often now, so you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.”
Hermione feels something run through her body; fear, thrill, anticipation, she’s not sure, but she brushes it away quickly.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” Harry sighs, jumping down from the counter and ambling over to give Hermione a hug.
“Congratulations, Hermione. I hope this ends up being everything you’d hoped for”
He gives her a lopsided grin and makes his way back to the door, the backside of his robes covered in dark soot from the counter. Hermione points her wand at him and casts a silent Scourgify on his robes just before he crosses the threshold of the door, apparating away with a crack.
She thinks that it is about time she stops cleaning up after her friend’s messes, and starts cleaning up after her own.
Chapter 4: Chapter 4
Chapter Text
Hermione spends the next week and a half preparing to begin construction on the shop and thinking about Draco Malfoy. The latter is completely unintentional, and it frustrates Hermione to no end. She tries with all of her might to distract herself with the mundane tasks she's doing: making lists of supplies, sweeping, throwing old furniture and broken pieces of wood out. But she discovers that these beginning tasks are almost too mundane, and finds her mind drifting as she sweeps up piles of soot and ash into the bin.
Her thoughts of him are not decidedly good nor bad. Curiosity mainly. Lingering irritation. She thinks about how much he gets on her nerves—how they can't have a single conversation without provoking each other.
She keeps wondering why he hasn't covered up his Dark Mark like the others yet, and if he ever will.
She thinks about how he hasn't called her 'Mudblood' in years, even since their first run-in at the bar.
She thinks about the girl that had been on his arm.
She wonders how often occurrences like these happen: Malfoy, drunk, fooling around with a random witch. It's possible he had been in a mood because of the news about his father, but it's equally as likely that this is Draco's routine way of dealing with his own trauma. And since Hermione has her own ways of dealing with her feelings, she can't judge any of the choices Malfoy is making.
She finds herself shaking her head as she compares herself to Malfoy in such a way. She'd never thought they had anything in common, besides fighting for top marks in Snape's potions classes, but here they were, drowning the pain from scars and old wounds with Firewhiskey.
Malfoy had always been an enigma to her. Besides Voldemort, and quite possibly Umbridge, she'd never been one to classify anyone or anything as just 'good' or 'evil'.
She knew there were a million shades of grey in between, and Draco Malfoy had always fallen into a category the same colour as his eyes; somewhere smoky in the middle.
When the first weekend came, Hermione fell into her bed, more exhausted than she'd been in a long time, and slept for most of the weekend. She'd forgotten how good it felt to feel tired after physical labour, and though she'd only been working in the shop for 4 days, she allowed herself the rest she needed to recover.
But as soon as Monday came she threw herself back into it completely, beginning the process of stripping the shop down to its bare bones. This was more difficult than Hermione had anticipated. She was using gloves and a hammer to pull nails out and rip wood from the walls. With only herself, it was taking hours of precious time. The shop was large, two floors, and almost all of it would need to be replaced.
By Wednesday the muscles in her arms were aching. She'd woken up stiff and could barely lift her arms over her head without wincing. She spent longer than usual in the shower that morning, allowing the scalding hot water to soothe and relax her atrophied muscles. She felt slightly better, but going straight back to ripping shelves from the walls only re-stiffened them, awakening the ache.
Many times throughout the day Hermione considered throwing it all away and using magic, just for this part of the reconstruction process, but ultimately, her own stubbornness wouldn't allow it.
Besides that, the pain distracted Hermione from having to think too much. She'd work all day, come home with barely enough time to eat before her exhaustion took over and she would collapse on her bed into a much-needed sleep. Most nights, her exhaustion even allowed her to finally escape the nightmares she's been having since the war had ended. But not always.
On Thursday night, Hermione dreamt about the first time she'd ever laid eyes on Voldemort. It had always been Harry to see him in his many different forms— in first year, on Professor Quirrel's head. In second as Tom Riddle. And finally, in his true form in the graveyard in fourth year. Harry had tried to describe him to her once— snake-like eyes and nose, pale, horrible— but Hermione could only really guess at what he looked like. But that night she dreamt about seeing him for the first time. It was at the Battle of Hogwarts when they'd spied on him and Snape in the Shrieking Shack.
She dreams mostly of his eyes. The cold, dead, empty stare behind those serpentine slits. Although it was, there in the darkness of the shack as he set Nagini on Snape, it didn't feel like the first time she'd seen him; he was like an amalgamation of every nightmare, fear, and horrible thing she'd ever experienced all put together to form a person. If you could even call him that. He looked more demon than person, Hermione thinks.
In her dream, she watches as Voldemort lines up all the people she'd lost – Sirius, Moody, Snape, Lavender, Colin, Fred, Tonks, Lupin – and shoots a killing curse at them. One by one a flash of green hits them square in their chest, and they fall forward, lifeless. Then, she sees Voldemort's face once again as it lights up into a malicious laugh.
She tries to tell herself that it's only a dream. These people had already died, months ago, and not like this. But she wakes up screaming anyways, a cold sweat covering her face and back, curls sticking to her forehead. When she checks the clock it's almost 4 am, and since she knows she will never get back to sleep she decides to get an early start on her day. The dream has rattled her, and she makes herself a cup of tea with shaking hands, thankful when Crookshanks decides to climb up onto the breakfast counter and sidle up near her, tail pin-straight as he rubs his ear on her hand.
"It was just a nightmare, Crooks," she whispers to him in a reassuring voice as she scratches behind his ear. It's more for her benefit than his, but the kneazle seems to understand her need for comfort and snuggles in closer.
It's Friday, thank goodness, and exactly two weeks since she'd first run into Malfoy at the bar. Much to her surprise, he hadn't been back to the shop to bother her, though she suspects she's supposed to feel relieved.
Blaise had been once, early in the second week, and had brought her a coffee and asked how things were coming along. Hermione had withheld a bit of the truth from him, not wanting to reveal how much she was really struggling, but Blaise saw right through her and had offered his services whenever he didn't have to be in the shop. Hermione was grateful for his offer, but still reluctant to accept considering the obscure nature of their blossoming friendship.
It was different than being friends with Ron and Harry, but, of course, she'd known them much longer. Still, she had to wonder if Blaise was someone she could fully trust or not, or if she should be more suspicious about his sudden proclivity to being friendly towards her. She wished she could forget her prejudice, but the war had made her wary and suspicious.
When Hermione finishes her tea she showers and gets dressed, skipping breakfast altogether. It's too early to eat, and she still feels slightly queasy from her dream, which she can't get out of her head. She always wonders how Harry was able to stand having Voldemort in his head for so long, because even in a dream, Hermione feels that seeing him does something irreversible to her. Being so busy this week had almost made Hermione forget why she'd bought the shop in the first place.
She decides to run a few errands in muggle London to grab some more supplies for the renovation. The first thing she does, which she strangely hadn't done right away, is go to a bookstore. She'd started to realize that instinct and dumb luck alone were not going to get her through the entire renovation process. She's glad she brought her beaded bad with the undetectable extension charm on it, because she picks up books on contracting, construction, renovation, woodworking, business and finances. The man at the counter gives her petite frame a wary glance as he looks at the selection of books she's chosen, and she wants to roll her eyes.
She then runs to the hardware store to grab a bigger hammer, another pair of safety gloves in case she ever decides to take Blaise up on his offer, and a helmet, which she should have had all of last week. She speaks to the woman behind the counter and orders a few larger tools to be delivered to her flat later on in the week, which she will find a way to get to the shop eventually.
With all of the items on her checklist purchased, she decides to stop and get a coffee and breakfast, and orders a second coffee for Blaise in return for his gesture last week. Casually buying coffee for Blaise Zabini. Her life has never been stranger.
Balancing both coffees and a muffin, along with her bag full of purchases, she makes her way to the apparition point, looks once over her shoulder, and apparates with a crack to Diagon Alley.
When she feels steady enough to look up, she does so only to find a very guilty-looking Draco Malfoy standing in front of the shop's locked door with an older man she doesn't recognize. Hermione's eyes flash with surprise, and she glances at Draco, who shoots her a desperate look, eyes going wide as if he's silently begging her for something.
"Ah, here she is," he says shakily, putting on a fake smile as he turns towards the man standing on his right.
"You are Miss Granger, I presume?" the man asks in a bored drawl, and his voice very much reminds her of Professor Flitwick.
"Yes, how can I help-" she begins, glaring at Draco as he silently mouths 'please, please, please' to her.
"You're late," the man barks, and he looks incredibly unimpressed. He's small, scrawny, and the grey mustache on his upper lip engulfs his mouth so it looks as though he doesn't have one at all. He's dressed all in beige, and his hair has been slicked back stiff and greasy on his head.
"I beg your pardon," she asks the man, voice astounded and accusatory. "I'm late to what-"
Draco, clearly put off by Hermione's inability to catch a hint, steps forward towards Hermione, raising his brows at her now that his back is to the other man.
"-What Miss Granger means is, it was her turn to grab breakfast for us, and the line at our favourite shop on Fridays is always terribly long."
He reaches out and takes one of the coffees from Hermione's hand, giving her an over-exaggerated grin.
"We always agree to start work fifteen minutes late Fridays, and I had forgotten, until just now," he says, facing the man as he holds the stolen coffee with feigned casualness. "I apologize for my mistake."
Hermione is ridiculously confused as she watches the old man scribble something onto his clipboard with his quill.
"Just go with it, Granger," Malfoy whispers to her through clenched teeth, just quiet enough for the man not to hear.
"Is Mr. Malfoy ever late, Miss Granger?" the man asks, looking up at her with watery eyes. He has the smallest nose she's ever seen, so it really looks as though his mustache takes up half of his face.
"Late?" she asks,
"To work." He answers in a clipped, annoyed tone. He looks her up and down as if he is sure there must be something wrong with her.
"Ah, right," Hermione says, clearing her throat as she eyes Draco from the corner of her eye. Draco gives her an encouraging nod, and she turns back to the man and smiles.
"He is always very punctual," She states, unsure of what she's playing along with. She feels she has no choice though, based on the intimidating look Malfoy is currently shooting her.
"Wonderful. And are you going to invite me inside, Miss Granger, or should we stand out here and freeze for the rest of the meeting?"
He looks up at her under thick, untamed brows, clearly already put off with her.
"Of course!" she says, making sure to knock her elbow into Malfoy as she steps forward. He makes a disgruntled 'oof' sound, and Hermione grins. "Forgive my manners,' she says as she unlocks the shop and steps in, beckoning the man into the open door.
The man steps in, followed closely by Draco, and looks around the shop skeptically as he grips his clipboard. His face is drawn up in disbelief as he eyes the piles of damaged wood on the floor that Hermione removed yesterday. He purses his mouth and coughs slightly.
"It's..." he begins with a judgmental sneer.
"A dump right now, I know" Draco cuts in, stepping towards the man and resting a light hand on his shoulder. "But that's why Miss Granger hired me, see, to help her fix the place up so she can make it a shop again."
He looks back at her and takes a long sip of Blaise's coffee, eyes still warning her to keep going along with the act.
"Precisely," Hermione adds, setting her cup, muffin, and bag on the newly cleaned counter.
"And is the level of Mr. Malfoy's work satisfactory thus far, Miss Granger?" the man squeaks, his quill poised over his clipboard. He looks and sounds bored, as if he deals with this all the time. Hermione nods enthusiastically.
"Extremely satisfactory," she says, turning to Draco and giving him an overly sweet smile. "Even the fact that his boyfriend Blaise works down the street doesn't distract him. They make sure to only snog on lunch hour."
Draco's small grin drops into a furious frown, and he opens his mouth to object, looks over at the man, and closes it quickly, glaring at Hermione with fiery eyes. The man looks slightly uncomfortable, eyes flicking up at Draco in surprise as his cheeks grow rosy. He clears his throat and continues.
"Right... and Mr. Malfoy has made you aware of the conditions of his probation in all manners of work, rehabilitation efforts, and required time period until he is able to resign from his position here if that is his will?"
Hermione glances quickly at Draco, having heard nothing about this, and sees him shoot her a curt nod.
"Of course," she breathes, giving the man another reassuring grin. The man eyes her, but seems satisfied enough with her answer, and checks off something on his clipboard.
"Wonderful. Please sign at the bottom of this page, Miss. Granger, and I'll be on my way."
He waddles over to her and holds out the clipboard with a shaky hand. Hermione hesitates briefly before she takes it, along with the quill which is sweaty from his grasp, and blindly signs the line at the bottom of the sheet, where it is labelled Signature of Employer.
"Wonderful. I thank you graciously for your time and thank you sincerely for participating in the Death Eater Rehabilitation Efforts put forth by the ministry. We will be in touch every few weeks to check up on Mr. Malfoy's progress. Any questions can be owled to me. Here's my business card," he rambles, pulling a small, white paper card from within his cloaks and holding it out to Hermione. She takes it from him and examines it with hungry eyes.
Mr. Barnabus Bimble
Lead Probationary Officer,
Death Eater Rehabilitation Program
Ministry of Magic.
"Thank you Mr. Bimble. I look forward to our next meeting," Hermione says, as she begins to show the small man out.
"I will be in touch with you as well Mr. Malfoy. You should be grateful for Miss Granger's willingness to employ you, considering your own... slow start to the program..." he blinks at Draco, raising one eyebrow, before slipping into a clownish grin and clapping. "Remember, it works if you work it!"
Hermione watches Draco roll his eyes dramatically as soon as Mr. Bimble turns his back, stepping out of the shop on his wobbly legs.
With that, Mr. Bimble slips out of the door, scribbling one last thing onto his clipboard before apparating away in a twirl.
Hermione turns to Draco, raising a brow as she clenches both fists at her side.
"What the hell was that?" she seethes, watching Draco take a long, celebratory sip of the coffee.
"Can't thank you enough, Granger. I thought you weren't going to show up for a second there— was just about ready to be carted back to Azkaban."
He pushes himself from the counter he's leaning on and saunters towards her. He looks more put together than Hermione's seen him in a while— white-blond hair coiffed nicely off of his forehead, professional robes over a neatly pressed oxford and slacks. Even the bags under his eyes have disappeared. It's all a glamour spell, Hermione thinks. His eyes sparkle with a playful sense of victory.
"You put me in an impossible position," she rumbles, stepping towards him and pointing a threatening finger at him. She has no idea what she's just signed off on, and it had been a split-second decision she made on behalf of Malfoy. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards when he sees that he's got her riled up.
"Don't sweat it too much, just keep signing off on those papers, maybe flirt with Mr. Bimble to distract the half-wit, and this will all be over with in four short months." He shrugs at her as if it's no big deal, and brushes past her, carrying himself towards the door with his usual natural elegance.
"Where do you think you're going?" she asks, and he freezes at the door, turning back to her and sticking the tip of his pink tongue in the corner of his grin amusedly.
"Well now that Bimbo is gone, I no longer require your services."
Hermione crosses her arms, nodding towards the contraband coffee cup in Draco's hand.
"So what, you show up here with no warning, steal the coffee I bought for Blaise, and leave without explanation? Don't you think I at least deserve to be told what I've just signed off on?"
Malfoy pauses, contemplating her for a moment as if he's trying to decide how he can get her more irritated.
"Considering his shop isn't open today, Blaise wasn't going to be drinking it anyway. If he was there, I would have gone to him in the first place." He takes a final sip of his coffee and throws the empty cup into the bin. "You're a smart girl Granger. I assume you've already got it figured out."
Hermione assesses him; how relaxed he looks against the frame of the door, the smug half-smile he carries as he does his best to get a reaction out of her. She can't stand it.
"It's part of your probation agreement, isn't it?" she asks as Draco makes his way back into the shop. "You have to have a suitable job secured to meet your probation requirements, along with the group therapy that Blaise was talking about."
He nods.
"See how much time we save when you get straight to the point?"
Hermione sighs, and takes a much-needed sip of her own coffee, allowing the caffeine to settle into her bloodstream.
"So what, you decided that rather than actually find a job, you'd just show up here and shock me into pretending to be your employer?"
He takes a seat in the cushioned chair that Hermione had scourgified, sitting courtly as his eyes wander on the progress she's made in the shop.
"If I'm being completely honest, I forgot about my meeting with Mr. Bimble," he admits, eyes falling back to her. "Not a lot of places want to hire an ex-death eater, especially not one related to Lucius Malfoy. Blaise came to mind first of course, but I remembered he was off today- meeting with his own probation officer. This place was a... last resort." His lip curls as he eyes a pile of debris left behind from yesterday's demolition.
"So what, you're going to work here now?" she scoffs, wondering how the hell to get out of this mess that Malfoy has dragged her into it.
"Work here?" he lets out a dry laugh, rapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest of the chair. "Don't you worry Granger, I won't be sticking around to bother you every day. Just need you to keep signing off on my incredible work, batting those lovely eyelashes at Bimbo, and in four months, life will all go back to normal."
"You want me to lie for you?" Hermione asks incredulously, her jaw dropping to the floor.
"Fucking Gryffindors," he shakes his head in annoyance. "Yes, Granger, think you can manage? Just a few sips from that flask you carry around everywhere and it'll be as easy as turning a mouse into a teacup."
He stands from the chair, watching her face as it grows redder with indignation. She can't believe he is asking her so casually to commit fraud against the ministry, just because of his own stupidity and lack of planning.
"I won't do it," she tells him as he approaches her, clearly having gotten what he wants, as he wears a palpable smirk at her furious gaze. "You'll have to find someone else. I'm sorry."
"You've already signed off. Sorry, Granger."
As he reaches her, he leans down so that his mouth is next to her ear, and she can smell the delightful earthiness of him as his breath tickles her cheek. Her heart goes wild in her chest at his sudden proximity, and she feels her body freeze as he begins to whisper in her ear.
"And, just so you know for next time— I take my coffee black."
He lingers beside her for only a second, just enough time for Hermione to shiver until he pulls away, twisting back towards the door and striding quickly to leave. He thinks he's won, Hermione thinks. But she won't put up with being bossed around: that's always been her thing.
"Stop."
He freezes, to Hermione's surprise, and for the second time today, he's stuck in the doorway, awaiting Hermione's words. He doesn't turn around, but she can tell he's annoyed that she is still being so persistent. His shoulders tense and he heaves a breath inwards, as if he's trying to calm himself. She can tell he isn't used to people challenging him like this.
"No. No, I won't do it. I'll go to Mr. Bimble and tell him the truth."
"No?" he turns in place, mouth set into a straight line.
"I know that's not a word you're used to hearing, Malfoy, but it means that I refuse to follow your every command as if I were Crabbe or Goyle."
She's trying not to show how afraid she is, but she knows he can see right through her. She does the best she can, keeping her eyes firmly on him without letting her stern gaze waver.
"I know what 'no' means, Granger," he spits.
She feels the power balance wavering again— it's a scale so easily tipped, Hermione can see. One minute he's on top and the next she's ripping it straight from his hands. He hates it. Even more so because it's her, she thinks.
"It's wrong. Either you can show up here on Monday morning ready to work, or I go to Mr. Bimble, tell him it's not working out and you find someone else to employ you."
Her words are final, and Malfoy knows it. She watches him narrow his eyes at her, searching for weaknesses to attack, a way to make her take it back. He clenches his jaw, eyeing her from head to toe, and wordlessly, he turns and exits the shop, promptly apparating as if he can't get away fast enough.
It's not an answer.
But she will find out on Monday which path he's chosen. She can't help but allow herself to crack a small grin. She'd tied the score now; evened it out. It would be torture for him to even consider working under her; not while she held the title of 'boss.'
It must be killing him. She thinks it is very possible he will search for a different job. She can't imagine he'd ever want to work here anyway, even if she didn't own the shop. She'd always known Malfoy to be ambitious. Also intelligent, driven, tenacious, and unhesitating. Surely he had aspirations for the future, something he wanted to do for the rest of his life? Surely he would find somewhere that he could spend a few months in a starting position, and begin working his way up?
If he was anything like herself, he wouldn't be happy in something that he didn't absolutely love. He needed to be challenged, respected, maybe even call the shots. What was stopping him from going and getting all of those things?
He surely didn't need the money; Hermione had heard plenty of gossip about the size and contents of the Malfoy vault. And it was his now. But if Hermione knew anything about him, his ego would never let him live off of the family fortune while doing nothing to earn his own. He was, and always would be, a Slytherin.
She adds her questions to the mental list of things she wants to figure out about Draco Malfoy. This list is growing rapidly long.
After taking a few minutes to enjoy her coffee and muffin, both of which had gone from warm to almost cold since she'd left the coffee shop, she got back to work stripping the shop down to its bare bones.
She was extremely thankful that the damage was mostly to the outer layers. The framing remained in good condition, and it would have made for an almost impossible challenge for Hermione on her own, without magic, if she had to repair the actual structure of the shop. She eyes the large 2 X 4's as she pulls off outer layers of scorched wall, thanking both Godric Gryffindor and Merlin for their kindnesses. She could only thank the wizarding world for the absence of a need for plumbing and electricity. There were some areas of the shop that would eventually need magic— but not quite yet.
She spent the morning continuing to remove the damaged material, pulling at walls and shelves until she felt the familiar ache in her arms. She did use her wand to banish most of the debris that she had pulled off of the wall, since there wasn't a spot to hold a garbage bin big enough for all of the old wood.
She worked through lunch, finding that too much free time had her thinking about last night's dream once again. She hummed an old song that her parents used to sing to her as she worked, desperate for the distraction. She doesn't even notice when Blaise strolls in, eyes widening at the progress she had made in only one day.
"Christ, Granger, maybe I should hire you to redo my shop as well," he says to alert her of his presence.
"Using muggle swears now, Blaise?" she teases, pulling her work gloves off and rubbing her damp hands on her trousers.
"Learned it in my Ministry ordered therapy. It was a special 'Revised Muggle Studies' session. Pansy preferred to call it 'torture.'"
Hermione lets out a laugh, wincing as it shakes her sore shoulders.
"Malfoy was here this morning," she tells him, lowering herself carefully into her chair. She's grateful she rescued it— it has continually come in handy.
"Ah yes, he told me all about it. Was rather put off by you," Blaise smirks, leaning back against the counter.
"He was put off by me?! Merlin he needs a reality check," she derides. Irritating bugger.
"He doesn't like it when things don't go his way," Blaise says affectionately, clearly well-versed in Draco's tempestuous habits and unrelenting nature.
"I figured as much," she sighs.
"I told him he should work here," Blaise eyes her cautiously as Hermione's head snaps up.
"You did?"
"I think it would be good for him."
"It would be disastrous. We can't be in the same room together for five minutes without wanting to tear each other's heads off." She is silent for a beat, and then she eyes Blaise again suspiciously.
"How would it be good for him?"
Blaise ponders this for a second, as if he's afraid to say too much.
"He keeps a hard shell, but Draco's been to hell and back the past four years. His whole life, maybe. So have you, as I recall. This little healing project you've created for yourself–" Blaise spins his pointer finger around at the shop, "– might be just the thing he needs as well."
"I can't make it my responsibility to fix him," Hermione croaks, rubbing her upper arm soothingly with her hand. "I can barely manage myself these days."
"I'm not asking you to. Draco is a big boy. Too stubborn to let you anyway, even if you could. I'm just saying it's not a bad thing to have someone with you along the way," he offers wisely, and Hermione wonders where this sentiment has come from. She and Malfoy hate each other – surely working together is not what they need to get their respective, rubbish lives back in order.
"I doubt you'll ever be able to convince him to actually work here," she huffs out a quiet laugh. "He owes you a coffee, by the way. He drank yours this morning."
Blaise smiles, shrugging slightly.
"Hermione Granger, buying me coffee. If someone had told me that three years ago I would have laughed in their face."
Hermione smirks with one side of her mouth, looking up at him and letting herself laugh outright at him. They chuckle together for a minute and she watches Blaise look at her for a moment, considering her.
"Any plans tonight, Granger?" he asks, pushing himself away from the counter. Hermione stands from her chair.
"Dinner at the Weasley's" she admits, though she's almost dreading it. There are always so many people, and it's harder for her to maintain her mask. Hard to sit while they laugh merrily, and even harder to listen to them tell stories about Fred, as if he's away on a long vacation.
"Sounds terrible," he jokes, gently taking her arm as he reaches her and inspecting her tattoo for a moment. "If you need an excuse to escape, we'll be at that new bar where I ran into you last time. Every Friday. Come and play, Granger. You deserve a break." His eyes flick around the shop briefly and fall back onto hers, both enticing and challenging.
The invitation takes her by surprise; an invitation to spend time with the Slytherins. Would they even want her there, with the exception of Blaise? Their reactions to her had been cold, mostly, besides Adrian Pucey's drunken cheerfulness. But there's something so tempting about the offer, it sends a shockwave through her body – a cool, expectant thrill to her nerves.
"I'll think about it," she says, giving him a small, clipped smile.
"Hope to see you there, Granger. Maybe you can even convince Malfoy to buy me a drink in place of a coffee."
Hermione hadn't even thought about Malfoy being there. She's not sure if it makes her want to go less, or more. Part of her just wants to see the look on his face when she shows up.
Blaise waves goodbye to her and sets off down The Strip towards Scratch the Mark, and Hermione spends the rest of the day cleaning up the rest of the debris she's pulled from the wall, and trying to decide whether it would be a good idea to accept Blaise's offer or not.
It takes her too long to realize that, no matter what, she'll probably do it anyway.
~~~
When she arrives at The Burrow that night, Molly pulls her into a comforting hug, and when she pulls away, Hermione almost wants to ask if she can keep hugging her for a while longer. Ginny leaves for her first Hollyhead Harpies season on Monday, so technically, this is a celebratory goodbye dinner.
"How's the shop coming along, you lunatic?" Ron asks over a leg of chicken at dinner. Molly promptly smacks him, scolding him for his awful manners.
"It's going well, thanks," Hermione replies politely, ignoring her annoyance at yet another accusation that she's crazy for buying it. "It feels nice to be working so hard again."
"Of course it does dear, and I'm glad it's making you happy," Molly grins at her, shooting another quick glare at Ron. Hermione returns the woman’s smile, and it's as real as she can possibly make it. Molly is perhaps the only one she's spoken to so far that hasn't chastened her about buying the shop. She wants to tell Ron that the shop had distracted her today from thinking about the dream where Voldemort had shot a killing curse at Fred, but it's too morbid, too cruel, and she could never do that to him.
"And how about you, boys?" Arthur asks as he cuts into his own dinner. "How are things in the Aurors office? You need to stop by and visit me more."
Harry dives into stories of how busy they've been, trying to wrangle up any remains of those still loyal to Voldemort, dark wizards who pose any threat to the Wizarding world. Hermione listens with vague interest as Ron talks about the trails they've been following to a small group of the resistance they believe is still intact in Wales. It makes her sick to think about wizards out there still resisting the order and the new ministry so long after Voldemort's downfall.
She only pecks at her food for the rest of dinner, listening as they talk so lightly of the darkness still out there. So confident in their ability to stifle anything that's left of the fire Voldemort's army had during the war.
After dinner, Ginny and Hermione sit in the living area, listening as Molly and Arthur flirt while they clean up the kitchen, and hearing cheers from the boys as they play Exploding Snap at the table. Bill and Fleur can be seen outside, Bill pushing Fleur lightly on a tire swing they'd recently put up.
"I feel like we haven't really talked in ages," Ginny says softly, eyes downcast as she picks at a loose string on the sofa. They're both nursing Butterbeers, but Hermione finds she's aching for something stronger. Her exhaustion is mixing with the leftover fear from her nightmare, as well as the conversation from dinner. It's all bubbling into an overwhelming orb of anxiety inside of her.
"It's been busy, trying to get demolition on the shop on its way," she admits softly, resting her head on her hand and leaning into the support. "I don't exactly have any clue what I'm doing."
Ginny looks up at her and gives her a dramatically skeptical look.
"Hermione Granger always knows what she's doing, even when she thinks she doesn't."
"I don't know about that this time, Gin."
Ginny gives her a sad smile and reaches out to place a hand on Hermione's knee.
"I thought I knew you so well, before the war. I was always glad I finally had another girl I could talk to," she chuckles, and Hermione can't help but let out a real grin. "But I'm starting to wonder if I really know you at all. I can't seem to reconcile the girl I used to know with the one I'm looking at now, and it scares me. It scares me because I wonder if you feel the same way."
Hermione swallows. Ginny is the closest a person has gotten to verbalizing how Hermione has truly been feeling lately, and she leaves in two days for tour.
"Are any of us the same person we were before the war?" Hermione asks, although she hardly believes in her own question. She knows that the war has affected everyone— that the losses they've experienced have changed things about them forever. That fighting for so long has drained them of naivety, innocence, and childhood. But Hermione knows that she is still different from them somehow. Out of all of her friends, it is her who feels only the smallest slivers and semblances of who she once was. It's her who can't seem to pick up her broken pieces as well as the others can.
Ginny observes her carefully, her face sad and tired, and Hermione wishes she could tell her friend that she was going to be okay. She'd been lying to everyone for ages; why couldn't she say this now?
"Harry told me about you being friends with Blaise Zabini," Ginny admits, her voice light and cautious. Hermione casts her eyes down away from her friend.
"He's been quite... kind to me." Hermione almost squeaks admitting it.
"Do you like him?" Ginny asks doubtfully, her voice wavering. Hermione scoffs, shaking her head no.
"No. No, he's wonderful, but just a ... well, a friend, I suppose, as strange as that sounds." The corners of her mouth raise into a disbelieving smirk.
"Sorry, I just had to ask," Ginny says, pulling her hand from Hermione's knee and taking a sip of her Butterbeer. "I'm glad you do have other people to support you though, Hermione... even if they are ex-criminals and Slytherins."
Hermione huffs a laugh, giving Ginny a falsely stern look.
"Blank pages, Ginny, blank pages."
Ginny's face grows serious, the light from the fireplace illuminating the right side of her face and dancing along her cheek in an orange glow.
"Blank pages, Hermione," Ginny says in a genuine whisper. "Blank pages."
Before Hermione can respond Ginny downs the rest of her Butterbeer and stands from the sofa.
"Owl me anytime, yeah?" Ginny says to her and Hermione nods in agreeance. "Should we go watch the boys play Exploding Snap? It'll be a while before I see them all embarrass themselves again and I need my fill before I go on the road."
Hermione holds a hand up to Ginny and the red-headed girl helps pull her up from the couch.
"Actually Gin, I think I'm going to go. I sort of told someone I'd meet them tonight."
Ginny raises an eyebrow at her, but shrugs and pulls her into a tight hug.
"Good luck," Hermione whispers, her voice breaking. It's been a while since she's had to say goodbye to anyone. "I'll miss you."
They hug for longer than usual, and Ginny lets her go and gives her a parting smile before leaving her in the living room. Hermione takes a deep breath, hearing a rumble of joyous noise from the kitchen and feeling a slight pang in her heart. She wishes she could join them without having to pretend. It's all she wants in the world. Molly scolds George for something that Hermione can't quite make out, and she watches from the window as Bill leans over the tire swing, ducking to escape the rope, to give Fleur a kiss on the cheek.
Then she sneaks out the front door and apparates to Diagon Alley, not even sparing a glance back at The Burrow.
Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Notes:
TW: Tattoo needles, mentions of alcohol abuse/sobriety.
Chapter Text
The bar, Hermione realizes for the first time, is called Devil's Snare, (a clever name, Hermione thinks, for a place only open at night) and it's already vibrating with noise and packed with people when Hermione arrives. It's late, past eleven, Hermione notes as she makes her way in, past the bouncer and into the bustling bar.
She tries not to think about how strange it is that she's here; not meeting up with Ron, or Harry, or even Luna or Parvati. The Slytherins. The people who made it their job to make her life harder in school, and called her awful names. The reason she fixed her teeth and felt so self-conscious in her own skin for years. Yet, she is willingly meeting them for drinks. Maybe her friends are right, and she has really lost it.
The bar is sticky and humid, the air thick with the smell of booze and sweat. She pushes her way through the crowd to the back corner where Blaise had taken her last time, and her heart drops when the booth they were sitting in is empty. There is only one witch there, a bartender, and she is clearing off the booth using her wand— floating empty glasses onto a tray and wiping down the surface of the table. They must not have stayed long.
"Excuse me," Hermione says, stepping forward towards the witch. The girl looks at Hermione distractedly as she balances the empty glasses in the tray in her hand, trying not to lose the balance of her arm.
"Just give me a minute love, and the booth will be free to use," the witch smiles. She is pretty, maybe only a few years older than Hermione, and very patient considering she must deal with drunken people all of the time. Hermione smiles softly at her, shaking her head.
"Ah, no that's alright. I was just wondering if there was a group of wizards here recently? Probably four boys and two girls?"
The witch chuckles dryly, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head as she lifts the last of the glasses onto her tray and flicks her wand at the cloth to stop wiping the table.
"You mean the ones that got kicked out about half an hour ago?" The witch smiles at Hermione, though her eyes flicker with something that tells her she was probably the one that had to deal with them. Hermione swallows nervously.
"That sounds about right," she breathes, giving her an apologetic smile, "Sorry."
"I deal with it all the time," the witch says, waving her free hand at Hermione as if it is no big deal. She tucks her wand into a pocket on her small, black apron, and points back towards the doors of the bar. "They left out the front doors and went off towards The Strip. Merlin knows if they'd be able to apparate in their condition, so I hope they live somewhere close."
She then picks up the cloth and gives Hermione a closed-mouthed smile and a soft nod.
"Thank you," Hermione says to her, and the witch leaves, heading back towards the bar top, tray balanced expertly in her hand. Hermione stands by the empty booth awkwardly for a few moments, debating her next move.
Blaise had invited her for drinks, so if they'd already gone she supposed the invitation ended there. She assumed they had probably ended up at Scratch the Mark and she could go and check, but worried that her presence would not be as welcomed in a less public environment. She could also go home and get rest, considering she hadn't slept well the night before.
But she doesn't feel tired; quite the opposite. The atmosphere of Devil's Snare has ignited a sense of adventure somewhere inside of her, and after such a long week she wants to enjoy herself. If she were to go back to The Burrow, she knows she would find herself falling back into the glum version of herself that she so desperately wants to be free of.
She runs a hand through her unruly curls, takes a deep breath, and turns on her heel, back through the throngs of drunken people towards the doors of the bar.
The cold air falls over her like an icy bath after being inside the stuffy bar, and the coolness of the autumn night turns each exhaled breath into a foggy vapour. She pulls her jacket tighter to her body and sets off down the uneven cobblestone, the noises from the busy alley fading as she walks further down towards The Strip.
She looks proudly at her shop as she passes it, noting how much more sad and lonely it looks at night. She supposes she should redo the shop front as her next step , clean and repaint it, replace the lettering on the sign. Should she keep the name Flourish & Blotts? Change it to something new? It feels like too soon to make such a permanent decision.
The neon lights of Scratch the Mark light up the end of the street, reflecting on the dampened cobblestone, and Hermione can see as she approaches that the inside shop lights are on. She stops in her tracks, feeling her heart race lightly against her ribcage. It is Blaise's shop. Surely Blaise would welcome her inside, despite whatever objections the others may have.
Pansy, Hermione assumed, would be the hardest to crack. Hermione remembers the way the Slytherin girl had looked at her two weekends ago; her eyes flicking over Hermione's wild curls while Pansy's stylish, chin-length bob was shiny and controlled, not a hair out of place. She remembers Theo's quietness around her and the way Daphne had hardly acknowledged her existence. She could only hope that Adrian would be there to lighten the mood: he at least seemed to be okay with Hermione's presence, almost as much as Blaise.
Hermione bolsters herself, sucking in a sharp breath of cold air that pricks her lungs, and forcing her legs to move once again. She uses a shaky hand to push open the door of Blaise's shop, the tingling of the bell echoing through the small room.
"Told you she'd come," Blaise says, knocking an elbow against Adrian as Hermione takes in the scene in front of her. The six of them are scattered throughout the small shop, each one looking drunker than the one before them.
At the first tattoo station, Theo sits backwards on a small, armless wooden chair, straddling the seat as he rests his elbows and forearms on the backrest. He's shirtless, and his black button-up has been cast to the floor near his feet. Blaise and Adrian are behind him, leaning against the black hydraulic tattoo chair; Blaise, clearly undeterred by his obvious intoxication, holds a tattoo gun in one gloved hand. Beside him, Adrian has his arms crossed over his chest, a lit cigarette balanced between the index and middle finger of his left hand.
Daphne and Pansy both sit on the front counter, legs swinging in the air. Pansy crosses her legs at the knee, leaning back on her hands behind her. Daphne's position is more relaxed, and she plays with a delicate chain necklace resting on her collarbones. Malfoy sits demurely on Blaise's rolling stool, gripping a half-empty decanter of whiskey, his eyes falling onto Hermione as she walks into the shop.
His hair is messy again, but not in the untamable way that Harry's always is. It's as if he's run his fingers through it over and over, small strands sticking up faintly at his temples. He's wearing the same black slacks and white oxford that he was last week, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The front of the shirt is completely unbuttoned, and Hermione notes rather bitterly that he is very fit. She can see the long white scars from Harry's sectumsempra curse tracing the curves of his abdomen and upwards, to his pectorals.
Almost as soon as her eyes fall on him she pulls them away, feeling her cheeks grow warm.
"Granger, blessing us with her presence yet again!" Adrian grins, and Hermione smiles shyly back at him.
"Hello, Adrian," she greets him softly, her eyes flickering briefly on the rest of them as she surveys the room again. "Everyone."
"Your Gryffindor friends aren't doing it for you anymore Granger?" Pansy jibes, raising a sharp, perfect eyebrow up under her fringe.
"Fuck off, Parkinson," Blaise snaps, looking back over at Hermione. "It's my shop and I'll invite whoever I damn well please into it."
Pansy gives Blaise an intimidating glare, and, to Hermione's surprise, Theo sends Pansy a disapproving look.
Draco remains silent in the corner, but for the sporadic slosh of whiskey as he takes swigs straight from the bottle. Hermione wills herself to leave the doorway and takes careful steps towards Blaise, Adrian and Theo.
"You sure you should be using that needle in such a state, Blaise?" Hermione asks, the corner of her mouth twitching. Blaise takes this as a challenge and leans forward, touching the needle to Theo's skin for a split second.
"Merlin's left tit, Zabini, you don't have to press that hard, yeah?" Theo barks, turning his head to shoot Blaise a menacing glare. Hermione can't see Theo's back from where she's standing, so she has no idea how big of a mark Blaise had just tattooed. Blaise chuckles, muttering an insincere apology under his breath before stepping forward and tattooing Theo for real. Theo hisses in pain for a moment, his eyes narrowing quickly before his expression falls unreadable once more.
"You know, you shouldn't be getting tattooed with alcohol in your system," Hermione chides, her eyes falling onto Theo's green ones. "Alcohol thins your blood, so it will make it harder for the tattoo to heal and only worse for you during the process."
She hears Pansy scoff, muttering something under her breath that sounds like 'fun sucker'.
"Draco always told me you were a massive swot," Theo smirks, though his tone is surprisingly playful and lighthearted. "I'm well aware, Granger. It's a good thing I don't drink."
Hermione realizes with a start that this is definitely true. His eyes are infinitely clearer than the rest of his friends, and she vaguely remembers the lack of alcohol in front of Theo when she'd seen him two weekends ago at Devil's Snare.
"Oh," Hermione breathes, observing Theo cautiously. He's intimidating; almost as much as Draco. His features are sharp and his eyes, despite their beauty, hold a darkness under their stare. She vaguely remembers hearing about how awful Theo's home life was. His father had been just as much of an asshole as Lucius, and had also been a loyal servant of Voldemort's.
"Part of my probation," Theo admits, flinching slightly as Blaise starts to move the tattoo needle in short, quick strokes. "I got addicted to a bunch of stuff before Azkaban. Now I have to stay sober. It's been fucking shite."
Hermione nods, looking curiously at Blaise's arm as it moves behind Theo's back.
"Come take a look, Granger," Blaise encourages when he notices Hermione's curious glances. Hermione looks briefly at Pansy and Daphne and finds them watching her carefully. Daphne is unreadable as always, but Pansy watches her with a contemptuous scowl. Hermione ignores this and moves around Theo to stand between Adrian and Blaise.
They both smell strongly of Firewhiskey, and before Hermione can ask what they did to get themselves kicked out of Devil's Snare her eyes land on Theo's back.
It's a vast mural of tattoos. If Blaise is the artist, Theo is his canvas, and the entire expanse of his skin displays a collage of gorgeous art.
"Wow," Hermione gasps, trying to move her eyes fast enough to look at each tattoo. There are so many— a large phoenix, a small mermaid, along with various other creatures. Other small, random ones like a vase of daisies and an hourglass. She can tell that each of them has been done by Blaise, because the detail is incredible and delicate, like the rest of his work. Hermione sees the one he's just finished, reddened slightly directly over his shoulder blade. It's an anatomically correct heart, valves and arteries shaded skillfully in black ink.
"To remind me that I still have one," Theo smirks, tilting his head slightly back to speak to Hermione. Draco scoffs from his corner and takes another slug of whiskey.
"Something funny, Malfoy?" Theo snaps, and Draco looks up at him and shakes his head.
"Bit poetic for a git like you, don't you think Nott?" Draco deadpans. Theo picks his shirt up from the floor, bunches it into a ball and whips it at Draco. Draco deflects and catches it skillfully.
"You're just mad that you don't have one," Theo jibes and Draco only rolls his eyes.
Draco is actively avoiding Hermione's eyes, and she's starting to become frustrated by it. She realizes that he is probably still mad at her for refusing his orders at the shop today. Good, she thinks – let him be mad.
"Want to have a go, Granger?" Theo asks suddenly, and Hermione whips her head to look back at him so fast that she gets a crick in her neck.
"Oh, I don't think I should-" Hermione stutters, eyes flashing as Blaise holds the tattoo gun out to her.
"You'll let her tattoo you but not me?" Pansy asks in disbelief, her eyebrows drawing together angrily. Theo turns his head to look at her.
"I've seen your handwriting, Pans. You'll tattoo me over my dead body."
"Oh, I plan on it. I'm gonna write 'dickhead' across your forehead."
Adrian lets out a honking laugh and slaps a hand onto his thigh. Blaise and Theo both look highly amused, and even the corners of Draco's mouth lift slightly.
"Draco, give Granger a few swigs of that," Blaise nods towards the decanter of whiskey. "Maybe it will activate some of that Gryffindor courage she's got holed in there somewhere."
Draco shoots Blaise a sour look, and then finally allows his eyes to fall on Hermione. They're piercing steel, smoking gunmetal, and it's enough to prickle Hermione's skin. He reluctantly holds the ornate bottle up, and Hermione takes small, wary steps towards him.
"I'm not going to bite, Granger," he huffs, pushing the bottle towards her again for dramatic effect. As she reaches him, his eyes penetrate hers, and the muscle in his jaw ripples as he grits his teeth. She takes the bottle from him, and their fingers brush slightly. Draco pulls his hand away as if she's contagious.
"Pumpkin juice?" she asks jokingly, in reference to her own flask of whiskey from their encounter in the shop. Draco doesn't reply, only watches her, stone-faced but with mild discomfort. She wonders if it's her proximity to him, so she steps back and he seems to relax slightly.
She flushes slightly at his lack of verbal response and attempts to hide it by taking a large swig of the amber liquid. By now, she's used to the familiar warmth the whiskey brings as it slides down her throat; she welcomes it hungrily.
"Down the hatch, Granger," Adrian chuckles, mildly impressed as he watches her take a second large gulp without even a flinch. She promptly holds the bottle back out to Draco, who takes it without a word.
"Alright Nott, if you regret this, it's on you," she warns as she walks back over to the tattoo station. Blaise gives her a pair of black latex gloves, which she pulls on with a bit of effort. They're too big for her, so she tries to pull them up her wrist further and the gloves snap back, like a doctor before he examines his patient.
"Just don't put anything pertaining to Gryffindor, and we'll be alright," Theo says, turning his head forward and relaxing his body into the chair as Blaise passes her the tattoo gun.
"Use your dominant hand to hold it here, right on the grip," Blaise demonstrates, taking her hand and placing it on the proper spot. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Draco shift uncomfortably on the stool. "Use your other hand to pull the skin tight where you'll put the tattoo," he continues, using two fingers to stretch a bare spot of skin on Theo's back.
Hermione listens carefully, feeling the familiar tingle of excitement at learning something new. It's been so long since she's been in school, and there is an ache in her gut that she'd always felt when starting a new class or listening to Professor Flitwick explain a more advanced charm.
"Alright," Hermione nods, moving the tattoo gun in her hand until it feels comfortable.
"The skin needs to be tight to draw a line," Blaise explained, looking down at Hermione and using a calm, demanding voice. "You don't need to press very hard – the needle does most of the work for you."
"Please, for the love of Salazar, don't press too hard," Theo agrees.
"Alright," Hermione repeats, trying to stay focused and calm. She is not an artist. "Anything else?"
"Just don't fuck it up," Blaise grins easily, winking at Hermione. Pansy murmurs something indecipherable from the front counter but Hermione wills herself to ignore her.
"Easier said than done," Hermione replies, peering at Blaise with what is surely an absolutely frightened look.
"Just keep it small, and keep your hand steady."
Hermione nods again, and Blaise holds an antiseptic wipe at the ready beside her. She steps forward and suddenly knows exactly what to tattoo on Theo. She plops down onto the spare rolling stool that Blaise has pushed towards her and leans forward.
The tattoo gun begins to whir mechanically, and Hermione eyes the small expanse of skin that she will tattoo, motions for Blaise to wipe it, and takes one final breath before using her fingers to pull gently at the skin so that it's taut. Ever so carefully, she rests the heel of her palm on Theo's bare skin, and lets the needle down, dragging it carefully in a straight line.
"Nice, Granger. Just think about exactly where you want to begin and end your line. It'll feel safer, knowing where you want to go."
Hermione nods, refocusing on Theo's skin. She takes the wipe from Blaise's hand and wipes the line she just drew, before leaning back in and beginning a new one.
Almost painstakingly slowly, Hermione continues, drawing a total of ten lines to form the tattoo she's chosen. All eyes are on her; even Draco's, though she pretends not to notice, and Blaise continues to encourage her as she goes. When she connects the last two lines of the tattoo, she wipes it down once over the whole thing and sits back to admire her work.
The tattoo is about the size of a single galleon coin. It's not perfect— some of the lines aren't perfectly straight, and she can see the difference between her first few strokes and the way they improved as she went on. Overall, she feels quite proud of it. Blaise steps forward and uses his wand to cast a healing spell, and Hermione watches the redness fade back into Theo's skin.
"All done," she says, exhaling a breath of relief. Blaise turns the machine off, taking the tattoo gun from her hands and allowing Hermione to pull off the gloves, which have already begun to stick to Hermione's clammy palms.
"Right, let's see the damage then," Theo says, moving his back muscles to stretch them now that he has more freedom in his movement. Hermione watches the muscles stretch and ripple, admiring his toned figure. Blaise hands Theo a mirror to hold up and uses another to display Theo's back. Theo looks into his mirror and adjusts it so he can see the reflection of the one Blaise holds.
When his eyes land on the new tattoo, they flash with curiousity, his brows pulling together before he looks into the mirror at Hermione.
"What's the symbol mean?" he asks, green eyes studying her. Draco, Pansy and Daphne all move from their spots, their interest piqued at hearing about the symbol that Hermione has drawn onto Theo's skin. Blaise and Adrian step back to give them room, and she watches nervously as the three other Slytherins study the small rune.
"It's a rune. A bind rune, actually. For perseverance and longevity." Hermione's voice wavers with obvious nerves as she awaits Theo's reaction. He turns his body unnaturally to look at her, realization falling onto his hardened features.
"It's for your sobriety," she says, eyes glancing at Pansy and Daphne. Pansy, for once, says nothing, her eyes glued to the small rune tattoo.
"I hope I didn't overstep," she continues, as everyone remains silent. Draco has gone still beside her, his eyes flicking back and forth between the tattoo and Theo, who is still looking at the rune through his mirror.
"Fuck, Granger," Theo finally says in a bewildered exhale. "That's really cool of you."
Hermione feels herself relax, the tension in her body fading at Theo's approval.
"Well done, Hermione," Blaise smiles, pulling the mirror away and turning to her with a proud smile.
"That's really sweet," Daphne squeaks, and Hermione does a double-take at the small blonde girl. It's the first time she's spoken to Hermione, but her soft blue eyes fall on her now and she gives her a mousy smirk.
Draco mutters a curse under his breath, clearly the only one not impressed with Hermione's gesture. He spins and heads back to his stool, and Hermione tries to conceal her annoyance with him.
"Truly, Granger, thank you," Theo says sincerely, standing up to face her. Hermione nods at him and watches him stride over to where Draco sits, plucking his balled-up shirt from the ground and pulling it back on elegantly. She finds Theo a bit hard to read, but she can tell that he is sincere in his gratitude, and this warms her chest.
After Theo has buttoned his shirt up, he reaches out and smacks Draco playfully on the back of the head.
"What's got you so miffed, Malfoy?" he asks, as Draco pushes him away softly. Pansy wanders back over to the counter again, leaning on it with her elbows to study the frames of displayed art behind it, while Daphne grabs Adrian's hand and drags him towards the second tattoo chair behind them. Blaise works slowly at cleaning up his station.
"Apologies, Theodore, but I'm not exactly ever a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, am I?"
"No, but there seems to be an extra stick up your arse this evening."
Malfoy finally sets the bottle of whiskey down on the floor beside him and runs a hand over his face in exasperation.
"Fuck off Theo, or I'll find another place to stick that tattoo gun."
Blaise and Theo laugh in soft hoots, as Theo rolls his eyes at Draco's dramatics.
"Lay off him a bit, yeah Theo? Draco's had a shite week," Adrian pipes from the tattoo chair that he and Daphne are currently lying on, limbs tangled together.
Hermione observes Draco as Adrian says this, and watches his face fall briefly before he slides his mask on again.
"I'm just a bit put out that Theo needed to start a fight and get us kicked out of the bar tonight before we could actually begin to enjoy ourselves," Draco quips, giving Theo a challenging grin.
"When you can't drink you've got to keep yourself busy somehow," Theo shrugs back at him, and he falls back into the chair he had been sitting in before, properly this time, leaning back onto the wood. Hermione pulls herself up onto the black tattoo chair and turns to find Blaise offering her more Firewhiskey. She takes it from him and throws her head back to take another sip.
"I was wondering how you got yourselves kicked out of there," Hermione admits, letting the alcohol allow her to feel comfortable contributing to the conversation.
"Theo's easily aggravated," Pansy tells her. Hermione is almost shell-shocked at Pansy's civil reply, despite her seemingly permanent sneer. Pansy's eyes look over to Theo, challenging under her thick dark lashes. Hermione wonders when Draco and Pansy had ended their relationship. Pansy is stunning, and Hermione could see how easily any wizard might fall victim to her naturally seductive gaze.
"No, I just hate it when people think they can say shit to us about what we used to be like when they don't even try to get to know us now."
"What do people say to you?" Hermione asks, turning to Blaise as his normally positive expression falls. The group of Slytherins glance at each other mindfully, and Theo clears his throat.
"Sometimes they'll tell us we belong in Azkaban. That we can't just hide our marks with tattoos and pretend it all never happened. Won't give us the time of day to properly hear us out."
Hermione watches as Theo tries to brush this admission off casually, inspecting the cover-up tattoo of the lark and snake on his forearm.
"Besides the minor inconvenience of the mark being a symbol of wizarding bigotry, I just wanted it covered because it was so ugly."
Pansy nods in agreement from the counter.
"That's terrible," Hermione rasps, her eyes flicking to Draco's uncovered Dark Mark. Draco notices her gaze and quickly turns his arm to cover it.
"What are you gonna do?" Adrian sighs from the tattoo chair, one hand tangled in Daphne's blonde hair.
A dull, unpleasant feeling began to grow in Hermione's stomach. The point of the war had been to eradicate prejudice based on blood purity and status; but it ran deeper than that. The Order had always fought on the basis that all people are equal— muggle, pureblood, half-blood, muggle-born— all should be treated with kindness. Hermione had always thought that the end of the war had signaled a new beginning. Those who had done terrible things, who held misplaced beliefs, and spoke and acted out of hatred had been sent to Azkaban. There was no doubt that her old peers had made mistakes – many of them had been bullies to her in school, or had been the children of Voldemort's followers.
But the Wizengamot had given them all a fair trial. They were free because they no longer believed in the things that their parents had raised them to believe. They had been just as imprisoned by their parents as their parents were now in Azkaban. Their hands had been tied, and with those closest to them under the careful watch of Voldemort, their fates had been decided for them. When it came down to it, her classmates were not evil. They were not Death Eaters. They had been children.
"In that case, Theo, fire away," Hermione grins at him, and Theo quirks an eyebrow in surprise.
"If you'd been this fun in school, Granger, I might just have paid more attention to you," Theo looks over at Blaise who shrugs casually.
"We've never really had a fair shot at getting to know each other, have we?" Hermione says sadly, as she looks around at all of the Slytherins. Draco's eyes hold a sliver of amusement as he lets out another sarcastic chuckle.
"With Potter and Weasley hanging off your arm wherever you went? Not a chance."
She turns to him, surprised that he's suddenly chimed in on the conversation.
"Harry and Ron were the first friends I ever had. My eleven-year-old self didn't particularly attract company, though I'm sure if eleven-year-old Malfoy had offered, I probably would have chosen no friends at all."
Adrian snickers from the back, and Pansy mutters something akin to 'oh shit' under her breath. For the life of her, Hermione can't figure out why it is she needs to aggravate Draco Malfoy. Only that their constant battle of wits fuels her, alights something in her that is as close to the old Hermione as she's ever going to get.
"Well, it's a damn good thing eleven-year-old me thought you were the most annoying little know-it-all to ever grace the wizarding world."
"Still sour that you were second best to me in every class, Malfoy?"
The tension in the room is palpable, enough to cut with a knife. The only relief comes from Adrian's snickers and Theo and Blaise whispering amusedly between them. Draco rolls his eyes in the subtle way Hermione has grown used to since her school days.
"I had to let you have something, Granger. Your hair was terrible, and you had to put up with Potter and Weasel's whining all the time – consider it a kindness."
Both of their jibes are tired, childish and unclever, and yet she can feel herself fuming at him.
"Jeez, you guys are like an old married couple," Adrian comments, having untangled himself from Daphne and appeared at Blaise's side. "It's the most entertained I've been in weeks.
"Glad we could be of service, Pucey," Malfoy drawls, ripping his eyes from Hermione and standing from the stool.
"Don't worry, Granger," Pansy begins as Draco begins to button up his shirt and the cuffs of his sleeves, clearly getting ready to leave. As always, he looks as if he hasn't slept in years, and Hermione is remiss to find herself hoping he would go home and get a decent sleep. "If it's not you, it's one of us. Usually me. Draco just can't help himself."
Malfoy eyes Pansy with a taunting half-grin. "It's just because you're easiest to pick on, Pans."
It is in small moments like these that Hermione finds delight in watching Draco behave like a real human being. Small exchanges with his friends where his steel exterior is dropped for light teasing and a hint of warmth that is so rare and surprising to watch. A jolting reminder that he is human. It's intriguing as much as it is frightening, to realize that Draco is only human.
"I've got to go," he announces, grabbing the almost empty bottle of whiskey from Adrian. He looks slightly more put together now that his shirt is on properly and that he's run a few fingers through his hair to flatten it.
"Alright mate," Blaise says from beside Hermione.
"Should you be apparating after drinking so much?"
She can't stop herself from asking it, even though she's aware of the repercussions of posing such a question to Malfoy. She says it out of genuine concern, but she watches as Malfoy looks at her, scanning her face as he puzzles at the reasoning behind her question. He'd be so lovely to look at if his sharp, carved features weren't so often in a permanent sort of frown.
His gaze lasts a second longer than it should, and she can already imagine what sorts of snarky responses his witty mind is brewing.
"I think I can handle it, thanks, Granger," he says, but his voice is thoroughly less mocking than she'd anticipated. His eyes fall from hers and he strides towards the door and lifts a few fingers lazily towards his friends.
"Theo, next time you feel the urge to make totally dim decisions, can you let me know in advance? I wasted a perfectly good bottle of whiskey tonight."
He doesn't wait for Theo to respond before pushing his way out the door, ever so elegant and composed.
"Call you tomorrow, sweetheart!" Theo calls out at him, and Hermione catches Draco's middle finger through the shop window before he disappears down the street.
No matter how she tries to rationalize it, and no matter how badly it troubles her, Hermione can't deny the fact that as Draco leaves the shop, some small part of her is sad to watch him go.
Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Chapter Text
I should have been nicer to him.
This is the insane, backwards thought that plagues Hermione on Saturday morning, alongside the atrocious Firewhiskey hangover that she thinks she'll never get used to.
How ironic, she thinks, that she is kicking herself for not being nice enough to Draco Malfoy.
He is insufferably annoying, rude, and his main goal, it seems, is to always get her worked up about something.
And yet, she can't shake the feeling that she had been the one who had taken it too far the other night, and not the other way around. He had clearly been in a sour mood and had generally restrained himself from making the usual infuriating comments directed at her.
She has to remind herself that, no matter how terrible he had been, his father had just passed away. She has no idea what state of mind he is in, although, if the constant bags under his eyes told her anything, she'd say he was just as much lost as she was.
After he'd left, she had grown anxious that it was her arrival and their small squabble that had pushed him to leave. Blaise assured her that that wasn't the case— that he had visiting hours with his mother in Azkaban in the morning and would have had to leave anyway. She can't shake the feeling that she had pushed too hard. His ego had already been bruised from their fight earlier in the day, and he hadn't seemed in any mood to put up with Hermione in the first place.
The rest of the night, Hermione had stayed with the Slytherins and watched in fascination as they interacted with each other. Much to her dismay, the group of friends had striking similarities to her own, like a reflection of them in an alternate universe.
Blaise, the clear, level-headed leader of the group reminded Hermione a bit of Harry. Blaise was more logical than Harry, and led less with his emotions and more with reason, but they were alike in their natural leadership and willingness to do anything for their friends. He was easy to talk to, understanding, and always without judgment.
Adrian, naturally, was goofy like Ron. Lighthearted, quick to joke, always brightening the mood. He had more of an edge to him; unafraid, quite the ladies' man, and his sense of humor was different than Ron's. But, like Ron, Adrian carried with him a strength that lies in his capacity to care for others. He was easy to talk to, like Ron, and made Hermione feel comfortable chatting with the rest of the group.
Theo was slightly harder to pin down. He was a bit like Dean Thomas, in his quiet, demure attitude. Never quick to speak, always listening intently. But there was something instinctively Slytherin about him; a hard, intimidating shell that Hermione guessed had been only cracked by few. He was very serious, though mostly kind, and seemed content to surround himself with his friends without needing to be the center of attention. He must have been aware of his handsomeness, though he didn't seem very driven by it. Ego, it seemed, was not part of his character. He was a bit of an enigma, and Hermione concluded that she would need more than just one night to understand what lies at the core of Theo's character.
Daphne and Luna could have been sisters in another life. Like Luna, Daphne was sweet and unassuming, though much quieter than the Ravenclaw, and entirely less likely to go on a rant about Nargles. She also lacked the dreamy, dazed look Luna often carried. She and Adrian made a strange couple, seemingly opposites in their nature, but Hermione supposed they defined the phrase 'opposites attract.' Daphne seemed generally enamored by Adrian's charms, and his dedication to her was completely mutual. Daphne kept the group tame, laughed sweetly at Hermione's jokes, and brought out the best in Pansy, which Hermione sufficed was a hard thing to do.
Pansy, in all of her take-no-prisoners attitude, was the most like Ginny. She was less carefree, definitely not as prone to kindness, and, unlike Ginny, seemed to care a lot about what people thought of her. She had always been popular in school, so was taking it the hardest out of anyone that she'd become something of a social pariah. There was an innate edge to her that Hermione concluded was the result of growing up with the Slytherin boys. She had to adapt to put up with their boyish teasing and had developed her own tough exterior. She was sharp-witted, though not in the same way as Malfoy, and confident in herself in a way Hermione never had been.
Malfoy remained ever elusive from Hermione's growing understanding, but ever more intriguing.
In some ways it was clear that he was no longer that same awful boy he had been at school. And yet his aversion to Hermione remained present and obvious, leaving her to wonder what he truly thought of her, past her blood status and their childhood rivalry. Perhaps they simply had nothing in common, though she found too many resemblances to herself in him to truly believe that. In some strange, unimaginable way, Draco was the Hermione of this friend group. Intelligent, logical, stubborn, unrelenting. It was unsettling, realizing this, and all the more reason for Hermione to keep wondering about him.
If she didn't know who she was after the war, how would she ever know who Draco Malfoy was?
Crookshanks, unsurprisingly, proved to be very little help to Hermione in trying to figure this out.
"What do you think, Crooks?" she asked him Saturday evening as they sat by the fireplace. She held her book on building renovation in one hand and stroked the cat’s orange fur with the other. He had only blinked at her with wide yellow eyes, purring under the warmth of her hand.
On Sunday, Hermione met with Minerva McGonagall for tea in Diagon Alley. She'd become somewhat of a parental figure to Hermione, though she rarely divulged her mental state or details of her personal wife to the older witch. They talked of Neville working at Hogwarts, of the books they were reading, about how Harry and Ron were doing, and stories about the new generations of Hogwarts students she was currently overseeing.
Every month, the pair would go together and lay flowers on the graves of those that were lost. It was a task both extremely difficult and necessary for Hermione.
The new gravesite had been placed just outside of Hogsmeade, and with the talents of Neville, Professor Sprout, who had passed away a few months later, and a select group of Herbology students, the sight was also a beautiful garden with fruit trees, flowers, and a small fountain erected in the middle. The fountain had also been made into a memorial, the names of those who had been lost carved into the stone.
Today they sit and drink tea together while Hermione tells the professor about the shop.
"I must say I wasn't expecting it," Minerva says, gazing up at Hermione through her spectacles. "But I also can't say I'm surprised, either."
"You're not?" Hermione asks, her brows pulling together softly. Minerva sets her china cup down on its saucer with shaky hands.
"It is definitely... out of the blue. But since when does Hermione Granger do something just because others have told her that she should?"
There is a twinkle in Minerva's eye as she assesses Hermione and lifts the cup to her lips, taking a dainty sip.
She'd worried the most about disappointing Minerva. It had been her who'd seen Hermione's strengths as a student; who had helped her take more classes than was possible by getting permission to use the Time Turner. McGonagall had guided Hermione both academically and as a mentor for all of the years she had been at Hogwarts, and had surely been expecting her to one day be Minister for Magic— certainly not to buy a demolished old bookshop to fix up at the drop of a hat.
"I think... the shop is challenging me in a way I really need right now," Hermione admits. "I have a whole life ahead of me to do all of those other things."
It feels like a betrayal, to admit this. That she has survived the war and in turn, been given time to make choices and change her mind about them. Others... Fred, Colin, Lavender... they would never get to make choices and try again if they messed up. Was she doing them an injustice?
"And what if that shop is your future?" Minerva asks, tilting her head slightly. She presses her lips together for a moment before continuing. "I can see you running the bookshop. Giving future Hogwarts students the tools they need for knowledge. Maybe even writing your own book someday. You can have hobbies, you know."
Hermione snaps her head up at this. She'd never thought about writing her own book. When she was little she used to pretend to be Bathilda Bagshot in her bedroom, roleplaying as if she was signing copies of Hogwarts: A History for fans. And yet it had never crossed her mind as an adult that it was something she could do; something she might be good at.
"I suppose," Hermione nods, stirring her tea thoughtfully. "I think you're right... what you said about meeting other people's expectations. I think I felt all of this pressure from everyone. Like they couldn't wait to see what 'war hero Hermione Granger' was going to do next. I don't think I wanted my choices and my happiness be defined by other people's presumptions."
The woman smiles knowingly at her, setting her cup and saucer down entirely and reaching for Hermione's hand.
"And why should it? Your choices are yours to make, Miss Granger, and no one else's. I have a feeling that if you took away their wands and passed them a hammer, they'd see that you didn't take the easy way out at all."
Hermione doesn't tell her about Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins— she has deduced that no one, not even Minerva McGonagall, would be able to explain the sudden pull she feels towards them. They did talk briefly of Lucius Malfoy's death, and of the rebel group in Wales. Minerva handed her a letter from Neville, which almost brought Hermione to tears. She felt terrible that it had been so long since she'd reached out to him and promised herself she would read it and respond as soon as she got home.
After tea they had parted ways, Hermione promising she would say hello to Ron and Harry for her. Back at her flat, Hermione rips open Neville's letter hungrily and finds herself in a puddle of tears as she reads.
Dear Hermione,
I'm sorry it's been so long since I've reached out – it's been a little crazy, my first month teaching at Hogwarts. I've been testing out my sea legs and trying to figure out how to be a teacher rather than a student. It's funny, I always I find myself looking for you all whenever I turn a corridor or walk into the Great Hall. Sitting at the professors' table is cooler than I thought it would be. You can see everyone from up there; I find myself wondering how many of our shenanigans Dumbledore really saw without us knowing.
I do love teaching Herbology, though I often wish I could talk to Pomona about it. Professor Sprout, I mean. I don't know if you two had been on a first-name basis before she passed. Sometimes I'll second guess myself about something I'm teaching and think about owling her, before I realize. But I always figure it out one way or another. I ask myself, 'What would Hermione Granger do?' which most often leads to me going to the library and looking it up in a book. It's a highly reliable method – I see why you love it so much.
Congrats on buying Flourish & Blotts! Harry told me about it when he came to visit last week. No magic and all, it must be really challenging. Half of my students came with the wrong books their first week because they had to go somewhere else to get them. It'll be great when you get it back up and running, it always was the best place to get your school books from. Maybe I'll send over a housewarming plant, for decoration. I'll have to eliminate all of the ones that bite, so it's safe for you to have in the shop. I'll try to come visit as soon as possible. Now that it's October we're planning for the Hallows eve feast, and I'm growing a special breed of pumpkins that turn into jack-o-lanterns and make scary faces when you walk by them. Lots of trial and error at the moment.
I really hope you're doing well, Hermione. You deserve to. Owl me when you can, yeah?
All the best.
Neville.
She wipes away tears of both joy and sadness and hugs the letter to her chest. She can picture Neville, teaching Herbology at Hogwarts and sitting at the Professor's table. She feels overwhelmingly happy for him. He'd been an instrumental part of the war in his seventh year at Hogwarts, leading Dumbledore's Army through the reign of the Carrow twins. It had been rough on him, and she was glad that he seemed somewhat happy.
She was sufficiently exhausted by her tears and her visit with Minerva, but she wrote Neville a quick response letter, telling him to come visit anytime, and sent it off by Owl. She wished she could tell him she'd come visit him at Hogwarts, but she doesn't know if she'd be able to handle being back there yet. She can't even go to The Burrow without coming home and drowning herself in Firewhiskey. Being back at Hogwarts... she doesn't know what might happen.
That night, Hermione dreams about Bathilda Bagshot. Not a pleasant dream, but one about when she had been possessed by Nagini in Godric's Hollow.
In the dream, Hermione is back at Bathilda's house, only Harry is not with her. Hermione is walking carefully through the rooms, trying to keep her breathing calm and quiet despite the stench of death and rot around her. It's entirely dark, and Hermione can only see from the small light of the Lumos she has cast. Her entire body is sticky and clammy like Harry's used to get when he had visions of Voldemort. Then, suddenly, as if it were a candle, Hermione's lumos is extinguished. With pure black around her, her heart beat loudly— too loudly— inside of her chest, and her breathing begins to grow erratic and uncontrollable.
Then, she feels a presence behind her. Smells it too. Decay, old blood, and flesh. It begins to choke her— has her gasping for breath, clutching at her throat. Then, a cold breath on her neck, hands grazing her skin as the person begins to slowly walk around Hermione to face her. Slowly, slowly, like waiting for paint to dry, fingers trailing over Hermione's arms and shoulders, cold air crawling up Hermione's skin and covering her in gooseflesh. Hermione is crying, still gasping and retching. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness around her so that she can see shadows, outlines, grey but visible, in the living room of the house. And then, the sunken face of Bathilda Bagshot finally appears in her sightline, just as she had looked that night on Christmas Eve. Her eyes are white and foggy with cataracts, and the skin of her face looks almost as if it is melting off. Rotting meat. This is where the smell was coming from, as Hermione can smell it strongly emanating from the shaking woman. Tears fall rapidly onto her cheeks, and she realizes she can not move, can not speak, as the woman steps once more towards her, so close they are almost touching.
The pounding in her chest grows stronger and her retching grows more uncontrollable, and then she watches as a serpentine tongue flicks out and lick the woman's lips. Cold terror is all Hermione can feel, focus on. Bathilda's dead eyes move around Hermione's face, and she tries to scream, tries to run, tries to cast magic from her wand. Nothing worked.
Then, as the terror takes over, Bathilda freezes, and with speed like a viper, her jaw opens wide, stretching impossibly to show a set of pointed, snake-like teeth. Hermione wakes just as the mouth drops down to swallow her whole.
~~~
Even the warmth of the bath can not comfort the cold, lingering clamminess that Hermione feels waking up from her dream. She lets some water out and refills it, piping hot, probably too hot, as her skin is bright red and tingling.
It would be nearly two years ago that Hermione and Harry had fought Nagini in Godric's Hollow, yet it remained one of Hermione's most haunting memories. Watching Harry climb the stairs alone with the woman, not being able to follow him. Running up when she heard his distress and trying to apparate away. Breaking Harry's wand. There was a hopeless feeling that Hermione experienced that night, one she often found creeping back no matter how many times she reminded herself that both Nagini and Voldemort were dead, and that the war was won.
Hermione sat in the bath for the early hours of the morning, filling and refilling her bath with hot water until it felt like her skin would peel off from the heat, and her fingers looked like shriveled raisins. Finally, at her normal waking hour, she drains the tub and steps out, wrapping a towel around her body and beginning her usual routine.
What a wonderful day to start a Monday, she thinks as she dresses in the usual muggle clothes she wears to the shop— ones that she's not worried about ruining.
She only nibbles at breakfast, though she has an extra cup of tea to balance the warmth of her insides with her skin. Crookshanks enjoys his breakfast and seems to only tolerate the extra attention and affection she gives him to comfort herself. She thinks even he is getting tired of Hermione's moods.
She gathers her things, books, gloves, and something for lunch, and packs them into her beaded bag before giving Crookshanks one final scratch behind his ears and apparating to Diagon Alley.
She'd been so distracted since yesterday, visiting with Minerva, Neville's letter, and waking up after her awful nightmare, that she'd forgotten all about the ultimatum she'd given to Malfoy.
It all comes flooding back to her when she arrives at her shop and sees him waiting, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking no less sleep-deprived than he had been Friday night.
Hermione stops in her tracks, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of him as his eyes land on hers.
Neither of them says anything for a moment while Hermione collects herself at the sight of him on her doorstep; but there is a foreign, desperate sort of look in his eyes. It's both vulnerability and denial, both begging for mercy and ready for battle. She knows immediately that he thinks she's going to throw it in his face— him, coming here, and therefore accepting to work for her. She knows that he's prepared to strike as soon as she does, to defend himself when she teases him for giving in.
He's desperate for her not to, as he'd already used up all of his vulnerability just showing up here. He stands frozen, watching, like a bird ready for flight or fight. Always on the defense. She thinks there is a possibility that if she says what he is expecting her to, he will leave. And for some reason, she's desperate to keep him; to close the doors of his birdcage and watch him, lovely and at her disposal on his perch.
"Hi," she breathes.
He's given her a choice, an ultimatum of his own. And she's choosing to keep him.
"Hi."
He nods, his eyes still begging, still worried. She tries to make her face as impassive as possible. She doesn't want to scare him away. The guilt she'd felt after Friday, at treating him too harshly, creeps back in now. She can be civil. She can.
"You're early," she says, her voice calm and quiet, free of any expression – not showing hope that he'll stay, nor revealing any intonation that might make him go. She steps forward, bringing her wand up to the door to unlock it. He's blocking the knob, so he sidesteps out of her way, standing beside her with his hands in the pockets of his robes.
Hermione pushes the door open, keeping her head forward, not daring to look at him. He's quiet for a moment, clearly surprised that she hasn't started shoving it in his face that he's here.
"I don't really... I don't sleep well."
His voice is as calm and cautious as hers; it's as if they're both tiptoeing around a bomb they're sure to set off if they're not careful. They step into the shop, Hermione closing the door behind them and looking up to meet his eyes, grey and guarded.
"That makes two of us then," she says, still stoic and heedful.
He looks visibly uncomfortable, his tall, lithe frame collapsing in on itself at the shoulders. He assesses her face, noting her own sleep-deprived eyes and ashen complexion. She'd seen it for herself in the mirror this morning.
"Look, Malfoy–" she begins, to break the silence. She has to say something at some point, if he's really here to work. He cuts her off.
"It's just a few months," he says, tone defensive before he swallows. He straightens his posture, sets his mouth into a straight line. "I'll come in, look busy, and you don't have to pay me."
Hermione tries to respond, but he cuts her off again, eyes flashing with warning.
"I don't... I just need to do what my probation requires, and I'll be gone. We don't need to talk about it, and I swear, if you throw this in my face–"
"Malfoy," She cuts him off this time, watching him grow threatening and paste on his usual sneer. "I won't. It's just four months."
He stares at her, and Hermione can see that he doesn't trust her. She realizes that it's because the ball is entirely in her court now. She has the ability to use this as a weapon. Tell her friends, joke about him working for her, throw it in his face the next time they argue. He is trying to decide if it's worth the risk. It makes her uneasy, how much he fears her in this moment. She decides it's a good time to break the ice and turn the tables a bit.
"I wanted to say that I'm sorry. I think I took things too far on Friday, teasing you, when I know you've been going throu–"
"Merlin, Granger, do Gryffindors always apologize for everything?" he growls, his head dropping back in irritation. She feels the familiar flicker of annoyance inside her gut but pushes it away. "I'm not butt hurt by your annoying, obtuse little jabs at me, so you can drop the whole 'I'm sorry' thing."
"I wasn't-" Hermione begins to protest, but Malfoy steps towards her, closing the distance between them to only a foot as he frowns down at her. Hermione steps back instinctively, though she wishes she hadn't. She shouldn’t show any signs that she's afraid of him.
"You're hardly an expert at insults, Granger. I'd show you what it means to cross the line, if you'd like, though I expect you'd go running out of here crying if I did. Drop it."
His tone is warning, biting, and his glare is cold and adamant. She bites back the slew of responses on her tongue, looking up at him as he looks down at her. So much for apologizing. He'd made it seem a villainous act, though she suspects it has more to do with his ego than anything else.
"Fine." She says with finality, dropping her eyes to the floor, knowingly offering him submission. Pushing the issue any further was likely to set off the aforementioned bomb, and Hermione thinks it is much too early to start another fight. He produces a short, accepting nod and turns, striding back towards the front door.
"Where are you going?" she asks in bewilderment, afraid that she has somehow still scared him off. He stops to face her, the corner of his mouth twitching up at her obvious annoyance.
"I'm going to get us coffee, Granger," he says, his tone irate and almost exasperated. "I'm already regretting everything and it's only 8am, so you'll have to excuse me if I need to go off and calm down for a while. I'll be back soon."
He says everything so straightforwardly, no hint of malice, and so Hermione lets him go without another word. She figures giving him as much space as he needs is important if he is going to stay, and she will not say no to some caffeine right now, considering how exhausted she feels after her lousy sleep last night.
She's almost surprised when he actually returns, fifteen minutes later, with two coffees in disposable cups. Half of her had expected him to have changed his mind and run away. She tries to hide the smug look on her face as he hands her the warm beverage.
"Now we owe each other nothing," he says as she takes the cup from him. She can't help but allow her eyes to linger on the sharp, symmetrical lines of his face, and the strand of white-blond hair that has fallen onto his forehead. "I've replaced the coffee I drank, you've given me a job. We're even."
Hermione nods, allowing a sliver of a smile to creep onto her mouth as she begins to lift the cup to her lips. When he notices, his own mouth drops to a frown. He reaches out, and before Hermione can take a sip, he grabs her wrist, stopping her in her tracks and narrowing his eyes at her. It's like he's flipped a switch; reminded himself of how cold and horrible he needs to be. He leans forward, eyes penetrating hers.
"Let me make this very clear, Granger," he says, his voice a gravelly whisper that raises the hair on her neck. She's frozen in place, awaiting his next words. His grip on her wrist tightens threateningly, his thumb pressing into her wrist bone until there is a dull pain.
"We are not friends. We might be even, but we are not mates, or buddies, or even acquaintances. You sign off on my papers, I do some work, we say our goodbyes. Nothing more. I try not to be an absolute and utter prick, and you try to reign in your general unpleasant swotiness. We don't need to do each other anymore favours. Got it?"
She swallows, the pain in her wrist growing to a dull throb as she assesses his eyes. They look empty, shallow, but still sharp and cautioning. Like he's carefully pushed away all emotion, any crack or opening that could reveal what's inside. She nods quickly, trying to hide her disappointment in his words; both from him, and from herself.
"Fine," she replies, and he lets go of her wrist, seemingly satisfied with her answer. He takes a step back and grabs his own coffee from the counter, walking over to the cushioned chair and settling into it as he takes a sip.
Hermione releases a shaky breath and steels herself, taking a sip of her own coffee. It's black – not the way she likes it, and she chokes it down loudly. He hadn't even asked her what she takes in her coffee, though she's hardly surprised.
"Something wrong, Granger?" he smirks, watching her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. She straightens her back and turns to look at him.
Setting the cup back on the counter she strides towards him and leans down, resting a hand on either armrest of the chair as she levels herself to meet his eyes. She leans close, her mouth beside his ear like he always does to her, and begins to whisper.
"Yes," she begins, and she can feel his body tense beside hers – exactly where she wanted him.
"Just so you know for next time, Malfoy: I take my coffee with one cream and one sugar."
It's the same line he delivered to her last week, and she breathes it out in a sickly sweet, taunting voice, her heart skipping as she relishes in the feeling of giving him a taste of his own medicine. She leans away, giving him a falsely sweet smile and blinking her lashes at him innocently before pushing herself off of the chair and walking away to grab her supplies from her bag.
~~~
Tearing down a building is so much quicker when you have another body to help you, Hermione realizes rather quickly.
She shows Malfoy how to tear the wall off of the framing, pulling out nails and ripping the half-destroyed wood with gloved hands. He begrudgingly follows her lead, moving as far away from her as possible and beginning on the opposite side of the wall. He refuses to wear gloves, despite her warnings that his hands will get all cut up. He refuses, even more, to wear a hard hat, telling Hermione how ridiculous she looks in hers.
"How it even fits over that hair of yours, I'll never know," he had sneered, eyeing the way her curls stuck out from under than band as the top of her hair was pushed down under the hard plastic.
"I guess there's not much in there worth protecting anyway," she had teased, eyes looking pointedly at his skull. He glared at her before getting back to work. She decided it was best to try and cap herself at two insults a day, give or take a few, depending on how awful Malfoy was to her.
He was making fast work of his side of the shop, though Hermione found herself flinching every time he pulled a piece of the wall away. Nails stuck out of the wood, points threateningly sharp and at odd angles that could so easily catch skin. He managed to only come out with minor scrapes, to Hermione's relief. She wondered briefly if wizards had workers' insurance, and made a note to owl Kingsley and see what precautions she might need to take.
They worked in silence for most of the day, just the sounds of wood ripped from the wall and thrown onto the floor. In the afternoon, Mr. Bimble sent an owl over with paperwork outlining the full terms of Malfoy's probation as it pertained to his employment.
She would need to pay him something it seemed, which made total sense, though she wasn't sure how much she could afford to give him. She'd only really thought about how much she would need in her vault for the rest of the renovation and shop costs, until she could open and begin making revenue. She considered the possibility that she'd need to ask for a loan, but decided to wait and see how far she could stretch her funds before she made any decisions.
As she read, she could hear Malfoy mumbling complaints about how much faster this would go with magic, and how ridiculous it was that he couldn't use a wand. She had tried to explain to him earlier that she didn't want the process going too fast; she'd avoided saying why, and that it was really about giving herself time and distraction from her own life. He didn't ask, and only suggested that it was a way to torture him rather than a different, more rational reason.
It pained her to her core to admit it, but Malfoy was undeniably attractive. Every once in a while she would catch a glance of him pulling a piece of wood away from the wall, the muscles of his arms flexed and his face set and concentrated. He'd wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead with his hand or push his hair away from his face. He'd grown up a lot from their Hogwarts days; filled out, but not overly muscly; lean but not too skinny; a sharp, angular face with just the right amount of softness; tall but not gangly, like Ron. And of course, his piercing grey eyes which she used to find too harsh, but now likened to various, pleasant things like the moon through a telescope, smoke from a candle, or the smooth marble of a statue. He's quite beautiful, Hermione thinks, despite herself. She'd never tell anyone, but it's not exactly a secret either.
By the end of the day, the first floor was nearly finished. With the combined effort of Hermione and Malfoy, only a small section towards the back remains.
At four o'clock on the dot, Draco drops his hammer, pulls on his robes and promptly leaves the shop for the night with barely even a glance at Hermione. She exhales a huge sigh as she begins to feel the tension, stress, and familiar muscle pain of the day.
She doesn't quite know how to feel about everything. Everything had all happened so fast this morning; Malfoy being at the shop, his silent plea for mercy, buying her coffee and then threatening her about the nature of their relationship. He had done his work with only minor complaints, and basically ignored her all day. It was confusing, irritating, and she has no idea how to handle all of it.
Part of her feels hurt that he had been so adamant that they would not be friends. He had clearly hated her in school, presumably for more than just her blood status; so why had she expected it to be any different?
And yet she has now spent time with him and his friends on multiple occasions, and had tried to be sensitive to their situation and friendly towards all of them. She genuinely enjoyed their company, save for the remaining hostility from both him and Pansy, and tried her best to blend in rather than be too outspoken. Did he really dislike her so much that he had to warn her that working together did not mean making small talk and grabbing lunch, or listening to music and joking lightly about their habits of always fighting?
It was clear that he wanted a distinct separation between colleagues and acquaintances, and that the thought of trivial things such as 'how is your day going?' and what their favourite dessert was would remain off-limits.
Most of all, she hates how much she cares. Hermione of old would have been equally as eager to avoid his company and focus on the task at hand. The idea of holding a conversation with him would have repulsed her, even made her nervous or scared. But there is something intriguingly new about this Malfoy. She hates even more how much she actually almost likes to fight with him. It is thrilling and challenging, and she loves seeing the way he looks when she hits a sore spot, almost as much as she hates the way she feels when he does the same to her. It is a tug of war game without the blisters, and she suspects that even if they avoided interacting with each other beyond talk about work, there would most likely be more disagreements in their future. They were both too stubborn not to.
When she arrives home that night she collapses in a heap onto her sofa, lying still for a long time as she contemplates it all. She decides he must have an Achilles heel somewhere; some small weakness where she can squeeze herself in and force some sort of acquaintanceship on him where he wouldn't notice. It's her new mission: find common ground with Malfoy.
It's her craziest idea yet.
Chapter 7: Chapter 7
Notes:
TW: Descriptions of blood, slight gore
Chapter Text
Hermione brings up the terms of Malfoy's employment the next day after they'd been working in silence for a few hours. The pleasant coolness of the autumn air outside did little to combat the small beads of sweat that collected on Hermione's forehead. She was glad that Malfoy had avoided looking at her all day, knowing how terrible she must have looked, red-faced and sweating in a pair of muggle jean dungarees, hair frizzy and wild under her hard hat.
Despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm for being there, Malfoy worked hard and consistently. In the course of a day he'd gone from purposefully taunting her and pushing her buttons to barely acknowledging her presence. It was unsettling; truthfully, she'd rather him taunt her than blatantly ignore her, but she was smart enough not to try and pick fights with him today.
In trying to make sense of why she was doing this for him, she'd reasoned that it was because she wanted him to finish his probation and move on with his life; do whatever it was he aspired to and hopefully start fresh. She'd unknowingly made it her responsibility to do whatever it took to make him stay the whole four months. If he wanted to do it in silence, it was alright by her.
She brings it up when they have almost finished pulling the wood from the first floor, as they are meeting at the last few feet of wall in the middle. Their proximity makes the silence all the more uncomfortable, and she can smell the saltiness of their sweat mingling in the air, along with the earthy smell he usually carries and her own shampoo.
She clears her throat cautiously, almost to warn him she's going to speak to him. He ignores her, his eyes glued to the burnt piece of wall he's pulling away, still without gloves.
"I have to pay you," she says quietly, so quiet that she worries he doesn't hear her at first. He hasn't flinched at the sound of her voice, just throws the piece of wall he’s ripped away onto the ever-growing pile of wood on the floor, and it lands with a loud thunk.
"I don't need your money, Granger," he says finally, wiping his hands on his trousers to rid them of sweat, and lifting his hammer to the next piece of crumbling wall. This section is one of the worst— completely blackened from fire and smoke, holes in some parts of it that have been burnt away.
"I'm well aware, Malfoy, but it's part of the agreement," she continues, focusing on pulling a nail from the corner of her portion of the wall. It's stuck; won't budge, no matter how hard Hermione pulls. She edges the metal corner of the hammer further under the tiny lip of the nail head, uses her sore muscles to pull. Nothing. She sighs. "Paid work. That's what the contract says. Deposited into your vault every two weeks."
He finally turns his head to look at her, his face mostly blank, only a sliver more than his usual tinge of annoyance. His cheeks are slightly red from the physical labour.
"Just tell Bimbo I don't need it," he argues, though there is almost no lilt to his voice. It's flat, uninterested. She thinks even if she poked fun at him now she'd hardly get a reaction. He is carefully setting his emotions away—Occlumency, Hermione suspects, though she can't be sure. Nor understand why he'd want to occlude around her.
