A Portrait of a Woman

by RandomTuesdayThoughts

Summary:

Draco becomes a best selling anonymous poet in the wizarding world, and secretly becomes Hermione Granger’s favorite author, not knowing that she is the muse so reverently worshiped through Draco’s words and obsession. They orbit around each other, before colliding, and permanently transforming each other.

Every thank you from the bottom of my heart to my beta readers: @augustaoctavia, @KariLarsson, @Slytheraven, and @HereForTheTrope, for without them, this story would not be what it is.

Notes:

Everyone had their obsessions, their interests, their hobbies – she was just his.

---

I am but me
And he is but she
Together but apart
Bound, intertwined with poetry

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

Hello my lovelies!

I got this idea for this fic from my love of poetry, Dramione, and Benson Boone's song: Work of Art. Drop a comment if anything in this fic makes you feel something, it lights up my day <3

November 14th 2001

When Theo Floo’d into the manor late that evening, the atmosphere was dark and a chill hung in the air. Although the area seemed tidy, there was something about the space that seemed as if no one had been there in ages. Theo stepped through the black marble fireplace, the carved gargoyles that loomed on each edge of the mantle never failed to make a shiver go down his spine from their sinister, stone expressions.

“Hello? Betsy?” Theo called out, eyebrows knitting together when no one immediately emerged.

Distantly, Theo could hear the storm’s rain pelting against the windows, thunder loudly booming every few minutes.

“Master Theo!” A small voice whispered from around the corner.

Theo turned to look and saw Betsy, who stood in freedom-marked clothing with hands clutched to her chest in concern. She rushed forward to immediately grab Theo’s hand and urgently lead him down the hallway.

“It’s good that you came, Master Theo. Master Draco is very sick and Betsy and the elves didn’t know what else to do.”

“Draco’s sick? Did you call for a healer?” Theo asked, allowing the small grey elf to tug him quickly up the marble stairs.

“Master Draco said no doctors are needed, he wouldn’t let Betsy call anyone or Mistress Malfoy, only Master Theo.”

They reached the top of the stairs, the hallway devoid of any other light other than a few hung candles on the walls. The cold eeriness of the space sent a shiver down Theo’s spine. Betsy stopped before Lucius’s old office, where she looked soberly at the closed door before taking a few steps off to the side.

Theo swallowed, unsure of what his eyes would see inside. He could feel the small elf’s anxiety rise as she stared at the closed room with her hand soothingly rubbing over her arm, and the nervous trepidation Theo felt previously quickly turned into deep, urgent concern.

“He won’t let anyone inside,” Betsy said sadly.

Theo could see the conflicted expression on her animated face, the way her forehead wrinkled in concern and her big eyes peered up at him for help. Turning his attention to the looming mahogany before him, Theo took a deep breath, filling his lungs before knocking twice on the door, softly.

“Draco? It’s Theo.” He called through the wood.

After a moment, the door opened slowly as though Theo had whispered a secret password into the wood and an extremely strong stench hit him immediately, made of a variety of offensive scents that rushed into Theo’s face. He blinked as his eyes watered from the overwhelming amount of cannabis smoke, stagnant air, candles, alcohol, and sweat.

Draco was on the floor, papers with swirled lines of ink scattered in every direction surrounding him. He was hunched over, scribbling furiously with intensely fixated bloodshot eyes that didn’t look up at Theo. An empty bottle of Ogdens - wait no, at least three bottles were scattered around the room, a fourth nearly empty bottle beside Draco along with a pile of burned and discarded joints on a tray beside him.

“Hey, D,” Theo said as he cautiously stepped into the room.

His friend looked nearly unrecognisable with hair that hadn’t been washed in what looked like weeks, wrinkled robes and a delusional smile that was unsettlingly wide when Draco looked up at him.

“Theo, Theo, this is it! I’ve found it!” He exclaimed joyously, laughing incredulously.

Theo’s eyes lingered on him, before he crouched to sink down to Draco’s height.

“Found what, mate?” Theo asked and Draco held up a paper with large scribbles.

“I found the way, I know how to reach her now.” Draco’s eyes were glistening with euphoria and he hunched down once more to write with his quill against the floor.

“Reach who? Draco, what is all this?” Theo asked gently, reaching down to pick up a paper from the floor.

“DON’T!” Draco demanded, his voice projecting suddenly, reaching wildly for the paper Theo had picked up absently.

Theo froze, releasing the parchment from his fingertips. It silently floated back to the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Theo said quickly but Draco didn’t reply, only continuing to scratch against the paper.

Theo stood, concern lining all his thoughts as he looked around the room. The space was dishevelled and overused, papers were everywhere along the floor in strange groupings but he couldn’t make out the wording. Dirty clothes were strewn about, many covered in ink stains or wine from goblets carelessly knocked onto their sides.

“Draco, let’s get you into the shower, mate? Maybe the elves could come in -”

“No! I don’t want them in here. I have to finish.” His friend declared, not looking up at him.

“You can still finish and when you get back I’m sure you’d be more comfortable.” Theo tried to negotiate but Draco shook his head passionately.

“No,” Draco’s fist slammed the floor, his tone frustrated, “you don’t understand, no one understands - I need to finish! I can’t stop, I’ve just found the way.” Draco’s voice was strained as he sighed heavily.

“Draco, when was the last time you ate? Or slept?” Theo asked gently.

Draco waved him off with a gesture and a groan of annoyance.

“None of that matters right now, Theo, can’t you see I’m doing something important?!” Draco’s words were forced, his jaw clenched.

Theo looked back behind him and saw Betsy leaning around the edge of the still open door with a deeply troubled and worried expression across her face.

Theo sighed heavily, turning back to face Draco, his gaze lingering on the horrible sight before him. He hadn’t seen his friend demonstrate such an obsession before - this wasn’t like the desperation and sleeplessness he’d witnessed in sixth year when Voldemort had assigned Draco his task, this was an entirely different state of fervent, willing decomposition for the sake of whatever he was being consumed by.

He hated what he knew he needed to do.

Theo reached into his pocket for his wand, and quietly, with great remorse, stunned his friend unconscious.

Draco collapsed onto a pile of parchment by his side with a thud, his quill falling out of his hand and his cheek now marked with smudged black ink. Theo quickly levitated his limp body up into the air and led him out of the room.

Draco would eventually forgive him, if he even remembered this.

“Betsy, go ahead and please clean the room, I’ll make sure he gets some sleep and gets cleaned up.” Theo declared to Betsy, who’s wide eyes stared up at him in horror. “We’ll try to get him to eat and drink something whenever he wakes up. Just put all the papers in a pile on his desk.”

“Yes, Master Theo.” Betsy grimly replied, before walking inside the room with determination.

Theo sighed heavily, kicking himself internally for not checking in on Draco sooner, for letting it get this bad. He’d known something had been wrong when it was weeks since Draco’s last reply to his letters but Theo’d respected his space.

Clearly, that had been a mistake.

That moment, his friend’s body hovering beside him, Theo made a promise to himself that he’d never let Draco ever get this bad again. He’d be there for him and whoever it was that he was trying to ‘reach’, Theo hoped he bloody well found what he was looking for.

Chapter 2: Prologue

April 2004

Draco thought of her absentmindedly. He thought of how she was doing, what her room looked like, how her hair smelled. He would wonder how she took her tea as he stirred his, felt quite desperate to know what her bookshelf looked like as he stared at his. Draco felt so uneducated, so inadequate in comparison to his muse – which is particularly what made her such an exceptional muse. There was a special ache associated with the unattainable, the way it had mirrored his parents and their relationship with him. It was the delicious fondness of self-deprecation and feeling unworthiness, the way it called to him with melancholy notes of wistful violin in the mornings before the sun rose above the horizon.

There was such absence at the manor these days, filled with silence other than the occasional door closing by an elf or two. Draco’s mother had gone to their house in France three years ago to finish her period of house arrest, an exception made by the ever so accommodating ministry upon re-evaluation of their initial sentencing for the second-tier circle members of the death eaters. Draco’s sentence had also been declared fulfilled after he had completed his second year in Azkaban, though he suspected it was due to the prison being far past max capacity and the ministry desperately needing old money locked away in blood magic vaults.

The tax upon release had been enormous, but at least Draco was free. Now though, everything he once had taken for granted and longed for behind bars felt unsatisfying, the tinge of boredom hanging in the air and allowing his mind to wander to places, to people – rather – that it most certainly shouldn’t.

It was just a fantasy though, the inspiration of poets for hundreds of years, wizards and muggles alike. It was a peculiar sweetness that coated the tongue in denying yourself the pleasure for just the right amount of time, then indulging in looking at the paper or stepping into a bookstore and seeing her name plastered across reviews and suggested reading lists. It felt as if they brushed each other in little ways, ways that only mattered to him, ways that became treasures he kept inside. Moments that then became the poems that would change his life forever.

Now twenty-four, Draco was still unsure what path he really wanted to take. He had seen the mistakes of his parents, specifically the ways of his father, who had always expected him to follow suit and punished the ways he didn’t. Draco wanted more for his life though, wanted to be more, wanted to somehow leave something positive in the wake of such negativity that he himself had been complicit within. It was a challenge, almost. Perhaps akin to some type of impossible achievement which he internally salivated after.

At first, Draco tried donating to charities, which felt fine, but it was just money. There was an amorphous haze to what he wanted to achieve, what he wanted to build. Somewhere in daydreams and desires, she had quietly become a centrepiece in his world. It had risen and become grander with every day, till his mind and thoughts walked to her even in his dreams. With every newspaper article celebrating her achievements and positivity brought to the wizarding world after the war, his desire to have her in some capacity, also grew in proclaimed proportion, but subconscious explosion.

His desk had become a monument to her, cream-coloured papers with scribbled dark swirls of poetry and harsh underlined words of passionate declaration. Draco poured his heart into the void, to a world where no-one was listening, to a world he was quietly afraid would always reject him, no matter what he did or worked to become. Permanently stained by sins of inexperience and passionate youth – something he might always try to outrun, something that might always hauntingly chase him regardless of his actions.

There were times when he was so drunk or high, so absorbed into his own internal world there would only be the vague processing of concerned looks as the house elves delivered food and took scraps away, or other days where the opposite would occur and full plates would be returned to the kitchen. They tried their best, these loyal servants that Draco had freed once he gained autonomy over his estate and life. He thought she would like that, thought in a way it might be the smallest shred of redemption for his wretched, storm-ridden soul.

On days when the storms raged, rain pelting onto his desk-side window, Draco felt solidarity with the world, the folds of clouds so ragged and gloomy reflective in his soul inside. When there was so much to say and not enough words to say it with, he would go outside much to his elves dismay and stand, arms extended, and scream out into the open, misted air with all the strength and air in his lungs. As the rain soaked into his hair, goosebumps rising on his skin under his wet clothes, he felt cleansed in a way that couldn’t be reflected in physical reality – as if all this effort, all these words were in some way retribution to all he had taken from this world.

He was trying. He was trying so fucking hard. He was running from a feeling, a memory, a haunted ghost that had writhed on his childhood floors and screamed and whose blood had mercilessly stained his heart. He wanted to claw her out, wanted to worship her, wanted to hate her – but he couldn’t. She was fixed in his recollection and in his mind, a permanence whose very name sometimes sent shudders down his spine.

After Draco’s first book had been published, anonymously of course, he was met with the unexpected success and intriguing celebration of the wizarding world at only twenty-two. There was a jolt of electricity that had shot through him when his agent, Thomas Warrington, told him that there was a sea of witches who had found his dedication and obsessions to be romantic. Tom had previously risked quite a lot to even offer to print his manuscript, only actually agreeing after Draco mortifyingly committed to all costs for publications.

To be honest, Draco hadn’t even intended for it to be romantic in that way, it was mostly the fervency and worship which he had tried to capture – and capture it he evidently did. Tom was soon banging at his door after Draco began ignoring his floo calls and irritatingly frequent letters, asking for any other material he had for another book of collected poems.

The spontaneous rise to fame had taken Draco by surprise and had scared him to an unadmitted degree. The sudden demand for his greatest shame and obsession had lurched fear through him, it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be replicated in a day, to which he told Tom to fuck off and leave him alone if he ever wanted another manuscript to publish. Tom had said Draco should take a pseudonym, but Draco didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hide behind a name, didn’t want to be a liar again. The compromise was to continue to be published under Anonymous. Draco felt strange comfort in being no one rather than someone else, much to his surprise. It was easier being a ghost than a person with predispositions or judgments he couldn’t escape.

Tom had recently published his second volume of poems, a shorter collection of only 100 poems in comparison to his first volume of nearly 200. For the last three years, Draco had found himself alone in his manor, watching the endless supply of his muse’s praise in the newspapers with fascinated preoccupation. Initially, he rarely felt short for inspiration, from the apologies he felt ashamed to write and the things he never said, to the strange consuming addiction that brewed in his imagination the more he wrote to her.

Tom hadn’t been exactly pleased that the second volume was almost half the size of the first, but Draco felt like he was running out of things to say. Most of his poems seemed like echoes of previous ones and it filled him with a sense of despair that his source of ghosted companionship might be slipping from his grasp. The frenzy that once wrote page after page of confessions now had trickled into maybe a poem or two per week. His mind took residence in the fantasy realm as he consumed muggle book after book to reach through the space between them to touch her in some way. He struggled with the concept that he’d never be able to confess to her, never have the chance to tell her that he cared for her as much as he did. All the daydreams and illusions began catching up to him till when he wrote, Draco consistently felt like a pathetic, inadequate stalker with no value or courage.

After the second volume was finished, Tom encouraged Draco to immediately begin writing the third in hopes that there would be more content with additional time. Unfortunately, writing that third collection threw Draco into another spiral of desperate fixation. He paced the halls of the manor, drunk and gripping the neck of his bottle, tapping his lips with his fingers as he tried to find the word – what was the word he was looking for? It had a feeling, the movement of his lips as he whispered it into the empty, haunted hallways.

“Persevere.”

He jogged to his study, his robe flying behind him till he circled his desk and pulled out the paper he’d been staring at for so long before taking off to roam his home like a haunted ghost. Of course. The prose flowed from his quill so effortlessly after straining to find the way to end it.

Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster

Yet everyone assumes the latter’s the answer

Nothing more could ever be truer

My affliction never simpler,

I too, feel defined by my creations

These confessions condemn me and my associations

They grip me and force secret omissions

Like how whispering her name feels religious

The way it leaves my lips and tastes on my tongue

I am desperate to breathe her breath into my lungs.

To drink her like wine, I’d lose all sense of time –

Submerge myself beneath her depths and pledge to disappear

A solemn swear sworn and indefinite devotion will persevere

The pleasure of her company, the ecstasy of her time,

Her choice in disappointing men should be nothing short of a crime.

It’s not just that I feel like I could do better,

I mean, come on, have you met her –

Draco took a deep breath, pausing. He didn’t like the last line but wasn’t sure how to change it to make it better. Poems were like that, they usually needed to sit for a few days before they could be improved. When he read over his written rhymes he thought it sounded terrible and cliché and he would be shocked if more than five people in the wizarding world had read Frankenstein. He wasn’t writing to them, for them, though now, was he?

Draco had obviously, endlessly wondered if she had read his poems. It consumed him, wondering in fact. It was a consideration with every single word he wrote and he felt absolutely sick to his stomach with glee and morbid terror when he imagined her eyes skittering across his lines. He imagined her actually enjoying them, he imagined her dismissing them. He thought about the way it would rip him to pieces if she thought they were terrible.

He always found his poems to be dramatic and to be honest when he looked at them, he didn’t think anyone would like them. He almost had to creep around the inner critic that lived inside of him and who constantly thought that he was the worst person who had ever walked the earth and that no one would ever actually like his work. They just liked this image, this fantasy in their head of who was writing these poems. If Draco walked into a bookshop and announced to his adoring fan cluster of witches ‘I wrote this book’, there probably would never be another sold.

Draco liked to think it kept him humble. The interest and the amount of letters he received by the bundle, secretly passed through Tom, were page after page of adoration that Draco constantly did not feel like he deserved. His toe tapped the leg of his desk as he thought of a way to finish his poem but it didn’t come to him.

Tom had politely asked if Draco could bring him any updated material for his third book so they could start the typing and editing process. Draco reluctantly stood, gathering the number of scribbles on various papers and notebooks, slipping them into one bundle that he pinned under his arm. It would be good to go outside, he hadn’t been out in a few days and that typically marked signs of some type of internal distress or depression looming amidst the other shadows in Draco’s mind.

Perhaps he would even take his broom. Get some fresh air through his hair and in his lungs. Make a little day trip out of it. Maybe get a coffee? He did love his sweet treats whenever he would frequent society after holing himself up in the manor. His longest day stint of isolation was somewhere in the few weeks range before he finished his book. It wasn’t a great time to be around him anyways.

Draco adhered his papers together into a bag that he clasped to his chest with a sticking charm and a strong one at that. He was pretty sure that they wouldn’t fly off but he draped his cloak over the bag just to be extra sure with wind protection. Draco pleasantly informed his elves that he would be going out that afternoon and not to expect him for dinner. He planned lots of little stops for himself to go to and after all – what was better than getting something fun just by yourself? He got terribly overstimulated sometimes with how loud the group could get when they would all go out. No no, he would go and find a new book to take with him and then get a drink and dinner at the pub after meeting Tom. Little reward for making it out of the house.

When Draco carried his stack of papers to Tom’s office that Friday evening, he stopped to walk into the bookstore and peruse the shelves and see if anything caught his eye. The door jingled as he walked in, Draco’s head drawn down, eyes a bit shy as they wandered. He didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to cause distress – was just curious –

He stopped short, breath punched from his lungs as he saw Hermione Granger wandering the shelves around the area where his new book was neatly lined. He saw her grab it, fingering the engraved cover and the smooth pages. She acted like it meant something to her, the way she seemed to savour the new cover colour he had chosen and the specific font that made him think of her notebooks. Draco ducked to the side of the shelves, grabbing a random book to open as he tried to calm his racing heartbeat.

She was reading his book. Draco wanted to throw up, wanted to rush forward and ask what she thought, ask if she liked the words written for her.

Hermione looked transfixed, consumed as she turned page after page, bashfully looking around to make sure no one was looking. Draco looked back down at his book and leaned behind the bookshelf. When he looked back, Hermione’s eyes were back on his book, finger stroking the page as she smiled a little to herself, dazed with a curious expression on her face. Draco’s heart was going to give up. He was literally going to fall onto the floor right there and they would have to pound against his chest and it simply wouldn’t start ever again.

He wished he had an ounce of artistic ability so that he could capture the way the light hit her exposed skin on her shoulders, her sundress exposing the dusting of freckles Draco had the overwhelming desire to drag his tongue across. He wanted to lean in close and take a gulping breath of the way she smelled, wanted to tilt her face up and kiss her passionately till electricity flickered down their spines.

Someone walked into the store and Hermione jumped from her spell and closed Draco’s book quickly, looking self-conscious as she tucked it closely under her arm, seemingly grabbing a couple random books from the shelves and sandwiching his book in between.

She was embarrassed to be seen reading his book. She didn’t know it was his book, almost her book in a way really.

Draco’s tongue darted out to coat his desert parched lips and ended up chewing on his lower lip in anxiety. His eyes tried to find something to fixate on but the moment was a paused screen in his mind. He wished more than anything he had his papers with him to scribble words onto, to try and capture this feeling but he had a suspicion it wouldn’t disappear overnight.

