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Granger,
I hope this letter finds you well.
It is my burden to write to you with the most serious news. News I have now had several weeks to come to terms with and which I am now obliged to share with you, knowing you will also likely need time to adjust to the new reality of your future.
Our shared future.
You see, after consultations with several astrologers, diviners, and forecasters (even one particularly terrifying clairvoyant), all highly recommended and skilled at their craft, I have been gifted with the surety of my future contentedness. The knowledge that my partner will be a woman of exceptional intellect, incomparable beauty, and the most undomesticated hair I’ve ever seen.
She also happens to be stubborn as a hippogriff.
In case I’m not being clear; she’s you, Granger.
It seems you’ve been quite remiss in neglecting to consider me as a romantic prospect.
We’re fated. The stars are quite insistent about that.
After a short period of denial, I have been assured that regardless of our preferences at present (I appreciate our personal history is unideal), we must inevitably both surrender to the strength of our attraction, our admiration of each other’s minds and bodies, bringing intellectual balance and sexual satisfaction which, until this point, we have otherwise been regrettably without.
The more I think about it; that sounds quite gratifying, doesn’t it?
And sensible.
My diviner informs me, that you, as a Virgo, are not inclined to be accepting of the wills of fate, and as such will need to be assured of my continued patience and belief in our compatibility; a task which, for the sake of my future happiness and yours, I am more than happy to undertake.
I have attached the full reports for your perusal (even without knowledge of your providential inclinations, I understand you well enough to know that you will want to check the accuracy of my analyses).
I look forward to your acceptance of our assured union once you see the irrefutability of the evidence for yourself.
Yours inevitably,
Draco Malfoy.
Hermione turned to the leather-bound documents which had accompanied the delivery, brushing away the droplets of tea she had inhaled and then sputtered over them in her sudden understanding of the letter’s purpose (it was enough to make a person choke on their refreshment).
This was a joke, surely? A misguided attempt at humour? Or humiliation? She wouldn’t put either past Malfoy. What she was absolutely sure of, was that he wasn’t - couldn’t possibly be - serious.
Although, as she flicked through pages and pages of charts and maps, graphs and explanatory notes written in a steady hand, she began to doubt. It all looked very legitimate. Professional.
It was ridiculous.
She should laugh. She wanted to.
Truly comical.
She had to read it twice, confused amusement shifting to something else. Tension wasn’t an inaccurate description; the increase in her blood pressure and the prickling of her skin couldn’t be described as good. It wasn’t unusual for her to react to Draco Malfoy in this way when she was forced to interact with him from time to time.
That hardly mattered though, when it had become clear to her that Malfoy had obviously lost his mind.
Hermione picked up her quill, shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge the bafflement that had settled over her brain.
Malfoy,
I’m afraid I have no inclination to consider you as a partner, life-long or otherwise.
I’m sure this won’t surprise you, blessed as you apparently are with an understanding of the mysteries of the future.
My own determinedly.
Hermione J Granger.
She watched the owl disappear into the distance with a superior kind of satisfaction, glad she’d put an end to any delusions Malfoy might be entertaining about her interest.
-*-
By the following morning, and after nine re-reads of Malfoys letter and his promotional materials — the only way to describe them, truly, what with the entire sub-section dedicated to the ways in which they were suited in the bedroom — Hermione was enraged.
Shock had given way to fury. Because it was clear in the details of the analysis; the thoroughness of the theoretical application; the second and third opinions sought and the references provided; he was absolutely, utterly, delusionally serious.
How dare he?
The presumption of the man! The audacity! The sheer arrogance!
As though he, morally ambiguous pureblood pretty boy, had anything that she wanted in a partner. As though she would ever be able to find anything at all about him to admire.
As though there could be anything, prophecy or tea leaves or crystal gazing (and Hermione continued to believe that the entire field of divining magic was distinctly woolly, despite evidence — which was purely circumstantial — that she had heard of two prophecies which had later come to pass) which could convince her to think of him as anything other than an irritant.