"I can't do that Malfoy, this is ministry ordered. I'll transfer your first paycheck into your vault next Friday. It won't be much, the minimum–" She's trying to get this stupid nail out of the stud in the wall, yanking the hammer with an exertion more ineffective than powerful in its anger; her force isn't centred as it should be. It's scattered, part of her energy being used trying to argue with Malfoy.
The hammer slips out from under the nail, which is still in the wall, and Hermione groans in frustration. Malfoy blinks at her for a second as she huffs, before he steps over to her and, using his own hammer, pulls the nail effortlessly out of the wall. The small, bent piece of silver metal falls and Malfoy catches it in his hand, his eyes trailing over to her. He looks the tiniest bit smug and Hermione does everything she can to not roll her eyes. He drops the nail into Hermione's open palm and steps back to his own portion of the wall, continuing to pull it away from the structure.
"That will hardly be necessary…paying me. I'll just give it all straight back to you, in cash and you can deposit it back into your own vault."
A section of the wall comes off with a gentle pull from him, and his silver eyes dart overs to hers quickly as he steps towards the next section of the wall.
"Malfoy, I can't –"
"Seriously, Granger," there is no trace of amusement on his face, though his tone is finally growing annoyed. "You're going to need it. Mr. Bimble will never know. I already have more money than I'll ever need."
It's hardly meant as a sentimental offer, Hermione reasons, but it warms her chest nonetheless.
"Alright."
"Okay, good."
"Thanks."
Another section of wall is pulled off with a satisfying crack. He nods, once, straight-faced and jaw clenched. Hermione goes back to pulling nails, the two of them working in silence of once more. The warmth of their bodies radiates between them in their close proximity, and even though she's sweating, Hermione finds it strangely comforting.
He's much faster at this than her, which in turn pushes her to work more quickly to try and catch up. He's quite natural at all of this too, the right height and build for it. His movements look so effortless, so innate, even though she suspects that he has never had to work a day in his life before this point.
"I also have to give you days off," she continues after a few minutes. It was best to deliver the information a bit at a time.
"Whatever," he drawls, unenthused. She narrows her eyes at him, watching as he refuses to look at her again.
"What day do you want? During the week?"
He stops, sighing in annoyance and turning to her. His eyes flicker with disdain, flicking up and down her body at her cuffed dungarees. She realizes how distasteful such an outfit might look to someone raised as a wealthy, pureblood wizard, and she scratches her calf with her shoe uneasily.
"I'll have to check my social calendar and let you know." His voice drips with casual sarcasm. She frowns lightly at him.
"Which day, Malfoy?" she demands through clenched teeth, hand resting on her hip. He licks his lips and sinks his top row of teeth onto his bottom lip as he sucks in a breath through his nostrils.
"I don't give a fuck, Granger. You pick one," he sneers, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead with his knuckles. Hermione feels the bubble of irritation rise in her but pushes it down with a quick, forced smile.
"Wednesdays, perhaps? Will break up the week a bit."
"Fine."
"Great."
They simultaneously turn back to face the wall, raising their hammers and pulling at nails.
Her annoyance with him is like a ticking time bomb, growing increasingly threatening inside of her ribcage, aching to explode within her. She watches contemptuously, the way his large hands grab at the sections of the wall; fingers long and knuckles white, blue veins protruding noticeably from under his fair skin, running up his wrists and arms over the flexed muscles.
"I'm going to grab some water," she tells him, not waiting for his response as she turns on her heel and puts as much distance between them as possible. She reaches the front counter, gulping air down as if it was fresher there, and rifling around in her beaded bag for the bottle of water she'd thrown in earlier.
When she finds it she gulps it thirstily. It's dawning on her now; having to put up with Malfoy for four months on a project she'd been so excited to go about alone. He'd just had to come in here and mess it all up because he couldn't remember a stupid date for a meeting with his probation officer. And now here he was with his dumb, snarky mouth and stupid attractive hands, and complete disrespect–
"Fuck!"
Malfoy's voice echoes through the empty shop, a loud growl of pain. He continues to mutter swears under his breath from the back of the shop. Panic shoots through Hermione's body as she drops her water bottle onto the floor and rushes back over to him. She'd known— known that this was going to happen if he didn't wear gloves.
His hand is cut, from the top corner of his palm where it meets his pinky, all the way down to the fleshy heel near his thumb. There's blood everywhere. Deep red, like cherry wine, trickling down his forearm over his mark and dripping off of his elbow onto the floor.
Hermione's stomach lurches; this is why she'd decided not to become a healer. After the war, the sight and smell of blood made her woozy. It reminds her too much of the battle at Hogwarts; the coppery, thick smell of it lingering in the air as if it was made of it. The way it dried, dark, almost brown against the grey stone of the courtyard. The way it clung to the skin of those killed, dried on like face paint.
Malfoy clutches the injured hand with his good one, blood running onto his other arm. It's on the floor too, drops scattered like uneven freckles on the hardwood.
"Shit," she breathes, feeling dizzy at the sight of it. It's just blood, she has to remind herself. Just blood from a nail. She steels herself, ignoring the sudden wave of sickness that has come upon her and rushes to his side.
"What happened?" she asks, grabbing his forearm, pulling his hand towards her and looking down at the cut. It's deep; the skin of his palm curls in on itself as more blood, sticky and hot, oozes from the wound.
"The fuck do you think happened?" he bites, clearly already aware that she knows it was a nail that did it. She spots the piece of wall beside him on the ground— the nail that caught his skin sticks out at an abnormal angle, bent from being pried from the framing. There's blood on the sharp tip of it, scarlet on rusty silver. Malfoy tries to jerk his hand away from her touch, but Hermione grips his arm tightly, unrelenting in her hold. She gives him a warning look. If they were muggles, the cut would need stitches.
She pulls him down to the floor, to a kneel, and brings her wand out of her pocket. She wobbles slightly on her knees and tries to calm her shaking hands.
Please, don't faint, she says to herself. She thinks she said it in her head, but Malfoy looks up at her, eyes flashing with a sudden worry.
"Don't tell me a little blood freaks you out, Granger?" he jokes lightheartedly, despite the sizeable cut leaking more and more blood onto the floor between them.
"I'll be fine. I'm going to heal this, okay?"
His eyes are hard, untrusting, wary of her. He is hesitant, skimming her face dubiously for a moment.
"Malfoy?" she asks again, because he's losing a lot of blood and rusty nails can carry tetanus. She needs to heal it quickly, or else they may need a separate trip to St. Mungos. He seems to come out of his thoughts finally, his eyes more clear, and he gives her a distinct nod. She takes a deep breath in— the scent of metal fills her nostrils and her own hands and arm are sticky with red. She remembers how she had healed Ron after he had been splinched apparating away from the Ministry. This situation was entirely different but felt so much the same.
She turns his palm to face the ceiling, and carefully pushes his long fingers so that they are straight, to see the full expanse of the cut.
"I need to cleanse the cut. It's possible to catch tetanus from an old nail," she tells him, gripping his wrist carefully with her non-dominant hand and holding her wand with the other. A small puddle of blood had gathered between them, and Hermione sees stars in her vision for a moment. She begins to breathe through her mouth to avoid the smell. If she closes her eyes, she sees visions from the battle. Flashes of explosions, Lavender's body on the limestone, red dripping from Fenrir Greyback's mouth. She shakes her head, points the tip of her wand at the cut.
"Munda sanguis," she mutters the incantation, wand hovering just over the skin, following the cut with the tip of it. She says the spell three times, each time running the wand along the cut.
How ironic, she thinks, using a blood cleansing spell on Malfoy the pureblood. Then she uses a healing spell, taking her time to carefully sew together the deep gash on his palm with a similar wand movement. She tries to be as slow as possible, but he's lost enough blood already, and she doesn't want him to pass out. Both of them unconscious (she still feels the urge to faint) would not be the best outcome.
After a few minutes, the wound is fully closed. Hermione uses magic to transform one of her work gloves into a sterile cloth, wiping away the access blood from the tender scar. She'd get a few more pairs later.
"Feeling alright?" she asks him, looking up at his face for the first time in a few minutes. He's slightly paler than usual, which she is not surprised about.
She is, however, astounded at how soft his expression is. The usual hardness and impenetrable glower are gone, and he looks more human than she's ever seen him. His eyes are on hers, lunar and bright, under lashes she's never noticed. Her hand is still on his wrist, small fingers wrapped protectively around the bones, thumb resting on the veins of his wrist just below his hands. Her breath catches in her chest as she realizes the intimacy of the moment. For anyone else, the contact would be normal, given, after what she'd just done.
But this touch, between her and Malfoy, is so strange and unfamiliar that even in its innocence it feels like a caress. It's perturbing, and thrilling. Like touching wires you know could shock you.
He seems to realize this at the same moment as her because in a blink his face becomes steel and he pulls his wrist away from her touch. She feels the stickiness of his blood on her fingers as he pulls.
"I'm fine."
She nods, trying her best not to look at his blood on the floor and her hands. Her head spins. She needs fresh air. Malfoy seems to notice her continuing unease, and with his good hand, pulls his own wand out and casts a Scourgify on the floor, and then, looks up at her, asking for permission with his eyes, and by tilting his chin towards her hands.
She nods, holds out both palms, and watches his blood disappear. She exhales a deep breath of air, tucking her hair behind her ear with her newly cleaned fingers. She's still shaky, but the smell of blood has mostly disappeared, and she doesn't feel as dizzy now. He inspects the sewn line on his palm. It's definitely not a perfect job— she was trying to focus on not throwing up, trying to keep the magical stitch straight without passing out.
"What was the first spell you did?" he asks, his voice deep and thick. He clears his throat and his eyes find hers again.
"I cleaned your blood. Cleansing charm. Tetanus is mostly a muggle issue, but it can infect your blood and make it... well... it poisons you."
He blinks at her, his features blooming with realization.
"I made it pure again," she explains further, and then quickly adds, "-removed the toxins, that is. You'll be fine."
"Thanks."
She doesn't want to stand yet, as her legs still feel a bit uneasy. Instead, Hermione chooses to lean back on her hands and tilts her head back so that her eyes are on the ceiling.
"I told you to wear gloves."
He huffs out a bitter laugh in response.
"Satisfied, are we? I'll wear the stupid gloves from now on."
There's no playfulness in his voice, but no malice either. He also hasn't tried standing up yet, clearly also still shaken from the incident.
"Good. A hard hat too?"
"Never in a million years."
She almost smiles. Then she raises her head back to a normal, front-facing position and looks at the wall in front of her. It's finished. The final piece of the wall on the main floor had been pulled. Malfoy's downfall, and an accomplishment all in one.
"Hey, the first level is done," she breathes in excitement, twisting her neck to look around at the bare structure of the first floor. It's all framing, large planks of wood and the red brick behind it. It feels joyous— one small step, but a step nonetheless. Malfoy nods and finally stands, looking down at his own blood-stained shirt. He casts another scourgify on it and the blood disappears.
"Evanseco," he says, pointing his wand at the final pile of rubble on the floor and watching as it evaporates, as if into thin air. He looks down at Hermione, who is still sprawled on the floor, looking around in achievement at their work.
"Do you... do you need help standing?" he asks awkwardly, as if the prospect of helping her up is repulsive. She shakes her head at him.
"It's alright. I think I need a break, anyway. You can take lunch if you want."
As if on cue, Malfoy's lunch date strolls into the shop, looking at Hermione on the floor and back up at Draco.
"Everything alright?" he asks them, quirking an eyebrow up. Malfoy looks down at her once more, as if she's an absolute lunatic, and then walks towards Blaise.
"Granger has an aversion to blood, apparently," he jibes, sticking his wand back in his pocket as he reaches the other wizard.
"I knew not wearing gloves would come back to bite you in the arse," Blaise chuckles, eyeing Hermione with a twinkle in his eye. Hermione can't help but grin, and finally uses her arms to push herself up to a standing position.
"Piss off, wanker," Malfoy grumbles, motioning towards the doorway. Yesterday, the two had gone off to eat something together while Hermione stayed behind to nibble on a sandwich she'd packed in her bag. Blaise had asked her if she'd wanted to tag along, but she'd politely declined after seeing Malfoy's clear disinclination for more of her company.
"Lunch, Granger?" Blaise asks again, looking with a beguiled stare at her dungarees. This time, Malfoy shows no expression, his eyes looking from Blaise to Hermione with curiosity.
"I can't, I promised Ron I'd meet him," she explains, and for reasons she's well aware of, Ron's name comes out quieter and more timidly than the rest.
"Still keeping terrible company? How long have you and the Weasel been together then?" Malfoy scowls, suddenly back to his usual self. Hermione refuses to give him the reaction he wants, walking over to the front counter and picking up the water bottle she'd dropped earlier.
"Ron and I aren't together, but that doesn't mean you should keep calling him those childish names," she deadpans, watching Malfoy with his smug half-smile.
"Which one? Weasel? Weaselbee? Or maybe Weaslewanker? There's also-"
"Blaise, probably time for you two to leave for lunch now," Hermione states, ignoring Malfoy's jeering and kicking herself for not letting him bleed out on her floor. Maybe tetanus would have been a nice lesson for the git, after all.
"Right. See you later, Granger," Blaise gives her a slightly apologetic look, before grabbing Malfoy's shoulder forcefully and practically dragging him out the door, like a mother with her troubled child.
How could she for one second let her guard down around him? He was, and would always be an absolute git, with the uncanny ability to drain her of any logic as soon as he made any expression other than a frown. She wants to kick herself. Next time he hurts himself, she's not going to jump at the drop of a hat to heal him.
Her frustration carries over into lunch, and Ron, plus Harry, who had decided to join them at The Leaky Cauldron, notice her sour mood right away.
"What’s going on, Hermione? You've seemed right ticked off since you got here. Shop renovations going alright?" Ron asks her, eyebrows drawn in confusion.
She hasn't told either of them about Malfoy working for her yet and decides she should probably keep quiet about it for a bit longer. She knows there is no way either of them will understand why she's done it, and part of her thinks they'd do everything they could to rub it in Malfoy's face. This would surely end badly, and she had no intention of starting more fires anywhere— she hadn't even cleaned up after the last one yet.
She tells them that she is just tired, that she'd finished stripping the first floor of the shop and had sore muscles. It wasn't entirely a lie: just a blatant omission of the truth.
After she's assured them that she's merely grumpy, they begin to tell her the latest news on the resistance group in Wales. Apparently, it's a small circle of Voldemort supporters that had never received the Mark, though they'd been close in line. The Aurors assigned to the case can't pin down their location, because the group is constantly moving, never staying in one place long.
The Ministry only knows about this because of an Owl they'd received from an anonymous witch, who'd unknowingly given them board for the night and overheard them through the walls.
"And what?" Hermione asks, looking nervously between her friends. "They plan on gathering more people? Making a move on the ministry? That could take years, decades even, if that kind of evil is still out there."
Harry nods, habitually pushing the wire brim of his glasses up his nose.
"I know. But as long as they're out there, they're a symbol. A beacon. A resistance only starts with one broken soul. An army might take years to build, but the spark that fires the resistance? It only takes that one spark to light a fire."
The salad Hermione has eaten for lunch suddenly feels too heavy in her stomach. After all they'd fought for, after what they'd lost. It was true; even if this small resistance group was making themselves known to the wizarding world, it would be another generation before they could garner enough support to start another war. Evil was always going to be out there, Hermione tried to rationalize.
"And are you any closer to finding out more?" she asks cautiously, because part of her already knows the answer.
"Not exactly," Ron answers after swallowing a sip of his pumpkin juice. "The Death Eaters didn't exactly leave a lot of records for us to follow. Voldemort liked to keep his circle small— the original group of Death Eaters had only expanded to about three times its size by the time we defeated him. Anyone else who supported him, we can never really be sure."
Harry, who is fidgeting with his napkin, casts his eyes down at the table. When Ron finishes, he continues.
"As soon as the war was over there was a group of Aurors sent out to find these people — make as many connections as possible, do some deep digging and detective work. The problem is, it's easy to cover up your trails if you've never left any. This group could've been any number of people. Admirers who watched from afar but never got the chance to fight like they wanted. This whole mission is a shot in the dark."
The uncertainty is frightening. The wondering is worse. Hermione wonders what is true and what isn't. Does this group really have the power to restart the resistance? Without Voldemort, one of the most powerful wizards in history, could they make their own ripples, eventually, if that was what they wanted?
Harry and Ron explain that they'll be out in Wales for the last few weeks of October. An attempt to infiltrate the group, an undercover operation. This means Hermione won't be able to spend Halloween with her friends. With Ginny off, and Neville so heavily involved in the Hallow's Eve events at Hogwarts, this means her evening is free.
"Mum wants you to come to The Burrow for dinner more often," Ron reveals as the conversation makes a turn. "Says you're like one of her own children and she hardly sees you anymore."
Hermione smiles softly at this. Truthfully, she had been avoiding The Burrow to some extent. The busyness of it often overwhelms her, reminds her of too much. Maybe she can sneak a visit in when the boys are gone; family dinners will be quiet, without Ron and Ginny there.
"I'll come by soon," she assures him. He seems pleased, and he and Hermione listen intently as Harry describes Ginny's Quidditch tour schedule for the next couple of weeks. Hermione hardly knows anything about the teams, but Ron responds enthusiastically to them, commenting on their stats from the previous season, and noting the new chaser on the Appleby Arrows.
Her mind strays, and she thinks about the resistance in Wales and the brand new fear it has instilled in her— less familiar and duller, but still there. She wants to tell Harry about her dream but decides against it while Ron is around. He tended to get sour when Harry and Hermione spoke of the time they'd spent without him Horcrux hunting, despite how terrible most of the memories were.
When Ron pays for her lunch, there is a pang of residual guilt that arises in her, one she hasn't felt for a while.
She will always remember his face when she'd told him. When she'd explained why the two of them wouldn't work. It was a necessary blow that had to come at the worst time. She didn't think that comforting him while they had sex, and holding him after while he shook with tears in mourning was a good way to start a relationship. She also knew this would make it impossible to end. She couldn't be dependent on someone else, couldn't be forced to heal at the same pace as them.
He'd ignored her for weeks. She thinks it must have been Harry who had to shake some sense into him, warn him about the dangers of losing a friend who was still alive and well. We've had too many losses to create one willingly, he would have said. Eventually, they'd made their slow start back to normalcy. She'd still catch him looking at her, almost longingly, now and again, though the looks came less and less nowadays.
He was the last childish fantasy she'd left behind.
When she gets back to the shop, Malfoy is already there. He stands idle by the counter, waiting for her return. She tosses a pair of gloves at him, which he puts on, shoving his hands in so that she can't linger in a potential satisfactory, 'I told you so' gaze.
They work slowly into the afternoon, barely a word between them. The second level is in better shape than the first, which makes it harder to pull apart. No breaking off as many fire-destroyed, crumbling pieces.
At four o'clock, he promptly pulls off his gloves and spins to make his way down the stairs.
"So tomorrow will be your day off, then?" she calls after him, and he stops, halfway down the stairs.
"Alright," he says flatly, eyeing her as if waiting for her to say something else.
"I'll see you Thursday, then."
He nods, taking this as his okay to leave, and is out the doors in a flash.
Chapter 8: Chapter 8
Chapter Text
“It’s idiotic, Granger,”
“It’s not! I like the work. Using magic would be too easy.”
Malfoy gives a frustrated huff, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.
“Easy is good, Granger. Easy means the shop is done sooner and you can reopen and start making money. Right now, you’re just losing it.”
It was the second week of Malfoy working with her, and his selective muteness had only lasted a few days. At the start of the second week, they were back to petty arguments and low jabs at each other’s egos. They’d fought about the right angle to pull nails from, how Hermione wasn’t using her legs to carry heavy weight, Malfoy’s refusal to wear a hard hat (again) and, the most reoccurring one: why they couldn’t use magic to fix the shop.
She had to admit that some strange part of her preferred the arguing over the silence— at least then, she existed in his world. When he tried to go without speaking it felt as if she wasn’t there; invisible. She was almost 100% sure now that he was using occlumency on most of those occasions, though she still didn’t understand why.
She could always tell, in the way his eyes would go blank, and the way his features would be expressionless on his face. Not quite relaxed, but not harsh either; a guarded, impassive look that made him seem unreachable.
If she poked enough, sometimes she could get him to come out, like a bear from its cave. The results of this varied, and usually she tried to gauge his irritability levels beforehand. Some days, he’d get angry and have to leave for a coffee break. Other days, Hermione would have to. His jibes at her were always better, always harsher. No matter how poisonous she tried to be, he was always one step ahead of her. Thankfully, both of them seemed aware of the lines that shouldn’t be crossed and stayed far away from them.
Blaise was the ever hard-working mediator, usually checking in to make sure that neither of them had hexed the other, and stepping in when he needed to. His calm, peaceful aura always shook both Malfoy and Hermione from their angered state and brought them back to reality.
On Thursday of the second week, Malfoy brought Hermione another coffee— it was black.
“Did you drop something on your head while refusing to wear a hard hat?” Hermione asks irately, frowning into the cup of bitter coffee. Malfoy, who had clearly planned this, stretches his lips into a smug grin.
“Could you please elaborate, Granger?” he asks devilishly, taking a sip of his own coffee. Smug bastard.
“I’m just wondering if you bumped your head and had forgotten how I take my coffee, or if you really are that dim.”
She watches the ice fall over his eyes. She’s got him where she wants him now.
“If you don’t like it, Granger, don’t drink it,” he spits back, and the fun of the game is over. “Adding all of that other crap ruins the coffee. I think you’ll eventually realize that it’s better left alone.”
She scowls at him, wondering why he so adamantly needs to gatekeep the sugar and cream from her.
“I never asked you to buy me coffee, Malfoy. Don’t bother getting me one again, if you’re going to be so rude about it.”
“I’m not being rude,” he scoffs playfully. “You’re the one getting pissy at me for giving you a free coffee. Use your manners, Granger, and drink it anyway.”
“Well, I thank you for your gifts, Malfoy, but I will kindly decline any further offers from you unless they’re actually drinkable. This is like swallowing pond water.”
She tosses the full cup of coffee into the bin and shoots him an overtly contemptuous look.
“Merlin’s ballsack, that’s a little dramatic don’t you think?”
“Dramatics are your thing, Malfoy, not mine.”
“You’re a ball of fun, Granger, know that?”
“And you’re an arse.”
“Ouch, careful Granger, I might cry.”
Then there were the small, rare moments that confused Hermione to her core. Moments of softness or vulnerability that he’d let slip through the cracks of his façade. A chuckle from him as she fumbled with another stuck nail as he stepped over to help her. Once, when she’d slipped on the ladder he’d rushed over to catch her. A playful comment about her hair, no hint of snarkiness (‘Have you stuck your finger in an electrical socket, Granger?’) followed by an unusual sly smile. Small, unbearably unremarkable moments that gave her a small glimpse of the Malfoy hidden underneath.
On Thursday, after she finds him waiting outside the shop for her as usual, she gives him the unlocking charm for the door. He is always here before her in the morning, always waiting for her to arrive.
“I trust you,” she states simply, casually, after he asks her why. His features soften, eyes flashing with incredulity as he realizes what she’s said to him. He blinks, looking from her to the locked door between them.
“Why?” he asks, so vulnerable and defenceless she almost wants to cry. She ponders his question for a moment, eyes searching his.
“I don’t know. I just do,” she shrugs, and she wants to keep him here, forever, in this moment where he doesn’t have to keep his walls around him. “And I think that’s enough, don’t you?”
He doesn’t answer her, just closes himself off again, using the unlocking charm to enter the shop before her. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, Hermione thinks. If she ever solves the Draco Malfoy puzzle, it’ll be her greatest accomplishment yet.
It was now Friday, thank goodness, and a weekend had never sounded better to Hermione. She was exhausted, mentally and physically from working and her constant thinking and brooding about Malfoy had begun to take its toll on her. Strangely, she’d grown quite comfortable working alongside him. His presence is… comforting, despite everything. For reasons she can’t understand, she feels relief coming to work and being around him. He doesn’t talk about the war, about what it was like before and after, and Hermione is significantly more relaxed around him than she is around her friends.
He doesn’t expect anything from her, doesn’t ask her to be happy or tell her that things will be alright. He gives everything to her straight, though they haven’t brought up the war or anything about their personal lives. He’s a constant, steady force in her day-to-day life, and she thinks that this weekend, while a chance to relax, will also be strange without him around. Crookshanks was wonderful company, but it wasn’t as exhilarating to make quips to him as it was to Malfoy.
The second floor of the shop is nearly halfway stripped of the old wall, since they’d taken a break earlier that week to begin bringing in supplies and cleaning up on the first floor. They worked in relative silence today, only a few small quarrels about trivial, unimportant things. It had been a while since Hermione had seen the rest of the Slytherins, apart from Blaise, and she found herself wondering about them; how they were doing, what they did to occupy their time, if they were tolerating their mandatory probation meetings.
“How is everyone? Adrian, and Daphne and everyone else?” she asks him out of the blue as they work in the afternoon. He freezes and turns his head to look at her.
“Since when do you wonder how Adrian Pucey and Daphne Greengrass are?” he asks sarcastically.
“Since I have grown rather fond of them in the last month. They’re wonderful. How are they?” she repeats, turning her body to face him. His cheeks are pink from working and the fabric of his t-shirt sticks to him slightly, grabbing the toned curves of his arms and shoulders. Hermione swallows.
“They’re alright, I guess. They asked about you, last weekend, too.”
Hermione’s heart skips a beat. She turns back to her section of the wall, raising a finger and scratching at a bit of smoke damage, like a nervous tic.
“That’s lovely. How long have they been together?”
Malfoy looks at her strangely again. Her interest in the Slytherins is clearly unfathomable to him, but he continues anyway.
“About a year. Adrian lost a lot to the war, and Daphne was really there for him when he needed it. They have a special bond because of it. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re disgustingly attached to each other’s hip.” His face scrunches up, as if playfully disgusted by the thought of the couple’s PDA. Hermione giggles at him.
“I think it's sweet,” she coos, watching him pull a nail from the wall effortlessly. He quirks an eyebrow at her, sending it under the blond fringe of hair that’s fallen messily on his forehead.
“Things can be too sweet, sometimes Granger. Do I even want to know how many sugars you put in your coffee?”
He’s teasing her, light and playful, and she hates the way her heart almost jumps with joy at it. She’s smiling, but she gives him a feigned look of annoyance.
“Only one. A perfectly normal amount for coffee, thank you very much. Only one cream, too.”
“You’re telling me this as if I’m supposed to remember,” he quips, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
“It was purely anecdotal, I assure you,” she grins clandestinely, trying her hide how pleased their civil conversation is making her.
“Good, then I can forget about it immediately,” he retorts. It’s silent again for a moment, the creaking of the wall bring pulled from wood and nails dropping to the floor with a tinkle.
“What about Theo?” Hermione asks, knowing she is pushing her luck. It’s not often they can have an actual conversation and usually, they don’t last long before they’re squabbling. If he’s annoyed with her now, he doesn’t show it.
“Why, are you interested, Granger?” he jokes, his eyes flicking to hers briefly before falling back to the wall. She almost thinks she sees a flash of emotion, though it’s gone before she can pin it down.
“Har har. No, actually, but I can’t deny that he’s quite handsome. He doesn’t have a queue of eligible witches waiting to become the future Mrs Nott?”
Malfoy stops working again, pivoting to face her and seemingly considering something for a moment, as if he’s deciding what he should tell Hermione and what he shouldn’t. He licks his lips quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“I’m sure he does, but he and Blaise are too busy pining for each other for him to notice any of them.”
Oh.
This is news to her— not something she’d noticed or expected.
“Really?” she asks incredulously, her eyes wide as she turns to face the blond boy. His eyes flicker with amusement at Hermione’s stupefied expression.
“It’s not exactly a secret. Everyone knows. I’m surprised you didn’t see it, since you notice everything.”
She shakes her head softly, watching him.
“Not this. How long has that been going on?”
Malfoy, realizing that this conversation wouldn’t be ending anytime soon, drops the hand holding the hammer and relaxes his body, turning fully away from his section of the wall.
“Since Hogwarts,” he explains, and he looks far away suddenly as if he’s thinking about a specific memory in his mind’s eye. Hermione faces him, leans a shoulder onto the wall. She’s gulping up his sudden willingness to open up to her.
“I think Pansy and I started to suspect something sometime during fourth year. Theo would look at Blaise a bit too long and Blaise would ask Theo to be his partner for almost every assignment. After a while, it was so obvious to everyone but them. We were all just waiting for something to happen. They hooked up after a Slytherin party in fifth year — too much Firewhiskey — and Adrian, Pansy and I found them the morning after. They were a mess.”
“What happened after?” Hermione asks, astounded she hasn’t picked up on any signs of this until now.
“Theo lost it, begging us not to tell anyone. Blaise thought Theo was embarrassed by him. Really, Theo’s dad was a real asshole. If he found out, it’s hard to say what terrible things he might have done to him. Theo didn’t want to take any chances. Too many Slytherins with pureblood families that they could go home and gossip to. Too much of a chance that it would reach Nott Sr. We all swore we’d keep quiet. The two of them had it bad for each other after that.
“It was messy, for a while— they’d hook up one night and avoid each other the rest of the week. Blaise started to feel used by Theo, but couldn’t stop himself from falling back into the same position over and over again. They needed each other, but they were like... one another’s forbidden fruit. The temptation always too much, feelings too strong to ignore. When Theo took the mark, they got into a huge fight. Called each other a bunch of awful names. They didn’t talk for months during the war. It’s been a slow start, making amends, after the war. But they’re both out now, now that their parents aren’t around to curse them or cut them off… not that they’re waving it around, either. I think they’re both still hurt by what happened, dancing around each other, though it’s clear they’re crazy for one another. It’s more annoying than Adrian and Daph, if you ask me.”
Hermione is overwhelmed, both at the number of words Malfoy has just said to her, and at the idea of Blaise and Theo having a great love affair that she’d never noticed.
“Wow,” she breathes biting her lip in thought.
“Yeah. We’re trying not to meddle; to let them go about it on their own. But it’s terribly frustrating to watch, sometimes.”
Malfoy clearly feels affection towards his friends; Hermione can tell in the way his voice carries and the warmth in his marble eyes, that he cares deeply for them.
“That used to be Harry, too, in sixth year,” Hermione admits, thinking back to the way he and Ginny had pirouetted around their feelings for each other for so long when there never seemed to be a right time for them to be together.
“What, Potter and Weaselbee went for a romp?” He jokes, pulling one of his gloves off and wiping his hand on the front of his trousers. “Tell me you got in there, too? No wonder they call you the Golden trio.”
He runs the hand through his hair, pushing the strands, damp with sweat, away from his face.
“Funny,” Hermione says, holding back a grin. “I meant Harry and Ginny, git.”
Malfoy grins at her, mischievous, charming.
“I know, Granger. You’re fun to tease.”
This admission is so friendly, Hermione almost falls over. Was this… were they… friends?
Before Hermione has a chance to screw it all up by saying something to alert him of this, the front door bell, which Hermione had installed earlier that week, chimes through the shop. Malfoy seems to snap out of his temporary casualness as if someone seeing them acting friendly towards one another would be the worst possible thing to happen.
“Hello?” the voice carries through the shop and Malfoy rolls his eyes.
It’s the squeaky voice of Mr. Bimble, who Hermione had forgotten was coming today to do his first bi-weekly check-in on Malfoy’s progress. Hermione and Malfoy drop their hammers gently on the hardwood and make their way downstairs.
“Mr. Bimble,” Hermione smiles politely, eyeing the small man, whose mustache looks nearly twice as big as it was the last time she’d seen him. She wonders if he ever gets food stuck in it like she’d seen Horace Slughorn do once accidentally. She almost shudders at the memory.
“Afternoon, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. How are we getting along?”
Hermione knows that he means this in the sense of how Malfoy’s probation employment is going, but she has to stifle a laugh at the question. To her, ‘how are we getting along?’ only reminds her that most of the time they are not, in fact, getting along at all.
Malfoy frowns at her, hearing her stifled chortle, and turns to Mr. Bimble.
“Just fine, Mr. Bimble,” he says in a deadpan. His dislike for the man is obvious to Hermione, though he seems to keep it contained when face to face with him.
“Miss Granger?” Mr. Bimble asks, raising his bushy, spiky eyebrows at her.
“Things are going very well, sir,” she says, looking over at Malfoy like the proud employer she is. “Malfoy is reliable, hardworking, and overall, a very pleasant employee.”
It's Malfoy’s turn to laugh now, and he has to turn his body slightly to hide the chuckle, which he covers up by pretending to clear his throat.
“That’s wonderful to hear,” Mr. Bimble smiles, looking up at them both with his watery eyes and a pinched face. Draco and Hermione look over at each other, and for the first time, they’re on the same side of a really funny joke. If only Mr. Bimble knew what had truly been happening the past two weeks.
“Miss Granger, a word in your office?” Bimble says, gripping a chestnut brown leather briefcase in his stubby fingers.
“Of course,” Hermione says, looking once more back at Malfoy, who knows full well that her ‘office’ is currently being used as storage for all of their supplies. Nevertheless, Hermione motions with her hand for the man to follow her, and opens the creaking door to the office behind the front counter. As she closes the door on them, she looks once more at Malfoy, who is watching her, strangely. It’s a look she’s never seen before, and it’s ambiguous enough for her not to know whether it’s a good look or a bad look.
The wooden door shuts on it, and she’s left to guess. Mr. Bimble stands awkwardly, assessing the disaster that is the office: tools and supplies scattered from wall to ceiling and piled on the old desk and chairs. Hastily, she clears a box of painting supplies from one of the chairs and motions for him to sit.
“Apologies, Mr. Bimble. It’s a slow process, as you know, renovating without magic.”
Mr. Bimble pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his robes and wipes the seat of the chair before sliding into it, sniffing pompously.
“Yes, I was rather surprised to hear this from your initial paperwork. Very strange indeed Miss Granger. And tell me, what made you decide to take that particular route?” he asks as Hermione clears her own seat behind the desk, sitting half on the chair and half on a book about business strategy.
She looks nervously at him from across the desk and watches him begin to pull out his clipboard and a self-filling travel quill.
“It was… well, honestly sir, it was my way of giving myself a new project,” she explains, watching the man begin to fill out the paperwork clamped onto the clipboard. “Something that would take up plenty of time and effort. I had a lot of it, you see. Time.”
He nods, clearly unenthused and only half listening, as she watches him write Malfoy’s case number on the piece of parchment.
“Mhhm, yes, I see,” he hums, looking back up to her. “And, since it's only us now, you can tell me truthfully. Has Mr. Malfoy been showing up to work? Showing any signs of distressing behaviour?”
Hermione furrows her brows in confusion.
“No, sir, like I said, he’s been a model employee these past few weeks. Are there reasons for me to worry?”
Bimble scratches a few things on the parchment, spectacles slipping down his large nose.
“Perhaps not, Miss Granger, but Mr. Malfoy had previously shown rather clear signs of contempt towards the probation program. I was quite surprised to find you had even hired him at all. Many places had turned him away in the weeks before he was due to begin working. I was beginning to fret that he wouldn’t have somewhere in time,” the man explains, blinking at her and then using the handkerchief he’d wiped the chair with to blow his nose.
“I see,” Hermione says, her curiosity not yet extinguished. She thinks it’s probably pushing it, to ask, but she does so anyway. “May I inquire what kinds of… contempt, he was showing?” she keeps her voice, calm, level, almost uninterested so as not to cause alarm. He looks up at her again and narrows his eyes.
“I can’t give away too many details, as I’m sure you can understand, Miss. Granger,” he rambles, fixing the tie hanging from his collar, “But Mr. Malfoy was unhappy that his mother was not granted the same pardons as he was. Her offences were low, yes, lower than Lucius Malfoy’s certainly, but Narcissa Malfoy was not an innocent, no. She is serving 10 years, and Mr. Malfoy was rather… distraught, that he was unable to convince the Wizengamot to reconsider. Put up a good fight, that’s for sure. Wouldn’t participate in any of the programming at the beginning. I think he eventually realized that his disobedience was not the answer to the problem at hand. Now, Miss Granger, back to Mr. Malfoy's work ethic. I was wondering–”
As Mr. Bimble throws a slew of questions at her, Hermione realizes for the first time that Narcissa Malfoy is still in Azkaban. Strangely, she hadn’t thought about the witch much, even when Lucius had passed away last month. She’d been complicit in the crimes of her husband, and in hosting Voldemort in her home, but no one really knew to what extent. The woman had been given a hard trial, lasting longer than anyone had expected as they tried to find the truth about Narcissa’s participation in the war. In the end, she’d been tried as guilty of all charges, and given ten years for her crimes.
Hermione wonders if this is what has been setting Malfoy on edge for the past month; if this is why he doesn’t sleep and is usually in a terrible mood. It’s a solid theory, and more than Hermione has ever had to go off of.
She’d not known Narcissa well, but it was because of her that Harry was still alive, and Hermione and Harry have both reasoned that the motivations behind her subservience to the Dark Lord had been for the benefit of protecting her son. She feels a sudden ache for Malfoy, knowing how hard it was to miss a parent, to not be able to see them when you wanted. It was probably even more awful to see her behind bars after he had been set free.
Hermione answers all of Mr. Bimble’s questions, praising Draco for his work and avoiding the subject of their regular disagreements. The man scribbles notes furiously and then thanks her again for her time. When Hermione opens the door of the office again to show Mr. Bimble back into the main room of the shop, Blaise has appeared and is standing and chatting with Malfoy in low whispers.
“Hello, Blaise,” Hermione says, smiling at him and looking back at Mr. Bimble, who has waddled out of the office with his briefcase. “You are familiar with Mr. Bimble, I’m sure. He works for the probation office at the Ministry.”
Blaise smiles pleasantly at the man, charming as always, and steps forward to shake his hand.
“Pleasure, Mr. Bimble. I’m Blaise Zabini, Draco’s friend. I also work just down the street.”
Mr. Bimble’s hand goes stiff in Blaise’s as he freezes, and a startled recognition falls upon his face. His eyes widen and his mustaches twitches as Blaise releases him from the handshake.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Malfoy’s… boyfriend. How lovely to meet you.”
Hermione almost laughs out loud and has to slap a hand over the giant grin on her mouth. Mr. Bimble had remembered the little white lie Hermione had made at Malfoy’s expense during their first meeting, and truly believes that Malfoy and Blaise are a couple.
Blaise draws his brows together in shock, and Malfoy’s face goes white before he turns to glare at Hermione. Blaise’s mouth hangs open slightly, looking back and forth between Hermione and Malfoy, registering their faces and their obvious understanding of the misconception. Before Blaise can say anything, Mr. Bimble steps into action again.
“Well, I must be going. One last client today, and I’m running late as usual. Nice to see you again, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. Mr….”
“Zabini, sir” Blaise supplies, suppressing a smile of his own.
“Right. Have a wonderful weekend!”
The man hobbles happily out of the shop and apparates away with a twirl of his robes.
“You two have some explaining to do,” Blaise says accusingly, watching as Hermione lets out the laugh she’s been holding.
“This one is all Granger’s doing,” Malfoy scowls, crossing his arms over his chest in irritation. Hermione explains the joke, how she’d done it to annoy Malfoy when he’d forced her to go along with his ludicrous plan. Blaise chuckles, knocking his arm against Malfoy’s playfully and telling him to lighten up.
“Swot,” Malfoy frowns, eyes narrowed at her.
“Prat,” she retorts. Blaise rolls his eyes at them.
“Malfoy, I’ve already told you, you’re not my type. I’m just not into blonds,” Blaise jeers and Malfoy pretends not to be amused.
“Ah, but Slytherin men who are also assholes are your type, so you can see where I might have gotten confused,” Malfoy bites back, shoving his friend away lightly. Blaise’s eyes fall on Hermione when he says this, and Hermione shoots him a reassuring smile.
“Malfoy told me about you and Theo. I’m sorry that things are so complicated.”
Blaise’s dark brown eyes grow sad, and he shrugs half-heartedly, shuffling his foot against the dusty floor.
“It is what it is,” he smiles at her. “Love makes fools of us all, Granger, remember that.”
Malfoy scoffs, a snarky breath breathed through his nostrils.
“You do talk some shit, Blaise, straight out of your ass. Now tell us, what are you really doing here?”
“I’ve come to invite Granger out with us for Halloween,” Blaise replies, looking at Hermione and wiggling his eyebrows. “Come have fun with us, Granger? Everyone misses you.”
“Almost everyone,” Malfoy mutters under his breath. Hermione shoots him a glare. Blaise ignores Draco and looks at her as he waits for her response. Secretly, she’s been hoping he’d ask for a while. With Harry and Ron out of town beginning next week, she’ll be dying for company, and to have a few drinks somewhere that isn’t her flat.
“I’d love to,” she smiles, and Blaise claps his hands once, rubbing them together in glee. Malfoy just glares at her, which makes her even more inclined to go.
“Lovely,” Blaise says, shaking Malfoy’s shoulders excitedly.
“You can go home early, Malfoy,” Hermione says to the blond, hoping she can stay in his good graces. Today had been an exceptionally… dare she say it, pleasant day, and she feels as if she has been basking in a warm sunlight. Malfoy raises a skeptical brow at her.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll just finish up here and see you Monday, yeah?”
Malfoy nods and Blaise makes his way over to the door, waiting for the other man to join him. Malfoy collects his jacket and wand, and the two are out the door, Blaise waving goodbye while Malfoy charges ahead, not looking back.
If they weren’t careful, they’d make this a habit: always leaving just as things were starting to get good.
Chapter 9: Chapter 9
Notes:
TW: some slight violence/toxic behaviours, alcohol abuse, panic attack
Please enjoy *trumpet sounds* Chef Adrian Pucey!
Chapter Text
The days of October burn fast and melt away, like a candle. Hermione and Draco make quick work of finishing the second floor until finally the whole shop has been torn down to the framing— bare studs over mahogany bricks.
Unsurprisingly, Malfoy’s mood the day he had told Hermione about Theo and Blaise had been a one-off. The next week he had arrived in his usual mood, only grunting and muttering when Hermione tried to talk to him and leaving promptly at four o’clock sharp without even an acknowledgement.
Hermione decided that she was fed up with her sick need to gain his acquaintance, and reminded herself to focus on the real reason she was doing all of this. Malfoy was a temporary blip in the road; a four month long obstacle that she had to work around before things went back to normal. She stopped greeting him in the morning, stopped trying to engage in conversation, stopped giving him friendly smiles. She would not be distracted and perturbed from her project because of a man who had used her for his own advantage.
This was what he wanted, after all. He’d told her no friendship, no relationship beyond what they were providing each other. She got his help with the manual labour, and he got her signature on his probation papers. That was it. Mutually beneficial, no added complications.
The Monday after Malfoy’s first paycheck had been deposited into his vault, he’d brought the same amount back in cash and had tucked it under the corner of Hermione's bag without a word. When she’d tried to give it back to him he had gotten snappy, colourful cuss words signalling his exasperation with her. She tried to insist that even though he had plenty of galleons, he should still be getting paid for his hard work, should still reap the rewards of all of his efforts. He’d laughed at her and told her that if she tried to give him the money back again he’d Incendio it and that it would be a waste.
She had stalked away from him, muttering her displeasure with the cash still in hand. Truthfully, he was right. She needed it. She hated it most when he was right about something.
On Wednesdays— Malfoy’s day off —Hermione found peace in the quietness and solitude of working at the shop alone. Things moved much slower, but the fruits of her labours by the end of the day were always so rewarding.
Harry and Ron left for Wales the third week of October, ignited by new leads on the rebel group and fearless in their hope to break some ground on it. The night they left, Hermione had a dream that Harry and Ron were standing in a large field, surrounded by masked Death Eaters. She watched as every one of them raised their wands and shot Crucio curses at her friends, and woke up as the sounds of their screams were echoing in her ears.
She had slept maybe two hours that night and at work that day she could see Malfoy’s lingering glances at her, his eyes dropping to the purple bags under hers, clearly aware of her unusual pallor and sunken skin.
She found herself hating the way he was looking at her, verging too closely on sympathy or understanding. His sudden lapses in control and composure were equivocal to dangling a bone on a string in front of a dog; like bait on a hook. He’d offer a softer version of Malfoy to her, dangle it in front of her, tempt her with it, tease her. As soon as she got close he’d be back to his normal, brooding self. It was a game she didn’t want to play, and so she had ignored him completely that day, no matter how much veiled emotion he displayed. The closer she got, the farther away he would make himself. His occlumency didn’t help, because it made it even easier for him to close himself off to her.
So by the week of Halloween, Malfoy and Hermione were mere bodies in each other’s spaces, objects to work around, save for the odd stolen glance or flat, polite request to be passed a tool. Hermione avoided speaking to Blaise about any of it because asking would make it seem like she cared. Despite Blaise’s unofficial job as their mediator, he had little to say to Hermione about Malfoy, or their relationship, which only reiterated its lack of existence.
On Thursday, two days before Hermione would be going out with the Slytherins for Halloween, a large tawny owl flies into the shop with a roll of parchment attached to its foot. Hermione expects it to be from Ron or Harry, Ginny even, updating her on what they were up to. When she pulls the roll of parchment off of the bird’s leg and unrolls it, she gets an entirely different surprise.
Hi Granger,
Pucey and I were wondering if you’d want to come by for lunch tomorrow? Truth is, we like hanging out with you and we just can’t wait until Saturday to see you.
Okay, so there is also an ulterior motive. We need to borrow your brains, if possible. Your incredible intelligence, not your actual brains. But you knew that. Will explain more tomorrow. Can you make it? Whatever time you take lunch break at the shop works for us. Send my owl back. My address is written at the bottom of this parchment.
Adrian says please.
-Theo
Theodore Nott has invited Hermione to lunch. With Adrian Pucey. The two Slytherin boys with whom she is the least acquainted.
True, they needed something from her, but regardless, this was a first that Hermione had never expected. She quickly writes a response letter on a spare piece of parchment, accepting their invitation and telling them she’d come just after noon when she normally took lunch. She gave the owl a few treats that she kept in her bag and sent it off, a warm glow of anticipation filling her chest.
Truthfully, she was clueless about what type of help they needed her for. She didn’t know much about Adrian, but Theo had always been a good student, close in marks to Hermione and Draco. Whatever it was, it had to be something that Hermione was particularly well versed in.
She rejoins Draco upstairs, where they have begun putting up the new shelving walls, cutting large pieces of wood with the mechanical table saw that Hermione had purchased from the muggle hardware store. The most they’d spoken in the past week was when they’d read the instructions and learned to use the saw safely together, in an effort not to accidentally cut off any fingers or limbs.
This was the process that would inevitably take the longest— now that the shop was down to its bare bones, the entire thing would need new floor-to-ceiling shelves and walls, and Hermione and Draco were cutting and measuring every inch of it by hand. It had taken a few books for Hermione to completely understand the process, to make sure the shelves would be sturdy and installed properly to hold the weight of future books.
She’d mapped out blueprints and done the math, measured once, twice, three times, consulted with the employees at the muggle shop to make sure she was getting the right kind of wood and other various supplies. There was so much to know, so much to remember, so many intricacies that Hermione hadn’t anticipated. As usual, she enjoyed the challenge, and it was handy to have Draco around to help her figure things out. She was particularly excited to tell Arthur Weasley about all of the muggle tools she was using in the process.
Back upstairs Hermione begins to drill the fasteners for the shelves into a new portion of the wall. Draco stands at the saw, sliding the plank of wood under the blade and pulling it across the table surface. She watches him, the way he moves elegantly and precisely, the way his eyes focus on the wood under his slightly furrowed brow.
“Something wrong, Granger?” he asks without looking up when the saw turns off. He pulls the newly cut wood from the table and stacks it with the others beside him. Hermione realizes that she is staring and quickly turns back to the task at hand. She doesn’t respond, feeling heat rise up her neck and onto her cheeks. She hears him move behind her, pulling another piece of lumber from the floor and placing it on the table. She can hear the scratch of his pencil as he marks the spot he will cut next. She hears him come up beside her, watches from the corner of her eye as he double-checks a measurement on the wall beside her using a measuring tape.
The air fills with the scent of him; the slight salt of his sweat, the warm, musky vanilla and the earthy smell of herbs — most strongly, rosemary. It surrounds her, mixing in with the scent of freshly cut wood and sawdust. The rosemary smells so much like home, like her mother, like before the war. Sweet and savoury and spicy all in one.
Her eyes fall closed as she breathes in, deeply, holds it for as long as she can until her lungs burn. It’s as close to home as she’s been in a while. A tear, unbidden, instinctual, slips from the corner of her eye and falls onto her cheek. She sucks in a shaky breath.
Before the war, before the war, before the war. Before the war, this would have been the smell of summer, of the garden, of dinners with her parents and nights with the windows open. Of writing letters to Ron and Harry, anxious to see them again.
After the war, the smell is the pain of what she’s lost. It’s everything she misses, the things she had forbidden herself to feel since that day at Hogwarts.
‘Rosemary, for remembrance,’ she can almost hear her mother’s voice say in her head. Except it’s not the same; it’s been warped, changed, substituted because too much time has passed. It’s the ghost of her voice, hollow, distant, far away.
Another tear splashes on her nose.
What if she doesn’t want to remember? It would be less painful then. She’d start over, from the beginning. Why does remembering hurt so much? Her fingers find her forearm, trace the scar under her tattoo, feel the line of the inked rosemary over top.
“Granger?”
Its Draco’s voice beside her, the source of the scent, the reason she wants to get up every day, the reason she hates herself because of it. Cruel, quiet, uninterested.
Let me make this clear, Granger. We are not friends.
Did she want it so bad because she couldn’t have it? What other reason was there?
She keeps her eyes shut tight, wishes he hadn’t stepped closer because the scent is stronger now. Her hands grip her forearm, fingers splayed over the tattoo. She wishes she could forget. She is also afraid she will forget.
A hand falls lightly, gingerly on her shoulder. His hand, his touch. Unsure, but there. He’s made the choice. He’s chosen not to ignore her.
Her eyes flick open, lashes wet. She’s still facing the wall, but Draco’s tall, broad frame is in her peripheral, his warmth seeping into her space, the smell of him overwhelming. She wants it to go away, she can’t stand it now; it makes her sick, coats her throat, fills her lungs like potent smoke.
She steps away from him, shrugging her shoulder from his hand. Her breaths are shallow, fast, caught in her chest, not to be breathed in or out. She looks up at him, sees the confusion that has fallen onto worried features. Is he worried about her? That would insinuate he cares, and he clearly does not. His eyes skim her face, body, trying to find the source of her tears. He takes a slow, tentative step forward and she steps back again, shaking her head.
“Granger?” he asks again, voice soft and low, grating. She doesn’t respond.
Like a dog and a bone, a fish and a hook. Tantalizing. Here one minute, gone the next.
She wipes the tears away from her face with a shaky hand. His brows are pulled together, jaw clenched, hands floating at his side, unsure what to do next.
“I have to go home,” she croaks, swallows. She needs more air, her lungs feel deprived of it— just coated in his rosemary.
“Can you lock up for me?” she asks him, and she barely sees his mystified nod before she’s turning on her heel and rushing down the stairs. Her tears fall freely, and oh god why can’t she breathe?
She grabs her beaded bag from the front counter and is out the door, the bell sounding behind her as she leaves him there, stupefied, wondering. She gulps the frigid air down thirstily and it’s not enough, not enough, never enough.
She apparates, stumbling when she lands in her flat, falling onto the sofa and gripping a pillow as she tries to calm her breaths, to empty her mind. Crookshanks mews at her, nuzzles his nose onto her, purrs in her ear. She feels herself begin to relax, her breathing falling back to a normal rhythm and depth.
She thinks she lays on the sofa, clutching the pillow, for hours before sleep finally takes her.
~~~
She dreams of her mother and father. It’s pleasant. Not a nightmare, just a dream, her parents on a beach in Australia, happy like she remembers them.
In the morning she changes out of yesterday’s clothes while she tries to think of what to say to Malfoy. She’d made a fool of herself yesterday, and she was pretty sure that she’d had some sort of panic attack in front of him and then rejected his offer of comfort, running out of the shop without explaining anything to him.
She couldn’t tell him that it was him — the smell of him — that had caused it. That he had reminded her of home, and the fact that she has lost it.
She thinks it’s best to lie, say that it was a wave of nausea, that she felt ill. Part of her wants to kick herself for not staying, for not letting him help her. Part of her is glad, knowing that the emotions he had shown would have only lured her into the fleeting idea that he, to some capacity, cared about her as he would his other friends. She takes an extra long shower, letting the warm water run over her while she thinks about the way his face had looked when she’d jumped away from him.
It’s possible he won’t even bring it up; that he’ll remain in his usual silence or jump straight to picking a fight with her over leaving her tape measure on the floor for him to trip on. Or, she may have to feed him her excuses. She is awful at lying, and worries he might see through her.
She makes herself tea and breakfast, eats quickly, and apparates to Diagon Alley. She’s a bundle of nerves as she approaches the shop, but when she turns the handle of the door, it’s locked. She frowns, testing it once more before she pulls out her wand and unlocks it, stepping into the shop.
Malfoy was always here before her and had been unlocking the door for weeks, usually already hard at work when she arrived. Today was the first day since he’d started that he wasn’t here on time. Her eyebrows pull together in worry, and she places her bag in its usual spot on the counter and checks around the shop just to be sure.
No sign of him.
It’s possible he’s running late, that he'd slept in or is stopping to get coffee in the long Friday line. She tells herself to relax, that he’ll be here or else send an owl telling her that he’s sick or something. She distracts herself by getting to work, doing what she can without him here to help. She cuts wood for the first hour, measuring and sawing, stacking it next to the table. She installs fasteners, drills them and levels them, for putting the shelves on. She needs Malfoy there to put the shelving in, to hold one side while she does the other, so she decides to clean up her office for a bit.
By 11 he still hasn’t arrived, and she’s beginning to worry. Did something happen to him? Surely he would have owled if he was ill. She would go to Blaise’s shop, except he’s closed until 1. She debates owling someone but doesn’t want to seem too worried, too desperate. It is Malfoy, after all, and it was just as possible that he’d slept in late or decided it wasn’t worth letting Hermione know that he’d decided not to come in today.
Still, her mind is an anxious circle, always coming back to the hope that he’s not face down in a ditch somewhere, poisoned by Firewhiskey. She’s filling her minutes with banal tasks, sweeping the sawdust from the floor, looking out the windows of the shop every time she hears someone apparate anywhere near. She paces, straightening and cleaning things she’s already cleaned and straightened an hour ago. She looks at paint samples, trying to decide which colour the walls should be.
At a quarter to noon, just as she’s about to send an owl to Blaise or Theo, Draco strolls in, face hard and impassive, body stiff and fists clenched. The front bell jingles and Hermione’s head snaps to watch him as he lets the door fall closed behind him and, dropping his jacket, strides past Hermione and upstairs without a word.
Hermione is furious. She lets her mouth fall open as she watches him disappear up the steps and past the railing. She takes a breath in and stomps up the stairs, face red with anger, hand on hip, and watches him begin to work as if everything were normal.
“What the hell, Malfoy?” she asks through clenched teeth, approaching him at the saw. He’s unshowered, and his face is sallow and tired. He’s not even occluding; he is angry, like her. He refuses to look up at her, brushing the sawdust from the saw table and beginning to mark a piece of wood with a pencil.
“Not in the mood today, Granger,” he bites, making a small, grey mark with the sharp graphite. Fuming, Hermione stalks around to the other side of the table to face him and pulls the cord of the saw from the muggle power generator.
“What the fuck?” Malfoy snaps, finally looking up at her. He looks even more terrible than usual, and his mood isn’t helping. Immediately, Hermione smells the alcohol on his breath— Firewhiskey, most likely, and strong, too.
“Where have you been? You’re hours late and you never owled me,” her voice shakes with rage, trembles with the fear that she’d been holding inside for the past few hours. He’s here, he’s alive, nothing’s happened.
“Merlin, Granger. It was only a few hours, and I’m here now,” he spits, looking down at the floor in search of the power cord. Hermione kicks the plug end away from the saw table, and rests her hands on the edge of the metal, leaning towards him.
“I was worried something had happened to you,” she reasons, flecks of anger still speckling her tone. He looks at her again, grey eyes cold and flashing with annoyance.
“I appreciate it Granger, but you can fuck off with your worry,” he scowls at her, eyes flickering up and down her face at her anger and panic, lip pulled up in disgust as if the idea of her worrying about him is the most repulsive thing ever. “People can be late you know, the world still goes on. Now can we work?”
“Is everything alright?” she pushes. She’s hungry for the fight now, mad at him for making her worry and then dismissing it as childish. Angry that he hasn’t been speaking to her, angry that she cares about him enough to worry.
“It’s never-ending with you, isn’t it?” he runs a hand over his face in exasperation, alabaster skin growing pink. She can see from his eyes that he’s drunk, and should definitely not be using a power tool in the first place.
“I’m allowed to be worried, Malfoy, especially when you don’t give me any explanations! You walk in here, drunk, no letter, no warning, and act like everything’s normal! You are on probation, and I am required to make sure you show up.” Her voice is raised now, almost shouting, and her heart is pounding fiercely against her rib cage. She feels the blood in her veins, pumping hot and fast.
“That’s the thing, Granger— you’re not! You don’t need to worry about me. You are not responsible for how I choose to live my life, and we are not friends!” He’s shouting now, hands moving in exclamation, muscles jumping angrily under the skin of his jaw. Both of their eyes flash with intensity, and if they were moving, they’d be circling each other like wolves. Hermione steps away from the saw, crossing her arms.
“And why not? Why do you hate me so much?” she yells, hot tears pricking her eyes. His grey eyes are on hers, ravenous, black with rage. “Is it still my blood status? Is it because I convinced you to take this job? Tell me why, Malfoy, make me understand why you can barely look at me or speak to me.”
Malfoy slams a hand down on the metal table and Hermione jumps, stepping back instinctively as Malfoy circles around it towards her.
“I haven’t called you that word in years, you know that’s not how I feel anymore,” he spits, his mouth turned down into a frown, his eyebrows drawn together. “Your incessant need to make everyone like you is what I can’t stand,” he continues, slowly edging towards her, prowling like a predator.
“-You’ve done everything you possibly can to insert yourself into my life these past few months; this job, my friends, my father’s funeral. You’re like a leech, Granger, one I can’t seem to shake. And being pals with Blaise and tattooing Theo, and trying to get to know me is not going to make me like you. Ever.”
His words are pure poison, seeping from his mouth like blackened arsenic, aimed at all of her weakest spots. He has her backed against the wall again, heart in her throat. His words meet their mark, and sharp, invisible forces of pain stab at her. Her eyes water and her knees tremble. She wants to hit him, shove him, kick him away. He’s angry about something and he’s taking it out on her.
“You’re being unfair,” she bites, raising her chin to look up at him. He lets out a bitter, breathy laugh, and she can smell the booze again.
“The world is unfair, Granger. You Gryffindors need to get your heads out of your asses long enough to realize that you can’t make everything perfect and happy. You’ve already won, Granger. You can’t fix us up like your silly little shop, so stop trying.”
His words are vicious, pointed. She looks at him and sees the boy she’d known in school— angry and sad and desperate. She swallows, watching as his face dips closer to hers, venom and whiskey and warnings.
“You’re upset about your Mum, I get it,” Hermione breathes, not daring to look away, not daring to back down. Malfoy freezes, his breathing loud and uneven, chest rising and falling.
“You don’t know shit, Granger,” he says, his voice almost a whisper, unchanged in its fury.
“I’m sorry that she’s in there… in Azkaban,” Hermione says, her eyes scanning his face, watching his grimace falter. His face flashes with fresh malice, and suddenly he lurches towards her, pressing her against the wall as his hands bracket her on either side of her face. Her breath catches in her throat— she can feel his warmth, the anger radiating off of him. Somehow, she knows that his anger is about more than just her. She knows because she has felt it too; still feels it, everyday. And she’s pushing him to talk about it because she wishes someone would push her too— make her face whatever it is that’s making her so mad at the world.
“Stop. Fucking. Apologizing.” He whimpers through clenched teeth. His voice cracks with emotion, and his warm breath is on her cheek.
He is his namesake; a dragon, breathing fire, powerful and intimidating. Hermione says nothing, watching as Malfoy’s eyes scan her face, pupils wide and blackened, and she can see the way his anger tenses his muscles, the way the sharp, handsome lines of his face reject all softness. His eyes flick all over her, her eyes, her hair, her nose, the tear on her cheek, her lips, and back up to her eyes.
“We have more in common than you think, Malfoy,” she whispers.
There’s a minuscule softening of his features, a dropping of his tensed jaw, a flash of something in his eyes that she might call desire if it were anyone else— anyone but him.
His eyes fall back on her lips, pausing for a second, and his teeth sink into his lower lip. His face is a canvas of emotion, unreadable, murky like mixed paint. He’s a Van Gogh, a Picasso, a Klimt; swirls and lines and shapes, beautiful but hard to make out. She can feel her heartbeat, the stammering of her pulse through her entire body; in the vein of her neck, where his gaze suddenly falls.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pushing himself off of the wall and shooting back, the heels of his hands flying up to his rub his eyes as if he’s trying to wake himself up. Then, he straightens, and suddenly he’s rushing down the stairs, leaving Hermione frozen against the wall and she’s watching him leave, like always, a flurry of white and black and whiskey and spice.
She hears his heavy footsteps on the floor below and the slam of the front door, and he’s gone again.
She hasn’t moved, head leaning back against the wall, his warmth still lingering around her. She breathes, lets her shoulders relax, keeps her feet planted. Her skin tingles with anger, surprise and exhilaration. She’s crying, she realizes, and she wipes the tears away, tasting the salt of one in the corner of her mouth.
She was going to be late for lunch with Adrian and Theo. She takes a moment to re-center herself. Breathe in, breathe out.
She’d definitely hit a sore spot, asking Malfoy about his mother. His reaction had been instant, signalling to her that it must have been Narcissa that he’d been upset about. Had something happened? Had he been visiting her, or was he just drowning his sorrows in Firewhiskey on a Friday morning?
Hermione urges her feet to move, and she pushes herself off of the wall. She had never seen him like that before. Had he not been able to put his occlumency walls up? His emotions had been out on display for Hermione to see from the moment he had walked into the shop, the most she’d seen on him in years. It wasn’t his overused smirk or unhappy sneer. It had been real, genuine feeling.
She makes her way downstairs, running a hand through her curls and wiping away any remaining tears from her face.
She wants to take another ten or fifteen minutes to calm her beating heart, to try and understand what had just happened, but she needs to be at Theo’s for lunch now. Instead, she steels herself in typical Hermione Granger fashion, practices her best smile, and steps over to the fireplace, calling out Theo’s address and being the first to use the newly opened floo network in the shop.
When she steps out of the fireplace on the other side, Theo is waiting for her in what appears to be a formal sitting room. It’s Victorian Gothic in style; elegant, pointed details and dark maroons and navies. Baroque furniture fills the space, a few wing-backed chairs beside a coffee table and a sofa facing the fireplace. Theodore Nott, with his dark hair and dazzling eyes, seems to fit right in.
“Granger, welcome,” he smirks as she emerges from the hearth. She pushes the incident with Malfoy to the back of her mind and returns the smile.
“Thanks for having me, Theo.”
He nods, and motions with his chin for her to follow him.
“Adrian’s in the kitchen, just finishing lunch up,” he explains as he leads her out of the sitting room and into a wide corridor. The style of architecture is very similar, though it lacks the same elegant touches as the sitting room, as if all of the art and furniture has been taken away.
“We’ll be eating in there if you don’t mind. I’m trying to do a few renovations of my own here, you know, to rid the place of all memories of my Death Eater parents, but it seems they’ve applied quite a few permanent sticking charms, and I’m finding some things hard to remove.”
It makes sense now; the emptiness of the hallway compared to the sitting room. Theo has removed all traces of his former life wherever he can. There are spots on the walls where portraits used to be, the outlines of their frames visible where the wallpaper remains untouched by the effects of light and air.
“Did you say Adrian is cooking?” Hermione asks as she walks beside Theo, her eyes looking up at a large mural on the ceiling, stylistic cherubs with rosy cheeks and bows and arrows, depictions of centaurs fighting wizards in old costume.
Theo grins, looking over at Hermione as they round a corner.
“Yes, he’s quite good actually. No idea where he learned it from since he was fed by house elves his whole life, like the rest of us spoiled purebloods.”
Hermione giggles quietly as they approach the doors to the kitchen, and Theo pushes one open to allow Hermione to step in. Adrian is at the stove, sprinkling some sort of green herb into a pot as a spelled spoon stirs monotonously on its own. Adrian’s mouth stretches into a wide grin when he sees her, and he wipes his hands on the black apron he’s got on and steps over to Hermione.
“Granger, looking lovely as always,” he smiles, and, to Hermione’s surprise, he pulls her in for a hug. She makes a startled noise but returns his hug in earnest, finding it to be exactly what she needs after the morning she’s had.
He pulls away and grins at her again, stepping back to the stove to toss some chopped veggies into the mixture, swiping the blade of his knife down the cutting board.
“Lunch is just about ready,” Adrian says, placing the cutting board and knife gingerly into the sink, which has been enchanted to wash the dishes for him, just as Hermione has seen Molly Weasley do from time to time.
“It smells delicious,” Hermione says as Theo ushers her to a chair at a small wooden table. She’s not lying: the entire kitchen is aromatic and warm with the smell of spices and mouthwatering flavours. Thankfully, the smell of rosemary is undetectable, so she figures she is safe for today. “I didn’t know you cooked, Adrian,” she says as Theo slips into a chair beside her, pouring Hermione a glass of water.
She’s not used to all of these pureblood manners. What she is used to is being passed a nearly empty pitcher of pumpkin juice at The Burrow, and reaching across the person next to her to grab a baked potato before Ron’s eaten them all. She gives Theo a thankful smile as he places the glass in front of her.
“Daph said I needed a distraction during the trial, so she and I took up cooking,” Adrian explains, taking the pot off of the stove and placing it on a potholder on the island. “Daph is absolutely awful at it, Merlin, but I took a liking to it and have been practicing ever since. Most of the time, things turn out good.”
Theo scoffs, pouring himself a glass of water and shaking his head.
“There have been a few unforgivable incidents,” Theo grins, looking at Hermione and then at Adrian sentimentally. Adrian’s cheeks blush red as he pulls his apron off, tugging at the tied string around his neck.
“Granger, in case you didn’t know, cucumbers and zucchinis are two very different vegetables,” he chuckles, lifting his wand to float the finished dish— which he has transferred to an elegant silver serving bowl— to the table. Hermione laughs and Theo shakes his head again.
“He’s also confused cinnamon and paprika before,” Theo grimaces, shivering at a memory as Adrian raises his hands defensively.
“Paprika and coffee cake do not mix, Granger. Take notes.”
Adrian plops in the other chair and immediately begins serving something that looks like stew into Hermione’s bowl as she laughs.
“My Dad once put a whole cup of salt in a batch of chocolate chip cookies instead of sugar,” she tells them, stomach rumbling at the smell of lamb and gravy under her nose. “Even muggles get things mixed up sometimes. It’s all part of learning.”
Adrian raises an eyebrow at Theo as he finishes filling Hermione’s bowl.
“See, Theo, everyone makes mistakes.”
Theo rolls his eyes as Adrian raises his empty bowl to be filled.
“I will never eat a coffee cake again, no matter how tempting,” Theo jibes. Adrian shrugs nonchalantly, scooping stew into his own bowl before resting the serving spoon on the rim. Hermione’s mouth is watering at the smell of the dish on the table in front of her, and she nods hastily at the bread roll Theo has offered her.
“Right, well, dig in. I promised I haven’t confused thyme with anything too crazy, so we should be safe,” Adrian winks, and Hermione wastes no time eating a polite spoonful of the fragrant food.
She’s worked up an appetite, yelling at Malfoy, and the stew is probably the best thing she has eaten in a long time— no offence to Molly Weasley.
“Adrian, this is incredible,” she almost moans, and her cheeks flood with colour at the sound that has escaped her mouth. Adrian and Theo only chuckle. If she weren’t in the presence of two well brought up pureblood wizards, she would be shovelling the dish down her throat as fast as possible. It takes all of her restraint to eat in the small, controlled bites that are clearly so instinctual to the other two.
“Thanks, Granger,” Adrian smiles, buttering his roll lightly with a small silver knife.
“Granger’s right, Pucey,” Theo nods, “-you’ve outdone yourself, mate.”
Hermione’s heart warms at the friendly interaction between the two Slytherins. She wonders if Draco ever acts like this around them, smiley and laughing. She almost laughs at the prospect.
“Are you buttering me up, Nott?” Adrian teases, raising his brows at the green-eyed boy. “You know I have a girlfriend, right?”
Theo narrows his eyes at Adrian, his mouth dropping into a playful scowl.
“And even if you didn’t, I’d never date you in a million years.”
“I know, I’m much too intimidating,” Adrian grins, slicing a tender potato with the edge of his spoon. “Speaking of which, have you spoken to our good friend Blaise lately? Rumour has it he’s just dying to get your c-”
“Right, that’s enough Pucey, unless you want your ass hexed to Scotland and back.”
Hermione stifles a laugh as Adrian looks at her with a sly wiggle of his eyebrows. She wonders how it is these two became friends, until she realizes the similarity between them and her fellow Gryffindors Seamus and Dean. Dean, ever quiet and elusive like Theo, always seemed more than happy to put up with Seamus’s antics. Last Hermione had heard, the two were dating, much to the surprise of her, Harry, and Ron. She suspects that if they’d paid closer attention and hadn’t spent their school days chasing down a dark wizard, they would have realized that it was quite obvious.
“I wasn’t aware that you and Blaise had a history,” Hermione offers, deciding to play the oblivious outsider. Theo glares at Adrian for bringing up the subject but looks over at Hermione with a steady gaze.
“Keyword is had. It didn’t work out.”
Hermione nods, taking another bite of the lamb stew.
“And you both decided that?” she asks, hoping that her curiosity isn’t stepping over the line. A few days ago she would have considered them mere acquaintances, but somehow being invited over for lunch gives her the unbridled courage to ask such a personal question.
Adrian snorts, lowering his gaze to his own bowl of stew.
“It’s more like they’ve avoided it as if it were dragon pox,” Adrian mumbles. Hermione glances at Theo, who is avoiding both of their gazes.
“It’s… complicated.” Theo sighs. Hermione gives him a sad smile.
“The best ones always are, aren’t they?” she offers. Theo looks up at her, curiosity flagged on his sharp, handsome features.
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about, Granger. Any special men in your life at the moment?”
Adrian lifts his head at this and joins in.
“Yeah, you and Weasley aren’t still a thing, are you? Always thought you two were a strange pairing.”
Hermione shrugs, resting her spoon in her bowl and dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. There hadn’t been many occasions where she’d had to explain what had happened between her and Ron. Harry and Ginny had practically witnessed it first hand, and at the time, everyone had more important things to think about like funerals and rebuilding. Bringing up a relationship that had barely been anything in the first place seemed trivial. No one wanted to inflict more misery onto Ron and Hermione by asking, so most people had heard secondhand, from Ginny or Harry, and passed the vague story on to anyone else who asked. Many people hadn’t even known about their ‘almost’ relationship and lived unaware that they’d ever shared romantic feelings and stolen kisses in the first place.
“No, I suppose I don’t. Ron and I just didn’t work out. I think we’re too different. After the war, I realized that it wasn’t what I wanted.”
She swallows, wondering why she’s telling them this. They refrain from making derogatory comments towards the redhead, which Hermione is grateful for. Malfoy would have had something awful and witty to say the minute Ron’s name had left her lips. Malfoy. She’d almost forgotten.
“Have either of you heard from Malfoy at all today?” she asks suddenly. It’s possible that Adrian or Theo would know the cause of his outburst, or possibly even his whereabouts. Theo and Adrian exchange amused looks and both turn their heads to Hermione.
“I ask if you have anyone special in your life at the moment and you’ve got Malfoy on your mind, eh Granger?” Adrian grins, his brows pulled up suggestively. Hermione’s heart skips a quick, betraying beat in her chest and she frowns.
“No, no, we just got into a bit of a row this morning and he stormed out of the shop. I wondered if either of you knew whether he was alright,” Her eyes fall down to her bowl as the heat rises in her cheeks. Theo’s eyes are narrowed at hers suspiciously, and he crosses his arms, but thankfully remains mum.
“Haven’t heard from him today, although he did have a visitation with his Mum in Azkaban this morning. Would bet anything that was what set him off,” Adrian reveals casually, looking to Theo for confirmation.
So it had been his Mum that had him so upset. She gives herself an imaginary prize ribbon for guessing something about him correctly. Then, she internally chastises herself for her small celebration. He was clearly very upset about something, and here she was patting herself on the back for solving a small piece of the never-ending puzzle of Draco Malfoy.
“I see,” she says, taking a bite of her roll and chewing delicately. Theo continues to look at her, then goes back to eating his stew.
They finish lunch with some more light conversation before Adrian clears his throat dramatically.
“So Granger, I bet you’re wondering the real reason we’ve invited you here today,” he smirks, leaning back in his chair.
“You mean it’s not for the pleasure of my company, nor to fuel your ego by watching me drool over your delicious dishes?” she quips.
“Well, yes, both of those are part of the reason you’re here, but I need to pick your brain about something as well.”
She gives him a quick nod and waves her hand as if to tell him the floor is his.
“Daphne’s birthday is coming up in November, and I wanted to do something really special for her,” Adrian explains, looking from her to Theo, who she suspects already knows about Adrian's inquiry.
“See, I don’t know the slightest thing about what a girl wants for her birthday and I did a really shite job of it last year. I was hoping you might have some insight on the inner workings of a girl’s mind, and maybe even some ideas for what I could get her this year?”
Hermione blinks at him, stunned at the real reason she is here. She’d expected she would be interpreting runes or translating old tomes about ancient spells; not asked to help plan Daphne Greengrass’s birthday festivities.
“Oh,” Hermione breathes, looking nervously between the two Slytherins. This was the sort of job usually asked of Ginny, or Parvati, but never Hermione. She’d always been asked about homework questions, or to edit essays. “What about Pansy? You didn’t want to ask her first?”
Theo scoffs. “Pansy has the incredible inability to keep secrets from anyone. If we tell Pansy, Daphne will know everything five minutes later. Bit of a curse, really.”
“I see,” Hermione says. She bites her lip in thought. Of any of the Slytherins, she suspects she knows the least about Daphne Greengrass.
“Sometimes I think gestures can be better than things,” Hermione suggests, thinking back to the bracelet Ron had given her for her birthday last month. She’d worn in maybe twice, as lovely as the thought had been. “What about throwing her a surprise party?”
Adrian considers this for a moment, looking over to Theo.
“Absolutely not, we are not having it here,” Theo frowns, and Adrian sighs in defeat.
“There’s no way Malfoy would be able to have us at his, either. The cursebreakers have been working at the Manor for months now.”
Hermione freezes. Cursebreakers at Malfoy Manor? It suddenly occurred to her how many terrible things must have happened in that house, besides her own incident with Bellatrix. It’s unsurprising that Malfoy was trying to rid the place of any lingering dark magic. It saddens her that he has to do it alone.
“What about having it at the shop?” She offers, surprising herself with the words. She has Theo and Adrian’s attention now, and they look at her, wide-eyed, waiting for her to continue. “Malfoy and I should be able to have the walls and shelves up by then. We can clear everything out, clean it up and throw her a small celebration. It’s not much, but it might be fun.”
She looks nervously between them. Her offer is meagre, simple, compared to what she’s sure they’re used to. She pictures the parties given to pureblood sons and daughters by their parents: lavish, expensive, with petting zoos and chocolate fountains. Was her idea silly to them?
“No, I think that could really work,” Adrian nods, hope and excitement falling over his broad features. “Daphne doesn’t really love crowds, but a small intimate gathering with her friends? I think she’d be stoked. You sure that’s alright, Hermione?”
She stills at the sound of her given name but gives them a reassuring smile.
“Of course! I can decorate a bit, and you could make a cake, Adrian. The shop won’t be much, but I’m sure it will work for all intents and purposes.”
Without warning, Adrian leans over and grabs her face, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. When he pulls away he’s grinning widely, reminding Hermione of one of the cherubs on Theo’s corridor ceiling.
“You really are a genius, Granger, I’ll give you that.”
“I told you she’d know what to do,” Theo says to Adrian, and he gives Hermione a proud look like she’s just solved a complicated equation.
“It was nothing,” she smiles, her heart full at the thought of spending more time with Adrian and Theo planning the party. “I’m glad I could help. And thanks for the lunch. It was wonderful, but I should be getting back to the shop.”
Theo nods, pushing his chair back and standing, walking over to Hermione and pulling her chair out for her.
“Of course,” he says, and Adrian stands as well.
“I hope I can try more of your cooking soon,” Hermione says into Adrian’s ear when he pulls her in for another hug.
“Anytime you want, Hermione.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Theo says, and Hermione waves once more at Adrian before following Theo out of the kitchen and back into the empty corridor.
She watches the way Theo walks, noting the many similarities to Malfoy. They both carry themselves with the same aristocratic swagger and impeccable posture, never rushed or sloppy. Theo’s walk is slightly more uptight than Malfoy’s, almost military in its measured cadence. Hermione thinks about the elegant way that Malfoy moves; like dancing. Like a waltz mixed with ballet, graceful and rhythmic.
They walk in silence, and she finds herself back in the well-decorated sitting room. She turns to Theo and offers him a polite smile.
“Thanks again, for having me,” she says, gripping the beaded bag slung over her shoulder. Theo shoves his hands into his pockets and nods regally at her.
“Thanks for your help, with Adrian. And for coming. We really do like spending time with you, Granger.”
Hermione finds herself blushing, seeing the honesty in his eyes, the rare softness of Theo’s usually hardened exterior.
“Hey, Theo?” she asks, biting the inside of her cheek. His brows pull together as he grabs a bowl of floo powder from the table beside him.
“Yeah?”
“Forgive me, if I’m overstepping… I think you should talk to Blaise. About, you know, the two of you. Your relationship.”
He studies her under hooded lids, his tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in thought.
“And why is that, Granger?”
She grabs a handful of the dust-like powder from the bowl Theo is holding, and steps back into the fireplace.
“We’ve lost too much already not to tell people how we feel. I think you’ll find things are usually a lot less complicated than you think they are.”
She lifts the corner of her mouth quickly at him and watches his face fall into deep thought before she throws the floo powder down at her feet, calling out the address of her shop, and watching Theo’s look of realization disappear behind the green smoke.
Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Notes:
TW: Alcohol use, mentions of sobriety, and here is an *Emetophobia warning!!!*
Chapter Text
A month ago, Hermione would have laughed at the idea of going out for Halloween. She would have brooded about how trivial it was to be planning a birthday party. She would have dreaded the thought of spending time with people, of letting herself enjoy the weekend with friends.
Today, Hermione is bubbling with excitement. The only thing distracting her from the anticipation of the night ahead with the Slytherins is the fact that she hasn't heard from Malfoy since yesterday morning's incident. She had considered sending him an owl, maybe even apologizing for pushing him too far, but decided against it. Chances are, it would only set him off more, and she was remiss at the fact that despite the way he had practically attacked her yesterday, it was her that was considering reaching out to make amends.
Despite the way her brain tended to loop back to him, she forced herself to brush any thoughts of him away and focus on the night ahead. She was meeting the Slytherins at Devil's Snare this evening and had been told to dress in costume. She wished that she had Ginny or Parvati here to help her decide what to wear; they always knew what to do when she second-guessed herself, while also doing what they called 'hyping her up' when she worried she wouldn't be able to pull something off.
She'd ultimately decided on something safe, but terribly unoriginal, and transformed her old yule ball dress into a new one, a shade of blue just slightly darker than white, and added a pair of feathery angel wings to the back. Forgoing a halo, which she thought was cheesy, her next challenge was taming the insufferable curls that she'd tried and failed to style.
She hums and haws over buns, braids and chignons that never feel quite right, and in the end decides if she can't tame it, she will embrace it.
She runs her fingers through her curls to separate and muss them, and even flips her head and shakes at her roots. She uses a bit of water on her fingers to add definition in areas before deciding it's as good as it's going to get. It ends up looking somewhere in the between a lion's mane, and if she'd gone swimming in the ocean and allowed her hair to dry in the sun.
Overall, the look, dare she say it, is almost sexy— if there ever was a time to feel so. She hardly ever attributes that particular adjective towards herself, usually reserving it for girls like Ginny and Pansy who could look and act naturally so. But even Crookshanks gives her a meow of approval, and she feels a power in her confidence.
She promptly cleanses herself of the thought by taking a long slug from her bottle of Ogden's, and then another, for good measure. She briefly wonders if Malfoy will make an appearance tonight, as he had never confirmed or denied his attendance after Blaise had invited her.
She tells herself to focus instead on getting to know Daphne so that she can plan her party more effectively. Giving herself a task is nice; it's a small reminder of herself before the war. Find something to focus on and make it your whole world.
She takes a final drink from the bottle of Firewhiskey and checks herself once more in the mirror before apparating to Diagon Alley.
"Stupid! I'm so stupid!"
Pansy is outside of Devil's Snare, wearing cat ears and a black leather mini dress with fishnet stockings underneath. She's ruffling ineffectually through her handbag, muttering curse words and shifting back and forth on her high-heeled feet. Unless Pansy's bag also has an extension charm, there is probably little chance what she is looking for is actually in there— her hand moves hastily around the small bag, taking out a few items and plopping them back in frustratedly.
Hermione looks over at the door of the bar, thinking she can probably slip by Pansy unnoticed and go straight inside. Instead, stubbornly, and despite the Slytherin girl's obvious aggravation, Hermione takes a slow, cautious step towards her, as if she were approaching a wild animal.
"Pansy?" Hermione peeps, giving the girl a small, reassuring smile. Pansy's head snaps up from her bag, and her hooded eyes fall narrowed at Hermione under a thick line of black, pointy eyeliner.
"Oh, Granger," Pansy says, unimpressed. She flips her entire purse over and a few items fall to the ground with a clatter— a few galleons, a key, a bottle of pills. The girl sighs and kneels, yanking at her tiny dress as she picks up the items she has poured out. Hermione stands awkwardly, wondering if she should help her, until Pansy finally scoops everything up and shoves it aggressively back into the bag.
"Salazar," she mutters, pulling the thin strap of her bag over her shoulder and crossing her arms. "I forgot my stupid wand," she frowns, looking over her shoulder as if she's waiting for someone.
"Oh," Hermione breathes, crossing her own arms over her chest. It's freezing out here, and Hermione hasn't brought a jacket or a shawl to cover her shoulders.
"Any chance you brought yours, Granger? It turns out I also forgot my lipstick to reapply, so I was going to transfigure something else into it."
"Oh, yeah, sure," Hermione nods, eying the bright red lipstick applied expertly on Pansy's full lips. Hermione scrambles for her wand, in a holster on her thigh, and offers it to Pansy. Trust, Hermione, trust, she thinks. She silently prays that Pansy doesn't feel like giving Hermione grotesquely large teeth for her own amusement, since she'd found it so funny when Draco had spelled her like that in fourth year.
Pansy accepts Hermione's wand and pulls a hairpin from her bag, mutters a quick spell, and they watch as the pin turns into a tube of lipstick. Pansy nods satisfactorily, and holds Hermione's wand back out to her.
"Thanks, Granger," she says with a curl of her lip, her eyes now falling on Hermione's angel costume. Pansy's pin-straight black hair falls sleekly to frame her face, and she begins to reapply the red lipstick, very impressively, Hermione might add, without the aid of a mirror.
"I forgot you were coming tonight," Pansy admits, pursing her lips together and popping the lipstick cap back on. She shoves it in her purse and runs her tongue over the surface of her teeth.
"Blaise invited me," Hermione shrugs, as Pansy tucks her hair behind her ear and pulls her dress up at the chest.
"Of course he did. If he wasn't gay I would think he had a hard-on for you or something." Pansy smirks seductively, tilting her head to one side. "You know, you actually look pretty good tonight, Granger. The whole sexy bedhead look really works for you."
Hermione blushes, pulling at a curl by her face. A compliment from Pansy Parkinson; life just kept getting stranger and stranger.
"Thanks," Hermione smiles. "You look really great, too."
Pansy lets out a dry, amused laugh. "Always so polite. You need to loosen up a bit. And maybe try a push-up bra. It would do you wonders. Ready to go in?"
She doesn't wait for Hermione to respond before she turns and struts towards the entrance. Hermione doesn't have time to reminisce on Pansy's... helpful... comment, and jumps into action, following the girl into the bar.
Pansy walks in her heels like she's done it a million times; effortlessly, hips swaying rhythmically with each step. This was the girl Draco had dated at Hogwarts— a perfect looking girl for a perfect looking boy. Hermione catches up to Pansy, following closely behind as the girl pushes through the crowd towards their usual secluded booth.
Everyone here is in costume, wearing masks and hats or skin covered in face paint. It's nearly twice as busy as it usually is, and Hermione hopes that Theo isn't feeling particularly feisty tonight. She is excited to be here, to dance in the crowd and chat with her friends. She wants the night to last.
"Do my eyes deceive me? Pansy and Granger arriving together like they've been best friends for ages?"
Blaise stands as the girls approach, letting them slip into the booth.
"We'd offer to give you a little show, Blaise, but I didn't think you swung that way," Pansy grins seductively, puckering her lips and making a loud kissing noise as she winks at Hermione. Oh.
"Granger is far too classy for that Pansy, and you know it," Theo says eyeing both girls as they slide down the cushioned seat of the booth. Adrian and Daphne grin at them in greeting. Daphne has come as a dragon, shiny green dress patterned like scales and impeccable matching makeup, glittering iridescent on her face. Adrian wears a Quidditch jersey, and Hermione makes a mental note to tease him for his laziness later. Theo has a subtle knight costume on, and Blaise is a prince, though Hermione can only tell from the silver crown on his head.
"Where's dickhead?" Pansy asks, and it's only then that Hermione realizes that Malfoy isn't here. She feigns disinterest, taking a sip of the drink Blaise has just passed her. Theo's eyes flicker to hers.