Hermione walked to the register, pushing her stack of books forward and tapping her fingers lightly, anxiously, on the counter. She smiled tightly at the cashier, an older man of thick body and grey hair, who pushed back a brown paper bag to her and told her to enjoy her reading. She quickly exited the store, entirely unaware of her observer, of the poems she had bashfully taken home, but Draco knew.

***

Hermione’s tongue dipped out to coat her lips as she closed the front door to her apartment. The brown paper bag held in her hand crinkled as she leaned her other hand against the wall for stability while she hurriedly slipped off her shoes. She pressed her lips together with a hum of excitement vibrating her throat, it was going to be such a great weekend.

Crookshanks meowed at her, sitting primly on the living room rug, as if his little eyes demanded answers to where she’d been that evening and why she was later than usual. Her toes had tapped underneath her desk at work that afternoon, she’d hardly been able to focus from all the excitement that buzzed through her body. The second volume of ‘Invisible Strings’ had been released the day before and while she hadn’t had a chance to pick up the book yesterday before the shop closed, she had made it in the brink of time today. She’d made quite the multitude of plans, her highlighters were all laid out on the dining room table, along with her favourite pens, sticky tabs, colour coding guide, and now all that was missing was a hot cup of tea.

Hermione sat down her work bag along with her lunch box on the island counter in the kitchen, before quickly walking down the hall to get more comfortable.

“Come on Crookshanks,” she chirped, as Crookshanks followed after her and into her bedroom, hopping up on the bed and plopping over on his side for belly pets.

Hermione smiled warmly at her companion, giving his greying fur a few run throughs with her fingers on his belly. When she pet the top of his head, scratching at his ears how he liked, Crookshanks purred, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. Most days it felt like her and Crooks against the world. She didn’t know what she’d ever do if she lost him.

Hermione gave his little nose a quick boop before walking over to her wardrobe and pulling out a pair of soft, navy blue sweatpants, a bulky, faded jumper, and a pair of thick socks. She set the change of clothes on the edge of her bed, Crookshanks taking it upon himself to christen them with his fur as he walked over to the pile and muzzled the side of his face against the lumped fabric.

“Oh, Crooks,” she sighed, “those are freshly laundered.” Crooks gave her a self-satisfied look as Hermione peeled her shirt over her head and shimmied out of her trousers, quickly pulling on her comfy clothes out from underneath Crookshank’s lounging body much to his protest. Hermione reached up and gathered her wayward curls into a bun plopped on top of her head.

Crookshanks followed her when she walked from the bedroom to the bathroom. He hopped up on the counter when she started the process of disenchanting her beauty charms and scourgifying the light amount of makeup on her skin. Crookshanks purred as he watched both himself and Hermione in the mirror, their daily weeknight routine was always the same.

When she finished, she urged Crookshanks to follow her so she could fix him dinner and together they padded down the hallway towards the soft light of the kitchen. She pulled a can of cat food from the pantry—Crook’s favourite: liver and tripe. The sight of it prompted desperate, wailing meows from Crookshanks as if she starved him regularly. Hermione worked quickly to dish the soupy meat into Crook’s bowl, the orange creature rubbing up against her leg, stretching against her body, and looking up at her with pleading black eyes. Hermione spoke soft reassurances that she was hurrying, before setting Crookshanks’ food dish onto his placemat on the floor.

Hermione walked over to the radio on her windowsill and turned it on, and she began to make herself a scavenged dinner of gathered leftovers from the week. She pulled her last croissant from the bakery she loved down the street and buttered it, grabbed some cheese from her fridge and a few bits of fruit, all collected on a plate that she sat on the dining room table beside her annotating supplies.

The last thing she wanted to do before sitting down for her greatly anticipated night was to make herself a cup of tea.

She chose earl grey, her favourite, and quickly put the kettle on. She found herself savouring the excitement while she waited for her water to boil. There weren’t many new authors that thrilled her quite like this one—she’d counted down the days till the second collection had been released. Her right foot lifted up and balanced against the side of her knee, her teeth pulling at the loose skin of her lower lip.

Hermione didn’t usually read for experiential pleasure as much these days, almost all of her free time was dedicated to personal projects or reading to expand her academic knowledge, which was a deeply fulfilling way to spend her time away from work. There was something about these poems that had piqued her interest though.

It had started with Lavender’s endless sighs and how Hermione could see from her desk the way her eyebrows knit together as she drank in whatever captivated her interest. She’d set up Lavender with the available administrative assistant desk job in her office of the Regulation and Control Care and Regulation of Magical Creatures after Lavender had significantly struggled to find employment as a werewolf.

Between answering letters and during her lunch break, the young witch leaned her hand against her cheek, longing smiles crossing her face with glee and wistful desire. Hermione had been so busy the few weeks before that jealousy panged in her chest at the sight of Lavender enjoying a book so thoroughly. When one day, Lavender asked if she’d ever read Invisible Strings while the two made their tea side by side, Hermione replied that she hadn’t yet.

“It’s this collection of poetry anonymously published, everyone I know is just wild for it.”

“People are that excited about some poetry?” Hermione had asked incredulously, dunking her tea bag into her empty cup. “I suppose I find that a bit unusual.”

Lavender laughed, shaking her head as she reached over to the now boiling kettle and poured the steaming water into her mug.

“Hermione, these poems are literally making me feral,” Lav had said, her frustration and excitement evident. “If this man wasn’t so obsessed with his muse, I’d force him to shag me stupid.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide at Lavender’s words, blushing as she was lost for a response.

“Just read it,” Lavender giggled, sliding her copy of the light brown linen covered book. “As long as you give it back.” She added with a firm shake of her finger.

Hermione accepted the book, intrigued but unsure if she’d enjoy it. She didn’t like to waste her time but she hadn’t found anything interesting to read in a non-academic capacity in quite some time.

That night, tucked into her bed, her fingers roamed over the textured cover, it’s golden lettered title somehow called to her. When her eyes took in the first few lines, the ardent admissions and raw truth gripped Hermione’s throat. These poems were whispered confessions of apologetic longing, the sort of which, secretly, Hermione had always wished to hear.

She didn’t want to be called hot or be someone’s one night stand - she wanted to be like the woman this poet was writing to; to be called ‘so radiant the sun seemed dim’, and ‘a captivating mind to transfix this grateful prisoner.’ These poems were more than empty compliments used to secure a sexual engagement, they were thoughtful and observant to the nuances of being a woman.

The next day, Hermione shyly picked up her own copy from Flourish and Blotts and from that point onwards, the poems seemed to live inside of her mind.

They lingered with her when she tried to date - neither wizards or muggle men held a candle to the poet. Hard as she tried to look past it, to be “realistic”, it never worked out. She wanted to be taken to an art museum or to argue philosophy, to be presented with carefully strung-together words that made her swoon inside and blush. The wizards she dated, or attempted to, wanted sex on the first date, hardly contributed to the conversation, and at best, said she looked “good”, or “cute”. Godsdammit, she wanted shit with syllables. At least this book was proof of even one wizard out there who might be what she was looking for.

The one set of lines from a poem that had particularly stuck with her was the poem after which she assumed the book was actually titled. She’d repeat it to herself, sitting across the tables from men who wanted simple creatures to fuck:

I trace the labyrinth with it’s twisting corners and ominous outstretching

I am alone in the darkness except for my golden, invisible string

The air echoes with death, cold water drips onto my frozen skin

There’s no guide except the shaky courage I hold within

I fight the battles I encounter and grow ever more weary

She’s nowhere to be found, I cannot see her clearly

My muse, where are you in this terrible, haunted place?

You’ve left me clues but no lingering trace

I am willing to die down here but I refuse to leave you behind

There’s no victory for the man who barely even tried

She’d look at her date for that night and specifically think of the last two lines, and wonder if he’d ever fight for her like that, if he was willing to sacrifice himself. It didn’t have to be terribly literal, she didn’t need anyone else to die for her, but after being the heroine for so long, she craved someone to love her like that, like she was inspiration rather than a trophy.

Hermione was so unbelievably tired of all the surface level bullshit. She wanted someone to pour into her eyes and whisper that they wouldn’t leave her behind; that they’d fight for her, that she was worth being uncomfortable for. These wizards would drone on about work and their newest hobby they’d taken up but Hermione lusted for depth. She was so tired of being looked at like a decoration, how their eyes would light up with poorly concealed glee that their prize was walking towards them in pretty makeup and heels. She lusted for someone to investigate her, to dig beneath the surface and realise she wasn’t as good as they thought she was. It felt like this poet at least understood what it felt like to plunge into the depths for someone he loved.

Hermione’s kettle’s high-pitched screech brought her thoughts back to the present and she reached over and turned off the burner on the stove. The whistle died down with the fading heat while Hermione picked out a mug from her cupboard and grabbed her tin of loose leaf tea. The motions of making her perfect cup of tea were practised and exact: two spoonfuls of tea into the cloth satchel, the water poured directly over the top of it, then, a squeeze of lemon she’d already had sliced earlier that week and a bit of sugar to tie the flavour profile together.

Hermione carried the steaming mug to the kitchen table and sat, summoning the paper bag left on the counter. Inside was a small book with a periwinkle blue linen cover and almost a handwritten looking cursive font that read: Invisible Strings, Volume II. Inside the front cover was a dedication that read:

“My muse, I would not be who I am, nor where I am, without your glow of integrity. I thank you for the gift of divine inspiration.”

Hermione’s heart stuttered at how beautiful and personal it seemed, the font as if it had come scribbled directly from the poet’s hand. She eagerly turned the page and the words tumbled inside of her in such a way that thrill shot through her chest at being alive at the same time as this poet. Almost all of her other favourite writers were already dead.

She could wander the streets of London and her brain would drift to what she thought he might look like, if he lived nearby, if he was her age or older. If he was even a man - a fact of which if revealed to be true, would scarcely surprise Hermione given the vulnerability and depth which the words clawed to. When she got a cup of coffee in Diagon Alley, Hermione started finding herself watching the crowds passing her by, wondering if her poet might see her there. It was a stupid little fantasy, it’s not like he’d just walk up to her and say ‘hello’, but yet, the wheels of Hermione’s curiosity turned.

There was just something about this poetry though, it felt so intimate, as if the author she conjured fantasies about sat beside her, watching her read what was not written for her - even though she privately wished it was.

‘My love, would you meet me by the shore before I fade away?

Sometimes death scares me but other days I pray,

For it to come faster, for the waves to sweep me under

So that I may be free and not plagued with hopeless wonder.

I walked this shoreline and the wind whipped my hair,

I thought I heard your laugh in the breeze but you weren’t there -

The ghost of your smile haunts me till reach for you and scream,

And I wake up, alone in my bed, it was just another dream.’

Crookshanks hopped onto the table to plop down by the end as he licked his paws after his meal. Hermione reached for her light blue highlighter to isolate the first sentence. It felt like such a resigned plea, something desperate - she wondered how it would feel for someone to be desperate for her love.

Hermione’s eyes instantly darted to the next poem on the following page, skittering down the lines with slightly parted lips and eyes that fluttered slightly at the intoxicating devotion whispered in secret confessions.

I could fall to my knees and it still wouldn’t be enough

These tears would splash onto my cheeks at your scoffing rebuff

I know I’m not enough, I’ll never be as good as you deserve

But my darling, can’t you appreciate my dangerous nerve?

I’m here - I’m courageous for you, soaked to the bone in this pouring rain

I’ve sliced into my soul and offered my heart out, dripping in bloodied pain

This confession would cross my lips and you’d scarcely believe it

My repentance, my injury - this carotid that truth has split

I cannot be worthy of you but every day I swear to try

So that I never have to bear the agony of you saying goodbye

Hermione took a deep breath, filling her lungs before exhaling all the air out and blinking a few times.

What sort of man spoke like this? It was as if Hermione could hear the whispered passion in her ear, the slight gravelled edge to his tormented confession sending shivers down her spine.

Hermione couldn’t help but notice how friendly her poet seemed with death. It was a figure in his life, someone who offered him solace, as if the finality of life was a comfort. She understood that, with how haunted she herself felt during the last year of the war before Voldemort was finally defeated. The fluttering sensation of death’s proximity soothed her in the final battle. At least there was an end in sight one way or another. Her heart ached to reach out and touch him somehow - to embrace him and let him know that she saw him, that he wasn’t alone in his darkness. She understood the tormented twist of his soul and she thought it was still beautiful.

She turned the page, reaching forward to bring her cup of tea to her lips and take a sip. The steaming liquid was hot but it didn’t burn her tongue. A perfect temperature. She drank in the next few pages of poems like that tea, they climbed inside her with such familiar anguish and reverence that she felt her poet speaking them directly to her soul.

Her poet.

A prickling of goosebumps rose up on her arms, her mind imagining how it might feel if these poems would’ve been written for her. Of course she had to be logical, they weren’t just for her. These poems were written for the world or at the very least for the muse that her poet longed for. She only connected with them. Many witches had. Hermione tried not to think too deeply about the flash of possessives that washed over her, a peculiar sensation of never wanting another person to read this book and also to share her gushing thoughts about the material as well.

Her gaze pulled to the next poem that awaited her consumption.

‘The smoke leaves my lips but I’d rather it be your breath,

I long to kiss you till every ounce of my sanity has left.

Take it then, what good is being sane?

There’s nothing left to burn in the flame

What wouldn’t I give to pull you close to my body

To whisper your name like something godly

A reverence, an allegiance, a sacred, worshipping priest

Let me kneel between your knees and take my communion feast

Till we’re both addicted to each other and I’m yours forever

And you’re mine, a heavenly thought with no contender.

My hands in your hair, tug your head back

I’ll show you what those other wizards lack

They are void of passion, they have nothing to prove

More than that, they’re egotistical with nothing to lose.

Their tongues have never lusted after the taste of your skin

They barely even admire the depth of character within

Sustenance is void of flavour if it doesn’t come from your body

She closed the cover of the book with a quick inhale of surprise as a pulse of arousal shot through her core and she pressed her thighs together to relieve the ache. She didn’t want to be a stereotypical witch with flushed cheeks at reading a few pretty rhymes, but in the privacy of her own damn home, Hermione blushed.

The first book hadn’t been…like this.

Hermione bit her lip, deciding to distract herself while she figured out how to feel about her poet turning ravenous.

She abruptly stood, grabbing her now empty mug and Crookshank’s head lifted as he watched her walk over to the kitchen to make herself another cup of tea and find some biscuits in the pantry.

She supposed any man who longed for a woman as desperately as this poet would find his passion bleeding into his art. She set her mug down on the counter, leaning against it with both palms to the cool granite. It had just taken her by surprise, is all. The previous book was romantic and apologetic, not racy eroticism.

Hermione smirked to herself as she readied another cloth satchel to hold her loose tea. Honestly, her previous sentiments still stood, whoever was on the other side of that was a lucky witch.

“You know, she better appreciate him,” she muttered to herself with a jealous sigh and a shake of her head.

Crookshanks thought she was making him another snack and quickly bounced off the table, running over to rub at her leg with pleading eyes. Hermione shook her head affectionately at her companion, smiling warmly.

“Yes, Crookshanks, there are women out here who need a proper man like that, don’t they? Yes, yes they do.” She cooed at him.

Her teeth pulled at the inside of her cheek as she lifted the kettle and poured the still hot water over the bag. She shouldn’t read it. She should just skip that page and any other page of that sort of poetry and keep enjoying her wistful and romantic idea of her poet.

Hermione walked over to her refrigerator to grab one of the lemon slices and the small glass jar of sugar she kept on the counter.

However…it also would be disrespectful to not appreciate the entirety of his collection. Clearly, he’d published such a poem and thought it was good or important enough to include in the series. Really, it would be rather a disservice to her comprehensive understanding of his character and personhood. She was trying to picture who he was so that maybe one day - her mind flashed to her spare bedroom, to the wall of red string and poems she’d tried to understand. She knew she shouldn’t attempt to figure out his identity, clearly by publishing anonymously, he didn’t want anyone to know. It was so tempting and alluring though, she felt like she understood him so intimately, surely he wouldn’t be upset if they did meet somehow.

Hermione knew she wasn’t the witch he was writing to, obviously, she knew that. It was still crazy to her how deeply she connected with his words and how they’d floated across her mind over the past year. Throughout her days, her nights, her social encounters, those poems were there. She looked at the superficialness of everyone around her and wished she had someone to look beneath the surface with her, to analyse, to feel as deeply as she did, to desire as intensely as she could.

Hermione shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts as she squeezed the lemon over her cup of brewing tea, along with a small spoonful of sugar. She stirred the contents of her drink together with the spoon, dissolving the sugar on the bottom of the cup.

She’d have to read the book in its totality. It was only right, she couldn’t just back away now that he’d started writing a bit racier. She could rise to the challenge he set. Hermione took a sip from her tea, the blend of flavours coating her tongue in a gorgeous, balanced symphony. Resolve settled into her body as she carried her mug back to the table. She took a deep breath, not making eye contact with Crookshanks who stared her down with knowing judgement, and sat back down in her chair to open the cover of the book and read the rest of the poem.

I’d sip your ecstasy like the perfect cup of morning tea

Transform this tortured lament into beautiful repentance

One lick and I’d be a man with utter dependence

Bite down and hold on tight while we find our rhythm

Afterwards, think of how I’ve ruined you when you sit with him

One, Two, Three - be mine forevermore

Show me what all this agonising pining has been for

Flatter me with the arch of that perfect spine

Always so prim and proper but not this time

Sign my contract of devotion with a roll of your hip

I’m a man gasping for air, holding onto my white fingered grip

This is complicated and true, it’s always been me and you

I don’t know how much time we have but tonight is ours

We’ll just have to make this sacrifice worthy of a memoir

I’m shaking now and your breath quickens with blushed cheeks

Untouched I’m undone, your outcry is a symphony of ecstasy

A sound I abruptly realise I need to hear every day for my sanity

Our boneless bodies intertwine and our wartorn heartbeats align

One day you might leave but I’ll never forget how we were divine

Hermione’s heart raced underneath her skin, she reached forward and took several cups of her tea to coat her suddenly desperately parched mouth.

Bloody hell.

Her eyes couldn’t focus on any one line, the flush of heat spreading across her cheeks migrated down her neck and chest. She could picture the passion so vividly that an ache pulsed between her legs. Hermione chewed on her lower lip, arousal potent and discernable with every slight shift she moved to relieve it. She hadn’t expected it to impact her like this, she couldn’t stop the smallest whimper to escape her lips.

Her eyes widened as she re-read the poem, a shiver running down her spine. She could feel the tingling heaviness of desire pooling in her body, and though it made her feel dirty, she knew she’d need to relieve this need. Hermione stood, taking her book with her and pushed her chair out from the table. She crossed the kitchen, headed straight to her bedroom to take care of the urgent, throbbing desire that had developed.

Crookshanks tried to follow her into her room but she kept him outside, closing the door behind her and sighing when he started meowing to be let in but he didn’t complain for too long. Hermione bit her lip, walking over to the side of her bed where she kept a little box filled with vibrators and all things sexually pleasing. Bending down, she shuffled through the box, picking out a purple vibrator that attached to one’s clit and sent sensational, vibrational waves. Even holding the heavy silicone toy in her hand made her cunt clench in anticipation.