The nerve! The obstinance! The absolute hubris of a man who was admittedly slightly above average looking. But that was it. There was nothing else to recommend him.
Nothing at all.
She imagined with some enjoyment the look on his face if she were to storm into his office and poke him firmly in the chest. Watch all hope for a romantic entanglement abandon him as she set fire to his entitled letter.
He hadn’t even deigned to respond to her dismissal.
He was probably crying over her rejection, she decided. She’d bet he looked unattractive when he cried. All pink-faced and pouty. Well, that was something she wanted to bear witness to. She would love to see his desolation. Rejection didn’t come often to him from what she could tell.
No. Just in case her feelings about him and his diviner were unclear, she should tell him. And remind him exactly how uninterested she was, and always would be, in any amorous liaison he might be entertaining the possibility of.
She would.
And she’d enjoy it. Very much.
-*-
Hermione made sure to make the appropriate greetings when she entered Malfoy’s office, hurtling through her how are you’s? so she could get straight to the point: “Did you get my letter?”
She thought it was quite clear, but it couldn’t hurt to reiterate her intentions. Which were non-existent, as they pertained to Draco Malfoy.
“I did,” he said seriously, his gaze unwavering as he considered her from behind his desk.
It was extremely tidy; quill aligned exactly with his ink pot, both perpendicular to the pad of parchment placed with geometrical precision in the centre of his desk. She itched to check the distance with a ruler.
“You didn’t respond.”
“I got the impression you didn’t want me to.”
“I didn’t.” Obviously. She was glad he seemed to understand.
A slow smile pulled at his lips. “See? We’re already communicating effectively.”
“I’m a very clear communicator.”
“Of course.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Hermione tossed her hair over her shoulder for emphasis.
“I do.”
“So we understand each other then?” Hermione felt that conversationally, she was moving firmly into upper-hand territory, but there was something in his expression that made her feel oddly ill at ease. Like he knew something she didn’t (the idea was quite disconcerting).
“I believe so.”
Good. She was being silly. She was getting exactly what she wanted from this interaction, wasn’t she? He was agreeing with her. She always enjoyed that.
Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
“And we can put this nonsense behind us?”
“Nonsense?” His eyebrow rose in question.
“Your letter.” Honestly. Maybe he was actually cognitively impaired.
“My letter wasn’t nonsense. The analysis was extremely well-researched. Triple checked. Peer reviewed, in fact.”
Maybe not. He had a reputation (ill-deserved, most likely) for being smart. Capable. Sensible. But those descriptors couldn’t in Hermione’s (generally well respected) opinion be applied to people who set store in star signs and planets and prophecies made by possibly drunk divination teachers.
“You can’t honestly tell me you believe in that rubbish.” It was ridiculous.
“Magic?” He was being purposefully facetious. And his face. Why was it so irritating?
“Divination.” The subject was not to be placed alongside theoretically robust branches of magic like Charms or Transfiguration.
“Magic, Granger.”
“Guesswork and interpersonal expectancy effect. It’s self-perpetuating.”
“They said you’d be like this,” Malfoy said, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk.
She hated how he smirked. “Like what?”
“Cynical.”
“Cynical?” A healthy attitude towards unproven assertions did not make a person cynical.
“Obtuse.”
“You mean logical. Rational,” she corrected him.
“I mean obtuse.”
Well, insults certainly weren’t the way to go about convincing her. Not that she could be convinced. “Shouldn’t you be trying to win me over? Insulting me isn’t the best way to start.”
“I don’t need to win you over. I have destiny on my side.” His confidence was infuriating.
“You do, actually. I’m very much opposed.”
“Clearly. Your presence here in my office, uninvited, requesting that I woo you can only be an indication of your opposition.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. Wooing was the last thing she wanted. It was a convincing argument though, even if he was categorically wrong. “Obviously.”