"He's busy throwing a tantrum. Might come later, if he can get his head out of his ass," Adrian explains, rubbing his thumb over Daphne's knuckles, their entwined hands resting on the table.
"Tantrum?" Hermione asks, making sure to steady her voice. Theo is watching her still and she narrows her eyes at him challengingly. You don't know anything, Nott.
"He's been brooding all day. Won't tell us where his heads at, typical of the wanker," Adrian tells Hermione.
"He's been in a better mood since he started working with you, Hermione," Daphne pipes up suddenly, and the table all turns to look at her. Hermione lets out a disbelieving snort.
"He's probably just happy that the workday is over, by the time you see him."
"I'm just glad he's not stuck at the manor all the time anymore," Blaise adds, running his thumb delicately along the rim of his glass. "Anyone would go mental with the amount of dark magic that's haunting the place. Thank merlin he finally hired those cursebreakers."
"Why doesn't he move?" questions Hermione, her brows pulling together in thought. "It must be lonely, living in that big house all alone."
"He wants to make sure his Mum has a place to go home to when she's out," Theo explains. "Doesn't want her to think he's moving on without her."
Hermione's heart pangs with sadness. She just keeps finding reasons to feel sorry for him; to witness his humanity and the many ways they were alike. He is loyal to the people he loves, this much is clear. Hermione's skin pricks with an unfamiliar emotion, and she takes another sip of her drink to numb it.
Theo is drinking water from a plastic cup, sipping it frequently, habitually. Hermione wonders how he stands being here, watching everyone drink while maintaining his sobriety. She watches the way a vein in his neck twitches every once in a while, and how he immediately lifts the cup of water to his mouth; the disappointment that flashes through his eyes when the liquid isn't what it should be; the way he takes a deep breath and pushes through it, smiling as Adrian tells the group a funny story.
When she looks over at Blaise she sees him watching Theo too, soft brown eyes gazing longingly at him the way she used to see Harry look at Ginny before they'd started dating.
"Blaise, come and get shots for everyone with me?" She asks, tilting her head towards the bartop. Blaise nods distractedly, and slides out of the booth, offering his hand to help Hermione out as she follows suit.
"You're staring, Blaise," she says into his ear as they walk away from the booth. She gives him a cheeky smile as Blaise looks down at her, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
"Was I? How unfortunate."
They reach the bar counter, and Hermione requests a round of shots from the bartender, one for each of the Slytherins. She watches as the witch flicks her wand and pours a tidy line of shot glasses with clear liquid.
"You know they say Halloween is the best time to rekindle lost flames," she tells him, sliding the right amount of coins to the bartender as she floats a tray with the shot glasses over to the pair.
Blaise gives her a skeptical look. "What? Who says that?"
"I don't know, I made it up," Hermione grins at him, and Blaise rolls his eyes sarcastically. They face each other, leaning against the cherry wood of the bar. Hermione tries to catch his eye as Blaise looks around the bar and down at his shoes nervously. "Seriously, what's stopping you from talking to him? It's not like you're strangers, his whole back is covered in your tattoos."
Blaise frowns, his eyes trailing over to the corner booth where the rest of the Slytherins sit. His brows furrow as he thinks for a moment, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw.
"I said some awful things to him when he took the mark," Blaise admits softly, his tone regretful and sombre. "Called him a coward. We all witnessed what had happened to Draco when he got his mark, and I couldn't understand how he could possibly agree to it after."
"Did he have a choice?" Hermione asks, her eyes following Blaise's stare to where Theo sits, a knight in shining armour, sipping water as he listens to Pansy talk.
"His parents made him do it. They both had debts to the Dark– to Voldemort, and they thought it would help them get back in his good graces. I didn't understand why he couldn't have said no." A muscle in Blaise's jaw jumps, and he almost winces as his eyes fall back on Hermione. "I didn't understand that that wasn't an option. He would have suffered the consequences... there's no telling what would have happened, but I was blinded by how angry I felt."
"And did you apologize to him? After it all?"
"Yes."
"And did he forgive you?"
"Yes."
Hermione puts a hand on his arm and rubs her thumb in a comforting manner on the fabric of his shirt.
"Blaise, if you let the past hold you back forever, you'll never give yourself a chance to get what you deserve right now."
She drops her hand from his arm and picks up a shot glass from the tray, sliding it on the wood over to him. She raises an eyebrow at him, like a challenge, and he shakes his head in amusement, picking up the small glass and knocking it back smoothly.
"You should be taking your own advice you know, Hermione Granger," he says as he sets the glass down with a thump. His eyes flick downwards to Hermione's forearm where the rosemary tattoo sits uncovered. He doesn't say anything more, just flicks his chin in the direction of their friends.
He's right— she's being completely hypocritical. It isn't as easy to move forward as she's telling Blaise and Theo it is. But being friends with Harry Potter has always taught her to believe, as cheesy as it sounds, in the higher power that love brings. She's watched Harry and Ginny move on with their relationship even after everything they’ve been through, together and separately.
If ever there was a reason to move past everything that's happened before and during the war, Hermione thinks love is a pretty good one.
Blaise and Hermione pass out the rest of the shots and Adrian makes them toast to 'the unity of Gryffindor and Slytherin students.' Hermione begins to feel the familiar buzz of the whiskey and the shots warm her abdomen, and she listens to the Slytherins tell stories about parties in the common room and summers at Pansy's vacation home in Mexico. She talks to Daphne about her love of Herbology and tells her about Neville and his teaching position at Hogwarts. Daphne tells Hermione about her sister Astoria, and how jealous they had been of Hermione's Yule Ball robes.
She tries her best to fight it, but her eyes flicker over to the entrance of the bar every few minutes, like clockwork. It's instantaneous, uncontrollable. She's waiting for Malfoy to show up. She wonders briefly what she'll do if he does; the more Firewhiskey she drinks, the less control she has. Would she yell at him for making her worry? For disappearing on Friday and never coming back? Ignore him, to continue proving her point? Two can play that game, Malfoy, she always thought when he wouldn't speak to her.
But what would she do if she lost control completely? If she let the booze thin the blood in her veins and spread itself through her limbs until her logic was extinguished and stifled. Did she dare let her mind wander to what kinds of things she'd rather do to Malfoy, if she lost control?
With each new sip of Firewhiskey, she unlocks one of these forbidden desires, ones she has pushed away to the darkest parts of her mind that even she can't usually access.
Malfoy's hands on her waist.
His lips grazing her jawline.
His hand on her throat, fingers brushing over her pulse.
His lips on hers.
"Granger..."
These thoughts are illicit temptations, unwelcome fantasies, and the way they come unburied in her mind as she sheds her inhibitions frightens her. She's not supposed to be attracted to him. These thoughts are foolish, irrational, so unlike what she's used to. No matter how much she tries to reason with herself, to label these thoughts as a product of something else, she is unable to find a satisfactory explanation for them.
When Adrian leads everyone out on the dancefloor, giggling and swaying in their drunkenness, Hermione can no longer think about anything other than how she feels in this moment. The music and the lights boom around them, the bass pounding in her ear. The last time she'd been this drunk was at a Gryffindor party in sixth year— it hadn't ended well.
Theo grabs her hand and twirls her, spinning Hermione as she giggles. Usually, Hermione refrains from dancing; she's always been slightly awkward and stiff, never confident enough to move her hips like Ginny does or demand attention like Pansy's doing now. She watches the Slytherin girl move freely, sensually, all eyes on her. Beside them, Adrian dances with Daphne, her back pushed into his chest as he whispers in her ear with a slanted grin. Hermione watches him run his hands down her hips, up her sides and kiss her neck.
She thinks suddenly of Draco's hands on her jaw, of the way his rough fingers had felt as they brushed against her skin the day of his fathers funeral.
To distract herself, she turns to dance with Blaise but finds him missing from the spot he'd been standing. She searches the crowd but sees no sign of him, so she turns to Theo.
"I'll go find him," Theo says loudly over the music, and Hermione nods, watching Theo disappear into the thick crowd. Hermione feels a little ill at ease without someone dancing by her side, bouncing awkwardly until Adrian and Daphne spot her and break apart, pulling her in to dance with them.
"Hermione, you look great tonight!" Daphne says into her ear, grinning kindly at her. Hermione smiles back, thanking the girl as Adrian spins them both out and then back into his chest.
Pansy pulls Daphne closer to her, and the two of them begin to dance together, laughing and pointing out other costumes. Adrian and Hermione dance together for a moment and then decide to go to the bar top together to get more drinks. Daphne and Pansy wave them off, too busy bouncing along to the music.
"This one's on me, Hermione," Adrian yells, slipping a few sickles to the bartender and pushing the shot glass towards her across the wood. "For helping with Daph's birthday!"
He holds his glass in the air towards her and Hermione does the same, clinking them together.
"I'm honoured to help. And to be your friend, Adrian Pucey!"
Adrian grins and they both throw back the shot. It's like venom, rushing straight to her veins, and she closes her eyes in a pleasurable ecstasy. The room spins lightly around her, the colours of the lights blending before her eyes and the spotlights coalescing into bright orbs that float in front of her pupils. She lets out a giddy giggle, feeling the recklessness and glee take over her. She'd forgotten how to have fun. She used to have fun like this.
Adrian leads them back over to where Pansy and Daphne are dancing and grabs Daphne's hand to pull her in for a kiss. Something about that last shot has suddenly taken away any nerves or self-consciousness that she'd been grasping at earlier, and she begins to dance beside Pansy, watching happily as Daphne gazes into Adrian's eyes.
She moves her body like she's seen Pansy do, swaying her hips and closing her eyes, allowing the music to lead her. She runs a hand through her wild hair and tilts her head up towards the lights. She can't think about anything other than how good she feels; how much she loves dancing, and these new friends, and the feeling of the Firewhiskey as it unfastens her restraint and anxieties. She doesn't think about her nightmares, or the war, or the way things are after the war. She only breathes in the sticky, warm air of the bar and it feels like downing a Drought of Peace potion.
"Granger, where'd you pull those moves out of?" A girlish voice asks, and Hermione opens her eyes to see a mildly impressed Pansy, smirking at her and looking over at Daphne, who looks equally as surprised.
"I don't know," Hermione laughs outright, and grabs Pansy's hand, making her twirl around her finger as Theo had done earlier.
"Shit. Theo. Has anyone seen Theo or Blaise?" Hermione shouts to the three Slytherins surrounding her. They all shake their heads no, and Hermione rises on her tiptoes and searches the crowd for them, without success. How long had it been since she'd seen them? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Twenty? Time was always ambiguous in this state.
"I'm going to go make sure they're alright," Hermione says, releasing Pansy's hand and pushing herself into the thick of the crowd. Sweaty bodies push her back and forth slightly as she tilts her chin upwards, searching through faces and coming up empty. She spots the booth where she'd sat with Harry, Ron, and Ginny the day after her birthday, and wanders into the corner farthest from where she and the Slytherins had sat tonight. Nothing. Had something been wrong with Blaise? Surely they would have let someone know if they needed to go home.
She's just about to consider going to Blaise's shop to check for them there, when she rounds the corner into the corridor where the washrooms are. In the very farthest corner, hidden amidst the darkness and quiet, Theo has Blaise pushed against the wall. Their legs are tangled together, thigh against thigh, chests pushed up against one another, and their lips are together in a ravenous kiss. Blaise's hand rests on Theo's jaw, while the other one hungrily grabs the material of his shirt on his back. Blaise's costume crown is on the ground beside them, and as soon as Hermione confirms it's them, she backs out of the corridor slowly, not wanting to alert them of her presence.
They'd just needed a bit of extra encouragement after all, it seems. She's grinning like an idiot as she retraces her steps back through the bar, anxiously pushing through people. She might look frightening, that's how big she's smiling. Her stomach is twirling in excitement for her friends, adding to the general feelings of ecstasy she'd been bridling on the dance floor.
A rainbow of lights falls onto her skin as she finds her way back onto the dance floor, head down to avoid stepping on anyone's feet. She looks up and sees Pansy, Adrian and Daphne where she'd left them, and is just about to join them, still grinning manically when she spots him.
Draco stands on the edge of the dancefloor, and when she finally sees him, his eyes are on her. His face is expressionless, studying her, falling from her hair to her dress, legs, and the feathered angel wings on her back. She stops, frozen in place as she takes him in. He's not dressed up as anything, she thinks; just his usual black slacks, shiny dragon leather shoes and buttoned white oxford.
She's forgotten how regal he always looks. She's grown used to seeing him at the shop, covered in sawdust or sweating from ripping out walls. This is the real Draco Malfoy; sophisticated, put together, dressed to the nines like the pureblood he is. Her breath hitches slightly in her throat. He leans one hand on a table beside him, crossing one relaxed ankle over the other foot which he balances on.
A piece of his blond fringe flops messily onto his forehead, and Hermione is drawn to those eyes, silver, grey, like the moon on its brightest night.
She doesn't move. Barely even breathes. She waits, blinking, watching him as he watches her. His eyebrows twitch together, pensive and calculating. She narrows her eyes, ever so slightly.
She thinks of yesterday, his poisonous scowl and warning eyes.
"Trying to get to know me is not going to make me like you. Ever."
His words ring through her head like a warning. Things aren't going to change, Hermione, she tells herself. He doesn't remove his gaze, and Hermione decides that once and for all she's tired of playing his silly games. She turns on her heel, forcing her eyes away from him and pushing back through the crowd towards the bar top.
"A glass of Firewhiskey, please," she tells the bartender. She pulls herself up on a barstool.
How had she let this happen? He was her childhood bully, her best friend's school nemesis, the reason Death Eaters had gotten into Hogwarts and Bill had those vicious scars across his face. He had been horrible then. What was so different about now?
She gratefully accepts the glass from the bartender and takes a sip, closing her eyes. A vein twitches under them, somewhere, as she thinks of his eyes on her.
"Hermione?"
She turns herself slightly on the barstool and comes face to face with Neville Longbottom.
"Neville!" she practically throws herself on him, arms looping around his neck as she pulls him into a tight hug. It takes a moment for him to shake himself from his stupor, and then he's returning the hug, pulling Hermione closer into his body.
He smells nice, like linen and a bit like warm soil. Hermione wants to cry.
"Well that's a warm welcome," he produces a signature lopsided smile as she pulls away to inspect his face. He's still dressed in his Hogwarts robes, hair pushed back neatly onto his head. He'd grown into himself since their school days, tall and handsome.
"How are you here!?" Hermione giggles, pulling him onto the empty barstool beside her. The bartender asks if he wants a drink, and he politely orders a butterbeer.
"Halloween celebrations at Hogwarts ended early," he explains, nodding in thanks as the witch hands him his drink. "So I thought I'd come see the hippest new hangout spot in Diagon Alley. I didn't expect to see you here though. Who's with you? Isn't everyone in Wales?" he looks around expectantly for a head of red hair or a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
"I'm actually here with a few... new friends," Hermione says, and he meets her eyes again.
"Oh yeah? Who's that?"
"Blaise Zabini."
"Blaise Zabini... the Slytherin?"
"That's the one."
Neville looks at her as if she's gone barmy, taking a sip of his butterbeer.
"Are you dating him?" he asks incredulously. She shakes her head quickly.
"No, just friends. I'm actually quite well acquainted with a few others, as well. Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson.... Draco Malfoy."
Neville nearly chokes on his drink, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Malfoy? Acquaintances? Since when?"
"We’ll, actually, I'd hardly call Malfoy an acquaintance. It's more like we tolerate each other and argue about everything under the sun. But since just after my birthday, I suppose."
Her eyes flicker back over to the crowd on the dancefloor. Malfoy has joined the other three now, and he's whispering back and forth with Adrian, his eyes on her and Neville. Hermione looks away, returning to Neville's rather bewildered look— the same look he'd given her when she'd paralyzed him in first year.
"Wow... and they're... nice to you?" he asks, and his eyes scan the crowd until he catches sight of them.
"For the most part. They don't call me awful names anymore, if that's what you're asking. I don't know them terribly well, apart from Blaise. But I enjoy their company."
Neville studies her, probably wondering if they have her under the Imperious curse. She gives him a reassuring smile.
"They're really fun. I think you'd like them."
She looks back over to the dance floor to catch Theo and Blaise returning from their impromptu snogging session. Blaise catches her eye from afar and she winks at him, watching him quirk a mischievous eyebrow at her. He sees Neville and gives him a courteous nod, which Neville returns timidly.
"Look, Hermione, I can't stay and chat. I actually have someone waiting for me in a booth over there," Neville points across the bar to a nearly empty booth, where one girl sits patiently, fiddling with her hands as she looks around. Hannah Abbott, if Hermione's memory serves her correctly.
"Of course," she smiles, standing up to give him a friendly kiss on the cheek.
"I'll owl you soon, yeah? You can tell me more about what crazy potion they drugged you with to get you to hang out with them." He winks playfully at her and squeezes her hand softly before making his way in the direction of Hannah. She watches him leave, catching Malfoy's eyes on her still as she turns her head.
"Shit," she murmurs to herself. A wave of dizziness and nausea washes over her, a familiar effect of too much Firewhiskey. She grabs onto the lip of the wooden bar to balance herself, taking a deep breath in to try and squash the sudden feeling that she's going to vomit.
But it comes over her again, stronger this time, saliva rushing into her mouth. She wastes no time pushing back into the crowd, one hand over her mouth just in case, and practically throws herself through the front door, stumbling down the street and tucking herself into an alleyway.
The vomit comes up just as she leans a hand against the wall. It's vile; it burns her throat slightly, and it takes a few rounds of heaving for her to get the feeling that it's over with. She'd most definitely overdone it.
Her stomach twists slightly again, but she doesn't feel the need to puke yet, so she pulls herself along the wall deeper into the alley and slides her back down the brick wall. It must have just rained, because the cobblestone and the brick are slightly damp, reflecting moonlight off of the ground by her shoes. She lets her head fall back dejectedly against the wall, taking deep breaths of the cool air to ease her queasiness.
"Granger?'
She knows it's him without having to look; the slow, careful drawl, low and musical. She sighs, shutting her eyes and hearing his shoes tap against the cobblestone towards her.
"I'm not really in the mood, Malfoy. If you need someone to shout at, I'm sure Pansy is available."
She can hear his calm breaths beside her, and she peaks open one eye to look at him.
She can see his knee and legs beside her, and his shiny black shoes resting only a foot away from where her legs are splayed out in front of her. She forces herself not to look up, not to make eye contact or see his face.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle and flecked with worry. She huffs a dry laugh, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand where a little saliva still remains. She gives him no response.
"I'm guessing not," he sighs, and she watches him lower into a crouch, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands fall limply into the air.
"See how much time we save when you get straight to the point?" she asks him sarcastically, feeding him one of his own lines from earlier that month. His face is in her line of view now, and she sees the corner of his mouth lift faintly in amusement.
"Granger, look–"
"I'm very angry at you," she mumbles, her words slurring slightly in their drunkenness. She pulls her other eye open and looks up at him, seeing the sad scowl that has pulled his lips back down.
"I-"
"No. Shush," she snaps at him, holding a finger up in warning. He nods, grey eyes never leaving hers. They look almost regretful.
"You can't treat me like that," she continues, letting her eyes fall closed again. The bricks behind her head are cold on her scalp, but the coolness feels nice and relieves the headache that's continuing to grow at the base of her skull. "I'm allowed to be worried about you. I'm allowed to ask you why you were late when you couldn't even send an owl to tell me you were safe."
She peaks one eye open again. Malfoy's gaze has fallen to the ground, and his mouth is drawn into a straight line.
"You don't have to like me. I get that you don't want to be friends," she continues, repeating a mantra in her head of 'don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.'
"-And I don't think I understand why, but I'm willing to accept it. I'm sorry if I ever pushed you too hard, but I don't deserve to be yelled at."
"I know."
Her other eye flicks open in surprise at his response. He looks back at her, scratches his head nervously, and twists himself to lean against the alley wall beside her. He stretches his legs out in front of him like Hermione, only his are nearly twice as long as hers. She wants to giggle but stops herself. She can smell his cologne, warm and comforting, and resists the urge to lean into him, to scootch her body closer to his. Then, like the greatest anti-aphrodisiac ever, she feels the lurching of her stomach once more.
"I have to throw up again," she says suddenly, bolting up and rushing to the other side of the alley. She hunches over, pulling her curls away from her face, mortified that Malfoy has to see this.
Then, there is another hand in her hair, gathering the spare pieces and holding it in a bunch at the nape of her neck. Before she has time to comprehend that Draco Malfoy is holding her hair for her, she's vomiting again, retching until her abs are burning. A tear falls from the corner of her eye onto the ground, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand again, relying on the hand she has pressed against the wall for support.
Malfoy's hand stays steady in her hair, gripping it tightly but not pulling. She feels his knuckles brush the base of her neck and a shiver runs through her body.
"Alright?" Malfoy asks softly, and Hermione nods, sniffing and straightening. Malfoy lets go of her hair, and she hears him cast a quiet Scourgify on the wall and cobblestone to rid it of her vomit. She falls back against the opposite wall, sliding down it again, and Malfoy returns to her side, falling back into position.
"Thanks," she whispers, looking over at him. His expression is unreadable, but he nods at her, scanning her face to make sure she is alright. She can hear his rhythmic breathing, comforting and steady, and she casts her eyes up at the sky.
"You should quit drinking," he says suddenly, licking his lips. She pulls her brows together and looks over at him.
"Says you," she retorts, and he almost grins. He clears his throat.
"It's not a healthy way of dealing with things," he reasons, turning his head to face the wall across from them. Try as she might, Hermione can't find a response for him. He's right— she should stop drinking. It had become a terrible habit, a toxic coping mechanism. She suddenly feels like a terrible person. Her reliance on alcohol had been creeping up on her, but not yet necessary for survival. She should feel grateful that she is able to stop at the tip of a hat, knowing how Theo had been overcome by his own addiction.
"Alright," she nods, not bothering to look over at him. She can hear him turn in surprise, clearly put off that she's not arguing with him any further.
"Good."
"Good."
They sit in silence for a few moments as Hermione lets her stomach calm down. Draco conjures a cup of water and hands it to her, and she takes small, cautious sips from it.
"I'm sorry, Granger."
It's slow, not rushed, and genuine, not snarky. His voice falters slightly as if it kills him to do it. But it's sincere.
"For which part?" she asks, turning her head only slightly to catch his profile, sharp and perfectly sculpted against the black of the night. She can hear the sounds of the bar as the door opens and closes somewhere; the bass from the music, and the homogenous sounds of voices and laughter.
"Everything." He says, swallowing, and Hermione watches his adam's apple bob against the long lines of his throat. "Except trying to get you to drink black coffee."
"Awh, and that was the part I was most angry about," Hermione deadpans, looking over at him with a twinkle in her eye. He scoffs, shaking his head slightly. It grows silent between them again, just the distant noises of the bar and the sounds of their breathing.
It's a peaceful, comforting silence, without an air of unease or the pressure of talking. She likes having him this close— the heat from his body leeching into hers, even though they don't touch. The intoxicating smell of him, and the way it feels like home. He has become almost an extension of her; a hand to help when a nail becomes stuck in the wall, a voice to finish her sentences as they come up with a solution to a problem at the same time.
It's frightening, but in a good way; like flying a dragon or shooting a spell from your wand. Dangerous, and addicting.
"For the record, Granger," Malfoy breaks the silence, turning to look at her. She looks at his regal nose, his sharp cheekbones, his dark brows over luminescent irises. His lips. "I don't hate you-"
She locks her eyes to his, biting her lip slightly. His eyes fall briefly to where she pulls her lip with her teeth, and shoot immediately back up to meet her eyes.
"-I just think there are some things that even forgiveness can't mend."
She eyes him for a second, her brows drawing lightly together, and she swallows.
"I don't think that's a decision you get to make on your own, Malfoy," she breathes.
He blinks at her. He almost glows in the moonlight, Hermione thinks. So beautiful.
"I should go," he swallows, standing and pushing himself from the wall. "Will you be okay?" he asks, holding out a hand to her to help her up. She looks at it, and back up at him before taking it, his hand enveloping hers, warm and strong. He is careful to pull her up slowly but drops his hand immediately to his side once she is standing.
"I'll be fine," she nods. "I'll just go sober up at the shop and head home when I can."
For a moment, they stand in another comfortable silence, as Hermione wipes her hands on the skirt of her dress. He'd surprised her tonight — his apology, holding back her hair while she puked her guts out, a general overall pleasantness that was unusual in him.
He gives her a final nod and turns to leave, his shoes clicking on the ground, his broad shoulders turning away from her.
"Malfoy?"
He stops and turns back, quirks an inquisitive eyebrow up.
"I want to help you. With your Mum. I'm going to help."
His face drops, eyes soft and sad and also skeptical. It reminds her of everything that he's been through. It reminds her that, like her, he is a survivor. He sticks his hands in his pockets and gives her a small, tilt of his head.
"Okay, Granger."
She lifts the corner of her mouth and watches his silhouette— broad, lean, breathtaking— stroll through the alley and turn back towards the bar, taking one last glance at her before he vanishes.
Chapter 11: Chapter 11
Notes:
TW: description of mild gore, blood
Chapter Text
When Hermione arrives at the shop on Monday morning, Draco is already there, as usual. She can hear him upstairs drilling something into the wall, but there is a takeaway coffee cup on the front counter with a G written on the lid in white chalk marker.
Her heart picks up for a moment as she sets her bag down and hastily grabs the coffee, removing the lid.
The coffee is black.
Prick.
“Morning, Granger.”
Malfoy appears on the staircase, shoulders freckled with sawdust, running a hand through his blond hair. She frowns down at the black coffee and then looks back up at him as he approaches her, his face washed with a smug grin.
“Morning. I thought we talked about this,” she motions to the coffee in her hand, and he watches her with an amused look. “You’re supposed to be nice to me from now on, remember?”
“Civil? Yes. Nice? Don’t remember that word ever popping up. Don’t push your luck, Granger.”
His mouth slants further into a devilish grin as he watches her huff, placing the coffee down and rifling through her bag. When she finds the items she needs, she smiles and pulls out two packets: one of sugar and one of powdered creamer.
Malfoy rolls his eyes as she rips the tops of the packets off, throwing them onto the counter before pouring the powdered substances into the coffee, and hovering her wand over the cup with a stirring motion, watching the cream swirl into the blackness.
“One day, when you start drinking your coffee black, you’ll thank me.” Malfoy sneers, watching with a curled lip as Hermione pushes the lid back onto the coffee cup.
“Doubt it.”
“I bet you ten galleons.”
“Deal.”
She takes a sip of her coffee, her eyes on him while she does, and makes a loud noise of satisfaction. He shakes his head and turns to return to his work. She watches him march up the stairs and disappear from her line of sight, trying not to feel too giddy about their amicable interaction. It was always when she got too excited that he would back away.
That morning, Malfoy continues to work upstairs while Hermione begins clearing out the back office, moving supplies to the main room, organizing paperwork and her ‘How To’ books in various drawers and shelves, and making lists of things she needs to do for the shop, and for Daphne’s upcoming birthday celebrations. Daphne’s favourite colour, Hermione had learned on Saturday, was purple. She chooses a lilac colour palette for the decorations and sends a letter to Adrian to coordinate for the cake.
She then works on budgeting for most of the morning, sitting at her newly cleaned desk as she balances shop expenses. She is suddenly relieved that Malfoy has been returning his paychecks, even though she still believes he should be keeping every penny of it. If everything goes well from now until she is able to open the shop, she’ll be able to start making money just before she runs out— but things were going to be tight.
At noon, she hears the bell jingle— presumably Blaise coming to pick Malfoy up for their daily lunch break. She practically skips out of the office to greet him, eager to find out what happened with Theo at Devil’s Snare and tease him for it. She exits the office, grinning wildly and rounding the corner.
“Blaise you cheeky-”
She stops dead in her tracks when she realizes that the visitor is not, in fact, Blaise at all. It is a woman, maybe a few years older than Hermione, tall and impossibly beautiful— amber skin and long, straight black hair to her waist. Hermione envies her hair more than she does Pansy’s or Daphne’s. It seems impossibly perfect, every hair in place, and it almost shimmers in the sunlight when she turns to look at Hermione with dark, smoky eyes.
“Oh, sorry…” Hermione swallows, as the woman looks her over with a conservative smile. “I thought you’d be someone else.”
“Amara,” Malfoy appears behind Hermione, coming down the stairs, his lips pulled downwards into a frown. “I thought we agreed to meet at the manor?”
“We did, Draco,” the woman— Amara, apparently— says to the blond, her eyes still resting on Hermione. Hermione feels uncomfortable, almost scrutinized, under the sharp gaze of the woman. Malfoy makes his way over to her, and the two kiss each other formally on both cheeks. “I just thought I'd stop by to see if you, Draco Malfoy, were actually doing manual labour. I'd thought you might be lying when you said you used a muggle hammer and nails daily."
Hermione feels a heat crawl up her neck; was Malfoy going out on a date? She tries to hide her look of surprise as Malfoy moves beside Amara to face Hermione.
“Granger, this is Amara Burman. She’s a… family friend.”
Amara smiles at her and Hermione forces one in return.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Hermione says politely, her eyes flicking over to Malfoy, who looks slightly frazzled, peering over his shoulder at the door as if eager to escape.
“And you, Hermione,” she enunciates Hermione’s first name pointedly, her eye twinkling as she looks over at Malfoy. “The whole world knows your name, even if this git refuses to use it.”
Hermione eyes the expensive, silky robes the witch is wearing and the shiny black heels that accentuate her long legs. If Malfoy is dating her, Hermione isn’t surprised. She is every bit of pureblood gorgeous that he is sure to be attracted to.
“It is a bit of a tongue twister, and he can be a bit dim, so I just let it slide,” Hermione jokes, her eyes landing on a very uncomfortable Malfoy. He glares quickly at her before lifting a hand and resting it on Amara’s back as she laughs.
“Funny and a war hero,” she grins with impossibly white teeth. Hermione forces another smile.
“We should go,” Malfoy says to her, pushing her lightly towards the door, his hand still on her back. “I’ll see you after lunch, Granger.” His eyes are trying to communicate something to her, though she doesn’t know what. His face is stoic and impassive as Hermione quirks a brow at him.
“Take your time,” Hermione replies, watching Amara’s elegant movements as Malfoy leads her out the door.
“I hope to see you again soon, Hermione,” Amara nods politely at her despite Draco’s obvious desperation to separate the girls as soon as possible.
“Come by anytime,” Hermione waves, and watches Malfoy’s look of relief as the two of them finally apparate away.
Malfoy has a lunch date at the manor. A lunch date with a beautiful girl, who was supposed to go straight to his home. A date at the manor. No matter how she tries to phrase it, nothing makes it sound any better.
She banishes the thought of what kinds of activities they could possibly spend their lunch hour doing, and clenches her jaw, breathing deeply through her nose. He was allowed to do whatever he wanted during his lunch break. The time was his own. Whatever he wanted.
Except that.
She briefly considers banning lunch dates before realizing how absolutely barmy and irrational that would be. He probably dates a lot of people. He probably sleeps with a lot of people too.
She remembers the girl he’d had hanging off of his arm the first time she’d seen him at Devil’s Snare. The idea of being jealous over Malfoy was absurd; it made sense to be jealous of Ron and Lavender in sixth year, but right now, it was both inconvenient and baffling. She has the sudden urge to summon a small army of birds when he returns. She practices the Oppugno charm in her head a few times, before shaking her head at herself for being childish.
She seethes as she begins to perform menial tasks around the shop for a few minutes, distracting herself from unwelcome thoughts and envy until Blaise arrives.
“Malfoy’s not here,” she snaps at him, and he raises an eyebrow at her irate welcome. “Sorry. Just tired.”
“Right. And, I know. I came to have lunch with you, believe it or not.”
He holds up two deli sandwiches with both hands and shakes them at her. She allows her shoulders to relax and takes the one he holds out to her with an apologetic smile. They settle into the chairs in her office and pull open the wrappings.
“Who is she?” Hermione asks casually after a few bites. “I don’t recognize her from Hogwarts.”
Blaise, unlike Theo, is unsuspicious of Hermione’s curiosity. He swallows his bite and licks his lips.
“You wouldn’t. Amara Burman, pureblood. Went to a private school near Oxford. Her parents were friends of the Malfoy’s. She is now a Wizarding Criminal Lawyer, and Malfoy’s only hope of getting Narcissa an early release.”
Hermione feels embarrassed of herself now; she picks at a piece of lettuce and inspects it.
“She’s gorgeous,” she supplies, shrugging as she throws the lettuce into her mouth.
“And taken,” Blaise smiles mischievously, “-her girlfriend is equally as pretty.”
She wants to kick herself now. A reminder of why jumping to conclusions is never effective. Blaise goes back to eating until Hermione suddenly remembers why she had been so excited to see him today.
“If I were to guess correctly, I’d say you had a pretty good night on Halloween, no? ” Hermione smirks deviously, watching Blaise’s mouth twitch up at the corners.
“Never pegged you as a spy, Hermione, but I do learn new things about you every day,” he shakes his head at her. She can’t help but grin wider, leaning forward in her chair with interest.
“Spill, Zabini,” she encourages, resting her arms on the desk in wait. He finishes the last bite of his sandwich and rubs his hands together to banish the crumbs.
“Unfortunately, there’s not much to tell,” he shrugs, his face blank. “We snogged, danced a bit, but we both went to our separate flats at the end of the night. We didn’t talk about anything, and haven’t since.”
Hermione can’t hide her disappointed frown.
“Did you talk at all? You had to have said something.”
“I told him I missed him, and he said he felt the same… then there was less talking, a lot of snogging, and we didn’t get to talk much after. It's fine, Granger, I was too drunk anyway. I would have butchered an apology and he wouldn’t have let things go much further unless I was sober.”
She huffs, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice.
“Well, I’m glad you two made some form of progress. You should ask him out for lunch tomorrow,” she suggests, clearing the garbage from her desk and tossing it into the bin with less than precise aim. The balled-up wrapper from her sandwich hits the floor beside the bin, skidding into the corner.
“And leave ickle Draco to have lunch all by himself?” Blaise scoffs, tossing his own wrapping, which lands perfectly in the center of the bin. Hermione frowns.
“I’m sure Malfoy can stand one day without someone’s company. I’ll keep him occupied. Who knows, maybe we can argue over whose sandwich is better, or whether pickles belong on a ham and rye.”
Blaise chuckles, shaking his head at her again. She pushes a blank piece of parchment and a quill over to him.
“Ask him,” she pushes, and Blaise sighs, dipping the quill into a pot of ink.
“Bossy,” he mumbles as he begins scratching in neat, straight handwriting. Hermione smiles to herself as she watches Blaise write the lunch invitation for Theo. Her small but significant role in playing matchmaker with the two Slytherin boys has her giddy like a teenager.
Blaise leaves to send the letter off by owl, leaving Hermione by herself in the shop. She traipses upstairs and picks up where Malfoy had left off before lunch, cutting the remaining wood for the upstairs shelves.
She is shaking sawdust from her hair when Malfoy strolls up the stairs, back from his lunch excursion with Amara.
“Hello,” she breathes, her cheeks growing red as Malfoy’s eyes flick over her hair and all of its size and frizziness. He nods at her, amused, and goes over to pick up his work gloves.
“How was your lunch date?” she asks, knowing full well that it was not, in fact, a date. She is fishing now, expecting a reaction, wanting to hear the words come from his mouth, “I’m not dating anyone, Granger.”
His back is to her, so she is unable to gauge his reaction; just sees the slow rise and fall of his breathing as he pauses, pulling his gloves on his large hands.
“Fine,” he replies, turning and raising an eyebrow at her, his face impassive. She keeps her own expression neutral despite her disappointment. Apparently, being civil towards each other did not mean conversations about their personal lives and lunch breaks. And now she can’t be certain that he is, in fact, not dating anyone.
He pulls the stack of cut shelves from the saw table beside her, his warm smell leeching into her space. She’s trained herself not to focus on it too much; not to breathe in deeper when the hints of rosemary settle under her nose. He strides over to the unfinished wall, pulling the drill from a shelf and beginning to install the last of the shelves.
“Was that Longbottom I saw you with at Devil’s Snare?”
She looks up from her station, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He isn’t looking at her, his back still to her as he levels the shelf against the wall fastener. Apparently, her question had, indeed, warranted conversation.
“Yes.”
She keeps her tone clipped, unrevealing. Two could play this game, Malfoy. Just as two could play the quiet game, or the taunting game. She sees him nod, hears the whir of the drill as he attaches the next shelf. Once it’s on, he lowers the drill, pulling the ladder from beside him over to reach the tallest shelf. He climbs it, his back to her all the while.
“He’s…” Malfoy begins again as he reaches the middle of the ladder with the next shelf in his arms, “less pathetic than he was at Hogwarts, I suppose.”
The drill spins loudly. Twice. Stops.
“Age has been very becoming to him,” Hermione agrees. This time, her voice lilts slightly, enigmatic. Now it was Malfoy’s turn to fish, and Hermione will more than gladly dangle the hook at him.
“He still likes plants and such?” Malfoy sniggers, and Hermione rolls her eyes.
“He teaches Herbology at Hogwarts now. Surely you’ve heard?”
“I’m not exactly their most… favoured alumni, so, no, I hadn’t heard.”
He steps down from the ladder, setting the drill on one of the steps and finally turning to face her. He looks at her, heavy-lidded and curious.
“Do you two see a lot of each other?” he asks, pulling a glove off to scratch his face, and she can hear the invisible stubble under his nails. His sudden interest in her personal life has her heart beating wildly in her chest.
“Not as much as I’d like to,” she shrugs, turning her body away from the saw table to face him. Her eyes fall helplessly over the hard curves of his body under the black t-shirt he’s wearing. Lean and slender, nothing like Ron’s. The way his veins run blue and prominent under his ivory skin.
She remembers the feeling of his hands holding her hair back, the pads of his fingers grazing the nape of her neck, conjuring the gooseflesh that gave her away.
‘Granger…’
“Granger?”
“Hmm?”
She’s shaken out of her forbidden thoughts, and realizes she’s been staring at him, brow furrowed quizzically.
“I said do you think we’ll be able to finish the renovations before Daphne’s party? There’s a lot to do in just a few weeks-”
“You underestimate us, Malfoy,” she says, unfreezing her body and unplugging the saw from the generator.
“I’ve never underestimated you, Granger.”
Icy thrill runs through her. What did he mean by that? Before she can even decide if she wants to ask, he is spinning slowly in a circle, assessing the fully shelved second floor.
“We’ve got twice as much to do downstairs, so we’ll have to put in the work before Daph’s birthday,” Malfoy says to her, running a hand along one of the shelves. The light, natural wood is a shade darker than his skin. He almost glows.
“Let’s not waste any time then,” she smiles, beginning to clean and gather the supplies, which must be levitated downstairs, for they are far too heavy to be carried by just the two of them. They both work quickly, carefully using both of their wands to float down the large saw, and the ladder, opting to carry the smaller things like the drill and boxes of fasteners.
The bell jingles suddenly, and Hermione frowns. They didn’t usually have visitors in the afternoon, save for Mr. Bimble every other Friday.
“Hermione?”
The voice is panicked. Hermione rushes to the railing, peering down towards the front door. Harry is looking around frantically, his black hair looking even more dishevelled than usual. Her heart drops into her stomach. He and Ron aren’t supposed to be back from their mission in Wales for another week.
“Harry? What’s wrong?”
Malfoy appears beside her, but Hermione is already rushing down the stairs towards her friend, brows pulled together in worry. Harry’s eyes are panic-filled, and he meets Hermione in the middle, grabbing her elbows tightly.
It’s only then that she notices his Auror robes, covered head to toe in mud and sticky red blood. She can smell it on him, tangy and coppery, and she searches his face and body for signs of an injury.
“Hermione, it’s Ron,” Harry says, his voice wobbly and rushed. Her eyes flick back up to his green ones. There is a crack in his glasses, and the wire frame is bent unnaturally on one side. Fear jolts through her like electricity— true, real life fear she hasn’t felt since the war. It’s not the kind of fear she feels waking up from her nightmares. It’s not the fear she gets from the way she feels about Malfoy.
It's ice cold, prickly; almost painful.
“He’s in St. Mungo’s. I’ll explain on the way,” Harry releases her elbows, glancing up briefly at Malfoy before heading back towards the door. Hermione's chest constricts with terror.
“Malfoy, can you please close up tonight?” she turns to him, gazing up to where he stands on the second floor, hands resting on the railing as he looks down on her with an unreadable expression.
“Of course-”
She barely lets him finish before she’s rushing through the door, grabbing Harry’s elbow, and feeling the strange pull of her naval as he apparates them away.
~~~
The waiting room at St. Mungo’s smells of antiseptic and lemon cleaning spray. The chairs are terribly uncomfortable, and the magazine selection is scarce— outdated, and uninteresting.
Besides, she can barely stay focused enough to read one, even if she wanted to. Harry is pacing beside her, and she can’t stop glancing up at Molly’s worried expression as Arthur whispers consolations in her ear. Ginny is still on tour, and won’t be notified until her practice is over, and George, like Hermione, waits quietly in his own chair.
Harry had explained everything as soon as he and Hermione had gotten to St. Mungo’s over an hour ago.
They’d been on a raid in Wales: it was the first lead they’d gotten that had actually led them to the rebel group, through a spy that had gotten the location for a Fidelius-hidden cottage from the secret keeper.
The group of five Aurors, Harry and Ron included, had stormed the cottage, but their numbers had been wrong. They’d entered a safe house that hid fifteen men, not seven, as they’d thought. They immediately had to abandon their original plan and engage in combat with fifteen masked and highly-trained men.
Two out of five Aurors, Ron included, had been injured, and so they had to abort their mission and Portkey back to St. Mungo’s. Ron had been caught in an intricate curse in which his blood began to quickly dry up in his veins. He’d seized, Harry had said, and had also been splinched in the process of apparating. Luckily, the Aurors had managed to capture one of the masked men from the rebel group and were currently holding him at the ministry to question him, using Veritaserum to collect as much information as they could.
The Healers were currently working on countering the curse, but it was a long and difficult procedure, in which they had to continually re-liquefy Ron's blood as it dried, until the counter-curse could hold.
Fifteen men instead of seven. Fifteen people still coming together to fight against good. Fifteen people still inspired by Voldemort’s hatred— fifteen and ever-growing.
The war was supposed to be over. They had won, they had defeated Voldemort, locked away those who held the most danger. And yet, here they were, sitting in a hospital waiting for Ron to recover from dark magic. Hermione feels sick to her stomach.
“Harry, please sit down,” Hermione says, rubbing her temple as Harry paces past her for was must have been the hundredth time. “He’s going to be okay.”
Harry paces over to the chair beside her and sits on the edge, bouncing his knee in replacement. He runs a hand through his disastrous hair.
“I’m worried about Ron,” Harry begins, not looking at Hermione, “but I’m more worried that the Aurors are going to ask the captive all of the wrong questions. They need to interrogate him for all he’s got.”
Hermione places a hand over Harry’s clasped ones, rubbing a consoling finger over his skin, which is still sticky with blood and dirt.
“They’re Aurors, Harry. They will do everything they possibly can to get information.”
Harry turns back to her, his eyes filled with the familiar passion and intensity she’d seen so many times before.
“What if it’s not enough?” he asks desperately. “The rebels work in a rank system— only those of highest rank receive important information, and we have no idea where he stands in their hierarchy. It’s possible he’ll only tell us what we already know.”
“And it’s just as possible he’ll have the information necessary for you to end this,” Hermione assures him softly. This is the first time she’s seen Harry this distressed in years. She finds it sickly comforting; watching someone other than her feel the perpetual terror of the war. And yet, she would do anything to take it all away from him, to allow him to feel alright again.
Harry nods, wiping at his nose with the back of a hand.
“I don’t know if I can survive another war,” he admits. Hermione feels her heart break. If the rebel group managed to succeed — to remain hidden and grow their army — it would be years and years before the possibility of another war was viable. But it was terrifying nonetheless.
“Harry Potter, you can survive anything. The Boy Who Lived, remember?” She gives him a reassuring smile.
Harry smiles sadly at her. “I don’t want to be The Boy Who Lived, if I have to live solely for war.”
Hermione feels a stab in her gut, opening her mouth to reply when the Head Healer of Ron’s procedure emerges into the waiting room, striding towards the group of them. Everyone stands in synchronous motion, eyes glued on the Healer as he reaches them.
“Weasley family?” the healer asks, his eyes flicking over the three heads of red hair, and then skeptically over to Hermione and Harry.
“Yes?” Molly asks, clutching Arthur’s robes with white knuckles.
“Your son is doing just fine,” the healer informs them, and there is an audible breath of relief from almost all of them. “The curse has been expelled, and he will recover with no side effects. We’re just going to keep him overnight to monitor him, and continue replenishing his body’s blood supply.”
Hermione feels a flood of relief flow through her body, releases Harry’s hand, which she has unknowingly been squeezing and pulls him into a hug. Ron is alright. He was going to be just fine.
“Can we see him?” Molly asks, releasing Arthur like Hermione had Harry, and the healer nods and begins to tell her which room and how many visitors could see him at once. Harry and Hermione allow the three Weasley’s to go and see him first — Hermione can’t imagine how terrible it would have been for them to worry about losing another son and brother.
While the healer leads the three red-heads down a hallway towards Ron’s room, Harry and Hermione take their seats again to wait for their turn to visit Ron. Hermione feels much more relaxed now that the procedure is over, but Harry is still brimming with nerves about the interrogation. She asks the nurse if they are able to give him a few drops of Drought of Peace, to make him less bouncy for the time being.
He’s much calmer after, reading one of the old magazines with feigned interest as they wait.
“Auror Potter,” a man with a deep voice approaches them, wearing the same, uniform Auror robes as Harry. He is a tall, broad man with a head of strawberry blond hair and a full beard. Harry shoots out of his chair like a bullet as the man reaches them.
“Auror Fletcher,” Harry breathes frantically, extending his hand for a handshake. Hermione sits up straight in her own seat — presumably, the other Auror was bringing news of the interrogation. “Is the interrogation over?”
Auror Fletcher releases Harry’s hand and glances over Harry’s shoulder at Hermione, eyeing her for a moment before looking back to her friend.
“A word in private, Harry?” the man says, dropping the formality and lowering his voice to a near whisper. Hermione hides her disappointment as Harry nods eagerly, and the taller man leads them away, down the corridor.
Hermione is left in her uncomfortable seat, staring at her shoes and wondering if Malfoy is alright by himself at the shop.
A few minutes later, Harry is yet to return, but the Weasleys return from Ron’s room with grins on their faces and tear-stained cheeks.
“Hermione dear,” Molly says as they approach her, Hermione standing to greet them. “Ron would love to see you now.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione smiles, as Molly caresses her cheek with a soft, plump hand.
“Room 306 dear,” the woman instructs her, and Hermione tells her to send Harry when he’s finished his meeting.
When Hermione arrives in the small, white-walled room, Ron is eating his third container of pudding with a plastic spoon, his bed positioned upwards so that he is sitting. He has a bandage on his left hand and a scratch on his forehead, but other than that, looks the same as he always has. In fact, he looks strangely youthful; like the first time she’d ever seen him on the Hogwarts express, mouth shoved full of sweets and dirt on the end of his nose.
“Nothing ceases your appetite,” Hermione chuckles at him, walking towards the hospital bed as Ron’s eyes light up with excitement.
“All that spell-work makes me hungry,” he grins, his cheeks growing an obscene shade of red as Hermione kisses him on the cheek and pulls him into her arms.
“You deserve all of the pudding in the world,” she says into his ear, breathing in his familiar scent and relishing in his aliveness.
“Ow, Hermione, your hugs are always so tight-” he grumbles, and Hermione pulls away reluctantly, mussing his hair with her hand.
“I’m just glad to see that you’re alright,” she sighs, plopping into the chair beside his bed. Ron resumes his content consumption of the pudding as he repeats the story of the raid, this time from his perspective, which is much more dramatic than Harry had told it and, Hermione suspects, slightly fabricated.
“My hero,” Hermione giggles as Ron finishes.
“If it hadn’t been so dangerous, I would have wished you were there, Hermione,” Ron shrugs, his mouth pulled up into a lopsided smile. “It feels strange fighting the bad guys without you.”
Before Hermione can reply, Harry strolls into the room at lightning speed and practically jumps on Ron, pulling him into a hug.
“Next time, when I say ‘fall back’, you fall back, mate. Got it?” Harry warns, pulling back to inspect Ron’s face. Ron, who is clearly taken aback by Harry’s physical affection, swallows and nods keenly.
“Alright, mate,” he says, and Harry extricates himself from Ron’s hospital bed, taking the chair on the opposite wall.
“Well?” Hermione says expectantly, meeting Harry’s gaze. Ron turns to look at him as well, raising his brows in curiosity.
“You got one of them, didn’t you?!” Ron remarks, his eyes wide in realization, and Harry nods stoically. His glasses have been repaired, and his robes have finally been scourgified.
“Yes,” Harry nods, his gaze flickering from Hermione to Ron. It felt like old times — Hermione and Ron waiting for Harry to tell them what he knew.
“He’s at the ministry, in a holding cell, and they’ve just interrogated him using Veritaserum,” he informs Ron, who sits up straighter in his hospital bed.
“And?” Ron pushes, taking the words straight from Hermione’s mouth. Harry shifts in the chair, running a hand over his face with a long sigh.
“It’s like we expected,” he begins, meeting Hermione’s eye, “he’s too low in their hierarchy to have much information. We have no idea where their next hiding place is, and no idea what their next move is.”
Ron swears under his breath in disappointment. Hermione feels her own chest fall as well, feels the anticipation sucked from her body.
“But we did get one, very important, piece of information,” Harry says, a shimmer of hope in his emerald eyes.
“Go on then,” Ron prods, his pudding containers rattling on the pull-out table as he shifts excitedly in his bed.
“We wanted to see if this new group had connections to any of the Death Eaters in Azkaban, so that we could see if they had any more information. We asked about them all: Yaxley, Dolohov, Rookwood. Of our entire list of Voldemort’s followers and supporters, they’d only ever met and interacted with three of them: Jugson, Selwyn and Lucius Malfoy.”
For a moment, Hermione feels her own blood freeze in her veins. Ron freezes too, looking over at Hermione as he swallows. Harry watches them, takes a breath, and continues.
“They’ve already interviewed both Jugson and Selwyn using Veritaserum. But it’s difficult since our hostage wasn’t active during the war. The Death Eaters weren’t able to recognize pictures of the hostage, nor did they know any of the names he provided us of the fourteen others. The leaders— the two men who’d been more active during the war— go by Caius and Grigor Kiril. Brothers, it seems. But it’s highly likely that they’ve all changed their names since they’d interacted with the Death Eaters during the war; taken on aliases as a precaution, and not given their real names to new recruits. If this is their strategy, it’s worked. With Lucius Malfoy dead, we’ve reached a dead end. We have a list of fake names, and their hierarchy, no locations, and none of their future plans for recruitment. We’re no closer to finding them again after almost losing our entire team in there.”
Harry looks like he’s about to cry. Ron looks equally as put out, only he wears his emotions as anger, face red and fists clenched on top of his hospital blanket. Hermione’s mind whirls with information. Although it’s not her job, she is now in Auror mode. She has missed solving mysteries with these boys — the thrill of solving problems and untying riddles.
She’s also missed the sweet feeling of a solution popping into her brain; especially when that solution is able to kill two birds with one stone. She looks up at the boys and catches their attention.
“I may have an idea.”
Chapter 12: Chapter 12
Notes:
TW: mentions of alcohol abuse/addiction
Chapter Text
Miss. Amara Burman,
It is my understanding that you are acting as the Criminal Defense Lawyer on behalf of Draco Malfoy and his mother, Narcissa. I am aware of Narcissa’s current situation and the family’s wish to have her released early, due to the less than participatory nature of her offences. I also understand that in the current circumstances, this is no easy feat, even for a lawyer as skilled and well-regarded as you are.
I may have recently overheard some information that has sparked some inspiration for a plea deal— an exchange of information, should she be able to provide it, for Narcissa’s release, or at the very least, a shortened sentence. I believe it is in both of our interests to meet with the Minister for Magic, Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt, to discuss the possibility of bringing this opportunity to the Wizengamot.
Unfortunately, the information I have is confidential, and not of public knowledge, so I cannot in good faith say any more on the subject or the nature of my proposal in this letter alone. I can only hope that you see the genuine concern I have for justice, no matter how it is served, if we work together. I strongly believe Narcissa Malfoy should begin to live out the rest of her life with her son, and not behind bars. The actions of Lucius Malfoy should not define the rest of his family.
Please trust that my plan might be the best way to reunite a son and his mother. I can schedule a meeting with Minister Shacklebolt at your leisure, should you choose to accept. I look forward to your response.
I also think it best if Draco is not informed of this quite yet. Not until things are solidified. As his friend, I wouldn’t want to get his hopes up.
Best,
Hermione J. Granger
~~~
Miss. Granger,
Normally, I would never respond to a request with such ambiguous details and absence of evidentiary support, but your title as ‘The Brightest Witch of her Age’ has me thinking I’d be foolish not to hear you out. Besides, anyone who has the Minister for Magic at her disposal certainly has the power to make waves in this case. I trust you, Hermione Granger. How does Wednesday at noon sound?
And, I agree. Draco will remain in the dark for the time being. Whenever things involve you or his mother, his emotions can get the best of him. It’s best to tread lightly.
See you soon.
-Amara
Hermione has to read the line over four times before she is able to convince herself that she has not suddenly become illiterate.
‘Whenever things involve you or his mother, his emotions can get the best of him.’
Her? Hermione Granger her? The idea of Malfoy ever even speaking about her outside of work was absurd to her. He could barely even look her in the eye most days — and the days he could he spent teasing her or arguing with her. Surely, the emotional aspect Amara was speaking of was purely emotions of fury and irritation.
Nevertheless, this was not the part of the letter she needed to focus on. She writes immediately to Kingsley, asking him if he is able to squeeze her and Amara in on Wednesday if it could possibly help both the Auror department and the general well-being of Wizardkind. She admits that her wording is slightly dramatic, but she thinks it will improve her chances of Kingsley saying yes.
She receives a letter soon after with his agreement. She celebrates with her second bottle of pumpkin juice for the day, which has been her replacement for Firewhiskey ever since Halloween. As much as it killed her to admit that Malfoy was right, she needed to stop drinking so much. She was veering dangerously on the side of addiction, and besides that, after what happened on Halloween, she doesn’t think she could even stomach the stuff anyway.
The next morning, Hermione brings her own coffee to work only to discover that Malfoy hasn’t done a coffee run today anyway. She sips her creamy, sweet beverage under his judgmental gaze while they begin re-walling and shelving the main floor of the shop.
“Everything okay with the Weasel?” Malfoy asks as Hermione measures a corner section of the wall near the window. She frowns, not bothering to look at him and therefore give him the reaction he wants. There is some small semblance of real concern in his voice, no matter how little, so she gives him the benefit of the doubt instead of snapping at him.
“You can’t seriously ask that and be sincere if you can’t even bother to say his real name.”
“Forget I asked then.”
She sighs, turning to see the smug quirk of his mouth.
“His name is Ron, and he’s fine, thank you. He was discharged from St. Mungo’s this morning.”
“So I have no reason not to call him that then, if he’s alive and well,” Malfoy smirks. She scowls right back at him, lets her hand fall to her hip.
“No reason other than basic respect and human decency.”
“You take the piss out of everything, Granger.”
She twists around to face him. He looks like he’s gone the whole night without sleep again.
“Ron is my friend. I won’t apologize for not thinking your silly pet names aren’t funny.”
His face falls as he rolls his eyes, swiping a stray strand of hair off of his forehead. He looks at her, his eyes narrowing as he begins to realize that she won’t play his game.
“Fine. I’m glad that Weasley is alright. Even if I think he’s the most annoying git to ever walk the planet—even over Potter, who nearly killed me with his stupid Sectumsempra curse in sixth year.”
Hermione drops her ruler and level device and strides towards him. Somehow, even under their new truce, they are still unable to avoid getting under each other’s nerves.
“And it was a terrible thing that he did. But everyone is trying to move on now,” she says, stepping into his personal bubble and forcing him to meet her eyes. He looks indignantly at her, clearly unimpressed that she has taken his joking so far. “It’s best that way. Leaving it all behind — the names, the rivalries. We have better things to look forward to.”
“You’re such a hypocrite, Granger,” Malfoy scowls, setting his drill down onto the metal ladder beside him. “You talk all of this shit about forgiveness— about retribution and moving forward, when you’re the one who's really stuck.”
It hits her like a spell to the sternum. From the flash of his eyes, she can see that he knows he’s found his way in, that he’s gotten under her skin. His eyes light up with the challenge. He’s testing his limits, seeing how far he can push her. She’s too stubborn not to give in.
“What do you know about anything, Malfoy?” she asks angrily, pressing her finger into his sternum, hard. He almost stumbles backwards out of surprise but catches himself. Then he quickly snatches her wrist, pulling it away from his chest and holding it tightly in his hand.
“Please, Granger, I’m not blind. I was on the losing side, remember? I’ve seen it all before.” His grey eyes are cold and distant, desperate to win their fight through any means necessary.
“-I saw the way Theo nearly drank himself to death after his parents were killed — just like you carried around that flask in your pocket like it was a crutch. I know that this shop isn’t some fun project you’re doing in your spare time because you like books. You can rebuild a bit of wood and bricks Granger, but trust me, you’ll never be able to repair what you lost because of the war.”
He’s hitting every one of her weak spots, like the sharp point of an arrow to the center of a target. She feels the truth of his words, and it’s the truth that hurts, not the fact that he is saying it. He inhales a breath before continuing, his hand still gripping hers as he looks down at her with eyes so fierce she thinks they might shatter her.
“And those nightmares you get, Granger? The ones that cause the darkness under your eyes and the sleepless nights that you try to hide? The ones that replay in your eyes while you work, and make you look just like the scared girl I saw during the war? They’re the same ones I get, Granger. So don’t stand there and tell me that it’s time to move on; that I should leave it all behind just to protect your pathetic friend’s feelings. You know as well as I do that it’s never that simple.”
For once, she is not able to find the words she needs to respond to him. She knows he can feel the rapid beating of her pulse through the vein in her wrist; see the look of recognition in her eyes, and the lack of reply from her open lips. She is struck by the electricity of his touch and the painful candor of his accusations.
And here she’d thought he’d barely been paying any attention to her over the past few months; it turns out, he’d noticed everything she thought she’d been good at hiding.
Suddenly, he releases her wrist, letting it fall back limply to her side. She bites back the sting of tears, not from him, but from her own failed attempts at pretending she could ever be normal again. She returns his stare still, her amber eyes against his steel, trying to find any sign that he’s revelling in her patheticness. Was this what he wanted? To strip her of her walls, expose her vulnerable belly and prey on her like he’d used to do at school?
But when she looks, she finds none of that there. No superiority, no judgement, no malice. Just hard truths, fed to her in the only way she’ll hear it. It’s terrifying; the same vulnerability that comes with being naked or admitting that she’d gotten an answer on a test wrong.
She lets a tear fall onto her cheek and wishes she could stop crying in front of him. She watches his eyes fall on the tear, the bob of his throat as he swallows and the way he tries to conceive of her display of weakness. She takes a shaky breath in and takes another challenging, defiant step towards him. She has to tilt her chin to look at him now, as she stretches her arms out beside her in gesture and shakes her head in surrender.
“Well congrats, Malfoy. It looks like you’ve got me all figured out then. The real Hermione Granger. Not brave. Not daring. Not strong enough to leave it all behind and move on. Sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”
His eyes flash with heat and the muscle in his jaw ripples with aggravation. The air around them shifts, thick, heavy like a warm wind.
Then, his lips are on hers before she can even take another breath.
They crash onto hers with desperate force, so hard that she feels their teeth knock together before she feels the aching push of his lips against hers, moving with a wanting ferocity and reckless abandon.
It takes her a second to understand what is happening — that Draco Malfoy is kissing her, and that he is unrelenting in his desire. And then she is kissing him back with the same powerful zest, a practiced push and pull as she attacks him with equally eager pressure.
And oh. Oh, it feels better than anything she’s ever felt.
His hand slides up onto her face and into her hair, his thumb resting on her jaw while the rest of his fingers twist into her curls and pull her closer. A moan escapes her lips, and if she wasn’t so busy, she might be embarrassed by it.
It has the opposite effect on Draco, who slides his other hand around her waist to the small of her back and pulls her body against his tightly, their lips still glued together in a frenzied exchange of breath. She rests her hands onto his chest, hard like marble and sharp like glass, and their kiss deepens even more, if it is possible. He takes her bottom lip briefly between his teeth before pushing his tongue into her mouth, letting her follow suit as her fingers curl into the material of his t-shirt. His hands are warm, and she feels the rough tips of his fingers fall against her skin as the back of her shirt rides up. It’s skin against skin, his thumb brushing the little dimples where her spine meets her hips. She could explode just from that alone.
Her heart hammers wildly inside of her chest, her body alive with heat, the sound of small, desperate breaths from both of them as they gulp air down in between kisses. The kiss is unyielding, messy, frantic, as if the very idea of pulling away might be the most terrible thing that could ever happen to them. She realizes how starved she’s been to be touched by him; finds that the satisfaction of his hands and his lips and his breathy little groans are feeding her, nourishing her.
Hermione feels dizzy, transient, numb, and it takes her too long to realize that she’s risen onto her toes to reach him, balancing on the rubber tips of her trainers as she presses her chest against his. There is a tingle — a heat — behind her navel, winding its way down to her core. She’s never been kissed like this before, not ever. He is unravelling her with every small lick of his tongue or push of his fingertips.
She’s not sure if the pressure of his kisses is a result of reverence or punishment; maybe, they are one and the same.
But like all good things, the ecstasy is fleeting and must come to an end.
When he pulls away, she feels his absence like a phantom pain, a dull ache where his lips and hands had been. She opens her eyes with great effort, her lids heavy as if she’s been under sedation.
Malfoy looks like he’s been hit with a stunning spell— eyes wide, hair messy and lips bright red and swollen. She’s sure she must look just as insane, if not more so. He steps back quickly, realization blooming onto his face as his chest rises and falls rapidly.
They are both trying to catch their breath, gulping down air like they've been deprived of it for years.
“What-” Hermione begins, her fingers rising to her lips. Malfoy cuts her off before she can say anything more.
“This was a mistake.”
He runs a desperate hand over his face, muttering a string of curse words as he puts even more distance between them. Hermione can barely process any of it — him rushing out of the shop, ‘This was a mistake’, the jingle of the bell as he leaves and the absence of him, like a hole in the wall, when he’s gone.
Her entire body is tingling, her lips are sore and numb, and she’s worried that her heart is beating so fast that she may pass out. It takes seconds, maybe minutes — she can’t tell — before she is able to process what had just happened.
Malfoy had kissed her. Not a soft, short peck or one press of his lips before release. A full-on snogging session that could have been minutes or hours long; time, it seemed, was just as ambiguous when kissing as it was under the influence of Firewhiskey.
And then there had been his words after the kiss.
This was a mistake.
Surely he was right. Surely it had been a fluke; misplaced passion in the heat of an argument. A reaction to the power he’d had over her, and an attempt to claim it further. A momentary loss of sanity.
Then why had it been so wonderful?
~~~
After Draco Malfoy has kissed Hermione Granger the rest of the world goes on as usual, while Hermione doesn’t think things will ever be the same again.
She hates that she can’t stop thinking about it. She has so many other things to be thinking about and planning for; Narcissa’s plea deal, Daphne’s birthday, Ron and Harry’s safety, the progress of the shop — and yet every time she closes her eyes she is going back to his lips on hers, his hands everywhere, and how unbelievably amazing it had felt. It sinks through her whole body, into her chest and down into her core, lighting fires in places she’d thought had been extinguished by the horror of the war.
It was hard to deny any longer — she feels something for Draco Malfoy. And it isn’t hate. It isn’t disgust, or pity or contempt. There is something about Malfoy that has drawn her to him, and although she can’t pinpoint it, the feelings are there, clear and ever-present in her head.
Before the war, Hermione Granger hated Draco Malfoy.
After the war… well, she’s not sure.
She only knows that she wants to kiss him again. And she also knows that there is a huge possibility that she will never see him again; that whatever happened between them has scared him off for good.
Their temporary acquaintanceship had only lasted a day. A truce, a white flag, an olive branch, and then an explosion. It was inevitable, she supposes. Together, they were twisted trip wires fated to make sparks — whether they be of anger or of passion — and blow up. The shrapnel they create destroys her anew each time. But there is temptation and delight in pyrotechnics; excitement, and a little bit of danger.
How many times can you explode and put the pieces back together before you come completely undone?
She thinks for Draco Malfoy, she could do it for an eternity.
“This was a mistake.”
His parting words ring through her head like a warning, a duel with her own feelings, with the pattering of her heart as she thinks about his steel-grey eyes and the softness of his lips.
Even if she wants it, she knows Malfoy has made it clear that he wants no sort of relationship with her — not friends, not lovers, not anything more than temporary co-workers.
So Hermione decides to bury it. Whatever this is she is feeling. She buries it deep down, with her memories of her parents, with who she was before the war, with the dreams she once had. Because they are all useless, and they are all things that she’d rather forget if she can’t have them. Holding onto a ghost of a thing is just asking for it to slip from her fingers permanently when the pain becomes too much.
Whatever this is with Malfoy, if she doesn’t bury it right away, it may grow and cause that same pain. And she doesn’t think she’s strong enough to add something else to her list.
When she gets to the shop Wednesday morning Draco isn’t there yet. She unlocks the door and sets her things down, as the solitude buzzes in her ears like a mosquito. She’s used to his quiet presence in the morning — the sounds of the saw and the drill, the sight of a cup of black coffee on the counter, teasing her.
She sets her things down in her office and prepares her notes for her meeting with Kingsley and Amara today. Malfoy doesn’t show up all morning.
At noon, she takes the floo to the Ministry, twirling a curl in her fingers nervously as she catches a lift to Kingsley’s office. She’d told Amara to meet her there, where they’d go in together. A few interdepartmental memos float around her head, but otherwise, the lift is empty. It gives her a chance to try to smooth out her hair, to straighten her blouse and take a meditative breath before the lift announces her arrival at the proper floor.
She strides with confidence down the corridor, sending small, professional smiles to those she passes, all who clearly recognize her.
When she arrives outside of Kingsley’s office, Amara is sitting in the small waiting area out front in a cushioned wing-backed chair, looking just as sleek as that last time she’d seen her.
When she catches sight of Hermione she stands, smoothing out the fabric of her robes and giving Hermione a friendly smile.
“Hermione, it’s lovely to see you,” Amara says in her silky voice, her lips painted a dark mahogany red, her long hair pulled back into a smooth ponytail. Hermione extends her hand to shake the other woman’s, conscious of her own giant mane of hair in comparison to Amara’s. She makes a point to ask what hair products she uses later, when the professional aspect of their meeting is over with.
“Wonderful to see you too, Miss Burman,” Hermione says, sitting down in an identical chair opposite Amara’s. “I really appreciate you meeting me today. I promise to make it worth your time.”
“Please, call me Amara,” the woman says, her eyes steeling into Hermione’s with an obvious curiosity. “Then I can brag to all of my friends that I’m on a first-name basis with The Brightest Witch of Her Age.”
Hermione blushes at the title — it always made her uncomfortable, hearing it, like the expectations that had been set for her were far too high to ever reach. Flattering, most likely an exaggeration, and an invitation for failure.
“I should be just as lucky to know you,” Hermione says, deflecting the compliment, “I did a bit of research… your career has been extremely impressive.”
Amara tilts her head and takes the compliment with a composed chuckle.
“Are we going to flatter each other all day, Hermione?” she grins, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of the chair. Her posture is incredible, Hermione notes as she consciously straightens her own. “Draco said you were too nice for your own good.”
She lets out a breathy, sarcastic laugh before she can help herself.
“That sounds nothing like Malfoy,” she says quickly after Amara gives her a questioning look. “Are you sure he said that?”
“In a manner of speaking… “ Amara tilts her head from side to side, her eyes growing increasingly amused and interested in Hermione’s reaction. “I believe the way he phrased it was ‘irritating do-gooder,’ but I’m assuming you’re familiar with Draco’s… aversion to niceties.”
“Quite,” Hermione says, clearing her throat. Amara’s mouth flinches upwards as she nods.
“Why are you so intent on doing this for him, Hermione? For them?”
From the look Amara is giving her, Hermione knows that she can’t bullshit an answer; that the witch sees right through her, and that answering ‘justice’ or ‘reconciliation’ are not the answers she is looking for. Hermione steels herself, unwavering in her confidence as she locks eyes with Amara.
“Because I know what it’s like to be without your parents. And with everything Malfoy has lost, he deserves to have his Mother around to watch him become a better man than his father was.”
Amara quirks a very Malfoy-esque eyebrow and gives her a short nod, but as she opens her mouth to respond, the door to Kingsley’s office swings open as he steps out to greet them. Hermione makes introductions before Kingsley ushers them both into his office, to Hermione’s delight, clearly in an excellent mood. She and Amara sit on the chairs in front of his desk as he settles behind it, and Hermione can’t help but think about the last time she was here, buying the shop and not yet wanting to snog Draco Malfoy.
“Miss Granger, I know you have much to say, so let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” Kingsley says, his fingers locked together in an authoritative way on his desk. Hermione nods, shuffling the stack of notes she’s made and clearing her throat.
“I want to help get Narcissa Malfoy out of Azkaban,” Hermione cuts to the chase, looking directly at Kingsley with her fiercest gaze. “And I also want to help your auror team stop the remaining rebel group from starting another war. And I think we can solve both problems by connecting them to each other.”
Kingsley crosses his arms over his chest, his interest piqued, and looks from Hermione to Amara. Amara only raises an eyebrow; she’s going into this just as blind as Kingsley is.
“And how would you suggest we do that, Miss Granger?” he asks, nodding at her to continue.
“A plea deal,” Hermione says, pushing one of the papers from her stack over to Kingsley, and the other to Amara beside her. Both of them pick the parchment up and scan it with interest as Hermione continues.
“I’ve done a bit of research on Wizarding Criminal Law, and I believe that with Amara’s help we can pitch a plea deal to the Wizengamot. I know about the rebel hostage, and about the rebel groups’ claimed connection to Lucius Malfoy. Only, Lucius is dead. But Narcissa is alive and well.”
Kingsley’s head snaps up, and he narrows his eyes at her curiously. He sets the parchment down in front of him and folds his hands together again.
“And you think Narcissa has information about these people? About the rebel group?” he asks, seemingly unconvinced. Hermione swallows and nods, looking over at Amara who is observing Hermione stoically, clearly processing Hermione’s proposal.
“I think it’s worth a try. Based on my research, legally, the ministry cannot interrogate Narcissa about her deceased husband’s crimes — there isn’t any physical evidence to prove that Lucius ever was connected to this group,” Hermione looks over at Amara who nods in confirmation. Hermione’s heart soars when it is clear her research had been effective.
“-But, if Narcissa would willingly provide the information, it would be legal, and it might help the Aurors get what they need to end this all. I’m suggesting that we ask the Wizengamot for permission to obtain a plea deal: information from Narcissa for her early release. If and when Narcissa provides information that aids the Aurors in the arrest of members of the rebel group, she is granted release with probation, just like her son.”
Kingsley nods slowly, considering Hermione’s words for a moment as he closes his eyes. There is a fifty-fifty chance the Wizengamot might reject the proposal, and Hermione knows this, but she thinks it’s worth a try.
“And what if Narcissa is unable to provide this information?” Kingsley asks as he opens his eyes. Hermione’s heart falters. She’d considered this before — that maybe Narcissa would not be able to help. She could only hope that the woman had been informed of her husband’s affairs, or kept a close eye on those he met, those who trafficked the manor.
“I have the feeling Narcissa Malfoy is not a witch who lets things escape her notice,” Hermione states confidently. She looks over to Amara once again, who gives her a minuscule, knowing grin. It’s a message to Hermione that tells her she is right — Narcissa may have the information it will take for this to work.
“If Ms. Malfoy is not able to give aurors the correct information, I’m not sure what good this proposal will do other than get her hopes up. It’s quite possible she won’t even be trusting of the Ministry — she may believe they are searching for more information to incriminate her.” Kingsley points out.
Hermione casts her eyes down to her shoes, thinking. She hadn’t thought of this before. If Narcissa was anything like her son and anything like a typical Slytherin, trust was not something that she gave away freely.
“Then let me talk to her,” Hermione says, looking back up at Kingsley and placing her hands on the edge of his desk. “Let me gain her trust. I’ve been working with her son for months now. Maybe she’ll be able to see why I’m doing this.”
Kingsley eyes her again as if trying to understand himself why Hermione was doing this. But Kingsley knew her too well; had been an ally and friend in the war, and knew that Hermione felt most useful when she was using her logic to help others. His eyes fall to Amara, and he raises an eyebrow at the sleek witch, leaning forward onto his elbows.
“And what do you think, Miss. Burman?” he asks, motioning to the parchment of Hermione’s notes and proposal outline in her hands. Amara turns to Hermione and gives her a look, like a proud mom holding her daughter's report card.
“I think my client would do almost anything for a chance at freedom. And I think Miss Granger here is our best shot at ending this whole thing, once and for all. I also have a suspicion that information like this would be too precious for the Auror department to turn away. I highly suspect a proposal like this would pass with the Wizengamot.”
Hermione feels a surge of pride and anticipation fill her chest. She had been confident in her proposal, but she had also prepared herself for the possibility that she’d gotten it all wrong. Hearing both Kingsley and Amara express their confidence in the idea exhilarated her, like getting her OWLS back or knowing every answer on a test.
“Well, Hermione, I will schedule a meeting with the Wizengamot and Miss. Burman, and we will propose this plea deal and hope they see the same potential that we do. Well done.”
Hermione can’t help but grin, and, reflexively, she reaches across the desk to shake Kingsley’s hand.
“Thank you, Minister,” she says, and she looks happily over at Amara after Kingsley has given her a clandestine wink.
“I’ll be in touch, Miss Burman, about a time to meet with the Wizengamot. For now, if you could leave your availability with my assistant, that would be excellent.”
“Of course, Minister,” Amara tips her head at him as she and Hermione stand.
“I expect you’ll hear from me in the coming days as well, Hermione,” Kingsley says. Hermione feels a thrill that she gets to be part of the plan. Maybe she should reconsider going into Magical Law one day; but for now, she has a shop to finish.
“Wonderful to meet you, Miss Burman. And a pleasure as always, to see you, Miss Granger,” Kingsley says, flicking his office door open with his wand. The witches stride out of the office, and Hermione waits as Amara speaks to Penelope, Kingsley’s assistant.
The two of them walk towards the lifts together in silence, and Hermione tries to suppress her grin. Amara remains calm and professional, and as the lift doors close on them, she looks at Hermione out of the corner of her eye, gripping her briefcase with well-manicured fingernails.
“Will Draco be informed of this little meeting?” Amara asks, raising her brows. Hermione shakes her head.
“Not until it’s been approved. I don’t think he could handle it if it didn’t pan out.”
Amara nods, and the two of them step out when they reach the main floor, walking slowly over to the line of fireplaces where witches and wizards arrive in a flurry of green.
“He’s lucky to have you, Hermione.”
Amara turns to her as they reach an empty fireplace. Hermione’s stomach twists at her words, and she remembers what the witch had said in her letter.
‘Whenever things involve you or his mother, his emotions can get the best of him.’
She asks the question before she can stop herself.
“What did you mean in your letter?” her cheeks grow hot, and she can barely look the witch in the eye. “About Malfoy’s… emotions.”
She tries to remain impassive, tries not to give herself away. Amara gives her another signature smile, holding the handle of her briefcase in front of her legs with both hands.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now, Hermione. I can’t speak on matters that Draco has yet to understand himself. Good day.”
She steps into the floo before Hermione can ask any more questions, and disappears in a cloud of green, leaving Hermione ever confused about what exactly it is Draco Malfoy feels for her.
Chapter 13: Chapter 13
Chapter Text
Malfoy doesn’t show up for the rest of the week. Hermione doesn’t owl him, doesn’t even bother asking Blaise about him. She knows he needs time to brood, to chastise himself for kissing a muggleborn witch who drives him crazy.
Reaching out to him would hurt more than it would help.
So she works alone, progressing slower than usual, trying to install the walls and shelves on her own without Malfoy’s strange but considerable skill at muggle carpentry. She begins to worry that the shop won’t be finished in time for Daphne’s party, but presses on anyway.
When Mr. Bimble comes for his bi-weekly check-in, Hermione lies and says that Malfoy had been present all week and had taken the day off for personal reasons. Mr. Bimble questions nothing, just grins at Hermione under his gigantic mustache, scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment and asking about Draco’s work ethic.
On Friday night Hermione has another nightmare.
It’s the smell that terrifies her the most; it’s almost as if she isn’t dreaming, too real to be only in her head.
Putrid, rotting flesh, and wet dog, a sour sweetness like a pet that has rolled around in something dead. And blood —metallic and on his breath.
Fenrir Greyback.
In the dream, he has a hold of her again in the Forest of Dean while the snatchers check the list of muggleborns for their names.
Penelope Clearwater, Hermione lies, just as she had in real life, years ago.
Greyback’s stench is all over her, and it’s all she can do not to vomit. He whispers terrifying things into her ears, tales of past victims and what he’ll do to her if he gets the chance. His grip is tight on her arms, painful and bruising, almost unbearable.
Then, from a thick fog in the tree line, Draco appears. He’s dressed all in black, but no Death Eater regalia. His eyes find Hermione’s as he emerges, but his face holds no emotion.
Little Malfoy, Greyback laughs wolfishly, his hold on Hermione tightening, parading his claim on her. Hermione tries to call out to him, pleads to him with her eyes to help her, struggles in Greyback’s arms to get away, to run to him.
But Malfoy doesn’t move. He stands liminal, just beyond the tree line, watching Hermione as his eyes flash with thought. He’s trying to decide. He’s trying to choose.
She screams for him, yells, tears herself away from Greyback only for him to hold her tighter, harder.
Malfoy’s expression is pained now, watching her, but his feet remain planted. When a tear slips from Hermione’s eye, and when Greyback leans down, his copper scented, putrefied breath on her face as he calls her his ‘pretty mudblood’: this is when Malfoy takes a slow, tentative step towards her.
And then she wakes up.
It’s all she can do not to cry — not only because of the nightmare, but because all she wants to do is tell someone, to find comfort in someone’s arms.
The problem is, it isn’t Harry or Ron or Ginny she wants to tell. They would do their best, but they don’t understand. Harry would just say ‘it’s just a nightmare, Hermione’ because he knows what it’s like to have visions in his head that become reality. Ron would try, but wouldn’t really understand what exactly it is she needs; he would try to distract her with food or jokes. Ginny would be the best option of the three of them, but she is off on tour, preparing for a game today.
Hermione knows who she really wants to tell about her dream.
‘And those nightmares you get, Granger? They’re the same ones I get.’
Malfoy is the only person who knows exactly how she is feeling. He gets them too. She wants his hard truths, his honesty; she wants to talk about her demons with him, knowing that he understands why things might never be the same after the war.
The premonition is shocking — she wants to open up to Malfoy. She craves his comfort, though it is something he has yet to give her. And yet he has, in his own strange way. He has never tiptoed around the truth, has never questioned why and how she has changed after the war. He has only been himself, has only been by her side, a sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, but stagnant presence in her life.
And she wants him.
She suddenly craves Firewhiskey. She wants to drown it all out; all of these strange new feelings, the nightmares, the cyclical way her brain always brings her back to remind her that things aren’t the same as they used to be.
She craves normalcy.
She craves the people she’s lost.
She craves him.
And it all seems too much.
That Sunday, she and Minerva go on their monthly visit to the gravesite to bring flowers to their loved ones.
She cries freely as she puts flowers on Fred’s grave, and on Lavender’s; on Sirius, Tonks, Remus, Colin’s and Moody’s. She lets Minerva pull her into a hug and cries until her eyes are dry, until the exhaustion of her sobs has taken over. All the while, the elderly witch’s hand strokes her back comfortingly.
She has dinner at The Burrow that night and when she arrives, she finds George and pulls him into a tight embrace. She lets her head drop onto his chest, and feels his heartbeat under her cheek; tries not to think about the heart that used to beat in his twin. She tells him that she’s sorry through the hug — tells him that she misses Fred, and that things will never be the same without him. She doesn’t need to use words.
It takes him a second, but he eventually hugs her back, giving her a small kiss on the top of her head. When she finally pulls away, George’s eyes have gone teary, and he gives her a small smile of thanks. It’s an entire conversation, but neither of them has said anything.
She fakes nothing that night — she doesn’t laugh if she doesn’t want to, doesn’t fake smiles, doesn’t share stories about the good old days.
She watches. She listens. She allows herself to be thankful that these people are alive, and that they all still have each other. She is thankful that Ron has a mother to take care of him and watch him grow up. She is thankful that Harry has found a family despite losing every relative he’s ever had. She’s thankful that they are celebrating Ron’s recovery.
“You seem sad tonight, Hermione,” Ron notes after dinner. She gives him a weak smile.
“I am sad, Ron.”
It’s the truth. It’s not a dismissal of her feelings or a fib to cover up her suffering, knowing that it was at the expense of everyone else’s happiness.
“Why?” he asks softly, sliding closer to her on the couch. He puts an arm around her, and Hermione allows herself to accept his comfort.
“I just am,” she tells him with a shrug.
Ron doesn’t say anything, just pulls her in closer and allows her to rest her head on his shoulder. And it’s what she needs in that moment. She lets herself be happy, and she lets herself be sad.
There is an owl at her window when she arrives back at her flat later that night. She pulls the thin scroll from its legs, her heart beating wildly.
Miss Hermione Granger,
I am happy to tell you that the Wizengamot and Narcissa Malfoy’s lawyer, Miss Burman, have come to an agreement and set the terms for Ms. Malfoy’s plea deal.
I know that I am contacting you very late in the day, but I am hoping you will be free to visit Ms. Malfoy in Azkaban tomorrow. If you meet me at the Ministry first thing tomorrow, I will accompany you and discuss the terms with you on the way.
Congratulations, Hermione. If this works out, it will make many people very happy.
Minister for Magic
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Hermione immediately writes back to let Kingsley know she is available and sends her reply off with the owl. It’s the happiest she’s been all weekend, so she takes a Dreamless Sleep Potion to keep it that way and ensure she gets enough rest for the day ahead.
She wakes feeling refreshed and nervous to meet Narcissa. She dresses herself in her nicest robes and ties her hair up in a low, tidy bun to keep it tamed.
Before she goes to the Ministry, she apparates to the shop. It’s early, even earlier than Draco usually arrives, so she isn’t expecting to see him. She only writes a note that she leaves on the front desk, hoping that he will actually show up to see it.
Malfoy,
Doing some personal business this morning. Will be back this afternoon.
-H
Part of her thinks the note may be in vain; that he won’t show up today, or maybe ever again. But she is hopeful. She hasn’t seen him in days, and as much as she hates to admit it, she misses him.
She floos to the ministry from the shop and meets Kingsley outside of his office. He goes over the paperwork with her and explains her portion of the plan, which basically tells her what she can and cannot say to Narcissa. She reads over all of the fine print twice, making sure she hasn’t missed anything and signs the official document at the bottom in her looping handwriting.
“Are you ready, Hermione?” Kingsley asks her, solemn-faced, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. As Minister for Magic, Kingsley has probably been to Azkaban numerous times – has felt the evil leeching all warmth from the atmosphere. His eyes are warning, but also supportive. He knows that Hermione is still fragile and that a trip to Azkaban would definitely be no vacation. Hermione’s insides stir at the thought of being in the same place that all of the Death Eaters are currently being held behind bars, but nods at him anyways.
“Ready.”
Kingsley nods back, and the two of them use a private Portkey that has been locked away in a cabinet in the corner of his office.
They arrive at the visitor’s entrance of Azkaban and Hermione immediately feels cold and clammy. The walls are all painted white, only the paint is yellowed and peeling from moisture and age.
Two auror guards sign them in, performing about a dozen spells to check for glamours, polyjuice, weapons, and concealed charms — many of these measures were relatively new, having been set after the incident with Barty Crouch they had finally discovered only a few years back.
The other guard verifies their identities using a blood signature spell and fills out a few pages of paperwork. The whole process is extremely thorough and excessive, but also gives Hermione a bit of reassurance that the security is so tight.
When they are both deemed safe to go in, the guards take their wands and lock them in a spell-proof compartment for them to collect when they leave. A new guard, a tall, lanky man who looks a bit like Dean Thomas, leads them into a sort of barren waiting room. Kingsley stops here, facing Hermione and searching her face for any signs of discomfort.
“The guard will take you from here to a secure visiting room, where you can talk to Ms. Malfoy. You have twenty minutes — keep it quick, and when you get a verbal confirmation of her agreement to the plea deal, we can send in the paperwork when we get back to the Ministry. Alright, Hermione?”
Swallowing her nerves, she steels herself to face both the mother of the man she snogged not a week ago and the wife of a man who was Voldemort’s right hand. Finally, she gives Kingsley a confident nod.
Kingsley instructs the guard to lead Hermione, his eyes on her as the guard tells her to follow him. He leads her through a tall, narrow corridor with grey cement walls stretching up high above her head. The corridor is so narrow it’s almost claustrophobic, and she can’t help but let out a sigh of relief as the guard stops outside of a metal door and unlocks it with an incantation.
Inside, Narcissa Malfoy sits at a shiny metal table, her eyes steeled on Hermione as soon as the door shuts behind her.
“Miss. Granger. I must admit, I was very surprised to hear that you of all people wished to visit me.”
The first thing Hermione notices about Narcissa Malfoy is her posture.