Hermione sat down on her neatly made bed, leaning against her pillows, and got comfortable, squirming her hips and spreading her legs for easy access. She sighed, releasing the tension from her mind as her fingers dipped beneath the band of her trousers to swirl in the slippery moisture. From the moment she touched herself, Hermione felt the heady thrum of pleasure sparking through her veins. She shifted forward, taking that finger and dipping it inside herself, imagining it was her poet’s finger instead. The same hand that wrote those verses, her mind painted a scene of him hovering above her, whispering dirty little rhymes while he curled his fingers. Hermione gasped, a hot rush of desire at the lines that already coursed through her mind, memorised.

‘Transform this tortured lament into beautiful repentance,

One lick and I’d be a man with utter dependence’

Ugh, she imagined her poet muttering those verses against her skin, the gush of arousal that met her probing was sinful. She always imagined him with light eyes, maybe blue, but electrically intense and burning into her as he worshipped her with his tongue and words and touches.

She imagined that tongue dipping in and out of her, swirling those gorgeous words into her slit while she shuddered. Hermione pulled her damp finger out of herself, dragging it up to swirl around her clit with lubricated ease. The waves of delightful pleasure uncoiled built up tension inside her stomach. She pictured her poet’s tongue dancing circles on her clit, sucking the nub into his mouth, maybe even scraping lightly with his teeth. Hermione shivered at the thought.

She wasted no time, quickly pulling her hands out of her pants to grab the vibrator and turning it onto the first setting. The device rumbled to life in her grasp and she pushed it underneath the band of her bottoms to press against her clit. In an instant, all of her mental focus and attention was fixed on one singular point of her body, the heat of delicious sensation rolling over her. In her mind, her poet laid between her legs, hands wrapped around her thighs, pulling her close. He flicked his tongue over her clit with dexterity and devotion, eyes fixed on her as if he drank in the sight and taste of her. She quickly reached over to where she’d left the book on her nightstand, opening to where she’d left off.

‘To whisper your name like something godly,’

“Hermione,” the man in her fantasy moaned against her cunt.

Hermione gasped as a stronger, urgent need flowed over her body and she bucked up against the pulsing vibrations.

‘A reverence, an allegiance, a sacred, worshipping priest,’

“Hermione,” her fantasy growled, she could imagine how soft his hair might be, how she’d tug the roots of it, trying to get herself somehow closer to his mouth.

‘Let me kneel between your knees and take my communion feast,’

Her poet would hold her so close, his fingers digging into the sides of her thighs, probably leaving bruises. He’d draw begging cries of bliss from Hermione’s lips and wouldn’t move until she was spent. A gentleman, a frenzied lover, a man so devoted there could never be another.

‘Till we’re both addicted to each other and I’m yours forever,’

Hermione found the strength of his devotion utterly intoxicating. The back of her head tilted back as her legs started to shake, straining, searching for the strand of pleasure that would tip the scales and send her into ecstasy.

‘I’ll show you what those other wizards lack.’

Ugh, a man with something to prove, something to lose, it was all so alluring to her. It clenched something deep inside Hermione, she desperately wanted that passion, someone to desire her so much he’d be willing to work for it. A shiver coursed through Hermione’s body, her mouth open as she gulped down air.

Her eyes skimmed down a few lines to where she knew the lines that’d scorch her skin and push her over the edge lay.

‘Bite down and hold on tight while we find our rhythm,

Afterwards, think of how I’ve ruined you while you sit with him,’

Gods, how could any woman choose another wizard over this poet? The idea of a lover so passionate she’d need to bite down and hold on - it made Hermione’s cunt pulse with need. She wanted to be ruined, she wanted to be fucked into oblivion with such intensity that she’d never be able to go on a date with anyone else without thinking about him. This stupidly anonymous poet had ruined her. She already couldn’t do anything without comparing all others to him.

And she didn’t even know his name.

‘One, two, three - be mine forevermore,

Show me what all this agonising pining has been for’

Hermione could so vividly feel the stroke of his tongue in timing with the rhythm of the poem, it made her toes curl as the accumulating sensations began to climb its mountain, working towards the peak. She wanted to be pined for, she lusted for exactly what this fucking ungrateful witch had - someone who loved her and shagged her senseless and wanted more than anything to be with her.

‘Flatter me with the arch of that perfect spine,

Always so prim and proper but not this time,’

Hermione arched her back, a flush rushing to her cheeks as her body turned a corner, her orgasm so in reach but yet she didn’t want it to come quickly. She could picture her poet grinning at her with shining, wet lips, commenting on how delightfully dirty he’d found out the Golden Girl really was. Hermione cried out, trying to hold on, her hips opening up and legs widening, trying to make it last: her poet, her fantasy, she didn’t want it to end. She didn’t want him to go.

‘I’m shaking now and your breath quickens with blushed cheeks,

Untouched I’m undone, your outcry is a symphony of ecstasy’

Hermione imagined how flattering it would be to have a man cum from eating her out, untouched, her giving him so much pleasure that he couldn’t stop his climax. She could almost hear his muffled cry, pressed against her cunt, his spasming tongue slowing down as the waves washed over him and he shuddered, trying to keep going, trying to keep giving her exactly what she needed.

Hermione abruptly came, wishing more than anything she had a name to scream out, the blinding white sensation of ecstasy flowing over her and she panted, body tense for a few moments until the pulsing waves retreated back into the sea, and all was left was her over sensitive body and an empty bed.

’Our boneless bodies intertwine and our wartorn heartbeats align

One day you might leave, but I’ll never forget how we were divine.’

Hermione bitterly closed the book and pushed it away from her. She turned off her vibrator and threw the small, damp device on the floor, rolling onto her outstretched arm as her hand played with the threads on her comforter. Whoever the poet was writing about was ungrateful and selfish. How in the world could she leave him? Him, Hermione’s great daydream. It was unforgivable.

Hermione honestly hoped that she never found out who the poet was or his muse because she’d probably punch the bitch in the nose. The audacity to throw away someone so kind and lovely, who put such effort into proclaiming his love for her.

It was inconceivable.

Hermione quietly, in the privacy of her bedroom and her mind, torturously imagined that she was his muse, even just for a few minutes of unrealistic insanity. That he laid next to her in her small bed, cheeks flushed and panting with a look that showed exactly how happy he was that they’d shared that moment together. Maybe he’d lean over and kiss her, she’d be able to taste herself on his lips but it would only shoot another pang of arousal through her body.

“That was incredible,” she’d whisper and he’d smile at her in a way that sent pooled warmth in her stomach.

“You’re incredible.” He might say softly back.

As if he never knew exactly how much she deeply valued his words, his poems, as if he was just a normal wizard and she a normal witch, not two people perfectly suited to each other in nearly every way that ever mattered.

***

That night, Draco wrote with a frenzy he hadn’t seen in a few months. The words flowed from his mind so effortlessly, the next lines that conveyed his expressions so perfectly just falling into his head.

Wishing I could connect the dots on your skin,

Longing for you from afar feels like sin –

I’m breathless and feel completely, transparently guilty

The way you lit up in the sun was heavenly.

Would you sit for a painting if I asked?

I wish I could spend hours staring and bask,

In the warmth of your smile, the curiosity of your eyes,

The subtle leg trembles and forbidden pleasured sighs.

I truly, cannot have my muse, you see –

Perhaps it was always meant to be like this, maybe it’s destiny

She’s over there and I’m over here,

Never too close, I get so flustered when she’s near

I sip on the sight of her like cool lemonade

Refreshing and cool in the perfect shade

The fondest memories of youth held her as their subject

But she’ll remain forever unaware of this permanent effect.

Draco savoured the rhythm of his lines as he tapped it out with his fingers on his leg. He couldn’t stop thinking about her book – his book – that book in her hands, her fingers tracing over his words. It filled him with such anxiety, such terror over being rejected, even though it had seemed as if she was excited to read his newest release.

Yes, Draco had seen her eyes drinking in his verses greedily and hungrily.

One might even dare to assume that if she had anticipated the release of his second book, it would not be egotistic to assume that she had read his first book. Perhaps even enjoyed it, given her return to the next in his series of things he had to say. Did she have a particular place on her shelf just for him? It gave him a desperate, straining boner to think of it, maybe she placed the second book just so beside the first.

A huffed breath ran past Draco’s lips, an attempt to ease the tension inside his chest that he anticipated to keep him up late that night. His knuckles ran their well-worn path up and down his sternum, trying to ease the explosive pressure that felt too big for its cage. His eyes were fixed on a spot in the carpet by his bare foot, a place where he spilled coffee and wouldn’t use magic to clean it up. He had taken over his father’s office after he was sentenced to life in prison and the small violations brought him profound joy on a daily basis. Something about holy, forbidden places now being completely his and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted with them.

Draco’s eyes drifted back over to his paper wearily. Who knows if the book if was any good. Maybe she bought his book because she wanted to write horrible things in it. Maybe, his more concentrated fear nightmare, sort of like actually trying to talk to Hermione and have a continuous conversation – he was on his third book of poems about the witch but what the fuck would he even say to her? ‘I’m a big fan?’

Anxiety sparked through his heart at the thought of her ever figuring out that Draco had written those books. She could never know. Obviously, she didn’t know because she bought the second book. Draco’s stomach actually plummeted out of his ass at the thought of her having seen him back at the bookstore. She didn’t seem to have because he was being pretty stealthy after all.

He looked at the time. Draco sighed, standing up from his desk. He had to go get ready and go to Blaise’s stupid fucking party. Ugh. He just wanted to stay inside and have a massive smoke session on his couch and read books till he was about to pass out. Draco would be a good friend and not let Blaise and Theo ruin all of their reputations in wizarding society because someone wasn’t there to make sure they didn’t kill themselves and send the actual photo to the reporters.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Thank you everyone who left Kudos and read this story so far - I'm very flattered and excited to keep going! This is my very first fanfiction so it's been tremendously thrilling to see people interact with it. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Trigger Warning: Homophobia, internalised homophobia, painful sex, and emotional abandonment/ use of homophobic slurs

When Draco got to Blaise’s party, he was greeted by Blaise’s elf who promptly offered to take his coat and led him towards where he could hear the thumping of Blaise’s muggle sound system. Pansy was standing at the bar, a glass of white wine in one hand and Draco's second book in the other. Draco felt a pang of annoyance at the fact that she brought it here with her. Theo sat on the couch, smoking a joint with glazed eyes and a blissful look on his face.

“Draco!’ Blaise exclaimed, his eyes heavy lidded from any number of substances.

“Evening to you too – you know, your mother will absolutely kill you if you break her very old, very expensive chandelier with your very loud music playing.” Draco said with his most casually pompous tone.

Blaise rolled his eyes, waving Draco off. “Have a drink, have a smoke, relax. We’re just having fun.”

After Blaise walked away, Draco walked up to the bar area where Pansy was sitting, his book casually laying on the bar counter beside her drink.

“What are you reading?” Draco asked as he joined her. Pansy, unsurprised by his approach, simply shrugged.

“It’s for my book club,” She said in her typical apathetic tone. “Most of the witches there think it’s dreamy, they love the way this poor wizard pines for this witch he can’t have. I think it’s a bit redundant in the way all of the poems rhyme though.” Pansy didn’t even prepare before she sliced Draco to the bone.

An insecurity she possibly did or didn’t know – Draco still was unsure if his friends suspected his authorship. He certainly hadn’t confessed to anything and had no future plans to do so. The last thing he needed was his friends hounding him over who his muse was and who she wasn’t. He looked to Pansy who took a sip of her wine. If this conversation was any indication of how the night would progress, he desperately needed a stiff drink.

When none appeared, Draco rounded the bar himself and poured a healthy portion of fire whiskey into one of Blaise’s available crystal tumblers.

Draco never felt like his poems were finished or real or even his own unless they rhymed for whatever reason. The ones that didn’t seemed more like rows of placeholder prose for the absent, subsequent line that would complete its pairing. Pansy didn’t know this though, or at least Draco desperately hoped she didn’t.

“Lots of children’s books rhyme.” Draco muttered, a justification he often repeated to himself to soothe his anxious nerves when he worried. “Plus, poetry is romantic, but it’s not like music. You have to make your own rhythm and flow.”

Pansy rolled her eyes at his defence as she leaned her cheek against her hand. “Yeah, I guess, but it’s a little pathetic how bad this wizard’s got it for whoever the witch is he writes about.” She said, a bored and slightly judgemental expression crossing her face. “I mean, surely no woman is as glorious as they’re depicted in this book.” A chuckle lined her words and Draco tried to keep his scowl from completely overtaking his face.

He knew from an adjacent, intimate experience that if his friends found out he wrote those books, he would absolutely never hear the end of it. They would badger him incessantly, demanding to know every detail about his muse. Theo particularly could be unbearably persistent and relentless in his quest for gossip. Even Draco, a weapon forged and trained by Bellatrix herself, could be broken down by Theo given enough time and forced proximity.

“Damn.” Draco replied, taking another swig of his drink. He never felt satisfied that Pansy couldn’t see right through him whenever she would set her sights on him for whichever nefarious purpose she had in mind. It was supremely irritating how he could write line after line but when it came to talking to real people, especially under Pansy’s probing gaze, Draco’s mind typically went blank, leaving him struggling for a response.

“So, what have you been up to? I feel like we haven’t seen you in forever.” Pansy inquired, taking a sip from her drink.

Draco had carefully constructed several pre-plotted, very plausible activities he could have been taking up his time with rather than the reality.

“I’ve been managing my family’s affairs mostly,” He masqueraded his most haughty tone, watching Pansy’s eyes immediately droop in disinterest. “Had a few meetings with our lawyers, discussed which charities we want to support this year, I’m thinking of investing into a few newer programs – I guess I’ve been feeling a little risky lately.” He joked, mostly for himself.

Pansy nodded along, clearly not listening.

“That sounds nice, Draco.” Pansy’s pleasant tone seemed forced and absentminded. Draco peered at her analytically, but there seemed to be no suspicion underneath her exterior of what he was desperately trying to hide.

“Indeed. I’m going to grab a smoke from Theo.” Draco replied, clinking the rim of his glass against hers in cheers and pushing away from the bar.

Every time he made it out of one of this Merlin-fucking social events, he felt a tremendous relief float over his skin. He was used to hiding things, used to keeping secrets – but this felt like keeping his whole world from his friends. It was a scary thought to think that someone he’d never be able to possibly have might’ve taken more space inside his mind than anyone in his actual life. Was that actually pathetic of him – like Pansy said?

Blaise’s sitting room was decorated for guests, even if it was only the four of them in attendance. A warm fire crackled in the corner, Theo sat on the couch nearby chain-smoking joints and clearly trying to rid himself of some type of unpleasantness.

Theo was really the only other person Draco would consider to be tortured. He had been nursing a devastating crush on their mutual friend Blaise for basically all of their lives – a crush that was so far not returned in affections or curiosities. Blaise was as straight as someone could probably ever be and Theo was very much not.

As Draco made his way over to Theo, he blew a stream of smoke out of his mouth, carefully directing it away from Draco as he approached and beamed him a smile that Draco knew indicated he was not sober in the least.

“Draco!” Theo exclaimed, arms wide in greeting.

“Hey Theo.” Draco replied, a warm, genuine smile in reply.

Draco sat on the couch beside his friend and Theo leaned his head on his shoulder with a heavy, laced sigh.

“Oh Draco. What am I ever going to do?” Theo whispered dramatically and Draco shook his head, amused.

“Exactly what you’ve done our whole lives. Watch and want.” He replied cheekily.

Theo let out a frustrated groan at his words but didn’t argue. He knew what he could have and what he couldn’t – just like Draco did. They understood their respective places in the world and the distance between those who they truly desired. It was the way things just had to be.

Draco had thought many times about telling Theo his secrets, to show him the books – Draco secretly felt so proud of the success they had gained. However, Theo was the biggest blabbermouth he’d ever met, entirely incapable of holding anything close to his chest. The only secret he’d ever held was his crush on Blaise and every time Theo was intoxicated, it was as plain as anything could be on his face.

“Any witches caught your eye recently? It must be terribly lonely in your big, empty house.” Theo said, his words mumbling, but his eye fixed on Blaise pulling Pansy from the bar to dance with him in the centre of the room. They’d probably sleep together tonight; they had been each other’s casual sexual partners for many years at this point, off and on.

Draco took a big drink from his glass and shook his head.

“No, no one new.” He replied and Theo tisked in disappointment.

“You’ve got to get out there!” Theo’s hand smacked Draco’s thigh lightly. “You have so much to offer, those witches don’t understand you like I do.” Theo said, his words slurred slightly with his cheek smushed against Draco’s steady shoulder.

“Maybe.” Draco replied cryptically. “I think I’m waiting for the right one though.”

Theo sighed dreamily, lost in whatever fantasy of cock sucking and romance he harboured in his anguished mind as he watched Blaise spin Pansy in a circle, her dress fanning out around her legs attractively.

“At least you don’t have to marry that horrible Astoria Greengrass anymore.” Theo snickered, and Draco was inclined to agree. She had been horrible – both in character and desperately dull. She sparked absolutely no inspiration inside of Draco, much to his distress when it seemed that she would be the future of his life.

“Hey!” Theo exclaimed, sitting up quickly. He laughed boisterously at his own thoughts and seemed to pause before continuing. “Maybe what you need is to join Pansy’s book club. I’m sure there’s lots of witches there who would love a man who had thoughts.”

“That doesn’t sound like it’s for me.” He dismissed the idea quickly and Theo shook his head.

“No, no, it’s perfect!” Theo’s hand playfully smacked Draco’s arm. “You’ve got thoughts, I’m sure whatever book they’re reading now couldn’t outsmart our Draco. You’ve always been the brightest of us all.” Theo giggled at the end of his sentence, the association an amusing comparison to who they all knew held the actual title back in their school days.

“You’re so fucking stoned.” Draco replied, laughing a little and shaking his head at Theo’s words.

“Actually, you probably shouldn’t.” Theo said with a snicker in his tone. “I’ve heard from Pansy that a very infamous Hermione Granger is the leader, much to all the pureblooded witches’ dismays.”

Draco’s heart puttered to a stop, his blood running cold.

“What? What did you say?” He said, fixing his intense stare directly at Theo.

Theo threw his hands in the air defensively, trying to play it off, thinking Draco was angry at him.

“I mean, all the purebloods are trying to get back into society’s good graces. What better way to do that than join the oh-so-holy Hermione Granger’s book club?” Theo said casually and Draco tried to force himself to relax.

If this reaction was any indication, he most certainly wouldn’t be composed enough to successfully be at this club – and who did he think he was - desiring to join, even for a second? He would give himself away in an instant. It was a terrible idea.

“I’m sure it’s exclusive to witches.” Draco tried to cover his strained tone with nonchalance, but Theo shook his head in response.

“No, there are a few wizards there too.” Theo replied, taking a long drag from his joint as he peered at Draco with an amused expression.

Draco’s heart pounded aggressively underneath his skin. He tried to remind himself not to panic, not to let his mind get away from him while he was still around his friends, to remain calm and collected. As his mind whirled in circles, Draco knew a drink was not going to settle the rising storm brewing inside him.

“Can I have a pull of that?” Draco asked, offering his drink in exchange. Theo nodded in acceptance, swapping their method of intoxication for a little bit.