Hermione wasn’t about to waste any more of her precious time. Not only was he arrogant and well dressed and tall, but he was also stubborn. And a hypocrite, which was possibly worse.
“As long as you know not to bother.”
“No wooing.” He picked up his quill, scrawling a note on the parchment in front of him. Hermione bit her lip. She was partial to meticulous note-taking.
“Or romancing,” she added, feeling pleased when he added another note. At least he was paying attention.
“Anything else?”
“Just stop stargazing altogether. Can I suggest recreational Arithmancy? Its applications are much more beneficial to society as a whole.”
“Noted, Granger. Thank you for the tip.” He nodded imperiously, a smile in his eyes. So many signs of his enjoyment were setting her on edge,
“You’re welcome, Malfoy,” Hermione sighed, retreating to the door, trying to be pleased with the knowledge she had got what she wanted.
Hermione didn’t know why she felt unsatisfied when she shut the door behind her.
-*-
Granger,
As per your suggestion, I have engaged a much-respected arithmancer to review my comprehensive analysis of the numbers. You may remember Professor Vector from our time at Hogwarts.
As you can see, our compatibility is also numerically convincing.
Please let me know if you change your mind about the wooing.
Yours unavoidably
Draco Malfoy.
Hermione crumpled the letter in her fist.
He’d missed the point entirely, hadn’t he?
-*-
“You’ve missed the point entirely!” She threw the report down on his desk. She was very disappointed in Professor Vector for entertaining his delusions. She had, quite infuriatingly, agreed with his calculations. Hermione herself had been unable to find any fault with them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
“Granger! Two visits in a week. It’s like you can’t stay away.”
Hermione wanted nothing more than to smack the smile off his admittedly strong-jawed face.
“That’s not— You’re deranged!”
“I’m drawing evidence-based conclusions, Granger. I would have thought you’d approve of that.”
“What evidence? It’s all superstition—”
“You’re the one who recommended I try Arithmancy.”
“Not for this!” It was an insult to a strictly academic pursuit; to use it to justify fallacy and conjecture.
“So you’ll accept it as a sound vehicle when it comes to spellwork, but not for love?”
“ Love, ” Hermione scoffed. “You’re insane.”
Malfoy gestured with an open hand to the chair across his desk. For reasons she couldn’t explain she found herself sinking into it. “There’s a reason they study it in the Department of Mysteries, Granger. Tea?” he asked, conjuring a very old and expensive looking set with a wave of his hand.
“What is it?” Probably some fancy blend she couldn’t drink with milk.
“Assam.”
Oh. She did enjoy a strong brew. “Alright. Just a little bit of milk.”
Malfoy made a great show of pouring and stirring. “There are patterns even in the most intangible things.”
“The only pattern I can see is the consistency of my feelings for you. Which are demonstrably not romantic. I'd go so far as to describe them as hostile, in fact.”
“You wound me, Granger.” He looked delighted.
Hermione took a begrudging sip of her tea. “Good.”
“Did you read it?” He asked, pursing his lips to blow across the rim of his own teacup. He must have known it would draw her attention to his mouth.
“Yes.” Hermione would never pass judgement without having all of the facts. Even if the facts in this instant were wrong.
“You didn’t find it convincing? Professor Vector agreed with my conclusions.”
“I can only assume you’re blackmailing her. Professor Vector would never approve of the application of Arithmancy for such frivolous means.”
“It’s not frivolous, Granger. This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about. The will of a higher power. There’s nothing less frivolous than that.”
Hermione was still mulling over her response when she noticed the corners of his eyebrows shooting upwards as he glanced into his now empty cup. He placed it down carefully.
Her throat tightened slightly in panic as she realised what she’d fallen victim to. Of all the underhanded ways to force her to engage in the divinic arts. He’d weaponised her tea. Tea was supposed to be sacred. It was not to be used to force unsuspecting and uninterested intended paramours into tasseography readings. Hermione hoped her disapproval was evident in her face.