She sits incredibly straight and daintily on the metal bench, as if she were sitting for tea with royalty instead of in a prison visiting room. Her hands are placed gently, one on top of the other; long, slender fingers that are a feminine version of her son’s. Her eyes are a piercing blue, almost uncomfortably so, and cold like ice. Hermione is unsure how Draco’s grey eyes can be so comforting when his mother’s colourful ones feel so chilly. Narcissa’s long blonde hair rests on her shoulders, and though she’s been in prison for months now, she has still managed to look put together, every bit the pureblood witch she had been when Hermione had been tortured in her home.
Hermione sees bits and pieces of Draco in her; though he is sharp where she is soft, and masculine where she is feminine. It's only when Narcissa gives her a gentle smile that Hermione shakes herself back to reality.
“Ms. Malfoy. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable, by requesting a visit.”
Narcissa’s eyes flick down to the open bench across the table from her, and Hermione remembers that she needs to walk.
She crosses the small, windowless room to the table and slides into the bench across from the women, whose eyes have yet to leave their studious examination of her face.
“Not at all, dear. But I can say that I was very curious as to your reasoning. It isn’t often I get visitors who aren’t Draco or Miss Burman.”
Narcissa’s voice is clear and soft, but as cold as her eyes. Hermione isn’t sure whether she should be afraid of the woman or if she should run into her arms for an embrace. As she considers this, it becomes clear that this attribute could be an excellent weapon — a hypnotizing sweetness that hides the bite of a snake. There is, after all, a resemblance to her sister Bellatrix, which keeps Hermione from letting her guard down.
But she also can’t help but see the woman who saved Harry’s life and possibly won them the war.
She can also see the mother of someone she cares about; someone who needs the small bit of family he has left.
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” Hermione begins, keeping her eyes locked with the older witch’s across the table. “I don’t know if you are aware, Ms. Malfoy, but I have been working closely with your son for a few months now. He is employed by me as part of his probation.”
Narcissa’s eyes show no flicker of surprise or emotion. She simply tips her head in a nod and blinks long, slow eyelashes at her.
“He had mentioned that, yes. But I presume you’re not here to tell me about my son’s work habits.”
The corner of Narcissa's mouth pulls up in a lazy grin, and Hermione feels the blood rush to her cheeks.
“No. I’m here to help him. And you. The two are one and the same, really.”
“And how are you planning on doing that, Miss Granger?” Narcissa drawls, her posture never faltering. “I have hired Miss Burman to deal with the matters of my sentence — surely you are aware that despite her extraordinary talent in wizarding law, she has been unsuccessful in her endeavours thus far.”
Hermione nods, tucking her shaking hands under the table and balling them into fists as if to squeeze away her nerves.
“Yes. I mean, I am aware of the current status of your sentence. But I think we could possibly help each other out, if you are able to trust me. That’s the biggest thing. For this to work, we need to trust each other.”
Hermione swallows as Narcissa continues to assess her, her mouth pulled into a straight line, her eyes narrowing slightly as she appraises Hermione.
“And how do you propose we do that, Miss Granger? The very nature of our previous encounters has surely deterred you from trusting me ever again.”
“I trusted your son again. After everything he put my friends and me through at school, I forgave and trusted him again. I’d like to offer the same to you, if you’ll accept it.”
Narcissa’s expression softens, relaxing before Hermione’s eyes.
“Very well. And why should I trust you, Miss Granger? If you expect it to be for the name of your Hogwarts house or the Order of Merlin you received, you can be sure that that is not enough,” Narcissa says, though her tone is not cruel or sour.
“I can’t give you a good reason, I suppose,” Hermione shrugs, playing with the hem of her robes under the table. “I can only tell you that I am doing this for Draco. Not as some redemption plot, or show of forgiveness, or claim to the title of war heroine… but because I believe that your son needs you. And I believe that your husband’s actions should not define you. I’m sorry that I can’t give you another reason. But that’s what trust is, I suppose. A shot in the dark. A feeling. I will give you mine, and hope that you can take a chance on me, if that’s what it will take.”
Hermione watches Narcissa smile — a real, true smile that she has seen on Draco’s face once before.
“He did say you were clever,” Narcissa says, the hint of a laugh in her voice. “Alright then, Miss Granger. What do I need to do?”
Hermione motions for the guard, who brings over a manila folder with all of the information the Aurors had obtained from the rebel hostage, sliding it in front of her on the table. He returns to his station at the door, and Hermione pulls out a picture of the rebel hostage, pushing it across the metal surface to the blond woman.
“I think we have something in common, Ms. Malfoy,” she begins, watching the witch’s eyes flicker curiously over the photograph. The rebel moves slightly in the picture, raising his chin at the camera in defiance with his arms tied behind his back. “We are both used to being observant, so as to make up for all of the things we have been deemed unworthy of knowing. People underestimate us. Wrongly.”
Narcissa lifts an eyebrow at her, raising her chin in question. Hermione takes a breath and continues.
“There is a rebel group in Wales. Followers of Voldemort that never had the chance to make it in his ranks; admirers, observers, who learned what they knew from three men. Alfred Selwyn, Leif Jugson, and your husband.”
Narcissa visibly flinches, her gaze flicking up from the photograph to Hermione.
“If my own observations are correct, Ms. Malfoy, you might be able to provide information that will lead to the capture of the new rebel group. If you are able to give the Ministry the information they need, the Wizengamot has agreed upon a plea deal: the disbandment of the rebels in exchange for your freedom.”
Narcissa blinks at her, once, twice. For a moment, Hermione thinks she might not know anything; that Hermione has been wrong about it all, and that Narcissa has stayed as far away from her husband’s dark affairs as possible.
But then, a glint in her eyes reveals that Narcissa is exactly the witch she thought she was. Then, a grin, and Narcissa’s lyrical reply:
“It seems we do have something in common, Miss. Granger. We both know how much boys like to make messes. What kind of wife would I be if I hadn’t been around to make sure they were cleaned up?”
Hermione smiles right back at her.
~~~
She freezes when she first realizes he is back.
She has just shut the door of the shop behind her, trying to keep out the light flurry of the first snowfall, when she sees the paper cup of coffee sitting cold on the front counter.
Then, she sees him.
That blond hair, falling handsomely onto his forehead. His eyes, lunar grey, meeting hers, wary and apprehensive. His lips. His lithe, sharp frame; almost angelic where he stands, which is funny, because she can see his Dark Mark on his exposed forearm. She realizes how easy he’s made it to ignore. He’s here, and he’s beautiful.
Then, as if a switch has been flicked on inside of her, Hermione is practically stomping over to him, approaching him with a speed and fury that makes him stumble back, tripping over his own feet as his eyes widen with fear. Her hands are balled into fists at her sides, and her strides are long and quick, her body hunched over as she storms over to him.
Her face is hot and scarlet with rage, and she grinds her teeth together as she reaches him, curls falling wildly into her face and sticking up around the crown of her head. Malfoy drops the pencil he was holding and takes a final step back before holding up a protective arm over his face.
“You – absolute – prick!” she shouts angrily through her clenched teeth, using both of her hands to shove him forcefully. Then, she’s hitting him, hitting and pushing and he’s not trying to stop her, just protecting his precious face and flinching as she wails at him.
“Where-” slap, “the hell-” hit, “-have – you – been!” and a rather effective push. He stumbles back again from the force of her attack, but she only steps forward, encouraged to continue.
Her anger is released in a tidal wave as she pounds her palms and firsts onto his chest and abdomen, not enough to truly hurt him, but enough to express how absolutely infuriated with him she is.
“You… you…” she stammers, wild and frantic, searching for the words to express how angry she is with him — how much she’s missed him.
“Fuck, Malfoy, you can’t just disappear like that!!!” she shouts, and before she can get her next hit in, he is finally grabbing her wrists, restraining them as she tries to pull them away from him. Finally, she looks up at his face, seeing a mixture of shock and confusion muddle his features. She tries again to pull her wrists out of his grip, but he only holds tighter, his fingers pressing into the bones of her wrists. He gives her a warning look, meant to calm her down, too taken aback by her outburst to be snarky.
“Calm down, Granger,” he says, his voice soft and husky, and surprisingly gentle. She stares up at him challengingly, feeling the heat of anger on her face and neck and a pain shooting up her jaw from biting down so hard.
“I will not!” she hisses through her teeth, narrowing her eyes at him. His face is still startled from her attack, his breathing loud and uneven.
“Of course you won’t. What the fuck are you on about this time, Granger?” he questions, pulling her wrists downwards as he pins them at her sides. She can feel his thumbs on her hips as he pushes to keep her sudden adeptness at hand combat quelled.
“You pissed off all of last week! You never owled, never told me where you were! You could have been lying dead in the Manor for all I knew, waiting for a house-elf to find you!” She is still shouting, though it is less enthusiastic now, and her voice shakes with anger. His face softens considerably, and his brows pull together in vexation, his eyes flicking over her face.
“If I let you go, do you promise not to hit me anymore?” he asks, and she feels his fingers squeeze her as a reminder that he’s still restraining her.
“Fine,” she huffs, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously at her, but releases his grip on her and pulls away.
Immediately, she gives him one last, hard push onto his shoulder. His eyes fly wide open once again, and his brows pull together in irritation.
“Ow, Granger! You promised!” His eyes are dark with provocation, and he looks ready to restrain her again if he has to.
“I was crossing my fingers,” she scowls, before crossing her arms over her chest like she’d seen Molly Weasley do whenever the twins got into trouble.
“That’s fucking childish-” Malfoy begins in an affronted tone.
“You deserved it.”
“Well, I’m not dead, Granger, I’m perfectly fine, so can we get back to work please?”
She resists the urge to hit him again, looking up into his eyes and allowing them to calm her. He was here. He had come back. It was alright.
“Never do that again,” she says, her voice a faltering whisper. She is biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. He looks down at her under thick, dark lashes, his eyes alight with concern and astonishment.
“Merlin’s left tit, Granger, fine. You should really get more staff if you needed me here this badly.”
She doesn’t smile, just narrows her eyes at him further as his eyes flicker with amusement.
“Not funny,” she spits, letting her arms fall to her sides. She lets out a deep breath and runs a hand through her unruly hair, closing her eyes to calm herself.
“You’ve got quite the arm, Granger. I’d almost forgotten.”
When she opens her eyes he is grinning at her, his hands shoved into his pockets. Her eyes fall briefly to his lips, and she immediately pushes away all memories of him kissing her.
“There’s more where that came from, Malfoy. Next time you don’t show up for work, I expect a formal time off request, or notice that somethings come up, or I will tell Mr. Bimble.”
Draco quirks an eyebrow at her and chuckles softly.
“Fine.” He says.
“Good.” She replies.
“Great.”
“Prat.”
“Swot.”
“Piss off.”
“I do love it when you talk dirty to me, Granger.”
His smirk is irritatingly smug, and she gives him one last threatening look before turning away from him to go hide in her office for a bit. Once the door is closed behind her, she takes deep, calming breaths as she paces around the small room.
She has no idea what came over her, only that seeing him had made her realize how worried she had been the past week.
His presence in the shop confirmed that he was safe and that he was returning to her. She hadn’t lost him, and that had been her biggest fear of all.
When she has finally collected herself, she stalks out of the office to begin helping him work. It’s all she can do not to tell him about her visit with his mother this morning, but she has decided that the matter should remain a secret from him until the Aurors have been successful in their use of Narcissa.
She was still wary of getting his hopes up and figured it might be a nice surprise for him when it would finally happen.
“You’ve been slacking,” Draco drawls as she joins him, helping him lift a shelf up and install it into the wall. “There’s no way this place will be ready for Daph’s party on Saturday.”
“Whose fault is that, Malfoy?” she snaps, pushing herself up on her tiptoes to hold the shelf in place while Draco fastens it in. “It will have to be ready. We’ll figure something out.”
He rolls his eyes at her as he shakes the shelf gently to check that it is secure in the wall. When they’re both satisfied, they step back to observe their work.
“If we used magic…” he begins, walking over to the stack of cut wood on the saw table.
“We’re not having this discussion again,” Hermione frowns, picking up the drill and stepping past Draco to grab the box of metal fasteners from the bottom step of the staircase.
“So stubborn,” he shakes his head at her, side-stepping into her path as she heads back towards the wall.
“Get out of my way, Malfoy, or we really will never get this done.”
“Or what, Granger?” he says lazily, looking down at her with teasing eyes. Her breath hitches in her throat as he stares down at her, the heat of him surrounding her.
“Or I’ll use a permanent sticking charm to fasten a Mr. Bimble-style mustache on you. I think it would be quite becoming.”
She winks at him, and he frowns as she steps around him, her heart racing as she walks away. Part of her had wanted to flirt back in her most seductive tone, to entice him into snogging her into the wall, but whatever they have built is already on thin ice and she’s scared to do the wrong thing and lose him.
She feels his eyes on her as she drills the fastener into the wall on the spot she has marked with a pencil, but he turns away again, getting back to work before she can tell him off for doing nothing.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says suddenly, her voice almost a whisper. She doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling.
“Good to know. It was a little hard to tell between the punches and your banshee-like screaming.”
They fall into silence for a moment, and she settles back into the comfort of his presence as they work away together, a well-oiled machine, bodies moving around each other routinely and comfortably. When she finishes sawing a plank of wood in half, she looks up from the dust and the noise to find him looking at her.
“I’d hex you on the spot if you told anyone, Granger. But I’m glad I’m back too.”
And that’s when she knows for certain that Draco Malfoy would, in fact, take that step out of the fog to save her from Fenrir Greyback.
Chapter 14: Chapter 14
Chapter Text
Malfoy looks positively pissed off. She loves the way his china glass skin flushes pink and the way his sharp cheekbones protrude more when he holds his jaw tight with irritation.
“Fucks sake. On Salazar’s grave, I did not do that on purpose, Granger,” he bites through clenched teeth. She’s grinning wildly, holding the cup of coffee tightly in her hand, her stomach twisting with unadulterated joy.
“Oh, I think you did, Malfoy,” she grins, waving the lidless cup teasingly under his nose at the risk of spilling it. His eyelid twitches, to her delight, and she eyes the liquid with smug satisfaction. It has cream in it, Hermione would guess — and based on the taste, sugar too.
“Piss off, Granger,” he frowns, taking a step back to get away from the cup of coffee that’s dangerously close to spilling all over his shoes. “Fuck, you are irritating. I asked for two black coffees. They obviously gave me the wrong order. I would never give you the satisfaction.”
She takes a sip and sighs in delight, watching his adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
“Just admit it. You were being considerate. You’re just protecting your ego.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically. “How Potter and the Weasel stand you, I have no idea.”
She sticks a hand on her hip, setting the cup down on the counter and giving him her most frightening glare for using his favourite insult name for Ron.
“I thought we talked about that,” she scolds. This only eggs him on further. He doesn’t smile, just tilts his chin in defiance and scowls.
“You try and boss me around far too much Granger, I can’t remember a thing that comes out of that swotty mouth of yours half the time.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“And you’re an insufferable bint.”
“I can’t stand you.”
“Well, I can’t stand you either, Granger. It’s a miracle! We finally agree on something.”
His gaze is half rage and half lust, which is a regular balance for both of them since he had kissed her. The latter half of the combination usually went by unacknowledged, squandered by both of them as they attempted to funnel that passion back into their rage. They still argued almost daily, though nothing usually escalated to the point of outburst anymore.
She could get so annoyed with him that she’d often question whether or not she actually has some sort real of romantic feelings for him. He was absolutely infuriating most of the time, hardly ever had a positive attitude about anything, and took every chance he got to get under her skin.
He seemed to like watching her squirm; got a kick out of her replies and counter-insults, and was usually in a foul mood, especially on the days he showed up after unmistakably sleepless nights. He liked to set little fires everywhere within her; the good, and the bad kind.
But then there were staggering moments of vulnerability — the way he rushed to catch a falling shelf before it toppled on her head; laughing at something she joked about as they worked; teasing her with a smile about her hair and outfits:
“Do you feed the family of rats living in that mane of yours, Granger? Or do they just feed off of you being an incorrigible know-it-all?” and, his personal favourite:
“So sweet of you to host your precious red-headed Weasel family in that burrow on your head, Granger. At least they’ll stay warm in the winter.”
To make matters worse, she hadn’t heard a thing from Kingsley, Amara, or Harry and Ron about them making progress on the rebel capture with Narcissa’s aid. She only knew that they were making small steps forward: without names or photos of the rebel leaders that Lucius had interacted with, it was a slow puzzle to be solved — Narcissa had apparently provided extensive lists of names for background checks so that the Aurors could check if any of them had connections to the pseudonyms the rebels were going under.
Hermione was always on edge— waiting for an owl or a patronus to deliver news that Narcissa’s tips had led to something. She knew she needed to be patient, but her patience was dwindling. Being on edge didn’t help the situation with Draco, either. It made her more irritable, and therefore much quicker to give in to his teasing and snap at him. What she really wanted was to see the look on his face when he got the news that his mother was being released.
With the added pressure of finishing the basic renovations of the shop in time for Daphne’s birthday party, Hermione found herself exhausted daily, and ready to curse Malfoy by at least noon each workday.
That, or snog him on the counter or against the bookshelves.
She’d not stopped wanting to kiss him again since it had happened, and she was beginning to wonder how much longer she’d last before she gave in to these primal urges. Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content for them to keep insulting each other instead. She was starting to accept that it had been a one-off. He could barely stand being around her, it seemed. Why would be ever want to kiss her again?
And yet, there was a palpable tension lingering between them; a heat, a thick haze brought on by darkened stares and close proximities. Longing glances at lips and reproachful sighs when they’d skim past each other with barely a graze of an arm or elbow. She felt places inside of her stir, thoughts that made her blush, hormones running rampant like a teenager. And there were the things Amara had said that she kept in a small pocket of her mind, a place where she kept the small torch of hope that something was happening between them and it wasn’t just in her imagination.
She watches him now, scribbling on a spare bit of parchment as he figures out measurements for a complicated corner shelving unit. His eyes are focused, sharp on the paper, and his hand moves across the page like an ice-dancer. His lean body hunches over the table, back muscles on display through his navy blue shirt. She can see the lingering veins of irritation on his neck leftover from their coffee debacle, and the intriguing furrow in his brow telling her that he is deep in thought.
“See something you like, Granger?” he teases without looking up at her. She feels the flood of warmth on her cheeks and turns away from him quickly to hide it, like a schoolgirl on the playground.
“No,” she sighs, examining the two colours of paint swatches she’s narrowed it down to for the shop with feigned interest, “Just thinking about how you ordered my coffee correctly this morning.”
She can hear Malfoy’s frustrated sigh across the shop, and her mouth lifts into a satisfied smirk that he can’t see.
“What do you think, Malfoy?” she asks without turning her head, her voice raised so he can hear her from across the room. She hears his gentle footfall, graceful and poised as always, and feels him appear beside her. She looks up at him as she pushes the two paint samples over to him and raises an eyebrow.
“Which one?” she asks, turning towards him and leaning her hip against the counter. He stares down at the two colours with an ostensible scowl, one she recognizes as masqueraded irritation. His stormy eyes flick back and forth between the two paint chips, and he chews the inside of his cheek for a moment.
“They’re the exact fucking same, Granger,” he frowns finally, pushing the paint chips aggressively back towards her.
“No,” she argues, pushing them right back in his direction. She loves watching Draco Malfoy squirm when she asks for his pureblood opinion on things as trivial as paint colours and trim styles. “-this one is called Sage Green, while the other is called Moss Green.”
He gives her a look of displeasure, crossing his arms over his chest and assessing her face as if she’s gone mad.
“I don’t care what they’re called, they’re practically the exact same shade of puke green, and— fuck, I can’t believe we're arguing about paint colours right now,” he huffs in disgust, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’d go with the sage,” a new voice says from behind them. Draco and Hermione turn simultaneously to find Neville standing at the entrance of the shop. His hands are tucked into the pockets of a grey, wool peacoat, which is dusted lightly with the snow from outside. His cheeks are reddened from the cold, mixed like paint among the light dusting of freckles that span his nose and cheekbones. He wears his shy, lopsided smile, which is more apprehensive than usual at the sight of Draco.
“Longbottom,” Malfoy says, tipping his head at Neville with a straight face.
“Malfoy,” Neville replies with the same civil nod. A few years ago, Neville’s voice would have been shaking in the presence of Draco, of being addressed by him. Now, he looks only slightly wary of the blond, smiling convincingly and making eye contact with ease. “It’s been a while.”
“Certainly has,” Draco replies, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “Thought maybe you might have forgotten me, what with that terrible memory of yours.”
Hermione gives Draco a pointed look of admonishment, which Draco even more pointedly ignores.
“It’s a good thing Harry rescued my Remembrall from your grasp, or else I might have,” Neville smirks back. For a moment, Hermione worries about how Draco might react, turning her face upwards to catch his expression.
She’s pleasantly surprised to see the corner of his mouth twitch upwards, in the tiniest display of amusement.
“Touché, Longbottom.”
Hermione edges forward towards her Gryffindor friend, opening her arms and stepping in to hug him.
“What a nice surprise, Neville!” she says, squeezing him tightly and brushing the snowflakes off of his jacket as she steps back. “You don’t have to teach today?”
Neville shakes his head, following Hermione further inside when she motions for him to make himself at home. Malfoy remains frozen against the counter, leaning nonchalantly as he watches Neville and Hermione with a calculated gaze.
“One of Horace’s first-year students accidentally set off an explosion in the potions classroom,” Neville explains, gazing around the shop with interest, and then confusion as his eyes fall onto the large and admittedly intimidating tablesaw in the middle of the room. “Stunk up the whole dungeons, and the entire castle. They had to clear everyone out to fumigate it, so I have the afternoon off.”
“Hogwarts' newest version of Seamus Finnegan, no doubt,” Hermione chuckles, watching her friend complete his investigation of the new shop, still a work in progress.
“He hasn’t lost any eyebrows yet, but it's only November,” Neville grins sweetly, and Hermione lets out a delighted laugh.
Malfoy, who is completely lost on the inside joke just watches with an unusual look on his face, which Hermione places somewhere between annoyance and curiosity. She remembers his surprising interest in Neville in the days after Halloween and the way he hinted at the nature of their relationship.
“I came to see if you wanted to grab dinner tonight,” Neville says after their laughter has fizzed out. “I don’t have any duties tonight, and I know we still have a lot to catch up on.”
Originally, Hermione had planned on going home to take a long, hot bath, in an attempt to find a moment of relaxation in what had become a crazy few weeks. But she also dearly missed Neville and doubted he would keep her out too long, knowing his own busy schedule.
“That sounds wonderful, Nev,” she smiles, catching a small scowl fall upon Draco’s face as she agrees.
“Great,” he grins widely, a familiar childish excitement bringing dimples onto his cheeks. “5:30 at the Leaky Cauldron?”
Hermione nods, tells him that that sounds perfect, and waves him off as he makes his way back out into the light snowfall. It’s still too warm for the flakes to stick to the ground, and Hermione watches his shoes as he walks away on the wet cobblestone, away from The Strip and back towards the bustle of the main part of Diagon Alley.
“He seems like a hoot, Granger,” Malfoy says smugly, leaning one elbow on top of the counter. “Do you do crafts and knit sweaters when the two of you are together?”
“You’re an arse,” Hermione snaps, knocking her elbow jestfully into his side. Malfoy barely flinches, just watches her pick up the two paint swatches and hold them up in front of the newly installed shelves, comparing the two colours with a critical eye. She hears him move, then, the fabric of his trousers swishing together, his scent growing continually closer.
“I prefer the Moss Green,” Malfoy whispers into her ear suddenly, grazing by her, his chest brushing against her elbow and his silky voice tickling her ear. She feels him smirk, and then he’s gone again, striding purposefully over to the empty corner and using his measurements to tick marks onto the walls with his pencil. Her stomach twists as she watches him, confident and sure as he places the yellow pencil in between his teeth horizontally, pink lips pulled over white teeth, a concentrated stare as he measures another small angle.
Hermione looks once more at the paint chips, comparing the minuscule differences in the colours of green. For a moment, she considers choosing the Sage like Neville had suggested, just to spite him.
But she can’t help but notice that she too prefers the Moss Green.
Prat.
Moss green it is.
~~~
“Ginny!?” Hermione shrieks when she sees the beautiful red-head sitting at the table with Neville, along with two other familiar faces — Ron and Harry. It’s all Hermione can do not to run excitedly into her friends' arms; she’s been missing the convenience of having a female friend, having been keeping company mostly with Malfoy, Blaise and occasionally the other Slytherins since Ginny’s departure.
Ginny stands, a soft grin on her face as Hermione rushes calmly over to pull her into an embrace. Hermione breathes in her familiar scent and feels the lean muscle of her friend’s body through her hug, the result of months of Quidditch games and intense training.
“Sorry that I didn’t tell you, Hermione,” Neville blushes as Hermione pulls away, admiring Ginny’s face for a moment in a sisterly sort of way, basking in the warmth of the youngest Weasley’s presence. “Ginny wanted to surprise you and thought it would be nice for all of us to get together.”
Hermione shakes her head, pulling out the chair to Ginny’s left as they all sit down again.
“No, no, it’s alright Neville. What a wonderful surprise!”
She says her ‘hellos’ to Harry and Ron, overwhelmed for a moment that they are all here together, sitting down for dinner like old times. It feels strikingly strange; so different from the presence of the Slytherins — so nostalgic and familial. Not worse, not better, just different.
“How are you back?!” Hermione asks Ginny, giving the waiter a thankful nod as she floats a glass of pumpkin juice in front of her onto the wooden table.
“We ended training early this week, and coach is giving us the next week off to get some rest” Ginny explains, settling under Harry’s arm, which he rests on the back of her chair protectively. Neville and Ron sit across from them, both holding mugs of Butterbeer and watching the outcome of their planned surprise with glee. “I head back to Wales next Friday, but a week is plenty of time to get caught up with all of my favourite people.”
Hermione grins. Ginny is practically glowing — sleek, straight hair falling like water over her shoulders, skin clear and bright as a result of her active lifestyle, and a warm blush falling over her cheeks under the loving stare of Harry, who is clearly enamored with the redhead and happy to see her.
Harry can’t take his green eyes off of Ginny, and as Ginny recounts the last few months of her Quidditch journey, Harry listens intently, brushing his thumb against Ginny’s shoulder and smiling proudly at her as Hermione tries to keep track of all of the Quidditch terms and teams.
“You’re the best chaser they’ve had in years,” Neville says to her as he picks at the plate of Fish and Chips he ordered. They eat as they talk, indulging in each other’s stories and laughing as Neville recounts tales of life as a Hogwarts professor and the group of first-year Gryffindors that reminds him so much of their old friend group. It’s the best Hermione has felt in a while, she realizes. She is genuinely happy — lets herself reminisce about the old days and listens intently to the familiar musings of her friends.
She can’t help but wonder what has changed in the past few months that has brought on this new tolerance— enjoyment, even —of being with her friends and talking as if they’d never been through a war.
She suspects it has something to do with the shop and her new companionship with the Slytherins. She’s been given a fresh perspective and a fresh start that allows her to keep the past and the present separate, for the most part. It’s still a daily struggle and she still wakes with nightmares that inhibit a completely carefree attitude, but it’s a huge improvement from where she had been at the start of the year.
Apparently, she’s not the only one that notices, because Ginny has been studying her curiously off and on throughout dinner, watching Hermione’s genuine pleasure at being in the company of the people who remind her the most of what their world has been through. When the waiter asks if they’d like coffee and dessert, Ron gives her an ecstatic yes, ordering coffee and shortbread for all of them.
Minutes later, the waiter brings back mugs, a carafe of hot coffee and a platter of delicate looking lemon shortbread cookies dipped in a white glaze. They begin to serve themselves, pouring coffee into their mugs and moaning as they shove the delicious, crumbling cookies into their mouths.
“Hermione, when did you start drinking your coffee black?”
She freezes. It’s Harry who has asked, and he’s watching her with his brows pulled together in a disoriented frown. Slowly, the rest of her friends' eyes fall back onto her. It had been widely known at the Gryffindor table at Hogwarts that Hermione had put sugar and milk into her coffee every morning.
In disbelief, she looks down slowly at the cup of coffee she’s already taken multiple sips from. Sure enough, the coffee is black, untainted by the sweetness of sugar or the pearly beige of the cream. And sure enough, she’d enjoyed it. She almost drops the mug completely in surprise.
Godric f’ing Gryffindor.
She was going to kill Malfoy.
“I… I guess it’s a habit I picked up the past few weeks,” she says weakly, her voice shaking slightly. Harry only shrugs, satisfied enough with her answer, and their friendly chatter picks up again. Ginny narrows her eyes suspiciously at Hermione as she chews on a cookie.
When the boys all get up to go grab another round of drinks from the bar together, Ginny leans her arms on the table and gives Hermione a knowing look.
“You seem good, Hermione,” she smiles, a twinkle in her brown eyes as she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Something is… different about you.”
Hermione is taken aback by this remark, because she hasn’t noticed that, like Ginny, she glows with a newfound sense of purpose and happiness.
“It’s probably all of the muggle work I’m doing on the shop,” Hermione jokes, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the new friends you’ve been spending time with?” Ginny says with a mischievous grin. Heat spreads on the back of Hermione’s neck.
“Harry said you’ve been seeing them a lot, and Neville told me that you went out with them on Halloween. Said he ran into you and that you’d, and I quote, ‘clearly had enough Firewhiskey for the entirety of Gryffindor house.’”
Ginny looks and sounds exactly like her mother for a moment; raising an accusatory brow and smirking as she watches Hermione‘s guilty expression. Hermione feels caught — like her little secret has been found out. She still hadn’t explicitly told anyone about the extent of her relations with her other friends, nor about Draco working in the shop.
She knew that it would probably make them uncomfortable, particularly Ron who still hated Draco and the other Slytherins with a burning passion equal in fervor to his love for the Chudley Cannons. Besides that, she knew Draco wished for his employment with her to remain under wraps, especially from Harry and Ron. It had already been a huge hit to his ego to work for someone he had once hated; having his old school nemeses knowing of this would only add fire to his distaste for Hermione’s friends. She needed to introduce the idea of Draco and the other Slytherins slowly to her friends — warm them up to the idea that they’d changed, that once you got to know them, they were fun to be around.
Harry and Ron had always despised them more than she had, though, and she was trying her best to be hopeful that she’d be able to make progress with the idea at all.
“I really like them,” Hermione nods in reply, looking under hooded lids at Ginny. She notices how when she says ‘them’ what she really wants to say is ‘him’.
“And they treat you kindly?” Ginny asks, her question reminiscent of the last one she had posed to Hermione before her departure to Wales.
“Yes,” Hermione nods eagerly, playing with the condensation on her glass of pumpkin juice. She watches the drop of cold water roll down the side and onto the table where it meets the rim-shaped collection of water already there. Ginny looks at her happily, supportively. She wants to tell her friend everything — wants to tell her about the kiss, and how it made her feel, and why she is so conflicted about it. “They’ve all changed, Gin. They’re not perfect, but I think that’s what I like about them.”
“And the shop is coming along?”
Hermione nods again, watching the boys over at the bar as they laugh at something Ron has said.
“Yes… I hired someone to help me with the renovations.”
Ginny’s brows shoot up in surprise.
“Really? Who?”
Before Hermione can answer, she feels the presence of someone behind her. She already knows, based on Ginny’s bewildered expression, who it is that is approaching her.
“Granger. Weasley.”
Draco appears at the end of their table, Blaise and Pansy close behind him. Hermione’s heart shudders at the sight of him, and she shoots up in surprise, eyeing Malfoy with both surprise and contempt.
“Malfoy,” Ginny greets him, her voice gentle but cautious. Ginny looks over at Blaise and Pansy next, clearly at a loss at the appearance of the very people they’d just been discussing. Draco’s eyes are on Hermione, steady and contemplative, clearly gleeful at the look of surprise on her face. Then, to Hermione’s chagrin, Draco’s eyes wander downwards to the cup of coffee in front of her — half-empty and completely free of sugar or milk. He smirks devilishly, pure delight flashing in his eyes as he raises both eyebrows in a bragging manner.
“Looks like you owe me ten galleons, Granger,” he boasts, nodding towards the cup of black coffee. Hermione blushes furiously, pushing the cup away from her and crossing her arms over her chest. Caught.
She glares at him. He had known that she would be here tonight — had stood there when Neville had invited her and listened when he’d told her where and when they should have dinner. He had come on purpose. Whether to crash their meeting or watch her squirm in his presence, she doesn’t know. She would guess a bit of both, considering how pleased he currently looks with himself.
“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” she asks him, balling her hands into fists on the surface of the table, trying to control her temper. She could lose it on him in the privacy of the shop, but she definitely does not want to cause a scene in public. But there is no doubt in her mind now, as she watches him give her a devilish grin, that he’d come on purpose, knowing it would ruffle her feathers.
“Just out for a late dinner with my friends, Granger. Is that allowed?”
“There are plenty of places to get dinner around here, Malfoy, and you’re not exactly the type to choose the Leaky Cauldron for a plate of bangers and mash, are you? You knew I’d be here tonight.”
Draco’s smirk only deepens, and he places both hands onto the surface of the table, leaning forward and tilting his head to the side.
“Right,” he says with a contrived chuckle and a casual shrug, “I’d forgotten.”
“I’m sure,” Hermione retorts. She narrows her eyes at him, looking back over at Ginny to see her confusion. Draco’s eyes trail over to the Weasley girl as well, and he raises a Malfoy-esque brow at her.
“Hello, Red,” he says with the tilt of his chin. “I’ve been reading the Prophet. Congrats on your success with the Harpies this season. Word on the street is, you’re the best chaser they’ve had in years.”
Both Ginny and Hermione are taken aback by the compliment, and Ginny blinks once, twice, before she is able to form a proper response.
“Thanks, Malfoy. All those years of beating Slytherin at Hogwarts matches has been good practice, I suppose.”
Blaise and Pansy both chuckle, and even Draco cracks a hint of a grin.
“Crashing Granger and Longbottom’s date tonight, Red?”
Ginny gives Draco a befuddled look, furrowing her brows.
“I’m not on a date with Neville, Malfoy,” Hermione says, speaking before her friend can. Draco’s eyes fall back onto hers, and for a moment, she thinks she sees a flicker of relief in his eyes. “We’re friends.”
“That’s not what you made it sound like.”
“You never asked. I never made it sound like anything — you just assumed.”
Behind Malfoy, Blaise eyes Hermione and Draco with a suspicious look. Pansy looks positively nonplussed, picking at her cuticles with her fingernails. Malfoy opens his lips to retort, but the return of Harry, Ron and Neville stops him momentarily.
“The fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?” Ron says through gritted teeth. Hermione shoots Blaise an apologetic look, to which he responds with a confused shake of his head. Clearly, he had not been let in on Malfoy’s plan. Pansy watches the three Gryffindor men with interest, clearly shocked at Neville’s physical change and the extra inches of height he’s gained since she’d seen him at Hogwarts.
“Just grabbing a bite, Weasel,” Draco snaps, “-but apparently, you Gryffindors think you own the place. Just wanted to stop and say hello to Granger and be on my way.”
Ron looks down at Hermione with an open mouth, mystified. He steps behind her, placing his hands on the back of her chair possessively, and looking back over at Malfoy. Draco grins again, clearly starved with a need for confrontation between his old schoolmates. Harry takes a step forward as well, eyeing the group of Slytherins with a tentative caution and preparedness.
“And why would you want to say hello to Hermione, huh?” Ron challenges and she can feel the heat of his body against her back through the open chair, his sudden anger radiating from his skin. “So you can call her some of those terrible, dirty names again?”
Hermione’s gaze remains steady on Draco, who is dressed in his usual well-pressed, expensive clothes, looking much more put together than he had been at the shop earlier. He must have gone home and gotten ready, she thinks. Her stomach twists at the thought of it, and she wants to kick herself for recognizing how handsome he looks; at how he towers over the table, the bob of his throat as he swallows and the tightness of his jaw as his features flicker with equal parts amusement and irritation.
“On the contrary, Weasel. I was just going to tell Hermione how ravishing she looks this evening.” Then, his grey eyes move from Ron to her, meeting her stare. There is a serpentine flick of his tongue as it comes out to wet his lips before he says his next line with the confidence and provocation he’s always been so skilled at:
“Granger and I prefer to save our dirty words for each other for when we’re in private.”
It’s a scuffle of movement then — of Ron lunging at Malfoy, and Harry catching him to pull him back; of Blaise stepping half in front of Malfoy in a protective manner, and of Pansy side-stepping away, eyes alight with surprise; Of Neville placing a hand on Ginny’s shoulder as she stands in surprise, and of Hermione standing from her own chair, storming over to Draco as rage spreads through her limbs and chest.
Harry must have a good hold on Ron because Hermione has a clear, uninterrupted path to the short distance where Draco stands, fists clenched at his sides as he watches Harry restrain Ron, who shouts strings of curses and insults at Malfoy.
“Malfoy!” Hermione says, but Draco is deaf to her, watching the result of his teasing unfold at the table behind her.
Blaise steps aside as Hermione reaches them, shoving her hands on his stomach lightly to get his attention. He looks down at her as he pulls his contented stare away from the frenzied Ron, smoky eyes landing on hers, his smirk dropping slightly as he sees the look of frustration on Hermione’s face.
“Sorry to ruin your date, Granger. I really did just want to tell you how beautiful you look tonight,” he says under his breath, his voice a nonsensical and wonderful mixture of honey and gravel. She tries to keep her breathing under control, feeling Malfoy’s own tepid breaths on her neck and ear. She feels his fingers skim lightly up the outside of her arm and then his forefinger and thumb grabbing one of her loose curls and twirling it slightly, almost affectionately, as his eyes turn dark.
Hermione thinks her lungs and heart might explode right then, as the hairs on her neck stand up at the way he tugs lightly, playfully, on the hair before letting it go. He’s much too close, which she knows is her fault, but her body is tingling with electricity and it’s almost impossible to step away.
She’d been angry at him when she stormed over here; wanted to give him a piece of her mind for ruining a perfectly nice night, for taunting Ron and saying those things just to make him angry.
But now, under the intensity of his stare and blanketed in his delectable scent, she forgets entirely why she was angry — only wants to lean forward and kiss him, wrap her arms around his broad shoulders and neck. She forgets herself for a moment; where and who she is, and why they had ever been enemies in the first place. Forgets that her best friends are behind her, waiting to see how she handles Malfoy’s characteristic teasing, wondering if she’ll pull something like she did in third year.
But all she sees and feels is him, his steel eyes locked on hers, his pink lips tempting her in their proximity and the way he is communicating something to her that she can’t quite decipher. His look is possessive and proud, as if he knows that he has her attention; as if he knows why she has chosen to come to him and not calm Ron down.
Then, she remembers who she is, and who Draco Malfoy is, and she takes a step back, releasing herself from his hypnotic grasp.
“You should go,” she says to him, looking quickly over at Blaise and Pansy who have yet to say a word. Blaise nods in understanding, reaching out and grabbing Draco’s elbow softly. Draco flinches and pulls it away with a sharp shrug, his eyes still on Hermione’s, blinking at her through dark lashes and an ever darker gaze.
“Draco, mate-” Blaise begins.
“Yeah, Blaise. I’m coming.”
Hermione’s breathing is uneven and deep as if she’s just run a marathon, and she watches Draco look back up at Neville, Ron and Harry, who are all quiet and watching in baffled silence. She looks back to see Harry still holding Ron, with the help of Neville now, and Ron’s face is red with fury, watching Hermione and the Slytherins with surprise at their civil and familiar interaction.
When she turns back to Draco, he gives her one last pointed look, then, as if pushing his luck, raises the corner of his mouth into a grin and winks at her.
“See you tomorrow, Granger.”
Then Blaise is leading them away, back out the doors of the Leaky Cauldron.
“What in the bloody hell just happened, Hermione?”
It's Ron’s voice that brings her back from her momentary lapse in judgement and indulgence in fantasy.
When she turns to face her friends, all eyes are on her — some critical, some shocked, and some waiting, as if for an explanation of the last few whirlwind minutes.
“I have a lot to tell you all,” she says, her voice shaky and uneven.
And this is how it all comes out to them; her friendship with the Slytherins, Draco coming to work for her, their own strange acquaintanceship. She leaves out most of the details surrounding her and Malfoy, especially their kiss and growing understanding of each other. She only tells them what they need to know, only enough that they are aware of how drastically Hermione’s life has changed since her birthday months ago.
“So that’s why you wanted to help free Narcissa?” Harry asks in astonishment when Hermione has finished recounting her tale. “Because you’re suddenly friends with Malfoy?”
Ron has yet to say a word — has only stared down into his lap and at the table with a pout. His silence is worse than a bigger reaction, Hermione thinks. She watches him carefully, wondering if he will suddenly explode. He’s still red in the face from his encounter with Malfoy and he won’t meet Hermione’s eye.
“He deserves to have someone around who cares about him. Who can take care of him,” Hermione explains to Harry, watching his green eyes flicker with sympathy and understanding as she says, “You know better than anyone how it feels to lose family, Harry. Narcissa helped you. She saved you. She deserves a shot at redemption… and Draco needs his Mum.”
That’s when Ron stands up, grabs his coat off of the back of his chair, and leaves without another word. He pushes the doors open and is out before Hermione can even think to call out after him. You’d think she just told them she was in love with him, based on Ron’s reaction and the way everyone is now silent, avoiding each other’s eyes.
“I’m going to go make sure he’s not doing something stupid,” Harry says after what feels like long minutes, grabbing his coat and pulling Hermione in for a quick, reassuring hug before following his friend’s footsteps outside.
Neville and Ginny both stand, beginning to collect their things.
“Owl me?” Ginny says, pulling her jacket on and looking at Hermione with a sympathetic smile. Hermione nods.
“I feel like you have more to tell me,” Ginny whispers as she reaches Hermione. Hermione can only nod again, meeting her friend’s eyes and seeing the calm, assuring look she’s giving her. She’s reminded of how much she’s missed Ginny, and how anxious she is to get a few things off of her chest.
“Yes,” she squeaks. “I’ll owl you.”
Ginny pulls her in for a hug before exiting, leaving only Neville and Hermione separated by a table and an awkwardness in the air, thick and heavy like fog, weighing on their lungs and pressing on their temples like an impending thunderstorm.
“I’m sorry, Neville.”
She looks up at him, watches the way he sticks his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels like he always had at Hogwarts. It seemed that the night had made them all revert back to the way they had been during their Hogwarts days; hostility, naivety and emotions running amuck and uprooting everything in their path.
“You don’t need to apologize, Hermione,” he says sweetly, looking at her with such genuine understanding she wants to cry. “You don’t have to explain anything, either.”
She nods, giving him a thankful half-smile.
“Let’s try this again another time, yeah?” he asks, walking over to her and giving her a light kiss on the cheek.
“Of course.”
And then she’s the last man standing, alone in the hollow crater of the explosive mess she’s made.
A mess she has no clue how to clean up.
A mess in which both the potential problem and the answer seem to come down to Draco Malfoy.
Chapter 15: Chapter 15
Chapter Text
Granger,
Won’t be in until the afternoon. Have to take care of something.
Thought I’d let you know so you don’t have a bitchfit.
-D.L.M
Hermione scowls down at the letter, written in almost perfect handwriting, slanted and curly. She had been preparing all morning to lecture Draco about the previous night — to give him a piece of her mind about the way he’d behaved at the Leaky Cauldron, and convey her annoyance over his persisting fixation with tormenting Ron.
Now, she’d have to wait a few hours; and by then, she would certainly forget a few of her points, making all of her preparations a waste.
But at least he’d owled her, if only to avoid her inevitable nagging later on.
Only a small portion of the shop remains in its demolished state, waiting to join the rest of the space and be walled and shelved. Then, next week after Daphne’s birthday, they would get started painting. After that, it would be a whirlwind of furnishing, ordering, decorating, and adding final touches. Not to mention getting a hold on the business, bookkeeping and systematic organization of the shop, which would take some getting used to.
She was grateful that it was Draco who was working with her; as much as it pained her to admit it, he was intelligent and level-headed and would be a considerable asset when it came to the first few months of running the shop and figuring out the odds and ends of Wizarding Retail.
He had often been a source of calm for Hermione as she made decisions about the business side of things, being practical when she worried too much about the small details and bringing a sensibility when she began to second guess herself. He was always so assured, so rational, and he never made her feel foolish for being so thorough, even in the small details. He only reassured her (quite bluntly) where it was needed, and pointed out the obvious solutions that had seemed so murky under the intense scrutiny of her perfectionism.
She found it both strange and enduring how much she sought out his opinion. She trusted him, knew he was capable and knowledgeable. If she had tried to ask Ron or Harry the same questions, they would have shrugged and mumbled something about how she was supposed to be the smart one. She never used to mind this; it had often even been a nice stroke to her ego when she needed it.
But there was something about the way Malfoy balanced her out — the way he met her intelligence but never challenged it, the way he thought the same as her but from a different lens. It had been something she’d been waiting for for a long time; she felt seen instead of only regarded.
She works away for most of the morning, feeling the absence of Malfoy once again in both the slowness of the work and the loneliness of the shop without him. She finishes organizing her office and even sets down the plant Neville has sent her onto the corner of the desk, making a note to water it weekly as Neville had told her to.
Around 11, an owl comes to deliver a letter from Kingsley.
Hermione,
No progress yet with the Wales rebels, but Narcissa has provided extremely helpful information that we think might lead to something.
Sending a group of Aurors back to Wales this afternoon — hopefully, this will be the last group we send before we wrap up the case.
I will keep you updated when I can.
Minister for Magic,
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Then, shortly after, one from Harry:
Hermione,
Ron and I are being sent back to Wales to try and wrap up this case. We leave this afternoon. Don’t know how long it might take – could be weeks or months, not sure.
I’m sorry things went the way they did last night. Give Ron a bit of time. He’ll come around. He always does.
And be careful, Hermione. I don’t want you to get hurt.
Take care of Ginny this week while we’re gone.
Love,
Harry
She feels both immense excitement and fear that Narcissa’s information had given them enough fuel to get back on the trail of the rebel group. She could feel how close they were to ending this, but there was also a worry, stagnant and sticking in her lungs like a bad cold — a worry that if Narcissa was wrong, all of this would be for nothing.
A worry that they’d be left with nothing.
She tries to push any negativity away. This is good — things will be fine. It was out of her hands at this point, and she could only trust that Ron, Harry and the other Aurors were doing everything they could.
She believed in her friends, had seen what they could do when they had hunted Horcruxes together. If they could defeat Voldemort, they could do anything.
When the clock in her office strikes noon, she grabs her beaded bag and decides to visit Blaise at Scratch the Mark. He would probably just be arriving to open the shop for the afternoon, and she is only just realizing her complete disregard for what’s been happening between him and Theo.
She also hadn’t had a chance to speak to him last night during Draco’s surprise visit to the Leaky Cauldron — had only made him drag Malfoy out after his little scene. She had seen his face when she and Draco had interacted, had watched the confusion in his eyes and the puzzled line of his mouth. He had to suspect something by now, and if he hadn’t, Theo had enough suspicions for the both of them.
If the two of them had talked, Hermione highly doubted that Theo had kept his mouth shut about it all. Theo, whether he had vocalized it or not, had seen right through Hermione from the beginning. She’d seen it in his knowing smirks at Devil’s Snare and in his eyes when she had mentioned Draco at Adrian’s.
As she exits the door of her office she nearly jumps out of her skin at the figure standing quietly just feet away from her.
“Malfoy,” she exhales shakily, bringing her hand up to her pounding heart. “You scared me.”
“So much for being a fearless Gryffindor, Granger,” Malfoy says, clicking his tongue at her with feigned disappointment.
“Fearlessness and courage are very different things, Malfoy,” she says, closing the door of the office behind her and stepping towards Malfoy with determined strides. She’s trying to remember the list of things she needed to yell at him about, but his handsomely ruffled white-blond fringe and startlingly beautiful grey eyes are making them harder and harder to recall.
“Going somewhere?” he asks as she reaches him, leaving a good three feet of space between them. His eyes are flashing with mischief as if he knows about her plans of scolding him for last night.
“I was going to go say hello to Blaise,” she says, holding her chin high as she grips the beaded bag hanging by her side. Malfoy shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, pressing his lips together in a tight line.
“Blaise is… otherwise occupied, at the moment,” he tells her, not a hint of emotion in his voice to tell her what he might be referencing.
“Oh,” she says, her shoulders falling in disappointment. She’d been rather excited to visit him. “I guess I’ll eat lunch here then.”
She turns and strides back over to the front counter, pulling off her coat and bag and placing them on a chair behind the register.
“What, no shouting and scolding me for my little tussle with Weasel-bee last night?” he says to her back. He hasn’t moved from the middle of the floor, and she turns to see him standing the same too, hands in his pockets, a devilish twinkle to his eye. “I’m surprised you’ve already restrained yourself this long, Granger.”
Her face falls into an irritated scowl, and she plants her feet on the floor by the counter, pretending they’ve been stuck there with magic so she doesn’t go charging at him again.
“If you already know exactly what I’m going to say, why do I need to say it at all? You were a git, as usual, and you ruined a perfectly wonderful evening.”
He shrugs smugly, “Well it wouldn’t be a day at work if you didn’t act like a giant bint and tell me off at least once, now would it Granger?”
It’s the way his voice hints at a teasing affection that restrains her from losing it on him completely.
“You need to be nicer to Ron,” she says, stepping cautiously towards him. He’s like a magnet, constantly pulling her to him even, when she’s angry with him.
“And why would I do that? Your friend is an airheaded cretin, and I can barely stand Potter’s self-satisfied mug either.”
“Stop saying those awful things!” Hermione says, raising her voice at him. “You don’t have to like them, but if we’re going to be friends, Malfoy, you need to-”
Malfoy groans audibly, letting his head fall back in defeat and turning his body 90 degrees before turning back, as if stupefied by her. She hasn’t seen him look this mean in weeks — his eyes suddenly alight with anger, his mouth pulled into an annoyed sneer, his entire demeanour darkening as if the word 'friend' was a curse or a hex.
“We are not friends, Granger,” he spits poisonously. She’d almost forgotten how dangerous he could look, and she’s flashing back to the way he’d pushed her into the wall the day of his father’s funeral and cornered her when they’d argued about his mother.
“Then what the hell are we, Malfoy?” she shouts, officially resigned to the idea of keeping her cool. She’s had it with the emotional rollercoaster; with the ‘friends one day, enemies the next.’
She’s desperate to know what’s inside of Malfoy’s complicated head. Desperate to know once and for all how he feels about her.
“We are nothing, Granger,” he says, his voice staccato, deadly. He steps towards her, his hands clenched into tight fists at his side. His eyes are a dark grey; too dark, and slightly misty too, as if he’s trying his hardest to occlude. It’s been so long since she’s seen him try — he’s pushing her away again. She feels the prick of angry tears forming at the back of her eye sockets; feels the wrenching squeeze of her heart as the words leave his mouth and the angry thrumming of her pulse in her neck.
“Why is it so hard for you to admit that you might actually like my company?” she asks, her voice wavering with her own self-doubt. “Why is it so hard to accept that, despite everything we’ve gone through together, we might be friends?”
“Because I can’t stand you, Granger!”
He’s yelling back now, ripping his fingers through his hair in frustration, jaw muscles twitching and breathing growing erratic. He closes the gap between them, his anger radiating from every pore of his skin, his nostrils flaring. There is only a foot of space between them now, and Hermione hates that she has to tilt her head so far to look up at him — feels small and childish.
He takes another gulp of air before continuing, towering over her intimidatingly.
“I can’t stand how much of a know it all you are!” he says, his voice now lulled to a menacing hiss as he glares down at her with a malicious stare, face flushed and pupils dilated, blackening his eyes. “-I can’t stand your annoyingly cheerful attitude, and the way you drink your coffee-“
She opens her mouth to start to say something, but he cuts her off, leaning in closer.
“I can’t stand that you always try to get to know me, and I can’t stand that rats nest on your head you call hair. I can’t stand all of those stupid muggle outfits you wear, and the way you insist that your way of doing things is always right. I can’t stand you, and I don’t want to be friends with you!”
For long minutes or short seconds, there is only the sound of their synchronous breathing, loud and heavy as if they’ve inhaled smoke. Her eyes remain locked into his gaze as she searches for any sign of redemption; any sign of the Draco Malfoy that she has slowly started to care for over the past few months.
There are small pieces of him everywhere — in the sharp chin and jawbones, in the glowing eclipse of his eyes, in the sweetness of his breaths and the soothing warmth of his body that always seems to leech into the very spots she herself is cold. But his words contradict all of them, and for a moment, she lets herself believe him.
Then, she swallows, blinks, and raises her chin up the tiniest bit higher, watching the flicker of his eyes as they give him away.
“Then why did you kiss me, Malfoy?”
His features are instantly possessed by shock, his eyes wide as his sneer drops and his pink lips form a small ‘o’.
Rosemary. Always rosemary, amongst the other herbs and undertones of fragrances that he smells like — it's home; it’s her family; it’s him. It crawls its way into her veins and conflicts her already complicated heart. It picks away at the stitches on her ventricles like a pointy seam ripper, opens old wounds and simultaneously adds new ones.
But it also fills her with something she might call hope — something she hadn’t felt for a long time until she’d found him. And under all of his nasty words and the practiced walls he’s put up, she is certain that Draco Malfoy has also found hope in her. She can see how hard he tries to fight it, to hide the ways that he is growing; like rosemary in a garden. And when she sees his gaze soften, minuscule and almost undetectable, she gets the crazy, unhinging feeling that one day they could even love each other.
“I don’t know,” he breathes finally, his body collapsing in surrender. She takes in a sharp inhale and blinks at him under her long, tangled lashes. Then, with a seasoned softness, she raises a hand, slowly, warily, and cups his chin between her delicate fingers, lifting his head to make him meet her eyes again. He flinches slightly at her touch, but doesn’t pull away, breathing out of his nose in short huffs.
“Figure it out,” she whispers.
Then, she drops her hand from his chin, grabs her coat and bag, and leaves him there as she apparates back to her flat, barely containing the sob that bubbles out of her lips as she lands in her living room and collapses in defeat onto her sofa.
~~~
She hopes he has locked the shop up properly.
She hopes he has finished putting up the final few feet of walls and shelves on the main floor.
She hopes she hasn’t miscalculated all of this and scared him off forever.
Anxious thoughts like these run through Hermione’s mind as she gets dressed for bed that night. She slips into a pair of blue silk pyjamas and brushes her teeth before sinking into the comforting softness of her mattress and pulling her duvet up around her. She’s able to fall asleep only because she knows and trusts that Malfoy will have the renovations finished in time for Daphne’s birthday tomorrow and that he will lock up the shop after, as if by second nature. It’s the third one she is unsure about, but her exhaustion takes over all of her capability to worry, and it takes only short minutes for her to fall asleep.
She feels the nightmare in her bones before it happens, even in her unconscious, sleeping state.
She is on the cold stone floors in Malfoy Manor, pinned down by the weight of Bellatrix’s body. Her breathing, hot and heavy, leaves a fog on the marble below her, and her sight is limited to the expanse of the ground, and the movement of feet below the knee.
All she can feel is pain — hot, blinding pain that tingles through her body like flames. Fire. This is what it feels like to be crucioed.
Bellatrix’s rough black hair tickles her face and neck as she leans over her, shouting and hissing into her ear, ‘Where did you get the sword, Mudblood?’
And then, Hermione is being flipped over, and she is now looking up at the high ceiling and Bellatrix’s face which is hovering over her own as she straddles her. She feels a single tear drip down the side of her cheek and then, the sharp point of the knife on her forearm.
When she screams, nothing comes out. She knows which letters are being carved into her arm without having to look at them. Her throat is raw with her empty screams; screams that no one will hear. Not a sound echoes through the manor, only the hysterical laughter of Bellatrix and the movement of feet that pace across the room. Powerless.
Then, as quick as the dream had begun, Hermione wakes, soaked in sweat and wet with tears. She clutches at her sheets, pulling them tightly to her chest as she shoots up in bed. Her breathing is hollow as she chokes on guttural sobs.
The walls of her bedroom are suddenly growing slowly closer towards her — pushing inwards, claustrophobically so, squeezing her lungs with them as they go. She can’t breathe. Her lungs are atrophied, burning with the force it takes to inhale the stale air of her bedroom. She throws the sheets off fervently, grasping at her chest and neck with her fingernails.
Of all of her recurring nightmares, this was the one that haunted her the most, that left her debilitated and afraid, that brought her startlingly back to the war. This was the one that broke her.
She needs to get out of here.
With the strength she’s always had within her but so barely used since the war, Hermione stands on shaky legs, gulping down whatever air she can get as she tries to calm herself.
She needs to get out of here.
She hastily pulls off her pyjamas and leaves them pooled on the floor, pulling on a pair of trousers and a knit sweater. Breathe, Hermione, breathe.
She closes her eyes and steels herself for a moment, willing her body to stop shaking and her breathing to go back to normal. She needs to get out of here.
She grabs her jacket, throwing it over her shoulders and stumbling through her dark flat towards the door. With a final thought, she takes the quilt off of the sofa and bundles it into her arms, shutting the door of her flat behind her and apparating to the first place she can think of. If she couldn’t sleep at home, maybe the nightmares wouldn’t be able to reach her through different walls. She had to at least try.
Outside of the shop, with the old, peeling letters of Flourish & Blotts taunting her in the sombre way that they wilt and fade, she first notices that Draco has accidentally left the lights on.
From the cobblestone street, she can see the glowing lights through the blinds she had installed last week, golden and warm. He must have stayed late to work and forgotten to nox the lighting on the sconces inside, keeping the shop lit and seemingly open for business.
Her second thought is that maybe someone has broken in. A new set of nerves come alive in her stomach as she ever so lightly rests her hand on the cold brass doorknob, takes a breath, and turns it; slowly, slowly. Her other hand pulls her wand from the pocket of her jacket and holds it out in front of her, prepared to hex any potential squatters and send them away.
Then, with a creak that would have given her away if the tinkle of the bell hadn’t, she pushes the door open, holding her wand out defensively in front of her and scanning the expanse of the shop with her eyes.
“Malfoy?”
He’s already looking up at her, grey eyes wide with fear and surprise. He sits against the back wall of the shop, legs stretched out in front of him with his back pressed up against the wood so that his pureblood posture remains intact. He’s wearing the same clothes he’d been in earlier — same black shirt and trousers, same expensive dragon leather shoes.
The only difference is, he grasps a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey in one hand, the hand just below his Dark Mark which is visible on his forearm, peeking out under his rolled-up sleeve. His hair is a mess — ruffled and tangled, his eyes heavy with drink. His cheeks blush a timid pink from the whiskey, and his lips are moist with remnants of his last sip.
He looks just as horrible as she feels.
“Granger?” he asks, his voice rough from disuse and husky from the booze. He makes no move to stand, just tightens his fist of the glass bottle. “What are you doing here?”
She feels a breath escape her lips as she lowers her wand, relaxing her shoulders and taking a quick glance around the shop to ensure they are alone. He must not have left today — the evidence of his presence visible in the final portion of the shop, which is finished. Finished. Walls and shelves up, bare and ready to be painted.
“I could ask you the same question,” she breathes, feeling a shiver run through her. It was cold outside, and she’s still feeling the buzz of her nightmare-induced panic attack in her veins and stomach.
Her eyes meet his again, and she notes his sallow skin and tired gaze. He’s on his way to being drunk — she can tell in the slow way he blinks and the haziness of his stare.
“Well, Granger, I would remind you that you left me here all by myself to finish the shop. I was just being a dutiful employee by ensuring the shop would be in tip-top shape for the party tomorrow,” he drawls, his words slow and sticky. His signature grin appears then, smug and playful, as he raises the bottle of whiskey to his lips and takes a long gulp.
The dim glow of the shop makes him look so mysterious; the yellow light falling on one side of his face and creating a shadow on the other, his skin glowing in an angelic manner that makes him look otherworldly in her eyes. She catches a glimpse of the macabre scar peeking out of his shirt where the top two buttons are pushed open, and her breath catches in her throat.
Had he always been this beautiful?
“And you just decided to stay for a nightcap?” she asks, willing herself to move her legs towards him, past the front counter and the cushioned chair. He tilts his head in fascination as she stops in the middle of the floor and pulls her coat off, dropping it beside her and laying the quilt she’d brought down flat on the ancient wood. He watches her with a surprised laugh as she sits facing him, cross-legged like a schoolgirl. She leans back on her hands, assessing him in wonder as he moistens his lips with his whiskey-trodden tongue.
“I don’t exactly sleep well at home. The manor is full of… unpleasant memories.”
A shudder runs through Hermione as she is reminded of why she is here in the first place: her dream. Draco notices her reaction, and suddenly she feels his eyes trailing over the evidence of her discomfort — her puffy eyes, her tear-stained face, her bed head and chewed-up lips. She must look a fright, because he visibly flinches at her post-nightmare state, his lips falling open softly.
“Why are you here?” he asks quizzically, his lips falling into a soft scowl. He is ostensibly worried for her, his eyes searching her face and body for other signs of trauma.
“It’s like you said, Malfoy,” she swallows, lowering her eyes to the floor to avoid his shattered stare. “I don’t exactly sleep well at home.”
“You had a nightmare.”
His response is quick, knowing, sure. She meets his eyes again and gives him a soft nod.
“Yes.”
He nods back, once, and rips his gaze from hers, looking down at the bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand before lifting it up in offering, raising an eyebrow at her in question.
“I quit, Malfoy, remember?” she scowls and watches a flash of amusement streak across his irises. “Some bossy prat told me I should.”
“And since when do you listen to bossy prats, Granger?” he challenges with an upwards twitch of his mouth. “Surely a few sips won’t hurt.”
Then, with a light flick of his wand, he floats the bottle of the amber liquid through the air towards her, his stare concentrated on the bottle and his magic. She looks at him when the bottle reaches her, floating inches away from her face and she narrows her eyes at him before grabbing it, releasing it from its spell.
She takes a swig of the cinnamon tinted liquor, watching Malfoy as he, in turn, watches her. She swallows, relishing in the nostalgic burn the liquid brings as it slides down her throat and warms her insides almost instantly.
“You’re a bad influence,” she says, cracking a grin before taking another long sip. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sends the bottle floating back towards him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking. He pulls his legs up from the floor, bending his knees and resting his elbows on them, hands falling limp.
“It’s alright,” she chuckles softly, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back contentedly as the Firewhiskey soothes her nerves and warms her body completely, “-I suppose I signed up for it when I decided to start hanging around Slytherins.”
“No,” he interjects sharply, clearing his throat quietly, “I’m sorry about what I said today.”
Her eyes snap open and she pulls her head back up to look at him. His expression is soft and serious, and there is no hint that he might be disingenuous, or even annoyed that he has to apologize.
His apology has rendered her speechless — his eyes don’t leave hers, don’t blink. He waits, unmoving, for a response, his breathing slow and rhythmic. She gulps, feeling a layer of gooseflesh crawl up her arms and neck.
“It’s-” she begins, her words catching in her throat, overwhelmed with surprise and emotion. She swallows it down, shaking her head softly. “It’s alright.”
It grows silent again, the only sounds being the soft whip of the wind outside and the familiar buzz of the empty shop. They hold each other’s gaze for what feels like minutes but is really only long seconds of understanding and forgiveness. The booze has made him complacent and agreeable; has softened his hardened exterior and pulled down his impenetrable walls, allowed his emotions to slip through the cracks.
Finally, he nods again, taking another sip of Firewhiskey, the drink sloshing against the glass walls of the bottle. She watches him, in wonder at the Draco Malfoy in front of her now; the way his dark eyelashes tangle together as he closes them mid-sip, and the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face that lead downwards to the willowy angles of his body.
“I suppose we don’t know anything about each other, really,” she says, her voice breathy and light. She perks a brow at him, giving him a soft, encouraging smile. “How can we be friends if I know nothing about you?”
He lowers the bottle of whiskey, his pink lips twitching as he tries to suppress a smirk. Then, without warning he lets out a dulcet chuckle, as warm and sweet as honey, and Hermione almost jumps at the sound of it.
“You’d better not ask me what my favourite colour is, Granger,” he says through his laugh. His tousled hair falls enticingly over his forehead, sexy like bedhead and contrasting against his darker eyebrows.
“I’m serious,” she grins, pulling up her knees and tucking them into her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around the outside of her calves. Malfoy watches her movements with intrigue, his drunk eyes heavy-lidded and sensual. She gulps, feeling an unwanted pull behind her navel as his eyes flick up and down her body.
“Let’s play a game,” she suggests as he floats the decanter of whiskey back over to her, steadfast gaze watching as she takes a sip before sending it back to him. She doesn’t dare move closer — feels good about the seven or so feet of distance separating her from his mesmerizing scent and warmth.
He quirks a brow at her, disappearing under his blond fringe as his features grow suspicious.
“What kind of game?” he asks warily, letting one leg drop back onto the floor, stretching it out in front of him again while he keeps his other knee up. He rests his free elbow on it and flexes his fingers, once, twice, before relaxing his hand.
“There’s this muggle game,” Hermione begins, resting her chin on her knees, “called ‘twenty questions-’”
“Let me guess,” he interrupts with a scoff, narrowing his eyes at her. “We each ask each other twenty questions?” he finishes dully, his voice thick with sardonic amusement.
“Yes.”
“Muggles really have no sense of subtlety, do they? Twenty questions… and what do I get I exchange for revealing all of my deepest darkest secrets to you, hmm?”
Hermione lets out a sarcastic, huffy laugh, shaking her head in astonishment. He tilts his head in question at her.
“You Slytherins can’t give anything without expecting something in return, can you? There has to be an ulterior motive?” she asks critically, lifting her head from her knees and giving him a taunting smile.
“Nothing in life is free, Granger,” he replies promptly, leaning his head back against the empty bookshelves in a relaxed manner. “Surely you know that.”
“You’re already no good at this game.”
“Why don’t we up the stakes a bit, then,” he says with a sly smile, leaning forward so that his half-buttoned shirt falls open slightly, revealing the china glass expanse of skin on his athletic chest. “Make it a bit more… exciting.”
Her chest flutters and her heart pounds at the suggestive look in his eye and the confidence with which he suggests changing the game. He is unblinking, daring her to take the jump. She can almost hear his voice in her head say, tauntingly, ‘unless you’re too scared, Granger.’
“You ask me twenty questions,” he continues, his grin persistent and jeering. “If I don’t want to answer a question, I don’t have to. If I do answer it, I get something in return. Tit for tat. Then, it’s my turn to ask you questions.”
“Well, that’s hardly playing fair, Malfoy.”
His eyes grow dark and wanting, his tongue poking sharply at the corner of his cheek as he takes a final swig of whiskey before replying.
“I don’t play fair, Granger. I play dirty.”
Merlin.
She gulps, watching him as he recognizes with a confident, self-assured smile that he has ensnared her with his offer.
“Fine,” she says confidently. “But I ask the questions first.”
“Deal.”
And just like that, she’s made a deal with the devil; given him access to her, placed herself in the palm of his hand. Her body shivers with anticipation as Malfoy takes a final sip of Firewhiskey, sets down the bottle on the wood beside him, and lets his other leg fall back out in front of him before crossing his arms over his chest domineeringly.
“Whenever you’re ready, Granger,” he drawls, shooting her a wink and raising his brows in wait.
She’s had these questions prepared for months— lingering at the back of her mind in case she’d ever get the chance to ask him. She’s almost certain he will shoot half of them down, and she must be cautious and prudent, lure him into a sense of security. She wants answers and this is her chance to get them.
“Have you ever truly hated me?” she says, diving straight in with the question she’s dying to know — dying to hear him say out loud.
Malfoy is captivated immediately.
“So much for asking what my favourite colour is,” he snickers.
“I thought you said that one was off limits. This was my next safest option.”
He regards her with wonderment, his face soft and perpetually roguish.
“No,” he says simply. “Do you hate me? Present tense?”
“It’s not your turn yet,” she frowns, letting her legs drop back down to the floor straight out in front of her, a mirror image of Malfoy.
“This is what I want in return for this one, Granger. Now answer the question.”
“No,” she says quickly, the answer as easy as counting to three. “I never have.”
Draco’s brows pull up in surprise. She watches, hypnotized and slightly defenceless to the effects of the whiskey, at the sharp bob of his adam’s apple, and she imagines what it would be like to have her mouth on his throat, to leave purple love bites across the expanse of his stubbled skin.
“Next question,” she exhales, trailing her eyes back up to his face. “What was Azkaban like?”
His face immediately grows sour with remorse.
“Skip,” he snaps, his lips quivering slightly with something like anger or pain of opening an old wound. She hadn’t expected him to be so affected by the question, and she feels herself blush in regret and embarrassment. He hadn’t been in Azkaban long, but she suddenly remembers how lifeless, how eerily cold the place had been during her short visit with Narcissa.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, scrambling quickly for a new question. “What’s your favourite colour?” she teases lightheartedly, raising her voice into a question at the end as she giggles softly. His face falls back into a subtle softness, and he barks out a laugh.
“Relentless, you are,” he chuckles, and Hermione feels relief at how quickly she was able to change the mood. “It’s green, Granger. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“Moss green or sage green?”
He cracks the biggest grin she’s ever seen, a throaty chuckle bubbling from his throat as his eyes squint at the corners.
“Funny.”
Hermione smiles. Green. Shouldn’t be hard to remember.
“And what would you like in return for such a difficult question, your highness?” Hermione teases, tucking her chestnut-coloured curls behind her ear. He eyes her, tilting his head slightly to the side and narrowing his eyes in thought.
“Come closer.”
His voice is thick, throaty, and his tone is demanding. A shock of surprise electrifies her body, a warm, twisty feeling somewhere low and deep inside of her, so powerful she nearly lets out a whimper.
His expression is serious, no smile or playfulness, draconian like his namesake.
“Okay,” she nearly whispers. Then, limbs slow and heavy like molasses, she stands on wobbly legs and steps forward, once, twice, three times, before sitting back down again. There are still a few feet of space between them, and she’s sure this hadn’t been what he’d meant based on the exasperated laugh he breathes out through his nostrils. She’s close enough now to see the details of his face, the patterns of his irises and the softness of his lips, but not close enough to reach out and touch him.
“Not what I meant, Granger.”
“You said closer, now I’m closer. Next question.”
He nods in surrender and awaits her next inquiry without a hint of unease.
“Why haven’t you let Blaise cover up your Dark Mark?” she asks cautiously, calm and slow as if raising her voice any more might scare him off.
He freezes for a moment, considering her question with obvious trepidation. His eyes flicker down to the black tattoo, contrasted brightly against his ivory skin. She can see his mouth moving, even as he clenches his jaw, as if he is chewing over his words carefully. Then, as if his decision has been made, he looks back at her.
“Covering it up would have been too easy,” he begins, his voice wavering with doubt, assailable in its mildness and palpable in its honesty. He pulls his eyes away from hers as he continues.
“It would be too easy to forget why it was there and the things I have done… I haven’t really had the chance to forgive myself yet. I think I needed to keep it to remind myself that I’m not the same person that I was, before the war. There’s still a darkness to me, a contaminated ink that runs through my veins. But I’m trying not to be evil. And maybe, one day, when I’m sure I’m not that person anymore, I’ll cover it up. It’s a way to make sure I’ll never forget. A way to remember, even when I feel like I don’t want to.”
A way to remember. A reminder not to forget. His own rosemary for remembrance, his own coexistent memoir and rejection of the past.
“You’re not that person anymore,” she whispers, watching his striking fragility as he realizes the depth and weight of his confession. “You deserve to forgive yourself. You deserve to cover up that mark.”
His eyes flicker to hers again, as if they are a clear beacon in the dark. He doesn’t wait for her to ask what he wants in return for his answer.
“Come closer.”
She nods, feeling her heart pound erratically in her ribcage as she stands once more, closing any remaining gap between them and setting herself in front of his legs, just beside his dragon leather clad feet.
“Closer, Granger.”
This time, she doesn’t argue. Her insides are explosive, every nerve ending firing with warning and indulgence. She slides forward so that she is beside him, thigh to thigh, before lifting her left leg up and rising on her knees to straddle his legs. She hears him exhale an audible breath as she settles herself on his thighs, bracketing his legs with hers and resting her hands on the hard planes of his stomach. A tremor runs through her as she allows herself to relax, finally lifting her eyes to meet Draco’s, seeing his pupils blown wide with desire and feeling his tepid breaths tickle the skin of her neck.
Then, his hand snakes up her thigh, and her eyes flutter closed as he slides a rough palm over her hip and around to the small of her back. His touch is both calming and stimulating, and it feels like a drug.
“Next question,” he purrs, his mouth dangerously close to her ear, and she has to force herself to open her eyes; to look into his, to control the rapid rise and fall of her breath and ignore the warmth low, low between her legs.
“Did-” she begins, but she is cut off by her own sharp inhale of breath as Draco wrenches her body forward with the hand that’s on her back, sliding her up his thighs so that their chests are pressed together. She feels, with slight shock, his growing hardness through his trousers from under her and she lets out a soft gasp as his lips trail, feather-light, over the line of her jaw — barely touching her.
“Go on,” he mutters, tucking her thick curls behind her ear to gain better access to her throat.
“Did you really mean it the other night at the restaurant? When you said I looked beautiful?”
Her eyes have fallen back shut without her permission, her head lolled back as Draco’s lips stop, hovering over her neck when he hears her question. Much to her disappointment, she feels him pull away, the warmth of his breath gone as he moves to look at her. She opens her eyes once more, coming face to face with him, her nose brushing against the tip of his, barely containing a moan as he lifts his hips lightly into hers.
“Yes,” he says, low and breathy. Hermione feels her stomach cartwheel with glee and her heart pull with need, her cheeks growing hot from his words.
“You are always beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes half-shut with lust as he slides his free hand into her hair and rubs his thumb against her cheek.
It’s all too much for her: his touch, his words, his lips so close to hers. His admission would have her falling out of her chair, had she been in one, but she’s too distracted by the throbbing in her groin and the feeling of Draco’s hardness pressing against her to make sense of any of it.
“Good answer,” she mutters, frozen in her position on his lap, feeling his breaths synchronize with hers. She lifts one hand from his chest and places it at the back of his neck, her fingers scraping lightly across his scalp as she tangles them in his hair. “And, what do you want in return?”
His eyes flash with desire and he lets out a soft groan, before mumbling in a husky, guttural breath,
“Kiss me, Granger.”
It’s the only permission she needs.
He tastes like Firewhiskey and honey, sweet with a hint of spice, and he kisses her with unadulterated hunger, even more ravenous than he had been last time. His hand tightens itself in her hair, pulling her in closer, so tightly to his lips that not even a breath could escape.
They suck and bite at each other’s lips, Draco’s tongue pushing its way past her teeth with a control and strength that has her moaning into his mouth. His hands are everywhere — her back, her hips, her arse, sliding over every bit of her body that they can, as they devote all of their attention and ministrations to each other. Her body is alive with sensation, with need, with him.
Her own fingers tighten in his soft hair, while the other cups the back of his neck, feeling the warmth there and raising the scent of his cologne into the air.
He pulls away, taking only a fraction of a second to look at her before attacking her throat with his mouth, pressing firm kisses to the hollow of her throat and dragging his teeth along the line of her jugular, before latching on to suck and lave at the spot where her throat meets her chin. Hermione lets out a whine, placing her hands on his bony shoulders as he leaves a love bite there on her skin.
“We- oh” she begins, cut off as Draco moves his attentions to her collarbone, teeth and lips and tongue drawing lines of claim all over her. She can barely breathe and has to suck air into her desperate lungs again to finish her sentence as her head drops back and her eyes close. “We didn’t finish the game,” she manages, just before she lets a soft moan escape her lips as Draco kisses under her ear.
“Sod it,” he whispers onto her skin, pulling back and attaching himself to her lips once more. He kisses her hard enough to bruise her lips, and she kisses him back with equal force, tasting him and savouring him like she had wanted to do last time. She listens to his breathy gasps as he pulls away only to return his mouth to hers seconds later.
A furnace of heat grows between them, Draco’s growing hardness pressing into her own need, him pushing her hips down with his hand to meet him. It’s a frenzy of touch, of pressure, of lust, of passion.
She feels his warm, calloused hand as it slips under the knit material of her jumper. She shudders against his touch, against the rough skin under his nails, hard from his labours in the shop. His fingers trail up her abdomen, past her navel and onto the expanse of skin below her bra. She heaves in a gasp and he presses under the wire of her bra before his warm palm skates over her breast, his fingers skimming over her pebbled nipple as he caresses her with his hand.
“Fuck,” comes his throaty whisper after he pulls away from her lips to watch her face. Her eyes are still closed, head still lolled back, lips parted in ecstasy as he thrums her nipple with his fingers and she lets out another staccato gasp. With his free hand he reaches forward and grabs her chin gently, pulling her face down as her eyes snap open, meeting his. He pulls her chin towards him then, stopping just as her lips hover over his, brushing over them with a touch so light it’s almost not there. They exchange breaths, warm and sweet and bitter from the whiskey, both panting as they try to compensate for minutes of lost breath.
Desperate for more, anxious for him to release her chin so she can press her lips to his again, Hermione grounds her hips down onto his, a circular motion, like a dance; a tango of seduction.
“Touch me, Malfoy,” she orders, hearing him groan in response as she leads his hand assertively down to her waistband.
Draco hisses through his teeth, finally releasing her chin and pulling both hands down at lightning speed to the waistband of her trousers.
Hermione crashes her lips back on his, wrapping her arms around his neck to steady herself as she feels him pull at the tie on her trousers and loosen the band, one hand snaking inside and pushing into her knickers.
She’s never been so turned on; her skin has never felt this hot and her bones have never felt this heavy. When his fingers finally reach their destination she is slick with need, and she whimpers against his lips as his thumb finds the exact spot it needs to be and begins to rub in agonizingly slow circular motions.
“Draco,” she growls before he catches the rest of her moan on his lips, swallowing it.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he whispers before taking her earlobe between his teeth and pulling lightly, releasing only to attack the spot where her ear and neck meet with his swollen lips.
When he slides two fingers inside of her, she groans so loudly she is almost embarrassed by it. If not for the small smile she feels against her neck, and the way he sighs into her ear “So perfect,” she might have asked him to stop to prevent any future noises like that from happening again.
Instead, she only lets her head fall forward against his shoulder as she begins to grind herself onto his hand, riding his fingers as he curls them inside of her, his thumb still circling her clit in small, practiced movements. The pace of her breaths picks up as he moves his fingers faster, bucking his own hips up into her and sinking his top teeth into his lip as her unruly curls fall into a curtain around his shoulders.
“Draco, I’m— don’t stop,”
“Shhh,” he hushes her, bringing his hand up to her throat, resting it but not holding it on her neck and forcing her to look up at him. His eyes watch her, falling onto the sight of her reddened lips, open as she exhales more breathy gasps, Draco’s fingers bringing her closer to the edge with every second that passes.
“Let me watch your face when you come,” he grates, spreading his fingers across her neck and jaw, tilting her chin upwards and searching her face with his eyes, the colour of onyx.
She finds her release only moments later, in a mess of sweat and pants, feeling her walls squeeze against his fingers as he continues to work at her clit. Her legs shake with tidal waves of pleasure, and her eyes roll slightly back into her head as she trembles against him, tightening her hold in his hair to coax a groan from his own lips. For a few precious minutes, she feels only bliss, her eyes locking back on his as he presses his lips against hers, small, slow pecks. He continues to hold her tightly against him, his hand falling from her neck and sliding down her spine to finally settle on her waist.
After a final full-body shudder and a deep sigh, Draco pulls his fingers out of her, wet and warm. He rests the hand on the skin of her thigh under her trousers, letting her catch her breath.
“I told you I play dirty, Granger,” he intonates, planting a kiss in the corner of her mouth and letting them rest there as she meets her forehead with his.
“Always so greedy,” she jibes, her voice mousy with exhaustion. Draco chuckles, pulling her hair behind her shoulder and giving her one last soft kiss on her temple before letting his hands fall to the side in exhaustion. She pushes herself off him, half tumbling half sliding off of his legs and onto the floor beside him, letting her head drop back against the bookshelf as she ties her pants and fixes her crooked brassiere under her jumper. They both sit in silence, allowing their heart rates to slow and the reality of the past few minutes to sink in slowly, like a brick in tar.
If not for their mutual exhaustion, there might have been an awkward moment where they would have had to decide which one of them should leave; where they’d trip over awkward words or argue, inevitably, like they always do.
But their bones are laden with bliss and fatigue, so many hours of the night have already slipped away, and it’s all Hermione can do to perform a few wandless nox spells on the lights before falling into a deep and undisturbed sleep.
Chapter 16: Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
She knows, as she wakes, that he is gone. Before she can even open her eyes she feels the absence of him seep through her skin like a chill — if he had stayed, she would have felt his warmth beside her, even without contact.
With lids like led, Hermione opens her eyes and settles them on the empty space beside her where Draco had been last night as they fell asleep.
Everything rushes back to her, like an ocean returning to high tide. So much had happened yesterday and in Malfoy’s absence, she’s struggling to allow herself to believe that the events had been real. They had fought — she remembers his repeated use of ‘I can’t stand you’ and the way she’d stormed off and left him there to finish the remaining work on the shop. Then there had been her nightmare and subsequent panic attack, which had caused her to flee back to the shop to try and run away from the claustrophobic walls of her apartment. Then, there had been the small, unimportant fact that she’d snogged Malfoy and let him bring her to orgasm with his fingers last night before they’d fallen asleep together on the floor.
Her head is spinning with it all; confusion at the contradiction between Malfoy’s words and his actions, at the fact that she’d let him— no, wanted him —to touch her in the way he had, and sadness that he was no longer lying beside her. Mostly, she fears his current state of mind. Knowing him, and the way he’d reacted after the first time they’d kissed, it was very likely he would disappear for a week without contacting her. He might act out in anger, go back to occluding and ignoring her.
But it's the third possibility that frightens her the most.
It’s the possibility that what she was currently feeling for him — what she had been feeling for him for months — that he felt it too. And if that was the case, Hermione has no idea what happens next.
But there are more pressing things to worry about. When she checks the time, she sees that it’s almost nine in the morning. They were supposed to be surprising Daphne at One, and she needed a shower and a change of clothes before meeting the others back here to start decorating and preparing.
She stands on shaky legs, looking around once more at the empty shop, her eyes flicking to the spot on the counter where Draco always puts her coffee.
He’s not here, she tells herself, gathering her jacket and quilt, taking one last look at the space around her.
There is no physical evidence that she and Malfoy and been here last night; no remnants of their intimacy, no proof of the little game they had played.
There is only a strange, new feeling in her gut. There are only her bruised lips and what will surely be purple love bites in the places on her neck he had ravaged last night.
She hadn’t known that it could be like that — that she could feel like the way she had last night, the way Draco had made her feel.
It’s consuming, and incredible and alarming.
When she arrives back at her flat, stepping into the shower and under the warm mist, she feels almost guilty washing away the remnants of him that linger on her skin. His scent, his touch, his kiss, all cleansed by the water and washed away down the drain.
Her mind wanders back to his illicit touches and sultry whispers, to the way he’d called her beautiful and his honesty about his mark. He had allowed her to see him; really see him.
And she liked what she saw. She liked it a lot.
Maybe, Draco Malfoy wasn’t as complicated as she had always thought.
~~~
"I know what a fucking balloon is, Granger. What I don't understand, is why you think I would want to blow all of my air and spit into it."
Pansy holds the rubber balloon out in front of her, a look of disgust on her dainty features. Hermione hears Blaise chuckle from the corner where he is hanging up streamers with his wand.
Hermione laughs outright and holds her hand out. Pansy gives her an incredulous look as she drops the limp piece of rubber onto Hermione’s palm like it’s a piece of dirty garbage. Then, Hermione demonstrates how to use a wand to fill the balloon up with the perfect amount of air, and tie the end into a tight knot.
"I said that muggles blew them up manually. I never said we couldn't use magic."
"Well thank Salazar for that," Pansy scoffs, grabbing another lilac-coloured balloon from the bag and using her own wand to blow it up.
Hermione chuckles, grabbing another balloon and proceeding to blow it up.
Adrian would be at the shop in half an hour with Daphne for the surprise, and Theo and Draco had still not shown up to help set up.
All of the tools she and Draco had been using over the past month are tucked safely away in the utility room at the back of the shop, and Hermione had cast a number of cleaning spells over the entire space when she’d arrived back after her hasty shower that morning. Despite being relatively empty, the place is sparkling clean, and the lilac decorations that Blaise, Pansy and herself have been setting up look strikingly good against the fresh, wooden walls and empty shelves.
The cake Adrian has made, two tiers, white buttercream icing and covered in real, delicate lilac flowers, sit on the front counter amidst other various snacks.
It’s nothing fancy. Not like Hogwarts celebrations or the usual pureblood events she was sure the Slytherins were used to attending; no crystal champagne glasses rimmed with gold or silk table clothes under plates of worldly hors d'oeuvres. But it felt happy. It felt just juvenile enough and just mature enough to invoke feelings of nostalgia and sentimentality of the happy events from before the war. And she was almost sure that Daphne wouldn’t mind if it was less than perfect.
On the other hand, Hermione thinks, if it had been Pansy’s surprise birthday party it would have been a very different story. She watches, stifling a giggle, as Pansy scowls at a paper birthday hat, which has a purple pom-pom on the pointed top. The Slytherin girl places the hat atop her black hair, pulling the thin elastic under her chin, frowning, and then beheading the pom-pom straight off of the top with a malicious smirk, letting the fluffy ball drop to the ground by her feet.
No – if it had been Pansy’s birthday, it would definitely not be Hermione planning it.
“It looks like a fwooper threw up in here,” Theo’s voice calls out in announcement of his arrival, “-but in a good way.”
He smirks at Hermione mischievously in greeting, and she can’t help but grin back. She hasn’t seen him in a while, and she’s almost missed his handsome smirk and startling green eyes. He approaches Hermione as the door shuts behind him, his dark brown waves still wet from the shower.
“Granger,” he says when he reaches her, pulling off his fur-lined leather jacket and placing it with the rest of the coats on the chair beside her.