Theo sipped on his whiskey while Draco inhaled the smoke from the rolled paper’s combustion, a lovely sensation of relief flowing through his veins. He just needed to relax; there was nothing wrong with this, he was perfectly fine. He did not need to worry about this opportunity – in fact, he had no business even being interested in this suggestion. It was absolutely no issue and none of his business whatsoever that Hermione Granger was reading –

His mind flashed to what book Pansy had brought with her to the party.

Draco felt his stomach plummet to his feet. Did that mean that they were analyzing his book – her book – at her stupid, fucking book club? Draco's skin crawled at the thought of the group dissecting his words, having to sit there and listen to others fawning over his prose, criticising or praising lines that were only written for her eyes and opinions.

Draco took another pull, desperately trying to soothe the rising panic inside his veins, but it wasn’t working.

What if they interpreted it wrong?

What if she didn’t understand what he was trying to say?

What if she thought it was horrible?

This really could be his only chance at being able to find out what she actually thought of his confessions.

Maybe even clarify what he originally meant if she misunderstood.

Maybe this is a good thing – maybe this was his chance – maybe he could fuck everything up and never have another opportunity of seeing her reaction - her lips forming his verses, her own compliments flowing from her mouth.

His stomach was in utter knots at the considerations playing through his mind and his dick was not uninspired either, a rising boner at the thought of watching and listening to her read his poems. All the ways it could go wrong, all the horrible things that could happen – she could figure out he wrote them. If he was ever revealed as the author, he’d absolutely be ostracised from society. No one wanted a poetry book written by an ex-death eater. If anyone ever knew, his muse would be so obvious. He had tried to conceal it as best as he could, blanketing his devotion in vague references that could be attributed to anyone really.

Draco’s hands were shaking a little as he inhaled the intoxicating smoke more and more, trying to settle his nerves, but it was only amplifying the speed which his mind raced at. A pleasant buzz settled over his skin though, a sensation that was calming and grounding despite the difference internally.

“Don’t smoke it all,” Theo whined, and Draco begrudgingly exchanged back for their original vices.

“Sorry.” He muttered, but his mind was spinning, racing a million miles a minute.

Draco needed to go home. He needed to think and figure out what the fuck he was thinking or was considering of doing. He didn’t need to fuck everything up in front of people who didn’t realize the stakes playing out in his mind.

“I’m going to head home.” He declared, standing and finishing the rest of his drink in a few gulping, burning swallows.

“No!” Theo protested in an exasperated tone. “Stay! Don’t leave me here!”

“I can’t stay.” Draco said with a shake of his head, not explaining further. Theo crossed his arms and pouted at Draco’s response but didn’t complain any more.

Draco left his empty tumbler on a random table by the wall, dusting off his robes from any residual smoke ashes. He walked across the room, encountering Blaise and Pansy, who wished him a wonderful rest of his night and then continued to dance together with Theo alone on the couch, unhappily watching with a displeased scowl from a distance.

Draco exited the room, relief falling over him at the faded music and privacy to process his thoughts in peace. Blaise’s elf promptly brought him his coat and rather than floo’ing back, Draco asked if he could borrow one of Blaise’s brooms to fly home on. After vanishing to quickly confer with their master, Blaise’s elves obliged his request and brought him one, to which he carried past the front doors, mounted, and raced into the skies.

***

Theo left the party shortly after Draco did. Watching Blaise dance with Pansy knowing they’d hook up most likely that night left a bitter taste in his mouth that he couldn’t drown with substances.

It wasn’t exactly that he wasn’t happy for Pansy, she was his friend after all, but it all seemed so unfair that it was just easy for her. That she could be with Blaise and it was the simplest thing, something normal and conventional. It burned Theo’s chest with jealousy, they never had to experience the horribleness of someone asking them not to say anything about them being together, or be kicked out of a pub for chatting up a bloke. They twirled and danced together without any worries, as though they were mocking Theo with their ease of being together, blissfully unaware of the privilege they held. They could have sex and it didn’t have to mean something, but when Theo found a lover, it always felt dangerous, unpredictable. His movements were calculated, every word bitten back and evaluated - emotions always suppressed in fear of retaliatory response. Blaise’s fingers trailed up the bare skin of Pansy’s arm, and Theo choked back the resentful exhaustion that lodged in his throat at the sight.

Now, Theo found himself roaming the late night streets of Diagon Alley, stumbling into the Leaky Caldron for a drink and some company to nurse his loneliness. At the hour it was, the only people still standing at the bar were drunkards or people running from something in their lives, maybe a combination of both. Theo swallowed, dreading the company he’d find but knowing it was better than being alone, laying in bed with nothing but his hands and his haunting thoughts.

He approached the bar, eliciting a nod of greeting acknowledgement from the bartender, Johnny, who’d seen Theo here more nights than he’d care to admit. Without saying anything, Jonny quickly slid his usual drink, Ogden’s straight up, from across the countertop. He flashed a smile at Johnny, and received an understanding look in return.

Theo’s eyes sort of dazed out, his mind unable to stop thinking of the lingering image of Blaise and Pansy, wondering if they’d already taken their clothes off and were shagging on the ballroom floor or if they’d actually made it to Blaise’s bedroom. It made Theo nauseous, how he couldn’t budge from wondering if Blaise’s body was still as beautiful as it had been that one night in their youth when Blaise kissed Theo in their dorm room, sliding his hand up his chest and leaving heat in its path. They’d gotten quite caught up in the moment, clothes began to peel off their bodies before they were interrupted by the sound of their dorm mates starting to approach their room. Blaise had furiously made him swear never to speak of it again but Theo secretly had hoped for years that the moment had meant something to him - that Blaise still thought about it and dreamed of him like Theo did. He knew he shouldn’t think about that. It just made Theo’s heart sink, knowing what he’d never have and what he’d always be forced to settle for.

He swirled his drink around the glass, raising it to his lips and taking a sip. It burned as he swallowed, but it was a pleasant and rich taste. It reminded Theo of better times, of when he’d sat laughing around the Slytherin common room with his friends, the solidarity of them being against the world, they all felt like they belonged together. These days, he mostly had Draco, but his friendship had proved sparse over the past two or so years as he’d been consumed with whatever project he was off and on working on in secret.

“Whatcha drinkin’?” A gruff voice sounded beside Theo, interrupting his thoughts.

“Ogdens.” He nonchalantly replied, taking another sip.

“A man’s drink.” The stranger commented, unpromptedly clinking his drink glass against Theo’s in his hand.

Theo didn’t say anything, but took a sideways look at the wizard beside him. A tall man had his sharp black hair swept back away from his brown eyes that were evaluating Theo’s face as well. He had a thick build with defined muscles— his gaze lingered on Theo’s lips as he licked his. Definitely his type, but there was a skittishness in the stranger’s eyes that let Theo know there was purpose in his approach.

“Come here often?” The man asked and Theo shrugged.

“Depends on how bad the week was.” He turned back to tap his fingers against the side of his drink.

One-two, pause, one-two-three. A code amongst wizards who didn’t want to verbally declare their sexuality to others but who wanted to communicate their availability to hook up.

The man’s eyes snapped down to the motion of Theo’s finger, swallowing thickly as he nodded, tapping the same pattern against his own glass in response. It was silent between them, as Theo met his nervous look. The wizard was clearly inexperienced but that was fine. Theo didn’t mind as long as the man had a cock and was willing to use it. They didn’t exchange names and it was better that way. The queer wizarding society wasn’t exactly unaccepted, but there was still a sizable amount of wizards who were condemned to the shadows, forced to hide themselves or face stark consequences from their pureblood families who demanded heirs.

Theo downed the rest of his drink, appreciating the warmth that bloomed in his stomach in its wake.

“I’ll be closing out my tab for the night, Johnny,” Theo said across the bar to the wizard who wiped down glasses absentmindedly.

Johnny nodded at Theo, leaving the bill on the countertop, and Theo pulled out a few galleons to place onto the paper. He also left a metal coin with his room number engraved on the top, sliding it slightly over to the man beside him who quickly covered the coin with his hand, looking around him to make sure no one saw him. If someone did, they didn’t pay any attention to two men standing a respectable distance apart in the darkened room.

“Five minutes.” Theo said softly, noticing a nod of acknowledgement from his companion for the night.

Theo pushed off from the bar, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets and walking over to where stairs awaited on the edge of the wall that would lead him to his permanently booked room and entertainment for the evening. The hallway was illuminated dimly, several loud residents snoring or clamouring audibly through their closed doors. Theo didn’t pay them any attention, it wasn’t his business and the Leaky Cauldron was known for being discreet to their customers.

He quickly approached his door, Room 114, sliding the key over the doorknob, charmed to only allow the key that belonged to that room entry into the space. The bedroom was small, modestly furnished with a few decorative pieces of cheap art hung on the walls, a dresser against the wall near the door, and a bed against the far wall. Theo quickly emptied his pockets, placing the contents into the dresser drawer and locking it when he closed it. The last thing he needed was his one night stand stealing from him.

He shrugged off his robes and began to unbutton his shirt, pulling the fabric over his shoulders and folding it onto the top of the dresser. He’d also had too many experiences with lovers who liked to rip open the seams, flinging buttons everywhere, and his elves always grumbled when he brought the clothes back to them for repair.

With a heavy sigh, Theo went to sit down on the edge of the bed, waiting for his companion of the next hour or so.

***

When Draco made it home that night, his mind raced almost out of his control. He hadn't felt like this in such a long time, sparks practically igniting underneath his skin. He tried to take deep breaths as he walked into the manor, dismounting from Blaise's broom and stumbling a little as his intoxicated feet hit the ground.

Draco made his way through the hallways leading to his office. When he opened the door, his elves had already started a roaring fire that crackled nostalgically. Draco rounded the corner of the couch facing the fireplace and sat, the crinkle of the black leather underneath his weight a familiar sound. He leaned his head back and released an exasperated groan. The anxiety gargled through his chest and throat, burning him inside with the indecision that was tearing him apart.

It was just a stupid book club; he shouldn’t be losing his mind over this – but he was. He couldn't stop thinking about Hermione’s face, how much he yearned to see her expression and hear her thoughts. The fear of not knowing what those thoughts were was truly formidable. Would he be able to live with himself, to ever write again, if she didn’t like his poems?

Draco knew he shouldn’t go, knew that it would probably only tear him apart, burn all his creativity to the ground – but his weary gaze drifted to his desk, to his stack of unfinished poems that all seemed to sound the same, and wondered if this was the fate’s intervention for inspiration.

She never had to know it was him – he could just lurk in the corner or against the wall and never say a word.

Draco’s mouth nearly watered at the memory of the frenzy that followed their first hidden encounter. Would his writing be like that if he was seeing her every week? How many poems could he write if he actually had regular access to her and fresh material to draw from other than the fantasies that played out in his head?

Draco did what he knew best in times of indecision, he stood from the couch with a groan and walked over to his desk. He sat in the chair, scooching it forward and took a deep breath as he stared at the empty paper.

The prose that floated into his mind was riddled with self-doubt, but Draco had learned to at least try to be non-judgmental and that he typically did not have a very accurate perspective of his own word. At least according to Tom and the witches who delighted in his rhymes. None of them really mattered though – the only one who did, he was too scared to actually see what she really thought.

Would you look back at me with disgust and distaste?

Has my reputation preceded me, am I a disgrace?

Dear muse, atone me of this wretched sin,

Let me show you the love I hold for you within –

I long for you, I crave your touch

I’m crippled without you, my invisible crutch

This adoration I cannot show,

Your love that I cannot know –

It wraps around me, this burrowed torment,

Sweet nectar of agony strung lament

I dream of you constantly and it kills me

That this is my life’s future, my inevitable eternity

Her warm brown eyes and disgusted wayward sighs

She thinks that I hate her and it’s such a lie –

My heart’s strategic protection, it’s my only defence

I fear she’ll see right through my fucked-up pretense

The war that wages inside can’t pick a goddamn side –

I’m stuck between my past and my pride

Should I just approach her and confess my admiration true?

Dear reader, advise me, if you were me, what would you do?

This was his only chance at actually hearing her perspective. It was absolutely fucking terrifying, and Draco’s insides felt twisted and pulled in fear. Yet the thought of the encounter was thrilling too.

He took a deep breath, composing his mind that felt anxiously decided on going. Uncertainty coursed through his veins, but now all that was left was figuring out how to get into said club, if there were membership fees or an application he needed to submit. Knowing Hermione Granger, even just in his imagination, he figured she probably would.

Maybe he could ask Pansy? She’d probably mock him, but at least she could smuggle him in. It wouldn't be quite the same as him standing in the shadows as he had imagined but at least he could be there.

Draco’s nails scratched at an itch in the crook of his elbow, eyes fixed at a particular wall panel that held no specific meaning. He liked the grooves in the wood though; they occupied his gaze while his mind probed at different ideas. None of them made him feel any less pathetic for trying to strategize nonchalance, however, it was still early in the night, and he had a few hours to ruminate.

Draco exhaled a heavy sigh, leaning his head back against the chair as his hand ran through his hair.

What the fuck was he going to do?

***

Within the next few minutes, a soft knock echoed throughout the room and Theo stood to walk over to the door, opening it to reveal the man from the bar. Theo was silent as he opened it wider, allowing the wizard to walk through and enter.

“Oh good,” the man commented, appreciating Theo’s naked chest, “you’ve already started.”

There was no intimacy that passed between them, only silence as the wizard followed suit and began unbuttoning his shirt and trousers, eyeing up and down Theo’s body. The skin revealed underneath his clothes was defined and athletic, Theo absently wondered about the smaller details of the wizard’s life which might’ve developed such a body.

“You want to get on the bed?” the man asked, a quietness to his tone.

Theo nodded, making his way to the empty bed his companion stood in front of. Theo’s hands reached down to his trousers, fingers numbly undoing his fly.

“I don’t do any of that disgusting pouf shite of being buggered in the arse,” the dark-haired wizard said with a sneer, looking at him expectantly.

Theo nearly scoffed. Predictable as ever. None of the wizards he fucked ever wanted to bottom, as if they were afraid of catching the plague from their queer experience.

“That’s fine, I do,” Theo bit out, a stab of hurt going through his chest.

It’s not like he expected this time to be any different than any of the others but it still stung like a motherfucker. As if there was something wrong with him, as if Theo was disgusting for finding the experience arousing.

Theo pulled his pants down, his member springing up from its previous confinement. Theo noticed how the man’s eyes instantly snapped to his cock, a flare of desire flashing through them before he looked away. As if he could barely stand the sight of the very body he was attracted to.

His partner smiled somewhat apologetically, motioning his hand to encourage Theo to approach the edge of the bed. Men rarely wanted to be on the bed with Theo, as if that made what they did less queer. So many just wanted to fuck a warm hole on the edge, face down, where they could imagine that Theo was a lovely, normal witch, and not a person with a cock that made them different for desiring.

Theo did what he always did, laying his body flat against the bed, feeling the rough fabric of the comforter against the exposed skin of his cock that was engorged with excitement and begrudging anticipation. Theo felt the masculine presence approaching him from behind, a hand running over his arsecheek, followed by a heavy slap that stung Theo’s skin.

He gasped out, unprepared for the heat that flowed following the action, but it left a tingle of shivers that ran up Theo’s spine. He felt his arse cheeks get spread wide, a glob of spit being flung and hitting his hole. Theo breathed heavily, preparing himself for what was about to come, hating himself for wishing there was some kindness in the motion, but there was none. The man’s thumb ran over Theo’s arsehole, spreading the saliva, and Theo heard him whisper a cleansing charm and a lubricating charm. Warm stickiness filled Theo’s arse, and he leaned his forehead against the bed.

There was a second that passed, a moment where Theo imagined the wizard lining up his now exposed cock, before Theo felt a brush of skin against his arsehole. The man pushed against Theo’s unprepared body, forcing him open, splitting him in half as the wizard ripped through the barriers in his path, forcing a cry of pain from Theo and a grunt of satisfaction from his partner.

It burned, it ached, and it brought tears to Theo’s eyes but at least it was happening. Theo could hear heavy breathing behind him and quiet, suppressed moans. His hips were grasped and used as anchors as his companion’s cock dragged in and out of him. If Theo could just focus beyond the sting of his flesh being penetrated too quickly, he could find the pleasure. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, as a particularly heavy thrust aimed and sunk against the spot that always made the experience worth it.

Theo moaned out, his cock throbbing with need. He bucked a bit against the comforter before reaching his right hand down to palm against his erection, lingering there for him to rut against. It really wasn’t altogether too bad once the initiation of it was over, wizards never liked to prepare Theo before they fucked because why would they want to prolong the experience, he supposed. Maybe they secretly enjoyed hurting him, as if they released some of the anger that this was their fate of attraction. Somewhere inside Theo, it even had begun to feel like what he deserved for not being able to be different either.

As the man’s thrusts quickened, so did Theo’s twisting tugs along his cock as he matched the rhythm. There was something about this sensation that Theo found such pleasure in, being filled, being fucked - it was a peculiar, deep rooted feeling that filled his dreams and absent thoughts. Theo’s left hand reached up to grasp the sheets, twisting the fabric around his fingers as his eyes squeezed shut. The man gasped out at the clenching of Theo’s body around his cock, goosebumps rising on Theo’s skin at the sound.

They both got lost in the pleasure of their skin dragging against each other’s, Theo’s breath coming in faster now as he could feel the dim light of his orgasm beginning to shine upon him. It seemed that his companion could too, because the previously muted moans were getting breathier and less restrained as they both got lost in the pleasure of each other’s bodies.

A couple thudding thrusts against Theo’s prostate, and he was cumming, squirting the hot liquid against his palm with an out cry of ecstasy. His body clenched around the cock that still moved in and out of him, but he thought it wouldn’t be more than a few seconds till his lover was spent. Soon enough he heard the grunting slapping of finality, followed by the man’s cock being shoved as far inside Theo’s body as it could fit, waves of cum flooding Theo’s arse with panting sighs sounding behind him.

The man pulled out very abruptly, Theo could feel the trickle of release spilling out onto his upper thighs with the removal. He grimaced, before standing upright and wandlessly waving a scourgify on his body and hand. The wizard couldn’t meet his eye, breathing heavily with a glossy cock that was quickly going limp post climax.

“Don’t fucking tell anyone about this, I’m not some sort of faggot and I won’t be known as one,” his ragged voice said, a sneer of disgust crossing his lips.

“Why do you think I didn’t ask for your fucking name?” Theo spat back, shoving his pants around his body again, reaching down to gather his trousers from where they laid on the floor. His fingers grasped his companion’s trousers that still lay on the ground and threw them at him. The man caught the clothing with a disgruntled expression laced with anger and shame.

Absent of the pleasure that previously coursed throughout him, Theo could feel the throbbing ache that was associated with broken skin and the reminders of hasty fucking. He grimly knew he’d have to take a bath afterwards when he got home to wash himself and apply healing lotions.

Theo quickly dressed, pushing past the wizard who’s face seemed twisted and morphed into something ugly, something judgmental for an act he’d been a complicit participant in.

“Just get out,” Theo harshly whispered, trying to ignore the tears that had started to prick his eyes.

The wizard hastily got dressed, before opening the door and slamming it behind him. Theo faced the dresser, sighing heavily as he unlocked the top drawer and grabbed his small items he kept in his pockets, shoving them inside. When he was sure he’d left nothing in the room, he apparated directly to his bedroom in the manor.