“Would you look at that,” he said, with his awful smiling mouth. His lips were only really pulled up on one side. It was very distracting because Hermione liked to find symmetry in any faces she was forced to look at. And he only had one dimple. It was at odds with the crisp uniformity of the rest of his face.
He licked his lips, beckoning her over to his desk with the movement of his index finger.
Well, she had to see, didn’t she?
She approached his side with caution, bending low to examine the contents of his cup. The smell of his cologne balanced out the bitterness of the tea in a strangely pleasant way.
“A swan,” he whispered, too intimately in her ear. The shiver that travelled down her spine was almost certainly disgust.
She was going to tell him to stop whispering like a bad romance protagonist when she noticed just how close his face was. Long straight nose, dark lashes, soft, full (wonky, smirking) lips.
She breathed in deeply through her nose, attempting to pull her eyes away from his face (because it was so sharp. Abrasive). It was harder than it should have been.
“A happy love life,” he told her (needlessly; she already knew that of course).
Hermione forced herself to focus on his cup. Fuck. It did look like a bird. The neck was long. But no— She refused.
“That’s a goat,” she said, with a confidence she didn’t feel.
Malfoy laughed, amusement flashing quickly over his features. “A goat with wings.”
“They’re horns. It makes more sense. For enemies.”
“Would you acknowledge it as legitimate if I agreed with you?”
She didn’t know. She didn’t believe any of it. The tea leaves could replicate his smile in exact soggy asymmetry encased in an arrow-pierced love heart and she wouldn’t believe that Draco Malfoy was meant for her. “No.”
He nodded like he’d expected as much. “What did you get?”
Glad for an excuse to put some distance between them, she returned to her chair.
When she looked into her cup, any relief she felt disintegrated.
He’d obviously done something. Some trickery or pre-shaped tea leaves or other sleight of hand.
Because there, in a perfect sweeping curve, complete with flared ends, and tiny stud-shaped gaps, was a horseshoe.
Malfoy grinned from his position where he loomed above her.
“Success in choosing a partner. Lucky you, Granger. I’m sure your taste is excellent. ”
-*-
It took Hermione over an hour to dig out her Divination textbook, unused since her third year.
She put him right.
It was quite obviously the moon Malfoy. Apparently, I’m about to prosper.
His reply came quickly.
I am exceptionally rich, Granger.
I won’t make you sign a pre-nuptial agreement.
She was still smiling to herself when she caught sight of her reflection, about to brush her teeth.
-*-
It was only because she came across the article whilst reading on her lunch break, and his office was just two floors down; one left turn and three-hundred metres to the lifts, a short period jammed in with several irksome Department of Transportation employees (‘exciting things happening on the Floo network, Ms Granger!’), then two more left turns, one right, and a quick dash through the DMLE to get there. It took less than ten minutes, in all.
She wouldn’t have bothered showing him otherwise.
“Look!” she told him, jabbing the picture of Trelawney that accompanied the article in The Daily Prophet. “Evidence that these people cannot be trusted.”
Malfoy laughed, and the sound was rich and low and strangely inviting. She settled into his visitor’s chair, now sort of familiar to her, waiting for his response.
“You must be struggling for an argument if you’re taking Rita Skeeter’s side,” he said.
Hermione blinked. Ordinarily, she would treat anything written by that beetle with the same level of academic credibility as one of Ron’s Charms essays. But Hermione was inclined to agree with Skeeter’s assessment of Trelawney as a ‘doddery old fraud’ and ‘a buffoon.’
The woman was a menace, but even a broken clock was right twice per day.
“I might not like her personally, but she does display a certain level of journalistic integrity-”
Malfoy snorted. An ungracious sound, directly from his pleasingly streamlined nose.
“You disagree?”
“I disagree. Let’s talk about it.”
They did. At length.
She was forced to meet him in The Leaky after work to continue their debate (she still had more to say, that was all).