“Theodore,” she grins, passing him an un-blown balloon, which he looks at with undisguised confusion. “You’re late.”
He fiddles with the lilac rubber, shaking it slightly and holding the opening up to his eye as if it were a telescope. Noted, Hermione thinks. Clearly, pureblood wizards were never required to blow up their own balloons.
“Sorry,” he says, eyeing Pansy from across the room as she blows the balloon up with her wand and ties it at the end, letting it fall to the floor. Theo nods, catching on, and uses his own wand to blow up his first balloon. “I had to meet with my probation officer about my sobriety.”
Hermione stills, frozen with her wand pointed at another balloon. Theo begins to get the hang of adding air to them, tying them quickly with a flick of his wand and releasing it from his two fingers, watching it drift slowly across the wooden floor.
“And how did it go?” she asks, setting the balloon down and turning to give Theo her full attention. Theo stops as well, scratching at the back of his head with a sly grin.
“That tattoo you gave me must really be doing the trick, Granger, 'cause things are going really great. I am officially one year sober.”
Hermione pounces on him, pulling him into a hug without thinking. Theo goes stiff under her as her arms wrap tightly around his neck and squeeze him to her, her head falling on his shoulder. She doesn’t care if Theo is averse to displays of affection — she is proud of him.
“Theo, that’s incredible,” she whispers, feeling his body relax only slightly under her. He doesn’t hug her back, but he pats her awkwardly on the arm and chuckles, his breath warm against her head. Finally, she pulls back to grin up at him. His face is sheepish, his Adonis cheeks muffled by red, and he is looking at her as if she is slightly deranged, but also with a soft pleasure.
“Thanks, Granger,” he smirks, picking his wand back up to blow up another balloon. “Merlin, you give tight hugs.”
“So I’ve heard,” she laughs, turning back to her previously abandoned balloon.
It’s a strange feeling; being so proud of someone she’s known for so little time. But this does nothing to weaken her pride, and she can’t help but glance back at the stone-faced Theo and admire him with a slightly motherly expression. He had already returned to his usual self —demure, hardened, scoffing at the lilac colour of the decorations.
Theodore Nott, under all of his handsome, bad boy, intimidating façade, was actually a big softie.
“Hands off my boyfriend, yeah Granger?”
Blaise appears beside Theo, a bunch of lilac streamers in his hand, and his eyes sparkle with joy as Hermione’s face lights up in glee. Theo rolls his eyes, his own gaze wandering to Hermione’s bubbling excitement.
“I was going to tell you, Granger, but Blaise insisted that we should both see your reaction when you found out.”
Hermione has to stifle a girlish, excited scream at the news and allows herself to pull them both into another tight hug, hearing the two men laugh as she squeezes them with all of her might.
“When did this happen?” she asks breathily as she pulls away, catching the way Blaise’s eyes linger lovingly on Theo.
She wants to kick herself for not getting a chance to talk to Blaise sooner. She has been so caught up in all of her own things, she has completely abandoned her friendship with the Slytherin who had introduced her to all of this.
Blaise gives her a warm, reassuring look, and he must have read her mind because he shakes his head in dismissal at her.
“After you forced me to ask Theo to lunch, we talked about it and decided we wanted to try things out for a bit… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I just know things have been crazy for you here, and I didn’t want to you hear about it in a letter. I wanted to thank you, in person, for being the person who made this happen. Theo and I both recognize that you played an important role in making us realize that we shouldn’t let what happened keep us from being together. So, thank you.”
Blaise takes Theo’s hand in his own, giving it a quick squeeze and smiling down at Hermione, who has tears pooling at the corner of her eyes. Theo rolls his eyes at her again, and she laughs, quickly wiping them away as they fall down her cheeks and giving Theo a playful smack on his arm.
“Now, Granger,” Theo says as he releases Blaise’s hand, stepping closer to her and lowering his voice to a quiet murmur, “-you should try taking your own advice.”
Hermione’s brows pull together in confusion, until Theo nods subtly to something off to the side, stepping back from her and giving her a wink. Blaise, always coy and aloof, offers Hermione a sliver of a smile too.
When Hermione turns her head in the direction that Theo has alluded to, she sees Draco, who has slipped in without her notice. He’s talking quietly with Pansy as they tie ribbons to the end of each blown balloon with their wands, and send them floating up into the air with a wordless spell.
As Theo and Blaise make their escape, having clearly made their point, Hermione finds herself frozen as she watches Draco, here, in the shop, freshly showered and looking more well-rested than he’s been in a while. Her heart batters rhythmically against her rib cage as she watches him, unaware of her voyeurism as he sneers down at a curled ribbon as if it were an insect.
Had it only been hours ago that they were here, kissing each other with a hunger so unignorably desperate and wanting, as he touched her in places she’d never thought she would ever let Draco Malfoy touch? Had it only been last night that he had offered himself to her, stripped of his parapets, while she offered herself in return? It feels like days, weeks, months, since she’s seen him, and she’s so desperate to drink him in again, she can’t keep her eyes off of him.
His sharp, pointed jaw, high cheekbones, alabaster complexion and sleet grey eyes, all of him dangerously perfect — and she’d had him, had all of him, for a time last night.
Draco finally looks up at Hermione as Pansy is talking to him, meeting her eyes. She blushes as he catches her stare, but doesn’t look away; just watches him straighten, alert to her attention, and blink at her as Pansy rambles on in the background – noise, just noise, lost somewhere in the blur of their surroundings.
“Two minutes, people!” Blaise calls from the back of the shop, shaking Hermione from herself. Draco’s eyes immediately fall from hers, turning back to Pansy as he ties the last ribbon to a balloon and floats it up to the ceiling where the others lie in wait, their silver ribbons hanging down in a twirl, swaying like tentacles of a jellyfish. Hermione shakes herself, stuffing her wand in the pocket of her jeans and willing her legs to move, to toss the empty balloon bag into the bin and make her way over to the others.
She moves over beside Pansy, using her wand to lower the lights as they all crowd together in the middle of the shop behind a large ‘Happy Birthday Daphne’ sign that Blaise had painted in flowing cursive handwriting.
She can barely make out Draco, who is obstructed from her view by both Blaise and Theo. She tries to get his attention, holding her eyes on him as they shuffle awkwardly, determining last positions, but he’s too busy snapping at Theo for stepping on his foot.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist, Granger?” Pansy whispers beside her, pulling Hermione’s gaze from Draco to the petite, dark-haired witch beside her. Hermione furrows her brows at Pansy’s amused expression, her eyes flicking over Hermione’s face with a knowing curiosity.
“What do you mean?” Hermione asks, looking quickly back over at Draco who is now listening to Theo as he whispers something into his ear, smiling as if at an inside joke. Pansy rolls her eyes at Hermione’s acted ignorance, following her gaze over to Draco and snorting lightly.
“You’re looking at Draco like he either made an attempt on your life or fucked you — and I honestly can’t decide which is more realistic.”
Heat grows quickly over Hermione’s face as she snaps her eyes back to Pansy, slightly wide-eyed and astonished at how straight-forward the Slytherin girl could be. She says nothing — opens her mouth to try but only stammers something incoherent as Pansy shakes her head.
“So he fucked you then,” Pansy smiles, and Hermione shushes her immediately, noticing how close they are to where Malfoy is standing. “-judging by the useless babbling you just did and how red your face is, it must have been recent. Care to share, Granger?”
“He didn’t f-” Hermione begins quickly, stopping herself from saying such a crass term. “We didn’t… have sex, that is,” she whispers under her breath, slightly bewildered that she is telling this to Pansy at all. She thought that Ginny would be the first to know, and yet here she was, practically confessing to the girl who’d teased her relentlessly in school.
“I see,” Pansy smirks, raising a perfectly shaped brow and crossing her arms over her chest. “I didn’t know you two had something going on between you.”
“We don’t,” Hermione says, checking the time and noting that they had practically seconds before Daphne and Adrian were to arrive. “I’m not exactly sure what… what all of this means.”
“Well good luck, Granger. He’s a bloody idiot.”
Before Hermione can reply, they hear the sharp crack of apparition nearby and see the shadows of two figures appear outside of the shop windows through the blinds. Their hushed whispers fall quickly to silence, and their bodies seem to still simultaneously in anticipation, lying in wait as the muffled voices of Daphne and Adrian grow closer.
There is the groaning turn of the doorknob, then the jingle of a bell, the sound of light footsteps before a cacophony of noise; all five of them shouting ‘Surprise!’ or ‘Happy Birthday Daph!’ as the lights flicker on and Daphne’s face lights up in utter shock, her hands flying up to cover her mouth and a small shriek of surprise.
It’s a cluster of movement and greeting — Daphne turning to Adrian with large, questioning blue eyes and Adrian laughing joyously as he pulls a frozen Daphne in for a hug, her hand still covering her open mouth. She’s laughing then, as Pansy steps forward to greet her, followed by the rest of the Slytherins and then Hermione, all of them exchanging hugs and cheek kisses, muttering wishes to the birthday girl whose cheeks are pulled taut like rounded apples in a grin.
“Salazar, how did you lot pull this off?” Daphne asks in wonder when things have settled down a bit, after Adrian has pulled a birthday hat onto her head and placed a flute of champagne in her hand.
“By not telling Pansy until yesterday, that’s how,” Adrian teases, winking at Pansy who rolls her eyes and immediately swallows her entire flute of champagne, reaching for another one immediately after.
“Yeah, yeah, Parkinson can’t keep secrets. Very funny, Pucey,” Pansy drawls sarcastically. Daphne giggles, taking a sip of her own drink and looking back at Adrian.
“It was Hermione’s idea, really,” Adrian says, stepping closer to Daphne and snaking a hand around her waist. He pulls her into him and looks down at the contented Daphne, eyes shimmering with something Hermione would call love. “She offered the shop for us to use, as well.”
Daphne turns to face Hermione, grinning sweetly at her. Hermione shakes her head, holding her own glass of sparkling cider up at Adrian.
“I only helped. Adrian was really the one who made this all happen. You’re lucky to have him, Daphne.”
Adrian blushes when Daphne reaches up to give him a kiss on the cheek, and Adrian sends Hermione a clandestine wink, mouthing a soundless ‘thank you’ to which Hermione nods softly. The circle of bodies finally breaks up, their small group mingling and chatting as Daphne admires all of the lilac decorations and Adrian’s beautiful work on the cake.
“This is the most muggle birthday party I’ve ever seen,” comes a voice from behind her, close enough to her ear to send a shiver down her back. “Is this really what you had to put up with as a child? No wonder you were so excited to go to Hogwarts.”
She almost grins but finds she’s too nervous, swallowing and steeling herself as Draco moves to her side, clutching his own flute of champagne. He’s dressed immaculately — a tailored back suit jacket over his usual white oxford, his shiny dragon leather shoes from last night shuffling softly against the floor.
“Very funny,” she says, turning her head to the side to look up at him. He wears the ghost of a smirk on his face, a familiar glint in his eye, and a peaceful expression so rare on his brooding features she thinks she might be dreaming. She watches him bring the glass up to his lips, watches the bubbles dance in the golden liquid as he takes a delicate sip, a strand of blond hair falling onto his forehead. Images of him from the night before flash through her mind and a warmth spreads its way to her body as she breathes him in.
“I can’t believe you got Pansy to help blow up balloons,” he jests, and they both turn to observe their friends, laughing and chattering just feet away. “She’d usually sooner die than be even remotely helpful and agreeable with anyone.”
“I don’t know, I think she might just have a soft spot for me,” Hermione quips back, lifting a brow at Draco as he shakes his head.
“And what’s with all of the lavender, Granger? It looks like a fwooper threw up in here.”
“That’s what Theo said too,” she frowns, stepping back to face him as she crosses her arms over her chest. “And its lilac, not lavender.”
Draco narrows his eyes in annoyance, a vein in his neck twitching. A surge of desire runs through her as she watches it.
“They’re the exact same, Granger, I assure you,” he growls irately, seeing the challenging smile she’s offering him. He takes a tentative step towards her, carrying with him a scent she now associates with the previous night’s events. It takes every ounce of restraint she has not to jump him; not to pull his lips down to hers again and snog him in front of everyone.
Kiss me, Granger.
You’re always beautiful.
“No-” she argues, knowing that she’s challenging him just for the sake of arguing, just for the familiar spark of tension that flows through them whenever they do. “Lilac has more pinkish undertones, while-”
“Granger?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Right.”
He’s moved closer now, looking down at her with a mixture of exasperation and lust, his eyes the same dark, onyx grey they’d been last night. Her breath catches in her throat as he blinks down at her, his bottom lip catching against his teeth before he raises his champagne glass lightly to his lips to take a teasing sip of the shimmering liquid.
“Hermione!”
Daphne’s voice breaks them from their heated impasse, and Hermione has to clear her throat to make it work properly, turning to smile at the girl as she approaches.
“I’ll see you later, Granger,” Draco says, his voice low and husky as he gives her one last nod before sauntering away towards Adrian. She almost asks him to stay; almost grabs his wrist and pulls him back to her, wanting him to be by her side with his arm around her waist, talking to Daphne as if they were a couple. But she doesn’t, because that’s not who they are.
They are Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. They fight. They kiss. They fight more. They couldn’t be more different from each other.
Friend, enemy, lover; none of them sound right to describe what Draco is to her.
Hermione watches him glide away for only a second before giving her full attention to Daphne, who is now rambling her gratitude and admirations to her for throwing the party together at Adrian’s request, and how ‘she knows it must have been her who had put so much thought and detail into all of the decorations because Adrian would never have remembered that her favourite colour was lilac, not that she held it against him, she did love him dearly despite his terrible memory.’
Hermione just tells her it was nothing, accepting the hug Daphne pulls her into and happily noticing that the girl hugs just as tightly as she did.
“I’m sorry it’s not more… classy,” Hermione stutters after the blonde has pulled away, and Daphne shakes her head in dismissal.
“Hermione, it’s perfect. I’ve been trying to escape the never-ending pureblood parties my entire life. They were always Astoria’s thing, not mine.”
Daphne brings her hand up to squeeze Hermione’s shoulder — a small but significant gesture that warms Hermione’s insides and allows her to feel that she is truly a part of this friend group. She watches Adrian laugh at something Draco has said; sees the way Pansy so comfortably puts her arms around Blaise and Theo’s shoulders from where she stands between them.
This is the only part of her life where she doesn’t mourn the past, but feels excited about the future. It is this new, special thing; something she doesn’t wish she could go back to because it was better before the war, but one where she has felt the healing happen. She has felt the changes her classmates have been through, has felt their implicit acceptance of her, has witnessed the ways they have pushed through struggle and lived for themselves rather than for their parents.
To be able to see and feel the ways the Slytherins have healed, and in turn, how they have helped her heal, is a milestone that Hermione has been unable to recognize up until this moment.
After the war, Hermione has struggled. After the war, she has faced grief, and suffering, and mourning, and the repercussions of loss. After the war, she has woken up to nightmares and soothed her worries with Firewhiskey. After the war, she has been lost.
But, she realizes now, watching her friends cut Daphne’s birthday cake as they sing to her, that after the war she has also found new friendships, created with the broken pieces she, and they, had so often thought could never be mended. After the war, she has found a passion project to work on, something that will provide future Hogwarts students with the books she so loved as a girl. After the war, she has covered up the scars of old memories with new ink that symbolizes the good that she so often forgets to remember. After the war, she has become a new — albeit strange — version of herself that she is excited to continue to discover.
And somehow after the war, by miraculous means, she has been found again.
Chipped, scratched, imperfect, and a little bit broken.
But found.
Notes:
New chapters once a week from this point forward!
Chapter 17: Chapter 17
Notes:
Would like to say thank you for all of the kudos, reads, and especially the kind comments some of you have left. It always makes me smile to read what you have to say, so thank you, thank you, thank you!
TW: * emetophobia warning*
Chapter Text
The last time Hermione had woken up with a cold was in the winter of sixth year — nearly four years ago. And yet, the painful thickness in her throat and the pounding of her head is so familiar it feels like it had been yesterday.
It’s Sunday morning, and after she had arrived back to her flat last night, warm and happy and slightly disappointed that she hadn’t had the chance to talk more with Draco (Pansy had whisked him off just as the party was ending, asking him to escort her to a dreaded dinner party hosted by Tracey Davis and Terrence Higgs) she hadn’t felt any signs that she might be getting sick.
But now, still tangled in her bedsheets with a sticky sheen of sweat covering her body, a sore throat, raging headache, and uneasy stomach, she knows without a doubt that she has caught something.
Crookshanks seems to have noticed her discomfort as well, meowing loudly at her as she sits up in bed with a groan, her head heavy and spinning and her stomach lurching slightly with unease.
She feels groggy and heavy-lidded, as if there is an invisible fog pushing down on her head and shoulders. Crookshanks lets out another strident meow, and Hermione pulls him into her chest, scratching behind his ears and stroking the expanse of his thick orange fur in reassurance.
“Shhh, Crooks. Let’s make some tea, shall we?”
This seems to quiet him down, and she pads into the kitchen with the purring kneazle still bundled in her arms, setting him down gently beside his water dish and putting the kettle on. Her limbs feel like led, and her head pounds with a rhythmic throb as she pours the boiled water over a bag of her favourite tea, watching the steam rise from the mug in lazy swirls as the smell of peppermint and vanilla fills her nose.
She sits on one of the stools at the small breakfast bar and takes meagre sips of the hot beverage, forcing herself to drink even though her stomach seems to be warning her in advance of its refusal for nourishment.
As she slowly nurses the tea, taking it sip by sip and forgoing breakfast, which she is sure she would not be able to get down, she spots the leather-bound journal that Harry and Ginny had given her for her birthday. It had been left there, untouched, pages empty from Hermione’s neglect.
She swallows a warm sip of tea thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on the journal as she thinks about how long ago her birthday seems — how different she feels now and how much has changed. The days were quickly approaching December, and soon, when the long winter ceased and flowers bloomed, the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts would be upon them again.
It’s so far away and so close — and yet she remembers every second of the war. Every minute she spent Horcrux hunting, reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard and casting wards on their campsite. She remembers every ticking second of the battle itself, every Death Eater she had fought, the Horcruxes she had destroyed. She thinks she will remember it all forever.
Minerva’s words from weeks ago suddenly ring through her ears, rippling from the inside out, as if she is hearing it in real-time:
‘I can see you — running a bookshop... Maybe writing your own book someday.’
Why had she never thought of it before? She had been there through everything — through the rise of Voldemort, from his first appearance through Professor Quirrell to the moments of his death. She had seen the war with her own eyes, from its early days to its darkest days. She had fought; had been a part of The Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army; had seen and heard things that others had only read about in The Daily Prophet.
No one had written a book about the Second Wizarding War yet. And Hermione had experienced it all. She was best friends with Harry Potter, for Merlin’s sake. If anyone could write anything even close to as good as A History of Magic, it would be Hermione.
It is with a shaky hand that she reaches out to grab the journal, summoning a quill and an inkpot from her room with her wand.
So many blank pages. It’s almost daunting; and yet, it’s all there, in her head. Pages and pages of it, stories and facts and images of things she had seen, all waiting to be written.
She starts writing — despite the worsening feeling in her head and stomach and the cold sheen of sweat collecting in droplets on her forehead. She forces another mug of tea down her throat, making a methodical list on a separate piece of parchment of secondary sources she’ll need, pictures she’ll want to use, and documents she’ll add to the appendix at the end.
She writes for most of the morning and afternoon, starting from the very beginning, fact-checking and looking through her bookshelves at books on the First Wizarding War, aligning facts and thoughts and connecting webs of information she’d known but never described in detail. She ignores the fact that every part of her body is telling her to rest — warning her of an impending sickness with aches and waves and pricks in her head, stomach and limbs. She stubbornly pushes on, writing as fast as her hand can manage, smudging wet ink across pages with the heel of her palm.
It is Ginny who finds her late into the afternoon, on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table with books and thick tomes spread open around her, her journal filled nearly halfway with scribbles, and ink stains on her hands and jumper.
“Merlin, Hermione, you look awful!” Ginny says chastely, walking hastily over to her with her brows pulled together in concern. “You’re almost paler than Moaning Myrtle.”
Hermione only groans an incoherent response as Ginny kneels down beside her, leaning back on her haunches as she rests her hand on Hermione’s sticky forehead to feel her temperature. Hermione can tell that it is burning hot based on how cold Ginny’s hand feels on her skin. She sighs in relief, disappointed when Ginny pulls her hand away. Ginny’s delicate features fall into a disconcerted frown, her brown eyes assessing Hermione with all the thoroughness of a Healer.
“You’re burning up. How long have you been like this?” Ginny stands, ready to take action.
Hermione closes her eyes, leaning her throbbing head back onto the cushion of the sofa and listening to Ginny’s footfall grow further away and into the kitchen. She hears Ginny fill a glass with water and dampen a washcloth, and then her footsteps once more as she returns to Hermione’s side.
“Since this morning,” Hermione admits, her voice barely a croak. She swallows a gulp of the water Ginny has brought her and allows the red-haired witch to place the cool washcloth on her forehead.
“And you decided that it was as good a time as any to begin life as a novelist?”
Hermione lets out a halfhearted snicker, watching as Ginny begins to clean up Hermione’s mess, flicking her wand to banish dirty tissues and wipe up spilled ink. She’s careful to leave Hermione’s pages open to where she has left them, moving them carefully off to the side with the journal and helping Hermione up onto the sofa.
“The best books are always written during times of suffering… ask Ernest Hemingway.”
Ginny scrunches up her face in confusion. “Who?”
“Muggle writer. He — never mind,” she dismisses the explanation when she sees Ginny’s eyes begin to glaze over with disinterest. Ginny nods once, helping Hermione to lay horizontally on the sofa cushions, pushing a pillow under her head.
“I think you might have the flu,” Ginny says, wandering over to Hermione’s bedroom and rifling through her drawers. Hermione feels a strong wave of nausea overcome her, and she takes deep, slow breaths to try to stifle the feeling.
“Hermione Jean Granger: Fought an entire wizarding war, but was ultimately taken out by a muggle sickness. Promise you’ll include that in my biography?”
Ginny snorts, removing Hermione’s socks to replace them with new ones.
“You’re not going to die.”
“It feels like it.”
“You should rest.”
Hermione allows Ginny to pull a light blanket over her and run a basic diagnostic over her with her wand. No indications of any wizarding sicknesses are present, just small recognitions from the diagnostic that Hermione did, in fact, have a headache, nausea, sore throat, body aches and alternating chills and sweats: muggle influenza at its finest.
“How did I even catch the flu?” Hermione moans, feeling her stomach lurch threateningly once more. Ginny shrugs, perched on the couch near Hermione’s hip as she reads through one of Hermione’s muggle books on modern medicine.
“Kiss any muggles lately?” Ginny jokes, flipping the page nonchalantly.
Hermione freezes.
Muggles, no.
Draco Malfoy? Yes.
It hadn’t even occurred to her that she and Draco had swapped spit not forty-eight hours ago. Had she gotten him sick? Had he given her something? A swell of panic rises through her — she should check on him.
“Gin?”
“Yeah?”
Hermione shifts to a sitting position, motioning to the spare parchment and ink across the room.
“I should let Malfoy know I won’t be at the shop tomorrow. He’ll need instructions on what to do.”
Ginny nods, and Hermione can sense her discomfort at how casually Hermione is speaking about Draco Malfoy. Nevertheless, the redhead stands and brings Hermione everything she needs, watching with a skeptical eye from the chair opposite Hermione’s sofa as she begins to scribble a hasty letter to Draco.
Malfoy,
It seems I’ve somehow caught some sort of muggle influenza virus — it’s safe to say, I will not be well enough to come into the shop tomorrow.
Are you feeling alright? You know… because we work in such close proximity and all. And, well, everything else.
Can you let me know?
-Hermione
She blows on the ink lightly to dry it, finding that expelling that much air only makes her dizzy and more nauseous. She rolls the half-dried letter into a tight scroll and passes it over to Ginny, who promises to fetch an owl if Hermione will lay back down and try to sleep. Hermione nods, sliding back down the sofa and pulling the blanket over her tightly, feeling the beginnings of a cold spell rush over her body, summoning goosebumps over her arms and legs.
She lays half-awake, half-sleeping, tossing and turning in discomfort as Ginny wanders around the flat, eventually sending the letter off with an owl and making a pot of what Hermione thinks must be soup, based on the rich, salty smells coming from the small kitchen.
She fades in and out of consciousness for hours, her fatigue lulling her asleep while her headache tries desperately to keep her awake. Every once and while her stomach lurches, threatening to expel her three cups of tea, or she wakes in a sweat, having to throw the blankets off of her as they threaten suffocation.
She thinks at one point Ginny tells her that she will be right back — something about going into Muggle London to grab some medication and supplies. Hermione nods, falling right back asleep.
The next time she wakes it’s to rush to the toilet, vomiting up mostly liquid and bile since she hasn’t eaten since last night. Ginny strokes her hair while Hermione sits hunched over the toilet, grasping at the cold porcelain of the tiled floor and silently thanking Merlin for how cool it felt on her skin as she retched, almost wishing she were dead.
“We need to get you hydrated again,” Ginny coos as she rubs Hermione’s back. Hermione only moans in response, suddenly freezing again. “Something to eat too. Think you can keep some soup down?”
“What time is it?” Hermione gargles, flushing the toilet and suddenly feeling horrified that Ginny had to watch all of that. She leans back listlessly against the tub, more cold porcelain that invokes further shivers and goosebumps. Ginny grabs Hermione’s crumpled blanket from the floor just outside the door, laying it over her shoulders and tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Nearly three.”
“A.M?”
Ginny nods. Hermione wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before standing on trembling legs, Ginny clutching her elbow cautiously. When she’s fully erect she shuffles wearily over to the sink, clutching the knobs and turning one on before washing her hands and splashing her face to remove the layers of dried sweat.
She is shocked at the sight of herself in the mirror — her hair is practically made of knots, and is sticky and greasy from sweat. The skin around her eyes is sunken and greyish purple, while the rest is ghost-like, ashen and colourless.
“I look terrible,” she breathes, flicking the tap off and drying her face on a towel as Ginny snickers lightly.
“Let’s not worry about that now, yeah?” Ginny says, coaxing her from the bathroom and into her bedroom. There are fresh sheets on her bed, which Ginny must have changed at some point during the night, and an unopened bottle of muggle pain killers on her bedside table.
“We should get you into some fresh clothes, Hermione,” Ginny says before Hermione can crawl feverishly under the covers. Hermione only nods, watching her friend rifle through her drawers and pull out a clean pair of pyjamas, bringing them to Hermione and throwing her old ones into the hamper for her.
Hermione’s head is spinning, her limbs are tired and she aches everywhere — she has no idea what she would have done without Ginny.
“Gin, it’s late,” she rasps, sliding under the fresh sheets as Ginny pulls them up around her. “You should go home, I’ll be alright now.”
Ginny shakes her head no, feeling Hermione’s forehead once more with her hand before passing her two small, red pills and a glass of water, urging her to swallow them.
“I should stay until you’re fully lucid. I wouldn’t want you choking on your own vomit.”
Hermione nods, muttering a ‘thank you’ that she hopes Ginny is able to hear before letting her head — still pounding with a headache that feels like a jackhammer to her skull — fall onto the feather-soft pillow beneath her.
“Shit, Ginny,” she says suddenly, her eyelids snapping open to look up at the girl perched at the edge of her bed, performing another diagnostic. “Did Draco reply to my letter?”
Ginny’s eyes narrow suspiciously as she lowers her wand, the light from the floating diagnostic vanishing so that darkness blankets the room once more.
“Did you just call Malfoy by his first name?”
Seeing how pale her skin had been in the mirror, Hermione doubts that her cheeks are flushed in their usual scarlet, but she can feel hot how they grow. Or maybe it’s just the fever — she can’t really tell.
“We-“ she gulps, pulling her eyes away from Ginny’s bewildered stare as she fingers the blanket at her chest. “We work together. It’s not that strange.”
Hermione wants to tell Ginny everything — really, she does. But right now, her exhaustion sweeps over her, dragging her back into sleep while she fights against it. Her stomach twists with another unpleasant wave of nausea, and now is definitely not the time to disclose the true nature of her relationship with Draco to her friend. She will, soon, but not now.
Ginny nods, seeming unconvinced, but letting it drop as she stands and leaves the room, returning with a small envelope, closed with a shimmering green wax seal with a curvaceous letter ‘M’’ stamped into it.
She rips it open carefully, pulling out the perfectly folded paper while Ginny watches with a disguised disinterest, pretending to tidy Hermione’s already immaculate room up some more.
Granger,
You probably caught your muggle sickness from that fwooper throw-up of a muggle birthday party you gave Daphne. Don’t blame me.
Not to throw it in your face, but I’m feeling just dandy at the moment. Let’s hope you haven’t spread your germs. Good thing we haven’t done any snogging or anything in the past few days, huh?
I’ll handle things at the shop tomorrow. I’ll do my best to remember which green we chose, as well — it was moss, right? Or was it sage? Might I even suggest a lovely, emerald Slytherin green?
And before you say anything: yes, I’ll do it the muggle way. And no, you don’t have to send a babysitter to make sure I do. Just trust me, Granger, and get better.
-D.L.M
She doesn’t realize that she is grinning —as best as she can in her state — until she looks up at Ginny, who holds her mouth tight in confusion and her brows furrowed in disbelief.
“He’s got everything handled,” Hermione nearly whispers, folding the letter back up and shoving it into the small drawer of her bedside table, away from Ginny’s prying eyes. “I should get some sleep now.”
Ginny nods, looking around the room once more to make sure everything is in order, before saying goodnight and closing the door behind her.
As soon as she hears Ginny settle onto the sofa in the living room and is sure she won’t be coming back in again, Hermione pulls Draco’s letter out of the drawer, fighting steadfastly against her fatigue, and reads his letter two more times before she is unable to keep her eyes open.
~~~
For two days, Hermione rests, alternating between restless sleep, vomiting, and not being able to sleep because of her head. Ginny stays nearly the whole time, making sure Hermione is fed and watered, encouraging her to try and keep the chicken noodle soup down, and comforting her when she would, inevitably, not be able to.
Hermione had never felt so dreadful in her life. The only relief from the symptoms was sleep, which only made waking up again worse. She didn’t even have the mind to send a spy to the shop like Malfoy had teased she would, (rightfully so; she is terribly worried that he has gone with the wrong green) as all she could focus on was how awful she felt. She obediently followed Ginny’s wishes, desperate for it all to be over. She’s starving for a real meal, but can’t even look at food without shuddering and she feels weak and laden with full-body exhaustion.
She can barely look at herself in the mirror — the reflection looks nothing like her, only a stranger with a hollow, sunken face under her tangled curls.
She finally feels up for a shower on the night of the second day — Tuesday — and she takes her time scrubbing her vanilla-scented shampoo into her hair, brushing through the knots and washing her body to rid herself of three days’ worth of dried sweat and the lingering scent of sick.
She is up late, remaining in her fluffy bathrobe as she battles body aches while her fever breaks. Sometime in the early hours of the morning she eventually falls asleep as Ginny rubs slow circles on her back. She makes a note, as she drifts off, to spoil Ginny with gifts in thanks for taking care of her.
She dreams for the first time since her nightmare — pleasant dreams, about her friends, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, and of the shop, finished and filled top to bottom with books ready to be sold to eager Hogwarts students.
When she wakes again it is daylight, though she hardly notices because it feels like she’s been run over by the Hogwarts Express: twice.
She feels different, but not entirely better: her headache is gone, but her body is weak and achy and she stills feels slightly nauseous. Her fever has definitely broken, though, thank Merlin, as her forehead finally feels as if it’s at a normal temperature. She stands, slowly, as a wave of dizziness sends her stumbling slightly before she catches herself, rubbing her eyes and padding out of her bedroom and into the washroom.
She relieves herself and then tries to brush her teeth, but the toothbrush only makes her gag, so she settles on a quick cleaning charm with her wand and washes her face with warm water. When she leaves the bathroom Ginny is waiting for her in the hall, rushing to her side to help her walk over to the sofa, where she plops her down and immediately sets a glass of water down in front of her.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like troll shite,” Hermione mumbles, pulling her knees into her chest and pulling the blanket beside her around her shoulders. “But a little bit better.”
“Can you have some toast? We should get something into your stomach.”
Hermione nods, taking small sips of the water as Ginny rushes into the kitchen to toast some bread.
“How long have I been out?” Hermione asks, noting how clean her flat is — she always kept it relatively tidy, but Ginny has used her spare minutes the past few days to bring it to a polished perfection, aside from the small area in the living room where her books and research remained open, how she’d left it.
“It’s Half Two in the afternoon.”
Ginny makes her way back over to the sofa with a plate of lightly buttered bread, setting it on the coffee table and plopping down on the sofa next to her. She worries that she might get Ginny sick, but when she’d expressed this to her, Ginny had only waved her off, saying that she hardly ever gets sick and not to worry.
“Hermione?”
“Hmm?” she replies as she takes a bite of the warm toast, chewing for longer than normal so it is gentler on her stomach.
“Malfoy stopped by here earlier.”
Hermione nearly chokes on the bite of toast she’s just swallowed, freezing and turning wide-eyed to face Ginny. Ginny wears a stoic expression, watching Hermione’s reaction carefully and remaining still as Hermione clears her throat, setting the plate back down onto the coffee table.
“He did?”
Ginny nods, pushing a mug of steaming tea towards her, motioning for her to drink. The tea is sweet with honey and slightly tart with lemon, and it feels wonderful on her throat and in her stomach. What was once a nauseous twisting of her insides is now cartwheels of hope and exhilaration.
“Yes. He came by on his lunch break, but you were fast asleep.”
“You should have woken me.”
The way she says it is desperate, regretful, a betrayal of her carefully tucked away feelings. Ginny notices the urgency in her tone, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa to sit crisscross facing Hermione, leaning her back against one of the armrests.
“You needed to rest. Also, inviting Malfoy into your home so casually felt completely… backwards. It felt like I was back at school, thinking that waking you up so you could talk to Draco Malfoy would only end in him insulting you and you two arguing until you were vomiting again. I’m not used to this whole… you two being friends, thing.”
Hermione nods.
“We probably would have fought. And he definitely would have insulted me.”
Ginny raises an eyebrow at this and Hermione shakes her head, raising the mug to her lips to take another sip.
“But it’s not the same as it was in school. It's… well, it’s a lot different.” She takes a deep breath, turning to her friend and preparing herself to finally share who Draco really is to her; what he really means to her. Ginny blinks at her expectantly, crossing her arms over her chest in wait as Hermione places the mug back down. “Ginny, Malfoy and I-”
“You have feelings for him, don’t you?”
Ginny steals the words right out of her mouth, leaving Hermione’s lips open and empty in shock, the words fizzling away on her tongue as they fill the air in Ginny’s nonplussed tone instead.
She can only swallow and nod; then, she waits for Ginny to be upset, or angry or concerned that she’s actually lost her mind.
But Ginny is none of these things — she sits quietly, observant and free of judgement as she awaits Hermione’s explanation. Her eyes reassure Hermione that nothing she is about to say will make Ginny love or respect her any less. And for this, Hermione is grateful.
“Yes,” she finally says, her voice wavering with nerves. “I- I feel something for him. And I don’t know how or why, I just know that I really like him.”
Ginny nods, sucking in a breath as she processes Hermione’s admission.
“And does he feel the same about you?” Ginny continues, searching her face with curiosity. Hermione shrugs, taking another bite of toast and chewing as she thinks.
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you guys… have you…” Ginny begins awkwardly, unable to hide the slight bewilderment in her eyes and shake of her voice.
“No,” Hermione cuts her off, thinking back to the way Pansy had just come right out and said it the other day. “We haven’t. We’ve done other things though.”
Hermione feels like a schoolgirl, gossiping and divulging secrets about her sex life to her friend as if she were sixteen. She and Ginny weren’t used to talking about this particular subject — one of the only other people Hermione had ever been with was none other than Ginny’s brother, and Ginny knew Hermione felt the same sisterly way about Harry. Their sex lives were not something shared between the two of them, and neither of them was particularly fond of babbling about such private matters anyway.
But Hermione knew that when it came to Draco Malfoy, things were different. The idea that he was a person different from his old self — no longer a bully, Death Eater or blood supremacist — was a concept unfamiliar to Ginny. It wasn’t surprising to Hermione that Ginny’s first thought was that Hermione was lusting after him, and had been seduced by handsome, pureblood manners that Malfoy had always had.
“We…” Hermione begins again, wracking her brain for a way to describe something to her friend that she herself doesn’t completely understand. “We just… understand each other. He’s… well, Ginny, he’s smart and funny and he doesn’t like to show it but he’d do anything for the people he loves. I don’t know what else to say. But I really, really like him, Gin. And I’m terrified.”
Ginny says nothing; just leans over and pulls her into a hug. It’s exactly what Hermione needs, and she drinks in the comfort, the acceptance, and the care her friend is giving her through the contact. For a moment, she even forgets that she is sick. When they finally pull away, Ginny goes to make herself a tea, tops Hermione’s off, sits on the sofa and says,
“Tell me everything.”
And so Hermione does. She starts at the night she had gotten her tattoo in Blaise’s shop, to when Draco had come to Hermione’s shop with Mr. Bimble, and onwards up until only days ago at Daphne’s birthday party.
Ginny has always been a great listener — she doesn’t speak much, just nods and reacts as Hermione reveals how much has changed for her in the past months.
She’s nearly ready to go back to sleep by the time she finishes; but she feels a million pounds lighter, having finally shared everything with someone, having admitted out loud that she has feelings for Draco and that she is not entirely sure what will come of it.
“Malfoy left something for you. It’s in the kitchen,” Ginny reveals, standing and stretching her limbs. “I have to head back to The Burrow for a few hours. I promised I’d help Mum with a few things. Will you be okay here on your own for a bit?”
Hermione lets Ginny help her stand up, and she nods frantically, practically pushing the girl towards the floo.
“Yes, Ginny, please, go. I’ll be fine. You’ve already done so much. I’ll owl you if I need anything.”
Ginny smiles at her and promises to return later on in the evening before disappearing in the green smoke of the hearth, leaving Hermione in her first bit of solitude in days.
She has to force herself not to run over to the kitchen — begs herself to remember that she is ill and that she can barely walk on her own. She allows herself a speed walk, which is really more like a slow version of her regular walk, but feels speedy with her aching limbs and leftover fever symptoms.
The kitchen, like the rest of her flat, is pristine, so it’s not hard to spot the small wrapped parcel and folded piece of parchment on her breakfast counter.
Shaking with excitement, her heart pounding a staccato beat in her chest, Hermione opens the letter first, the anticipation remedying her nausea and aches.
Granger,
Red wouldn’t let me wake you (she’s almost as bossy as you are – is this a Gryffindor trait I was unaware of?) so I asked if I could leave a note instead. She kept staring at me like I had three heads. You should really tell your friends to practice their manners.
I just stopped by to make sure you aren’t dead (Red says you aren’t, but I’ll never fully trust a Weasley) and to let you know that the shop is coming along just fine. Blaise had a free afternoon yesterday, so he came by to help me paint. This muggle painting thing? It sucks. Are you sure you’re not just pretending to be sick so you don’t have to help?
Theo, Blaise, Adrian, Pansy, and Daphne send their wishes and say to get better soon. Blaise tried to buy you flowers but I told him you were probably too busy vomiting to enjoy them.
Feel better soon Granger, yeah? It gets boring around here without anyone to argue with.
D.L.M
Hermione wants to dance with joy. She wants to run out of this flat and straight to Diagon Alley to see him.
Instead, she quells her elation and sets the note down reluctantly, picking up the small package which is wrapped in brown paper and tied nicely with a piece of green ribbon.
She pulls it open without a second thought and almost gasps aloud at its contents.
She had only mentioned it once — that this was her favourite muggle book — and that she’d asked for a first edition copy of it every year for her birthday. But her parents had never been able to find an authentic one. She knows now, without a doubt, that this is authentic and decidedly first edition.
The slightly faded gold-dusted lettering on the cover, which reads Pride and Prejudice, twinkles before her eyes. She can hardly believe what she’s seeing. Inside the book, there is one more note, written in Draco’s handwriting on a small, loose piece of parchment, tucked between the title page and the first page of Chapter 1.
For my friend Granger,
This is for you — I remember you saying it was your favourite. The line I’ve written below has always reminded me a little bit of you. And of me, I suppose. But you have always been the braver one.
Underneath is the quote from the novel that he has copied, in his perfect curly handwriting.
“There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”
From anyone else, those words ‘For my friend’ wouldn’t have garnered a second thought. But from Draco… Hermione can’t even allow herself to think about the possibilities of what this might mean. Her heart beats wildly and fiercely, and her lungs burn with the air she’s holding inside of them.
And despite the flu still tearing over her body, the aches, the chills, the whirling of her stomach and the fatigue embedded deep in her bones, Hermione can’t help but feel that this is one of those rare, perfect moments that makes her forget everything else.
In this moment, all she can feel is him.
And it is enough for her.
Chapter 18: Chapter 18
Chapter Text
“Gin, you’ve been a real lifesaver this entire week. I don’t think anyone has ever had to watch me vomit that many times before.”
Ginny laughs, swatting her hand in the air to motion that it isn’t a big deal. She leaves for tour again tomorrow, and Hermione has finally convinced her that she needs to spend her last day at home with her family.
“I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” Ginny shrugs, lifting her overnight bag onto her shoulder and stepping towards the fireplace. “For a second I actually was worried you might be taken out by muggle influenza. Would have made a terrible ending to your story.”
Hermione giggles, holding the bowl of floo powder as Ginny steps onto the hearth.
“Yes, I intend to go out much more dramatically, and, Merlin willing, when I’m much older and greyer. Seriously, though, Ginny. Thank you for taking care of me. I miss you so much when you’re gone.”
Ginny gives her a small smile, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.
“I miss you too, Hermione. But I am glad you’ve been doing better lately. I just hope that whatever this thing with Malfoy is-”
“I’ve got it handled,” Hermione assures her, a blush creeping up her cheeks. As much as Ginny has been so kind and understanding about everything Hermione has told her, she can tell that the girl is still feeling wary of the Slytherin’s presence in her life. She doesn’t necessarily blame her, either; Hermione knows as little about Draco’s intentions as Ginny, and she’s waiting for the nice version of Draco she’s been getting a glimpse of the past few days to turn back into the Draco that constantly berates her and tells her off. Should she even mention what happened between them? Bring up his thoughtful gift and the even more intimate note attached? Doing so has always been a recipe for disaster, but she is also aware that she can’t always let him call the shots.
At one point or another, this will have to come to an end — whether that ending will be a good or a bad thing, Hermione is completely unsure.
“Good luck with the rest of your season. I’ll see you at Christmas, yes?” Hermione asks as Ginny pulls her into a tight, lingering hug. Hermione doesn’t want to let go; has treasured Ginny’s presence the past few days despite the circumstances that have made it so.
“Of course. Keep me updated?”
Hermione doesn’t have to ask what Ginny means by this. Just nods and watches with slightly misty-eyes as a flash of green takes her friend away again.
Her flat already feels lonely and too quiet without her. Crookshanks curls around her ankles, purring and rubbing his face against her trousers. His tail coils itself around her calf as he weaves through her feet in a figure-eight motion — he has always done this when he senses Hermione’s stress.
It had already been exactly a week today since Hermione had first gotten sick. She had felt utterly powerless about the fact that she hadn’t been able to go to work all week, during which, Malfoy had finished painting the entire shop, with a day or two to spare. Hermione had told him to take the last few days off — she was unsure what else he could accomplish alone, and the control freak side of her was unable to give up the reigns on the next few steps until reopening. She had pictured him rolling his eyes when she had owled to tell him to hold off on the first major book orders — that she wanted to be there to oversee it. In his letter back to her, there had been a sentence something along the lines of ‘even in sickness you still can’t help but remain a giant swot.’
Hermione has never been more ready to get out of her flat; she had grown restless, stuck inside partly because of her sickness and partly because Ginny had put her on house arrest until she felt 100% better. Her correspondence with Draco and continuing to write her book about the war had been the only things keeping her from losing her mind out of boredom— that, and re-reading Pride and Prejudice using the beautiful first edition Malfoy had given her. She had made sure not to make a big deal of it, or of his declaration of their friendship, when she had sent him a thank you note.
There was the small fact that they still hadn’t discussed what had happened that night in the shop — and it was impossible to forget. It had been over a week, and still, Hermione felt herself closing her eyes and thinking back to how wonderful he had felt; how all-consuming the experience had been. She thinks about how the shop will always have that memory now, about how every time she looks at that spot all she will be able to think about is him.
She will need to talk to him about it sooner or later, but it’s like she can almost hear the ticking of a potential explosion in her ear; the sizzle of the burning wick as it fast approaches a waiting bomb.
In the meantime, Ginny has persuaded her to see a mind healer about her nightmares. Hermione had agreed to start next week — a huge step for her, but also something she should have done a long time ago.
With a drawn-out sigh reflective of the past week, Hermione scoops up Crookshanks, nuzzling her nose into his neck as his purring grows thunderous in her ear.
For the first time in a while, Hermione catches a glance at the tattoo on her forearm — thinks of all the things it has given her, the way her life might be completely different had she not wandered into Blaise’s shop on the night of her birthday. It is suddenly not only a symbol of her old life but of her new one too. If she looks closely enough, she can see the pinkish raised scars of the terrible word still under it, thinks about who she was when she had gotten it; and she realizes that it is not only her life that has changed. That she, in essence, has changed just as much.
Crookshanks grows tired of her famous ‘too-tight’ hugs and wrestles himself from her arms, landing gracefully on the floor and scampering towards the window to nap in the sunlight. At the same moment, Hermione’s doorbell goes off, making her practically jump out of her skin and sending her heart into her throat. No one had ever used the doorbell before, not since she had moved in here. Her friends always used the floo, and no other visitors had ever come knocking.
She approaches the door slowly, cautiously, running a hand through her hair and scowling down at the pair of pyjama pants she’s been wearing for the past three days straight.
“Granger, hurry up and let me in! This hallway is giving me the creeps and your bonkers neighbour won’t stop staring at me!”
“Pansy?” Hermione says, recognizing the voice immediately. Dismissing her caution, Hermione swings the front door open to find Pansy Parkinson in her winter robes, her hair dusted lightly with snow as she glares with practiced intimidation at Mrs. Weeble, who has been staring Hermione down with the same disapproving scowl since she moved in.
“Oh thank Merlin,” Pansy breathes, not waiting for Hermione to invite her in, and instead shouldering past her into the flat and promptly giving Mrs. Weeble the finger. Hermione’s mouth drops in shock and Mrs. Weeble narrows her eyes as she mumbles something about “disrespectful witches” before retreating back into her room down the hall.
“Pansy, what are you doing here, I-” Hermione begins as she closes the door behind her. Pansy cuts her off, shucking her winter robes onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar.
“Granger, you’re not still contagious, are you? Because I really don’t want to catch whatever muggle sickness has managed to make your hair look even more atrocious than usual.” Pansy scrunches up her face in disgust, eyeing Hermione’s hair before flicking down to her three-day-old pyjamas and the gigantic pair of fluffy socks on her feet.
“No, I’m not contagious. I’m actually feeling 100% better-”
“Thank Merlin. Hermione, have you ever tried a deep conditioner?” Pansy frowns, assessing Hermione’s hair again with a genuine hint of wonder and disappointment.
“I haven’t exactly been feeling well enough to do my hair the past few days, Pans,” Hermione scoffs, pulling her hand up to feel her curls self-consciously.
“Well, I hope you’re feeling up to it now, ‘cause your favourite Slytherins are taking you out.” Pansy looks around Hermione’s flat, eyeing Crookshanks who is sleeping by the window and arching an eyebrow at the mass of orange fur. “As much as it pains me to admit it, we’re all sort of glad you didn’t die choking on your own vomit or something.”
Hermione, bewildered both by Pansy inviting her out and being glad that Hermione was alive, drops her mouth as she tries to form words.
“Well don’t look so surprised, Granger,” Pansy grins, eyes teasing with their natural sultry smokiness. “I’ll be honest, if I ever had to take a guess at which unlucky witch or wizard would become an honorary member of Slytherin, you would not have been my first choice. But —Merlin forbid, I might regret this later —somehow, I’ve warmed up to you, and that bushy head of hair.”
Pansy swallows, giving Hermione a smug smile as she crosses her arms over her chest.
“On second thought,” Hermione laughs lightly, shaking her head in amusement at Pansy’s admission, “I think I might still have a fever, because Pansy Parkinson just admitted that she likes being friends with me.”
“Don’t get too sentimental, Granger,” Pansy warns.
“I’ll try my best,” Hermione giggles.
Pansy sticks her hands on her thin waist and cranes her neck to look down the short hallway where Hermione’s bedroom and bathroom are.
“Well? Are you up for some Sunday evening festivities? It’s certainly not a Sunday roast, but there’s a new Chinese food place open on The Strip that Theo and Blaise claim has the best dumplings ever.”
“How much time do I have?” Hermione frowns, feeling her unruly head of curls once again and staring down at her socks. Pansy arches a perfect brow and lets out a dry laugh.
“Plenty. I would never be seen out with you looking like that.”
Hermione laughs as Pansy turns towards the hallway, sauntering confidently towards her bedroom as if she’s been here a hundred times before. Over her shoulder she motions for Hermione to follow.
“Come on. Let’s see what we can do about this hair.”
~~~
Pansy, as it turns out, has a talent for simple muggle beauty tips just as much as she does for glamour spells. She teaches Hermione how to use a curl serum that she’s had tucked away in her bathroom for years but has never used, and covers Hermione’s darkened under eyes with a light layer of concealer from her own bag.
By the time she’s finished, Hermione looks as if the past week has never happened — her best self with an added natural glow.
She changes from her pyjamas to her favourite pair of denims and a cashmere jumper Pansy has chosen because it ‘complements her hair.’ She takes the compliment in stride, choosing a pair of small gold earrings that were once her mother’s to complete her outfit. Pansy gives her an approving smirk as they both assess her in the mirror.
“You look hot, Granger,” Pansy declares, clearly impressed with her own work. It’s the prettiest Hermione has felt in a while despite it being a natural and subtle look that, before the war, Hermione would have dismissed as something that felt just like her regular self.
“I didn’t really get it at first,” Pansy continues, turning away from the mirror to face Hermione straight on.
“Get what?”
“Draco’s interest in you,” Pansy deadpans, her eyes narrowed in thought.
Hermione’s stomach twists.
“-But I get it now. Not just because your hair looks decent for once. You’re-“ she swallows, her eyes falling down to her feet nervously. “You’re a good person, Hermione.”
Hermione is rendered slightly speechless; just stares at the girl in front of her trying to collect, to amalgamate the moments that have led them here. The moments that have turned Pansy Parkinson from foe to friend. It’s the same sort of wonderment she gets when she thinks about Draco, or any of the Slytherins — a breathless miracle of a thing that turns her brain to mush whenever she tries to untangle it all.
“You’re a good person too, Pansy,” she croaks, her voice wavering with emotion. “You don’t – well, uhm, you don’t still have feelings for Malfoy, do you?”
Pansy practically snorts. “Oh Salazar, no.”
Hermione feels a giant wave of relief sweep over her. Pansy leads the two of them out of the bedroom, back over to her winter robes.
“He and I never really… meshed well. Our relationship was formed on the basis that we were supposed to be together, not that we wanted to. We thought we’d have to marry someday. Merlin knows how glad I am our parents got locked up so that didn’t have to happen. Annoying prat he is.”
Hermione can’t help but let her lips rise in a grin.
“Annoying prat is right.”
Pansy’s face falls from its lighthearted smile, turning to Hermione with a sudden seriousness that makes Hermione falter.
“Do you really like him, Hermione? This isn’t just an experiment for you? A ‘good girl’ tries ‘bad boy’ because she’s bored with her life kind of situation?”
There is a genuine concern laced through Pansy’s features and in her chocolate-coloured eyes. Hermione thinks she has never seen her face so soft; so vulnerable with worry for her friend. Pansy may never have loved Malfoy in that way, but there was certainly a kind of love present on her face now. It forces Hermione to consider her answer carefully.
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
She shocks herself by saying it — even if it feels unquestionably true falling off of her lips. Pansy seems as surprised as she is, but more than satisfied with her answer.
She shrugs on her robes, giving Hermione a small nod; a wordless acceptance of Hermione’s answer as if it were some reassuring promise. And maybe it was — a declaration of devotion that no matter how Draco felt, or what might happen between them, that Hermione’s heart was in the right place. That Draco was something special to her.
“Ready?” Pansy asks as Hermione pulls on her own jacket and tugs a scarf taut around her neck.
“When you are,” she nods. They disapparate together to Diagon Alley, at the junction where the regular alley meets The Strip. The sun has already begun to set, the short hours of winter days being pulled down in a swirl of pink and orange sky.
Hermione takes a deep breath in, relishing the fresh air and the feeling of finally being outside of her flat again. The shop windows illuminate the cobblestone with warm light from inside, their yellow glow growing dimmer as the two witches make their way down The Strip towards Hermione’s shop and the restaurant where they are meeting the rest of their friends.
Hermione has almost forgotten how shrill the December air can get; how much it reminds her of days spent warming her hands by a fire outside of a tent, of spotting Ron and Harry returning, blue in the face and shivering after finding the sword of Gryffindor. This is the type of cold that seeps into her bones and chills her body. Funny, how it used to remind her of Christmas; of building snowmen with her parents and strolls through Hogsmeade as she searched for gifts for loved ones.
These contrasting memories and feelings find themselves strangely coagulating inside of her — like oil and vinegar poured into the same jar, bubbling into each other, pockets of dark within the light; but never fully mixing. Like two oceans meeting — an invisible threshold, an unidentifiable border.
When they reach Hermione’s shop, she tells Pansy to go on ahead without her, that she will meet them at the restaurant shortly. Hermione has yet to see the shop since it has been painted, and has been dying to see Draco’s paint job, a sign of how close they are coming to opening. Pansy nods, pointing in the direction of the restaurant before leaving Hermione at the door of Flourish & Blotts.
With a shaky breath, Hermione unlocks the door with her wand, turning the freezing metal and stepping into the dark shop. The last light of sunset casts a pinkish glow on the walls, distorting the paint colour and highlighting the shop's emptiness. She lights the sconces with a quick spell and the shop goes from unsaturated dusk to alive with the beautiful shade of green she and Malfoy had picked out.
It looks wonderful — closer and closer to the shop she remembers, but with added colour and charm. She can hardly believe how far they have come, that this place is still hers. She can already picture the shelves packed with books, small witches and wizards rising on their toes to grab a copy of The Standard Book of Spells. The only furniture is still the wingbacked chair that she had salvaged that first day. It sits, promising in its comfort and pleasant coziness, in the middle of the shop.
The doorbells jangle, and she knows it’s him before he says a word.
“Well, boss? Is my work satisfactory? Or will Mr. Bimble have to have a word with me about my questionable skills at mundane muggle tasks?”
His voice is light and teasing, his usual sarcasm mixed with a temperate affection that makes her knees feel weak and her heart shudder with anticipation.
She turns to face him, feeling the familiar tingle that comes with being under his gaze. His cheeks and nose are flushed pink from the cold, his hands in the pockets of his pea coat. His mouth is slightly upturned in a smirk, his eyes as close to blue as they are grey in the winter light.
“You know,” she begins, watching as he makes his way towards her, the willowy angles of his body striding slowly, gracefully over to her, “-I wish I had something clever to say, but honestly, it looks amazing. Thank you, Malfoy.”
“Just doing my job,” he smirks, reaching her and surrounding her with the smell of cold air and him. She can’t find her next words; only smiles up at him as his eyes look hungrily over her.
It had been a week since they’d seen each other, and they were both desperate to remind themselves of what the other looked like — of the small details that blur in your mind’s eye when you picture someone.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, the cadence of his voice wavering in his attempt at polite niceties — like a toddler taking its first steps, or a child poking its toe in the water to test it; tentative, hesitant.
“Better. Much better.”
Draco nods, his eyes flickering over the tamed curls that Pansy has carefully constructed. There was a time when she would have felt scrutinized by his gaze — where such a steady and intent look would have convinced her that he was noting all of her flaws, comparing the ways she was so unlike any of the other pureblood witches she had always thought were his type.
But now, she feels none of that. Instead, she feels coveted, desired, and not just in matters of things surface level.
As if to confirm her thoughts, Draco takes a step forward to close the empty space between them. Her nerve endings come alive as he reaches out and cups her cheek, sliding his hand over her jaw and into her hair affectionately. She releases a sharp sigh as his touch relaxes her body fully; her shoulders dropping and her eyelashes fluttering as his touch melts her.
His eyes are soft and curious, and oh how she has missed seeing them these past few days. She can hear his metrical breathing as his thumb moves under her ear in soft, comforting strokes.
“Malfoy, I… what happened the other night-”
“Granger, wait,” he interjects, and it isn’t until she sees how his face hardens and the corners of his mouth tilt downwards that she remembers that this is the Malfoy she knows; not this softened, romantic version that held her face in a way that convinced her he might feel the same way as she does.
She can see that he is trying for her — he really is — but she’s starting to realize that he may be even more stubborn than she is. That he is fighting against everything he has been taught his whole life to hate, in order to take a chance at something he might actually not hate at all.
She can see him try to soften his face, fighting against his nature as his thumb freezes its movement on her neck. His eyes flicker with something she can’t place — fear, maybe. He takes a deep breath before continuing, his hand still tangled in her curls, his warmth still on her scalp.
“I don’t want to talk about this just yet. I don’t want to ruin it… whatever this is. Good things always-” his voice falters as his eyes fall closed, and Hermione reaches out to slide her own hand onto his face and into his hair as he breathes deeply. His eyes fall open again as he finishes. “The things I want always end up in ruins.”
The things I want.
She inhales her own shaky breath.
“Ruins can always be rebuilt,” she says, stepping closer to him to close any remaining space between their bodies as her hand slides at the nape of his neck, her fingers settling into his blond hair.
“Not always, Granger.”
She searches his eyes for a moment; watches him fight with the misty dissociation of occlusion, silently begs him to stay here with her, not to fight whatever it is he is feeling.
“Malfoy, I need some kind of-” she begins, but not without him stepping back, his hand falling from her hair as his face settles into frustrated desperation.
“I can’t give you that,” he retorts, raising his voice slightly, more disappointed than angry.
Something inside of her breaks — falls and shatters like glass, nudging its sharp pieces into her insides. Because this is exactly what she knew might happen. And why she can’t let this drag on any further if it wasn’t something he wanted. It takes all of her strength to say her next words; she hinges them on the assurance of his bluff.
“Then maybe it’s best we just pretend all of this never happened.”
His face falls — a mixture of sadness, anger, and, to Hermione’s chagrin, relief. Relief. Was this her letting him off of the hook? Giving him the chance to walk away now before this becomes something too real to her? To both of them?
But the relief is instantly replaced with desperation — the same desperation she’d seen that night in the shop, and the morning he came to her with Mr. Bimble.
Malfoy is not one, but two fighters in the same ring — battling with himself, trying to combat bruises while simultaneously doling them out. He has been beating himself up about this, she can tell. About her blood status; maybe, about the fact that they were completely and utterly wrong for each other; even more likely.
She wishes she could ring the bell, tell him that the fight was over, that it doesn’t matter how many rounds you might win or lose when you are fighting with yourself.
He steps back and collapses in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning over to bury his face in his hands.
“Fuck,” she hears him mutter, the sound distorted and muffled by his palms. She steps towards him, watches the muscles in his shoulders ripple as he breaths in and out, pulling his face away from his fingers and looking up at her as she reaches him.
“What if I don’t want to pretend it never happened?” he almost whispers, his voice low and gravelly.
“You can’t have it both ways, Malfoy.”
He runs his palm over his face, his rough skin scraping lightly against the invisible stubble on his jaw as he clenches it and the muscle leaps.
She takes another step forward, her knees brushing softly against his. With a light pressure, she pushes his legs open with her own, slipping between them and placing her hands on his muscled shoulders. She stands between his legs, his thighs braced on either side of her knees as he lifts his chin up to her, his eyes as bright as the moon and filled with bewilderment as Hermione skates her hands from his shoulders up onto his neck, brushing her thumbs against his skin as he had done to her. She can feel his racing pulse beating through the vein on his neck, the heat of him pulling into her palms and veins, her whole body coming alive.
He blinks at her, shuddering under her touch as he lifts his hands to her forearms, grabbing them lightly as she maintains her hold on his neck. He swallows, his Adam’s apple dipping under her thumbs, and she can see something break in his eyes — one of the walls he has built so carefully coming down, into ruins.
Were ruins such a bad thing? Look where her own ruins had brought her.
He takes a shaky breath in, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.
“I’m fucked up, Granger.”
And it is this very admission that makes Hermione understand that Draco is giving himself to her; maybe not in the way she wants, but he is showing her the parts of himself that he keeps tucked away, the parts that caused him to fail at killing Dumbledore, made him falter at the fate his father had assigned him. This was the softness that he had struggled to fight his whole life, which he had always been told was weakness, faulty. This was the part of him he was so scared for the world to see.
She lets out a dry, crackling laugh as she slides her hands up to hold his face, his own grip on her arms unfaltering as her small palms cover his reddened cheeks.
“So am I, Draco.”
She can see his pulse hammer faster on the vein in his neck at his given name, the one she had only used in front of him once before when he had claimed her neck with bruising kisses a week ago — dark purple spots that she was still covering up with glamour spells.
His lips part as his eyes dash over her features, down to her lips and back up to her eyes, his hands leaving her arms and falling onto her hips, palms flat against her jeans as he pulls her closer.
When she leans down to kiss him, it’s not because he has given her a perfect answer. It’s not because he has promised her anything — because he hasn’t. It’s because she needs him to know how thankful she is for the small piece of himself he has given her. Whatever this was —whatever they were— was not something they could put a title to, nothing near the assurance she wants. But she knows that his heart is in it, somehow.
And that is enough for her, for now.
Her lips graze his lightly for a moment before he cranes his neck upwards to press his lips to hers more firmly. He tastes like he always does, running his tongue along her bottom lip until she opens her mouth to him, letting him slip in as she sighs onto his lips.
She loops her hands around his neck as they kiss slowly, assuredly, a promise in itself, the most Draco can give her. Her body tingles, her core warming as his thighs tighten on her legs.
A soft moan escapes his lips as she pulls away, peppering small kisses on his jaw and down his neck. Then, a small growl when she sucks at the pulsing vein, before he impatiently pulls her back up to his lips, their kiss intensifying as her body explodes with desire. Minutes pass, though they could be hours, before Hermione pulls away, breathless and panting as Draco presses feather-light kisses to her clavicle, his hand pressing her into him at the small of her back.
“We should go meet the others,” she breathes as he looks up at her, nodding reluctantly before releasing her.
Stepping away from his touch makes her ache, and is only remedied by the lingering scent of his cologne that he has transferred from his skin to her hair.
He stands, running a hand through the hair Hermione has mussed with her fingers and noxing the sconces before they leave the shop. They lock the door behind them before embarking down The Strip towards the small restaurant just doors away from Blaise’s shop.
They are greeted with a chorus of welcomes from the rest of the Slytherins as they approach the table, aware of their swollen lips and wild eyes. Hermione sees Pansy eye her hair and scowl at the now ruined curls she had so carefully styled. She gives Pansy a guilty grin as Pansy rolls her eyes. Draco slides into the booth beside Blaise, as Hermione sits on the opposite side facing him, beside Adrian. Theo gives Hermione his usual knowing look, raising his eyebrows suggestively as he takes a sip from his glass of water.
“About time the two you showed up,” Adrian teases, signalling for the waiter, who comes over to collect their order — Blaise orders for the whole table, assuring them he knows what is good and sending the waiter away with a kind ‘thank you.’
“Merlin forbid someone keeps you from eating, Pucey,” Draco scowls, his voice no longer low and vulnerable as it had been minutes ago. Adrian rolls his eyes and leans forward on the table, shooting a rolled-up ball of paper from his pack of chopsticks at Draco’s face. Hermione watches his mouth turn downwards into a frown as he starts to stand, a string of curse words falling from his mouth as Blaise pulls him back down by the elbow.
“Enough, children,” Blaise warns, leaning forward on his elbows as he raises an eyebrow at Adrian.
Adrian chuckles lightly as Draco shoots him a glare, Daphne admonishing her boyfriend quietly as Draco crosses his arms over his chest. Theo reaches around Blaise’s shoulders to clap Draco on the shoulder playfully, which makes one corner of his mouth rise into a small grin.
The waiter brings a cart over with their food — woven baskets of steaming dumplings and bowls of rice and noodles, enough for ten people rather than seven of them. They thank the witch as she floats the food onto their table, pushing the cart back into the kitchen as they load their plates.
“Now that we are all happy and fed, can we get to the real reason we’re here?” Theo asks, picking a dumpling up with his chopsticks and popping the entire thing into his mouth. Hermione raises her eyebrows curiously at him. She hadn’t known that tonight’s dinner had an ulterior motive other than celebrating her returning health, and her curiosity is piqued.
“I was going to wait until dessert, Theodore, but I suppose there’s no reason to wait now,” Pansy frowns, pushing a piece of chicken through her noodles with her chopsticks.
“Sorry, what’s going on?” Hermione asks, her gaze flickering to Draco who gives her no sign that he knows what they are talking about, remaining stone-faced albeit a small glimmer in his eyes. He only raises a stoic brow at her, looking over to Pansy as she sets her chopsticks down and shimmies in her seat to lean into the table.
Pansy’s eyes fall on Hermione’s, and her stomach twists with worry and anticipation. The sounds of eating and chopsticks against plates stop, and all eyes fall onto either Pansy or Hermione, awaiting the inevitable ‘reason they have come.’
“Well, Granger,” Pansy begins, her lips stretching into an excitable grin. “My parents have this vacation house in Mexico. I used to take this lot there one week every summer when Mummy and Daddy went on an annual trip to the Greek Islands, but now that they’re… well, locked up, it seems the entire place is now at my disposal.”
Hermione processes this, waiting patiently for Pansy’s next words.
“We’re all planning on going there for Christmas this year — a week or two at the Villa in Mexico for the holidays since… well, since this is the only family we’ve really got. And we want you to come with us. If you want. No pressure.”
Something inside of Hermione switches on — a feeling of belonging she always thought she would only get from being friends with Harry and Ron. Here was a group of people, people she had once considered enemies, inviting her on holiday with them over Christmas. They wanted her there.
She gazes around the table at each of the Slytherins, all of them watching her with anticipation. When she catches Draco’s eye he looks the slightest bit hopeful, though he is trying to hide it under his usual stoic façade. He looks down at his plate as she looks over at Blaise, who smiles and nods encouragingly at her.
“I… are you sure?” she asks, her voice shaking even though she is trying to steady it.
“We all want you there, Granger,” Theo says, turning to Blaise and grabbing his hand on top of the table. Everyone nods except Draco, who is back to watching her with a calculated stare, as if her answer will reveal the extent of her commitment to him; to the group. Like her, he is scared for someone else to leave his life, worried that she might not be ready for the job of caring for any more people. He is waiting for her to accept his family — to take the plunge into the uneven waters of his life.
“Please, Hermione? It would make Christmas so much better,” Daphne adds from beside Adrian. There is a tug of her heartstrings as well as a shock through her nervous system.
‘I’d love to,” she grins, earning a chorus of light cheers from the group.
“Thank god,” Theo grins, picking his chopsticks up again and turning to look at Draco, whose shoulders seem to relax at Hermione’s answer. “We need someone to babysit Malfoy for us.”
Draco narrows his eyes at Theo, looking across Blaise to his green-eyed friend with a playful sneer.
“You’re the one who got in trouble with the muggle police for streaking in that public fountain last summer. Fuck off, Theodore, and eat your dumplings.”
The table lets out a warm laugh as Draco’s eyes flicker back towards Hermione, before returning to his plate. She can’t help but notice his guarded contentment, the way his mouth twitches just slightly upwards into the ghost of a grin.
When she returns to her flat that night there is a letter waiting for her from Kingsley.
Hermione,
I thought I would share some important news with you in regards to Narcissa’s information and the rebel group in Wales.
Narcissa has been extremely helpful thus far in leading our Aurors closer and closer to the rebels. With each bit of information she gives, the Aurors have found something new to bring back to her, which in turn gets them closer to catching them. I trust you will keep this private, but the newest discovery gave us the location of their next safe house. They plan to move after Christmas, on the 29th of December. When they do, our Aurors will be ready and it is our hope they will be captured and brought to Azkaban, ending this once and for all. If all goes according to plan, Narcissa will then be released on probation as agreed.
This information must stay between you and I Hermione — it’s too risky for others to know. But I have hope that we are nearing the end of a long war. I still hope that if you haven’t already, you will find a way to rest after this is all over.
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Minister for Magic
P.S. Harry and Ron will be returning home this week with the rest of the Aurors to take a well-deserved break before the rebels are apprehended. I expect you might be hearing from them soon.
All this time, describing her new life as ‘after the war’, and Kingsley had reminded her that, actually, it had never ended.
And now everything seems to be coming to a peak; old beginnings turning to new endings, a slow approach to a new normal.
Before she goes to bed, she sees it all build in her head — thinks about how happy Draco will be when his mother is released, how the world will release a collective sigh when the rebels are captured, and how Hermione’s life will start again as soon as she opens the shop. It keeps building and building before her eyes, an overwhelming catharsis of what has, and is, to come.
It’s the last thing she thinks before she falls asleep.
Here it is; the crescendo.
Chapter 19: Chapter 19
Chapter Text
Hermione had known when she agreed to spend Christmas in Mexico that the Weasley’s would not take the news well.
She had spent the holidays— in one form or another —at The Burrow for years. Last year she had stayed a whole two weeks, spanning Christmas and New Years since it had been her first Christmas without her parents. It was hard on her, but the Weasleys had been so kind and supportive, making sure she felt loved and welcome; part of the family.
Even when her parents had remembered who she was, she would come to The Burrow for a day or two during the holidays to celebrate, to accept the sweater Molly would inevitably knit for her and drink mulled cider and hot cocoa by the fire.
The last thing she wants is to seem ungrateful; Harry and the Weasley’s have always been her second family, and she doesn’t want them to think she’s ditched them because she received a better offer.
The truth was, Draco needed her as much, maybe more, than they did. Maybe all of the Slytherins did.
If she could do something to make their holidays special, to add to their little family, this was it. And besides that, the Slytherins had become a sort of third family to her over the past months. She wanted to spend the holidays with them because they made her happy.
Molly and Arthur were sad, but understanding; even Harry and Ginny were, to some extent. It was Ron who took it the worst. He had yet to return from their post in Wales, but Harry had responded to the letter she had sent to him, while Ron had not.
She still hadn’t spoken to him since the incident at The Leaky Cauldron, though she wasn’t sure if it was because they were both busy or because he was still upset with her. Ron’s envious nature, and his own insecurities, had always been the most challenging part of loving him.
With only a little less than a week left until Hermione was to leave with the Slytherins to Pansy’s villa in Mexico, she was anxious to hear from him, to clear the air and explain that she wanted to do something for herself this Christmas; even if it meant letting others down.
“Hey, Granger?” Draco’s voice breaks her out of her cyclical thoughts.
He is shelving the newest book order while she does inventory, passing him the boxes she has counted and checked off in the system. At the rate they were going, the shop would likely be ready for opening shortly after the New Year.
“Hmm?” she hums, not turning to look at him as she finishes the count on her current box of Unfogging the Future , which makes her shiver at the reminder of Trelawney’s class and its potent smell of incense.
“I thought you did a double order of Fantastic Beasts, since there will be more students starting the course in the spring semester?” Draco frowns, pushing away an empty box and gazing up the shelves.
“I did. The second box is coming later so we can keep it in the back to restock. Don’t you trust my organizational skills?”
He grins, turning to face her as he leans back on his haunches, wiping his hands together as if they are dirty.
“Just doing my duty as your devoted employee, Granger,” he drawls sarcastically, popping up to a stand and picking up the empty box.
“You know, I’d give you a bonus,” she jokes, pushing the fully counted box of books towards the shelves and pulling over a new one. “But it seems it would just come back to me, anyway.”
It was true. Like clockwork, Draco had still been returning the money he received on payday, taking it from his vault and putting it straight back into her hands — or bag, or wherever he could slip it so that she would find it later and not make a fuss.
“Well, in that case, you better make it an extra big bonus.”
Hermione lets out a breathy laugh, opening the box of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and beginning to count.
She can hear Draco in the background, moving slowly as he folds an emptied cardboard box and shuffles behind the front counter, presumably to check where the freshly inventoried box of Unfogging the Future needs to be shelved.
“Granger?”
34, 35, 36…
“Malfoy, I’m a bit busy. You’re making me lose count. 37, 38, 39….”
More shuffling, the sound of his dragon leathers against the wooden floors, his presence behind her. She swallows as she continues to count in her head, forcing herself to focus, to not lose count.
41, 42, 43, 4-
“Granger.”
She is kneeling behind the box of books, hunched over slightly to count their spines when his knees suddenly brush her shoulders. She feels him tower over her as he stands behind her, and she desperately tries to remember which number comes after 43. Before she can say anything his fingers are in her hair, pulling her thick pile of curls over to one shoulder as he squats down behind her, his warm breath on her neck as his lips hover over the spot where the ghost of a love bite remains; she had forgotten to cover it this morning.
And now she has lost count.
“As your employer, I should tell you that this isn’t a very good use of company time,” she breathes as his lips finally press onto her skin, moving across the expanse of her neck in slow pecks. Her head falls back onto his shoulder and her eyes fall closed as he chuckles, the vibrations on her skin sending tingles down her back.
“Sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick and husky, “did you want me to stop?”
Absolutely not.
He kisses the side of her neck near her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin, and she lets out a soft moan. She’s trying to formulate a response, trying to convince herself that they should stop. She reaches a hand up behind her to hold his head, threads her fingers through his hair to keep him close.
Then his fingertips graze lightly over her side, up her abdomen and ribs, his nails brushing the fabric of her shirt before he slides his hand below her breast. She inhales a sharp breath as he cups her, continuing to plant warm kisses all over her neck and jaw.
“Well, Granger?”
His palm skates over her breast before squeezing gently, rubbing his thumb over the fabric as her nipple hardens under it.
“No,” she manages, breathless, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. “Keep going.”
In one swift, graceful motion he pulls his lips away from her jaw before pulling them both up to a stand, twisting Hermione around to face him as he walks them backwards into the counter.
Her back hits the wood on the edge of the counter and then his lips are on hers again, one hand on her waist and the other back in her hair. He parts her legs with his, placing his own between them so that he is able to press himself against her. She hears him groan against her lips, deep and guttural, and it sends her into a spiralled frenzy, that sound.
She clutches desperately at the fabric on his black t-shirt, feeling his lean muscles ripple through the thin material as he pushes his body into hers, sending warmth straight to her core and causing her heart to beat swiftly in her rib cage.
It is her who takes the initiative this time, pushing her tongue against his lips until he opens them for her, kissing her fervently, expertly.
She could easily kiss him for the rest of time, she thinks; even as her lips start to go numb, even as she runs out of breath, even as his fingertips leave bruises on the skin of her hips as he pulls her pelvis into his.
She can feel his growing length against her pelvis, the heat between them turning her to liquid, blood pumping and pulse hammering wildly. He pulls away to kiss her neck again, using his lips, his tongue, his teeth, lining her skin with more love bites as she whimpers, scraping her nails up his back.
“Fuck, Granger” he growls, dipping lower to press kisses on her chest just above her breasts, “-those sounds you make drive me crazy.”
He steps back slightly, hooking his fingers at the bottom of her shirt as his eyes search hers for permission. She nods, lifting her arms for him as he tugs the shirt off in one easy movement, throwing it to the floor beside them. His eyes search her body hungrily, deep grey like charcoal, as his hands fall over her bra.
She feels the tug of her nipples as they pebble again, sighs as his thumbs slide under her bra to tease them more. He is kissing her again as she holds onto his neck, overwhelmed by his lips, his hands, his fingers.
“Malfoy,” she gasps as his entire hand makes its way under her bra, hot and calloused and massaging her perfectly. He chuckles against her lips, pulling her bottom lip with his teeth before kissing the corner of her mouth.
“You sure you don’t want to stop, Granger? Those books aren’t going to put themselves away,” he teases as he pulls away, his hands dropping to the button on her trousers.
“Fuck the books,” she gasps as her denims come open and his thumbs slip under the waistband of her knickers. He plants a few more kisses on the top of each breast before returning to her lips, his fingers teasing at the band of the blue lace under the material of her jeans. His lips devote themselves to hers, messy and frantic at the same time that they are careful and precise. She grinds her hips against his, grabbing his wrists and pushing downwards with all of her might to signal her frustrations.
“Malfoy, please, I-”
He laughs, throaty and low. “Of all of the things you’re good at, Granger, patience is not one of them.”
He sticks his thumbs into the belt loops on her jeans, pulling away to watch her as he slowly, slowly, starts to drag them down over her hips. He looks… well, he looks delicious. Hair ruffled, messy, eyes dark and hungry with desire for her, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. They are both breathing heavily, hot air everywhere despite the goosebumps that cover her skin.
She wants him to go faster, wants them off, off, off.
But before he can pull the jeans past her arse, there is a crack of apparition outside, loud enough that Draco pulls them back up immediately as they jump.
“Fuck,” he says, watching through the closed blinds as the shadow of a figure approaches the door, and they jump into action. She re-buttons her jeans as Draco steps away from her, running his fingers once through his hair. Hermione has barely pulled her shirt over her head when the door is pushed open, the bell jangling as a familiar head of orange hair walks through the door.
“Hermione?”
He sees her just as she gives her shirt one last yank, before hastily reaching up to tuck her dishevelled hair behind her ears. Her chest is rising and falling, as is Draco’s, and she knows that they both look a mess.
Ron’s face goes from hopeful, to confused, to shocked and then to angry all in a span of 10 seconds as the door shuts behind him and Hermione steps towards him.
“Ron, what are you doing-”
“The bloody hell is this?” he asks, his voice already accusatory, cracking like it always does when he’s upset. His eyes flick from her to Draco, turning deadly as he notes Draco’s wrinkled shirt, his flushed skin and messy hair.
“Fuck, you are daft, Weasley. And you have terrible timing,” Draco sneers, as Ron’s face grows scarlet with anger, nostrils flaring, his brows pulling together as his fists clench by his side. His eyes grow wide with shock and rage at Draco’s words and Hermione prepares herself for the explosion that is about to shake their small shop.
Ron’s shoulders shake as he continues to look back and forth between Draco and her, realization flashing in his blue irises as he notes their proximity, their twisted, rumpled clothing and heavy breathing.
“What the fuck did you do to her, Malfoy?” Ron seethes, taking a menacing step towards Draco. Draco doesn’t flinch, only takes his own step forward in challenge. Hermione instinctively steps towards them too, hands out in case they decide to get physical.
“Do you really want me to say it, Weasel? I didn’t know you were so privy to hearing about Granger’s sex life, but-”
“Shut up!” Ron shouts before turning to look at Hermione, his eyes pleading and desperate. Her stomach twists into a knot. This is not how she had wanted this to go. Ron was her best friend, but after the war she had turned herself into another of the things he wanted but could never have; and she doesn’t want to be resented for this.
“Ron, you have to listen-” she pleads, stepping towards him and placing a soft hand on his bicep.
“You know,” he spits, shrugging his arm aggressively away from her touch, stepping back as his features fight with all of the emotions she is sure he is feeling. “-I thought this was just some phase for you, Hermione.”
She freezes, shaking her head at Draco who has opened his mouth to speak. She needs to hear Ron out, needs to try and stifle the situation. He must see this in her eyes, because for some reason, he listens, freezing as Ron continues.
“I thought you had just been going a tough time since the war. I tried to be understanding; you lost your parents, you lost people you loved. I thought you just needed time. I tried to give you time. But this? This is crazy, Hermione and you know it. I don’t even know who you are anymore…”
Ron has always jumped to anger before anything else — covering up sadness and weakness with rage, jealousy. And even though Hermione knows that Ron must be heartbroken, to see her with someone who was not him, to watch her get closer to someone who he had always thought was the enemy — she knows that he is feeling so much more than the rage he is projecting to hurt her.
But it doesn’t break her heart any less. She watches with a sickness in her stomach as Ron looks at her with an expression she has never seen, blue eyes that are no longer recognizable.
“You have no idea what I’ve been through these past few years, Ron,” she says, her voice coming out breathy and quiet.
“I do know!” he shouts, and Draco takes a protective step closer to her, grabbing her wrist as Ron points an accusatory finger at her.
“I lost my brother, Hermione! I lost the same people you lost! Lupin, Tonks, Moody, Lavender…” his voice breaks slightly, a sharp pain stabbing her heart. “You don’t get to act like you’re the only one whose gone through it! At some point, you have to get up off of the ground, hold your head up and move on like the rest of us.”
There is silence as he finishes — a silence as loud as his words, poignant and revealing. There is only the sound of their breathing, the flicker of eyes back and forth, air as thick as water. And it could have been; Hermione feels as if she is drowning.
She swallows, pulling her arm from Draco’s grasp and taking two careful steps towards Ron. For a moment, she thinks she sees a flicker of softness in his face, some kind of understanding breaking inside of him. But when she reaches out to grab his hand he steps away from her, eyes dangerous as they look over her shoulder at Draco.
“Ron,” she croaks, watching as his eyes grow more distant.
“-this is me moving on,” she finishes, looking back at Draco, at the shop, trying to make him understand that she finally feels as if she is living her life again.
Ron looks hurt; visibly flinches.
“Unbelievable,” he snaps, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You should get out of here, Weasley,” Draco says, speaking for the first time in a while. Hermione is surprised by how neutral it sounds, how there is no hostility — just protectiveness.
She feels him step behind her, place a comforting hand on the small of her back. Tears prick at the base of her skull, and something in her shatters. Here was her first friend, her first boyfriend, one of the first people who had ever loved her.
Before today, she didn’t understand how much she might need to give up in order to gain the things she wanted, the things she has now. Now, she wonders if the price is worth it.
“Finally something we agree on, Malfoy,” Ron says through gritted teeth. His eyes move one last time to Hermione — a final chance to say something, to leave with him, to show him her allegiance; because Ron still thinks that there are two sides. Little does he know, Hermione hasn’t switched sides; she has accepted that there are none. Not anymore.
Hermione opens her mouth, shuts it again. Tries to move, to speak, to do something. But Ron only nods, once, solemnly and turns, striding back out the door and disapparating immediately with a crack louder than when he had arrived.
For a moment, they are frozen in time. Neither she nor Draco move, speak. They stand frozen, Hermione’s eyes on the door and Draco’s eyes on her. She calms her breathing, bites her cheek to keep herself from crying.
“Granger-”
“He’s just upset,” she cuts him off, blinking and shaking herself from her stupor as she turns to face him. “He’ll come around. I just hadn’t told him about… us yet.”
A muscle leaps in Draco’s jaw, his eyes hooded and low.
“What is there to tell him, Granger?” he asks, softly but firmly. Her eyes jump to his, her brows pulling together in a frown.
“Malfoy, you have to stop pretending that we aren’t— that we’re not…” she says, stepping towards him and grabbing his hands.He flinches, his eyes glazing slightly.
“Don’t pull away from me. I don’t need a label on this right now, but I need to know that this isn’t just… physical, for you.”
“Granger… I’m not in a position to keep promises right now.”
“Why not?” she asks, trying to catch his eye.
“Have you seen how my life has gone so far, Granger?” his voice is raised, but not shouting, pointed but not angry. He pulls away from her hold, turns to face the counter and braces his hands on the wood, spread out on either side of him.
“I got everything I ever asked for as a kid. Toys, books, brooms, the most expensive robes. Anything I wanted, my parents, my bloodline, made sure I got. Except for the things that mattered.”
His head is bent down towards the counter, his shoulders hunched. Hermione wants to reach out and touch him, hug him, comfort him. He takes a breath and continues.
“I have been a slave to my bloodline — to my family name — since I was 11 years old. It took me years to figure out that there was a price for all of those expensive things. The price, as it turns out, was my ability to choose things for myself. To love who I wanted to love. I never wanted to be a Death Eater. Sure, I was taught to believe in blood supremacy, to hate you, and Potter and Weasley. But anytime I asked for something for myself, something real, it was ripped away from me faster than I could say ‘nox.’ And that is the price I pay for the way I grew up. I’m afraid of what I want, Granger. I’m afraid that it will ruin me when, after wanting something for so long, I eventually lose it.”
He turns his head to look over his shoulder at her, jaw tight and eyes heavy-lidded. She takes a step towards him, presses herself against his back and slides her arms up his shoulders and onto his chest. Draco inhales a shaky breath, and she splays her fingers over the fabric, feeling the muscle under his shirt. Her head drops onto his back, her cheek pressed against the warmth of his shoulder.
“’My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.’” She quotes, the same one he had picked out for her and written just days ago when he had gifted her the book. She feels him relax under her, takes in a deep breath of the spicy, sweet, wonderful smell of him.
“You told me that that quote reminds you of me,” she whispers into his back, closing her eyes as his rhythmic breathing sways her. “And of you. You should try to believe yourself, Draco. You can let yourself have things. You already have me.”
She’s not sure how long they stay like that, but if they never moved again, she thinks she might be okay with it.
~~~
When Draco isn’t at the shop the next morning, Hermione feels a familiar worry fill her.
After Ron’s outburst in the shop he had been quieter, more closed off than he had been in a while. He didn’t touch her the rest of the day, didn’t joke around as he helped put away the rest of the books. When he left at four o’clock sharp, he left with nothing more than a swift ‘Good night’ before brushing past her and making his way out the door.
She had been waiting since the night they’d spent together in the shop for him to disappear again, but she thought that she had made some headway before dinner the past weekend, and even a bit yesterday.