It wasn’t long before his sore body was soaking beneath medicinal bubbles, a calming lavender scent carrying in the water. Theo pulled his knees to his chest, allowing the tears to drip onto his cheeks now that no one was watching him. He didn’t hold back the waves of unhappiness and anger that flooded through his chest, or the sobs that began bubbling out of his throat. He gave himself permission to wallow in the grief of always feeling disgusting and used after fucking someone, and let the fear wash him away, like the water washed the blood and fluids from his body.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Thank you to all the new (and/or returning) readers, kudo leavers, bookmarkers, and commenters. It has been such a delight engaging with this community as a writer after being such a long term reader and I'm excited to continue!

Chapter Three

That night, Draco dreamed of Hermione – his mind painted her sneering at his books, tearing them apart with her biting wit that seemed to pound his pride deeper and deeper into the floor. Her mouth curled in distaste and her eyes found his as she delivered her final blow with her piercing, knowing gaze, “This book can subsequently be chalked up to silly little pining poetry that ridicules the complexity of romance and offers nothing of substantial literary contribution at all.”

Draco’s body lurched up in his bed, his skin sweaty and his breath heaving. His t-shirt felt stuck to his skin as he tried to fill his lungs with oxygen and relief. The picture of the whole group laughing at him, agreeing with her – it made Draco want to shut himself inside a dark room forever and never write anything else at all for the rest of his life. He tried to catch his trembling breath and swallowed the thick lump in his dry throat. He was so fucking thirsty; Draco leaned over to his bedside table and grabbed the cup he kept there, bringing it to his mouth and drinking.

After everything he had experienced during the war and the years that followed, it seemed ridiculous to him that he might be bothered so much by what Granger thought. Yet, he couldn’t shake the sound of a laughter he once lusted after, now shooting into him like daggers. Shame weighed down heavily on Draco's shoulders as they hunched forward, his hands rubbing at his thighs soothingly beneath his covers and sheets. His teeth clenched tightly, his breath evening out a little more now.

Was it really so fucking bad? Was he really making such a grave error for simply trying to answer his goddamn questions he’d written two fucking books about?

He just wanted her to hear what he was trying to say – his attempts to make sense of his past, his regrets, the things he couldn't go back and change, his journey towards some sort of redemption. Draco felt like his growth was invisible, that he'd never escape his reputation or even be brave enough to one day try.

He'd spent so many countless hours pacing back and forth in his office, arguing with himself on what the point of trying to get public recognition for all of this would be. It's not like anyone would ever be able to see past his namesake, his practically trademarked platinum blonde hair - his past. He knew that this was his legacy now and it was his burden to bear. She had been, and still was, the only lingering reason he couldn't argue away.

It had always been such a hopeless case, which made the most delicious, unattainable longing. It blossomed in his chest and filled him with an ache he couldn’t soothe with desire forever unquenched. He knew it was safer, though, to long and lust after her ghost. It didn’t come with the possibility of rejection; she didn’t even know who was saying those words. Just whoever she pictured in her mind as she skimmed his prose.

For Draco, when he wrote those poems, he was trying to reach Hermione through the void that separated them, every word infused with his heart’s intentions and professions, to confess his feelings, and offer a semblance of an apology for his past actions. He sighed, taking another drink of water as he wrestled with the reality of the situation. To Hermione though, those strings of words could mean anything and they were incapable of holding the same radical honesty and significance that they held for him. Draco was well aware that this was entirely due to his own cowardice and lack of accountability. He knew where he stood with Granger and the idea of him proclaiming himself as the author, sweeping her off her feet, and instantly making everything better was completely ridiculous. It was nothing he could realistically hope for, yet he begrudgingly did.

He felt afraid that this chess move, this encounter, this proximity that might be either the death or rebirth of him and his art. It was petrifying. He knew it was something he no longer seemed to have the ultimate choice over though. He couldn’t stay in this ghosted stagnancy, especially after how electric it had felt seeing her holding his precious book of frantic prayers in her hands.

Draco sighed heavily, his thoughts running too fast to hope to fall asleep, even though it was the early morning cusp of nighttime. He pulled back the covers, freeing his legs, and climbed out of his bed. As he stood, Draco pushed his shoulders back to pop his spine and rolled his neck out, cracks sounding in his ears. He could at least try to write some poems to bundle and take to Tom, since he'd raced home after seeing Hermione in the bookstore and cancelled their meeting. It would be such a relief for the incessant pestering to stop, and Draco had written more, especially after these past few days.

Draco’s bedroom was dark with a heavy air carrying the musty scent of stagnancy and sleep. The decorative rugs, chosen by his mother, covered the cold, wooden floors and the overall atmosphere did not reflect the older resident with the outdated aesthetics of his youth. Draco couldn’t be bothered to change those things though; he was fine enough, even if it did cause the occasional nightmare and trigger from his teenage trauma. He’d grown accustomed to it now, finding a strange sense of comfort in the familiarity and nostalgia of his younger days.

As he walked through the manor, the morning air chilly on Draco’s exposed, slightly damp arms, anxiety sparked through him, tinged with uncertainty at his decisions and actions not yet taken. The whole endeavour seemed so small yet so colossal; Draco’s mind even curiously wondering if this might be his opportunity not just to hear her opinion, but to get close to Granger. Draco’s chest felt tight at the idea of even talking to her, much less actualizing any of his fantasies or dreams – she felt so far, yet closer than ever.

It seemed so much safer to just stay in his home, locked away in the familiar ruminations and pulled-out prose, his mind conjuring atonement. At least here, Draco’s hand reached forward to turn the knob on his office door and open it, he knew where he stood. There wasn’t denial inside the walls of his mind’s castle of yearning and pining – it was romantic and unrealistic and entirely unreachable.

The elves had not yet awakened to start a fire and a chill hung in his eerily quiet space. With a wave of his wand, Draco wordlessly started a fire in the fireplace, and the familiar background noise of crackling made his racing thoughts a bit quieter for a moment. As he sat at his desk, papers haphazardly scattered from where his messy thoughts had left off last night, Draco fingered the swirled lines of ink and wondered yet again if he was making a mistake.

Maybe all of this was a bad idea and he should just continue as he had. Things were alright, he was lonely – sure, but that’s not the worst thing to be, right? He had friends who he cared for amidst their silly disputes and drama. He had Tom. His poems, his letters that claimed he was worth something, unknowingly sent to a contemptible recipient. Was he really prepared to risk everything he had built, this monument his pen had so lovingly carved, for further inspiration – for the chance at something more?

He thought of the way Hermione’s face had seemed when she picked up his book again in the bookstore last week. It always seemed to come back to that. Every time he hesitated, every time the fear made him want to flee and hide and never emerge into society, he thought about how beautiful she looked in the light of the bookshop.

Draco’s mind had been exhaustively turning Hermione's expression over and over for the past few days, desperately trying to interpret it for any hidden meaning beyond the plain reality that she had been excited for his book’s release. He knew he was just trying to protect himself from being hurt, but he couldn't deny the overwhelming need to see her again, to know for certain how she felt. He couldn't lie to himself and say he wouldn't regret it if he didn't at least go, even once.

With a heavy mind and anxious stomach, Draco grasped his muggle pen he’d purchased in an attempt to feel closer to Hermione. He began to write, trying to sort out his thoughts and hesitations onto the page.

A thirst unquenchable but water within my grasp

I needed to know, I couldn’t not ask

My curiosities piqued and critiques untrue,

I am desperate to know if you’ll agree too –

Will you scorn my secret wishes and confessions?

These soul torn admittances and reflections –

They burn through me I feel helpless to their demands

If I don’t have courage now, there won’t be a me left to stand.

With hesitancy and a good bit of fear, I’ll make the first move,

Hoping and praying it won’t be obvious how much I have to lose.

Will she see through me like a stained-glass window?

This reputation clouded transparency she only believes she knows

Draco sighed, his eyes a little heavier with his admitted thoughts. He could only really write in spurts, like a punctured artery – a fluidity only obtained with consistent proximity to his muse. He had survived so far by suckling inspiration from newspaper articles, stories passed through friends, and his exceedingly rare happenstance passing encounters. His wells were fading fast though; he somberly knew he had already said as much as he could about their past, and now, it was the future that held promise, sworn inspiration.

Draco gathered the stack of papers he would bring to Tom that morning. He determined firmly, promising himself that he would send an owl to Pansy asking how he might join her book club and take further steps upon her reply. His lips pressed tightly and his teeth tore at the flesh inside his mouth anxiously.

His eyes flitted to the clock, showing the time to be a short while before 4 am. Maybe he could try to get a little bit more sleep or think of some more poems while he at least laid in bed. Draco stood, bringing some blank parchments and his pen with him as he walked back to his bedroom. The room was still dark when he walked inside, headed to his bed to sit on the side. He felt more anxious than he would like, but it didn’t seem intense enough to justify his limited quantity of potions to help the worst of his attacks.

Draco laid down, pulling the covers over his body and closed his eyes, trying to string together prose as he relaxed.

I’d be so fervent I’d fall to my knees

The purest devotion, the world might ever see

This reparation…

When Draco suddenly woke up again, the morning light pierced through his green draperies adorning his windows, he realised he’d fallen asleep with his face smushed onto his papers. The parchment crinkled as his head lifted with a groan, Draco’s eyes blinking a few times as he got his bearings amidst the hazy darkness. His body rolled over, hands falling to rest on the rhythmic rise and fall of his stomach. Draco looked up at the canopy above his bed, the embroidered constellations looking back at him as his eyes skittered over their perfect edges as he had done for thousands of nights of sleep. He felt dreadful, a non-insignificant amount of nervousness aching the physical space inside his chest, between his ribs.

Draco’s mind ticked down the list of things he wanted to do today, distracting himself from the sensation.

- Call on Tom and give the persistent fucker his damn papers

- Stop by the bookstore and see if he could find anything interesting

- Grab lunch and a drink, maybe he’d owl Theo and ask if he wanted to meet up

- Owl Pansy about the book club

- Get obnoxiously stoned and devour his new book by the fire till he fell asleep

His plan structured and determined, Draco swung the thick, plush covers off his body, the cool air striking him with goosebumps that rose up on his skin.

The elves were up at this point, Draco making his way to the dining room for his breakfast. They knew what he liked: fresh fruit in the morning with a cup of tea and toast. Nothing too heavy, or else he’d just want to curl back up into bed. Draco mostly tried to avoid the sensation of unease and uncertainty as he wrote Theo an invitation to meet him for lunch that afternoon. He asked one of his elves to post it, and they agreed, sending it quickly. Draco read the newspaper while he ate and waited for Theo’s reply.

A good bit later (Theo wasn’t particularly a morning enthusiast), Draco received his response of a terribly large and sprawled ‘yes’ that appeared written in Theo’s sleep. He chuckled a little, finishing his breakfast and standing from the table to get ready for his day and head out.

***

The printing office that Tom ran smelled like wet ink and paper; a scent Draco found as intoxicating now as it was when he first stepped into the office. Even though it was near the end of the workday on Friday, the sound of scratches on hovering quick notes quills, dings of typewriters, and the hum of an office connected in thought made for a persistently fast paced environment that always amusingly reminded Draco of a honeybee colony. He looked at all the clusters of reporters, editors, and publishing agents in their various conversations and smiled, a pang of jealousy inside his stomach at their community and friendliness.

Tom was waiting for him in the doorway of his office, having seen Draco approaching from the end of the hall (it was hard not to with his beacon of platinum hair and his absurdly tall stature). When Draco approached, Tom smiled at him with a relief he could understand. Tom had been asking Draco for his fucking pages for damn near three weeks now. Draco felt like Tom needed to be more understanding of the creative process and the fact that most of what initially came out was a big pile of shit.

“Draco, do come in.” Tom announced, closing the door behind Draco and rounding his desk. “Please sit.” He offered with an extension of his hand.

Draco sat in the chair opposite Tom’s and pulled out the bundle of papers he’d gathered last night, laying them on Tom’s desk and pushing them towards him.

“Here you go. Most of the material for book three.” Draco announced to Tom’s fixed gaze and pressed lips. Tom accepted the packet with a calmed smile, that was, until his mind processed Draco’s sentence.

“Most?” Tom replied tensely with a now forced smile and tilted head.

Draco sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“I’ve encountered an opportunity for some inspiration, and I’d like to hold off the official submission till I write some more.” He said, and Tom sighed stressfully, shaking his head.

“We really need to start getting these transcribed and printed, Draco. Your second book has been even more popular than the first and I think the sooner we can follow it up and establish a trinity, the more secure your success will be.” Tom explained.

Draco nodded understandingly and shrugged his shoulder.

“I mean, look for yourself. I put the newer stuff on top. You’ll see – it’s better.” He clarified.

Tom’s eyes skimmed over the lines, his head nodding to the rhythms and beats of the pose. Draco could hear the outside noise in the silence and he swallowed a tense lump that sat in his throat. Tom turned the page, reading the one he wrote after encountering Hermione in the bookstore.

“Fuck.” Tom said, his finger pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut stressfully. “These are better. Have you been talking with whoever you write these about?” He asked.

Draco nodded, “In a way, but I have a real opportunity to see her more often, and I think the poems would be elevated because of that. I just need some more time.” He explained.

Tom sighed; the stiffness evident in his exhale.

“I can give you another month, maybe two if it’s something truly special. If you end up writing more like these though, there’s a real chance that we might have to redo the rest of the book as well to match the quality. It could end up being your most successful yet if you can manage to tell more of a cohesive storyline.” He said, trailing off to mutter more to himself. “It might take more editing for sure, I’ll have to bring on Branson and –“ He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Let me bother about those details though. Just get me more poems like these,” He held up Draco’s most recent prose. “And we can seriously talk about a contract for a long series conditional on the success with the new direction.”

Draco held back a little laugh. New direction, as if this wasn’t just him potentially writing less pathetic longing poetry that he simultaneously felt proud of and self-disgusted.

Draco smiled a tight-lipped curl at Tom and replied that he understood and would try to move as quickly as he could.

Tom stood, offering his hand to Draco to shake, which he did. Tom led him out of his office and Draco headed down the hallway by himself from there. He could always feel the stares of people wondering what business he could possibly have there, to which he tried his best to never respond. They didn’t need to know and he wasn’t about to offer his reasons.

***

The day was pleasant as Draco walked down the street, vendors bustling and shops with their patrons coming and going. He never tried to draw attention to himself but it inevitably followed him wherever he went. He had plans to go to his favourite bookstore, Jameson’s, a tucked away cluster of peace where he hoped he’d be able to get lost in the winding paths and not be bothered for a bit of time.

Draco approached the shop, walking up to enter; however – he spectacularly picked exactly the wrong moment to step in because Hermione Granger was pushing the door open and walking out. When their eyes met, Draco’s heart fully stopped, the organ practically falling out of his body as a cold sweat took over. Hermione immediately looked so uncomfortable, him just staring at her, obstructing her path like a fucking buffoon of impertinence.

“Excuse me,” Hermione muttered under her breath as she passed him.

Draco’s throat closed as his mouth gaped around the words that desperately tried to push forward. He couldn’t lose this opportunity.

“G-Granger!” He stammered, and Hermione turned, her expression confused as she paused.

“Yes?” She inquired tensely, looking at him with hesitation and a nervousness she couldn’t conceal.

“I’ve heard you run a book club,” It was so fucking awkward, Hermione’s gaze irritated and impatient as he rushed to speak before he’d never have another chance. “I was wondering if I might join it.”

Hermione peered at him with squinted, analytical eyes.

“You want to join?” She crossed her arm not holding her purchases across her body, looking at him suspiciously. “Why?”

Draco knew it would sound pathetic; he wasn’t at all prepared for this encounter, and it deviated from his plan. He really did have at least an idea of how this would go before this moment, but his mind was entirely blank.

“I’ve become a bit of a literature fanatic since everything,” He laughed inelegantly, vaguely gesturing. “Who else would have a more comprehensive analysis of the books than you?” He said, a blush unnervingly spreading across his cheeks with the rising flush of his body.

Hermione cleared her throat, uncomfortably looking down at her feet with furred brows.

“I mean, I suppose that might be a fair assessment.” She muttered with a clenched jaw, eyes skittering around the area, seemingly not displeased at his association, just his presence. “It’s open to anyone to join, it’s not like there’s a particularly difficult process. Some light paperwork.” She sounded cautious; unease seemed to run rampant in her body, and Draco struggled to suppress the urge to soothe her in any way.

“Just owl me whatever I need to fill out, and I’ll get it back to you by the end of the day.” He replied and she nodded.

“Alright. We meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 7 o’clock at a variety of hosting opportunities that change per week.” She replied.

Glee exploded inside of Draco’s stomach, and he tried his best not to let it show on his face.

“What book are you reading now? Just so I can be prepared.” Draco inquired as cool and nonchalantly as he could, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

Hermione sighed, looking at the watch on her wrist. Draco knew he was holding her up; he just wanted more time with her, wanted to let his eyes feast upon her for a few more moments.

“We’ve actually just started reading the second volume of an anonymous poetry series called ‘Invisible Strings’. You can actually purchase both books…in that bookstore,” Hermione gestured behind him awkwardly. “And I highly recommend reading the first before coming, um, even though we’ve already covered it. The second book is a building on the same concepts and prose style.” She explained.

“And, do you like it?” Draco couldn't resist asking, his breath held.

Hermione seemed to force a smile, pulling her shoulder bag higher from where it had slipped down. She sighed a little impatiently.

“I imagine you’ll hear far too many of my thoughts at the book club, but as you might know, it’s pretty popular right now,” she said with a breathy, nervous laugh that made Draco want to collapse onto the street. “I’d say the poems feel pretty personal. I think whoever published them is brave. Maybe stupid. We haven’t read the ending of it yet, so I can’t evaluate it totally until that point.” She continued, her tongue slipping over her lips to wet them. She seemed to almost say something else but stopped herself. After a lengthy pause of both of them nodding agreeably, she concluded, “Anyhow. I’ve got to get back to work, this is just my lunch break.”

Draco’s head dipped, suppressing the smile that was trying to explode from inside him, motioning her silently to go on her way. His fingers curled up into fists, and he noticed how damp his palms had become in his anxious control over himself.

“It was nice running into you, thank you for allowing me to join your club.” He said in a stilted tone that made him feel like he was back in Hogwarts again staring at her from across the classroom.

Hermione nodded, smiling a little from the corner of her mouth.

“Sure, I’ll expect to see you then.” She said cordially and turned to walk away.

Draco released the pent-up longing sigh from his lungs, his insides brimmed with joy as he watched her cross the street, jogging a little to quickly speed up. She turned the corner and then was gone. Draco’s head lifted towards the sky and his lips formed a silent prayer of ‘thank you’ for whoever in the universe heard his tormented lamenting, said they’d heard enough, and decided to put him out of his misery.

That was enough for Draco to soar into the sky and become a cloud and shed his mortal bodily constraints. He considered cancelling lunch, cancelling all events – purchasing a pensive so that he could replay this memory for the rest of his life. He wanted to click his heels, to spin in the streets, to shout for everyone to hear that he had just conversed casually with the love of his life and producer of fantastic fear, and it hadn’t been terrible, and that he felt real, actual hope for the first time in months.