-*-
“Do you foresee any enjoyable dances in your future at the Gala tonight, Malfoy?” Hermione asked idly as she sipped her tea (agreed to only after Malfoy had promised not to use loose leaf).
She was only making conversation.
“Only one,” he replied, with equal disregard.
“Oh?” She didn’t care who he danced with. It certainly wouldn’t be her.
“We’ll have an enjoyable waltz together in which you will be so bowled over by my form and rhythm that you will actually let me lead. By our second dance you will have regained your faculties and so will regrettably stomp on my toes so many times I’ll have to retire for the evening,” he said with that affected sort of charm some people accused him of having.
“Is that right?” she asked. He was bluffing. “Is this what your diviner told you?”
“I don’t need a diviner for this, Granger. Just wait ‘til you see the cut of my robes.”
In the end, it was worth the cost of proving him correct, just for the pleasure of watching him wince in pain.
-*-
“Do you object to all forms of Divination? What about prophecy?” Malfoy’s face was carefully blank.
She couldn’t remember why she had agreed to lunch with him, but it did seem to be happening alarmingly often. She’d gone into his office on that particular day to reprimand him about his sourcing of the information for her birth chart (that was supposed to be private); only it hadn’t lasted half as long as she’d intended and now, Hermione found herself biting into a selection of small, triangular and crustless sandwiches. It was all quite delicate, really.
Bastard.
“Why? Are you going to tell me there’s a prophecy now?” she asked through a particularly satisfying mouthful of roast chicken.
“Oh, there is,” he said, standing up decisively and holding out a napkin to her, gesturing to the sandwiches piled onto her plate. “You can bring those with you.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. She’d believe it when she saw it.
-*-
The sound of Theodore Nott’s drunken hiccupping echoed around the cavernous Hall of Prophecy, rather ruining the mystery cultivated by the towering stacks and dim lighting.
“ You and Granger, Draco, ” Theo hiccuped twice more, followed by what sounded like a belch. “ You’re meant to be. ”
The orb glowed brighter in the palm of her hand as the sound of Theo’s retching punctuated his declaration. She wanted to crush it or throw it. Performance of some kind of destructive act would definitely help her muddle through her thoughts.
It was stupid. It was wrong.
Hermione detested Divination; but a prophecy…she’d seen them come true for herself. And even if that was due to nothing more than the self-fulfilling nature of a prophecy once heard, didn’t that mean that having knowledge of it had doomed her future to a single outcome? She would never be able to decide anything now, without second guessing her motives, wondering if this path took her further away from Malfoy, or closer.
Hermione wanted to laugh. But she was angry, somehow. And her mouth was too dry anyway. “That’s it? You can’t be serious.”
“Prophecies are very serious business, Granger.”
“Theo Nott making drunken proclamations is not a prophecy, even if I were inclined to believe in them.” It couldn’t be. Then again, hadn’t Twelawney always been under the suspected influence of a lot more than the recommended daily intake of sherry whenever she’d made hers?
“He’s an accredited seer. He has a certificate and everything.”
He was standing very close. He was very tall. He smelled very nice. There was a prophecy. One of the thousands in this room. It gave it a level of formality that she wasn’t sure she liked. She didn’t like it. What if it really was—?
No. Hermione didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t take away her ability to make her own choices like that.
“That only confirms a number of suspicions I have about nepotism in the Ministry.”
Malfoy shrugged. “Cognitive Dissonance.”
Maybe it was. All Hermione knew, was that since she’d found out about their alleged inevitability she’d been spending increasing amounts of time in his presence (and what if she was? He was interesting. He was handsome. He was- but it didn’t really matter did it?), time which she wouldn’t have spent with him if not for his assertions about fate. It had to stop; she wanted to choose for herself.
The reflection of the glow of the prophecy in his eyes was objectively quite entrancing.
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
This had very quickly become too complicated. She had to set that right.
-*-
Hermione had been doing an excellent job of avoiding Malfoy.