A tight sweep of fear falls over her body as she wanders around the shop, searching for signs that he might have been there and left. There is no cup of black coffee, no sign of his wool pea coat, no lights, and no change to the shop since yesterday. Shrugging off her winter robes, she slips them behind the counter, snowflakes leftover from outside turning to small wet splotches on the fabric.
This was not a good time for Draco to distance himself from her again; they left for Mexico on Saturday, only two days from now, and they were so close to finishing the shop. A million thoughts run through her head; if he will still come to Mexico, if she should cancel and let him go alone, how many more weeks until the shop opens, whether she will be able to get everything done herself this time.
She waits impatiently for an owl, hoping there is a letter from him somewhere on its way. Gives him the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe he has slept in, has gotten caught between a rock and a hard place and can’t owl her yet. She paces the shop, tries to check the inventory but can’t stay on track when she counts. The minutes tick by slowly, like molasses, sticky and murky. She mops the floors, preparing them to be sealed with gloss after the holidays.
Her body is jittery, her mind flitting from anxious thought to anxious thought. Maybe something really had happened to him, something terrible. She checks the time over and over, watches the hours pass, barely touches her lunch.
At half-past One she has had enough. Either something awful has happened, or Draco was purposefully separating himself from her, fearful of what they were becoming, of his feelings for her; whatever they were. She pulls her coat back on, locks the shop and storms down the cobblestone of The Strip towards Scratch the Mark.
The cold air is biting, pinching the skin of her face as the wind blows snowflakes towards her. In her head, she sends silent messages to Draco, wishing he could hear them, desperately hoping he isn’t pushing her away.
Draco, please be okay.
Draco, whatever it is, it will be okay.
Please let me know where you are.
When she reaches Scratch the Mark she flings open the door with an assertive push, the wind pulling it shut behind her with a loud bang.
Blaise, who seems to be cleaning up after a recent session, jolts, his eyes falling on her, wide with surprise. He straightens, his brows pulling together disconcertedly as he puts his wand down and pulls off the pair of black latex gloves.
“Granger? What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping towards her anxiously, scanning her face for the source of her agitation.
“Blaise, where is Draco?” she asks, her tone direct and stern. His brows jump up as she crosses her arms over her chest. She takes a breath, adjusting her lungs to the warmth of the shop after exhaling the cool air from outside.
“And don’t give me any bullshit. I know that you knew where he was the last few times he’s disappeared. You all do. Don’t lie to me.”
She stares at him unblinkingly, narrowing her eyes slightly as he tilts his head slightly in a sigh.
“Granger, he’s fine-”
“Tell me now, Blaise,” she interjects, shaking her head as she closes her eyes. As much as she appreciates how loyal Malfoy’s friends are to him, she deserves to know that he is okay. She deserves to know where he is and why he is so desperate to stay away from her. “-if you don’t tell me I’ll ask Pansy, and then Theo, and then Adrian, until I know where in Merlin’s name he is, so help me-”
“Okay, okay,” Blaise concedes, holding his palms up in surrender as he watches Hermione’s eyes grow dark with her signature tenacity, unwavering in her intensity. This was the Hermione who stood up to Rita Skeeter, who walked into Gringotts as Bellatrix Lestrange, who always stood up to her friends when she thought they were wrong.
She watches as Blaise’s physicality changes, his shoulders slouching, his hand scratching the back of his neck — clearly, Draco had instructed him not to tell Hermione anything.
“He’s at the manor,” Blaise offers, and Hermione takes a breath in. She hadn’t been back to the manor since the incident with Bellatrix. She nods, trying her hide the nerves that have crept upon her, trying not to let this dissuade her.
“He visited his Mum this morning. In Azkaban.”
His words sound more like a warning than a reason. She looks up at him, giving him another nod. They both knew how touchy Draco got on the subject of his mother, how much visiting her could affect his mood. But what had Narcissa said to trigger a reaction again? They had agreed during their meeting that Draco was not to know about the plea deal until it was fulfilled; agreeing it was in his best interest to keep him in the dark. Had she said something anyway?
“How do I get there?” she asks, her voice almost begging. She needed to see him. She needed to know that he was alright.
Blaise assesses her for a moment, seeing her determination and realizing that she wasn’t backing down anytime soon. He nods, sighing and pursing his lips.
“Floo,” he says with his eyes closed, as if he knows how Draco will react when he figures out how Hermione found him. “The floo here is connected to Malfoy Manor.”
“Blaise,” she says, grabbing his hand and making him look at her. His eyes meet hers, and suddenly she is taken back to the night she first came here; to the way his kindness had been a breath of fresh air in a stifling life, to how he had welcomed her to their little group with open arms, had tattooed something so beautiful and meaningful on her skin without questioning it or pushing her for more information.
“There is something important I need to tell him. I promise he won’t be angry with you.”
Blaise sucks in a breath through his nostrils, giving her a small unconvincing smile and nodding.
“Okay,” he says, and he leads her into a small back room with a fireplace, passing her the bowl of floo powder and nodding once more before she throws the powder to her feet and calls out ‘Malfoy Manor!’ in a clear voice.
Green light. Twisting, turning, falling. The soles of her shoes landing on the hard, grey hearth. She coughs as the remnants of the powder cloud around her, settling to the stone beneath her. When she steps out of the fireplace, it takes her a second to realize where exactly she is.
It looks different than it had two springs ago, the same bones but with new furniture, new paint, lighter and less intimidating. Her breath catches in her throat, her lungs atrophying as she freezes just outside of the fireplace. Her eyes are drawn immediately to the spot she had once lain, the spot Bellatrix had tortured her, carved her knife into her forearm. Her blood seems to curdle in her veins, solidifying and weighing her down as she urges her lungs to work.
For a moment she thinks she won’t be able to move— that she will have to turn around and go back.
It’s the scream that makes her stay. The deep, growl-like yell followed by the sound of shattering glass. She jolts, her gaze lifting from the spot on the floor as her mouth falls open. There is another yell, more shattering glass against stone, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.
She has no idea where she is going, and yet her feet start to move, her pulse hammering away as she follows the source of the sound, striding with purpose out of the room and into the corridor. The ceilings are as high as a cathedral, the corridor as long as they are in the Hogwarts castle. She picks up her speed to a near run as another disgruntled yell echoes, bouncing off the stone floors and the walls and buzzing around her ear. She follows it, peeking her head into dark room after dark room.
She turns into a set of double doors and there he is. His back is to her, dressed nicely in his dress pants and that white oxford he always looks so great in. Shiny dragon leather shoes that pace in front of a large fireplace, his hair falling messily onto his forehead.
The room is a formal dining room, a long blackwood table with silver candelabras along the middle, cushioned dining chairs pushed in at the sides and each end, long velvet curtains over ceiling-high windows drawn by gold rope, keeping the daylight out.
The fireplace is roaring, bright with flame and emanating a sweet heat into the otherwise cold room. He hasn’t noticed her yet; twists a crystal whiskey glass in his fingers before knocking the last sip back and chucking the empty cup at the wall. Hermione flinches as the glass hits the wallpaper, shattering with a loud clink as the translucent pieces fall to the floor. Her eyes follow the pieces, and it's then that she notices the collection of shattered glass and china scattered on the floor by the wall. A trickle of leftover whiskey drips slowly down the green wallpaper, and Draco watches it for a moment before stepping forward to a 1920’s style bar cart, grabbing a new empty glass and filling it with Whiskey, tilting his head to down it in one fell swoop, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
With another ear-shattering yell – painful and broken – he chucks the glass at the wall, stepping back as its shards fly into the air and fall to the ground.
“Draco?”
She doesn’t know why it took her so long to alert him of her presence, but he jumps as he hears her, turning to face her with features smudged with both shock and anguish. His face is reddened by the fire and tight with pain.
“Granger? What are you doing here?”
She moves, walking towards him as slowly and carefully as she can since what she really wants is to run to him. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows in the same way they had been the night she’d first seen him again, his hair the same messy shock of blond, his brows still dark and as sharp as the rest of him. His eyes are slightly red as if he’d been crying, and a few of his buttons are undone, his collar crooked on his neck.
“I – you didn’t owl. I was worried about you,” she says carefully as she walks towards him, down the length of the dining table. He scowls, striding towards her to meet her halfway. She eyes the collection of shattered glass on the floor behind him, looking up at him with her brows pulled together in worry.
“Fuck, I’m going to kill Blaise-” he growls through clenched teeth. She reaches a hand out to cup his face, sliding it along his jaw and brushing her thumb against the muscle dancing in his jaw.
“Malfoy, I needed to make sure you were okay. I forced it out of him. What’s going on?”
His eyes finally meet hers, dark and blown out, anger and sadness mixing themselves in his grey irises. He pulls her hand down from his face, turning and stalking back to the fireplace. She follows, the heat from the fire warming her face and casting a peachy glow on her skin. He opens his arms and rests his hands on the mantel, gripping the ledge as he lets his head fall forward.
“Malfoy? Talk to me.”
He says nothing, strides over to the bar cart and begins to pour himself another drink. Hermione paces over to him, watches his hands shake as he tries to pour the amber liquid into the glass, spilling small droplets on the metal cart. She sighs, reaching out and grabbing his hands to stop him, resting them there as his eyes look up at her. She slides her hands from his skin to the glass and the decanter, prying them gently from his fingers and setting them down on the cart. There would be no more cup fatalities tonight.
She grabs his hands again, holding them in her own and steering him carefully over to the armed chair at the end of the table closest to the fireplace. He follows, his body limp and heavy, as she sets him gently in the chair, holding his hands while she kneels in front of him.
“Is it about Narcissa?” she asks softly, trying to catch his eye again as he breathes in and out with shaky breaths. Then, finally, he nods, swallowing and meeting her stare. The carpet under her knees is too flat to be comfortable, and she shifts so she can lean back on her calves, not letting go of his hands.
“I visited her in Azkaban this morning,” he says, his voice thick from the Whiskey and raspy from the yelling.
“She’s been… well, she’s been keeping something from me. I can tell. She won’t talk to me about how things are going, and whenever I bring up her release she changes the subject, as if she doesn’t want to speak about it. Both she and Amara won’t tell me anything, and I – I’m worried she is giving up. I’m worried they won’t tell me anything because they are failing.”
His grey eyes meet hers, and they’re the saddest she’s ever seen them.
“This morning she told me that I shouldn’t worry about her anymore. That I should focus on my life and on myself. I think- I think she is trying to prepare me for the fact that she won’t be getting out anytime soon. And I’m fucking scared, Granger.”
He leans forward, chocking out a guttural noise somewhere between a sob and a yell, before leaning his forehead against her shoulder. She places a hand at the back of his head, letting him breathe warm, wet breaths on her, as he tries to contain wails that he keeps at the back of his throat. He’s not crying, she can tell, but she can see he wants to scream, wants to sob, shout at the world and its unfairness. She strokes his hair with the hand on his head, letting her other one rest on his knee, weighing her options.
She isn’t supposed to let him know, not until it’s a sure thing. But she can feel how broken he is about this, how much he misses his Mum, how much he wants her out. And she can’t bear the thought of him worrying over the holidays, of him losing hope and losing himself in the process.
Just as she is about to open her mouth and say something, her decision made, she feels the rough skin of his fingers glide over her forearm, sending shivers down her back and causing the hair on her neck to stand at full attention. She flicks her eyes downwards to her arm, where Draco is tracing the lines of her rosemary tattoo with his index finger.
“You never told me why you got this tattoo, Granger. What does the rosemary mean?”
He sits up, pulling his forehead from her shoulder and grabbing her arm gently with both hands. She tilts her head up at him, looking back at the tattoo and then at him again.
“My mother,” she begins, softly at first, the very subject of mothers touchy at this very moment. He doesn’t react, just listens, eyes locked on her as she takes a small breath and continues.
“My mother used to plant rosemary in her garden. Bushes and bushes of it. In the summer, whenever a breeze picked up you could smell it through the windows. She’d cut it when it flowered and put them in a vase inside. She’d use it in her cooking. Even she smelled of it, all of the time.”
Draco watches her intently, his thumb rubbing the raised skin of the tattoo, not even noticing the terrible letters underneath.
“I’d watch her pick some and she’d rub it between her fingers to release the smell and let me sniff, and she would always say, ‘Rosemary is for remembrance, Hermione. It helps strengthen our memory, is used to honour the dead, reminds us of those we love... When you go away to school, I use it to remember you.’ And then she’d tuck one of the blue flowers behind my ear and kiss my cheek.”
Both of their eyes trail down to the delicate tattoo- Draco’s thumb traces the thin oval-shaped leaves, the long stem, the small iris-like flowers. She swallows, her throat thick as she chokes away her own tears.
“Rosemary reminds me of home. Of her, and Dad, and everything good about my life before the war. My parents can’t remember me after I obliviated them before the war. So I got it so that I could remember. And every day it reminds me of the things I love, the people I loved, and it reminds me of the good. The good in everything. Remembering used to be hard - it was the hardest thing ever. Now, I'm finally understanding that the past does not define the present. It may shape it, or bleed into it a little. But at the end of the day, we can remember, and we can carry on. And every day, I have to remember to carry on. And I do.”
The fire crackles behind them as Draco meets her eye again. If only he knew how much he smelled like the herb she had so lovingly described; that he, somehow, had become a sort of home for her when she had none. She breathes him in now as he leans forward and presses a warm kiss to her cheek, before pulling back and lifting her arm to his lips.
His eyes don’t leave hers as he presses his lips to the tattoo on her forearm, on her scar, planting small, careful kisses on the expanse of skin as he cradles her arm. She heaves in a sigh as he closes his eyes, kissing each letter of her mudblood scar as if his lips could erase them, as if they could take away that specific memory and turn it good. When he finishes, he opens his eyes again and sets her arm down on his leg.
“In that muggle play by Shakespeare, Ophelia has this line,” he begins, going back to brushing his thumb tenderly over the scar. “-‘ There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance ,’” he recites, and she joins him, recognizing the line.
“-‘Pray you, love, remember,’” they finish together.
“Of course you know it.”
“You expected I wouldn’t?”
“Touché.”
She lets out a breathy chuckle, stretching a hand upwards to catch his face again, sliding it behind his ear into the blond hair above it. He leans into her touch, his eyes flickering wantonly over her features, his eyes darkened and his expression newly softened.
“Draco, there’s something I should tell you.”
His brows pull together and apart again as he sits up straighter, releasing her arm. She is still kneeling in front of him, his brawny thighs on either side of her torso, and she would have blushed at how suggestive it was if they weren’t discussing their personal crises. If she wasn’t about to tell him what she’s been dying to tell him for weeks. He nods for her to continue and she takes a breath before going on.
“Your Mum… well— Amara and I devised a plea deal-”
“Amara? You spoke to her?”
“Draco, let me finish,” she breathes, grabbing his hands to calm him. His interest piqued, she licks her lips quickly to moisten them before finishing.
“Amara and I constructed a plea deal. If Narcissa can provide useful information about the current rebel group in Wales, enough to lead to their capture, she will be released. On probation, like you.”
She watches Draco’s expression grow befuddled and then understanding, his eyes flickering with hopefulness and his mouth parting softly as he listens.
“It’s not a sure thing yet, but the Aurors have a raid planned for after Christmas. The only way they could have found the new safehouse was with your mother’s help. It is very likely she will be released later in December.”
Draco stills, his muscles growing taut under Hermione’s hands, his shaky breaths pausing as he blinks, once, twice at her. She can see a hint of skepticism in his eyes, a worry that what Hermione has said is too good to be true. He closes his mouth, clenches his jaw, swallows.
“And you just decided not to tell me?” he says through gritted teeth, his tone slightly irate in the way she’s used to with him. He pulls his hands from hers again, pushing himself off of the chair and brushing past her towards the fireplace. She sees him slide a palm over his face, down to his mouth as he closes his eyes, taking it all in.
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, in case the deal didn’t work out.”
He spins to face her, where she remains kneeling in front of the chair. She shifts, pulling herself up and brushing her knees.
“Granger, are you telling the truth? Why would you do this?” he says, his arms dropping loose by his side. His features are so unusually unguarded, so soft and eager for her words to be real.
“Of course I am! I wanted to tell you, Malfoy, I did, but watching how torn up you were about her… I couldn’t — I couldn’t give you something only to take it away from you later. You can't tell anyone else.”
He nods before he starts taking slow steps towards her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, and he moves painfully slowly in her direction, the yellow light of the fire casting an angelic glow behind his silhouette.
“Answer my second question, Granger. Why did you do this for me?”
His voice is low, controlled, his eyes locked on her with a fierce determination. She looks down at the ground, at her shoes and feels a hot blush creep up her neck, onto her cheeks and ears.
“Granger,” she hears, his voice closer now, his scent impeding into her space, the feel of him sending a shiver down her spine. Then his hand is on her jaw, sliding down her neck and around the back where he holds, gently but firmly. “Look at me, Granger.”
She obeys, tilting her chin back up to look at him. She avoids his eyes at first, following the sharp line of his jaw, noting the visible stubble, up to his angular cheekbones and regal nose. She catches the blink of his lashes, thick and slow, before finally meeting his eyes.
“Why did you do this for me?” he whispers, his breath warm and sweet on her cheek. Her body comes alive with the feeling of him, warm and tingly and fizzy like firecrackers.
“Because I care about you,” she says, and it comes out like an exhale, a swift release of something she has known for so long, something she has been so frightened to tell him.
“-and I want to be a part of your life,” she finishes. His warm hand on the back of her neck softens, his fingers falling limp. His breath is still on her cheek when he moves to look at her, to make sure he has heard her right.
She waits in anxious anticipation as his brows pull together, his mouth straight but moving softly as he chews over his words. For a moment they just gaze at each other, their breathing synchronizing as the fire crackles behind them, flames licking the stone hearth and illuminating their skin with jumping light.
Then, slowly, so slowly it’s torturous, Draco’s hand slides from her neck and down her back, his thumb grazing each bump of her spine. She trembles softly as he reaches the small of her back, opening his palm and pushing her gently into him so that their chests are pushed together. He rests his forehead against hers, and thank Merlin she can smell the rosemary on him because she wants to remember this moment forever.
“We are so fucked, Granger.”
His lips fall frantically on hers, and before she can take a breath he is devouring her, pulling her even closer to his body and sinking a hand into her hair. It takes a moment for her to move, to reciprocate his kisses, but when she does she is just as needy as he is, fisting the front of his shirt and tilting her chin to receive more of him.
His tongue slips into her mouth as he walks her backwards into the table, skating his hands under her arse and lifting her onto the wood in a quick motion, before diving back onto her lips in a wild frenzy.
“Granger,” he groans, peppering small kisses on her cheeks and down her jaw, onto her neck.
“Too many layers,” he mutters, and it’s not until then that Hermione remembers she is still in her winter robes. Then they are both grasping the fabrics, pulling them off hastily and stealing kisses between layers. Draco throws her coat to the floor, she pulls her t-shirt off and casts it aside and then his lips are on her chest, kissing the top of her ribs and down her cleavage. He cups her breast through the fabric of her bra, placing a kiss where her nipple is as it hardens and she gasps.
“Still too many layers?” she asks.
“Yes,” he breathes, and she reaches around and unclasps her bra, letting it fall to the table as her breasts are freed, her nipples taut and pebbled in the air. Her first instinct is to cover herself, but as if Draco knows she will he grabs her hands and pins them on the table at her sides.
“You’re beautiful,” he sighs, leaning forward to kiss her lips as she relaxes, her hands returning to his chest as she blindly unbuttons his oxford. His lips leave hers, making their way back down her chest as he reaches her breasts, squeezing her lightly with his hand before his mouth, warm and wet, falls onto her nipple.
She lets out an embarrassing moan, her mouth dropping open as her eyelids flutter in pleasure. His tongue demonstrates practiced ministrations on her nipple, grazing it lightly with his teeth, sending waves of pleasure to her core. He moves to the other breast, repeating the motions there as Hermione finally undoes the last button on his oxford, pulling the fabric with shaking hands to signal that she wants it off.
His mouth releases her breast reluctantly as he steps back to tug off his shirt. She watches deliriously as he shucks the white fabric, the full expanse of his chest exposed to her for the first time. She has always known that he is beautiful, but this? He is lean and willowy and angled like a statue, and the white, raised scar goes down further than she had imagined, jutting down to his pelvis and disappearing into the band of his trousers.
She touches her fingers softly onto the beginning of the scar on his left pectoral, sliding it downwards as she traces the curved lines before leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on the scarred skin over his heart. Draco inhales a sharp breath of air, a guttural groan caught in his throat as he grabs her hands and pins them to the side of her again, leaning forward to catch her lips in another ravenous kiss.
“Tell me what you want me to do, Granger,” he says against her lips, his hands in her hair, on her breasts and stomach, lingering at the band of her trousers; teasing and taunting. She can feel his erection against the inside of her thigh, can feel a growing warmth between her own legs, her heart beating wildly with need for him.
He kisses her breasts again as she twists her fingers into his hair, tightening them against his scalp to elicit a groan from him.
“I want-” she gasps as he kisses between her breasts, down the center of her stomach to her navel and then, the spot above the button of her trousers. She is momentarily distracted, letting her head fall back as his tongue laves at her skin, his teeth graze her stomach.
“Fuck, Granger,” he says as she lets out a whiney mew, straightening himself again so he stands tall between her legs.
“I want you, Draco. All of you.”
He pulls her forward so that her bare breasts are pressed against his chest, as they both inhale sharp breaths and try to even out their breathing.
“Are you sure?” he asks, searching her face for any signs of doubt. She confidently knows that she shows none; she wants this. She wants him more than she can put into words.
“Yes,” she breathes. He nods, lifting her again so she rests on his hips, as she wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, pulling her up and stepping away from the table. His hands are on her arse to keep her from falling.
“Where are we going?” she asks as he grabs his wand from the table, licking his lips and grinning devilishly at her.
“As much as I’d love to take you on this table, Granger, I’d prefer to be a gentleman our first time. I’m taking you to my bed.”
She almost moans at his words, but before she can react she feels her body being pulled into side-along apparition, the familiar pull at her naval and the twisting feeling of travel before they land in a new room.
She can barely catch a glance of the new scenery before Draco pulls her legs from his waist, lowering her gently to the floor. He steps away, long fingers catching the button of her trousers, popping it open before tugging them to the floor fervently. She steps out of them awkwardly, nearly tripping on the pooled fabric as he chuckles at her, wrapping his arms around her waist to bring her close to him again.
He kisses her furiously, needy and hot with desire. Her fingers itch to touch him, to give him the same pleasure she is feeling now. She reaches her hand forward to cup his hardness through his dress pants, earning a hiss through his teeth. She hears the clink of his belt, feels his fingers work at pulling it off before unzipping his own trousers. He steps out of his shoes, socks and finally his trousers and steps back towards her, grabbing her arse with both hands and squeezing methodically.
“Your fucking arse, Granger…” he groans, kissing her neck and sucking, hungrily, leaving love bites on every bit of skin he can. She rests her hands on his chest, feeling his lean muscles ripple before trailing her fingers down to the waistband of his boxers. She runs a finger under the elastic of the waistband, slow and teasing, feeling the soft hair under it. She can feel his erection against her stomach, feels the pounding of his pulse, the shiver of his skin.
“Bed.” he groans, his voice husky and guttural as if it is coated in thick honey. She nods, kissing him as he walks her backwards. The backs of her thighs hit what must be his mattress and from the corner of her peripheral she catches sight of the tall, dark wood of a four-poster bed, emerald green curtains tied with a rope.
Gently, firmly, he pushes her so that she falls back, her back hitting the mattress. Her legs hang over the end of the bed and he climbs over her, straddling her in his boxers, the outline of him clear under the dark fabric. She inhales a sharp gasp looking at him as he attacks her breast with his mouth again, using two fingers to pinch the other nipple.
“Fuck, Draco,” she groans, arching her back as he grounds his hips into hers, making them both moan. She wants to pull him closer, wants his body on top of her, the full weight of him. Mostly, she wants him inside of her.
Before she can ask him to do so, she feels him lift himself away, crawling back down the bed and standing at the end between her legs. His hands suddenly grab her thighs and he yanks her sharply forward, earning a gasp from her as her arse balances on the edge of the mattress.
Then he is kneeling in front of her, pushing her legs open as her head falls back onto the mattress with a soft bounce. It’s his fingers she feels first, his thumb applying a light pressure over her knickers which are embarrassingly soaked. She lets out a soft mew as he applies more pressure, rubbing her through the fabric in precise, shiver-inducing circles.
Next, she feels his teeth, grazing her protruding hip bones before trailing down to the top of the lace, biting the fabric before inching them down slowly. She lifts her hips for him, letting him pull the fabric over her supple arse, her thighs, to her ankles. She is fully exposed to him now, bared and so wet for him as he pulls the lace knickers off of her ankles.
She instinctually tries to close her thighs, but Draco is faster than her, catching her with his hands and pushing them open. He makes soft ‘tsk’ sounds at her, pressing his thumbs into her thighs to keep her open for him as she wriggles against the sheets. She pushes away her mortification as he begins kissing up her thigh, dancing dangerously around the spot she really wants him to touch, his arms sliding up her stomach to hold her breasts.
“Please, Draco,” she whines as he kisses her pelvic bone, his warm breath on her core as he hovers over her. He doesn’t make her wait any longer – brings one hand down to press onto her clit, causing her to jolt as he begins to move, shockwaves of pleasure shooting up her spine.
“You’re perfect, Granger,” he sighs, running his fingers through her, collecting the wetness there before sinking a finger inside of her. She fists the sheets beside her, lifting her hips in pleasure as he begins to slide in and out of her, hooking his finger against the top of her walls. It’s all she can do not to scream his name when he adds a second finger and picks up the speed, his thumb still devoting its attention to her clit.
She moans, her eyes squeezing closed and her mouth falling open as he finds that perfect spot inside of her, a tightness growing in her stomach and thighs as he fucks her with his fingers, his other hand holding tightly to her thigh, keeping her spread open for him.
“I’m – Draco, I’m so-”
He leans forward to kiss her thigh and pulls his fingers swiftly out of her, leaving her feeling empty, on the edge of her release, her hips wriggling with need. She lets out a frustrated huff as he kisses her thighs, the dip of her skin above her arse – so close, but not enough.
“Slide up,” he demands, pulling himself to a stand, his erection pressing uncomfortably through the black fabric of his boxer briefs. She does as she is told, despite her disappointment and the throbbing need between her legs. She pushes her body to the middle of the mattress with her hands and elbows as Draco crawls towards her, knocking her legs apart again with his knee. She can feel her own wetness still on his fingers as he slides his hand up and down her thigh.
Her chest rises and falls, her breasts pointed and peaked with desire as his eyes roam over her, hungry, wanting. His tongue flicks out to wet his lower lips, pink and glistening, and now she’s thinking about all of the other things he could – should – be doing with it.
“Please, Malfoy,” she says, her voice begging, hollow, raspy. “I need you.”
His eyes grow black, his restraint out the window as he leans forward to kiss her, his mouth urgent and passionate against hers. Below, she can feel his hands pull off his boxers, feels his erection spring free against her hip, causing her to moan on his lips. He swallows it, his lips smiling against her as he takes himself in his fist, pumping himself a few times as he kisses under each ear and down onto her neck.
“Lift your hips for me, Granger,” he whispers, and she does, devoutly. His mouth lands again on her breast, her nipples so hard it’s almost painful. Then she feels the tip of him meet her entrance, sliding once through her slick folds as she exhales, her back arching off of the mattress, her hands tightening their hold on Draco’s biceps.
“Is this okay?” he asks, positioned at her entrance, throbbing against her as her chest heaves, as she grinds her hips onto him, earning a small hiss and a throaty sound she wishes she could replay over and over again.
“Yes, God yes,” she breathes, lifting her hips against him once more to signal her eagerness. He plants one last kiss on her lips, before placing one hand to the side of her to prop himself up while the other hand slides around to the back of her thigh, lifting her up to him and bringing her leg around his waist.
Then, in one swift thrust, he enters her fully, his length filling her and hitting a spot she never knew was there. She feels full and tight around him, her walls jumping at the way he feels inside of her. He lets out a loud groan, his eyes snapping shut as they both shudder with pleasure. She wraps a hand around his back, pulling herself up closer, sinking him further into her. He stays there for a moment as they both adjust, as she grinds herself against him.
“Fuck,” he hisses as she rubs herself against him, leaning up to kiss him and nodding as she slides her leg further around his waist so that their hips are pressed tightly against each other, as close as they can get.
“Please move,” she whispers, and she doesn’t have to ask twice.
“Bossy witch,” he chuckles huskily.
He pulls away, sliding almost all the way out of her before thrusting in again, his fingers pressing into the skin of her hip as he turns his head to bite his own arm, which is still braced over Hermione. They both let out gasps, heavy sighs as he finds a rhythm, sliding in and out of her at a slow, steady speed, his hips meeting hers each time. Her toes curl at the pleasure, and she scrapes her nails down his back, grabbing at his firm arse.
“Oh god, Draco,” she whimpers as he pushes her up the sheets with each thrust, hitting that spot inside of her each time as her body trembles with pleasure. Her eyes fall closed as he picks up speed, their skin smacking together in wet, shameful sounds. At some point she opens her eyes to watch him, his features pinched with pleasure as he watches her, his bottom lip between his teeth. His hot breaths hit her skin as he exhales with each thrust, a dangerously attractive groan tumbling from his lips as she digs her nails harder into his back.
“Fuck, you take me so well,” he grunts into her ear, moving his hand to squeeze her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this to you,” he says, his hips smacking hers, her breasts moving with each thrust, her mouth wide open as she tries desperately to suck in air. She begins to feel the pull of pleasure in her gut, the slow build of release deep in her core, pinching her nipples and flexing her muscles as she slides her leg higher up his waist, lifting her hips to him, allowing him to hit a spot even deeper inside of her.
“Fuck,” she curses, “I’m so close.”
She feels his hand fall away from her breast and slide down between them to her clit, resuming his earlier ministrations, his fingers slick with her need as his thrusts grow harder, more irregular. She arches away from the mattress, desperate to be closer to him, pressing her breasts to him and pushing his arse down into her with her hand. She is so close, feels the tugging under her naval, her nerves on fire as he thrusts, keeping most of his length inside of her so his hips hit his thumb against her clit. She wants to scream, has to bite her lip to keep herself quiet.
“Don’t you dare,” he moans, pressing his lips to her collarbone, his whispers tickling her skin and sending a shiver down her back that meets a tremble from her thighs.
“I want to hear you scream my name,” he says against her. He brings a thumb up to her lip, pulling it down gently to release it from under her teeth. And oh. Oh. He wants her to be loud, she realizes. He moves faster, harder, his hips erratic as he chases his own orgasm while his fingers bring her to hers. With one last slam of his hips, his thumb moving faster on her clit, she falls off of the edge. Her vision blurs as her body shakes and spasms with pleasure, writhing under him as he continues to thrust.
“Draco!” she screams, a mix of a groan and a shout, as her thighs shake and her eyes roll back into her head. He bites lightly onto her breast as she shoves her nails into his shoulders, jolts of pleasure running up and down her body. The sensation is otherworldly – she has never felt more aware of her body, never felt lighter, never felt a pleasure this overwhelming. The rest of the world disappears for a moment and it is only this feeling; her limbs going tight and then slack again, him holding her, the fluttering of her walls and the delicious intensity of their desire intermingling as he comes.
“Fuck, Hermione!” he grunts as he finds his own release, his hips spasming and stilling as he spills into her, a soft groan falling from his lips onto her skin. His thrusts slow as they both ride out their orgasms, his thumb falling away from her sensitive nub as he finally stills, still deep inside of her as the aftershocks of her release contract around his length, both of them open-mouthed and trembling with pleasure.
He lets his body fall softly over hers as they both twitch and shudder, the pleasure ebbing and flowing like waves over their bodies. She loves how warm he is on top of her, loves how his lithe frame feels pressed against her, their legs knotted together as he grows soft inside of her. His free hand slides over her breast, massaging lightly as they catch their breath. When she finally opens her eyes again, her body tingling and her heartbeat slowing, he is staring at her, his head next to hers on the mattress. He leans forward and kisses her, softly, slowly, so different from the frantic desperation of their sex, but so entirely perfect in this moment.
They lay there for a moment, chests pressed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat. Draco finally pulls out of her, sliding himself off of her body and beside her on the mattress, their legs still tangled together.
“You are so beautiful. So perfect,” he breathes, nestling into her neck and hair and breathing her in. She feels boneless, heavy and light at the same time, pleasant exhaustion sweeping over her.
“That was…” she says into his ear as he plants soft kisses on her neck, his fingers laced through her hair as he slides an arm around her waist to bring her closer.
“I know,” he finishes, pulling back to meet her eyes again.
“Thank you,” he says after a long silence in which they stare at each other, their breathing falling to a regular pace.
She giggles as he shifts them slightly, pulling her up the bed and under his silk sheets before pulling her naked form back into his chest.
“For the sex?” she asks, raising a cheeky eyebrow at him as he rolls his eyes.
“Well, yes. But no,” he says, shaking his head before resting it on her chest above her breasts, running his fingernails in measured patterns over her back, conjuring goosebumps on her skin.
“For helping get my Mother get out. Thank you.”
She nods, leaning forward and planting a firm kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“You’re welcome.”
She leans her head onto his chest, sidling into him as they lay in their post-coital bliss for quiet minutes, listening to the sound of his heartbeat through his chest as his fingers continue to dance rhythmically on her skin, lulling her eyes closed.
Maybe she imagines it; maybe it was the beginnings of a dream; but in the last moment before she is pulled into a deep sleep, she swears she hears Draco lean forward and whisper something against her skin.
“I’d let you ruin me any day, Hermione Granger.”
Then, there is only sleep and pleasant dreams.
Chapter 20: Chapter 20
Notes:
Please note: If you are re-reading this story, you will find that recent changes have been made as far as the location of Pansy's villa. It was brought to my attention that there were some inaccuracies as far as geographical location and weather for the time of year, and I apologize for accidentally overlooking them when I originally published this. It is important to me that I am as accurate in my representations as possible, so I have made the necessary changes in all of the chapters that they were needed (I have no beta, so I am hoping I haven't missed anything!) -- however, the storyline, plot, and everything else remains the same. Thank you for bearing with me!
Chapter Text
The Parkinson Family Villa rests on a lush hillside over the Sea of Cortez, surrounded by thick, green vegetation and hidden just minutes away from a small Wizarding village that outlies muggle Guaymas, on the Northwestern side of Mexico.
They arrive by Portkey mid-afternoon, the sun already sweltering hot as the buzzing sound of cicadas fills Hermione’s ears. The air is thick with a not entirely unpleasant humidity, a drastic dichotomy of the English winter they have just come from.
“Home sweet home,” Pansy smiles, turning to face the visible façade of the villa behind the wrought iron gate, which peaks out behind trees and thick shrubbery. With a flick of Pansy’s wand, the gates grumble and groan as they unlock, opening slowly with a shrill creak.
“I think I might puke,” Adrian says from behind her, and Hermione turns to see him, knees bent, hands pressed against them as he breathes in and out, his face tinged green and his mouth turned downwards in a frown.
“Pucey struggles with motion sickness,” Draco informs her, eyes sparkling with sadistic amusement as Daphne begins rubbing Adrian’s back in slow, comforting circles.
“Fuck you Draco,” Adrian grumbles, puffing his cheeks out before looking down at the ground, inhaling through his nostrils.
“You guys go ahead,” Daphne says sweetly, her hand resting on her boyfriend’s back. “I’ll hang back with Adrian until his stomach settles.”
They nod, using their wands to float their luggage alongside them as they follow Pansy up the mosaic of cobblestone towards the house. Hermione’s parents had always been pretty well off, but she had never seen anything like this in her entire life.
Surrounded on each side by lush, towering greenery, the villa is huge; bright white stucco contrasting the dark leaves of the trees. The house itself is typical Spanish architecture with a complementary mixture of sharp angles and soft curves; a wavy red barrel tile roof, arched doorways and wooden shutters over rectangular windows. Terra cotta pots with large tropical plants line the courtyard, a small bubbling fountain in the middle made with patterned tile in shades of orange and blue.
It is outrageously gorgeous; nothing like Hermione has ever seen before. She tries to keep her mouth from falling open as Pansy leads them inside the bright and airy space, vaulted ceilings and shiny bronze accents.
“You’re drooling, Granger,” Draco whispers into her ear, the warmth of his body suddenly closer as she looks around in awe. She snaps her jaw shut, narrowing her eyes at him as a grin tugs on the outer corners of her lips.
“Let me guess,” she jibes, turning to face him as Pansy leads Theo and Blaise off to their shared bedroom. “-you have three houses even more beautiful than this in Tahiti? Or is it Switzerland? Maybe the Canary Islands?”
He grins, looking down at her as his brow quirks under his fringe. Her stomach twists as she watches him, his blond hair brighter than usual under the sun streaming through the open windows.
“South of France, actually,” he retorts, his voice thick with a teasing sort of pride. “And only one, Granger. Three is a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
She rolls her eyes at him, her gaze wandering down to the protruding veins of his forearm, thinks of how only two mornings ago she had woken up in his bedroom with those arms wrapped around her, how her eyes had landed on his Dark Mark and how she had felt nothing – unperturbed. It didn’t mean anything anymore; not on his skin, not on the skin she had kissed and held, that was part of a body she felt absolutely safe with.
“I thought you purebloods were all about excess,” she teases just as Adrian and Daphne wander through the front door with their bags floating beside them, Adrian looking much more chipper and less pale.
“Maybe once,” he says softly, his eyes studying her with subtle affection. She melts under his gaze, her organs cartwheeling as he reaches forward to rest his hand onto her hip.
“Granger, you’ll room with me,” Pansy announces as she strides back into the room with Blaise and Theo on her heels. Draco drops his hand from her waist, taking a prudent step back as everyone returns to the main room.
“Wonderful,” Hermione smiles, grabbing the strap of her bag and pulling it over her shoulder.
“Adrian and Daph, you can stay in the upstairs room together, and Malfoy, you can take the room you had last summer.”
Blaise, Theo and Adrian snicker softly at this, earning a pointed sneer from Draco.
“Princess Malfoy needs his privacy,” Adrian teases, punching Draco lightly as he walks by with Daphne.
“Pucey, I swear to Salazar-” Draco says through gritted teeth.
“You could share with us,” Blaise goads with a mischievous smile, at which Theo rolls his green eyes.
“I’d rather chop off my own bollocks-”
“Alright, alright,” Pansy yells, pushing Blaise and Theo towards the door as she shakes her head. They laugh more under their breath as Theo sends a flirtatious wink towards Draco. Draco tries to look annoyed, but the corners of his mouth twitch as he turns to follow Daphne and Adrian to the bedrooms. Hermione lets out a laugh as Blaise grins knowingly at her before disappearing out the door onto the balcony.
Pansy mutters something under her breath about ‘juvenile wizards’ before striding over to Hermione and offering her an arm. Pansy looks more relaxed than Hermione has ever seen her; her sleek black hair tucked neatly under two barrettes, a flowy sundress draped over her slight curves, her cheeks blushed with colour. Hermione takes her arm as the Slytherin girl leads her down a long hallway with tiled floors to a large bedroom.
“You don’t mind sharing a bed, do you?” Pansy asks as she drops her arm, pulling the bag from Hermione’s arm and dropping it onto a cushioned armchair in the corner of the room. Hermione shakes her head, spinning to look around the room before realizing that Pansy isn’t looking at her to see her answer.
“Not at all,” she says, plopping down on the large four-poster bed and feeling the sheets with her palm. It’s surprising how unaffected she is by the idea of sharing a room with Pansy Parkinson –like having a two week long sleepover with her childhood nemesis – and yet, it feels as normal as saying yes to rooming with Ginny or Parvati.
Pansy strides over to the large French windows opposite of the bed and pushes them open, a warm breeze blowing into the room immediately.
“You’re not disappointed that you’re not sharing a room with Draco?” Pansy asks pointedly, a devilish grin on her full lips. Hermione blushes, speechless for a moment at the witch’s constant perceptiveness.
“How did you-”
Pansy waves a hand at her in dismissal, pacing over to plop down on the opposite side of the bed.
“Draco hasn’t been in this good of a mood in I don’t know how long,” she explains, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Hermione as she inspects her nails; painted a bright red to match her lips.
“How can you not be in a good mood when we’re here ?” Hermione replies, gesturing to the view of the ocean and the beachfront she can see through the window from the bed. Her heart stutters at the view; turquoise waters and white sand, large rocks scattered along the beach, the shimmer of the sun against the waves.
Pansy lets out a dry laugh, standing from the bed and moving over to her luggage as she begins to unpack.
“It’s been nearly two years and it still feels strange here without my parents,” she concedes softly, her back turned to Hermione as she pulls multiple sundresses from the leather bag, floating them into her closet and onto clothes hangers that sway under the weight of the fabric.
“Do you miss them?” Hermione asks, twisting her body slightly on the mattress to face Pansy. The girl shrugs, her small shoulders meeting her dark bob as she pulls out a strappy bathing suit, tucking it away in a drawer with another quick flick of her wand.
“Sometimes,” she admits, finally turning to face Hermione again. She chews thoughtfully on her lip as a bird sings from somewhere outside. Hermione watches Pansy’s face ripple with a few different emotions, grappling with the same things she knew Draco and the rest of the Slytherins were facing – loving the parents that had chosen a life of hatred over their own children.
“I suppose I miss the days that I could pretend they weren’t awful people,” she continues after a pause, fidgeting with a shirt as her eyes fall to the herringbone pattern on the oak floors.
“When we came up here it was like I could forget everything else. For a moment, they weren’t Death Eaters or blood supremacists, they wouldn’t try to convince me of what I should hate, and all of the ways we are better than muggle-borns,” she visibly flinches, her shoulders jerking slightly as her eyes meet Hermione’s.
“We were just… us. I miss those days. But also, fuck them.”
They laugh together for a moment, and then Hermione stands, walking over to join her by the window.
“I’m so sorry, Pans,” she says softly, resting a comforting hand on the witch’s shoulder, giving her a consoling smile. “I’m really glad you have your friends to be your family now. I’m glad you all have each other.”
Pansy rolls her eyes jokingly, trying to keep her expressions neutral as she chuckles at Hermione’s words.
“Me too, Granger. So sentimental, you Gryffindors. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
Hermione leaves her bag to unpack later, following Pansy as she shows her the rest of the bedrooms. She recognizes Draco’s bag in one of them, but he is nowhere to be seen – neither are the rest of the Slytherins. She shows her the upstairs, the large clawfoot bathtub in the biggest bathroom Hermione has ever seen outside of Hogwarts, and another large room with a grand piano in the center.
Downstairs, there is a large living area, a gorgeous kitchen with a pantry nearly the size of Hermione’s bedroom at home, and a large balcony just past two French doors, which overlooks the water. There is a beautiful outdoor dining set under a large pergola canopy, white curtains blowing lightly in the breeze.
“How is it you don’t want to just stay here forever?” Hermione asks as Pansy leads her down the steep trail to the beach. The insects buzz noisily around them as they follow a trail through the canopy of trees, the sound of waves growing closer and closer.
“It would be nice at first,” Pansy replies, turning her head back to Hermione as they reach a clearing where the forest floor begins to turn to sand. “But you know what they say about too much of a good thing.”
“I don’t know,” Hermione shakes her head as she moves beside Pansy, reaching the large expanse of beach and feeling the hot sun beat down on her exposed shoulders. “I think when something is this beautiful you might never get sick of it.”
Pansy just grins and shrugs, kicking off her sandals and hooking them on her finger to walk barefoot in the sand. Hermione follows, running slightly to catch up to the girl as they finally spot the rest of the Slytherins by the water.
“How’s the water?” Pansy calls as they approach. Most of them are strewn about near a row of beach chaise lounges; Daphne wears a large floppy sunhat over her fain skin, already enjoying the sun while Adrian searches for shells along the shore. Blaise, Theo and Draco are tossing some sort of charmed Frisbee around, as it whizzes and twirls in the air after each throw.
“I don’t know, what do you think Blaise?” Adrian asks before leaning down and splashing water at Blaise’s legs. Blaise shouts a string of curses, abandoning the Frisbee to chase Adrian down the shore and into the water, pushing tidal waves of water at each other in an extremely childish manner. Hermione laughs as Blaise pushes Adrian completely over, his muscly frame toppling into the water as a wave smacks over him, Blaise raising his fists triumphantly.
“That sundress looks lovely on you, Hermione,” Daphne says from her lounge chair, peeking up at her from under her oversized hat. Hermione smiles and thanks her, settling onto the seat beside her and watching Draco as he catches the Frisbee in a way that only a skilled Seeker would, a smile falling onto his lips that makes her heart warm and squeeze in her chest.
Pansy was right; she had never seen him so happy, so full of life. He almost glowed in the sun, his ivory skin and light hair reflecting the light, his grey eyes almost blue, crinkled at the corners in a laugh as the Frisbee smacks into Theo’s leg, sending him dramatically into the sand.
It's then that he notices her watching him; shoots her a charming grin as he helps Theo out of the sand. It’s the first time she has seen Theo shirtless since the night she tattooed him, and she had forgotten how toned and beautiful his body was, the tattoos across his back and upper biceps a mural of images on his olive skin.
Draco brushes sand off of his hands and makes his way over to Hermione; she watches his body, vividly remembers being under it and on it, being pressed against him, skin to skin. She can feel a blush creeping up her neck as he reaches her, offering her a hand where she lays on the beach chaise.
“Walk with me?”
She nods, allowing his palm to envelope her hand as he pulls her up with ease.
For a few minutes, they walk silently along the beach, the shouts and sounds of their friends growing quieter as they get further down. A group of gulls screech above them and Hermione veers sideways slightly to walk by the edge of the water, the warm water sweeping over her toes before being pulled back again.
“Are you glad you came?” Draco finally says, breaking the silence as they reach a secluded area at the end of the beach, reddish grey sandstone boulders towering around them.
Hermione turns to him and nods, can’t help but smile as she tilts her head back, closing her eyes to feel the warm sun beat against her face.
“It’s… peaceful,” she says, running a hand through her curls, which have become loose ringlets in the salt air. When she looks back at him he is watching her, and her lungs still as she sees the softness of his expression, the relaxed smile that she is beginning to grow familiar with.
“You mean you don’t want to go back to the shop to stock books?” he jokes, walking over to her with his hands in his pockets. She shakes her head no, turning to face the water and inhaling a deep breath of the heavy, salty air.
“Not yet,” she replies, feeling his arm graze hers as he stands beside her. “Although the shop brings me a different kind of peace. I’m not sure where I’d be – who I’d be – now, without it.”
She turns to look at him; he looks out at the water, his face stoic but still relaxed as the wind ruffles his white-blond hair slightly, mussing it in the way she loves so much.
“I, uh – I never really thanked you,” he says, clearing his throat as the words tumble from his lips like a confession.
“-for giving me the job. I could have ended up back in Azkaban, acting like such a stubborn prat.”
She says nothing, just watches him; watches his muscle tighten in his jaw, watches his brows pull slightly together. This wasn’t easy for him; all of this reconciliation, admitting all of the ways he had been wrong. She slips her hand into his, watches him look down at their intertwined fingers. He stiffens slightly, taking a deep breath in.
Since they had had sex, Hermione has been unsure about showing physical affection towards him – was unsure if she should hold his hand, or kiss him when she wanted. It had only been a few days, but the parameters of their ‘relationship’ were so unclear, a thin line drawn in the sand, undiscussed and undetermined. She still has no idea where they stand, and she is scared of what hangs in the balance should they want different things.
He squeezes her hand softly, looking down at her with his steel-grey eyes, so piercing and so beautiful, hypnotizing in their sharpness.
“You don’t have to thank me for anything, Malfoy,” she says, releasing his hand. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”
He scoffs, turning slightly away from her as she smiles.
“I’m serious,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear to keep it out of her face. “Besides, who else would look that good using a muggle table saw?”
He cracks a grin, turning towards her and pulling her into him with her waist.
“I knew you were watching me whenever I used the saw,” he brags, rubbing a thumb against the fabric of her sundress. “You know Granger, I really hate the way you objectify me.”
She lets out a dulcet laugh, throwing her head back as he slides a palm to the small of her back.
“You’re impossible,” she says, his eyes falling wantonly onto her lips.
“Mm, and you’re so reasonable, Granger? I never thought anyone could ever be more stubborn than I am until I met you.”
“No,” she argues, feeling a familiar pull behind her naval as Draco pulls her in closer to him, his sun-warmed skin hot against her own. “You definitely beat me in that category, every time.”
His lips tug upwards into a sly grin as he leans forward, his lips grazing her cheek and ear as he whispers, “Call it a draw?”
She shivers, a spark shooting downwards to her core as his lips fall gently on her neck.
“Deal.”
~~~
There are very few moments in her life that Hermione has been able to know what true, unbridled bliss feels like – and this is one of them.
It is blissful to sit around the table at dusk, under the pergola as she eats dinner with the Slytherins. It is blissful to inhale the lingering scent of ocean air as it mixes with the smell of the citrus trees and Draco’s cologne; blissful to listen to the raucous noise of her friends’ laughter as they eat the meal Adrian has cooked for them. It is blissful, the way Draco’s hand rests on her leg under the table, brushing his thumb tenderly on the inside of her thigh as they sip wine, their friends none the wiser of the small but intimate gesture that is bringing butterflies to her stomach.
It is blissful the way the sun touches the horizon in shades of orange and pink, saturating the calm waters of the ocean as it sinks away, pulling with it a blanket of inky sky and bright stars.
She had forgotten, until now, what bliss was like. And as Draco’s thumb rubs softly against her skin, shooting gooseflesh down her legs and making her heart beat rapidly as he tangles his foot with hers, she watches him, regards the way he talks to Theo across the table, observes the sharp lines of him that she has memorized and the way his eyes dance as he laughs at something Adrian has said.
I love you , she thinks, and there it is, that blissful feeling again; the wine warming her body, making her limbs feel heavy as the euphoria simultaneously makes them light again.
The thought is almost sinful. Loving Draco Malfoy is something that might have been so absurd to her long ago, something so out of reach and foreign. But now it practically begs to roll off of her tongue, to fall out like a confession, to be whispered in his ear. But she can’t – she is smart enough to know she can’t.
“I need to hear this story about Theo streaking through the fountain,” she says to the group to distract herself, turning to watch as everyone laughs, clapping joyously to encourage him to tell the story.
“It started the way any good story does,” he begins, setting down the glass of lemonade he is holding and diving into the story in the easy, serene way he always does. She feels Draco squeeze her thigh affectionately, a recognition of how much she has become a part of this group, of the way his friends have become hers. She feels him watching her from the corner of her eye as everyone else watches Theo; takes his hand in hers under the table and traces the prominent veins in his hand.
“ –And I never back down from a dare, unlike our friend Pucey over here-”
“Hey, hey, hey, there was no way I was going to get away with transfiguring that statue into a stone version of Filch! The ministry would have hauled me straight to Azkaban for breaking the Statute of Secrecy.”
“Or you’re just a pussy,” Theo jibes, earning a swift kick from Adrian under the table as swear words spill from his mouth.
“What about you, Granger?” Pansy asks, swirling her glass of red wine as she leans forward onto the table, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
“What about me?”
“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done? Ever run naked through a public fountain before?” Theo finishes for Pansy. She releases Draco’s hand under the table, feels suddenly cold when his hand slips from her thigh to pour himself a glass of water.
“I-” she begins, her mind beginning to flick through her memories like a scrapbook. She had always been grateful for her life before the war, always happy with her friends, satisfied with summers spent at The Burrow and weekends spent window shopping in Hogsmeade. But so much of her life had been dedicated to solving mysteries, to keeping Harry and Ron out of trouble and keeping them alive, to keeping Hogwarts safe. Her childhood had been equal parts happy and terrifying, but she was forced to grow up far too fast. From the moment she stepped on the giant Wizard’s Chessboard in first year, something had been lost – the key to unsullied naivety, to artless innocence. The rest of her life had been a tipping scale of trying to live like a normal child, like the muggle boys and girls she had watched on the playground, so innocent, so ignorant to the horrors that Hermione had first laid eyes on at eleven years old.
Was there ever a moment that she had set herself free of her inhibitions? Where she had let herself be something other than ‘Hermione Granger: Protector, Bookworm, Brightest Witch of Her Age’?
The first thing that comes to mind is a day only months ago, when she had walked into Scratch the Mark and asked Blaise to tattoo her.
“No,” she smiles sadly, trying to keep her voice light despite the tugging inside of her saying that the war had taken a lot more than people from her; it had taken away liberation, spontaneity, carelessness. It had taken away eleven year old Hermione Granger, years before it had even started.
“-I’ve never even been skinny dipping.”
“Granger, that’s pathetic!” Adrian chides, and she laughs as he describes the freeing feeling of swimming naked, earning a blush and an eye roll from Daphne beside him.
“I guess the craziest thing I’ve ever done was fight a war.”
The table falls silent, smiles falling and eyes dropping to look at her. For a moment, she regrets saying it, is worried that she has said the wrong thing. It hadn’t been meant as a jibe towards them, as a brag about what she had done, was not supposed to be a reminder that she had fought against their parents who had been sent to Azkaban.
She chews the inside of her cheek as she watches, listens, waits for someone to say something.
“You’re brave, Hermione.”
It’s Blaise who has spoken – wise, aloof, kind, the first friend she had made after the war- Blaise, who leans across the table to take her hand into his. He catches her eye, giving her a soft, assuring smile.
“I’m sorry that you’ve lived so much of your life to fight a war. I’m sorry that we had some, small part in that. I’ve always admired your courage, your tenacity, your… well, that spark you have, Granger.”
Something inside of her breaks – though she misses her parents desperately, wishes they could remember her, that she could have them back, if only for a moment – she knows that this is what a found family feels like.
“We’re glad we have you, Granger,” Blaise finishes, and she allows a tear to roll down her face before hastily wiping it away.
“Besides,” Theo grins, flicking a strand of curly brown hair from his forehead, “there is plenty of time left for skinny dipping. Or streaking through public fountains, if that’s your thing.”
There is a chorus of laughter, and Blaise releases Hermione’s hand as she mouths ‘thank you’ to him through the noise.
“To our honorary member of Slytherin house, Hermione Granger!” Adrian says, raising his glass of wine into the air. The others follow, raising their glasses up in a toast, clinking and swallowing as the chatter grows to a dull roar. A warm blush refuses to leave Hermione’s cheeks as Draco slips his hand back onto her thigh, resuming his clandestine affections as they begin to discuss their favourite memories of the Peeves versus Filch debacle.
After dinner they all use magic to clean up, not stopping until the table and the kitchen are pristine. They break off into small groups – Blaise and Theo take a walk by the ocean while Pansy and Daphne sip more wine by a small fire pit; Draco and Adrian lean against the stone balustrade around the balcony, talking softly about Quidditch and their bets for the season.
Hermione wanders the garden, looking at all of the plants and flowers and cataloguing them in her head when she recognizes any magical plants she had learned about in Herbology. Then, in a small section of the garden, she sees it – tall thin stocks and long, thin leaves. Rosemary.
With shaky hands, she leans over and pulls a sprig from the bush, placing it gently between her palms and rubbing them together tenderly. Then, she brings her palms up to her nose and breathes in deeply.
The smell is so pure, so sweet and earthy, and oh god how it smells like home. Draco’s scent was more diluted, variegated with other spices and sweetness.
But this – this was home. This was her mother and her father and their house back in Hampstead, in the backyard, in the house on a summer day.
For the second time that night, she lets a tear fall, swiping it with the back of her hand before kneeling down and pinching off a handful of the fragrant herb, waving her wand and watching it grow back instantly, even fuller than it had been before. She wanders through the dark garden and into the house where she fills a small vase with water and plops the rosemary in, taking one last smell before wandering back out to her friends.
They stay up for a few more hours, talking and laughing by the fire, sipping wine and Daphne’s homemade limoncello. When the fire dies they slowly make their way back inside, parting ways as they head into their separate rooms for the night.
Draco gives Hermione a regretful smile from down the hallway before he disappears into his room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Pansy and Hermione get ready for bed quietly, their exhaustion taking the form of a comfortable silence as they step into pyjamas and slip under the covers. As soon as Pansy’s head hits the pillow Hermione can hear her even breathing, her soft exhales, and knows she is asleep.
Hermione’s eyelids feel as if they weigh a million pounds; the kind of tired you only get when you spend the day in the sun, when you eat good food and drink great wine and sing the Hogwarts song around the fire through dissonant giggles and laughter. But for some reason she fights sleep, pulling her eyes open and thinking about Draco, just three doors down, sleeping in his own room.
She twists under the covers, Pansy’s soft respirations in her ear as Hermione stares up at the ceiling. Suddenly, as if a switch has been turned on, her body is restless, galvanized, her mind alert and remembering the way Draco’s hands felt on her skin, the way her first name sounded in his mouth as he spilled inside of her.
A woman possessed, she sits up gently in bed, careful not to wake Pansy as she sets her feet on the cold wooden floor and stands, pulling the covers back up and tiptoeing towards the door.
Her heart is pounding in her chest; part exhilaration, part nerves – that Draco will reject her, that he will not, that they will repeat what they had done only nights ago. Slowly, so carefully, she pulls open the door watching Pansy the whole time as she does. When there is a Hermione-sized crack in the door she slips through, shutting it just as gently and slowly before padding down the dark corridor to Draco’s room.
She stands in front of his door, her heart a staccato beat in her ribcage, her body tingling with anticipation. She hesitates for a moment, second-guessing herself. What if he was already asleep? What if he didn’t want her there, only shared his bed after a romp in the sheets?
Pushing away her doubts she twists the door handle and pushes it open, stepping into the dark room, which is a similar layout to the one she shares with Pansy.
“Draco?” she whispers into the darkness, her eyes adjusting as she steps towards the outline of the bed.
Her heart falls when she realizes he is not there, her face falling into a frown at the crumpled outline of his body on his sheets.
But it starts again, wild, hammering in her pulse when she sees the folded note on the pillow. She crawls onto the bed, still warm where his body had been, and picks up the folded bit of parchment, her fingers tripping over themselves as she pulls it open.
Granger,
Meet me at the beach. Bring a towel.
Draco
It is almost embarrassing how fast she jumps into action. She stumbles gracelessly into the bathroom in Draco’s room, searching for a towel and stopping in front of the mirror to assess herself. She sighs at the wild, windblown curls in disarray on her head and inspects the small freckles seduced out by the sun today; remembers that this is as good as it will ever get and grabs a folded towel from under the sink before sneaking back out of Draco’s room and through the house, thanking whatever Gods will listen that Pansy’s villa does not have squeaky floors.
“Lumos,” she whispers to her wand as she traipses down the stairs on the side of the balcony, following the path to the beach Pansy had shown her earlier that day. She feels alive, euphoric, exhilarated as she points her wand in front of her, careful not to trip on any roots or fallen branches as she makes her way heedlessly down the hillside towards the beach.
The ocean at night is serene; the waves are softer, gentler, the sounds they make melodious as they lap at the shore. The stars are bright, the moon almost full, and the light bounces off the water and illuminates the white sand. She sees him from afar; his tall, slender figure by the shores, facing the water.
He is still; so still, and she has forgotten how good it feels to appreciate stillness in life. She is so used to moving, to keeping herself busy, but seeing Draco stand frozen in the sand calms her, makes her feel at peace. She approaches him slowly despite wanting to run to him, and when she finally reaches him he turns to face her, giving her a signature smile.
“I was hoping you’d already be naked,” he jokes, grabbing the towel from her hands and setting it next to his on the lounge chair behind them.
“Sorry to disappoint,” she grins, stepping closer to him. He pulls her into a kiss, softer and more tender than usual, before releasing her again.
“Ready to go skinny dipping for the first time, Granger?” he asks before swiftly pulling off his t-shirt. Hermione’s heart skips a beat – she had been hoping for more time, to ease into it, but Draco is already pulling his trousers off, leaving him only in his boxers.
Be brave, Hermione, she thinks, and then she nods, shucking her sandals and feeling the cool sand beneath her toes. She feels him stare as she shyly steps out of her nightgown, just one article of clothing before she is naked before him. She keeps her head down, her arms instinctually covering herself as she kicks away the nightdress, the wind blowing over her bare skin.
“Granger,” his voice is low, dangerous.
“Yes?”
“Let me look at you.”
She inhales a sharp breath, meeting his gaze as she drops her arms to her sides, her chest heaving as she stands in front of him, nipples taut from the breeze, gooseflesh covering her skin.
“You are beautiful, Granger,” he says, closing the space between them and sliding a hand around her waist, down over her bum and up her side. She shivers, from the cold, from him, from arousal.
“Your turn,” she says, and he obeys, pulling his boxers down and stepping out of them. She sees the outline of him in the dark, illuminated partly by the moon, half-hard and as beautiful as she remembers him.
“Would it be weird if I told you that you were beautiful, too?” she asks as he steps forward again, slipping a hand into her hair as he kisses her temple.
“No, I don't think it is,” he sighs contentedly against her skin, his other hand skating softly over her breast. She smiles, looking up at him as the feeling of bliss returns to her again.
“Ready?” he asks, stepping away and grabbing her hand. She nods and together they turn towards the ocean.
“One,” he begins, and now she’s aware that he is counting, squeezing her hand and smiling gently at her before he continues.
“Two… Three!”
And then they are running into the waves, the saltwater splashing up their ankles, and then onto their legs and torsos. The water is warm as it slides past her skin, around the curves of her body and then into her hair as they sink their shoulders down.
Hermione is laughing; boisterous and possibly embarrassingly, but she doesn’t care.
Because this feels so good. So freeing, so liberating and incredible. Her feet touch the ocean floor, soft sand between her toes as she looks up at the stars and the moon and laughs.
For a small moment, she is unfettered by everything she has ever been burdened by; by all of the thoughts that have weighed her down. For a small moment, she is just a girl.
“How does it feel?” Draco asks from behind her, pressing his body against her back under the water and planting a kiss on her jaw as his hands slip around her waist.
“Amazing,” she breathes. He chuckles softly into her skin as she leans her head back against his shoulder, looking up at the night sky as soft waves lap at her collarbone.
“Draco?”
“Granger.”
“Would you like to know something else I’ve never done before?”
“What’s that?”
“Sex on the beach.”
He tightens his hold on her waist, pulling her back against him, and she can feel him smile against her skin.
“Well, it hardly seems fair to deny you of that. Tonight is a night of firsts, after all.”
Chapter 21: Chapter 21
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For Hermione, the afternoon is her favourite time of day. Every day, she and the Slytherins wake and eat breakfast, usually prepared by Adrian, with some hot coffee and freshly squeezed juice from Pansy’s fruit trees. After that, they spend the day enjoying the sun; swimming in the ocean, biking down the long, private road of the Parkinson Villa, sunning themselves in the sand or exploring the mountainside along the coast.
After lunch, during the typical hour of siesta, the afternoon sun beats hot enough for them to spend time inside, or under the shade of the pergola while they sip on glasses of ice water. Sometimes they nap, retreating to their bedrooms as their bodies slouch with exhaustion from hours spent in the sun.
But for Hermione, the afternoon is her favourite time of day for a different reason. After lunch, she grabs a book, or her journal, and makes her way into the garden. Tied between two large trees is a fabric hammock, always swaying lightly in the breeze and always sheltered by the shade of the thick leaves at this precise time of day. For the hottest hour of the day, Hermione lays in the hammock and reads or writes, swinging softly as the colourful fabric cradles her body and the wind blows warm and salty through her hair.
It is completely coincidental that Draco had eventually started to join her; short minutes after she slips into the hammock his figure appears in the garden, striding towards her with his own book. The first time he had come he had slipped into the hammock beside her without a word, laying the opposite way she had so that they could see each other, legs tangled at each other’s sides.
Eventually, she came to expect him there. Five minutes after she would arrive he would appear, slide in beside her and read silently. Sometimes he would place a hand on the skin of her leg and rub softly, up and down in slow rhythmic movements. Other times he would make her stand and pull her into the hammock between his legs, her head resting on his chest. Sometimes they would just lie there, each other’s presence enough, reading together in the hammock.
It had come to be her favourite part of the day — afternoons, in the hammock with Draco. Sometimes, one of them would break the silence to ask the other a question:
“Draco?”
“Reading, Granger,” he would reply in a bored drawl, shaking the book in his hands to signal that he was busy.
“What’s your favourite memory from your childhood?”
He had huffed, snapping his book shut in a dramatically irate manner that she knew was mostly performative before meeting her stare, resting his book on the hard planes of his chest.
“The day my father taught me how to ride a broom,” he had replied after a moment’s thought. He swallowed, fingering the corners of the book's pages as his brows pulled together in reminiscence. “I felt proud to be his son that day. And I was too naïve to know how much everything was going to change.”
“Do you miss him?” she had asked after a minute, placing her hand on his knee beside her.
“No,” he had answered quickly. “Not anymore.”
Other times, their conversations were light, small quarrels about unnecessary nonsense.
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, Granger,” he had frowned one day, rolling his eyes as her face fell.
“You are so daft,” she had replied, earning a startled shift from him in the hammock.
“I’m daft!? You’re the one suggesting that Potter and I could have been friends in another life.”
“It’s not completely absurd! You both like Quidditch, you're both smart and headstrong, and-”
“Granger, I would rather lick a troll’s arseho-”
“Fine, fine, forget I said anything.”
He had smiled triumphantly and settled back into the hammock, picking up his book as she rolled her eyes at him. Despite everything that had happened to them since, she and Draco were still at each other’s throats with silly arguments like this - small, meaningless clashes of opinion that had them both blue in the face.
But Hermione doesn’t mind the arguing; in fact, it feels just as much a part of them as everything else does.
After all, she hadn’t fallen for him because of the way he held her after sex or the way his thumb brushed her skin affectionately under the table every night at dinner — no, her feelings for Draco had emerged somewhere in the midst of their disputes in the shop, in late nights and early mornings, in clashes of opinion and feuds over black coffee. Her feelings for Draco were because of who he was, despite his temperament and less-than-cheery disposition about the world.
She isn’t sure how or why they fit together — has no idea how this strange arrangement between them works, but it does.
Some days, she works on writing her book, using a muggle pen to jot notes down in her leather journal. When she had told her Mind Healer, Harper, about writing a historical novel about the Second Wizarding War, the witch had encouraged it. She had said that the process of writing and reflection could be healing and that Hermione was indeed the perfect person to recount the details of the war in a book. Sometimes, Hermione asked Draco questions about Voldemort’s ranks; about Death Eaters and meetings in Malfoy Manor. At first, he had been less than agreeable about helping her — would stare down in contempt at the mark on his arm and shake his head.
“I’ve pushed all of those memories far away, Granger,” he had said. Other days he would answer, recounting details about Voldemort’s reign that Hermione had been unaware of. She made small notes in the margins about fact-checking and thanked him. She learned that some topics were easier for him to answer, (“It was Rookwood, not Avery who planned that attack,”) while others were harder for him to discuss (the subject of Charity Burbage’s death.)
Sometimes she would sit on the balcony after dinner as the sun set, scribbling as fast as her hand would go as details about the war came back to her; memories of hearing Potterwatch through a small, fuzzy radio, a recollection of a moment from The Battle of the Seven Potters. Some things are easier to write than others; she understands Draco’s reluctance to talk about such dark days.
With Christmas only days away, the seven of them had decided to plan a dinner on the night of Christmas Eve and celebrate the day of Christmas with gifts and relaxed festivities by the beach. There is a perpetual knot in Hermione’s stomach about what she should get Draco. She knows that if she asks, he will probably frown and tell her that he doesn’t want anything. But she wants to do something special for him anyway, something thoughtful like the copy of Pride and Prejudice he had given her.
“Pansy, are we able to explore Mexico City? I’d love to look around and maybe do some Christmas shopping in the next couple of days.”
It's breakfast time and the sun is already hot, blaring down onto their shoulders despite the shade from the canopy as they chew on a batch of warm pastries Adrian had pulled from the oven only minutes ago.
“I’d forgotten that you hadn’t gone into the city yet,” Pansy says as she sips her coffee, leaning back in the patio chair. Beside her, Blaise flips a page in The Daily Prophet, which had been delivered by an exhausted owl this morning and was dated two days previous.
“I’d love to go to San Miguel de Allende,” Daphne says as she pours some steaming espresso into a tiny white mug. “It’s beautiful there. A bit far, but we could apparate in the morning and be back before dinner.”
There is a murmur of agreement from the rest of the group and Pansy smiles at Hermione.
“Tomorrow sound alright, Granger?”
“Perfect,” she nods.
After they have cleaned up breakfast they all change into bathing suits and head down to the water, towels in their arms as they tramp down the wooded path together.
Blaise walks beside Hermione, slightly behind the rest of the group.
“I never thought I’d see the day that you would replace me with Pansy Parkinson,” Blaise admonishes her teasingly as they walk, watching as Theo gives Pansy a piggyback a few feet ahead of them. “You haven’t told me anything about how things are going between you and Malfoy.”
Blaise watches her with his dark, mysterious eyes as she blushes lightly. It was true — ever since Pansy had woken up in their shared room without Hermione that first night, and every time since, Hermione had reasoned that there was no point in hiding anything from the witch.
It had been so long since she and Blaise had had a chance to talk about things, about him and Theo and her and Draco, and everything else happening in their respective lives.
“I’m sorry,” she says sheepishly, sliding an arm around his bare back affectionately as they step over a tangle of roots. Blaise in turn puts his own arm around Hermione’s shoulder as they continue to walk.
“We’ve been busy, Granger. There’s no need to apologize for anything.” He smiles kindly, winking at her as they watch their friends reach the beach ahead.
“I’m- I’m not entirely sure where his head is at,” she admits, chewing her lip in thought as they reach the hot sand. Blaise pulls them to a halt, releasing Hermione from under his arm and pulling her to look at him.
“It takes him time to believe in things,” he says to her, his eyes sharply consoling as they flicker over to where Draco and Theo now stand at the edge of the water, watching as Adrian pulls Daphne into a wave.
Hermione nods in understanding, turning back to the dark-haired wizard in front of her.
“I told you that working at the shop would be good for him,” Blaise smirks, crossing his arms over his chest proudly. Hermione laughs, shakes her head at him.
“And you all called me crazy for buying it,” she reminds him. The sun beats down onto her skin, seeps through the light fabric of her sundress, and she itches to get into the cool water.
“No,” he corrects her, and they begin walking again, forcing Blaise to raise his voice slightly over the sound of the wind and the waves. “-I vividly remember saying that if anyone could do it, it would be you. I believed in you from the very beginning, Hermione. I still do.”
Her body is warm from the sun and from Blaise’s words. She smiles up at him as they reach their friends. Draco is already in the water with Daphne and Adrian, but Theo lingers on shore with Pansy, who has already slathered on tanning oil and is laying on a beach chaise and adjusting her sunglasses.
“Hermione?” Blaise says quietly as they reach them, grabbing her arm gently to bring her attention back to his face. Her brows pull together quizzically as Blaise gives her a soft, serious look.
“Don’t give up on him too easily, yeah?” he says into her ear, the smell of sunscreen and his usual cologne filling her nostrils. He releases her hand, scanning her face as she takes a breath in and nods.
“I think you know me well enough by now to know I don’t give up on things, even when they aren’t easy.”
Blaise’s mouth snaps into a knowing grin as he releases her arm.
“I suppose not,” he says, and then Theo is reaching out to pull Blaise into the water with him.
“C’mon handsome,” Theo says huskily, lacing his fingers with Blaise’s as he tugs him into the foam of the tide. Hermione watches with a grin as the two make their way into the water, but not before Blaise stops him to pull him in for a soft, doting kiss.
“How does it fit?” Pansy asks from the beach lounge behind Hermione. She turns to face the tanned witch, dropping her towel on the empty chair beside her and flicking her sandals off into the sand.
“Perfectly, actually. Didn’t even need to adjust anything with my wand.” Hermione replies, pulling awkwardly at her loose sundress. Pansy raises a seductive eyebrow, tilting her head in challenge at Hermione.
“Well let’s see then, Granger,” she drawls, pulling herself up to lean on her elbows. “Give everyone a good show, why don’t you.”
Pushing her nerves away, Hermione nods, reaching back to pull at the zipper of her sundress. Pansy watches with cordial interest as the straps of the dress slide off of Hermione’s tanned shoulders, the smooth fabric falling down her legs and revealing the bathing suit underneath.
It had been Pansy’s idea for Hermione to borrow one of the strappy bikinis she had brought with her, and it had taken some persuasion on Pansy’s side to convince Hermione that it was a good idea. Hermione had brought mostly one-pieces, cute but modest. The suit she was wearing now was small and sexy, bright red and slung low on her hips.
Her cheeks warm, and she leans over to pick up her sundress before straightening again.
“Jeez, Granger,” Pansy praises, her mouth falling open slightly as Hermione stands before her in the suit, slightly self-conscious of how much of her bum the bottoms show off.
“Does it look alright?” Hermione asks, tucking a windblown curl behind her ear.
“I don’t know, why don’t you ask Draco?” Pansy smirks devilishly, falling back against the beach lounge and closing her eyes, clearly pleased with herself.
When Hermione turns, Draco is emerging out of the water behind her, his eyes dark and ravenous and his jaw shut tight as droplets of water roll off of his alabaster skin.
She sucks in a deep breath, walking down the sand towards him until she meets him, ankle-deep in the water. He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth before sliding his hands onto her hips, pulling her into him in a jarring manner and leaning into her ear so that his lips tickle the skin there.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me right now, Granger?”
His voice is throaty and grating, and her eyes fall shut as his index finger begins to twirl the tie of the bikini bottoms, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and finger as he holds her hips with a bruising pressure. She inhales a sharp breath of air as he places a kiss in the place that makes her knees weak, behind her ear at the top of her jawbone.
“Draco, everyone is watching,” she whispers as his fingers graze under the tie of her bottoms, rough skin dancing over her hipbone. He sighs in disappointment, pulling back to look at her, leaving his hands on her waist.
“You think I give a fuck, Granger? If you only knew what I wanted to do to you right now…”
She smiles at him, the sultriest grin she can give him, before rising on her tiptoes to whisper into his ear.
“Sounds like you need to cool down a bit, Malfoy.”
He doesn’t see it coming as she releases him and leans down to the water, cupping it with her hands and pushing it towards him to splash the cool water across his chest. His mouth falls open in surprise and he raises his hands up to his face as drops of water fly everywhere.
She grins maniacally at him, tipping her head back to laugh as his face falls into an irritated scowl.
“You’re going to regret that, Granger,” he says dangerously, and the wave he sends back at her in revenge is twice as big, twice as high, soaking her entire body as she runs deeper in the water to escape, laughing and squealing childishly as he chases her, dousing her with saltwater, her hair sodden and dripping as he catches up to her. She fights back, spraying him with another wave and turning to run away again. Draco is quicker, catches her at the waist and pulls her back into him, his arm sliding around the front of her stomach and lifting her as he spins.
Their laughter fills the air in a harmonious, melodic eruption as he drops her effortlessly into the waves. When she emerges again he holds his arms up in surrender, having drenched her thoroughly head to toe. She rolls her eyes at him, pushing him playfully on the shoulder and letting herself fall back into the water to float contentedly on her back.
Her skin is tanned slightly from spending so many days in the sun, and her shoulders, arms and nose are dotted with the freckles she always gets in the summer. Even her brown hair has been lightened slightly by the sun. She already feels beautiful – an attribute she had always been so wary of, so unbothered by. But the way Draco swims towards her, sliding his hands under her back as she floats, his eyes darting over the freckles on her body, her bare stomach and floating curls, makes her feel even more beautiful. She smiles up at him, letting herself relax as he floats her there in the water.
They eventually join the others, calling for Pansy to come into the water too. The witch lets out an exasperated sigh before eventually giving in, following them into the waves to toss a blow-up beach ball around. They play and swim for a bit longer before retreating to the beach lounges to lie in the sun, thoroughly exhausted by the water. Blaise uses his wand to conjure a few large umbrellas, giving them shade from the heat as they settle into the chairs to relax.
Hermione can feel Draco’s eyes lingering on her body as she settles down onto her towel, laying back on the chaise and bending one knee as she closes her eyes, inhaling a tired breath as the saltwater dries against her skin.
“I’m going up to the house to get us all drinks,” comes Draco’s voice suddenly as he towels off his skin. Hermione peeks one eye open to look at him and realizes that he is still watching her pointedly, an eyebrow quirked up into his wet fringe.
“Want help?” she asks, sitting up and wrapping her towel around her waist.
“That would be great, Granger,” he nods, his voice calm and low as he helps her stand, waiting as she slips on her shoes.
“Don’t be long,” Pansy sings, her voice high and teasing as Draco and Hermione depart from the beach. They can hear quiet laughter from the rest of the Slytherins behind them as they walk, flicking warm sand onto their calves which sticks to their damp skin.
They walk silently up the path, keeping feet of space between them as they head up the hill towards the villa; but Hermione’s heart is pounding. Her pulse races in her veins and there is anticipation pulling at her core, an ache and a tug behind her naval as she follows Draco towards the house, chewing her lip as she watches the muscles in his back move, small beads of water rolling down his neck from his wet hair.
She swallows, a shiver running through her as they climb the steps to the house, shuffling without a word into the French doors and towards the kitchen.
Hermione hangs her towel over one of the dining chairs, leaving her only in the bikini as her wet curls stick and dry against her neck and shoulders. She brushes past Draco into the kitchen, moving towards a cupboard and flinging it open to search for glasses.
“What drinks are we making?” she asks without turning, her eyes searching the shelves as she decides which cups to use.
“I think you know that we’re not really here to get drinks, Granger.”
She feels him step suddenly behind her, his fingers pulling the wet hair away from her skin and pushing it over one shoulder before his lips meet her neck. She falls forward against the countertop, her hands bracing her as Draco grabs her hips, tightly, his thumbs digging into her hipbones as he presses her forward against the wood.
His lips attack her neck with open-mouthed kisses, his tongue licking off the salty drops of water there as she lets out a dulcet whine, her knees buckling as his teeth graze her skin.
“I want to fuck you in this bikini, Granger,” he says into her ear, husky and startling. His hand slides, open-palmed, across her stomach, and her head falls back against his shoulder, her mouth falling open as the hand skates under the fabric of her bottoms. She gasps, her eyelids fluttering closed as he presses his hardening length against her arse, a growl emerging from his throat as he swipes his thumb brusquely over her clit.
She moans, her chest heaving as she sucks air into her lungs, her legs shaking as he begins painfully slow movements against her core.
“What if someone sees?” she pants as he slides his fingers through her folds, once, twice, three times. He plants a few kisses on her neck and jaw, his lips tickling her skin as he replies with a breathy sigh.
“No one is around, Granger.”
She trembles as he adds more pressure to her clit, using his other hand to slip under her bikini top, palming her breast as her nipples pebble against him.
“Draco-” she breathes nervously, forcing her eyes open as she glances over to the door. He exhales a half-irritated sigh, pulling both hands out from under her bathing suit and spinning her around brazenly to face him. His eyes fall onto hers; blackened with desire and hooded under heavy lids as he breathes in and out, his hands falling possessively back onto her hips.
“I have an idea,” he says, and his hand takes hers, pulling her urgently and leading her over to the doors of the large pantry. He pulls the door open with a creak as the lights inside of the pantry flick on.
“After you,” he says, stepping to the side and motioning for Hermione to go inside. She raises a critical brow at him, but her entire body is on fire, and the idea of having sex with Draco Malfoy against the shelves in a pantry is driving her wild. She slips inside, and barely has time to take a breath before Draco follows her in, closing the door behind him with a slam before his lips dive back onto hers.
She can taste the saltwater on his lips as he slips his tongue into her mouth, sliding a calloused hand up her chest to hold her throat lightly as he presses her back into the shelves. She is desperate for him already, grabbing at his arse and pulling him into her. She can feel his erection through the wet fabric of his bathing suit, and she grinds her hips against his, causing a moan to tumble from his lips.
“Turn around,” he says, his voice firm, demanding, sexy. He steps back and Hermione promptly spins to face the shelves of the giant pantry, gripping the wooden shelves as she looks over her shoulder at him. She watches his eyes flash with desire as she arches her back slightly, pushing her hips and bum towards him as she whimpers.
“Touch me, Draco,” she pleads, biting her lip softly as he steps towards her finally, his warm hands returning to her waist. He kisses her hungrily for a moment before pulling away abruptly and kneeling down to the floor. Her breathing is heavy as she waits, turning her face to the wall and clutching at the shelves in anticipation.
Then she feels his fingers brush, featherlight on the skin of her hips as he slides them under the ties of her suit, hooking them under the knots of the bow and holding the end of the string between his fingers. She whimpers as she feels him tug at the string, the tie coming undone on one side. Then, slowly, painfully slowly, he moves his fingers to the other side, repeating the motion there as her bikini bottoms come undone completely, falling at her feet.
She is naked from the waist down now, Draco’s hot breaths on the supple skin of her arse. She can hear his breath catch in his throat as his hand skates over the rounded flesh, up to the dimples of her back and back down again. Her core is tingling with need, her nipples hard and painfully tight as he kisses her hip, kneading her bum with a gentle hand.
Then, from slow to fast, he spins her back around to face him, her back to the shelves and her core exposed to him.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, sliding his palms up her thighs, “and so wet for me, aren’t you?”
Then he grabs her hips and pulls them forward forcefully, making Hermione gasp as she reaches up to grab the shelves and steady herself. Then, without another word his mouth is on her; latching onto her clit as his tongue runs down her opening, warm and wet against her as he sucks.
“Draco,” she groans, her head falling back violently against the shelves, so hard that she’ll probably have a goose egg tomorrow. Her thighs try to snap closed at the feeling of his mouth, his tongue on her, but he uses his palms to hold them open, unrelenting as his eyes flick up to hers. She moans as his teeth brush against her clit, his tongue swirling expertly against her. Her legs shake as he fucks her with his tongue, stretching a hand upwards to cup her breast, massaging her hardened nipple between his fingers.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, grabbing her elbow and leading her hands to her swollen breasts. She obeys, first tugging at the tied strings to allow the top of her bikini to fall to the floor before taking her breasts into her palms and squeezing lightly, her mouth falling open as she heaves in air. His mouth is on her core again, open and hot against her and, Merlin, she had no idea that anyone could feel this much pleasure.
“I’m getting close,” she warns him, squeezing her nipples between her fingers as Draco’s thumbs press with a bruising force into her thighs, his tongue swiping roughly at her clit as he sinks two fingers inside of her. He sucks and laves at her, his mouth unyielding against her as a familiar warmth rises in her hips, tugging at her and growing to a powerful ache.
“Come for me, Granger,” he says, pressing his thumb back against her clit, hard, his mouth falling open against her core.
She moans, smacking her head off of the shelf as she bucks against him, her orgasm washing over her, white-hot and exploding in her gut as she cries out, her legs shaking and her eyes pinching shut as he continues to lap at her.
He brings his hands up to replace hers on her breasts, squeezing and pinching as she rides out her orgasm, her vision blurry and her limbs tingling with powerful pleasure. He pulls his mouth away from her and stands, not allowing her a single moment to catch her breath before he spins her around frantically so she is facing the shelves again. She hears the fabric of his bathing suit as he pulls it down his legs, and even though she has just come, her core throbs as she realizes what is about to come next.
She grabs the shelves above her, pushing her hips and arse up and bending slightly at her waist. Her knuckles turn white as she grasps onto the shelves in wait. She peers over her shoulder in time to watch him as he holds his hard length in his fist, pumping himself slowly as his eyes devour her body. She can feel her own come dripping down her thighs as Draco steps towards her, rubbing the head of his length along her core to collect the moisture there.
“Fuck,” he says suddenly, the tip of him positioned at her entrance as he stills, his breathing heavy and erratic.
“Why’d you stop?” she asks breathlessly, looking back at him as he licks his lips, his cheeks red and his eyes sharp and dangerous.
“Fuck! The last few times… the contraceptive charm… we didn’t-” he heaves, his voice panicky as he comes to the sudden realization. She shakes her head quickly, shoving her hips back against him wantonly, desperate for him.
“It’s okay, Draco, I’m on a potion. I’m sorry, I should have told you-”
Before she can finish he shoves himself inside of her from behind, his hips snapping forward into her arse as he lets out a guttural groan. Hermione gasps, her grip on the shelf tightening as her walls contract around him, so wet and ready for him. He pulls back before snapping into her again, starting a brutal pace against her as he buries himself to the hilt with each thrust. His pace is fast and punishing, the sound of skin smacking together as he grips her waist, pulling her back into him as he drives into her. She groans at the way he fills her, of the feeling of him sliding into her walls as he pushes himself in and pulls out again, of his groin against her arse.
“Harder, Draco,” she moans, her mouth falling open in pleasure as he takes her at a brutal pace, hitting a spot deep inside of her each time. It is rough; rougher than she’s ever had it before. But she likes it, likes it a lot actually. Loves the way his pelvis slaps against her rear end, the way he grips her tightly with his hands as he pushes himself into her, grunting and gasping each time. She can feel another orgasm building inside of her, and it is only heightened when Draco slides his hand around her hip and to her clit, rubbing practiced circles on the already sensitive nerves.
“Oh god,- fuck, I-“ she can barely form a sentence as Draco slams into her, his breathing hot and heavy on her back, his thumb on her clit as he leans forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss onto her shoulder. Shockwaves of pleasure shoot up her core into her stomach as he buries himself inside of her, his lips turning to teeth as he bites the skin of her shoulder lightly.
“Christ, Hermione – so tight for me… fuck,” he grunts as he pistons himself in and out of her, his legs tangled in hers as his hips snap forward, his pace getting slightly erratic. Her own release, her second one in only minutes, creeps into her gut, pulling behind her naval as Draco sinks inside of her, jolts of pleasure shooting up her spine with each deep thrust, his thumb attentive to her clit. His nails press into her hips, leaving half-moon dents there as he continues to pound against her, sounds of pleasure filling the air as they both gasp and moan.