Instead of doing that though, he dipped inside the store and made direct progress towards the back where everyone too consumed with the volume of texts offered never wandered. It was the type of bookstore that had books so stuffed together they had to resort to storing them in shelves across each doorway, on top of other books, even magically expanding their walls to accommodate more. Draco could breathe in the scent, such a perfect, wonderful scent. It always reminded him of his amortentia potion, a mix of cedar, pine, and old books.

Draco felt like his feet would take off from the ground, he was so filled with excitement and nervous energy. His body trembled and he didn’t try to suppress the plastered grin on his face. No one was around so Draco allowed himself to bask in the gloriousness of the moment, the sensation, the experience. He took a deep breath, inhaling, leaning his head back with closed eyes and luxuriating.

He didn’t really know what he was looking for, and especially now, his mind was scattered. He also didn’t want to leave without finding something. Draco’s eyes wandered the shelves aimlessly until they landed Biggbleborn’s Guide to Prose and Poetry. His fingers pulled it from the shelf – it was a newer edition, and he previously hadn’t been able to complete his collection of the guides. Another successful find of the day.

He did want to find something fictional; he’d already exhausted the manor’s library of anything interesting. Draco’s steps followed the hung signs offering orientation to the maze of bookshelves, leading him towards a more populated section of the store. His eyes landed on a series of muggle authors, not a large section in the least, but still a section. It was particularly why he enjoyed this store so much. He pulled a classic he’d read before but didn’t own, The Count of Monte Cristo, and decided that would be his night’s entertainment. That was, if he’d be able to even read with the speed at which his thoughts and fantasies played out absently in his mind.

Draco looked down at his watch and realised he was supposed to be meeting Theo for lunch in twenty minutes. He quickly hurried over to the register, purchased his books, and went about his way. He decided he would walk over to try and work out some of the anxious excitement pulsing through his body. He passed the shops and the people and tipped his head towards them in courtesy. People sneered at him as he passed, but Draco couldn’t care – nothing in the world mattered because he had talked to Hermione Granger, and she didn’t curse him, and everything was wonderful.

Had anything ever felt this glorious? This full of potential and hope? Draco could skip to the fucking lunch if he wasn’t in public. Fuck drugs, he needed more time with Hermione Granger.

***

When Draco walked into the restaurant to see Theo waving at him from one of the corner booth tables, Draco couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face, even when he tried to overpower it. Compulsively, he would start smiling again, and even a few times laughed to himself in disbelief at the occurrence of events today. It was such an abnormality for him that even Theo asked what sunshine had decided to take residence in his arse that day.

Theo just didn’t understand, and Draco couldn’t explain, so he just shrugged it off and let Theo talk incessantly for almost the entirety of their lunch. Draco barely paid attention, his mind drifting and wandering to how he might string together descriptions of his encounter with Hermione today.

The ecstasy of her company, the privilege of her time, I can barely speak to her, so I result to foolish rhyme -

“Hello?” Theo snapped his fingers in front of Draco’s face, and his eyes snapped back into focus. “Where the hell did you go? Or been? You’ve been acting quite strange today.” Theo’s eyes peered at him suspiciously.

“Nowhere. Sorry.” Draco dismissed it, shaking the foggy thoughts from his mind.

“No no – are you distracted for a reason?” Theo’s face tilted as he perceived Draco. “Or-“ Theo’s eyebrows shot to the top of his face as his finger lifted in accusation. “A witch! You’re dating a witch! I knew it!” He exclaimed, and Draco felt a flush he tried to control, but Theo seemed to see through him.

“No, I’m not dating anyone right now.” Draco admitted, stabbing at his potatoes and shoving them into his mouth quickly.

“No, but you want to be.” Theo’s eyes squinted at him. “Have you got a terrible cru- “ Theo’s words were cut off. “Oh no.” He said ominously.

Draco felt anxious suspicion flood over his senses as he feared Theo would somehow actually know his secret.

“Tell me you haven’t started fucking Pansy again.” He said, and Draco’s face scrunched up in disgust.

“Merlin, Theo, absolutely not!” He denied Theo’s allegation with an adamant shake of his head. “It’s nothing like that. You know I haven’t been interested in her since our Hogwarts fling and never again since.”

“Damn,” Theo said disappointedly. “I really want her to stop sleeping with Blaise.”

Draco looked back at him with disbelief and frustration.

“Theo, even in this theoretical occurrence of events, there’s no fucking way that even if I was sleeping with Pansy, which I’m not, that then Blaise would be interested in sleeping with you. He’s so fucking heterosexual it’s almost painful.” Draco said and Theo’s lips curled in disappointment.

“I know that. I do – really – it’s just so hard when he’s so attractive and soft and kind.” Theo sighed dreamily. “I bet he’d fuck like a god too.”

Draco felt relieved he was off the hook.

“That’s at least the rumour.” Draco murmured in agreement, taking a sip of his drink so he wouldn’t have to talk. Theo leaned his head against his hand and stared off into a blank space somewhere.

The rest of the lunch progressed similarly, Theo chattering and Draco daydreaming. When they parted, Theo swore to Draco that if he’d ever bring a witch home to him, that he would be extremely pleasant to her and not at all a dick. Draco smiled, giving his friend a smile and a clap on the shoulder, accepting his offer with far too much secret hope.

***

“I had the strangest encounter today,” Hermione cautiously mentioned as she dried a dish with a towel, leaning the side of her hip against the countertop to look sideways at Ginny.

“Yeah? What happened?” Ginny, who had come over for wine and dinner, asked while sitting on the counter, casually twirling her wand through her fingers.

“I ran into Draco Malfoy.” She started, catching Ginny’s eyebrows raised in open incredulity. “He was walking into Jameson’s just as I was headed out.”

“Blimey, what happened?” Ginny’s eyes widened.

“He asked to join our book club,” Hermione hesitantly replied, setting down the plate onto the countertop.

Ginny levitated the plate with her wand to the associated cupboard as Hermione finished drying them. She still liked to do it by hand, the motion was soothing and nostalgic to her, even if Ginny thought it was a waste of time.

“You’re bloody joking,” Ginny exclaimed incredulously, eyes wide as she looked at Hermione for more details.

“I’m not.” Hermione shook her head. “It was a bit odd, he almost seemed nervous.” Her eyes fixed on reaching for the next plate in the hot, soapy filled sink.

“I mean, you are in general, terrifying, Hermione.” Ginny took a drink from her half filled wine glass.

“I suppose.” Hermione shrugged. “I guess I never thought he’d ever want to join a book club, much less my book club. Honestly, I thought he’d call me something horrible and shove me out of the way.”

“But he didn't?” Ginny asked.

“No, he asked me what I think about Invisible Strings.”

“He knows that book?” asked Ginny.

Hermione nodded. “Apparently, or at least enough that he didn’t gape at me and ask me for directions on where to find it in the shop.”

“That is strange,” Ginny mused, leaning her cheek against her hand. “How’d he look?”

Hermione paused, thinking back to his startled expression. His hands had been shaking but he’d tried to hide it, she didn’t understand why - didn’t she have more reason to be anxious by his presence than him? His face looked worn but the way his eyes had fixed on her with such unwavering intensity made a shiver run down her spine. Something in her stomach had twisted with the earnestness of which he’d asked her for her thoughts.

“He looked tired,” she simply said, omitting the totality of her experience.

She also neglected to mention that something in his gaze marvelled at the sight of her with such openness that it had made her stop short. She’d always wanted to be looked at like that, dreamed about it really, as if he was desperate for a crumb of her time. If it hadn’t been Draco Malfoy who the eyes belonged to, she would’ve lingered, could’ve even accepted an invitation to spend more time together.

Ginny gave a groan of disinterest. “That tosser has no reason not to be sleeping like a damn baby on his million thread count sheets.”

Those silver eyes were a burning fire and had already begun to consume her thoughts in scorching fixation. Hermione reached into the water, her gaze unfocused. That encounter was all she could think about the rest of the way home and nearly every moment since. Her mind kept replaying it and absentmindedly thinking back to her poet, wondering what he might think of the whole experience.

“Doesn’t he though?” Hermione looked at Ginny over her shoulder. “Voldemort lived with his family for so long, who knows what sort of awful things happened there. I think the war would be just as hard if not harder to recover from if we’d gone through that.”

Those cold, grey floors. The dark atmosphere of the space, as if hope was sucked out. The drawing room. Goosebumps rose on Hermione’s skin as her eye drifted from where her hand clutched the edge of the sink to the scar on her forearm, partially hidden by her rolled up sleeves. Her own memories from that manor still haunted her dreams and she’d only been there for a single day. She couldn’t imagine the trauma of so many months living with Voldemort and his horrors of amusement.

Ginny sighed heavily, grabbing the mostly empty wine bottle and pouring the rest of it into her glass.

“I suppose. Doesn’t mean I can’t still think he’s a pompous prick though.”

Hermione chuckled at her friend’s words but there was a prickling sensation in the back of her mind, something about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. As if a thought was so close in her mind to being recognized but it drifted just out of her reach. Hermione sighed, frustrated. She didn’t like when she couldn’t figure things out.

After a few seconds though, she dismissed the thought as over-thinking and paranoia, both of which she was prone to. Even if he wanted to come to the book club, there wasn’t any reason why that would mean anything more than him trying to get back in good graces.

The thought was surprisingly a bit disappointing.

It’s not like she particularly expected anything different, it was entirely in character for Malfoy to begin rebuilding his reputation after a respectable amount of time, she knew that he’d gone to Azkaban for a short while, even though she had written that letters that she and Harry had written in his defence.

Hermione chewed on her lower lip, grabbing a fork from the hot water. She rinsed it, and dried the metal before placing it in the pile of clean dishes.

It wouldn’t do much good to try and figure him out. Best to see if he even shows up at the book club in the first place or if the whole thing was some random ploy to get her attention for whatever reason.

“Do you want to get some late night Kebabs?” Ginny suddenly asked.

Hermione smiled over her shoulder at her clearly tipsy friend, before agreeing that she could go for the greasy takeout doner place just around the corner from her flat. Ginny always craved it after they drank wine at Hermione’s place, if anything she was a little bit early in the typical timing of her request.

Hermione finished up the dishes, before quickly walking over to the entry hall to slip on her flats and grabbing a light coat to sling over her arms, just in case it was cold.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Hello readers, I apologize for the gap in the update - per the daunting and scary fanfiction writer's curse, my life began to fall apart a bit and I needed to take some personal time to compose that. I've written a longer chapter and have intentions to update more frequently now that things are settled more. Enjoy!

Theo woke to his elves politely informing him that there was a group of Aurors at his front door. Theo sighed, familiar with these incredibly tedious and cumbersome random inspections sanctioned by the Ministry. He groaned, running his hands over his face before getting out of bed, instructing his elves to allow the Aurors in but not past the entry hall till he was ready to receive them. They popped off and Theo miserably made his way to get dressed and ready to put on a facade of charm and good graces.

As Theo walked down the hallway, most of the portraits were still sleeping. It was the early hour of eight AM and the sun was already up, its dappled light shining through the occasional window Theo passed. He approached the entry hall, lingering around the corner to take a deep breath to compose his irritation at having to go through this yet again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Nott Manor. I am Theodore Nott, how may I be of assistance today?”

The cluster of Aurors scowled at Theo’s tone, but one man pushed through the crowd and stood before Theo with neutral, professional green eyes.

Harry Potter.

“Morning Nott.” Potter squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, giving him an air of importance that Theo smirked at. “We have an authorization to search these premises for any dark magical artifacts, Death Eater propaganda, illegal creatures and or substances derived from them, and other assorted contraband.”

Theo noticed the way his gaze searched Theo’s expression, as if Potter might find evidence on Theo himself.

“Just like none of these items were found before, I assure you, this search will also prove uneventful.” Theo smirked. “Also, where’s Lewis?”

Theo looked around the group but didn’t see the head Auror that previously led all the searches.

“Head Auror Lewis has decided to retire. I am the newly appointed Head Auror of the department,” Harry informed him curtly, pressing his lips together.

“We’ll then, Head Auror Potter, let’s get this over with quickly, for both our benefits and sanities.” Theo clapped his hands together, smiling tightly at the men who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Potter looked him up and down before grimly replying, “I couldn’t agree more.”

Of course, after a few hours, the Auror team naturally did not find what they sought, much to the evident frustration of the group and their Head Auror. Theo leaned against the wall of the reception ballroom, one foot propped up, watching wands cast ‘Revelio’ spells and nothing being revealed with disappointed sighs and huffed breaths.

“There’s got to be something here,” Dawson, one of the Aurors who seemed quite new, grumbled.

“You’d think,” another Auror with a thick Scottish accent sneered at Theo, “but wherever he’s hiding the goods, even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep them here.”

Both Auror’s posture snapped abruptly straight as Potter strode through the doors, quickly scanning the room before spotting Theo and walking over to him. Theo nonchalantly peered at Potter, taking in his composition and smiling a bit at the dark annoyance evident on his face. His unkempt boyishness of their shared Hogwarts years had morphed into something more professional and confident, with a rugged edge that Theo couldn’t help but find delicious. It really was a shame he was straight—his profile was unfairly gorgeous with his full lips and chiselled jawline. All the pretty boys only liked girls though, it always worked like that. The universe was unfair, but Theo could bitch and moan about it all he liked.

“We’re just finishing up here, to your benefit, we didn’t find anything, but as always, we appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Nott.” Potter’s voice sounded perfectly agreeable but Theo’s mind couldn’t help thinking how lovely he might sound in a more…dishevelled state.

He shook off those thoughts before he got a hard-on he couldn’t hide. Potter’s uniform was already fitted to his body and showed he was delightfully fit in a way that piqued Theo’s interest.

“Anytime,” Theo said softly, tongue darting out to lick his lips quickly.

Potter’s eyes immediately tracked the movement, widening and flickering up to Theo’s, who raised an eyebrow curiously when Potter swallowed hard. There was a moment where the two wizards stared at each other - only a blink of time but Theo saw Potter’s pupils dilating against his stunningly green eyes and Theo’s breath hitched.

Potter opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by one of the older men walking into the ballroom and declaring that they were finished. Potter nodded over his shoulder, and cleared his throat as he turned back to Theo, offering a lingering look and a tense smile.

He began walking away, Theo unable to resist daydreaming with an appreciative glance and a tilted head just how alluring his arse looked underneath his flowing robes as he strode towards the clustering Aurors.

“Hey, Potter!” He heard one of the Aurors call across the room.

Potter turned to look at him, a momentary weariness flashing across his face.

“Yeah?” he replied, watching the other Auror jog over to meet him in the centre of the room.

Theo could make out their voices, just barely.

“The team wants to go out this weekend to celebrate you becoming our new Head Auror, let’s go to the pub on Friday night.”

“Oh, Friday’s no good.” Potter shook his head.

“What, you got a date or something?” The Auror wolfishly grinned.

“No, just getting together with Ron and Gin and Hermione over at Celestial, they want to celebrate with me too.” A flush seemed to raise up on Potter’s cheeks.

Theo thought he looked terribly pretty when he was a bit embarrassed.

“Well, then,” the Auror slapped Potter’s arm, “another time.”

Potter nodded agreeably, sighing heavily as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. He looked over at his shoulder one last time at Theo, looking him up and down before walking out of the room.

Curiouser and curiouser indeed. Theo might need to do his own little investigation of Head Auror Potter.

He pushed off the wall, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets and began constructing his scheme.

***

Light paperwork – Draco should’ve known better when she said ‘light’. The morning after his encounter with Granger, a tawny, brown owl had delivered a heavy, thick stack of parchment bundled in brown paper, a profoundly comprehensive overview of nearly every analytical thought one might possess towards literary works, both muggle and magical. Draco’s eyes skittered over the endless rows of lines, questions regarding scheduling, personal experience with reading, and even a fucking personality questionnaire and dietary constraints survey – Draco sighed as he knew that he’d be filling it out for the rest of the evening.

It was worth it, he just needed to remember what this was leading him towards. He began writing out his answers to questions only Hermione Granger would’ve thought to ask. Draco peered at the document, trying to make sure he understood all the directions completely and wouldn’t answer anything like an incompetent buffoon Granger might deem further unsuitable and unworthy of admittance into her ever so exclusive-open-to-anyone club.

QUESTIONNAIRE FOR THE READING EXPLORATION GROUP OF MUGGLE/MAGICAL LITERARY ANALYSIS (REGMLA)

Please read each statement carefully. Then using this scale provided below, rate the extent to which the statement is true of you, along with further explanations of answers where appropriate, or upon the applicant’s desire for additional detail.

1 = not at all true (false)

2 = slightly true

3 = moderately true

4 = quite true

5 = extremely true (true)

1. I disliked literature and reading assignments in school because most of the texts I was asked to read I would not have chosen myself

Draco scribbled down a 3, smiling to himself as he thought about all the afternoons he had watched Granger surround herself with dusty books till she disappeared behind them. He continued, reading and rating his experience.

2. Sometimes while reading literature my feelings draw me toward a distinctly unsettling view of life, additionally, please provide any examples of works of literature that have inspired that feeling inside of you.

4, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson, Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

3. While reading I completely forget what time it is

5

4. Literature enables you to understand people that you'd probably disregard in normal life, what is an example of a book that changed your perspective of other people?

5, A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf

5. I think people should spend less time talking or writing about literature

2

6. In literature I sometimes recognize feelings that I have overlooked during my daily life

4

7. Very often I cannot put down a story until I have finished reading it; what was the last book you couldn’t stop reading till it was finished?

5, The Wondrous Wheels of Wizardry and Wild Wanderings by Glen Sappers

8. I don't believe that literature is socially relevant

1

9. I often see the places in stories I read as clearly as if I were looking at a picture

4

10. The type of literature I like best tells an interesting story, what was the most recent “interesting” story you read?

4, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

11. One of my primary interests in reading literature is to appreciate the author's understanding of society and culture

4

12. After reading a novel or story that I enjoyed, I continue to wonder about the characters almost as though they were real people

5

Draco continued through the paperwork till when he finished the last page, he realised it was late afternoon and he had been at his desk for several hours. His hand ached and cramped, he noticed he needed to use the bathroom, he probably should feed himself and drink some water – but a thrill shot through his body at the step he had taken today towards what once was inconceivable.

Draco stood and heard his knees pop from the stiff position they’d resided in for the last few hours. He sighed, rolling out his shoulders and neck, gathering the papers with a settling tap against his desk to align it all cohesively together. Draco rounded his desk, walking out of his office and down the hallway, carrying the bundle to his elves. He asked them to dispatch it to a Miss Hermione Granger, to which, for their credit, they only paused for a moment before nodding and obeying, clearly waiting to see if their master had made a rather unfortunate error in speech before agreeing. He had not however, much to his internal glee and stirring of arousal, so they walked away and his small step from the land of dreary stagnation had been initiated.

It was a warm, sunny day when Draco walked out of the manor into the gardens his mother and grandmother had planted together; the tulips, roses, hydrangeas, and daisies all sweetly bloomed in the air on the cusp of summer. The sixth-year anniversary of the war had passed a few weeks ago, the last week in May still tinged with the lingering touch of spring and cool dew in the early mornings. Draco thought back to how upset and hopeless he had felt, even just a few months ago in the darkest of wintertime. The wind would howl outside his office window and he would soulfully resonate with the sound, calling it friend – declaring it the music of his lamenting, lonely torment.