She hadn’t stormed into his office for an entire week. She had successfully resisted discussing her (stupid, farcical) horoscope with him ( relying on logic won’t do you any good, whilst Mercury is in Cancer! ) on two separate occasions.
She thought he might have finally got the message ( No articles for me, this week, Granger? No new accusations of criminality? I’m eating a wonderfully fresh peach salad for my lunch today. It would be a shame for this extra portion to go to waste. Yours patiently, Draco. That letter had been resolutely ignored). She simply wasn’t interested in having her love life dictated by fate or space or prophecy or tea or anything other than the will of her own sometimes stubborn heart. Especially when it came to Draco Malfoy.
She’d barely even thought of him at all. Except for when she read the newspaper (she could survive without discussing the articles with him; he lived to disagree with her anyway) or when she’d shared (a determinedly silent on her part) lift journey with him and she’d been distracted for the rest of the afternoon by the way his hair had fallen across his eyes (it was only because it was usually so precisely coiffed; she hoped it wasn’t an indication of illness), or whenever she made a pot of tea (he didn’t get the monopoly on tea) or ate sandwiches or received a letter by owl that turned out to be a bill or enquiry as to her health from Harry and not a scandalously presumptuous letter from Draco-Not-Her-Fated-Lover-Malfoy.
It was all going so well until she got the letter late on Friday evening.
Granger,
I’d very much like you to grace me with your company this evening. (I know, I know, you’re ignoring me. I think you’ll find this preferable to all that tension-filled silence in the lift).
Yours incorrigibly
Draco Malfoy
Hermione almost forgot to feed the owl in her distraction. It was clear to her that Draco obviously wasn’t enjoying her application of the silent treatment (and he wasn’t supposed to be, but why did that thought thrill her, just a little?). The eagle owl pecked in warning at her finger in reminder as she stared absently out of the window. It was far too late for social calls.
What, she wondered, could he possibly want with her on a Friday evening?
Unless…
Malfoy,
This had better not be a wooing.
Hermione
She could almost hear the sarcasm, the teasing lilt she knew his words would carry in his response.
Strictly no wooing, of course.
Meet me at midnight. Coordinates below.
Yours, unsentimentally
Draco
Strangely, meeting Draco Malfoy at destinations unknown at midnight didn’t fill her with dread at all.
No. It felt disturbingly like anticipation.
Excitement.
It was obvious now that ignoring him was simply not going to work. She’d have to go and remind him just how deluded she thought he was. And whilst she was at it, she could affirm to herself just how awfully irritating he was. Then she could stop wondering if the hollowness she’d been carrying in her chest all week was because she missed him.
-*-
Hermione knew immediately upon arrival in a small clearing that she couldn’t possibly be in London any more. The denseness of the trees and the purple of the moss told her she was in Scotland (so maybe she’d looked up the coordinates) a chill settling over her skin due to the drop in temperature (possibly the only benefit to air pollution, Hermione thought). She’d had no idea how to dress for a meeting of this kind, but she was beginning to regret her change out of her comfortable slippers and tattered pyjamas; they provided more warmth than the dress she’d thrown on (after a quick shower, rudimentary make-up, a cursory shave of her legs - hardly an effort at all really.)
Still, the quality of the darkness was surprising, thick and deep and comforting despite the cold, a contrast to the glinting starlight above.
“Malfoy,” she greeted him, walking to his seated figure. He’d come prepared with blankets and cushions, and no less than four bottles of wine. “Presumptuous of you.”
“You’re here aren’t you?” he shrugged, pushing his hand across the blanket at his side, inviting her to sit.
It almost made her refuse. If it hadn’t looked so soft she probably would have.
“Wine?” he asked.
“Only if it’s red.” It was too cold for white. Not that he would understand that.
“It is.”
It was annoyingly cosy on the blanket once she’d seated herself gracelessly next to him, the heat of his body beside her and the clear night sky above. She would have pointed out to him that blankets and starlight and wine could arguably be considered woo-adjacent. Except that stars were fairly constant, and wine was certainly not romantic (not with how it stained her lips,) and blankets — well they were quite simply a necessity for survival, at times like this.