“I’m gonna come,” he groans, his pace faster, his thrusts harder, pulling her hips back towards him as her breasts move with her body. “Come with me, Granger. I want to feel you,”
His hand moves from her hip up to her breast and he pinches her nipple as she cries out, her second orgasm falling over her, her walls tightening around him.
“Oh- Draco!” she shouts, her legs giving out under her, forcing Draco to slip his arm around her hips to hold her up as he slams his hips into her twice more while she pushes herself back against him, grinding herself onto him and his hand.
He lets out a loud grunt as he comes inside of her, slamming his hips against her and stilling. She can feel his warm come filling her as he squeezes her breast tenderly. His face falls forward into her shoulder, his mouth open in ecstasy as he exhales hot, messy breaths on her skin.
“Fuck, Granger! Shit-” he groans, kissing her shoulder, her neck, behind her ear as they ride out their orgasms together. Her legs shake under her, her thighs trembling as she shudders around him. He pushes himself into her once, twice more as he spills into her, their skin sliding over each other with sweat and half-dried saltwater as his hips spasm against hers.
Their eyes are both pressed shut, bodies pressed together as they tremble against each other; waves of pleasure making their limbs shake and their nerves tingle. Draco holds her tightly against him, their breathing hot and heavy in the stale air of the pantry.
“Fuck,” he curses, slipping out of her as he kisses her spine softly. She sucks air into her burning lungs, releasing her grip on the shelves as her pleasure dulls to a soft throb, her center warm and pulsing like a heartbeat.
She turns to face him on shaky legs, and he steps forward to kiss her, sliding a hand into her hair and pulling her bare chest into his naked body.
“You okay?” he asks, rubbing his thumb against her cheek. She nods, her eyes meeting his grey ones. His lids flutter with lingering pleasure as he leans down to kiss her collarbone, his hand sliding down to her bum, rubbing her softly as they breathe together, chests falling and rising against each other.
“We have yet to do it on a table like you promised,” she whispers, and he lets out a breathy half-laugh, half-groan, his forehead falling against hers.
“We have plenty of time,” he breaths, kissing her temple and sliding his hands onto her cheeks before kissing each eyelid, once, lightly. Their sex had been rough, punishing, but now he is careful with her, gentle as he glides his fingernails over her back in figure-eight motions. She sighs as he releases her, stepping back and gathering the two pieces of her bikini in his hands before passing them to her, damp and cold against the heat of her skin. He grabs his wand, which he had set on a shelf beside them, and whispers a quick cleaning spell to rid them of their mess.
“And Granger?” he says as he pulls on his own bathing shorts, tying them at his hips as he watches Hermione slip back into hers.
“Yes?”
“I will be the only one allowed to remove this bikini,” he rasps, towering over her as his fingers fall to her waist, tying the last of the strings by her hips. The rough skin of his fingertips brushes against her skin, conjuring a new layer of goosebumps on her flesh as she bites the inside of her cheek. “It stays on until I’m ready to take it off again.”
She swallows, frozen as he plants one last kiss on her mouth before turning to open the pantry doors, daylight burning brightly as they step out of the small room, their eyes adjusting.
“Now let’s bring those wankers some drinks,” he winks, reaching into the still-open cupboards to grab some glasses. She smiles, stepping forward to help him, her body pleasantly exhausted and still tingling as they work silently, side by side as if they’d only just returned from swimming.
~~~
At first, the notes start off slow and sweet; minor chords that are gentle and resonant, floating into the corridor from upstairs and drifting into her ears. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, she follows the sounds, keys plucked with a careful hand which ring out rounded melodies, clear and rich as the chords become more lively, more full-bodied.
She steps up the stairs, the piano growing louder as she gets closer. The song is solemn, sad, but also romantic, sweeping harmonies that blend together smoothly; with plinking high notes that oscillate like a harp. She follows an oriental carpet runner down the corridor, past closed doors to the room he is in. The chords ring out louder now, sonorous and resounding in her ears.
She creeps quietly to the doorframe, so as not to alert him that she is there. His back is to her as he plays — long, thin fingers plucking the keys in effortless motions. His foot presses lightly on the pedals, his posture straight and perfectly upright as his hands hover over the white and black keys. He plays like he walks; rhythmic and regal, his fingers poised to perfection from years of training, of rulers cracking over wrists when a finger slipped onto the wrong chord.
It was clear that he had been coached to excellence, shown the proper techniques, taught which angles to hold his wrists and drilled on playing vivace and legato until his fingers were numb. She could see it in his form, in his careful and masterful movements, in his tense shoulders and the furrow of his brow.
She pictures him now, a young Draco, sitting so small on the bench of a piano in the Manor — his arms barely long enough to reach the keys, and the bench pressed in so closely to the piano that it’s slightly underneath. His posture is already immaculate by that age, taught pureblood manners as soon as he could talk. In her mind’s eye, she sees him glance longingly out the window at the vast expanse of grass and shrubbery, his fingers itching to hold a broom rather than sit inside for a piano lesson.
Then she is pulled back to reality, watching the way his fingers never stumble, the way he seems to anticipate and prevent his own failures with each fall of his fingers, his profile showing steadied eyes and a concentrated mouth.
And yet, through the predictable expertise and the perfected techniques, there is something about the music that is wholeheartedly him; a sincerity, a profound warmth that only comes with genuine tenderness, with passion and emotion. With each chord he plays, each note he strikes, it is he who shines through it all. She feels him in the music, feels his heart and a magic not unlike the magic he carries in his fingertips.
Somehow, after everything he has been through, after all of the barricades and the limitations that have tried to smooth him down, to shape him into the perfect pureblood wizard, a cutout of a man, it is Draco that breaks through.
When his fingers trickle over the final chords, the notes ringing in the air and hanging there like a fog, his hands fall to his lap as silence reverberates like an echo, suddenly empty and jarring.
“That was beautiful,” she says, startling him slightly where he sits on the bench. He twists on the smooth, polished surface of the wood to face her, stoic and impassive as she makes her way towards him. She settles herself in front of his legs as he slides his hands around her thighs, urging her to straddle him on the bench as they both suck in deep breaths. He looks up at her, grey eyes steeling into hers as he holds her closer, his heart beating through his chest against her skin.
His hands are warm on her waist as he studies her, his lips parted slightly as they sit in silence, as Hermione whispers three words to herself in her head a thousand times, wishing that she could say them out loud, hoping one day she might get to. His forehead falls against hers tenderly, and his lips meet hers in a soft kiss.
“Stay with me tonight?” he whispers against her lips. She nods, and then they are floating down the hall, hand in hand, and she swears that her feet don’t move; that it is something else that carries them in a haze to Draco’s bed where they lay and fall asleep, pressed and tangled against each other, the notes of Draco’s song lingering in her ear like a lullaby.
Notes:
As always, thank you for reading, and for your comments and kudos.
Chapter 22: Chapter 22
Notes:
I would like to apologize in advance for any mistakes I made translating Spanish this chapter - I do not speak it, but did my best to make it accurate. Enjoy the chapter!
Chapter Text
“What do you want to do with your life? After you finish at the shop, that is?” Hermione asks him as they lie in bed in the early hours of the morning. The sun has just begun to rise, and the incandescent glow of it casts the room in an orange warmth.
“What, you think I don’t want to work for you, sweeping floors and stocking shelves for the rest of my life?” Draco retorts, his voice thick with sarcasm and sardonic amusement.
They are curled together under the soft white sheet, naked bodies pressed into each other as Draco stirs the skin of her stomach with the tip of his ring finger in slow, circular motions. Their legs are tangled together like a plait; she’s not quite sure where she begins and he ends, only that at the moment they are stuck together until one of them decides to untangle themselves. She is sure it won’t be her that moves first – she would gladly stay in this bed with him all day if she could.
She blinks up at the ceiling, feels his eyes on her face beside her, his gaze tickling her skin like a flame.
“You must have had something you wanted to be when you were younger,” she presses, turning her head on the pillow to face him. His features are calm, contented, relaxed - even slightly darker than usual from days spent in the sun. His finger traces her ribs, lazy half-moon strokes that raise goosebumps on her arms. His lips part as his brows pull together in thought. Hermione twists from her back to her side to fully face him, pulling the sheet up, careful to avoid it falling over her bare chest as she does.
“I wanted to play Quidditch, when I was young, of course,” he says, moving his arm to adjust to her new position, running the tips of his nails along her side; down her ribs, over her hips and the sides of her bum and down the sides of her thighs.
“Then I thought maybe something with potions. But then in sixth year, when I took the mark, I had no clue what came next for me. I just knew that I had to do what he told me to. My life wasn’t really my own anymore.”
Hermione nods sadly, reaching forward to brush Draco’s sleep-tousled hair away from his forehead.
“And now?”
She watches him swallow, his tongue swiping over his lips to wet them.
“I’m not sure, Granger. I guess I will just have to wait and see what’s out there once I finally escape the inescapable jaws of muggle carpentry and paint jobs.”
She releases a silvery laugh, letting her hand fall onto the bed between them as Draco traces patterns onto the flesh of her hip.
The room is warm, but not hot; just enough to keep them tucked away under the sheet and snuggled into each other. It is a pleasant, lethargic warmth that makes their lids heavy and their breathing slow, keeps their pulses steady even as they lie beside each other completely bare, last night’s illicit behaviours still running through their minds.
Draco’s touch is like a drug to her – the kind that swallows your body in contented relaxation and buzzes in your brain. Her eyelashes flutter as he drags the nail of his thumb down her hip and towards her naval.
She enjoyed sex with Draco Malfoy more than she ever thought it was possible to enjoy sex at all. Her other experiences – Ron and Viktor both the summer after the war – were fine. Awkward, pleasantly and charmingly unsophisticated, like stumbling around in the dark and bumping your toe a few times. Fine, but not something that Hermione had ever felt especially attached to. Having sex with Draco makes her understand what the hype is all about. Suddenly, the whispers between girls in dormitories and corridors made sense, giggles from Lavender and Parvati about their sexual encounters were no longer alien to her.
So yes, Hermione very much enjoyed sex with Draco Malfoy. But mornings like these were equally as pleasurable – warm and intimate and often without argument. She likes how gentle he is, how soft and careful with her. She likes their quiet conversations as their heads rest on the same pillow, and how their scents become entangled; his warm, sweet spice on her skin, and hers on his, mixing together into one.
“How many…” she begins nervously, peering up at him under her thick lashes as his palm flattens against her stomach, his thumb dancing over the sharp bone of her hip. “How many other… partners, have you had?”
He chuckles softly, his silver irises dancing with amusement at her nerves.
He leans over and plants a soft, feather-light kiss on her shoulder, and she closes her eyes. This was a topic that had come to mind a few times since they had started all of this, but one she hadn’t been brave enough to ask. He was clearly experienced, whereas she was glad to simply follow his lead.
“Well, there was Pansy, of course. Astoria Greengrass. Jillian Baker from Hufflepuff.”
“Ah,” she says, nodding. He quirks an eyebrow up at her. “-That woman, that night at Devil’s Snare?”
He seems to understand right away who she’s talking about, shaking his head dismissively.
“No. We were both too drunk.”
She nods, once, and he pulls Hermione closer so that she is pressed into his chest, his nose brushing her cheek briefly as he stares at her.
She smiles sadly at him, her hand cupping the back of his neck in a comforting manner.
“I’m sorry for how I acted that night,” she says regretfully, watching his silver eyes dance as she speaks. “I thought I would need to be one step ahead of you. I expected you’d still be an obnoxious git.”
“I was,” he grins remorsefully. The grin falls quickly to a dazed, unreadable expression. “I am.”
“You tried to be,” she says, shaking her head. He kisses her shoulder again and pulls back, his mouth twitching into a slight smirk.
“And you, Granger?”
She sighs, her eyes falling closed as Draco’s hand on her stomach slides lower, closer to the place that is now tugging with need. His constant touches have been slowly winding her up, making her ache for him.
“Ron and Viktor,” she answers, flicking her eyes open to see his reaction. “But they weren’t really… well, they didn’t exactly…”
“Make you a priority?”
“No.”
He drops his head dramatically back on the pillow, a deep grumble of frustration emerging from his throat.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, rubbing the heel of his palm over his sleepy eyes.
“What?” she asks in confusion, her eyebrows furrowing at Draco’s adverse reaction. The bed groans slightly under them as Draco twists his body and pulls himself up onto his hands and knees so he is positioned over her, his hands on either side of her shoulders. With dark, dangerous eyes, Draco grasps the white sheet covering her body and pulls it down slowly so that she lays under him, exposed, flushed with desire. Her nipples pull tight from the chill of the morning air, and from the intensity of his stare.
“They-” he says, his voice a low, husky whisper before he leans down to kiss her collarbone.
“-are,” another kiss to the valley between her breasts.
“-idiots.” A final warm, open-mouthed kissed to the skin above her navel. Her eyes flutter closed, her back bowing off of the mattress as Draco’s lips linger there, peppering faint kisses in a circle around her navel before wandering lower. She inhales a sharp breath when he slides down further to kiss her thigh. Her eyes open as he pulls away, hunched over her still on his hands and knees. He straightens his torso so that he towers over her, his knees straddling her legs. Her skin tingles with warmth, a crimson blush crawling up her chest and neck to her cheeks as he looks at her hungrily.
She aches for him to touch her; doesn’t care how, or where, or how hard or soft. Just wants his hands on hers, feels cold without him there. As if reading her mind, one of his hands presses itself onto her stomach, slides upwards to cup her breast. She lets out a soft whimper as he squeezes her tenderly.
“Any man who can see this body and not want to worship it,” he drawls in a low, lazy voice as he skates his palm upwards from her breast to the long lines of her neck, holding her throat gently, carefully, “-is an absolute moron.”
His hand releases her throat, slides down again past her breasts and stomach, down to her thighs and calves. Her lids flutter, watching him through half-closed eyes as he lifts her leg up, placing her ankle on his shoulder as he plants a kiss on the inside of her knee, then her thigh.
“But it’s not just your body, Granger,” he continues, bending over as he kisses further up her thigh until he reaches the last stretch of skin beside her core. He pulls himself back up, placing the leg gently down on the bed before turning to her other leg to repeat his ministrations. He kisses the side of her knee, his eyes on her the whole time as his lips continue their path up her thigh, his fingers pressing into her flesh with biting pressure.
“You’re whip-smart – witty, clever, funny.”
Her eyes fall closed just as his lips land on her core, and her body jolts with pleasure as he runs his tongue up and down her folds before pressing a kiss to her clit.
“You’re kind and selfless. You make everyone feel seen, validated.”
She moans, her toes curling as she hooks her legs around Draco’s broad back, pulling him closer as he settles between her legs. His mouth is slow, gentle, tender, sucking and laving persistently as he holds her thighs. Her hand falls down to his head to grip his hair as his tongue sinks inside of her.
“And Merlin, Hermione, are you ever beautiful,”
She whines, choking out a throaty sob as he drags his teeth over her clit, her body jerking at the pleasure. She feels his fingers suddenly, sliding through her moisture before he sinks them inside of her. He doesn’t move them; just hooks them upwards to press into her walls as her legs shake with pleasure.
“Please, Draco,” she gasps, pressing her chin to her chest to look at him.
“Please what? Tell me what you need, love.”
Her chest is heaving, her breasts falling up and down with it as Draco presses his thumb against her clit.
“Please, make me come,” she says, her voice desperate, gritty with need. He leans forward to kiss the inside of her thigh again, before pressing another kiss to her clit.
“And always so bossy,” he smirks, finally pulling his fingers nearly out of her before plunging them back in again. Her head falls back onto the pillow as he begins to thrust his fingers in and out of her, circling her clit reverently with his thumb as he presses two fingers against her walls, sending deep, throbbing pleasure through her.
“That’s it,” he encourages as she writhes under him, his fingers unrelenting as she gasps and whines for him. “I love watching you like this.”
She feels her release build in her, and Draco must notice because his fingers speed up, punishing and oh so wonderful as he brings her to her orgasm; she lets out a loud cry, squeezing her eyes shut as the pleasure ripples through her, her body shaking and wriggling under him as he pulls his fingers roughly out of her. She trembles, fisting the sheets beside her until her knuckles are white as she rides out the waves of her orgasm, her mouth open as she heaves in air.
She forces herself to open her eyes, just in time to catch Draco as he slides his fingers, glistening with her come, into his mouth, sucking them and pulling them out with a pop. Then, he leans forward onto his hands and kisses her, ravenously. She can taste herself on his tongue, and it is a strange, but not unpleasant sensation. Her body feels wrecked, heavy with pleasure as he finally releases her lips.
“Thank you,” she whispers, as he collapses beside her.
Everything he has said to her in the past few minutes of pleasure is catching up to her now, floating through her mind in pieces, squeezing her heart.
-worship it-
-funny, witty, clever-
-you’re kind-
- Merlin, Hermione, are you ever beautiful –
“We should get up,” he says, breaking her away from her thoughts. “Pansy likes to be in the city early, and she’ll be here dragging us out of bed soon enough.”
Hermione nods, though she feels stuck to the bed, her limbs weighed down like led. She watches Draco twist himself off of the bed, standing as he crosses the room, his naked form padding over to gaze out the window. She watches his graceful strides, the muscles of his back and bum move.
Could she allow herself to get used to this? To waking up with him, to morning sex and pillow talk, to getting ready for the day?
She is starting to think she can.
“Shower?” Draco asks, turning to face her. She nods lazily, dragging herself to a sitting position.
“Definitely necessary.”
~~~
San Miguel de Allende is sweltering hot and bustling with local muggles and tourists by the time Hermione and the Slytherins enter through the doors of a Wizarding pub near Pansy’s villa. They make quick work of touring some of the city, admiring the stunning architecture of the La Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel, which almost puts Hogwarts’ beauty to shame.
It is strange to watch the Slytherins, once so adverse to muggles, walking so normally through the muggle-packed streets. Hermione watches as they walk along streets with colourful buildings on either side, and tall, baroque architecture, which tourists gather in front of to stare up in awe of the beauty. Not one of them flinches, not even expressing their distaste for the crowds with a slight sneer.
If she wasn’t sure that the Slytherins no longer believed in blood supremacy before, she was now.
They make it to a small square in the center of the city where the foot-traffic has given way to a more quiet, isolated plaza, tucked behind another historic church. In the center stands a large stone fountain, trickling water into the pool below. Hermione smiles widely, turning to Theo as they approach the bubbling fountain.
“This wouldn’t happen to be the fountain of legend, would it Theodore?” she asks over the relaxing sounds of the falling water. Theo’s grin is huge, his hand swinging in Blaise’s as the group chuckles, stopping in front of the fountain as Theo smirks proudly, shrugging his muscled shoulders.
“The very same, Granger,” he sings, dropping Blaise’s hand to hold his arms out, showing off the fountain as if he had built it himself. Hermione laughs as he spins slowly in front of the fountain. “-Sorry to disappoint you, but there will be no repeat performances today. I’m pretty sure the muggle police still have a warrant out for my arrest and a picture of my face in a filing cabinet somewhere.”
He flashes his white teeth once more, returning to Blaise’s side as Hermione shakes her head. The fountain looks refreshing, definitely tempting enough to want to run through it without clothes. As they continue their path through the plaza, pushing through crowds and avoiding bikers and cars as they cross streets, Hermione feels Draco’s hand resting on the small of her back protectively, guiding her, ready to pull her out of the way in case danger comes.
It does something silly to her, makes her giddy like a schoolgirl, her heart rising in her throat as his palm brushes the fabric of her sundress, his presence always close by.
They wander a distance, down the streets of the historic core zone which offers shade from the tall buildings. Small shops are pushed together, fading letters painted on the buildings and vendors on the cobblestone street, showing off beaded bags and thin, colourful scarves for sale. Christmas decorations line the shops and trees; red, green and gold shimmering in the sun. Blaise and Theo wander into a shop to buy them all cold drinks, as the rest of them settle under the shade of an old tree, catching their breath and resting their tired legs.
It's then that Hermione hears the music; the jovial, uplifting sounds of a Mariachi band, fingers plucking a guitar quickly as sharp, lilting sounds float out. The shrill sound of a trumpet joins it, as well as the trilling shake of a tambourine. Hermione stands, ignoring the sheen of sweat that has accumulated on her skin and her tired limbs.
“Granger?” she hears Draco ask and she begins to follow the sound, pushing through couples and families towards it. She hears him mumble something to the others, hears the click of his shoes as he follows her. Finally, she finds a small square outside of a coffee shop, a circle of observers standing stagnant as they watch a group of small men in full traditional Mariachi costume play the tune on their instruments, two dancers flitting around the open circle as they clap and shake their tambourines.
Hermione stops in her tracks, watching in awe as the dancers circle around each other, multi-coloured skirts twirling as they dance, their feet following the rhythm of the guitars. She watches the dancers spin towards the lingering crowd, grabbing hands to pull them into the circle, encouraging them to dance in thick Spanish accents.
Hermione lets out a contented laugh as she watches tourists trip over their feet, trying their best to follow the dancers.
“Come on,” she says suddenly, turning to face Draco and grabbing his hand, tugging him forward through the crowd. His face goes white with fear and surprise, his brows shooting up as she motions for him to follow her into the group of dancers. He resists, trying his best to pull away from her grip, shaking his head as she laughs.
“Fuck no, Granger, I don’t think-”
“Oh shush, and come dance with me,” she interrupts, grabbing his wrist with her other hand now to pull him more firmly. He stumbles, trying his best to keep his feet planted as Hermione drags him into the open circle, laughing at how nervous he suddenly looks. One of the dancers shouts with joy as she sees them, shaking her tambourine as she dances over towards them
“Sois amantes, no?” she shouts through the music, smiling widely at them. Hermione shakes her head; she doesn’t speak any Spanish and she has no idea what the woman has just said. Draco rolls his eyes at her, looking back at the woman with an irate expression.
“Si,” he tells her, and the woman laughs happily, taking a break from her dancing to push them together.
“Baile!” she shouts, motioning for them to move before she continues on through the other dancers.
“She wants us to dance, Granger,” Draco says, grabbing her waist and pulling her into him. His face is serious, unimpressed that she has pulled him in here, but he starts to move her nonetheless.
Whatever they are doing, it certainly isn’t proper; just a bunch of stepping and twirling, most likely moving closer to a sloppy tango than anything else. But it’s fun, and Draco has a knack for leading her, for showing her how to step into him and making her spin around him before his hands fall back on her waist again.
She laughs happily as the band picks up speed, flustering Draco as another dancer bumps into him. From the corner of her eye, Hermione spots the rest of the Slytherins in the crowd watching with amused surprise as Draco pulls Hermione into him to remove her from the path of a few dancing tourists who aren’t watching where they step.
“I didn’t know you could dance,” she says into his ear, her stomach erupting in girlish butterflies as he pulls her chest into his, his palm spread wide on the small of her back as he directs them away from the stumbling tourists.
He smirks, a piece of white-blond hair falling onto his forehead as he looks down at her. His expression is so Draco; smug, amused, playfully annoyed.
“My dance lessons were usually right after my piano lessons, Granger,” he says into her ear, his hand pulling hers up so that their elbows are properly out. His eyes dance across her face, and she realizes she must look barmy; red and sweaty from the heat, hair everywhere from the humidity, a maniacal grin on her face as they try to find their rhythm.
“El gran final!” one of the dancers shouts, winking at her and Draco as she twirls by them, skirt spinning like a tornado at her ankles.
“What did she say?” Hermione shouts over the noise as Draco slides his hand onto her waist.
“The big finale,” he responds, the corners of his mouth raising slightly at Hermione’s confusion. “-Hold on tight, Granger.”
Before she can question it, Draco spins her out, away from his body, his hand gripping hers tightly as the world whirls, her feet circling clumsily away from him. Her head falls back in a delighted laugh as he pulls her back into his chest, his hand returning expertly to her waist.
Then, with a final few strums of the guitar and a chirpy shake of the tambourine, Draco dips her.
She feels him lowering her towards the ground, one of his arms around her waist to keep her from falling as the other clenches her hand, holding tightly. She feels the tips of her curls touch the ground as she looks up at him, his grey eyes boring into hers with a focused intensity, his chest rising and falling as he blinks down at her.
The song has finished, and people are clapping in the background, cheering and whooping for the dancers and the volunteers — but Hermione notices none of it. She feels dizzy, whether it is from the spinning or from Draco’s stare, she is unsure. She watches as his eyes lighten, almost twinkling as his lips lift into a small, happy smile. She is suspended in air, only held up by the strength of Draco’s arm around her waist, his feet planted to the ground as he looks down at her in the way she’s seen Harry look at Ginny, and Adrian at Daphne, and Blaise at Theo. And she is sure.
Her heart skipping in her chest, she reaches a hand up to cup his face, pulling her head up to meet his, pressing a soft but fierce kiss to his lips. When she pulls away he lifts her back up so that they are both standing, chests pressed together, his arm wrapped tightly around her, hand in hand.
The eruption of applause finally breaks in her ear, the cheers of the crowd and the happy voices of the dancers approaching as she comes back down to reality.
“Come on, Granger,” Draco says, his voice steady and soft. She nods, letting him lead her over to their friends who clap their hands as they approach.
“Thanks for the show, Malfoy. Really wish you could have worn a skirt, though, so we could see those sexy ankles,” Theo teases, handing them each a cold glass bottle of sparkling water. Draco’s eyes shoot daggers at the curly-haired boy as Blaise claps him proudly on the back.
Hermione can barely focus; her chest is still constricting at the memory of the dip – of the strange ferocity of Draco’s stare as he held her, of the buzz that passed through her body as they froze in time, the world a slow, blurry mess around them.
She had never seen him that free, that released of inhibition. Watching him, unchained, unbound by the rules, had done something to her. After that, and their conversation in bed this morning, she suddenly knew exactly what she wanted to get him for Christmas.
They finish their Christmas shopping in San Miguel de Allende before returning back to the small wizarding village. Hermione tells them that she will meet them all back at the Villa, giving Draco a reassuring gaze before wandering off to the owl post, writing a quick letter and sending it off, hoping with everything inside of her that she can make this wish come true.
When she returns to the villa she joins her friends by the water, curling up with Draco under an umbrella to read a book together in the sun. Her stomach flutters as he waits patiently for her nod before turning the page each time– as it turns out, he is a much faster reader than her. Surprisingly, she is okay with this.
After dinner, a small barn owl arrives on the balcony, slipping a letter into Hermione’s hand. She opens it with nervous fingers, her heart in her throat as she unfolds the folded parchment and reads the words hungrily, holding her breath the entire time.
As she reads the response, her stomach twists with happiness, an elated bubble floating under her skin and through her veins.
Miss Granger,
I thank you kindly for your holiday wishes, and I am happy to hear that the shop renovations are nearly complete.
In regards to your request: It is not often that a wizard under probation is given early release from their four-month work contract. But I must admit, your letter was very convincing, and I trust your judgement completely.
Seeing as how – according to you - Mr. Malfoy has been an exemplary employee, has shown immense personal progress and remission, and has outgrown his position in the shop, I believe it is justified to approve your request to release him from his obligation at the shop and graduate from his probationary employment period a month early. I have already spoken to Minister Shacklebolt and signed the necessary paperwork.
Of course, Mr. Malfoy must finish the rest of his probationary duties until his probationary period is up – but he is no longer required to work at your shop.
I thank you again for taking Mr. Malfoy under your wing and for continuing to be such an important asset to the Ministry.
Happy Holidays, Miss. Granger.
Seasons Greetings,
Mr. Barnabus Bimble
Her heart beats with wild excitement in her chest as she tucks the letter away in her pocket, trying to push away the creeping sadness that comes along with the happy news.
Draco would be free to do whatever he wanted with his life now; could follow his passions, find a job that fulfilled him, was no longer obligated to work for Hermione with no pay.
But what would this gift cost her ? By doing this – by setting him free of something he never wanted, something that at first he had despised – was she signing her own happiness away, too? Did releasing him mean that this, whatever they had, was over, that he would forget about her and move on now that he wasn’t trapped?
She tries her hardest to swallow away these fears, these ridiculous fears of one more person she loved leaving her. She closes her eyes, conjuring in her mind all of the things that Malfoy has done and said that makes her believe that this wasn’t just some fling for him.
That he might love her back.
She shoves these fears far to the back of her mind, shaking her head to rouse her out of her spiralling thoughts.
No matter what happens, no matter how things end up between them, Hermione just wants him to be happy. She wants him to return home after Christmas to new opportunities, to his Mum, to a life that he can call his own.
And if she needs to make one more sacrifice in her life - if she needs to give up one more thing - she will gladly do it for him.
Hermione used to think that Christmas wouldn’t be the same without snow. That without fuzzy white flakes falling behind frosty windowpanes at The Burrow, or trying to catch snowflakes in her mouth with her father, it just wouldn’t feel like the holidays.
But Christmas Eve this year means turkey dinner outside on the balcony after a day on the beach. It means sangria by the fire as the sun goes down, and sitting beside Draco as he laughs at something Adrian has said.
There is nothing reminiscent of the last twenty Christmases of her life, and yet it feels just as warm and jolly and happy as it always has.
She watches happily as her friends decorate the tree – once a lemon tree from the garden, now transfigured by Blaise into a large fir – covering it in silver tinsel and green bulbs, adding glowing lights and a star on top. When the tree is finished, everyone moves to their rooms to gather the presents they have wrapped, placing them under the tree in the living room area until the presents are piled knee-high around the circumference of the tree skirt.
She misses the snow - she does. She misses Harry and Ginny, and even Ron. Misses her parents, and waking up Christmas morning to pull a new toothbrush out of her stocking as her parents remind her of the importance of good dental hygiene. She misses the way Hogwarts had always been decorated for the holidays and how the ceilings in the Great Hall would produce the effect of snow without the cold.
But she knows that Christmas has always been more than just those things, and being here with Draco and the rest of the Slytherins is better than any gift she could have asked for this year.
“All I want for Christmas is to not wake up with a hangover,” Pansy mumbles as she finishes her glass of sangria, her lips stained a plum colour from the wine.
“You’re only setting yourself up for disappointment, Pans,” Blaise says, placing the last of his gifts under the tree. They stand to admire it for a few minutes before mumbling agreements about how tired they are. They bid each other good night, thanking Adrian for the Christmas Eve dinner before shuffling off to their respective bedrooms. Hermione waves goodnight to Pansy, who sends her a wink before closing the door behind her. Hermione has moved her bag into Draco’s room, leaving Pansy to have a room to herself, without complaint.
Hermione collapses dramatically onto the bed, her body bouncing softly on the mattress as she yawns, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. Draco chuckles as he slips out of his clothes and into a pair of plaid pyjama pants.
“I used to get so nervous before bed on Christmas Eve,” Hermione tells him, watching as he crosses the room to push the window open. A salty breeze flows in along with the sounds of the waves and of chirping insects.
“What for?” Draco asks, his voice puzzled as his eyebrows pull together in confusion. He climbs gracefully onto the bed beside her, grabbing a strand of her curls and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Before I found out I was a wizard, I believed that Father Christmas was coming to deliver all of my presents in the middle of the night. It was muggle belief that he could tell if you were awake, and wouldn’t deliver your presents if you were.”
Draco huffs out a breathy laugh, his hand sinking into her hair as his nails scrape lightly against her scalp. Hermione closes her eyes at the relaxing feeling of Draco’s hand in her hair, of the sound of his even breathing beside her.
“Muggles tell their children that a strange man sneaks into their house at night to deliver presents? That’s fucking barmy.”
Hermione giggles, shifting herself onto her side to face him. Draco’s hand drops to her hip, and she reaches a hand out to trace his Septumsempra scar on his chest, raising goosebumps over his skin as she trails lower to his waistband.
“It made it harder to fall asleep, knowing I had to. But my Dad used to make me tea and tell me that once I finished it, I would fall asleep. It always worked.”
Draco produces the ghost of a smile as he pulls Hermione in towards him, inhaling a sharp breath as she runs her fingertips back over the lines of his scar.
“I’m sorry that your parents don’t remember you, Granger,” Draco breathes, his mouth hard and his eyes sincere as he watches her face. She gives him an unconvincing smile as he pushes her curls behind her ear, rubbing his thumb comfortingly across her cheek.
“I’m just glad that they’re happy somewhere, you know?” she says, letting her head fall from her hand onto the mattress, staring up at the canopy above them. “They were so worried about me, the summer before the war. I wouldn’t tell them much, but they knew something was wrong. I hated making them worry. Now they can enjoy their lives. Maybe they’re somewhere on a beach right now, too.” She turns her face on the mattress, her eyes finding his silver ones.
“Maybe,” he breathes, resting his head on the palm of his hand. She sidles in closer to him, inhaling deeply against his chest as she breathes in the smell of him, letting it fill her lungs as her eyes fall closed.
“Granger?”
“Mm?”
“Can I give you your Christmas gift now?”
Her eyes flick open to meet his. She chews her lip, trying to hide the smile that tugs on the corners of her mouth.
“Now?” she asks, her voice cracking with excitement. He nods, wetting his lips with his tongue as he sits up, pulling himself up elegantly before padding over to his trunk.
“I love my friends, but I would never hear the end of it if they watched you open this in front of them. Gits.” He reaches into his trunk and ruffles around, digging under piles of folded clothes before bringing out a small, sealed envelope tied neatly with a curling ribbon.
Something inside of her flutters with anticipation as he strides back over to the bed, sitting down beside her and holding the envelope out to her. She pulls herself to a sitting position, tucking her coffee-coloured curls behind her ear as she reaches out timidly towards the envelope.
“I haven’t hexed it, Granger,” he scoffs, shoving the envelope into her hands, his eyes flickering mischievously as she finally pulls the paper from his fingers.
“Sorry, I’m just… nervous.” She flips the envelope over in her hands, inspecting it and finding the same green seal, the letter ‘m’ stamped into the hardened wax.
“Don’t be nervous,” he says, his face impassive as he nods at the envelope impatiently. “Just open it, or we won’t get to sleep in time for Father Christmas.”
She grins, narrowing his eyes at him as he raises an eyebrow eagerly. She slips her finger under the fold of the envelope, sliding it through the paper so that the seal pops open. She tries to keep her hands steady, tries to swallow her nerves, because the last time Draco had given her a gift it had been the best thing she had ever received. And now, he was here, watching her with anticipation, clenching his jaw tightly in worry as the muscle leaps, his eyes glued on her face.
With a gentle pull, she slides a small piece of paper out of the envelope, unfolding the thick parchment as her eyes land on unfamiliar handwriting.
“Malfoy, what is this?”
“Just read it, Granger,” he grits impatiently, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his stubbled throat. She meets his gaze; it is reassuring, almost anxious. Finally, she looks down at the letter and begins to read.
To Miss Hermione Granger,
My name is Mr. Ellis Rumiheart, and I own a publishing company called Little Red Books. You might be familiar with a few of our more popular titles, such as ‘A History of Magic’ by Bathilda Bagshot or 'Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles' by Wilhem Wigworthy.
I have been acquainted with Mr. Malfoy for quite a few years now, and it has come to my attention that you are in the process of writing a Historical Non-Fiction novel about the Second Wizarding War.
It would be my greatest pleasure to meet with you at some point in the near future to read a manuscript of your novel and discuss a possible publishing contract with us at Little Red Books. Mr. Malfoy tells me that you are a talented writer, and knowing about your personal experiences with the war gives this book a sellable edge – we would be silly not to show our interest in you as soon as possible.
It would be my honour to meet with you and discuss whether or not this would be something you are interested in. I suspect we would work well together, Miss Granger. Books, after all, are one of the best tools we have in preserving the past and remembering what we have lost.
Please consider, and send me an owl when you can. I look forward to meeting you, should you accept.
Happy Holidays.
Mr. Ellis Rumiheart
Little Red Books, London
She blinks down at the letter, reading and rereading it once, twice, skimming it a third to make sure she isn’t making it up.
“Draco you… you did this for me?”
She looks up at him with tear blurred eyes, biting the inside of her cheek to keep them from falling. He nods, straight-faced as he places his hand on her bare knee.
“I know it’s not much, I’m sure someone would have been interested in your book no matter what, but I thought maybe-” he begins to ramble, but she cuts him off as she throws her arms around his neck, climbing into his lap as she presses herself into the warmth of his neck.
“It’s perfect. Thank you,” she whispers into his skin, feeling his arms tighten around her, his tepid breaths in her hair.
“You’re welcome.”
She pulls back, pressing a kiss onto his cheek as she stands to tuck the letter into her bag for safekeeping.
“I’d like to give you half of your Christmas present now, as well,” she says from across the room, watching him as he sits on the edge of the mattress, grabbing the wooden post of the bed with one hand.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, watching as she makes her way back over to him, standing between his open legs and sliding her hands onto his broad shoulders.
“Yes,” she breathes. Her body is tingling with nerves – she’s only done this once before, and she has no idea if she was any good at it or not. But Draco was always happy to oblige for her, and she wanted to give him the same in return – wanted to watch his expressions and hear his breathy mumbles.
“And what’s that, Granger?”
Her hands fall to the string on his pyjama pants, her eyes not leaving his as she unties the knot and pulls. Draco swallows, his eyes suddenly the colour of obsidian as Hermione pulls the waistband of his pants past his hips.
“Granger, I-”
“Shush,” she interjects, dropping slowly to her knees in front of him as she pulls his pants down to his ankles. Before she forgets, she flicks her wand to lock the door and cast a silencing spell on the room, tossing it back onto the carpet and turning her attention back to Draco.
He is in only his boxers now; the outline of his hardening length prominent under the black material of the underwear. She reaches out tentatively, placing her hand on his thigh and running it up the material of the boxers and over him. Immediately, Draco hisses through his teeth, and she feels him twitch under her touch, pressing against the restraining fabric.
“You don’t have to, Granger,” he says, though his voice is impossibly low and husky, and she can see his knuckles clutch the comforter under him.
“I want to,” she whispers, looking up to meet his eyes, giving him a small and reassuring smile.
“Fuck, Granger” he breathes, as she refocuses on the bulge in his boxers, running her hand up and down it with a slight pressure. His chest heaves up and down, and she can hear the heavy, sharp breaths from above as she runs a finger under the elastic waistband.
“You have to… tell me, if I’m doing something wrong,” she says, her cheeks flushing with colour as she tugs on the waistband, signalling for him to lift his hips. His tongue pokes itself to the inside of his cheek as he exhales a breathy groan, lifting himself momentarily off the mattress to allow her to pull the boxer briefs down.
“Just keep going, Granger, please,” he moans, his tone rough, insistent. It makes a spark of need shoot down towards her core, hearing his voice so demanding as his length springs free of the fabric, standing erect against his stomach against the expanse of dark curls that begins just below his navel.
Adjusting her position on her knees, Hermione shuffles herself forward, taking his length in her hand and then slowly, carefully, sliding it up and down once. She looks up to see his reaction and catches him as his head falls back, a low grumble emerging from his mouth as he sinks his teeth into the plump flesh of his bottom lip. She sees this as a good sign, and repeats the motion, gripping him firmly but not too hard with her hand and stroking him up and down, her other hand braced on his thigh.
Then, ignoring all of the anxious thoughts whirling around in her head, she leans forward, directing the head of his length onto her lips. She feels Draco’s head snap down to watch her, feels him twitch and harden on her lips, his stomach muscles leaping with pleasure as she slides him into her mouth.
Relax your mouth, avoid the teeth , she remembers Parvati telling her once when she had asked what to do with Ron.
She does just so, opening her jaw wider and pulling her lips over her teeth, pushing him further into her mouth before sucking, her cheeks hollowing onto him. Her eyes flick up to watch him again – he looks dangerous, hungry with need, his mouth opened slightly as he pants. His hand slides into her hair as she begins to bob on him, pulling him out before pushing back forward again.
“Gods- fuck. I’m going to come, watching you with me in your mouth,” he says, his voice gravelly and thick like honey as she runs her tongue along the underside of his length, feeling his prominent veins, running it tentatively over the swollen head. He tastes slightly salty, but not bad, as she licks up a bead of pre-come before taking him all of the way in her mouth again, feeling him hit the back of her throat.
His body jolts at this, a loud moan erupting from his mouth as his hand tightens its hold in her hair. She hollows her cheeks again, bobbing her head slowly back and forth.
“Can you take me a little faster?” he asks her, his dark eyes scanning her face for any signs of unease. She releases him, watching his length bounce back to his stomach as she takes a breath, nodding.
“Good girl,” he says, using a firm but gentle hand to push her head forward, his fingers still tangled in her hair as her mouth takes him again. She goes faster, swiping her tongue around him, letting him guide her head as he hits the back of her throat again and again. She feels him growing harder inside of her, swollen with his need for release. She is prepared to let him come in her mouth, wants it even, but Draco lets out a guttural grunt and pulls himself out of her mouth.
“Fucking hell, Granger,” he says, gently pulling her up so that she is standing.
“What are you doing?” she asks as Draco tugs on her shirt, pulling it up over her arms before reaching around to expertly unclip her bra.
“I want to finish inside of you,” he says, not missing a beat. Her core throbs for him as he meets her gaze again, pulling her into him and onto the mattress. He is still hard, on the verge of release, and she can feel him hard against her own stomach as Draco kisses her, pulling at her trousers as she helps him remove them. They are a tangle of limbs, wiggling together as they pull off her pants and then her knickers, kicking them off the bed as Draco pulls her under the sheets, on top of him, gripping her knees so she is straddling him.
The position is very similar to the night at the shop; her knees straddling his thighs, her palms pressed to his chest. Her nipples pebble with desire, taut and erect as his length rubs along her core. She can feel how wet she is, and she lets out a high-pitched moan as she grinds her hips against his.
“Is this alright?” he asks as he grips the flesh of her hips, lifting her up slightly so she is positioned over him. She feels the head of him at her opening, as Draco grips himself, sliding his length through her folds to collect the moisture before returning to her entrance.
“Yes, gods, yes,” she breathes, her nails scraping down his chest as he pushes himself inside, slowly, carefully. It's tight, a different angle than usual, and she takes her time lowering herself down onto him. A vein in Draco’s neck bulges, spasming under his skin as she slides down his length. Her mouth falls open and she inhales a ragged breath as her hips meet him again. He is now fully seated inside of her, so full as he twitches against her walls.
She stills for a moment, frozen in pleasure, adjusting to his size inside of her. He lifts one hand from her hip up to her breast, palming it firmly and rolling her nipple in between his fingers. Her walls flutter around him, making them both groan as Draco grips her arse with his other hand, pushing her against him.
“Granger, if you don’t move soon…” Draco hisses, his head falling back against the pillow as he lifts her hips upwards, grinding against her clit. She whimpers, steadying herself with her hands on his hard stomach. She moves, finally, simultaneously lifting herself and grinding, gyrating her hips against him as he slides half out of her, before pushing back down until their hips meet again.
The pleasure is fierce; the position allows him to hit the perfect spot inside of her, while his pelvis hits her clit as she sinks down onto him. She arches her back slightly, leaning forward and, oh god .
“Oh, fuck,” she moans, the new angle sending sparks of pleasure into her abdomen and down her legs. Draco begins to meet her, thrusting up into her as she rides him, her nails digging into the china glass skin of his stomach.
“Shit, Granger, I’m going to fucking come,” he grunts through clenched teeth, lifting his back up so he is in a sitting position. His hands move to cup her arse, using his strength to lift her up and bring her back down as he leans his forehead against hers. They exchange hot breaths as she bounces up and down against him, her breasts pressed into his chest as he slams into her, one hand on the mattress behind him to support himself.
They move frantically against each other, the pleasure building as they grind their hips together, as Hermione lifts herself up and down onto him, biting her lip so hard she’s surprised she isn’t drawing blood. Draco places hot, wet kisses along her neck and collar bone, his nails digging into her arse, a low growl rising in his throat.
“Oh-” she whimpers, as Draco strums her clit quickly, losing balance without his support hand and falling back down on the mattress.
“That’s it, Granger. Fuck me –” Draco mutters, his open palm pressing against her stomach as she moves against him. Suddenly, he twitches, a loud groan filling the room as he comes. She feels him spill inside of her, his length twitching deep in her walls, slicking her with his release. His hips jerk up into hers, his fingers pressing against her skin as his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth falling open.
Her release comes seconds after his – an unbelievable, white-hot pleasure that ripples from her curling toes to her tight nipples. Her vision goes black, stars behind her eyes while for a moment, there is nothing but her pleasure, nothing but the feeling of the explosion behind her core.
“Draco!” she shrieks, her cries meeting his moans as her body shudders, her back and torso flailing, her back arching like a bow as she leans over him. She plants her hands on either side of Draco’s torso as her core explodes with feeling, trembling and shaking as she leans forward to kiss him.
Draco’s arm snakes around her waist, pulling her down onto him as they kiss fervently, passionately.
She feels light; floating, her body tingling and weightless as his lips press into hers, exchanging hot breaths as they twitch against each other. Eventually, their kisses slow, soft and lazy, her hand in his hair and his in hers. There is no rush to move, as Draco begins to trace light fingertips across her back, kissing her softly on the corner of her mouth and under her ear, on her temple and forehead. He is still inside of her, her walls lightly fluttering the last of her orgasm against him as he grows soft.
“Merlin-” she chokes out, her body going slack on top of his. Her limbs are suddenly exhausted, limp with fatigue. Their legs are tangled together under the sheets, a thick sheen of sweat glistening between them as Draco starts running his fingers through their hair as they catch their breath. Hermione lifts her hips, letting him slip out of her as she slides down, pressing her cheek onto his chest just above his heart.
“Thank you,” he whispers into her hair, his nails dancing over the bumps of her spine, shooting more shivers up her body. “-for the Christmas present. If Father Christmas has already been here, he definitely left disappointed in us -no presents in sight.”
Hermione lets out a gleeful laugh as she nuzzles into the warmth of his chest.
“Now I’m worried that the second half of my gift is going to pale in comparison,” she giggles, tilting her chin so she can look up at him. His lips twitch into a grin, his pale cheeks flushed as he pushes his white fringe off of his forehead. He makes a small hum of agreement, his chest vibrating slightly under him. Gods, she would never get used to this feeling.
“I’m afraid it probably will, Granger,” he croaks out a dulcet chuckle. She slides off of him onto the mattress, letting him clean them off with a quick charm before pulling her back against his chest, slinging his arm around her and kissing her neck.
“Happy Christmas, Granger.”
“Happy Christmas, Draco.”
Chapter 23: Chapter 23
Chapter Text
Hermione can hear one of the Weasley twins banging on the bedroom door, yelling at her with childish excitement to get out of bed. She is wondering which of them she will have to throttle – they did this every time she slept over, woke the whole house with shouting and banging on pots and pans. Usually, it was Fred who was the biggest perpetrator, but sometimes George would surprise her by lighting a firecracker outside of the door.
“C’mon you lazy gits, up and at em’!”
She pulls her sleep-heavy eyes open, ready to shout at either Fred or George when the realization hits her like a train.
Fred is dead. She isn’t at The Burrow. It is Christmas morning and she is in Mexico at Pansy Parkinson’s vacation home.
For a moment, the realization is all new again, like the first time she had seen Fred’s body, lying on a cot in the Great Hall. Fred, gone. Her chest swells with a sadness she hasn’t felt in a while, a sadness that has been looming behind her while she’s been living this new life.
“I will come in there myself if I have to! I do miss cuddling with you under the sheets, Malfoy!”
It’s Adrian’s voice, she realizes, shifting in bed as Draco groans, slamming a pillow over his ears as Adrian’s fist pounds on the door a few more times.
“I’m going to kill him,” Draco murmurs, his voice thick with sleep as Adrian moves on to Pansy’s door down the hall, his wake-up call more distant now, but just as annoying. Hermione sits up, pushing away the strange feeling in her stomach that came with waking and believing she was somewhere she is not, listening to someone who is no longer here. Draco groans again from beside her as she kicks him lightly under the sheets.
They fall out of bed reluctantly, pulling on the pyjamas they hadn’t worn to bed last night and following the wafting smell of coffee down the corridor and into the kitchen.
“Morning, lover,” Adrian winks at Draco as they enter, a wide, demented grin stretching across his face as he pours them coffee into two large mugs.
“You’re such a shithead, Pucey,” Draco growls, his face settling into an irate sneer as he takes a sip of the black coffee. Daphne, who is flipping pancakes behind Adrian, rolls her eyes, plopping a chocolate chip in the center of one. Hermione watches as it sinks into the wet batter, the outer edges bubbling and browning, ready to be flipped.
“Granger? Milk? Sugar?” Adrian asks her, his eyebrows lifted. Immediately, Hermione feels Draco’s eyes on her, waiting hungrily for her answer as he leans his back against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankle.
“Milk, but no sugar, please,” she smiles, allowing Adrian to pour a bit of milk into the dark liquid. Her eyes flick over to Draco, who tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, his face practically dripping with amusement.
“A compromise,” she says to him, thanking Adrian as he slides her the mug. Draco shakes his head at her, grey eyes gleaming in wonderment.
“Stubborn,” he mouths to her, lifting his mug to his lips once again. Hermione smirks, moving around the counter to sit on a stool behind the breakfast bar. Draco steps forward to help Daphne, flipping a pancake with precision as Theo and Blaise shuffle in, their mouths open in a simultaneous yawn.
“Do you have a death wish, Pucey?” Blaise asks in a rough morning voice, as they approach Adrian’s offer of coffee. Theo looks positively wrathful, his dark curls sticking up at every angle as he gives Adrian the evil eye.
“Because I heard Theo mumble multiple ways he might get away with murder, and by the sounds of it no one would ever be able to find you, mate,” Blaise finishes, looking over at his boyfriend with a heedful glance, as if any sudden movements would provoke him to further anger. Theo’s eyes remain narrowed malevolently on Adrian as he pours his coffee, but Adrian only grins, giving Theo a little bit extra.
“You know how much I love Christmas,” Adrian shrugs, setting the carafe down on the counter as Pansy wanders in, clad in pink silk pyjamas and looking just as rattled as the rest of them.
“Good morning. Or should I say, ass-crack-of-dawn?” Pansy says, her lip curling as Adrian pours her a coffee and plops two sugar cubes in, giving it a quick stir.
“Enough grumbling, it’s Christmas!” Adrian reasons, looking satisfied that everyone now has coffee. “Just drink your caffeine, plop on a smile, relax! The faster we eat, the faster we can open presents!”
No one seems quite as excited as Adrian is yet, but sure enough, the strong coffee that Adrian has brewed them has softened their displeasure and given way to pleasant conversation as Daphne and Draco pile a plate high with pancakes, and they all make their way over to the dining table to eat.
By the time breakfast is over they are all in good spirits, leaving the kitchen mess for later as they gather around the tree in the living area, plopping down on sofas and in chairs. Hermione settles into a seat beside Daphne, as the blonde girl tells her about what Christmases had looked like at the Greengrass Residence.
“Astoria and I used to fight over everything,” Daphne giggles, clutching her refilled mug of coffee in her fingers as Adrian and Blaise begin to pull presents out, sorting them into piles for each person.
“-Eventually, Mother and Father decided it was best to just get us the same things, so we wouldn’t argue anymore. We were so close in age, and Astoria always wanted to be just like me. If I got a doll, Astoria got the same one. Eventually, she grew out of it, but for a while, there was always two of everything around.”
Hermione smiles as she watches the girl, her eyes twinkling with reminiscence as she stares off dreamily at the tree.
“Are you two still close?” Hermione asks, tucking her legs under her as she gets comfy on the sofa. Daphne shakes her head sadly, meeting Hermione’s eyes.
“Sadly, no. ‘Storia and I are very different. In sixth year, suddenly she wasn’t very interested in me anymore, once we were old enough to understand ourselves a bit better. She follows Mother around now, learns how to host pureblood parties and be a good housewife. She doesn’t really understand how I couldn’t want that life anymore. I’m glad she’s happy, either way, but I wish she could be happy for me, too. Ya know?”
Hermione nods, watching Daphne shrug as if it wasn’t a big deal. She takes a breath before continuing, watching Adrian with an unbridled affection as he whispers something in Blaise’s ear, making the other boy crack a wide grin.
“Adrian’s my family. And so are the rest of you. It took me a while to figure out that family really has nothing to do with blood.”
Before Hermione can respond, Blaise claps his hands loudly, getting everyone’s attention. They begin to pass out gifts, ripping open wrappings and sending tissue paper flying into the air. Hermione watches joyously as Adrian opens the gift she has gotten him, his brows furrowing in confusion as he assesses the box.
“It’s a muggle panini press,” Hermione chuckles, pointing to the picture of a sandwich on the box, steaming hot on the open grill. “I wanted to give you something new to try, Chef Pucey.”
Adrian’s eyes light up in delight, muttering something about the perfect chicken pesto sandwich as he looks with wide eyes over the entire box.
“You just keep surprising me, Granger,” He smiles, standing and pacing over to Hermione before pulling her in for a tight hug.
“I’m glad you like it,” she smiles, squeezing him just as tight until he lightly smacks her arm to tap out, clearly out-hugged. It takes them another half an hour or so to finish opening gifts. They’d all even gotten Hermione presents: a pair of earrings from Pansy, some sugar quills and a new book from Theo and Blaise, a stylish jumper from Daphne similar to one she’d once complimented the girl for wearing, and a framed picture of Hermione, Daphne and Adrian from Halloween night at Devil’s Snare from Adrian. She laughs outright when she opens the present from all of them, pulling out a green sweater embossed with the Slytherin crest.
“Harry would kill me if he ever caught me wearing this,” Hermione says as she slips the sweater on over her head, watching Draco’s eyes light up when he sees her in emerald green.
“Boy Wonder hates Slytherin House? Never would have guessed,” Theo jokes as Hermione stands to give them all hugs. They thank her in return for what she has given them, and they all settle down in a mess of wrapping and gifts to chat about what they’ve been given or head to the kitchen to get more coffee.
Hermione locks eyes with Draco from where he stands across the room, wiggling her brows at him and motioning with a tilt of her chin to the double doors that lead out to the balcony. Draco gives her an understanding nod, and she turns, pushing the doors open and stepping out into the cool morning air. She leans her elbows on the railing of the balustrade, gazing out at the calm waters of the Sea of Cortez and watching the tangerine-coloured sun begin to spread its rays across the waters.
Draco appears beside her, his arm brushing hers as he leans next to her.
“You look good in green, Granger,” he smirks, nodding at her new Slytherin sweater with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. She laughs softly, straightening and turning to face him, her hip resting against the railing.
“I don’t suppose I could ever get you to wear Gryffindor red, could I?” she asks teasingly. His smile drops to a playful frown, his grey eyes narrowing at her as he mirrors her stance, facing her as the sun glows against his cheek.
“Never in a million years,” he replies, leaning one elbow on the railing in an effortlessly relaxed manner. His white hair glows in the sun, and he looks handsomely ruffled, his hair still slightly messy from sleep, his features relaxed and carefree. Her heart constricts inside her chest as his eyes flick over her, waiting patiently for her to speak.
“I have the second half of your gift,” she tells him, half nervous and half excited as she pulls the open letter from Mr. Bimble from the pocket of her trousers. His eyebrow arches curiously as she holds it out for him.
“Strangely coincidental that we both got each other letters,” he smirks, pulling the parchment open with nimble fingers.
“I thought so, too. Only, the other half of mine was oral sex, so I think we know who really did Christmas better,” she jibes, blinking flirtatiously at him as he narrows his eyes in challenge.
“Oh, I’m sure something can be arranged to even out the score.”
She practically gulps, feeling herself flush as Draco straightens out the parchment and begins reading, his eyes dancing quickly over the page as Hermione watches him.
His expression remains stoic, unreadable as his eyes linger on one sentence, a sentence Hermione is sure is the one where Mr. Bimble says that Draco is no longer required to work at the shop.
She waits, her heart beating wildly in her chest. He should be excited; should be positively chuffed that he no longer has to do all of the muggle work that he hates, that she will no longer be his boss, that the program he had so unwillingly complied with was no longer a requirement. She had set him free.
Finally, his eyes flick back up to hers, cold grey searching her face for a moment.
“So I am no longer an employee at the shop, then?” he asks, as if the letter had not been clear. His voice is level, steady, and he stands frozen in place, his breathing calm and his eyes blank. She nods eagerly, hoping, waiting for him to show some sort of relief.
“I just know how much you hated it… all of those muggle jobs,” she says, swallowing her uncertainty and trying to show him that she would be okay on her own, that this was her way of telling him that she believed in him.
“Mmm,” he hums a complicit agreement, licking his lips quickly as he bites down, a muscle in his jaw rippling. He nods, folding up the paper. His face is still slightly unreadable, the gears in his mind still clearly whirring as he watches her. Something in her gut twists, as he tucks the folded paper into his own pocket, reaching a hand up to scratch the stubble on his jaw.
“Do you like it?” she asks, stepping closer to him and placing a soft hand on his bicep.
“Yes, Granger. Thank you.”
His voice is monotonous, though there is a lilt to it that tries its best to be positive. She pulls her brows together, watching as he gives her a soft, unconvincing smile that fades quickly. His eyes begin to glaze over softly with the threat of occlumency, something she hadn’t seen him do in weeks.
“Draco, I just wanted you to-” she begins, suddenly worried that this had been the wrong choice, the wrong thing to do.
“I said I liked it, Granger,” he snaps, an edge to his voice that is usually a telltale sign that he is in one of his moods. “Just drop it. We should get back to the others.”
She nods, unconvinced but already knowing that she would get nowhere by pushing him. He spins on his heel, not waiting for her to follow as he makes his way across the balcony and back inside.
Hermione swallows her fears, telling herself that he was probably just overwhelmed by all of the Slytherins’ ra-ra Christmas spirit and that he would be more excited about the idea once things had settled down for a bit. Steeling herself, Hermione puts on a smile and heads back inside after Draco, going into the kitchen to clean up from breakfast with a few waves of her wand and some Molly Weasley inspired cleaning charms.
At lunch, everyone goes down to the beach to swim while Hermione stays behind to write. She’s nearly finished the first draft of her book and has already meticulously planned out how she can optimize her time on any remaining research and fact-checking when she returns to England.
She watches from the balcony, craning her neck over the line of trees to see her friends on the beach, laughing and splashing each other playfully. They had less than a week left here until they were to return home in time for New Years and to hear news about the rebel capture and Narcissa’s release. Hermione had promised Draco that she would convince the group to return early that day without giving anything away, as they were all still in the dark about the plea deal. Hermione had also promised Harry that she would be at The Burrow for New Year's Eve since she had missed Christmas, and not to mention, the shop opening was set for the first week of February.
Blaise had convinced her to have a Grand Opening party, complete with fancy dress and champagne, and she had agreed, resigning to the fact that this probably was an event that was worth celebrating. Thinking about the renovations being over sent her brain spiralling; time, as always, had escaped her. It felt like only days ago that she’d sat in Kingsley’s office and purchased the shop, having no clue what she was getting herself into.
She’s not exactly sure when she made the decision to keep the shop and run it permanently, but it had happened unconsciously at some point during the renovations. After everything she had put into it – the many hours, the blood, sweat and tears, the hours spent with Draco rebuilding something that had seemed so hopelessly broken – she felt the need to see the rest of the journey through. To become the new owner of a brand new Flourish & Blotts. She had come to the intersection of past and present – giving new life to something from before the war, restoring something that the war had seemingly destroyed.
The shop was hers . It was part of her past, her present, and her future, and she was excited about the prospect of seeing what new adventures the shop would bring her.
But the shop was also Draco’s. As much as it was part of her, it had become part of him as well. It was them . It was blood spilt by a nail; it was echoes of their fights and memories of their kisses; it was a part of their reconciliation, of their sleepless nights and tired days, of new understanding and of taking down their own walls while they built the physical ones.
More than anything, she wishes there was a way to thank him, for all he had done for her. He had come a long way from the scared boy who had used to call her names in school, from the man who had been so reluctant to let her in during those first weeks of working with her.
So when she finally writes the last line of her book draft, she flips all of the crinkled, waterlogged pages back to the very first page of the journal, and pens in a dedication – always her own favourite part of reading a book.
For D –
For teaching me how easy it is to prove history wrong.
~~
Draco is distant for the next two days. Hermione sees him trying to remain normal around her, trying to stay the same happy, carefree person he had been the entire holiday. But he avoids her gaze when he can, avoids being alone with her, and even misses their siesta in the hammock on Boxing Day.
This morning, she had tried to talk to him about it as they lied in bed, twisting in the sheets to face him as the sun peaked in through the curtains.
“Draco,” she had whispered, her eyes flicking over his face cautiously as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “I need to know why you’re upset with me.”
“I’m not upset, Granger” he bit back, sitting up in the bed so his back was to her. “You can stop being an uptight bint and relax. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.”
He made a beeline for the washroom after, and Hermione decided to leave it alone after that. It wasn’t unlike him to be in a dark mood, and for a moment she worried that she had gotten too used to the happy-go-lucky Draco that had presented himself in the early days of their time in Mexico. He was like this most of the time, she had to remind herself. Draco came with both sides, and she cared for him either way. He still poured her coffee that morning and kissed her neck when she had appeared in Pansy’s bikini to go down to the water. He was still him. But she couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that his returning gloom had something to do with her Christmas gift.
The rest of the day was spent at the beach, relaxing under the shade of the umbrellas and snorkelling along the cliffs, using a Bubble-Head charm to watch the bright coloured fish dart between rocks and coral, and weave through the plants and seaweed at the bottom.
For dinner they go to a Spanish restaurant in the wizarding village and have authentic Gazpacho, celebrating their second last night in Mexico. They return to Pansy’s villa warm and buzzing from the Sangria, and watch gleefully as Adrian and Blaise perform a tipsy can-can on the balcony as Pansy starts a flame at the fire pit with a quick ‘ Incendio.’
Hermione settles into a chair beside Draco, feeling encouraged when he rests a warm hand on her leg, rubbing his thumb gently against her skin. Maybe she had been over-reacting – maybe he really had just been in a sour mood and needed some time to brood.
The Slytherins and Hermione sit around the fire, listening to Blaise tell stories of the worst tattoos he’s ever had to do – one being Viktor Krum’s face inside of a love heart. The sound of their laughter suddenly harmonizes with a loud, annunciatory screech, one all wizards recognize from mail delivery days at Hogwarts in the Great Hall.
Hermione has always been good at spotting when things are about to go wrong; has trained herself to always be a step ahead, to be quick thinking and prepared. Spotting signs of destruction – news of the ministry falling at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and escaping on a dragon attached to chains – and acting quickly, just barely slipping through the cracks each time.
But an owl, a small, tan, yellow-eyed thing flying at full speed towards Pansy’s villa is not something Hermione prepares herself for. It is not an immediate sign of destruction, not a telling symbol of what is about to follow. It is only a bird, delivering a letter attached to its leg. Because owls bring news, and until it reaches you, you have no idea if that news is good or bad. This time, Hermione doesn’t see it coming.
The small bird lands near the group of friends and lets out a loud squawk, its yellow eyes glowing brightly in the dark as it lifts its talon urgently, the small letter swinging in the breeze.
“Anyone expecting a letter?” Blaise asks as he stands, making his way over to the large bird and petting it softly to get it to stop squawking, before pulling the letter free and inspecting it. The group mumbles a synchronous ‘no’ as the owl flaps its wings impatiently, letting out another loud wail as Blaise looks up at the rest of them.
“It’s for you, Draco,” he says, holding the letter out in front of him. All heads turn to look at Draco, who looks just as surprised as they all are that someone has sent him something. Something inside of Hermione twists with worry, an anxious weight revealing itself in her gut as he stands and strides purposefully over to Blaise, taking the letter from him and looking back at Hermione with a worried expression.
Hermione doesn’t move; feels frozen in her seat, swears that everyone can hear her heart thumping. A letter so late at night, from an owl so adamant that Draco opens it as fast as possible, couldn’t possibly be good news.
Hermione watches as Draco stands, crossing over to where Blaise stands with the letter held out in front of him. His grey eyes meet Hermione’s, and in them, she sees all of her own worries reflected back at her – because this letter contained a lot more than words. It could easily contain hope and promises of a brighter future, but it could just as easily contain heartbreak and disappointment.
Hermione swallows, her eyes not leaving Draco’s as she gives him an encouraging nod. He turns back to Blaise, raising a slow hand to take the small envelope from him. There is a deafening silence, interrupted only by the sound of the ocean and the trilling chirps of nocturnal insects, as the Slytherins watch Draco stride slowly to the far end of the balcony, his body becoming only a moonlit silhouette in the distance.
Hermione sees his dark form lean against the railing as he opens the letter and begins to read. As he reads, Hermione’s lungs burn from holding her breath – Draco’s body does nothing to give his reaction to the letter away. She only sees his willowy form standing in its usual well-trained posture, his silvery hair glinting from afar, and the even rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.
Finally, after what seems like hours, Draco turns, stalking back towards them with the letter in his hand. His arm dangles at his side, but his grip on the letter is intense; white knuckles and prominent veins. Hermione’s heart stutters with worry as his face comes into view in the firelight – washed with undetermined bewilderment, his skin pale and ashen, but his eyes calm. It is impossible to tell what exactly he is feeling, and Hermione is beginning to feel lightheaded from holding her breath.
He stops in front of the fire pit, the letter dangling ominously by his side. They wait for him to speak, the crackling fire like a drumroll leading to Draco’s explanation. Hermione’s mind is amuck with thoughts, with worry, when Draco’s eyes meet hers. Sharp, silver, reflecting the orange flames like a mirror.
“My mother is to be released from Azkaban tomorrow.”
Although it is not audible, there is a collective sigh released from the group – the tension of their anticipation disintegrates, and Hermione allows herself to breathe again, the sweet relief of oxygen tingling her tightened lungs. It takes a moment for Draco’s words to hit her, to make sense.
Narcissa was free. The Aurors had infiltrated the rebels. The rebel group has been disbanded. The war is finally won. It is all so simple, but so unfathomable. Stunned, Hermione watches Draco’s eyes flick around to the rest of the group, who look just as shocked as Hermione feels. They hadn’t been aware of the plea deal, of Hermione’s part in freeing Narcissa. As far as they had been concerned, Draco was still scraping the bottom of the barrel with Amara, trying to figure out how to free her.
“Draco, that’s… Congratulations, mate. That’s amazing.” Blaise says, finally breaking the silence and standing to pull Draco in for a hug.
“Yeah, I’m so happy for you,” Pansy nods, following Blaise up and pulling a slightly stiff Draco into her arms. “-but how did this happen?”
Pansy and Blaise return to their seats as Hermione tries to control the pounding of her heart, the mixture of happiness, relief, of worry for her friends as she watches Draco.
“She was part of a plea deal. She helped Kingsley’s Aurors find the safehouse that the Wales rebel group is hiding out in. The rebels moved a day earlier than they were supposed to, but the Aurors had a spy and found out. My Mother is to be released tomorrow morning at sunrise, for helping them with the capture.”
If the Slytherins have any qualms about being kept in the dark, they don’t show it. They only smile up at Draco, pouring out their congratulations as Draco’s features go from overwhelmed with emotion to a blank, unreadable expression. Hermione would recognize the signs of Draco’s occlumency anywhere – the way his eyes fog over, the way his features slacken and his jaw hardens.
“I have to go. I have to get back to the manor,” he says suddenly. His tone is determined and slightly frantic, and the letter is starting to get wrinkled under his tight grip. As if snapping into realization, Draco is suddenly restless, impatient.
“We’ll help you pack,” Pansy says, as the Slytherins nod and stand in their seats. Hermione shakes herself from her stupor, following their lead.
“No,” Draco interjects sternly, shaking his head. “There’s no time. I should go now. I should prepare her room, be ready for her when she gets released tomorrow.”
His tone is slightly panicky, overwhelmed but decided. Pansy nods eagerly, looking over to Hermione to gauge her reaction.
“Okay, no problem, Draco. I’ll get you the Portkey. The rest of us can find another way home.”
Draco nods in thanks as Pansy heads inside, the rest of the Slytherins following suit to leave Hermione and Draco alone on the balcony. Blaise shuts the door behind them, and Hermione exhales a breath of relief, her eyes falling on Draco who seems suddenly far away, staring off into the distance as his mind works a mile a minute.
“We did it,” she breathes finally, as his attention snaps to her. He grips the back of the chair that he stands behind, the letter crumpling more in his hand as he meets her gaze. And finally, it's there – the warning sign, the sinking feeling. It hadn’t happened at the owl's arrival, or with the letter addressed to Draco. Hermione feels it now, as Draco watches her. It’s in his distanced gaze, in the way his face falls from sadness to a familiar determinedness – a look she hasn’t seen since he had once been so determined to prove that they weren’t friends, that he couldn’t stand her, that their first kiss had meant nothing.
It is in Draco’s eyes that she first sees the inevitable destruction; the impending explosion, a time bomb that has been ticking away since they had first laid eyes on each other. The sign she had been ignoring so long, that she had been so blind to.
The thing about reaching crescendo is that from there, there is nowhere you can go but down. Once you have hit that final, impeccable symphony, it is inevitable that everything that follows will disappoint; that the instruments will become quieter, lower; that after the climax, there is always the descent.
She had been so ignorant to the inescapableness of it. And as it hits her now, as the realization that she has lost him hits her, it tumbles through her like a boulder down a mountain, crushing and dislodging everything in its path.
“Look, Granger, I-”
“Let me come with you,” she says, cutting him off before he can say the words she knows are coming. If she keeps talking, if she talks and talks and never stops, if she goes with him and helps him, will he let her stay? Will he veer off of this path of destruction, stop the rolling boulder on the edge of the cliff?
“-I can help. I’ll do whatever you need. I can prepare the-”
“No, Granger.”
His voice is sharp and firm, almost angry as he interrupts her. His eyes - which have been pressed shut since she had interrupted him - snap open, falling onto hers with a gaze that grows increasingly distant. She steps towards him, reaching out to take his hand, but he pulls it away, stepping back from her in the process.
Her heart stutters, her throat constricting as Draco’s expression hardens to a mean frown. She watches in regret as he looks down at her with the same terrible, callous expression he had when she had shown up for Lucius’s funeral. She watches days, months, hours, and minutes disappear; every step forward they have made together erased in his eyes.
“No?” Her voice is shaky, comes out in a timid squeak that is almost a whisper, as if she is afraid to say it. Because she is terrified of what he is saying to her.
Confusion tugs at her as she tries to understand why this is happening. Getting his Mom out was supposed to make him happy, to dissolve the worries and emptiness that she thought stood in the way of his happiness. Why was it causing him to push her away?
Her heart drops into her stomach when Draco looks at her without any hint of affection, as if the last few weeks had never happened.
This was it. This was how she lost him.
“No. You have to stay here.”
“But I want to come with you,” she protests, grabbing his arm when he tries to step away from her. He shrugs away from her touch again, spinning to face her as he clenches his jaw.
“I said no, Granger.”
His tone is hard, definitive, and his expression is worse. There is a flicker behind his eyes that makes her believe for a moment that he might change his mind, that he might come back to her. But it's gone before she can act on it.
“Why are you acting like this?” she asks, the prick of tears stinging the back of her eyes as Draco’s body stiffens, all softness gone in a second as he looks impatiently back at the door, waiting for Pansy’s return.
“Like what, Granger?” he bites, eyebrows drawing together contemptuously.
“Like the way you used to act.”
He lets out a dry, snarky laugh, his lids heavy with annoyance as he shakes his head at her.
“Like the way I used to act?! What is that supposed to mean? You think just because we’ve slept in the same bed and lounged together in a hammock, that that means I’ve changed? This is who I am, Granger! I fuck things up like this! I was a Death Eater, for fucks sake!”
At this, he holds his forearm out, the Dark Mark contrasting against the white of his skin – the snake and the skull seem to float, staring back at her from where it stands on his alabaster complexion.
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” she says, tugging her stare away from the tattoo and up to his face. She tries to remind herself that this anger is forced; that this is how he blocks her out, a mechanism used to push her away.
“No? Not even after my father tried to kill Ginny? Not after I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts to kill Dumbledore? Not after I watched my Aunt torture you on the floor in my own home? What does it mean to you then, Granger, huh?”
His voice is thick with anger and pain and his arm stays frozen, extended out to her, the mark rippling with his tense muscles. She swallows back a sob, tears falling onto her cheeks now; searches his eyes for the man she knows he is.
“It’s just a mark, Draco.”
“It’s a symbol, Hermione!” he retorts, striding towards her with purpose. She doesn’t cower, doesn’t flinch, just lets him stand over her with his lip curled and his hot breath in her hair. “Nothing can ever just be a mark. I took this, Granger. I said yes. I made the choice.”
“You know that’s not true,” she snaps, meeting his cold eyes with her own. His breathing is ragged, uneven, and he searches her face as he holds his arm out towards her still.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he says, his voice low and quiet now.
“Get what?” she retorts, her voice desperate, breaking in its determination.
“This was never going to work,” he exclaims, motioning back and forth between them. His eyes are black, his broad figure stiff and pulsing with heat that emanates from him. “You had to have known that it was only a matter of time before this exploded on us. We’re both smarter than that, Granger.”
“You’re not making any sense. Have I done something?”
He runs a palm over the invisible stubble on his jaw, the heat of his frustration emanating from his body. Hermione wants to cling to him; to hug him and kiss him and beg him not to do this.
“We both know that renovating the shop was the only thing we had in common. Now that you’ve pushed me away, what else do we have, Granger? Huh? We don’t belong in each other’s lives.”
“Is that what this is about?” she retorts, and now they are in a full-on yelling match as she tries to keep herself from falling apart. “-The fact that I asked Mr. Bimble to end your probation work early? I can take it back, Malfoy, I can tell him-”
“What, so we can prolong the inevitable?” he says before turning and striding away down the length of the balcony. He looks towards the doors, still waiting for Pansy’s return as Hermione follows him, grabbing his arm to stop him as he turns around to face her.
“Who says this has to end? Who says that this is going to fail? You are letting fear control you, Draco. You’re letting it ruin something good!”
He pulls his hand from hers again, his eyes twitching as he looks down on her. He takes a menacing step forward, bringing them to close proximity again.
“I’m going to fuck something up, Granger. I always do. Forgive me for not wanting you to be in the path of destruction when I do.”
“I don’t care, Draco. I don’t care, and I know that we can-”
“You should care!” he says, exasperated, as if he is begging her to understand. “That is the problem! You should care. Look at who you are! Even your friends hate me, Granger. How am I ever supposed to be good enough for you? Fucking you up would be the worst possible thing I could do. Perfect things are always the easiest to screw up: white gets stained, and shiny things tarnish. You are light, Granger! You are light, and what happens when you mix dark with light?”
She shakes her head in denial, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as her chest constricts with pain, with desperation, with the last remaining bit of hope that she might be able to salvage this. When she doesn’t say anything he steps back, holding out his tattooed forearm again. He shakes it at her, violently, forcing her to look at it.
“Darkness consumes, Hermione. When you mix light and dark, you only get more darkness. Someone as dark as me would only be a fucking stain on your shirt collar. We were fucked to ever think that this might work. I’m- I’m sorry that I led you to believe we were something we’re not.”
“So what?” she cries, following him as he makes a beeline to the door, where the rest of the Slytherins stand inside, waiting, pretending not to hear the fallout happening just outside of the doors. Draco stops in his path, his fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his back moving with his ragged breathing.
“-You’re too afraid to even try? All of this meant nothing to you?”
She sees him flinch; sees his shoulders sag, his body freeze, his head turn over his shoulder so she can see the profile of his face, dark shadows dancing across his cheekbones. He doesn’t turn to her, doesn’t move except for the rise and fall of his breaths, the flutter of his lashes as he closes his eyes.
“I don’t want this anymore, Granger.”
It hits her like a knife to her chest – sharp, painful, pointed. Her breath catches in her lungs, stops in her throat, and all she can feel is the pulse of her blood, pumping through her veins, the thing that is keeping her alive. Something inside of her breaks, like the wall of a dam, and she freezes, not daring to move towards him as his words linger in the air, like a suffocating fog around them.
“You don’t mean that,” she says, but she can hear her own despairing surrender, the defeat that she is trying to deny.
“Don’t make me say it again,” he bites, not even looking at her as his eyes remain shut, still frozen in place.
“Please, Draco-” she begs, a sob bubbling from her throat as she lurches forward as if she was going to try to catch him, to hold him down, make him stay. But she stops again before reaching him, just as he is opening his eyes.
“Enough, Granger,” he snaps, his voice stern but soft. He turns his head back to face the doors, so that his back is to her, and strides over to them, gripping the handle. Hermione can’t move, can’t speak, can’t think; only knows that he is walking away from her and that there is nothing more she can do. As if an afterthought, Draco finally turns to face her, wincing as he sees the stream of tears rolling down her freckled skin.
“Thank you, for getting my Mom out. Thank you for everything. But this stops now.”
With that, he pulls open the door, striding inside where the Slytherins wait. She watches through the glass as Pansy reluctantly hands him the Portkey – a small, bronze ring wrapped in fabric – and before she can make herself move, before she can run to stop him, Draco disappears into thin air, back to England, leaving her alone on the balcony.
Chapter 24: Chapter 24
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It isn’t the time that passes without him that hurts the most; it’s the moments that he should have been in, the empty spaces of that day that would usually be filled with conversation and silly arguments.
It’s saying goodbye to Mexico without him and returning to an empty shop that has been built with memories of them. It’s watching George’s fireworks on New Year’s Eve and realizing that this new year will not include him. It’s stocking the last of the books at the shop and hanging up the last of the signs, and then standing in the middle of the room, wishing that he was here to see it in its completed state.
Her nightmares, which had become less and less frequent in the past weeks, were now followed by days alone at the shop; without a hot black coffee waiting for her, or a snarky comment about the state of her hair.
Ginny and Harry kept her company some days – helped her plan for the Grand Opening, organized her still-messy office. There was a remaining air of awkwardness between her and Ron – polite smiles and minimal conversation as they danced around to avoid addressing their last encounter.
When she’d first arrived back to her flat from Mexico, Ginny was already there to return Crookshanks from where he had been staying at The Burrow. Ginny took one look at Hermione’s swollen, reddened eyes and had pulled her into a tight hug as she began to sob, no questions asked.
“You’ll be alright, my love,” Ginny had whispered into her hair as she pulled her onto the couch, still cradling her in her arms as Hermione cried into her shoulder, leaving a wet stain of tears and snot in her wake.
After Ginny had brewed her a cup of tea and Hermione had settled down thanks to Crookshanks’ loving ministrations, Hermione told her everything about the trip – the good and the bad, all leading up to Draco’s dramatic exit and unexpected breaking of her heart.
“Think I’m capable of getting away with murder? Think they’d still let me play Quidditch if they ever caught me?” the red-haired girl had joked, stroking Hermione’s hair while Hermione laughed through her tears.
“I’m so stupid,” Hermione choked out, her throat thick and hoarse from crying. “I should have known things would end this way.”
“You are not stupid,” Ginny had replied, shaking her head. “Not at all.”
For a few days, Hermione had ignored the shop completely, terrified to go back and be reminded of him. But eventually, realizing everything she had to do before opening day, she had gotten out of bed, dressed, and apparated to The Strip.
Walking inside was like walking into a portal to another dimension. It was like walking into someone else’s life, a vaguely familiar dream of a place that had once been hers. It took her a few minutes to adjust to the familiar smell of fresh paint, lingering sawdust, and new books, but eventually, it started to feel as if she had never left.
As much as it hurt, it also felt good to be back; to keep her hands and her head busy as she packed the shelves full of books, decorated and furnished, balanced numbers and watered the small plant that Neville had given her all that time ago, which was dropping its leaves from lack of care.
Snow fell outside of the windows, and on her lunch break, Hermione cuddled up in the old armchair- the one she had saved from the shop on her first day - and watched the snowflakes while she cried. She cried for Draco – for all of the ways he could not believe in himself, for how he refused to forgive himself and take his second chance in life in stride. She cried for herself, for losing him, and for not understanding until she lost him that she had been doing the exact same thing.
Despite the nightmares, the pain and grief, the sadness, she was here. She had given herself a second chance at life. But this was something Draco might never have, and for that, she is heartbroken for him.
After lunch, she plans the catering for the Grand Opening and responds to the letter from Ellis Rumiheart that had been Draco’s Christmas gift to her. They agree to meet the following week to look over Hermione’s manuscript and discuss a publishing contract, and the idea of it cracks a small, glowing bit of hope inside of her. As she banishes away the remaining garbage and cardboard for the day and wipes down the front counter, the bell jangles at the arrival of a visitor.
“Pansy?” Hermione says with surprise as the petite, beautiful girl strides in wearing a fur coat, white snowflakes freckling her dark hair.
“The one and only,” Pansy smiles as the door shuts behind her. Her skin is still tanned from Mexico, olive-coloured and glowing, and she is wearing high-heeled boots despite the slippery conditions of the cobblestone outside.
“What are you doing here?” Hermione asks incredulously as Pansy drops her coat to look around, making impressed faces at the completed look of the shop. Pansy turns to her, raising a sharp eyebrow and putting her fists on her hips.
“What, you think just because Draco is an absolute dense prick that that means we're not allowed to be friends anymore?” Pansy asks, her high voice thick with confidence. Hermione shrugs, setting down the cup of coffee she has just brewed herself – with one milk and no sugar.
“I just thought… well, you’ve never really liked me, have you?”
Pansy laughs, clear and bright like a bell, her eyes twinkling with unfettered amusement.
“Wow. I know I can be a terrible bitch, Granger, but I really thought we’d made some progress.”
Pansy moves towards her, taking Hermione’s hands in her own and holding them between their bodies. Hermione meets her eye and feels a surprising amount of comfort in Pansy’s self-assured smirk.
“I’d like to think we’re friends, Granger. And friends don’t ditch each other because of dumb men who still act like boys. Do they?”
The corner of Hermione’s mouth lifts in a grin, and she shakes her head side to side, squeezing Pansy’s cold fingers in her own.
“No, I suppose they don’t.”
Pansy smiles with pride and releases her hands.
“Good,” she says, her voice lilting with satisfaction as she inspects her perfectly painted nails. “Then we have a shopping trip to go on.”
“A what?” Hermione asks, her eyebrows pulling together with concern. Pansy paces over to the front counter, using her wand to vanish Hermione’s steaming, brand new cup of coffee, and grabbing Hermione’s coat from the coat rack.
“A shopping trip,” Pansy reiterates as if it is the most obvious thing in the entire world. She helps Hermione slip into her coat before putting her own on as she explains this unexpected trip.
“I don’t expect you have anything quite fancy enough for your Grand Opening party, and just this once I’m willing to be nice enough not to upstage you with how dazzling I’m going to look in my own gown.”
Hermione chuckles, grabbing her beaded bag from the counter and dimming the sconce lights with her wand as Pansy steps towards the door.
“How kind of you,” Hermione replies sarcastically, and Pansy gives her a flirtatious wink in return.
“I know. Now let’s go, I don’t think Madame Malkin’s will be open for much longer,” Pansy continues as they leave the shop, Hermione locking it behind her with her wand. Pansy chats up a storm as they walk down The Strip towards the more lively side of Diagon Alley, talking as if they hadn’t just spent two weeks together, but rather, as if they were old friends who’d been apart for years and had to catch up on all of the things they’d missed.
Hermione can’t help but smile as Pansy keeps talking, feeling warm despite the cold air of the alley and the snowflakes that keep landing on the tip of her reddened nose.
“I know you’ll think I’m just saying this, Hermione, but your skin tone and your hair colour really do look excellent in green…”
~~
“I have to admit, Hermione, when I didn’t hear back from the young Mr. Malfoy, that I thought you weren’t interested in my offer.”
Hermione sits in a small but comfortable office at the Little Red Books publishing office in central London, surrounded by magical plants that would make Neville Longbottom cream his jeans. The publishing company is, like St. Mungo’s Hospital, tucked into the muggle city, hidden amongst a muggle publishing company that resides in the lower half of the building.
Ellis Rumiheart sits across from her. He is a tall, lanky man with black and white peppered hair and a thin face; a pair of overly large glasses rest on his long nose, the lenses of which make his eyes look much bigger than they are. His skin is covered in fine wrinkles, and he sports a well-trimmed beard on his pointed chin and a kind, permanent seeming smile.
“Yes, well…” Hermione trails off, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Mr. Rumiheart looks at her expectantly, his fingers laced together on top of the parchment-ridden surface of his desk.
“-Draco and I had a recent falling out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Granger, truly. Especially after everything he said about you in his initial letter to me. I’d thought he was quite taken with you.”
Hermione gives him a tight, closed-lipped smile and shrugs. She has no idea how to respond to this - I did too, Mr. Rumiheart. I guess we were both fooled.
He takes a breath in, clearly aware of Hermione’s discomfort, and shoots her an apologetic grin.
“Nonetheless, you are just as talented as Mr. Malfoy let on,” he begins, flipping demonstratively through the manuscript that Hermione has typed on an old typewriter her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday. The paper makes a fluttering sound as he uses his thumb to hold the pages and let them fall back down into their neat pile, like skimming through a book.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Rumiheart,” she smiles, her chest swelling with pride. It had taken many sleepless nights and even more visits to the Ministry Archives to finally finish the final draft of the book, but she was very happy with how it had all turned out.
“Please, call me Ellis,” he smiles back, placing both palms down on the thick pile of parchment that holds the entire story of the Second Wizarding War.
“Thank you, Ellis. I’m glad you like it.”
He nods, dipping a quill into a jar of black ink and scribbling something on a spare bit of paper at his elbow.
“I’d like to publish this book, Hermione. I’m willing to bargain with you for how much you will sell it to me for. I have an editor on standby, if you agree, to ensure the manuscript is ready for publication in the coming weeks, should you choose to accept my offer. I want this to be fair for you. I want us to be a team.”
“Alright,” she says, sliding forward in her seat as Ellis scribbles some numbers and words on the paper, seemingly doing math in his head as he works out a fair price. Hermione knows how publishing companies work: purchasing your book from you for an initial price, with the promise of a small percentage of the profits while the company takes most of it. It’s unfair, but standard, and she hadn’t been expecting him to bargain with her, though she is undoubtedly happy he has suggested it.
Finished with his scribbling, Mr. Rumiheart turns the parchment around to face her. He points an ink-stained finger at some numbers at the top of the page.