Now though, everything seemed more promising, less dire – with the scent of hope and possibility in the air. Draco sat down on the grass, laying his body down flat against the earth, his eyes closing as he tried to savour the sensation of the sun against his skin. For a moment, he was not being rejected, criticised, disavowed, sworn off, or any negative thing that his mind constantly threatened him with the perpetual inevitability of experiencing. For just one second, everything was perfectly alright, he was warm, he was awaiting Granger’s reply, he was not desolate – he was okay.

***

Malfoy’s paperwork arrived by a pretentiously white owl with a look that radiated wealth. Hermione had just been in the middle of annotating some documents when she was interrupted by a polite tapping against her window. When it delivered the heavy envelope into her waiting hand, a red wax seal marked with the letter M securing it, the creature had nearly scoffed at Hermione’s apparently grim apartment and had extremely reluctantly taken her offered treat of gratitude. Hermione didn’t know what type of treats the Malfoys gave their owls, but apparently hers were subpar at best, maybe even offensive if the side eye the bird gave her was any indication.

Hermione leaned against the kitchen counter and broke the seal, her finger dipping underneath the fold of the paper to open the letter. She slipped out the thick stack of parchment, eyes immediately scanning the answers that she could begrudgingly admit intrigued her.

It was…surprising. Quite different than she had expected when she sent the packet over to him initially.

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up to her forehead at so many muggle authors listed, authors that she’d assumed Malfoy never would’ve even heard of, much less be familiar with enough to call his favourites: The Count of Monte Cristo, Virginia Woolf, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Hermione could hardly believe what her eyes drank in. She bit her lip against the strange excitement that brewed in her stomach at another magical person loving the same literature she did.

The obvious conclusion was that he would purposefully screw her over, to placate her into allowing him to join, but she did say that anyone could join so why would he lie about his application? It wasn’t like it actually did have anything to do with whether or not someone was allowed to attend, more so that she’d have all the information needed to recommend books that the entire group would want to read and have a conversation about. It was quite intimate, knowing what sort of literature one liked to read, which was exactly the purpose of asking so many questions so that she could know one way or another what people liked. When she’d agreed to allow Malfoy into the book club, her mind hadn’t thought about the fact that she’d have to understand him, in a way, and accommodate his preferences as well.

Hermione tapped her pen onto the tip of her nose, a hearty debate raging inside her mind regarding what to do next. If she asked for further clarification on his answers, might he fumble? Could she catch him in his dishonesty? What would he even gain from being dishonest at all? She was perplexed with whatever game he was playing, because surely, these answers could not be Malfoy’s actual opinions. Hermione just couldn’t reconcile the hateful, pureblooded prince with someone who would’ve read much less appreciated Virginia Woolf.

She couldn’t stop her gaze from wandering over to her bookshelf in the living room, where several of the books Malfoy had mentioned were lined up, waiting for her fingers to leaf through the thin pages, once again. The thought of his eyes appreciating the same authors she did left her with an uncomfortable and curious sensation she didn’t know how to process. Did he highlight the lines that she did? Were the same quotes that meant something to her, also important to him? What had even started him into looking at muggle authors?

Hermione’s brows furrowed, looking over and over again at the same, neatly written lines that did not change, as if the words would somehow be charmed to appeal to their perceiver. She sighed heavily, before pushing off from the counter to walk over and pick up her larger, heavy bag of annotating supplies from her desk in the corner, readying herself to properly review all of Malfoy’s paperwork. She’d ask for polite clarification, leaving him to his own devices and her knowing observance to flounder helplessly when she caught him in his disappointing lies.

As she was walking over to the paper where the stack of parchment remained, Crookshanks hopped up onto the table and padded over to sniff at the parchment. Hermione watched with amusement as he plopped down, rubbing against the paper. She approached her companion, rubbing her fingers through his soft orange fur. Crookshanks started to purr, rumbling as he leaned his head into the ear rubs she gave him. After a moment, it seemed that Crooks had enough of her affection because he abruptly stood up, walking over to the end of the table to begin cleaning himself with a wet, licking sound that Hermione never got used to.

Hermione laughed a bit to herself, dusting away the stray hairs that lingered on the paper. She found her finger trailing over the writing that Malfoy had left, cautiously intrigued but knowing she should accept the likely truth that he was playing her like a fool. She needed to be prepared for the absolute worst possibility, that Draco Malfoy was putting on a show to have her guard let down, with malicious intentions to corrupt something beautiful that mattered to her from the inside out.

A fungus, a plague that could wash away all her hard work.

She wouldn’t let him. She’d find out the truth. She’d figure out what bloody game he was playing even if it drove her insane.

***

Draco should’ve known that Hermione Granger would be prompt with her paperwork corrections that she sent back to him later that evening. Coloured sticky tabs adorned the sides of the pages and the multiple highlighted questions where she requested further clarity of his answers seemed almost erotic, sending a shiver down his spine. His fingers touched where her thoughts had caressed the paper, desiring any glimpse into her mind. He wanted to lean down and smell the parchment to see if any fragments of her scent lingered. He didn’t though because he was currently trying to prove to himself that he was not pathetic.

He lasted only a few minutes of self-restraint, and to his irritating disbelief, when he smelled the paper, a stray cat hair wafted into his nose and caused him to sneeze. Draco pulled at his nose several times with his eyes squinted against the tickling sensation till it faded. Fucking beast of an animal. It had once scratched Draco when he had found it wandering the halls of Hogwarts one evening during his fifth year. He had tried to catch it, thinking it was a funny joke to perhaps plop the creature into Granger’s lap during a meal, but the cat was too fast and Draco still had the thin, silver scar on the back of his hand from its defences. He had been too prideful to admit where it had come from and told his friends he had nicked himself while shaving one morning. It amused him that Granger still had her old friend, that she wasn’t alone somewhere like him.

Of course she wasn’t alone though, she had friends and people who cared about her and her successful, incredibly highly coveted career full of promise and ambition. Hermione Granger wasn’t lonely. Additionally, now she had become the leader of this book club, which, according to Theo (who admittedly was not the most reputable source of information), held a prominent key to society’s acceptance. Draco supposed that it was the most likely excuse he could use to further explain his interest in joining her club. After being taken by surprise and babbling like an obnoxious ass – Draco’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose in overwhelming embarrassment and tried to take deep breaths to calm his clenched chest – he could at least take the time now to comprise a reasonable clarification that seemed, even at surface level, less insufferable.

Unprompted words floated into Draco’s mind and he sighed, taking a piece of parchment out to scribble down whatever came out.

Dear witch of my dreams,

I promise I’m different than I seem

There is so much more than what’s on the surface

My passion explodes and waters turn turbulent

You cannot know the way I pine

It is my secret to bury and hide

Dangerous exploration and tingling possibility

Your criticisms and corrections are thrilling to me

Tell me everything you’ve ever thought and wanted

Share with me your ideas and dreams that leave you haunted

I will listen longingly till you run out of words

An impossibility I admire like rare birds

Fill my silence with your worries and woes,

I’d admire you for hours till the restaurants close

Basking in your warmth, in your mind, in the riddling doubts –

Wishing, pining, and dreaming for your words and moans and shouts

Draco’s breath hitched at the last line. He could think of nothing more arousing than Hermione Granger talking for hours while he had the pleasure of listening to her endless mind. His tongue darted out across his lips to moisten them as he practically salivated at the particular fantasy of Granger ever letting him use that tongue for different purposes.

‘The pleasure of…’, his mind played with the phrase until it began to form into something leading to another line.

The pleasure to listen and love and quiet that mind

To grasp those hips and squeeze as you grind

To sweep my tongue and write poetry upon your intimacy

I’d worship and pledge and stay persistently

Till you begged and shuddered and pushed me away

Then I’d smile at you and say, “we’re not done for today.”

I’d crest your wave over and over till you plead for finality

This pleasure I cannot consume enough of, it’s practically my mortality

The guttural moan that sends shivers down my spine

The gasping, heaving breaths that threaten my good time

I take my pleasure from yours so freely given

I remain so steadfast in my soul driven mission

You’ve never seen devotion till you allow me this feast

Passion is a stranger until it’s me that you meet

I would ravage, I would worship, I would beseech for more time

Her body’s natural limits are definitionally, a crime

Draco’s dick strained against the restriction of his trousers and he palmed his flat hand over the bulge, exerting pressure for some release. He could feel the pulsing of arousal flooding through his brain and resigned to not being able to finish the paperwork till he addressed the situation. Draco stood from his desk and decided a hot shower and a wank would do his brain some good, maybe even allow him to get some decent sleep tonight.

***

The next morning, a glorious Tuesday full of promise, Draco sent off his owl with his updated paperwork containing corrections and the further explanations that Granger had requested. He hadn’t expected her to reply till later that evening after she came home from work, but was pleasantly surprised to receive a parchment containing a formal acceptance letter (classic Granger), an invitation to the book club meeting that night, and a request to begin considering hosting opportunities of his own and or book suggestions for the club.

Draco’s blood was practically buzzing underneath his skin, he couldn’t stop smiling, the sun had never seemed brighter, air was never sweeter. He felt like could positively explode from the occurrence of events and wanted to celebrate. It was shortly before 10 am, the invitation suggested arrival at 7:30 pm and Draco’s mind was alive with ideas of what he could do to fill the time in between those two benchmarks. His fingers tapped on the wooden breakfast table as he gazed out the window.

With a sigh as he stood up from the table, Draco’s legs aimlessly led him into his library, where he frequented whenever he was having a poetic block or wanted to read whatever book he’d already read before yet again. He was quite proud of the muggle literature section though, spanning one complete bookcase top to bottom. His mind could picture Granger’s shocked face when she couldn’t conceive the concept that a death eater could have any interest whatsoever in muggle books, much less the first editions he’d carefully collected. She’d scarcely believe that the same death eater could have any interest in her either, he’d imagine. Draco had a tendency to believe that this particular predisposition played in his favour as he didn’t have any current plans to emerge from the shadows of his past image quite yet. His chest tightened at the thought but he shoved the sensation deep inside his body as it was all thoroughly unnecessary. He just needed to get close to her to write. Anything else was too much to hope for and unrealistic. Draco had to make very sure that his fantasies and imaginations didn’t get away from him, lest they unintentionally corrupt the very proximity that he was trying to gain.

The sunlight trickled into the library, staining the floor with light and shadows of leaves from the tree just outside the window. Draco’s hands slipped into his trouser pockets as he silently observed the way the wind shifted the shadows back and forth across the wooden panels. He tried to imagine how tonight would go, but the wanderings of his mind sent sparks of fear and uncertainty shooting through his body, radiating down his legs. The only thing that ever calmed him enough in times like these was grabbing a book to read and trying to escape from his own self for a few hours, so Draco pulled down Lord of the Rings and did exactly that.

***

Draco Malfoy was going to die. He was pretty sure of it, that this would be the end of his life as he reached up to knock on the front door of the meeting location. The anxiety that burned against the inside of his body threatened to consume him entirely without empathy or remorse. He had survived Voldemort, endured the internal splitting apart that resulted from his parent’s disastrous allegiances, had continued through prison – none of that seemed applicable in the terror that flooded through his veins amidst his pounding heart. He felt like a fox in a hen house, like he didn’t belong there, like he was going to ruin everything he had carefully constructed in his isolated, private world.

An elf opened the Macmillan’s door to their modest sized estate and with a bent head and extended arm, welcomed him inside. Draco’s hands were shaking as he handed his light grey cloak to the small creature, who walked away with it and gestured for him to continue into the house where he could hear voices emanating from. He squeezed his hands into fists to stop the nervous shaking and tried to draw breath into his lungs, both relatively unsuccessful endeavours.

The Macmillan’s home was decorated with warm rugs and tapestries hung on the walls, warmth and the traces of the setting sun flooded through the hall. It seemed so different from the manor, which emanated cold hostility in the cool, silver stone lining both floors and walls. Regardless of how his mother had tried to change the atmosphere, it persisted. Draco had considered reconstructing the entire house but felt unsure where to begin or how to proceed, what changes he’d like to make – but as he looked around the house he now stood in, Draco wondered if he could ever make the manor look a bit more like this. The anxiety of what he was here to do flooded his chest again as his ears picked up the sound of laughter just around the corner.

‘You can do this. This is for a reason. This is important. You wanted to do this.’ Draco tried to repeat to himself over and over again to quiet out the screaming inside his mind that strained to convince himself to turn around and leave before anyone knew he had arrived. Draco’s jaw clenched tight and every step seemed akin to an acute betrayal to his internal alarms sounding loudly, but he knew he didn’t have anything left in the life, in the creativity that had begun to steadily decay inside the manor.

His pulsing, conflicting desires threatened to tear his body in half as his feet walked through the receiving hallway, towards a warmly illuminated room with an open door. As Draco paused outside the doorway, tucked into the concealed shadows and observing the inside of the room before entering, he saw it housed a small group of people, roughly 10 witches and only one wizard, Longbottom. The majority of the group seemed to be Granger’s friends, but he saw Astoria, Daphne, Pansy, and Millicent clustered in a small group of their own. The throng held drinks in their hands as elves offered trays of snacks around the room, a low buzz of conversation permating the space.

Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley, Hannah Abbott, and Luna Lovegood all clustered around Granger, laughing in engaged conversation that Draco felt resentful to be on such unchangeable fringes of. His heart clenched as he watched Granger, the illumination of ease surrounded by her friends, Draco tried to savour the sight and file it away for later tonight when he’d inevitably be scribbling down his experience. Draco’s eyes perceived Granger, dressed in a loose fitted auburn sweater that he considered especially attractive to the colour of her eyes and the unfortunate state of her stress frizzy hair, with tan fitted trousers that showed her legs to be lean. Her lips were parsed in irritation and maybe even concealed sadness as she shook her head and rejected an offer by an elf passing by with a tray. Draco wanted to rush up and tell her how he had freed his elves as soon as he could’ve, that he’d spent considerable thought into their treatment, giving them a salary much to their dismay and protest – that he’d done it for her. She was his moral compass in nearly all endeavours and she could never know the depths of which she had impacted his entire being. It nearly killed him, being this close with her never being able to know how much he cared.

Draco watched Weasley throw her hand on Granger’s arm in disbelief at something Granger had apparently said, the ginger’s wide eyes and shocked expression animated before her head leaned back in laughter that echoed throughout the room. Longbottom shook his head admonished while Abbott blushed a pretty pink. Draco couldn’t for the life of him ever imagine being friendly enough to ever touch Granger so openly and unapologetically. He wondered what she would do if he just walked up to her, touched her, kissed her, whispered adoration across her skin. The fantasy of her head tilting back, the unquenchable desire to pull her close and kiss that lovely neck – Draco snapped out of his imagination and tried to swallow the thought deep inside his body but it persisted stubbornly.

Granger smiled coyly at Longbottom as she took a sip from her drink, sparking jealousy amidst the goosebumps rising on the top of his skin. He needed to get his shit together and keep it together. He was about to be on display and didn’t need any subconscious betrayal bleeding through his exterior. Suddenly, as if Granger could feel his gaze upon her, her eyes snapped to his and an electric jolt passed through Draco’s startled body at the contact. Granger’s head tilted a little in curiosity with an expression he couldn’t decipher before leaning towards the group, whispering what Draco could only assume was an alert to his ghosted presence, a group whose eyes promptly turned to his in surprise.

The choking sensation inside his throat from the inevitable judgement and fate he couldn’t postpone any longer was stifling, but having been spotted, Draco emerged from the shadows and stepped into the light of the doorframe. When Draco walked into the room fully, his trembling hands hidden in his trouser pockets, the volume of conversation died down quite considerably, raising self-conscious, itchy anxiety further lodged into his throat. Draco had this reaction most places he went these days, he should be used to it by now but he wasn’t. His skin wanted to peel away from his body as people brazenly stared at him amidst poorly concealed whispers to their friends, open mouthed shocked expressions and disbelieving curiosity. He tried to put on his best mask, his defensive mechanism, a pompous exterior with his chin lifted high – a façade of confidence and indifference.

Draco’s pressure on his chest lifted ever so slightly when he saw Pansy walking towards him with a glass of wine and his new book clutched to her side with a smile pulled to one side of her mouth.

“Draco darling, I never in all my life expected to see you here.” Pansy purred as she walked up to him, hips swaying with her rehearsed seductive prance. “Why didn’t you owl that you’d be attending tonight?”

Draco smiled politely towards her with a dip of his head. From the corner of his eye, he could still see Granger staring, observing the encounter and Draco could feel the weight of evaluation upon his person.

“It was Theo’s idea actually, he thought I’ve become rather reclusive on the outskirts of society. Quite spontaneous of a decision really.” Draco replied and Pansy barked out a laugh too loud for his response, throwing her hand on his arm. Unease radiated through Draco’s chest and the implications of flirting that he thoroughly uninterested in reciprocating.

“That’s our Theo. Come, let’s go talk to our friends.” Pansy wove her arm through Draco’s, draping herself over the side of his body like adorning fine fabric.

Draco fucking hated the perfume she always wore, a terrible scent of musk and dead flowers that threatened to suffocate him every time or send him into impossibly potent sneezing fits. He nodded and allowed Pansy to lead him further into the crowd where she pulled him towards a cluster of pureblooded witches he knew in confident acquaintance. Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass and Astoria Greengrass, all gathered together clutching their drinks with poorly concealed scorns across their faces. Draco hadn’t expected to see Astoria here, but he supposed it made sense, given the amount of purebloods in attendance tonight. Astoria smiled at Draco as he approached, along with Millicent, Elizabeth and Daphne lifting their glasses towards him in acknowledgment. He smiled towards the witches, acknowledging them one by one till he reached Astoria.

“Astoria,” Draco formally greeted her with a kiss to her cheek as she leaned in close to his side.

“Hello, Draco.” She demurely replied, tilting her chin in deference.

Even being the definition of a perfect society witch, Astoria had yet to marry after their engagement had been called off by Draco following his seized control of his family affairs. Pansy, Daphne and Millicent had clustered together in animated conversation off to his right but Draco had found himself occasionally curious with Astoria’s post-war path of life and inquired further to her societal involvements recently.

“I’ve been doing quite a lot of charity work,” She replied, taking a sip of her drink. “Additionally, I’m considering pursuing further education to become a healer.”

“How surprising – what do your parents think about that?” He asked and she smiled at him knowingly.

“They don’t approve, as per all expectations, but with my own money and ability to look after myself, they wouldn’t matter.” She said with an uncharacteristic assertiveness, sending Draco’s eyebrows high on his forehead.

“I think it would be wonderful for you to pursue that. You’d be very well suited towards that career.” Draco responded, leaning towards her to dip his tone into a lower whisper for just her ears to hear, “Additionally, I can speak to the utter delight it is to escape from the suppressive and controlling desires of parents trying to constantly marry you off to eligible witches and wizards like cattle for breeding.”

Astoria leaned back and unexpectedly beamed at him, laughing and agreeing with an enthusiastic nod of her head. Even though she sparked no inspiration whatsoever in him, Draco did always think she was pretty and actually quite beautiful when she smiled like that at him. For many years he thought they might eventually come to some neutral happiness over time, but he was glad she was trying to find her own way in the world now.