It was, as far as locations for purely non-wooing activities went, with the vast open sky above her and the sloping contours of the land ahead, really quite romantic.
She wasn’t going to lean any closer to him than strictly necessary, though, however much he might want her to, based on the position of his arm.
“Fine,” she agreed, shifting minutely closer. He was warm, and he had possession of the wine; that was why.
“Your absence from my office has been noted. I’d come to enjoy our daily lunches.”
“They weren’t daily.” Hermione protested. It was just a good way to stop herself from working through her lunch break.
“And sometimes after work.”
“Only twice,” she reasoned. Three times at most. Four. She couldn’t help it if sometimes her explanations of his inherent wrongness took longer than the hour they were allotted.
He grinned, handing her a glass and going to great lengths to ensure their fingertips met as he handed it over. “What else have you been doing with yourself?”
Hermione thought for a moment. Not enough, if she was honest. Thinking about Malfoy and his inconveniently positive attributes was occupying more of her time than she wanted to admit. “I’ve been keeping busy.”
“I hope you haven’t been sending your horoscope to anyone else,” he said solemnly.
“I don’t know anyone else who would care to see it.” Ron and Harry were determinedly uninterested in anything she might have to say about Malfoy or her horoscope.
Draco seemed satisfied to let the quiet linger, sipping at his wine and allowing Hermione to enjoy a rare moment of peace in his company. She almost didn’t notice when the warm weight of his hand settled over hers, not until he threaded his fingers between her own. She turned to find his eyes hot with focus on her face (his features really were quite lovely, even in all their sharpness).
“What?” she asked, cheeks heating despite the temperature. For whatever reason, she wasn’t yet able to pull herself away (the cold. Probably).
“You’re not going to ask?”
“Ask what?” What was he talking about? Any plan she’d had for this evening (something about missing him, and telling him — no, that wasn’t right. She certainly hadn’t planned to tell him that) revolved around informing him that she was still determined not to marry him, or whatever other romantic endpoint he envisioned for these meetings.
“Why I invited you here?”
“I’m sure it’s a continuation of your campaign to persuade me to succumb to the wills of fate.” See? Hermione could predict the future too when she was so inclined.
And what else could it be? The only reason her heart was racing at the touch of his hand was because of a focused and targeted effort by him to win her affection. She was quite irked that it was (partly) working.
He let out a short laugh. “And are you ready yet?”
Of course she wasn’t. Except it was undeniable she felt better here with him (even though it was cold and dark and he was him and she was her) than she had since — she searched her memories, looking for anything else that made her blood rush like it was doing at that moment, or her nerve endings tingle, or her body register such awareness of another person; their proximity and their distance and their smell and texture and the sound of their voice -—since well, maybe never
It was utterly nonsensical. It was categorically more than she’d been prepared for. Hermione couldn’t look at him, knowing how close he was, knowing what he wanted and still not sure if she was ready to want it too.
She forced her eyes upwards. To the sky. It was a mistake; she hadn’t consulted a star map in some time, and even if she had she wasn’t about to indulge him. But he used her distraction to take a firmer grip on her hand, lifting it from its place on the blanket to rest on his (oh! Hard! Firm and hot and quite muscley) thigh.
She was trapped.
And because the thigh was such a cursed distraction, the only option she was left with was to turn her hand. Palm-to-palm was better than palm-to-thigh, right? He seemed pleased with that, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, heat and electricity following with every stroke. She could see why he might have thought she’d be open to the idea. She hadn’t exactly objected to his touch (and it was the next logical step in a dance that might- That could lead to other kinds of touch- No). His skin was warm and dry and grounding, and for some reason, it made her not want to argue with him right then.
Truly, Hermione had never felt conflict like it. And she was, by her own admission, conflicted quite a lot of the time.