“I’d be willing to pay you this amount for our initial purchase, Miss. Granger. An extremely fair, above standard amount, because I know how competitive it will get if other publishing companies catch wind of your book.”
Hermione’s heart jumps into her throat; the amount is much above what she expected, more than fair and enough to cover the expenses of the shop for the first few months should things not go well. She nods as Mr. Rumiheart slides his finger down the page, pointing to the next set of calculated numbers and figures.
“This is the percentage that most authors make from the profits – a small, unfair number, I think you’ll agree?”
He raises his eyebrows as Hermione nods again. He clears his throat in satisfaction, going back to the parchment.
“I am going to offer you a much higher percentage, Hermione. I expect your book will not only have immediate success, including high purchases and good media coverage, but that it will become a Wizarding household staple in years to come. It will be studied in schools and referenced in other books. One day, like Bathilda Bagshot, Hermione Granger will become a household name… that is, if it isn’t already.”
Hermione blushes at the flattery while staring at the percentage Ellis is pointing to with a long, bony finger. It is larger than usual; Hermione had done her research on typical profit margins for Wizarding authors before she came, of course. Mr. Rumiheart, despite his thick, overbearing flattery, was not trying to trick her.
She looks up at him, his warm smile still pasted on his small face.
“It’s a good number,” she says, her eyes flicking down again at the paper and back up to his face. “But I want it bigger.”
Mr. Rumiheart’s eyes go wide for a moment before he quickly shakes his head and smiles again.
“Miss Granger, I assure you that this amount is quite generous, unheard of even-”
“I know,” she interjects, giving him her own sweet smile as she rests her hands on the desk, mirroring him. “But as you said, you have competitors. I could easily go to a different company and see what they have to offer, and you would lose out on what, as you’ve said, is an incredible opportunity.”
Hermione has no idea what is causing her to fight so hard for a higher percentage – it’s not about the money for her. She will have plenty of that by simply selling the book and from the shop profits. This is about knowing her worth. This book is not only a true story about the war; it is about her life. It is her experiences, written as she has relived them. There is no price high enough for her to sell it to a publisher without recognizing that this is about more than a book. This is still history in the making.
“I can’t deny that, Hermione. And I told you when you arrived that I wanted this to be a meeting of equals. How much more do you want?”
He says the last bit reluctantly – giving her the opportunity for a much larger number is dangerous, and his caution is valid. He smiles nervously at her, and she makes a grabby hand at his quill, which he hands over to her with a quirked brow.
Slowly, and confidently, she dips the quill into the vat of ink, making sure to slide off the excess so as not to drip. She’s going slowly on purpose; needs to make him believe in her confidence, sell herself on her bluff. Truthfully, she doesn’t want to go to other companies. This was the publisher that had published some of her favourite books. To be an author among so many legends is everything she could ever ask for.
She gives him another assured, dulcet smile before bringing the ink-ridden quill over to the parchment and scribbling down her own number below it. It isn’t a huge increase, but it is enough to make Mr. Rumiheart’s breath hitch as she circles the number a few times, before setting down the quill and sliding the parchment towards him.
She watches him swallow, picking up the paper and inspecting the number, his brows pulling together as he crunches numbers in his head. She keeps her shoulders back, holds her posture upright like she’d seen Draco do so many times, and secretly holds her breath.
After a minute, Ellis looks back over at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilts his head in a single, deep nod.
“You have a deal, Hermione.”
Her face breaks into a huge smile as Ellis offers her his hand. She shakes it enthusiastically, her heart hammering away as her organs do cartwheels. She was going to be a published author. She just sold her first book. This was real.
Mr. Rumiheart creates the documents for the contract, and Hermione reads them over carefully before signing it, officially agreeing to the sale and giving her book up to Little Red Books – to the world.
“Before you go, Miss Granger, there is one more thing I’d like to discuss.”
She nods, her beaded bag pulling down on her shoulder as she perches at the edge of her seat, ready to return to the shop for the afternoon.
“Of course, Ellis,” she concedes with interest. Ellis pushes her finished manuscript across the messy desk towards her and opens it to the first page. The dedication that she had written in Mexico is there; after nights of deliberation and back and forths, she had ultimately decided to keep it. She looks at it now, reading over the words as her heart pangs with a familiar sadness.
For D –
For teaching me how easy it is to prove history wrong.
The sting of tears pricks the back of her skull, a feeling that had become inescapable, part of her routine since Draco had left her on that balcony. She shakes it away, meeting Ellis’s eyes.
“It is slightly unusual, for a novel of Historical Non-Fiction to have a dedication at the front. The practice is even considered, well, muggle. Given your previous admission about the state of yours and Mr. Malfoy’s relationship… which, forgive me if I am mistaken, but that is who this dedication is for, is it not?”
She nods. He blinks in a way that says ‘I thought so.’
“Then I am simply wondering, Miss Granger, if you would really like to keep the dedication. I wouldn’t want you to regret it in the future.”
“I’m trying not to regret things, any longer, Mr. Rumiheart.”
He nods, but says nothing, as Hermione’s response is cryptic and not definitively a yes or no.
“So, yes. Please,” she adds as she stands, pulling her bag further onto her shoulder. “I’d like to keep it.”
He nods once more, standing and making his way over to open the door for her.
“Very well. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Hermione. And congratulations.”
~~~
Today, she misses him more than ever. As clichéd as it is, everything reminds her of him: the shop, being with the other Slytherin’s, Devil’s Snare. This new life she has built for herself had been built partly with him in it. Everything that made her happy had once included him.
So when she and McGonagall do their January visit to the gravesite, conjuring brightly coloured flowers that stand out against the layers of white snow under the headstones, she is grateful that this is one part of her life that she hadn’t shared with him. Visiting here was hard enough. Losing him in one more aspect of her life would have only made it harder.
Hermione and McGonagall make short work of their visit, as Hermione has an appointment with Harper, her mind healer: the first since she’s been home. As she walks beside the old woman past the frozen fountain and through the rows of headstones, she decides McGonagall should be the first person to hear about her book being published. It was, after all, she who had encouraged it in the first place.
“That is phenomenal news, Hermione. I am so proud of you,” the old woman grins, her eyes wrinkling at the corners as she takes Hermione’s hand between her two cold ones and pats the back of her hand softly. Hermione pulls the woman in for a hug, careful this time not to squeeze too tight, and relishes the maternal affection that the older witch provides.
“If I haven’t said it enough, thank you. For everything,” Hermione says softly as she pulls away. The witch waves her off modestly, releasing her hand as they continue to walk the journey back.
“Watching you grow up and become this wonderful, intelligent, kind witch has been my pleasure. I can hardly wait to see the new Flourish & Blotts at the Grand Opening.”
Hermione says goodbye to Minerva, giving her another lasting hug and not wanting to let go. It is only the idea of being tardy to her appointment that makes her let go, flooing back to London and enduring the chilly walk to Healer Harper’s office.
Harper, a small, pretty middle-aged woman with black hair and skin, welcomes Hermione into the cozy office. They exchange small talk and niceties for the first few minutes, catching up on how their holidays went and what the new year means for each of them.
“And how have the nightmares been, Hermione?” Harper asks, pulling out her small journal and a muggle pen. Hermione gets comfortable on the sofa across from Harper’s chair, sinking into the soft cushion and taking a deep breath in.
“They were better. I hardly had any over the holiday. But… well, they’re more frequent now. Not nearly as debilitating as they once were. But still frightening.”
Harper nods, scratching some words onto the notebook as she maintains eye contact with Hermione.
“And have you had any major changes recently that may have attributed to that?”
Hermione swallows, rubbing her sweaty palms on the fabric of her trousers, up and down her thighs nervously. She’d finally gotten to the point where she could talk to Ginny about Draco without bursting into tears. But talking to Harper about it, who she knew would make her open up, was bound to entice her tears to fall again.
“I—” her voice cracks and she clears her throat, averting her eyes from Harper’s dark hazel ones and looking out the window at the snowy streets of London. She takes a slow, steady breath in, letting her eyes fall shut.
“In Mexico. Someone I thought that maybe I loved ended things between us. Cut off all ties. It’s been difficult adjusting to things without him because he has been such a huge part of my healing process.”
Harper nods, her wrist moving slightly as she continues to write, but her face is understanding, sympathetic even.
“I suppose it’s my fault,” Hermione continues, her voice shaky and soft as she opens herself up to Harper. “-I know that I can’t rely on someone else to fix me. And I know that it isn’t my job to fix others. But fixing things seemed to be our thing, and I got too caught up in it.”
“You’re right. We can’t fix people. But don’t you think that a huge part of healing is letting others in, even when we’d rather hide the broken bits of ourselves that we deem undesirable?”
Hermione looks up at Harper again, chewing the inside of her cheek in thought.
“I suppose,” Hermione says, nodding her head and shifting on the sofa, pulling her legs under her as she rests her chin in her hand. “I think that’s the problem, though. I was so eager to let him in. Draco.”
Harper’s face lights with recognition as Hermione says his name. At their last session, Hermione had told Harper all about her fellow employee and their slow descent from enemies to complicated friendship. She knew all about the shop, their fights, how he understood her nightmares. Harper’s pen moves faster on her page as Hermione continues.
“At some point, I decided I trusted him enough to show him everything. I think I assumed that since I was getting better, it had something to do with him.”
Harper shrugs, smiling softly at her. “It may have. But fixing and building are two very different things, Hermione. Draco did not come into your life and decide that you were something broken that needed to be repaired. He came into your life and, somehow, someway, built himself into it. By the sounds of it, what he built made things a little better. You shouldn’t be so eager to dismiss your need for him as dependence. By the sounds of it, Hermione, you’re the one who did the necessary repairs on your own life. You bought the shop, despite everyone telling you not to. You hired Draco, despite his unwillingness to let you into his life. You wrote a book to work through it. It’s you who decided to come here to meet with me, today. Don’t sell yourself so short.”
Hermione feels a single, hot tear fall onto her cheek and she wipes it away quickly. Harper has stopped writing, and leans forward, elbows on her knees and her hands clasped together as she looks at Hermione with a kind, understanding gaze.
“But what if I do need him?” she croaks. It’s an admission she hasn’t made to herself before, a thought she has kept at the back of her mind since that night in Mexico. Because needing something you can’t have is a quick recipe for disaster.
“Sometimes missing feels the same as needing,” Harper replies.
Hermione says nothing; tries to calm the multitude of thoughts swirling around in her mind. Needing, missing — whatever it was, it was painful.
“You told me about your parents, and how much you miss them,” Harper continues after a breath when Hermione has not answered. “Tell me — do you need them as much as you miss them?”
Hermione’s immediate answer is yes. Of course she needs her parents; she is only twenty, and she was supposed to have so much longer with them than she did. Some days, it felt like torture, without them. But on others, she missed them will a duller ache; with a sentimental reminiscence of the lessons that they taught her and everything they had provided for her.
Without them, a piece of her was missing. But, she realizes with a start, missing is not needing. Without them, sometimes she hurt like hell. But she had created a life for herself; has amazing friends and a found family. She has rebuilt a shop from scratch, with her bare hands. She has started a business, finished school, won a war. Yes, she would give anything to have them back. But because of them, she is a strong, smart, kind person who has built a life for herself despite everything she has been through.
As if Harper has read her mind, or more likely seen the waves of understanding flash across her face, she stands, crossing the floor to sit beside Hermione on the couch. The woman puts a gentle hand on Hermione’s knee, and when Hermione meets her eyes, Harper is looking at her as if she understands everything that Hermione feels without having to hear the words. More tears fall down her cheeks.
“Hermione. I know how hard it is. And everything you feel right now; all the pain, the sadness, the hopelessness and the wondering. All of it is valid and real. And I can’t tell you how long it will be until you feel okay again. But I want you to hear this:
“It is okay to recognize that someone you love has been a big part of your healing and growth. As long as you also recognize that even without them, that ability was already in you. It is not because of them that you have changed. It is with them that you have changed. I doubt, Hermione, that Draco did not change in his own ways in the time you spent together. But unlike you, he does not recognize that it does not make us weak to need people in the process of healing. Draco never understood the difference between fixing and building. But it does not mean that he did not return those feelings for you.
“Have you ever considered that maybe all we really need to heal is time? Healing is not linear. There is no time frame on grief, or regret, or pain. Time is what got you through the war, Hermione. Time is what took away that desperate numbness you felt months ago. And, like those, time will heal this too.
“And sometimes — just sometimes — the world takes something away from us only to remind us of how much it really means. Sometimes, things return, and we understand how tightly we must hold onto them. Forgive me, if I have spoken out of turn. Usually, you’re the one who’s supposed to do the talking. But I thought maybe, you might just need some advice from a friend.”
Hermione is crying now, tears wetting her eyelashes and her cheeks, falling onto her shirt and lap. She shakes her head frantically at Harper, indicating that no, she has not spoken out of turn. She had said just the right things.
“Thank you. I needed that.”
Harper gives her another close-lipped grin, standing and returning to her own chair. She clicks her thumb with her pen, placing the notebook in her lap and straightening her posture as if magically returning to Mind Healer mode.
“Now,” she begins again, pen poised ready on her paper, “-tell me about this book you’re publishing.
~~~
Ron. The final piece of the puzzle.
When Hermione had returned from Mexico, Ginny had promised not to tell Ron about what had happened between her and Draco — the only thing Ron knew was what Hermione had told him that night at The Leaky Cauldron and what he had witnessed himself at the shop.
She wanted him to hear it from her; wanted, finally, to be able to explain herself. Mostly, she just wanted her friend back.
Hearing that Ron and Harry had made it out of the raid after arresting the rebels had been a huge relief – in fact, the entire Auror team had only come out with few minor injuries, and Ron and Harry were lucky enough to only have a few scratches.
When she’d seen them at The Burrow for the first time after her holiday, she had wrapped her arms tightly around Harry’s neck, breathing in his familiar, comforting scent and thanking the universe that he was safe.
Harry’s green eyes gleamed with a sort of humble pride, and with a relief she’d once seen after he’d killed Voldemort, that was finally fully realized; he had, once again, made the world safe.
Ron had allowed her a hug, thank goodness, because as awkwardly as things had ended up, they both knew how important it was to cherish survival and friendship. After she’d let him go, he had slinked away, leaving Hermione, Ginny, and Harry to talk. She’d barely seen him since New Year’s, only in the odd passing by when she’d visited.
But today is the day she will tell him everything. Even without Draco in her life anymore, she needs him to understand that the rest of the Slytherins are a part of her life now. She needs him to see through his anger and his schoolboy grudges to understand that they had changed and that they were just as much Hermione’s friends as Ron and Harry.
The only problem was, like herself, like Draco, Ron was stubborn. He was stubborn in his anger and used his hot-headedness to cover up any of the emotions that made him vulnerable. His insecurities had always lain in the things that he couldn’t have, in the ways he thought he fell short – of Harry, of his siblings, of himself.
Hermione desperately needs him to understand that the reason she ended things between them was not that he fell short. It was simply because she could not make herself love him as more than a friend.
Ron meets her for tea at her favourite coffee shop in Diagon Alley. She had already ordered and taken her seat 10 minutes before he was supposed to arrive — she even made sure to order him extra pastries, hopefully, to butter him up and make him more amenable to her proposal for reconciliation.
She watches him enter, the bell jangling on the door alerting her of his arrival. His bright orange hair stands out in the crowd as he cranes his neck to search the busy tables for Hermione. When he finds her, he gives her half of an unconvincing smile and begins to weave through the other tables to greet her.
She stands when he arrives, pulling him in for a slightly awkward hug. He smells as he always does — like the warmth of The Burrow, and the tangerine shampoo he uses that is really Ginny’s, but that he claims makes his hair look the best.
“Hi,” she breathes shakily, pulling him away from her hug to inspect his face. His blue eyes blink at her, and she takes comfort in the light orange lashes and freckled skin that she’d always loved so much.
“Hi,” he replies, pulling his chair out and taking a seat as Hermione takes her own. She fidgets nervously; pulls her chair in too tight, pushes it out again; tucks a curl behind her ear, rests her elbows on the table before wondering if that is rude and pulling them off again. Finally, she slides two small plates, one of sugar cookies and one with a large chocolate chip muffin, towards him with a smile.
“I got these for you. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” he says, though his eyes don’t flicker with their usual excitement at the prospect of sweet food. He picks up a sugar cookie daintily between two fingers, uncharacteristically gentle, before putting it back down again without taking a bite. His eyes flick down at the plates, avoiding Hermione’s gaze as he pushes the ceramic around slightly before stilling his hands. His Adam’s apple bob’s as he swallows before he finally looks back up to meet Hermione’s eyes.
“How have you been?” she asks, wringing her sweaty hands under the table. Why was this so hard? This was Ron Weasley — her best friend since age 11, the first man she’d ever made love to. Instead of a meeting between friends, this felt like a business deal — an uncomfortable one.
“Alright, I s’pose,” he says, as she notices the thick stubble of orange hair that covered his jaw. She still always finds it surprising to notice, all these years later, that her childhood friends had become men. The stubble makes her heart warm as she thinks about the prospect of Ron growing old, and living a long, happy life. It seems like such a sure thing, now.
“You?” he finishes, taking a sip of the steaming cup of tea in front of him. Hermione shrugs, finally deciding it is probably alright to put her elbows on the table. It was Ron she was sitting with, not Narcissa Malfoy.
“I’ve been okay. I- well. I’m getting a lot better. I’ve been seeing a Mind Healer.”
Ron’s head shoots up to look at her as his mouth draws shut into a straight line. His surprise is only momentary before his features soften and he nods.
“That’s good, Hermione. I’m proud of you.” He gives her his first genuine smile in months — close-lipped and dimpled, and her body tingles with hope. Maybe this was salvageable, after all.
“Thank you. Look, Ron, I’ll cut right to the chase. I’m sorry that you had to walk in on me and Malfoy that day. I wished things had gone differently. I wished I could have told you about us before.”
She watches as his features fall again, the ghost of a sneer on his lips even though he is trying to keep it neutral. He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes falling down onto the untouched muffin.
“The problem was, I didn’t really know what to tell you. Draco and I never really established what the nature of our relationship was, and-”
“Draco? You’re calling him by his first name now?”
She freezes, holding her hot mug in her hands, and watches any sense of understanding on Ron’s face fade. This really was going to be just as difficult as she had anticipated.
“I like him, Ron. A lot. More than a lot.”
Ron’s eyes flick over her face, his eyebrows tugging together in a disoriented, confused sort of way. He pushes himself away from his chair, leaning forward on the table with his palms pressed down into the wood.
“Malfoy? Draco Malfoy? The evil little snake that used to torture you at school?”
She shakes her head, lowering her voice to a whisper to remind Ron that they are in public. He had been talking loudly through gritted teeth, reminding her exactly why she had chosen a public coffee shop as the site for their meeting.
“People change, Ronald. He changed. I forgave him. We were just kids back then.”
He shakes his head in disgust, squeezing his eyes shut and crinkling his features as if in pain before he runs his hands down his face in frustration.
“He wasn’t a kid anymore when he decided to take his bullying from a hobby to a full-time career, Hermione. He was a Death Eater! He is not on our side!” He hisses, his cheeks becoming the same colour as his hair in his anger.
“There are no sides anymore, Ron!” she says, leaning forward to catch his eye as he tilts his chin in frustration towards the ceiling. “-The war is won. And even if there were sides, Draco would not be on Voldemort’s side anymore.”
Ron visibly flinches at the Dark Lord’s name, his shoulders jerking slightly as he leans back in his chair, his eyes wide and his features tense with anger and confusion. Hermione takes a deep breath to calm herself and continues.
“Draco and I had something real between us. Something I’ve never felt before in my entire life. And I know that that is hard for you to hear, but I need you to hear it. You’re my best friend, Ron. I need you in my life. But I am a grown witch who is very capable of making her own decisions. And the Slytherins — my friends — are good people. If you want to be in my life, then you need to accept that they’ll be a part of it too.”
Ron is silent. His chest rises and falls with his breath as his eyes narrow softly and his brows crumple with confusion.
“Did you say ‘had’? Draco and you ‘had’ something between you?”
Her heart constricts, as she hears those words from someone else’s mouth. Her body aches with missing him. She hates that they have become past tense. She would do anything to make them present tense, once more.
“Things ended between us,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. Ron opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off, knowing what he is about to say.
“We were both still struggling with what happened during the war. We were both fighting our own battles against ourselves. We both had our regrets and our doubts, and we needed to take time apart to heal on our own. Draco and I both have our demons, and the last thing we wanted to do was to hurt each other because of them. I don’t want you to hate him for it. I don’t. I just want you to be okay with the fact that I loved him. That I love him.”
When she finally opens her eyes, which she had shut as soon as the tears had come, Ron is looking at her with an unreadable expression — part bewilderment, part hurt, part understanding.
She wipes the tears away from her face. Only a few months ago, she hadn’t been able to cry at all. She’d been angry and numb. Now, she wishes she could make herself stop crying. It feels like it’s all she does these days.
“You love him?” Ron asks, his voice cracking with softness, with a desperation that maybe she has misspoken. She can see how hard this is for him, wishes she could take it all away.
“I think so, yes. Not that it matters anymore,” she sniffs, using her napkin to dab at her nose, which is running embarrassingly from both the crying and the hot tea.
Ron nods. And then, it is silent for a few minutes. His eyes dance over her face, and in them, she sees all of the things she’s known all along — that he loves her. That she is his best friend, as well. That when it comes down to it, all he wants is for her to be happy.
But these thoughts seem to battle with others. His eye twitches, and he fights off the emotions he has always been so terrible at embracing. He tries to even his breathing, picks at the wood on the edge of the table.
For a moment, she believes she is about to lose another person she loves. She is almost sure of it.
“The Slytherins… do they make you happy? Treat you right, make you feel special?”
Her heart almost completely stops. She meets his stare and nods frantically. He blinks, his expression stoic, and she can feel her pulse race with anticipation.
“And you really love him? Malfoy?”
She nods again. His eyes flash with sadness, but it is quickly replaced with a new expression.
“I don’t bloody understand it, Hermione. I hate it. And to be honest, I’m not really that sorry that you two ended things.”
Her heart falls with disappointment, and she suddenly feels sick. She had been so sure he had finally been leaning towards accepting the idea, so sure that they were so close to making things right. Her head falls, and she stares at her coffee as more tears prickle her eyes.
“But here’s the thing, ‘Mione–”
She snaps her gaze back to him, her veins prickling.
“You’re my best friend. And I love you. And when your best friend buys you freshly baked pastries, it’s rude not to eat them. So I’m going to sit here and finish them, and if while I do, you just happen to tell me about these Slytherin friends of yours… and about what’s so great about Draco Malfoy… I guess I’d just have to listen until I finished eating. And maybe, if I decide by then that I should stop being a jealous git and remember just how much I want you to be happy, I might even order another round of tea and let you finish.”
His blue eyes twinkle with mischief. She grins wide enough to make her face hurt. They end up staying for three more cups of tea.
Notes:
Will be posting the final chapter and epilogue within a couple of days!
Chapter 25: Chapter 25
Notes:
I hope you enjoy the final chapter! Epilogue will be posted shortly after.
Chapter Text
As Hermione stares down at the very first copy of her newly published novel, The Second Wizarding War: The Reign and Defeat of Voldemort by Hermione J Granger, she decides that out of all of her accomplishments, this is by far her favourite.
The book is the perfect weight in her hand — just how she likes them. Not too heavy, but hefty enough for someone to know that it was packed chock-full of delicious information.
She runs her hand across the cover, feeling the bumps and ridges of the letters under her fingers, admiring her name at the bottom under a detailed illustration of the elder wand.
She flips the pages, scanning over the words — her words — and the pictures inside, feeling her ribcage swell with contentment at the thought of someone carrying around this book like she had carried around Hogwarts: A History in first year.
It’s a strange feeling, seeing it all come together. Here it was, the entire story of the war, everything she’d experienced and been a part of, all tied up in 675 pages. She finally flips to the back, where her own smiling face gleams back at her in the About the Author section. It’s a picture Daphne had taken in Mexico, and she’s almost glowing with happiness in it- somehow, her curls are windswept in a perfectly messy way, and her freckled nose crinkles as she smiles. Her eyes are warm and soft, and her skin sun-kissed. It is a close-up of her in Pansy’s garden, where she’d stood in front of the rosemary bushes as Daphne forced her to snap a few pictures, claiming she ‘looked ravishing’ and that they ‘just had to document it.’
She smiles at the sight of herself before flipping the book closed again to admire the beauty of the bound cover.
A book. Her own.
It is due to hit shelves the very day of her upcoming Grand Opening – perfect timing, Blaise had noted when they’d spent an afternoon re-doing the gold letters of Flourish & Blotts outside of the shop’s façade one day.
“You should make it a publishing party as well,” Blaise said proudly as he dotted the ‘I’ on the green exterior, his hand steady and skillful.
“I don’t know…” Hermione had said warily, biting her lip in thought. She didn’t want to make things all about her, but it was the perfect coincidence, and first-time authors usually did throw parties to celebrate their novel’s release.
“C’mon,” Blaise says dotingly, stepping down from the ladder and bumping his elbow against Hermione’s. “-you could sign everyone’s books, make a little speech. Your hard work should be celebrated, Hermione.”
After a moment’s thought, and a puppy dog pout from Blaise, Hermione nods in agreement.
“Okay, I suppose that would be alright.”
“Yes!” Blaise pumps a fist in the air, pressing a kiss on Hermione’s cheek. “This will be brilliant. Theo and I will come in the early afternoon to help set up, and we can…”
Blaise had continued to ramble about the Grand Opening party, which he and Theo had taken the lead on planning. As it turns out, Theo had an aptitude for decorating, which had sort of stunned Hermione at first, but which she had eventually decided was very much in line with his character: sensible but daring, with the added bonus of growing up in a beautiful manor.
But she found it difficult to listen to Blaise’s excited drabble about the colour palette and the champagne flutes he had chosen, because suddenly it hits her like a train that Draco won’t be there. Here she was, celebrating not one, but two huge accomplishments, and he wouldn’t be there.
After days of deliberation, she had decided not to send him an invite at all —it would only be embarrassing on her part, knowing how clear he had made it that he no longer wanted to be a part of her life.
She wishes that he could be there to take some of his own credit for the work he had done on the shop. It had been their partnership that had made it all work, and if he could only be there, she would be able to show him the appreciation that he deserved.
But he wouldn’t come, and it was much better for her to accept this and move on than to dwell upon it. No – she was ready to carry on with her life, to live out her dreams and forget that it had ever happened.
She just wished it didn’t feel so impossible.
Now, just the day before the Grand Opening party, Hermione finally forces herself to set her novel back down on the designated exhibit table, propping it up in display amongst the neat piles of others that are waiting to be signed for her family and friends tomorrow.
The shop is pristinely clean, a product of Molly Weasley’s helpful handiwork, and there is even a red ribbon tied between the banisters on the staircase for Hermione to cut. Tomorrow, she’ll cut the ribbon and walk up the stairs to make a speech to a shop packed with all of her family and friends — even Ellis Rumiheart and Mr. Bimble, whom she’d decided to invite last minute.
She has to admit it — the shop feels alive again. It feels warm and comforting like it had before the war, while also feeling new and fresh; like an extended part of herself. She paces around the shop slowly, running her fingers over the spines of shelved books and pushing them in to make them line up evenly in a ridiculously meticulous manner, something that Draco would have teased her about if he were here.
She tidies her already organized office, running through the list of things in her head that need to be done for tomorrow, and finds that the list has been all checked off.
For the first time in months, Hermione is reminded of her old mental checklists – smile: check. Laugh when your friends tell you a joke: check. Pretend that you are alright even when you aren’t: check.
In her mind’s eye, Hermione figuratively erases the entire checklist, crumples the paper and chucks it into a flaming waste bin. She wouldn’t be needing it any longer. Harper had told her that she didn’t need to hide how she was feeling anymore. She had reminded her that there was no expiry date on her trauma and that there would always be people who would be there to help her, to talk her through it.
Instead, Harper had given her a new mental checklist to go through: Friends that love me: check. A career that fulfills me: check. An able body, strong mind, and kind heart: check.
Everything else, Hermione promised that she would work through with Harper until it got better; everything else, she would continue to push through with the help of the people that loved her. No, things wouldn’t go back to normal. She’d never be the same Hermione from before the war.
But she was beginning to like this Hermione a lot more than she’d ever thought she could.
She could only hope that one day Draco would be able to find the same peace and be happy. Even if it was without her.
As she locks up her office, her back turned to the front door, she hears the jingle of the bell and feels a gust of cold air flow in through the door.
“Sorry, we’re not open!” Hermione shouts over her shoulder as she fiddles with the tricky lock on the doorknob. This was the third time this had happened today – someone wandering in from the streets, deceived by the ‘Grand Opening!’ signs that Blaise had insisted on pasting on the windows. As far as she knows, all of her friends are currently off doing things of their own in preparation for tomorrow. She isn’t expecting any visitors, and therefore it must be a confused shopper, believing that the shop was open for business.
“I was hoping I’d catch you here, Miss Granger.”
Hermione freezes, her wand stopping before it can complete the locking pattern on the doorknob.
She recognizes the voice instantly – shrill, chilly, but also soft and calm. Taking a deep breath in, she spins slowly on her heel to face the source of it.
“Ms. Malfoy,” she breathes, locking eyes with the regal woman standing in front of the door. She wears beautiful wool winter robes with a grey fur lining, and her hair is perfectly coiffed into an elegant chignon.
She looks somehow the same and very different from the last time Hermione had seen her in the visitation room in Azkaban.
“Please, dear,” she smiles, bright red lips forming a tight smile, “Call me Narcissa.”
Hermione tries to loosen her stiff body, pulling her shoulders back when she realizes she is slouching. Being in the presence of Narcissa Malfoy will somehow always feel like being in the presence of royalty.
“Alright, Narcissa,” she says, careful to keep her lips from tripping over the unfamiliar syllables of the witch's given name. It feels wrong, using it so casually. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Narcissa’s eyes narrow in a calculated assessment of Hermione, as her sharply painted cupids bow twitches with a soft, curious grin.
“I hope you can, Miss Granger. Although, if you’re anything like my son, I’ve come expecting I very well might leave emptyhanded.”
Hermione gulps at the mention of Draco. She urges her feet to move, stepping towards the woman, who stands by the door clutching an expensive purse, her dragon leather winter boots dripping melted snow onto the wooden floors.
“I suppose it depends on what you need, then, Ms. Malfoy. Narcissa, I mean.”
Hermione motions to a set of cushioned armchairs by the window; one being the original salvaged chair that had grown to be her favourite, and the other being a new, royal blue one she’d purchased to go with it.
The witches sit down, and Hermione can feel Narcissa’s cold gaze on her all the while as she wipes her hands nervously on the front of her muggle denims. She desperately wishes that she could be wearing anything else right now; this outfit seems like the worst thing she could wear in Narcissa’s presence, and she folds her arms over her chest to try and hide the faded jumper she is wearing that had once been her fathers.
“First, Miss Granger, I want to thank you for everything you did to assist in my release. I might not be sitting here if it wasn’t for you, and for that, I am eternally indebted to you.”
The witch’s bright blue eyes haven’t left Hermione’s face since she’d entered the shop, and Hermione feels vulnerable under it, though not unsafe. After their first meeting in Azkaban, Hermione had determined that the witch was naturally very heedful of people, and kept her guard up as a result of years of living in such a patriarchal dominated pureblood world.
She was quiet, so as to listen and to observe. She was guarded, so as to protect and to preserve. She was kind but scant to show it, in case of potential attack. It was as if she was reading you, trying to find out your weaknesses and your strengths so as to prepare herself. Hermione feels as though she is being read like a book — scanned with an attentive eye and dog-eared in places of importance.
“It was my pleasure,” Hermione responds, giving the woman a polite smile. She is dying to know why the woman is here; whether Draco is nearby, how things have been going since his release. How he is. She always avoids asking Blaise and Pansy about him, knowing that they wouldn’t be likely to say much anyway.
“How have things been, this past month? Are you adjusting to everything okay?”
Narcissa nods, her gloved hands gripping the handles of her purse tighter as she crosses her legs daintily at the ankles.
“I’m doing very well, thank you. Though, I have noticed some changes in my son. Good, and bad ones.”
Narcissa has a knowing twinkle in her eye, and she tilts her head ever so slightly at Hermione. Hermione feels her heart crawl into her throat, her palms suddenly slick with nervous sweat as Draco is dropped once again into the conversation. Hermione swallows, blinks, waits for the woman to continue.
“That’s the reason I’ve come, really. You asked what you can do for me, Hermione, and I’m wondering if you could tell me why my son seems so changed, and yet so unsatisfied.”
Hermione’s lungs seem to atrophy, as she forgets to breathe for a moment. Draco seemed unhappy? Was he alright? Was he missing her as much as she missed him? Narcissa purses her scarlet lips before continuing.
“He refuses to tell me why I have not had the chance to thank you in person yet, despite my many insistences that not doing so is such awful manners. So I’ve come to ask: What was the nature of your relationship with my son, Miss Granger? And remember, that we once agreed to trust each other. It’s imperative that you are honest if we should maintain that trust.”
Hermione swallows, forcing herself to breathe as her pulse pounds quickly in her temple. Narcissa Malfoy was asking her to tell her about her relationship with Draco. Clearly, the witch knew that they were more than just coworkers; that the reason for Draco’s strange behaviour lies somewhere in the fact that Hermione had not shown her face in the month since Narcissa’s release, and that Draco had obviously avoided telling the woman why.
“I-” Hermione begins, her voice cracking. She clears her throat softly, clasping her hands together on her lap as she meets Narcissa’s curious stare.
“I have feelings for Draco. Strong ones. But things didn’t work out between us.”
“Mmm,” Narcissa hums, the corners of her lips pulling down to a small, but not unattractive frown. “And was this a mutual decision? Yours? His?”
“It was-” Hermione pauses, considering lying to the woman like she had blurred the truth with Ron. But she already knows that Narcissa would see right through her, and she had agreed to be honest.
“It was him, who decided we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
Narcissa nods, exhaling an irritated breath as she finally breaks her stare away from Hermione and turns to look out the frosted window at the snowy street.
“I’d thought so,” she says, looking out at a passerby with feigned interest as she grows suddenly silent.
Hermione shifts in her chair, her fingers shaking slightly with nerves. Hermione didn’t want Narcissa involved in this mess — didn’t want anyone meddling in what Draco had already determined was in the past. Somehow, she got the feeling that one of Narcissa’s favourite pastimes was meddling.
“And do you think he returns your feelings, Miss Granger?”
This stumps Hermione. Had Draco’s feelings been the same as Hermione’s? She knew that he had felt something for her; undoubtedly, he had at one point wanted her as equally as she had wanted him. But was that still the case?
“I’m… I’m not sure.”
“Answer the question, please, Miss Granger. Give it your best guess.”
Hermione purses her lips, pulls her brows together in thought at the woman’s demanding tone. She replays moments shared between her and Draco in her head; lazy kisses in bed, quiet days in the shop, fights of passion and words of admiration spilling from his pink lips. A kind Christmas present. His arm around her naked torso as warm ocean waves lapped over them under the night sky. She hadn’t made it all up, had she? She hadn’t been seeing something not real, thinking it was more than it was? He had been adamant that their time together was never permanent. But had that been about feelings or fear?
“Yes,” she says, surprising herself as she does. Narcissa’s brows flicker upwards in surprise. “Yes, I think he does. Or at least he did.”
Narcissa nods, and then stands abruptly from her chair, smoothing out her robes as Hermione follows, slightly taken aback at the quick change of pace.
“Well I’d say I got what I came for,” she smiles, pulling her glove up her wrist and slipping her purse down into the crook of her arm. She doesn’t move for a moment, just continues her slow, enigmatic assessment of Hermione.
“Thank you again, Hermione. For everything. For taking care of my son, and for giving me a second chance. If there is ever anything I can do to repay you, please, let me know.”
Hermione smiles at her, despite her confusion, and walks the woman to the door.
“There is one thing,” Hermione says as the woman reaches for the brass door handle. Narcissa's interest is thoroughly piqued as she rests a gloved hand on the knob in wait.
“Please, don’t say anything to Draco about this. I’d prefer that he didn’t know I told you.”
“Very well,” Narcissa agrees, pulling her fur-lined hood over her hair. Her blue eyes study Hermione once more before she pulls the door open. A rush of frigid air blows in, and Hermione shivers as the woman clutches her robes tighter to her small frame.
“I wasn’t planning on mentioning it to him, Hermione. But I was planning on going home and hugging my son. It seems I need to make up for all of those years I lacked in parenting, and do my best to make my son believe in himself again. Tell him how proud of him I am. Tell him that he deserves second chances — both giving them, and receiving them.”
She pauses for a moment and places a gentle hand on Hermione’s shoulder.
“Another mess to clean up,” she finishes, winking at Hermione with long, dark lashes before promptly stepping through the doorframe and walking gracefully back down The Strip.
~~~
She has to admit: the dress Pansy picked out for her at Madame Malkin’s fits her like a glove.
It is a deep emerald green in colour, and made entirely of the softest satin Hermione has ever felt.
The bust is what Pansy had called an ‘A-line neckline, the straight line of the material folded over once at her chest in a simple pleat, and the material hugs the curves of her torso and waist tightly before the dress pools around her legs in a flowy, satiny skirt. A tall slit runs down the right side, so that her leg, which still holds a bit of her golden tan from Mexico, emerges when she walks – just the right amount of leg to keep it professional.
She is wearing gold heels underneath, which took a bit of practice to get used to, and somehow, between Pansy and Ginny, Hermione’s hair has behaved itself enough to be styled into elegant, blown out curls that make her feel like a muggle movie star.
Pansy had added a light spot of makeup as Ginny misted her with a pleasant smelling perfume, and suddenly, she was ready to attend a ball. Or her Grand Opening/Publishing Celebration party.
“You look beautiful, Hermione,” Ginny smiles, standing behind Hermione in her own silver dress as they look into the floor-length mirror. Pansy lounges on Hermione’s bed, not even worrying about wrinkling her own cowl-necked, dusty pink coloured gown that hugs the small curves of her body in a way that only Pansy Parkinson could pull off.
“Red’s right, Granger,” Pansy chirps from the bed as she applies a layer of lipgloss expertly, pursing her lips together as she inspects her makeup in a small handheld mirror. “You look stunning, and no one will be able to take their eyes off of you.”
Hermione smiles but rolls her eyes, inspecting her appearance in the mirror with unbridled astonishment at the talents of her two friends. Between Ginny and Pansy, Hermione would never have to worry about getting ready for a fancy event again.
Pansy was also right about the fact that Hermione looks good in green. Despite it being nearly the exact shade worn by Slytherin house, she could swear the colour was made for her.
Pansy pulls herself up from her lazy position on the bed and joins Ginny behind Hermione, peering over her other shoulder.
“This is your night, Granger,” Pansy smirks, blinking impossibly long eyelashes at her as she pulls Hermione’s perfect curls behind her shoulder, putting a stray hair back into place.
“Are you ready?”
The voice is Harry’s – his face is peeking out through a crack in the bedroom door, and once he sees that everyone is decent, he steps in, in his own well-tailored suit, adjusting his gold cuff links.
Hermione nods to herself, in the mirror. Yes, she was ready. This felt like the first night of her life.
“Yes, let's get going,” she smiles at Harry, her heart warming at how handsome and happy he looks as Ginny joins him at the door, taking his arm and placing a small, affectionate kiss on his cheek.
Pansy makes a joking sound of disgust and offers her arm to Hermione. Hermione giggles at the girl and takes it, as they follow Ginny and Harry out into the living room where Ron waits, pulling on his waistcoat.
“I know this isn’t the arm you wanted to hold tonight,” Pansy says gently into Hermione’s ear, hairs from her black bob tickling Hermione’s shoulder. Her heart drops, as she understands who exactly Pansy is talking about. Hermione meets the Slytherin girl's eye, giving her a small smile and patting her hand gently.
“I’m sorry that he’s not here,” Pansy continues under her breath, low enough that the others can’t hear as they pull on their coats by the front door, double-checking with each other that no one is forgetting anything.
Hermione shrugs sadly, pulling on a fur-lined, satiny cloak and clasping it with the pearl button at the neck.
“For the record, he’s miserable. I don’t know if that helps or hurts.”
Pansy’s eyes flicker with her own sadness for her friend, and also a characteristic frustration of her ex-boyfriend’s behaviours that she clearly does not approve of.
“A bit of both, I suppose,” Hermione admits, holding up the skirt of her dress so she doesn’t trip on it as they exit Hermione’s flat, dressed for the cold weather as they walk to the apparition point.
The five of them disapparate from Hermione’s flat together, arm in arm with each other and arrive on the chilly street of The Strip just as the sun is going down. There is no snowfall today, only the piles of it that line the side of the street and stick slightly to the cracks in the cobblestone. They begin the walk down The Strip towards Flourish & Blotts, chatting quietly amongst themselves when Ron catches up to Hermione and whispers in her ear.
“You look amazing, Hermione. I’m so proud of you.”
He pulls away to give her a heartwarming, lopsided grin, before falling back into step with Harry and Ginny again, who are talking about the Quidditch season and Ginny’s incredible goal last game.
It isn’t until they are halfway down The Strip that Hermione realizes something. From the corner of her eye, she spots a red sign in the windowsill of one of the abandoned shops. And then another, and then another, until she suddenly realizes that all of the remaining shops on The Strip have the same bright red ‘SOLD’ sign hanging in their windows. The Strip was officially bought out – every single shop going to be fixed and put back into business.
“When did this happen?” Hermione says, gesturing to a SOLD sign on the window of what used to be Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. There is a murmur of ‘I don’t knows’ and shrugs as the others begin to notice that the entire alley has been purchased.
“Looks like your shop has inspired people, Hermione,” Harry says, giving her a proud grin. “People are realizing that The Strip isn’t really that unfixable, after all.”
Hermione nods, looking around in awe at the number of old shops that will soon be re-opened, returning all of Diagon Alley to its former glory. Soon, maybe it wouldn’t even need to be called ‘The Strip’ anymore, though Hermione has grown to like the silly little nickname.
Finally, they arrive outside of Flourish & Blotts, and Hermione pauses, her body suddenly wracked with nerves as she gazes through the window to see the many people, all dressed in beautiful gowns and tuxedos, holding dainty glasses of champagne and tasting appetizers from silver trays.
This was it.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione allows Ron to open the door for her, and she steps inside the shop.
It’s warm and festive – gold and silver decorations that aren’t even the least bit gaudy, thanks to Theo, making the space seem formal and celebratory. People are packed in elbow to elbow, and a mixture of smells and sounds fills Hermione’s senses: perfumes and colognes, food and champagne, the warmth of a crackling fire, and the inescapable and wonderful smell of brand new books. It's loud, as crowds of people chat in small groups, mingling amongst themselves and exchanging friendly hello’s and ‘nice to see you’s’ as they pull each other into gentle hugs.
A soft, lovely song is playing somewhere in a corner, but before Hermione can locate its source, Blaise and Theo spot her from across the room and push their way purposefully through the crowd to greet them.
“Looking absolutely gorgeous, as always, Granger,” Theo says with a handsome smile, pulling her in by her elbow to plant a small kiss on her cheek.
“You clean up pretty well yourself, handsome,” she says, noting his well-tailored suit and shiny dragon leather shoes.
“Don’t stroke his ego now, Hermione. You know how he gets,” Blaise grins, and then it’s his turn to pull Hermione in for a double cheek kiss. After he has pulled away, Hermione glances over at Ron to see his baffled expression, his jaw dropped in mystification at just how comfortable Hermione really is with the Slytherins.
Eventually, he shakes the expression away and steps forward to offer a hand to Theo and Blaise.
“Zabini. Nott,” Ron says, his voice a little shaky and squeaky as he holds his twitching hand out before them. Blaise and Theo exchange an amused, incredulous look with each other, their lips twitching upwards in entertainment. Blaise takes Ron’s hand first, giving it a tight but friendly squeeze.
“Weasley. A pleasure,” Blaise says, tipping his head regally at him as he lets go of Ron’s hand. Theo takes an altogether different approach, grabbing Ron’s hand with a tight, firm grip and tugging Ron towards him so that the redhead stumbles slightly, his cheeks blossoming with colour as Theo shakes his hand enthusiastically with an intimidating, iron grip.
Theo’s green eyes narrow unnervingly at Ron, who gulps but tries to force a smile.
“Bob Weasley, correct?” Theo asks with a devilish grin, clearly aware that he has said the wrong name. Ron is frazzled – partly by Theo’s tightening, finger-crushing grip, partly by his kind, warm tone, and partly because his name is not Bob Weasley at all.
“Ron, actually,” the redhead smiles, his eyes flicking over to Hermione’s with a look that says ‘ help me .’ Hermione only grins, raising an eyebrow at Theo that says to give him a break.
“Ah, of course. Forgive me.” Theo says to Ron, finally releasing his hand. Ron’s features flood with immediate relief, and he flexes his hand by his side, shaking it slightly as if to get the feeling to return to it. Harry and Ginny exchange polite hellos with the boys just as Adrian and Daphne spot their group through the crowd, pushing anxiously though to reach them.
“Is that the one and only Harry Potter, in the flesh?” Adrian grins, pulling a stupefied Harry into a tight hug as he slaps his back in a friendly manner.
“Pucey,” Harry nods at him, his eyes wide as he recovers from the strange embrace as the boy releases him from his muscled arms.
“Potter. Hey, while you’re here, do you think you’d be able to give me an autograph? I was thinking right here, across my left asschee-”
“Alright, Pucey,” Theo interrupts sternly, just as Harry’s face goes bright red with embarrassment. Adrian laughs in a loud, jolly way as Daphne shakes her head at him in amusement.
“I was only kidding, Potter, nice to see you. You too, Weasley. Champagne anyone?”
There is a collective shout of agreement as Adrian grabs flutes of champagne from a passing tray, handing them out to each of the new arrivals and chatting adamantly at how well the party had turned out. They all shed their coats and cloaks, and Hermione takes a sip of the champagne, the light, crisp bubbles dancing on her tongue. As she lowers her glass, she spots Luna Lovegood from across the room, engaged adamantly in conversation with a flummoxed looking Mr. Bimble, who Hermione is sure is trying to understand what a nargle is and what exactly it does.
Hermione feels Pansy move to her side, tilting her head towards her as the girl leans in to whisper in her ear.
“Lovegood looks hot tonight,” Pansy whispers, as Hermione’s eyes grow wide with surprise. “-any chance she’s single?”
Hermione whips herself around to face Pansy, looking down at the girl with an awestruck smile as Pansy glances with interest over at Luna, her dark eyes glimmering with a look Hermione has never seen before.
“You’re… you…” Hermione stumbles, watching Pansy raise her glass to her glossed lips, taking a sip as her eyes linger across the room on the blonde girl. “You’d be interested in Luna?” Hermione finishes, not able to figure out the proper words to voice her questions.
Pansy tugs her gaze from Luna and back to Hermione, shrugging as one side of her mouth raises into an amused smirk.
“I’m picky about a lot of things, Granger, but this is not one of them - not when you look that hot. Now answer my question.”
Hermione lets out a delighted giggle, shaking her head at Pansy in an impressed way. Hermione should have known that Pansy wasn’t into labels, and that she liked and loved freely.
“I’m not sure, Pans, but I’d say there’s no harm in finding out.”
At that, Pansy grins, downs her flute of champagne in one gulp, and hands her empty glass to Hermione.
“Well in that case…” the Slytherin girl drawls, running her tongue once over her teeth and running her fingers through her hair. She gives Hermione a cheeky wink before leaving her, pushing through the crowd towards Luna.
Hermione watches as Pansy greets a smiling Luna, and giggles when Mr. Bimble takes his leave, letting out a giant breath of relief as he escapes the Ravenclaw girl’s clutches. Pansy places a flirtatious hand on Luna’s arm, and Hermione watches the blonde girl blush profusely, and then smile even wider, nodding at something Pansy has said.
She doesn’t get a chance to see what happens next, as Blaise is suddenly at her side, tugging at her elbow to make her face him.
“Feeling alright?” he asks, his kind, warm eyes shining as he checks in with her. Hermione nods, ignoring the flock of anxious butterflies that are erupting in her stomach at the thought of making her speech. Blaise nods, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly.
“I’m going to introduce you, and initiate the cutting of the ribbon in a few minutes, and then you’ll head up to the balcony to make your speech after,” Blaise instructs her in a gentle, calming tone, resting his hand on the small of her back.
“Alright,” she manages, her voice already shaky with nerves. Following Pansy’s lead, Hermione downs the rest of her champagne, giving the empty glasses to a server with a silver tray.
“You still have a few minutes, Hermione. You’ve got this. Now, you should go say hello to everyone.”
Blaise gives her one last comforting smile before wandering off to get ready for the ceremony. Hermione does as Blaise has suggested, wandering around the shop to say hello to everyone. Everyone that she loves is here; all of her Slytherin friends, Molly and Arthur, along with the rest of the Weasley family, including Charlie who has come just for the occasion. Her old Hogwarts peers; Seamus and Dean, who are holding hands affectionately, Neville with his date, Hannah Abbott, Parvati and Padma Patil, Cho Chang, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson. Luna has brought her father, Xenophilius, and Minerva McGonagall came with Horace Slughorn and Professor Flitwick. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Penelope Clearwater, Healer Harper, and, much to Hermione’s chagrin, Rita Skeeter are also in attendance. Hermione sends the woman a warning look from across the room, which is met with an intimidated nod, and a promising wink.
Hermione spends the next few minutes circulating the shop, listening as everyone gives her their congratulations, and catching up on lost time. Luna and Pansy seem to be deep in conversation in one of the back corners, as Pansy twirls a piece of jet black hair between her fingers, listening with genuine interest as Luna goes on about The Quibbler.
“Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” Blaise asks, using his wand as a microphone. Hermione’s stomach flutters once more with nerves, as she excuses herself from her conversation with Ellis Rumiheart and walks through the crowd to stand near Blaise.
Blaise stands at the bottom of the stairs beside the giant red ribbon, and the crowd draws in closer to hear him, leaving a semi-circle of space like a stage between him and them. Hermione stands front row beside Theo, as the Slytherin boy puts a comforting arm around her waist.
“As you all know,” Blaise continues, addressing the crowd with confidence, one hand holding his champagne glass, the other his wand. “- we’re here tonight to celebrate Hermione Granger.”
There is a whooping from the crowd, which Hermione instantly recognizes as George, and the rest of the crowd begins to clap as a hot blush seers up Hermione’s neck and cheeks.
“We’re here to celebrating the Grand Re-opening of Flourish & Blotts, which Hermione has spent months rebuilding from the pile of burnt scraps it once was. But we are also here to celebrate the release of Hermione’s first novel. What an amazing set of accomplishments.”
There is another round of polite applause as Hermione gives Blaise a thankful smile. Blaise’s eyes meet hers, and he addresses her now, as if the crowd has suddenly disappeared.
“Hermione. It has been a pleasure getting to know you these past few months. When Hermione here stumbled into my shop the night of her birthday, I thought to myself: there must be something really wrong with this girl if she is trusting me enough to give her a tattoo.”
The crowd laughs at this, mumbling small agreements as Hermione shrugs sheepishly.
“But there is something Hermione said that night that has stuck with me since I’ve come to know her. And what a wonderful person to get to know. That night, after I tattooed a sprig of rosemary on Hermione’s arm, she told me that there were a lot of things that she wanted to remember.
Despite everything I knew she’d been through, despite everything I came to know that she was going through, Hermione just wanted to remember. She wanted to remember those she lost and the special moments in her life that she felt the happiest. She wanted to look down at her arm every day and remember where she came from, and how her journey got her to where she is.
It is a courageous thing to do: to try to remember, when there is so much we want to forget. And now, all these months later, I’m able to see how much you have healed and grown, Hermione. I admire you so much. And I’m so proud of you. Thank you, for sharing your words with us, and for re-opening a place so dear to many of our hearts. To Hermione.”
At this, Blaise raises his glass in a toast. The room echoes his words, her name spilled dissonantly across the room as glasses are raised for her. Everyone drinks and Hermione steps forward to pull Blaise into a tight hug.
“Thank you,” she whispers into his ear. He smiles, plopping a kiss on her cheek, and handing her a pair of large scissors to cut the ribbon with.
The crowd whispers with anticipation as Hermione steps over to the staircase, careful not to trip over her dress as she places one foot on the first step, leaning over and cutting clean through the ribbon in one, sharp swipe.
“Flourish & Blotts is now open for business!” she announces cheerfully as the room explodes into applause and cheers. She can hear someone whistling loudly in the crowd, and she has to throw her head back into a laugh as Adrian pumps his fist dramatically into the air before grabbing Harry beside him and shaking him excitedly.
Hermione makes her way up the stairs to where Blaise has positioned a small, gold lectern beside the display table of her new novel. With shaky legs, a fluttering stomach and a pounding heart, she goes to stand behind the lectern, clearing her throat into her wand, using it as a microphone as Blaise had done.
She looks down at the crowd to see all eyes on her; studied, intense gazes that wait for her words, a stark silence falling across the waiting crowd. Her heart beats wildly and warmly at all of the support in the crowd. She sees friendly faces who have gotten her through rough times, people she’d fought a war with – friends she would have for the rest of her life.
Taking a deep, slow breath, she steps forward to the lectern to begin her speech.
“Uh, hi,” she begins, her voice wobbly with nerves. She lets out a small, timid laugh, and grasps the edge of the lectern with white knuckles to keep herself from stumbling.
“Thank you for coming, everyone. I appreciate your support more than you could ever know, and I am so excited to open the doors for you all Monday morning. I am also so excited to share my new book with the world. I know that every one of us here was a part of the war, and therefore, you are all a part of this book. I hope I’ve done each of your stories justice.
First, while we’re all here, if anyone is in need of a tattoo, my friend Blaise Zabini has a shop only a few doors away. The least I can do after that wonderful introduction is to bring him some more business.”
The crowd laughs, necks craning to look at Blaise who waves a hand in dismissal. Hermione, feeling slightly looser after earning a laugh, continues.
“I’ll try to make this short and sweet so we can all get back to having fun. But I’d just like to say this: There is a muggle saying that goes, ‘write about what you know.’ When I first decided to write a book, I knew a lot about a lot of things.”
A small chuckle of agreement ripples through the crowd.
“I knew a lot about friendship. Of courage, and bravery. I knew of sacrifice. I knew of love. But I also knew a lot about war. And I think war, despite its treacheries, is knowing about all of those other things. War is friendship, courage, sacrifice. It is also loss and hardship and fear.
I, like many of us here, know war and all of its faculties well. And so I wrote about it. You see, history is our greatest reminder of what we are capable of making it through. And here – now – looking out across the room at all of your faces. I know what we have been through. We have faced an incredible battle and lost so much along the way.
We can’t change history. We can’t get back the people we’ve lost. But there is a sort of beauty in the way a book can immortalize the moments, the people, and the displays of bravery that we never want to forget. Of course, books also immortalize the bad, too. But we have already conquered that evil, and so those bad things become another reminder of what we are capable of together.
I used to see past, present and future as three very separate things. I used to ache for a return to the past, while also wishing I could forget it. I used to think the present was hopeless. And I couldn’t even think about the future. Now, I see that they are one and the same. We can’t change the past. We can’t determine the future. But we can use them to take control of our present. I have learned this past year to stop and smell the flowers - rosemary is my favourite – and to appreciate the present while it’s here. Because no matter how much darkness may seep into life, there will always be a little bit of light to remind us of the good in this world. Thank you.”
The room breaks into loud, thunderous applause, with several more wolf whistles and some rowdy hollering from her friends. Hermione steps away from the lectern, throwing her head back in a laugh and wiping a single tear from her cheek. In a haze, she floats down the stairs and into the arms of her friends, receiving hugs and kisses and words of praise that warm her heart.
Everything becomes a blur as the room returns to its clamorous festivities, music flitting through the sounds of chatter and the clear tinkling of toasting champagne glasses. Harry and Ron pull her in for a three-way hug, telling her over and over again how proud they are of her. She kisses them both on the cheek, pulling them in tighter until they are gasping for breath.
“Still gives the tightest hugs in the world,” Ron mumbles as she releases them. Eventually, with a reminder from Blaise, she floats happily over to the table stacked with her novels, using a muggle fountain pen to begin signing them.
It’s a strange feeling, signing her name on books for her own friends – a silly practice, really, since they could get her signature whenever they wanted. But it felt good, penning her name with a flourish on the ‘H’ before snapping the book shut and handing it to each familiar face in line.
She writes small notes of encouragement and thank you for some, and feels the proudest when she signs a copy for Ellis Rumiheart, who promises to display it in his office.
After she signs a copy for each Seamus and Dean, her pen fumbles from her hand and drops to the ground. She grasps her dress, squatting inelegantly down to pick it up before standing again, as her eyes fall across an open book that is being held out by the next person in line. The page is open to the dedication, and before she looks up, she settles her pen over an empty space on the page.
“Does Dean Thomas know that you dedicated your first book to him? I can’t think of anyone else who has a ‘D’ initial and isn’t an utter asshat that would deserve such recognition.”
She looks up, her body seizing with utter shock, to find Draco holding out his copy of her book towards her, those startling grey eyes meeting hers. For a moment, she is paralyzed – her pen hovering over the page, her eyes locked on his. The only sensation she feels is the galloping of her heart as it pushes hot blood through her veins.
He was here. In front of her. Asking her to sign his book, and looking the most beautiful he has ever been. She swallows, taking in his perfectly coiffed blond hair, pushed back off of his face with a single strand falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a black suit that looks as if it has been sculpted onto him – a starched white oxford, no tie, and an open black suit jacket that accentuates his arms. Black, well-fitting trousers and those damn shiny dragon leather shoes that never seem to get dirty.
He is here. He is here, and his grey eyes are boring into hers, shiny with remorse and begging for forgiveness.
“Hi, Granger,” he says, his voice low and gentle. Hermione bites down, clenching her jaw until it hurts as she tries to control her sudden frantic breathing. She can smell his cologne, sweet and spicy and everything she has missed the past month and a half. Her eyes follow the sharp lines of his body up to his angled face, his skin still so perfectly smooth and white, his cheekbones high and handsome, his grey eyes the exact colour that floats behind her lids while she dreams.
His presence, which she has missed so much, craved every day, is almost stifling now. With watery eyes, she looks past him to see her friends; Blaise, Pansy, Theo, Harry, and Ron, all standing frozen, watching, ready to rescue Hermione if she needs them to. She glances at Ron, expecting to see him charging at Malfoy. Instead, he seems in control, protective, his fists still clenched at his sides, though he looks at Hermione, not at Draco; waiting for her to tell him if she needs him.
Blaise and Pansy look concerned, just as surprised as Hermione is to see him here, and Harry and Theo both look unsure, wondering what to do with his sudden presence.
She turns back to Draco, opening her mouth to say something: and nothing comes out.
‘I don’t want this anymore, Granger.’ – his words from their final night in Mexico replay in her mind. His vicious tone, his dismissal of their connection, his refusal to give them a chance. He hadn’t wanted her. And she had just begun to accept that he would no longer be in her life.
But now he was standing here, in front of her, handsome and wearing a hopeful smile, and asking her to sign his book. He was everything she wanted. But he didn’t want her.
“I need some air.” It comes out in a rushed breath, and suddenly her feet are moving. She is running through the shop, pushing past people and gripping the skirt of her dress as her chest swells with emotion. She needs to get out of here, needs to be far from him, needs him to leave and not hurt her again. Finally, she stumbles through the front door into the cold night, her stupid shoes pinching her feet and the freezing air prickling her exposed skin.
Streetlights illuminate the empty street, and she stumbles down the cobblestone towards the lights and sounds of Diagon Alley. Gasping air into her lungs, she pauses, stopping in the middle of the street to tilt her head back, opening her mouth as her chest rises and falls. It's then that it starts snowing – heavy, fluffy flakes falling down slowly, like dripping molasses, straight onto the street without the wind there to blow them around.
Her arms and legs line with goosebumps as she shivers, looking down towards the towering white pillars of Gringotts and wondering why it always has to come down to battling a dragon.
“Granger!”
It's Draco’s voice, shouting as he rushes out of Flourish & Blotts and strides down the cobblestone to reach her. She shakes her head, turning around to face him.
“Why are you here, Malfoy? You need to go,” she pleads, her voice a desperate sob as he jogs lightly in his suit to reach her. He looks like a kicked puppy — grey eyes sad and wide, brows pulled together in concern, his cheeks red from the cold.
“Just hear me out, Hermione,” he says, his voice quiet like a whisper and heavy like led. Anger pulses through her and she finds herself striding with purpose over to him, closing the distance between them as she tilts her chin up to meet his gaze.
“No,” she says through gritted teeth, a warm tear slipping down her cold skin. ‘-no, you made it clear that you didn’t want to be a part of my life anymore, Draco. This is me dealing with the fallout of your decision.”
She turns to walk away but Draco grabs her elbow, twisting her back towards him.
“I’ve said a lot of stupid things in my life, Granger, but that was by far the one I regret most.”
He looks down on her, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth as his chest rises with his extended inhale. She blinks up at him, her vision blurring with tears as she feels his hand on her skin. It’s warm, and rough and calloused like it’s always been, and she wants nothing more than to melt into it.
“I messed up. Big time.” He finishes, his eyes pleading with hers. His warm breaths come out as a fog in the frigid air, like smoke from a dragon, and she closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at him right now, at how truly sorry he looks.
“No, Malfoy. You didn’t just mess up,” she spits, poking a stern finger to his chest. “–you made a decision. One that ensured I was erased from your life. Do you know how awful it made me feel? What you said on that balcony?”
His face falls as he releases her elbow, taking a slow step away from her before shoving his hands into his pockets.
“I knew you wouldn’t let me go. I knew how stubborn you are, Granger, and I knew that I had to say something awful like that, or else you would have followed me. It was cruel, and the biggest lie I’ve ever told. I’d take it back in an instant if I could. And I’m sorry, Hermione.”
Her name sounds like the sweetest honey on his tongue, and she wants to beg him to say it a thousand times, and then a million more. She uses the back of her hand to wipe away the tears that are freezing onto her face.
“Why did you push me away? Why was it so important that I didn’t follow you?”
“You were right, okay?” he cuts her off, raising his voice as he lifts his hands, palms to the sky in surrender. “You were right. I was scared. I have never had something as good as you and been able to keep it, and I was fucking terrified of losing you! I figured if I did the job for you and left before things fell apart, I’d save myself a lot of pain. But I was wrong. And I promise to make it up to you a hundred times over.”
Her heart stutters in her chest, and she wants desperately to reach out and touch him, to pull him into an embrace and let him kiss the tears away from her face. But she is also so angry with him.
The snowflakes fall heavier now, landing on Draco’s cheeks and eyelashes. He takes a staccato breath in, turning away from her for a moment before facing her again.
“I didn’t deserve you,” he continues, stepping towards her and taking her small hand in his. Her body tingles from his touch, awakened with an electricity that feels as if it should be just as necessary as breathing.
“-I still don’t deserve you. But I am trying every day to be a better man for you. For me. For my mother, and friends. I’m fucked up. We’re both fucked up and broken from this war, trying to figure out where to go next. And look how far you’ve come, Hermione! Look at how you’ve grown.”
He skates his hand up her forearm, his thumb brushing against the rosemary tattoo as his eyes flicker to the dark ink.
“I can’t let you in just to watch you leave again,” she says, her voice cracking as she meets his gaze; meets Draco Malfoy’s beautiful eyes.
“I’m not going to leave, Granger. I have so much to make up for, so much to apologize for. And I still have a lot of my own shit I need to work through. We have so much shit to work through. But can we work through it together?”
His voice is soft, gentle, begging as he slips his hand from hers, letting it fall to her waist and snaking it around to the small of her back. Gently, ever so gently, he tugs her forward. When she refuses to look up at him, tears still falling from her eyes, his other hand rests gently on her jaw, and he raises her chin up to make her look at him.
She wonders if Draco Malfoy has ever been given a second chance before; and she has to decide, here and now, if he deserves one. Maybe he doesn’t. But she can’t help but think about how the second chances she gave herself all those months ago were maybe the very thing that had saved her in the end.
Maybe the old Hermione would have turned him away. But, as she has finally come to terms with, she is not the old Hermione anymore.
Maybe, just as much as she once needed it, Draco needs her to give him that same chance. Maybe, all that she needs to believe his promise is there, now, in that look in his eyes — the one that tells her to trust him again, as she has once before.
“I don’t know,” she says softly, watching his face fall as she says it. Then, in a lighter tone, as she wipes away a final tear, she continues. “You once told me you couldn’t stand me. Are you sure you want to be with me if you can’t stand me?”
Her tone is light, teasing, just enough for him to catch it and for his eyes to go wide with hope. He steps closer to her, using his hand at her back to push her into him so that their chests are together.
“I can’t stand you, Granger,” he says, his voice low and husky and slow. He leans forward, planting a feather-light kiss to her forehead.
“I can’t stand how you take your coffee, and how you’ve memorized facts from every single book you’ve ever read,”
He pulls back before leaning forward again, his warm lips falling onto her temple.
“I can’t stand that denim jumpsuit you wear and that you call them ‘dungarees,”
Another kiss to her other temple. Her heart flutters, and she places her hands onto his biceps as her eyelids fall closed. He slides his other hand under her jaw, his thumb in the hair above her ear.
“I can’t stand your awful jokes or your messy hair or the way you always argue with me.”
A kiss to her cheek, just above her ear, and then another to her jaw.
“I can’t stand the way you always have to be right, even when you know you’re wrong. I can’t stand that you do everything better than me and that you’re kind to everyone even when they aren’t kind to you. I can’t stand that I know you’re going to forgive me, even though I don’t deserve it.”
He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and she inhales a sharp breath, her eyes falling open to see his grey ones staring into hers.
“Is that all?” she jests, her voice a whisper as he places another kiss to the tip of her nose.
“No,” he says, huffing out a breathy laugh. “I can’t stand the way you made me fall in love with you, even when I was so determined not to.”
Everything inside of her drops, as if weighed down by led, as she pulls away to look at him, his arms still wrapped tightly around her waist. Her heart squeezes with excitement, and there is a buzzing in her brain that can only be described as bliss; here it was, that blissful feeling again.
“What was that?” she asks, her lips lifting upwards into a grin. Draco rolls his eyes, brushing her cheek with his thumb.
“I love you, Hermione. And I’m asking you to give me another chance, so I can do better this time. I love you.”
And then they are kissing — a euphoric, breathless feeling that seems to defy gravity, seems to make her float and tingle with lack of oxygen. His lips press desperately into hers, making up for lost time as she laughs against his lips, throwing her arms around his neck as he lifts her off of the ground, kissing her madly.
If Hermione and Draco weren’t so busy kissing, burning their lungs from lack of breath and becoming dizzy with bliss, they might notice how perfect the snowflakes falling around them are. They might notice that for a single, special moment, Diagon Alley has gone completely quiet. They might notice the way the streetlight shines on them just right, illuminating their dancing, intertwined shadows as Draco spins her before dropping her back to her feet, placing soft kisses to her jaw.
“I love you too,” she breathes, pulling him back onto her lips. She loves him, and he loves her, and he wants her. He hasn’t come to her as a perfect man; no, Draco Malfoy is flawed and comes with struggles of his own that Hermione may never understand. But he has come to her as a man asking for forgiveness, recognizing the work he needs to put in, and asking her to be with him on that journey.
Harper had been right; it wasn’t Hermine and Draco’s job to fix each other. But together, they would build something. Something strong and beautiful and imperfect. They would come from what had once seemed like ruins, take it brick by brick, wall by wall– and they would do it together.
When finally they run out of breath and break apart, desperate for air, Hermione pulls him in for a hug. They had kissed, and touched, and made love, but they had rarely ever just hugged.
And as she pulls him tight against her body, relishing in his warmth and his scent and his presence, Draco does not complain that she hugs him too tightly.
Instead, he pulls her in tighter.
She rests her head on his shoulder, allowing his warmth to seep into her as the winter air is starting to make her shiver.
“We should go back inside,” he chuckles into her hair, sliding his palms up and down her bare arms to warm her. Reluctantly, she steps away, her eye catching on one of the red SOLD signs in the window of the shop beside them.
“Did you see? All of the empty shops on The Strip have been sold. It looks like Diagon Alley might finally return to its former glory.”
She grabs his hand, and the two of them begin to walk back towards the shop, the snow still falling around them as Draco casts a warming charm around Hermione with his wand.
“I know,” he says sheepishly, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. Hermione’s brows pull together as she looks up at him, narrowing her eyes.
“Draco…” she begins, stopping in place and looking at him expectantly.
“I bought them, Granger. The rest of the stores on The Strip,” he reveals, his features relaxed and waiting with anticipation for Hermione’s reaction.
“You bought them? Why?”
He sighs, sticking his hands in his pockets as the pink tip of his tongue flicks out to wet his swollen lips.
“This is what I want to do. With my life. I bought the shops so I can fix them up and rent them out to the shop owners. I want to restore Diagon Alley... and then I'll see where it goes from there.”
He pauses, grabbing Hermione’s hand again and tucking her curls behind her ear. His eyes flick down at her makeup, her curls, her dress. They shimmer with something Hermione has seen in him before, but that she can only now attribute to love. His cheeks grow pink, but she tells herself it’s from the cold.
“I’ve spent so much of my life destroying things. It’s my turn to rebuild now. It’s like you said, Granger — ruins can always be rebuilt.”
She smiles, her heart swelling as she rises on her tiptoes to press a gentle, firm kiss to his lips.
“I think that’s a great idea,” she says, settling back down and slipping her arm through his, leading them back towards Flourish & Blotts.
“Thanks, Granger,” he says as they reach the shop, light from the windows streaming out onto their faces and the cheerful noises of the party filling their ears. Draco stops them before they go in, pulling her in for one last kiss, brushing his thumb affectionately over her rosemary tattoo.
“Draco?”
“Mm?”
“I’m still very mad at you.”
”I know, Granger.”
“One question.”
“Anything.”
“Promise to rebuild the shops the muggle way? I’ll even lend you my saw.”
“Not a fucking chance, Granger.”
“Always so stubborn.”
Chapter 26: Epilogue
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
EPILOGUE
Spring has always been Hermione’s favourite season. It is the season of renewal, and life, always has the perfect climate, and is also the perfect time to plant flowers. And Hermione’s new house in Berkshire, just outside the small village of Bucklebury, has the perfect backyard for planting.
It is also situated almost exactly midway between London and Malfoy Manor and is much closer to The Burrow than her old flat had been. But this, of course, had only been a small factor in Hermione choosing her new cottage home.
Before she left for work this morning, Hermione had let Crookshanks outside to wander through the yard as she went outside to check on all of her new plants and flowers. Narcissa, who turned out to be sort of an expert gardener herself, had advised Hermione on what to plant, and how to take care of each of them.
And so, in the warm morning sun, Hermione had wandered through her garden, admiring the rows of rose bushes, purple globe-shaped Allium, pink Azaleas and ombre Begonias; Rainbow Chrysanthemums and bright orange Daylilies, Hyacinths and Hydrangeas in shades of pastels. There were of course her windowsills, with boxes of planted Pansies as requested by the Slytherin girl herself, bushes of peonies by the back door and Snapdragons along the stone path to the house.
But her favourite part of the garden was the place where she had planted her herbs – a garden box packed to the brim with basil, thyme, oregano, mint, lemongrass, parsley and rosemary. This morning, as Crookshanks hops up onto the flat top of the fencepost, gazing out at the dewy field behind them, Hermione runs her fingers over the herbs, breathing deeply as the delicious amalgamation of their scent wafts into the air. She cuts a sprig of rosemary, a few other flowers and foliage, and brings them inside, filling an old vase with water before making a delicate arrangement on the table.
The sweet smell of rosemary and lily fills the house, and Hermione can’t help but admire the colourful arrangement on her dinner table as she pulls her bag onto her shoulder and apparates to Diagon Alley.
The Strip, which, despite its reintroduction and inauguration to the rest of Diagon Alley, has kept its name. Hermione doesn’t mind it so much; it reminds her of how far the place has come. As she walks down towards Flourish & Blotts she catches sight of the new owner of Broomstix through the shop’s window and gives him a friendly wave.
As always, Hermione’s day goes by quickly. She stocks shelves, mans the register, gives book recommendations to customers and even signs a few copies of her own book when she is asked. Harry stops by at lunch to bring her a coffee and they eat together in her crowded office as Clarisse, Hermione’s new hire, takes over at the register.
The afternoon is slower, bringing in the usual crowd of elderly witches and wizards along with a few students who are enjoying their first days of freedom after a long school year. She watches a few teenagers browse, pointing out schoolbooks they’d read at Hogwarts that year and fiction novels that they’ll read now that summer is approaching.
A few minutes before close, after Hermione has sent Clarisse home early, there are only a few stragglers left in the shop. An old man named Ernest, who falls asleep regularly in Hermione’s favourite chair by the window, and a group of three young children who had wandered in only a few minutes ago.
Hermione is restocking a few of the shelves in preparation for closing, looking at Ernest from the corner of her eye as he snores melodically, wondering if he will be easier to wake up today. Last time, he’d woken up startled, forgetting how he had gotten there in the first place. She hopes today will be a little easier.
As she pushes a copy of Travels with Trolls onto the shelf, closing the last remaining gap of emptiness, she feels a light tap on her shoulder.
“Excuse me, miss,” says a tiny voice, and Hermione twirls around curiously to find a girl – small, with short blonde hair to her shoulders and bright green eyes, holding a stack of books in her arms that seems to make her lean to one side as she tries to balance their weight.
“Can I help you with something?” Hermione asks sweetly, looking down at the girl, who can’t be older than 11, with robes that drag on the floor. She must be wearing hand-me-downs from an older sibling, Hermione thinks, because the robes are slightly too big for the girl's small frame.
“I’m looking for a book,” the girl says matter of factly, standing tall and holding her chin up high in confidence. “It’s called The Ultimate and Unbelievable Guide to Unicorns by Odessa Ulrich. Know where I can find it?”
The girl blinks up at Hermione with a smile, a deep dimple forming in her cheek as she shifts the pile of books in her arms to rebalance the weight, her knuckles growing white from gripping them.
“Sure do,” Hermione grins, before reaching forward and taking half of the girl's stack from her arms. “Let me help you with those, and I’ll show you the way.”
The little girl smiles, breathing out a sigh of relief as her load becomes lighter.
“Thanks!” she says, following Hermione to the back wall. Hermione takes note of the books the girl has picked out; most of them are non-fiction, and all of them are definitely meant for a more advanced reader. Something inside Hermione pangs with sentimentality as she reaches the Magical Creatures section, flicking her eyes along the alphabetized shelves in search of Odessa Ulrich.
“Here it is!” Hermione says cheerily, standing on her tiptoes to reach the book and pulling it down. The little girl lets out a ‘phew’ breath of air, holding out her stack of books so Hermione can slide it on top.
“Thanks a lot,” the little girl smiles, resting her chin on top of the book.
“You’re welcome,” Hermione replies, nodding towards the front counter. “Are you about ready to check out?”
The girl opens her mouth to reply, but before she can respond, two boys around the same age tumble over to them, out of breath, the shorter one of the two grasping a book in his hand.
“Lottie, there you are!” the taller one says in an exhaled breath, resting his hand on his knees as if he’s just run a marathon. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
The shorter boy, scrawnier and more timid than the other, nods in agreement.
“Did you find it?” he asks, running a hand through his dark curls as he looks curiously at Hermione, finally noticing her presence alongside his friend.
“Yeah, this nice lady helped me,” Lottie smiles, motioning with her chin at Hermione. Hermione gives the boys a small wave, and the taller one raises an eyebrow at her, assessing her for a moment before quickly losing interest.
“Can we go now, please?” the tall boy pleads, rocking on his heels as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Dex and I really want to check out Broomstix before it closes.”
Lottie rolls her eyes before nodding and turns to walk towards the front counter. The boys follow, pushing each other playfully as Hermione walks around the counter, placing Lottie’s books down as the girl slides the rest of her stack up onto the wooden surface.
“What about this one Lottie?” the boy, Dex, asks, holding up the book he’s been holding in his hand. Hermione looks up as she places Lottie’s books into a large paper bag. She can barely contain a smile when she sees that the book Dex is holding up is her own – The Second Wizarding War by Hermione Granger.
Her heart drops again when Lottie shakes her head.
“I’ve already read that one three times, Dex! Haven’t you been paying attention at all this year? I told you about it in the Great Hall one morning…” Lottie waits impatiently, expecting Dex to catch on, but the boy only shakes his head of curls, a red blush crawling onto his cheeks as he shrugs.
Lottie lets out an exhausted sigh, sliding some galleons on the counter towards Hermione. The register opens with a small click and Hermione fishes some knuts out to give the girl for change.
“I swear, neither of you ever listen to a word I say,” Lottie chastises, crossing her arms over her chest impatiently. The taller boy clearly isn’t listening, staring out the window with a dazed look instead, but Dex offers Lottie an apologetic grin before following his friend's gaze.
“Here you are,” Hermione grins, dropping the change into Lottie’s open palm and sliding the bag of books towards her.
“Thank you very much,” Lottie says distractedly, hefting the bag off of the counter and into Dex’s arms without a word. Dex’s shoulders droop with the weight of the bag, but Lottie only strolls past them towards the door as the boys trail behind her.
“If you two would only listen to me, you’d know that this half of Diagon Alley was completely destroyed during the war,” Lottie goes on, her voice carrying over to Hermione as they reach the door. “I read about it, in The Second Wizarding War: The Reign and Defeat of Voldemort, which also explains why Hogwarts has that stone memorial of that really old guy with the beard…”
Lottie’s voice fades and then is cut off completely by the door closing behind them, and Hermione watches with a suppressed grin as the three young wizards wander down The Strip towards Broomstix, Lottie’s mouth opening and closing in a continued lecture as she gesticulates excitably.
Her heart pangs with a happy reminiscence as she watches them disappear, and with a quick glance at her watch, she makes her way over to wake up Ernest.
At 4:30 on the dot, Hermione has locked the door of the shop for the day and is making her way down the cobblestone towards Scratch the Mark.
“Granger! Just in time,” Adrian greets her as she pushes through the door. “I was worried you’d miss it and weren’t going to believe me when Malfoy eventually passes out from the pain.”
Hermione smiles, giving Daphne a light hug in greeting as she looks over at Draco in the black tattoo chair. He’s sitting up, his shirt sleeve rolled up to reveal his forearm as he holds it out in front of Blaise, Dark Mark facing up.
“Wasn’t it you who cried when you got yours covered, Pucey?” Draco retorts with a sneer, his eyes meeting Hermione’s and twinkling with fondness as he winks at her.
“I had something in my eye!” Adrian protests, pulling himself up to sit on the front counter beside Daphne.
“Sorry I’m late,” Hermione says, making her way over to Draco and placing a light kiss on his lips, feeling her body come alive with electricity and making her wish she didn’t have to pull away at all. “ -I had a few stragglers at the shop.”
“Ernest again?” Blaise asks from his rolling stool as he pulls on a pair of black latex gloves, setting up his needle and ink pots.
“Yes, and a little first year already buying her entire reading list for next school year,” she smiles, pulling reluctantly away from Draco and plopping down in a chair to watch the action.
“Sounds like someone I know,” Draco drawls, quirking an eyebrow pointedly at Hermione as Blaise wipes his skin down with an alcohol wipe.
“Can we get on with this?” Pansy asks from the wall, where she leans watching with arms crossed over her chest. “I have a date with Lovegood tonight, and I’d like to be on time.”
Hermione’s chest swells with happiness at the idea of Pansy and Luna going on another date – somehow, Luna’s gentle nature seemed to compliment Pany’s hot-tempered one, balancing each other out perfectly and making a surprisingly good couple.
“No one’s making you stay, Pans,” Theo says, rolling his eyes as he looks up from the book he’s reading from the other black tattoo chair. Pansy sticks her tongue out childishly at Theo, who gives her the finger in return.
“Alright mate, you ready?” Blaise asks as Draco looks down at the penned outline of the tattoo over his Dark Mark. Draco nods, tightening his hand into a fist and then relaxing it again.
“Ready,” Draco adds, looking over at Hermione who gives him an encouraging smile.
“Here we go,” Blaise says, scooting forward on his stool as the needle whirs to life. Everyone’s attention is on Draco as Blaise sinks the tip of the needle into his skin, drawing with firm, gentle strokes as his face pulls tight with concentration.
As Blaise works on the tattoo, much to Adrian’s disappointment, Draco shows no aversion to the pain of the needle. When Blaise finishes, he wipes it carefully with an alcohol wipe and performs his quick healing spell as the Slytherins gather around to admire Draco’s new cover-up.
“Looks really great, Blaise,” Theo says, squeezing his boyfriend's shoulder affectionately. There is a murmur of agreement from everyone else, as they all clap Draco on the back and offer their congratulations for finally covering up his mark.
The Slytherins eventually disperse, saying their goodbyes and promising to be early to help set up for Daphne and Adrian’s engagement party the next day. Blaise cleans up his station as Draco pulls Hermione to stand between his legs, slipping an arm around her waist.
“Work was good today?” he asks softly, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek as she runs her fingers gingerly over Draco’s new tattoo.
“Yes,” she says, her eyes tracing Blaise’s skilled line work and incredible detail. “How was yours?”
Draco shrugs, moving Hermione back gently so he can hop off of the tattoo chair. He rolls up the sleeve above his tattoo once more and then rolls the other shirt sleeve up, leaving his new tattoo out on display.
“Good. I sold the shop two doors down from yours to Florean Fortescue. It seems he’s decided to give the ice cream shop a second go.”
“That’s great,” Hermione smiles, pulling her bag over her shoulder as Draco goes over to say goodbye to Blaise.
“Thank you, Blaise. I really love it,” Draco says softly, pulling Blaise in for an uncharacteristic hug and a friendly pat on the back.
“Proud of you, mate,” Blaise says as he releases him, sending Hermione a smile too. “See you both tomorrow?”
“We’ll be there,” Hermione says over her shoulder as Draco pulls her out of the shop and into the busy street. Wizards and witches bustle about, on their way home from work or to do some last-minute shopping before the weekend.
“So,” Draco says, his hand on the small of her back as they walk towards the apparition point near Flourish & Blotts. “What do you think of my new ink?”
Hermione grins widely, grabbing Draco’s arm and pulling it up to examine it once more.
“I think it’s incredible. You chose well,” she says, meeting his storm grey eyes. He nods in agreement, tugging her closer to him to pull her out of the way of a distracted passerby.
“You don’t think it’s too… on the nose?” Draco asks, his nose wrinkling slightly in thought as they reach the apparition point. Hermione shakes her head, lifting herself up on her toes to plant a kiss on his lips.
“No, I don’t. I think it’s perfect.”
She tries to pull away, but Draco tugs her back in for another kiss. Before she can try to pull away again, she feels Draco tug her into a side-along apparition, and suddenly they are in Hermione’s kitchen, Draco’s lips still pressing hungry kisses to hers.
“I think I like this whole coming home together thing,” Hermione gasps as Draco lifts her up onto the table, his warm hands hooked under her thighs as he attacks her mouth again.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, trailing featherlight pecks down her jaw and neck as Hermione’s eyelids flutter closed.
“Yes,” she breathes, feeling Draco’s hips press into hers as her body aches with need, responding to his touches with fervent surrender. Draco groans when she grinds her hips against his, pulling back to examine her face, her lips already tingling and swelling from his advances.
“I remember when we couldn’t even stand going to work together,” he chuckles, sliding both hands up to cup her jaw, his eyes twinkling with amusement as his chest rises and falls with breathlessness.
“I remember that too,” she says, feeling the steady pounding of Draco’s heart pressed to her chest. The smell of the flowers she had picked this morning suddenly fills her nostrils, and she breathes it in, breathes him in; breathes life in.
“Do you remember the first time you saw me again? That night at Devil’s Snare?” she asks him, pulling a sprig of rosemary from the vase behind her and tucking it behind her ear.
“Of course,” he says, sliding his hands down her neck and then to her waist. “You were wearing a little black dress that made your arse look amazing, and your hair was as wild as always. You were watching me with this strange look; like you were trying to figure me out. I was intimidated by you. I wanted so badly to argue with you. And then, I wanted so badly to kiss you.”
Draco leans down to press a kiss on her neck, his tongue laving at her skin.
“I remember watching you walk away and thinking to myself, ‘Merlin, I’m in trouble.’”
Then, he pulls away, placing his newly tattooed forearm facing up so that it is beside Hermione’s rosemary tattoo. On his arm, replacing the old gaunt-looking skull and snake, is a dragon being slain by a knight. Hermione looks down at their tattoos side by side and turns her forearm so that it presses into his, before weaving their fingers together. Then, she looks into his grey eyes and sees home, sees everything that they have built. He gives her a soft smile.
“I remember it all, Granger. How could I possibly forget?”
The End
Notes:
Wow. And that's a wrap. Thank you so much to everyone who has read this fic, supported it, and stuck with me from the beginning. The idea for this story came to me one night when I was struggling with severe insomnia; it was only a single line, with no plot, and it just kind of grew from there. This was such a fun experience for me, and I hope you enjoyed it just as much as I did! All my love, readers!
Chapter 27: Art for Rosemary for Remembrance by Elivrayn
Summary:
Hello all! The lovely @elivrayn has created this beautiful piece of art for Rosemary for Remembrance and I wanted to share it here for you to see. Please go check out more of their work on Instagram, and show them support!
Just over a year ago, I posted the first ten chapters of my first ever Dramione fanfiction. I had finished reading the Harry Potter series for the first time ever only months beforehand, and I found a way to do something I loved with a pairing that never fails to make me smile. It has been so much fun to continue writing for this pairing, and I wanted to give back to you all somehow! RfR was my first big writing project, and it was such a special thing to write. Thank you for supporting me, and continuing to read my fics. I love this community and everything it has brought me!
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