Because even if she did find him much more charming than she ever had before (starlight could unfairly enhance a person’s features; especially when they were pale and sharp-looking even on the dullest day), and even if she did (a thought which belonged only in the secrecy of her mind) think he was handsome, and know he was smart (not smarter than her, obviously. No-one was) and oddly kind and sort of quick-witted; even if she did feel all of those ways about him, it didn’t mean she was about to give up on the idea of free will altogether.
She just couldn’t.
“I want to make my own choices, Malfoy,” she said, pressing the tips of her fingers into the skin of his palm. “Self-determination is important to me.”
“So make them, Granger,” he said softly.
“It’s not that simple. I wish you hadn’t told me. I’ll always question now, everything I do—”
“You’re doing it already Granger. You’ve been deciding to come to my office every day for weeks. Maybe at first, it was anger or curiosity. But not anymore,” She could feel the way his breathing moved his chest where her arm rested against it. “You want to be there. You’ve been choosing to come.”
“If it’s fated it’s not a choice—”
“Of course it is.”
It must have been the stars in all their ageless chemical combustive beauty. Hermione thought in that moment she could understand how, in their largeness, their unfathomable distance, the sheer amount of light they had, even in death, people could place trust in something so bright and old and other.
Could she? She didn’t know. But putting trust in him? That felt easy, really.
Hermione sighed. “What if I want it to be normal? What if I want,” her eyes searched the horizon for an explanation, “flowers and chocolates and trips to museums and meals in nice restaurants and expensive lingerie—”
Hermione cut herself off after that, realising the direction her thoughts had taken her.
Malfoy, the infuriating wanker, (some things, she thought, would never change) found this amusing for some reason. “Well, I’m not going to object to lingerie. But you're moving into wooing territory there, I’m afraid.”
“No. I don’t want wooing. Just a date or two.”
His laugh was hot and low. “We are dating, Granger.”
She frowned, turning to face him. “No, we’re not”
Malfoy lowered his head slowly, looking directly into her eyes as though afraid she might be about to bolt. “Granger,” he said, coaxing. “How many long lunches have we had? How many after-work drinks? How many flirtatious memos would you like to exchange before you acknowledge it? My secretary has threatened to have it out with you more than once. She thinks you’re ashamed of me.”
Hermione gaped. “No, Malfoy—” That wasn’t. That wasn’t what they’d been doing. Getting to know each other maybe. Finding common ground in opposing viewpoints.
That was— They weren’t dating. She was correcting his assumptions. Proving to them both how incompatible they were.
Only it hadn’t worked out that way, had it?
No, because where before there had only been ambivalence, and mild irritation, there was now fondness and attraction and enjoyment. A certain appreciation for his lopsided smile and the way he constructed an argument. And worst of all, an absolute lack of interest in confirming what she’d initially set out to prove; that they were wrong together. In every way.
“I’m not ashamed,” she said quietly.
He swallowed heavily. It had never occurred to her before that he could have been worried about that.
“No?” he asked, his breath hot across her cheeks.
“I want to try.” Of course she did. She would be stupid not to, even if everything about it felt too much.
And it was. There was too much darkness and too many stars. Too many cushions. Too much undrunk wine. There was too much shaking in her fingers when she traced them along the rough line of his jaw, wondering what it would feel like beneath her lips. There was too much heavy silence and heat radiating from his body (and hers). Too much tension in her shoulders. Too much caution in his eyes up close. Too much time ahead of them, and behind, too much distance for her lips to travel, until his nose nudged hers. Too much sensation for a single meeting of their lips (rough and soft and hard and giving) touching only once. Then too much space between them even though she could feel his heartbeat in her chest and his breath in her lungs when he covered her mouth with his. Too much fabric between their bodies and too many feelings in her chest.
When he pulled away, hair mussed and smile skewed and breath ragged, pulling her head onto his shoulder, the stars of their constellations somewhere above them, Hermione thought inevitability might be something she could come to make her peace with.