“Truly! I cannot comprehend their utter fixation on procreation as the only fulfilment of one’s life. Oh, Draco, it’s such a delight to hear you say that, thank you – I’ve not had the best response when declaring my future plans to some. They all think I’ve lost my sense for pursuing something for myself.”

Draco shook his head disappointedly, knowing it had been pointless to consider pureblood society to dramatically change its generational patterns even after such a devastating war.

“Not at all. People can change and become whoever they’d like to be. It’s such a shame that it’s not more encouraged for witches to pursue their own paths.” He replied.

“And you? What have you been filling your time with recently?” Astoria inquired, sipping her drink with the most practised delicacy.

“Family affairs primarily.” Draco replied and she nodded in understanding.

For one of the first times though, Draco found himself wishing they were alone so he might feel comfortable divulging his writing, not the entirety of it but even just talking somewhat. He felt like Astoria might understand in a way he hadn’t thought she might before.

“Your mother is still in France, right?” Astoria asked politely and Draco nodded in confirmation.

“She still has two years left of house arrest, then I’m sure she’ll be back, ruling the entirety of society’s calendar with her events and matchmaking endeavours.” He drawled, emphasising the unpleasantness of the latter half of his sentence with a pulled smile and rolled eyes.

Astoria smiled in understanding and turned to her sister, including the cluster of witches into their conversation, mentioning Daphne’s recent romantic encounters with Blaise, a fact surprising to both Draco and Pansy by the look of Pansy’s expression. Astoria always was strategic with her conversations and placement of facts, ever the Slytherin, judging from the pulled smile and evaluation in her gaze towards Pansy – this conversation was no different.

“How long have you two been seeing each other?” Draco curiously inquired, to which Daphne replied that they’d been seeing each other for roughly four months, causing Pansy to choke out her drink in an unattractive spray that caught Draco’s cheek.

Draco cleared his throat, forcing his composure to remain steady as he wiped the droplets from his skin as Pansy stuttered towards Daphne, trying and failing to keep the shock contained – but to her credit, the oldest Greengrass sister kept her nerve steady. Daphne took a sip of her drink and continued to explain that she and Blaise had, in fact, begun to even make plans for a summer vacation in a few months down to Italy where Blaise had a house. Draco would know because he had also heard Pansy trying to make those same plans with Blaise for almost two months now. Pansy drank the rest of the contents of her glass quite quickly after Daphne’s further explanation and after, promptly excused herself to get another drink.

Draco wondered if he should go after her, but almost immediately after, a clinking sound drew Draco’s attention and he turned to see Granger gathering the attention of the crowd. She stood behind a circle of chairs which seemed open to anyone to choose from. Draco fought a smile at the thought of her face of bewilderment if he sat next to her, wondering if he’d have to duel Weasley for such a place of honour.

“Thank you everyone who’s returning and to any new faces here for the first time tonight, your participation keeps the relations between muggle and magical literature alive in a way it has never been before.” Granger projected her voice and led the group with an authority Draco found himself admiring. “We’ll be getting started now, so if everyone could please take a seat in the circle, we can begin.” Her instructions ever so clear, the crowd began to comply and Draco found himself shuffled towards the circle.

When he picked a chair, he ended up being seated between Astoria and Millicent, with Daphne to Astoria’s left and Pansy nowhere to be seen. Draco pulled a shrunk copy of his second book from his trouser pocket, quickly restoring the tome to its natural size. His heart pounded underneath his skin and he contemplated running out the door to avoid what he felt like was inevitable condemnation and judgement.

Granger pulled out what seemed to be a heavily annotated copy of Draco’s second book, colourful stickers extending from different pages and scribbles of pencil adorning the margins. Draco salivated at the thought of having that copy of his book to himself. He would give anything, empty his vaults, sign over his entire estate to know what she thought intimately as she unknowingly consumed what was written just for her.

“Alright, let's pick up from where we left off last week.” She announced and Draco tried to force oxygen into his lungs.

Chapter 6

Notes:

Just wanted to say thank you for all the new reads, kudos, bookmarks, and comments - it inspires me and makes my day when I see them! I also wanted to thank my alpha reader, @Elaney, who has offered invaluable assistance and encouragement to this story. Enjoy the chapter!

“Before we start talking about our thoughts on the poems twenty through forty, I wanted to read out loud one that particularly stood out to me and open the discussion for us to specifically talk about what defines an unforgivable action.” Granger announced, turning the pages in her book to poem number twenty-six.

“Is this perpetual longing my eternal consequence?
Am I damned for the defense of my prideful appearance?
Allow me the privilege to repay my debts
To whisper the sweetest apologies I’ve kept
Could I ever repair this torn tapestry I’ve shred?
From the agony of beliefs I once held and words I’ve read –
You are so much more than they ever definitionally allowed,
You shine so wonderfully bright, the hell I’ve walked through is so loud
I would fall to my knees and weep and scream
I’d do anything to show you I’m trying to stitch these ripped seams
A transformed interior but outside still looks the same
If I don’t speak up, our love will forever be a lonely game
This garden I’ve nurtured with no spring visitors to see
The way I’ve blossomed, no longer the boy I used to be
I can be different but without the courage to prove
I am nothing, I am empty, even with nothing left to lose.”

Granger’s words, clear and carefully articulated, narrated as the circle listened, the group following along in their own copies of the book. Draco felt a bead of sweat travel down the length of his spine, the seizing sensation inside his throat squeezing as he listened to Granger read his poetry. The way her lips formed his words sounded even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. Draco couldn’t look at her, eyes fixed on the page, his ears so perked at attention that nothing could have distracted him. His heart pounded with such intensity that the roar in his ears was almost deafening, Draco feared his neighbors, the whole damn circle, would hear it betraying his feigned indifference.

As she finished reading the poem aloud, she cleared her throat and opened the circle up for discussion. Draco couldn’t breathe. He had actually forgotten how to draw air into lungs that constricted further and further until he felt like he was drowning. He couldn’t move his gaze from the book, which still held his transfixed stare, as a sliver of breath painfully clawed into his body. It was all he could do not to run, not to gasp out in desperation, to heave his body towards every witch and wizard, snatching away the books holding words not meant for them.

What had he been thinking? He wasn’t supposed to be here. He didn’t belong. He needed to go, he needed to just stand up and walk out. It would spread rumors but what would they ever know of the truth? He didn’t –

“I think anyone who has wronged someone as clearly as this writer has, definitely needs a dose of groveling to get back into someone’s good graces again.” Weasley declared, crossing her legs. “I don’t know about anyone else here, but I can definitely appreciate a man on his knees.”

A chuckle reverberated throughout the group, and Draco once again held his breath as his eyes flicked to Granger, who smiled and shrugged her shoulder.

“Would there be a crime that’s considered unforgivable?” Granger asked the circle, before pausing to include, “that is, other than the unforgivable curses, but I think this poem is referring more to an action or an exclusionary belief system here. Additionally, if it is unforgivable, would there ever be anything the writer could do to repair that?”

She was stunning. Draco admired her thoughts like one might love the look of swirling calligraphy. He yearned for the gift of perceiving her for the rest of his life, if she would ever allow it, even from a distance. Draco chewed on his bottom lip to try and vent some of the steam building inside his chest.

Susan Bones, to Draco’s left, contributed where Granger had posed her question, “People can change, especially after the war, which was, as we all know, when the first book came out. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a wizard who changed his mind about how he felt about the whole societal conventions, maybe even blood purity.”

Draco hadn’t anticipated the transparency that would send shivers down his spine; this experience might be more difficult than he ever imagined. He worried about people discovering his identity, feeling suffocated by the daunting task of maintaining his façade.

“If this poem was about someone changing how they felt about blood purity and seeking to atone for past mistakes, would writing these poems be enough to indicate he’s changed?” Astoria asked bravely, sending a jolt of surprise through Draco as he whipped his head to look at her.

“Fuck no.” Weasley scoffed. “Literally even in the last lines of the poem – ‘I can be different but without the courage to prove -- I am nothing, I am empty, even with nothing left to lose.’. The author himself acknowledges it isn’t enough – we don’t even know their identity. These are just words, a fantasy, and until he’s on his knees in front of this witch, actually begging and taking accountability for his actions and apologizing, they’ll only ever be pretty words. He knows it too.”

Draco swallowed a thick gulp in his throat.

“I’m inclined to agree with Ginny,” Granger replied with a gesture towards Weasley. “We don’t know why this author decided to publish anonymously but it would take real effort, and purposeful repentance to repair, as they put it, ‘this torn tapestry’. Additionally, in a broader sense, could this be about how the writer feels, perhaps, about being ostracized from society?” Granger asked the group, her hand resting on her chin, a finger crossing her lips in thoughtful expression.

Daphne raised her hand and the conversation paused to allow her to speak.

“Being someone who experienced that same sensation, being pushed out of society, falling out of the graces, if you want to call it that – I can absolutely confirm the passionate desire to get back to a life you once had, coupled with, perhaps, a sense of mourning that such a life can’t exist anymore without hurting other people.”

There was a group wide murmur of agreement, shocking Draco. He could scarcely believe how these people weren’t fighting, wands ready and at each other’s throat.

“I think that speaks to the writer’s longing for his muse,” Granger added, “whether that be society, a witch, or perhaps even both – but the first line of this, ‘Is this perpetual longing my eternal consequence?’, I think it suggests that the writer feels hopeless, like it isn’t possible to even come back from his mistakes.”

“Unforgivable.” Hannah murmured with a nod.

“But, are all things unforgivable? Can people actually, fundamentally change who they are?” Granger challenged. The group fell silent, unsure how to respond.

“Maybe with enough loss.” Longbottom offered from across Draco.

Granger nodded thoughtfully, her eyes strangely wandering over to meet Draco’s. The contact lasted for less than a second, yet it sent icy sparks of thrill through him and caused his breath to catch in his chest.

“I find the lines about repairing particularly interesting.” Granger said, looking down at her book. “I like how the writer says, ‘the privilege to repay my debts.’, because it is a gift – forgiveness. People who have been wronged don’t owe forgiveness towards those who hurt them, but it’s possible to offer when presented with true desire for amends, like this poem.”

“It definitely goes back to the ‘eternal consequence’ of the longing. Maybe the writer feels like it’s too big of a thing to even ask for forgiveness and like the inferno book we read last fall, this is the consequence of that fear.” Lovegood said in her dreamy tone with a curious gaze towards Draco.

Granger nodded, agreeing.

“But if the author never asks, he’ll never give anyone the opportunity to actually work through that hurt. He’s just in his house, writing these poems like a coward without doing anything that takes responsibility and gives this muse a real chance at moving on.” Ginny expressed with a tone of frustration.

“There could be a fear of rejection inside of that too.” Daphne said in a soft, vulnerable tone. “It’s really hard to take accountability for what you’ve done wrong. It’s easier to feel like you wouldn’t be making it any better by even saying sorry.”

“Yeah, especially with the poems from the last book we read in this series, all those sad and apologetic poems about just fading away. It’s self-administered torture without even trying to ever escape.” Bones said. “Or maybe feeling like no one would ever let him out of that torture, so why even try.”

Draco was doing his best to try and hold back the tears that gathered in his eyes from the analysis that stripped him bare. The back of his throat burned with shame at his reflection.

“I think that’s a good discussion of this poem if everyone else agrees.” Granger announced, and murmured agreements echoed through the circle.

“I have a poem I’d like to talk about as well,” Weasley announced, grabbing the group’s attention. “Poem number thirty-one.”

Granger turned to the page, followed by the same sound as the action was repeated by the members.

Weasley started reading out loud, her tone inflected with disdain on some lines, sending jolts of offense through Draco’s body.

“I’m a haunting of my own ghost
Ashamed and stained more than most
Fingertips yearning and reaching
These denial bruised childhood beatings
I think her touch could wash me clean
She can’t know how much her words mean
This advocacy I don’t deserve
Credit unearned and cowardice burned
A dream scarcely dared to be muttered
Replies only expressed in confused stutters
I’ve built a monument to the unattainable longing
A cliffside clung to this frantic calling
I mourn and scream and cry –
My peace has set sail and died
When did I become this hollow shell?
Has she ever felt this empty as well?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure if I’ve ever known anyone with less balls than this writer.” Weasley announced, crossing her arms with a heavy sigh and a shake of her head. “If he really cares this much about someone, shouldn’t he at least even try to go for it?”

Self-contempt burned through Draco’s chest, the space for oxygen becoming a vacuum that threatened to suffocate him before his perceivers. His shoulders pulled forward, his head heavy and fixed, unable to lift his eyes from the book.

“Sometimes it’s not that simple, Ginny.” Abbott said. “Maybe this is all this writer can do, maybe this is his version of romance.”

“We all read the first book, and this is now the second book of him fucking pining and wishing things were different and writing poetry that he didn’t even have the gall to sign his name on. It’s like he’s asking for things to never change. It’s cowardice.” Ginny argued.

“Could he be intimidated by her? Isn’t that romantic in its own way?” Brown, who had been quiet so far into the discussion, prompted.

“I know I wouldn’t want anything to do with anyone who wouldn’t even try.” Weasley replied.

“Maybe it’s not about cowardice; maybe it’s about the act of even desiring change. I can’t say I’ve met many men who actually want to better themselves.” Granger said, crossing her legs.

Draco swallowed the words that threatened to rush out and confess the desire to prove that very point. That he was here to try, that this was the effort to be different – he didn’t want to just be someone waiting for change to befall him.

“Isn’t it romantic too when a wizard is willing to do the work for a witch he loves?” Brown sighed dreamily.

Weasley rolled her eyes and shook her head at Brown’s comment.

“All pining with no risk. Not romantic and not good enough.” She picked at her nails while absentmindedly stabbing Draco in the vulnerability.

“Isn’t publishing these poems a risk in itself?” Granger countered, sending Draco’s heart fluttering uncontrollably. “These poems are vulnerable and even if the poet didn’t sign them, whoever they were written for must be able to see themselves in the words. They’re a letter and an apology, and they are intimate. Romantic, really.”

Weasley’s smile peered at Granger curiously with a tilted head as she laughed.

“We all know you’re a literature freak, Hermione; of course these would be romantic to you of all people. I’m just saying, how would the witch even know that they were written for her?”

Granger considered her question for a moment.

“I suppose the muse would just have to know from an instinct or whatever clues the writer left for them inside the poems.” She admitted quietly.

Draco repressed a shiver that vibrated through his body at her words. The desperation to show her exactly where he had left clues burned through his throat, it was all he could do not to betray his own confidence. Draco hadn’t anticipated this would be so difficult, the proximity, the denial, this screaming inside himself that wanted to tear him apart.

“Also, this line annoys the fuck out of me: ‘Ashamed and stained more than most’, like all of us aren’t stained, aren’t damaged by the war. Whoever wrote this definitely has a pity party of epic proportions.” Weasley said, diverting Draco's attention away from his internal strain and sparking a fire of defensiveness.

“Okay now – ” Draco held up his hand, frozen in his blurted protest to Weasley’s criticisms.

His eyes skittered over to the curious faces staring back at him. It had been his intention to remain silent and aloof, at least for this first meeting, but yet again his big mouth defied the predetermined orders.

“Something to say, Malfoy?” Weasley drew out the syllables of his name in a daring challenge, crossing her arms with a smirk. He felt like he'd stumbled right into Weasley's trap.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to govern his skittering heart.

“The most in that line could just mean in general, people. We’re all stained and ashamed – “

“Not sure about ashamed.” Weasley interrupted as she inspected her fingernails, holding her hand in front of her with utter indifference.

Draco ground his teeth in frustration but tried to keep going.

“And it’s not necessarily a pity party to acknowledge that some people have had a harder time recovering after the war.” He finished.

The group was silent as they observed the interaction between Draco and Ginny, breaths held.

“I don’t take issue with some people having a harder time after the war. I take issue with this ‘oh woe is me’ awfulness that the writer is swimming in. I mean, really – how hard is it to just man up and talk to someone?” Weasley replied.

Draco rolled his eyes, a scowl taking over his expression, his composure and silence crumbling.

“It could, in fact, be very hard. Not everyone is peculiarly gifted at outspokenness and blunt, unrefined initiative like you, Weasley.” Draco’s words intended to come out as an insult but Weasley smiled at him with a sarcastic, dripping expression.

“Oh, Malfoy,” She smiled at him, her daring eyes filled with fiery spite as her arm leaned against her chair, “You really know how to charm a girl.”

The group chuckled at Weasley’s reply. Even to Draco’s admonished surprise, Granger laughed as well, even though she tried to conceal it under her hand. Draco’s face felt like it was on fire; he’d drawn attention to himself, and now he had no idea what to do underneath the spotlight.

The silence hung in Draco’s frozen state and to his relief, Granger saved him with a sound of her clearing her throat.

“Alright Ginny – does anyone have any other thoughts about the poem or any specific poems they’d like to talk about more before we begin to wrap up for the evening?”

Brown raised her hand and Granger nodded for her to continue.

“I really liked this poem, number thirty-six, I like that it’s so romantic and soft, I think it really shows the sensitive and thoughtful side of this writer.” She articulated with a gentle smile.

“I walk through my thoughts and see you everywhere
This dream I harbor, I’d never dare –
I know your opinions, I’ve heard your stance
It’s clear that I don’t deserve a second chance
I’ve made my decisions and said my thoughts
Walked my path and tied these knots,
If there’s really someone better, I want you to know
I’d be happy for you and watch you go
But if there’s not – if you hesitate,
I beg of you, my darling, please wait
Let me confess this transformation true
That I’ve crawled through hell just for you
I’ve explored through the trenches
Excavated these ditches
All the places where hatred hid,
From their teachings when I was a kid
I threw it all away and locked it with a key
That character I played, it’s no longer me
If you ever get lonely and desire adoration
Let me be the first to confess this declaration
That I languish for you, how I crave your touch
The fantasy of your smile lined blush
That I want to make you happy and dream that I could
To treat you the kindness that true love should
I don’t want to take up too much of your time,
Wasting paper on fantasies and childish rhymes
But, if you read this though and your heart whispers ‘yes’,
Please know, you’ve taken residence in mine as its permanent guest.”

Draco’s eyes watched Brown read – he remembered writing that poem after he’d seen Granger photographed on a date with someone in the newspaper. Someone from her work, he later discovered. It was all he could do not to broom to her door and fall to his knees before her, to ask her to forsake all others till she sampled his devotion. Thinking of her with that wizard made him sick to his stomach but he hadn’t heard of anything further in their relationship after. Brown sighed heavily after she finished, placing the book down in her lap with her fingers running over the words.

“What Ginny called cowardice, I actually see as sacrificing. He’s willing to put aside whatever peace he has so that the witch he loves can be happy. He knows he’s fucked up, he knows that she’s unhappy with him because of whatever he did – but he’s still willing to watch her be with someone else if that’s what she wants.” Brown said thoughtfully. “I think that’s someone I’d want to be with, someone who would look out for me not just in a physical sense or because we have good sex, but because they care enough for me to respect what I want and need more than their own needs.”

Draco’s gaze flickered to Granger, a neutral but far away expression crossing her features. He wished he could climb into her thoughts and swim in her depths. Couldn’t she hear him through his verses? An air of hopelessness began to fill him, the thought of forever being anonymous but never named – his affections admired but never claimed.

“Do you think the poet's sacrifice is a selfless, genuine act of love, or is it just a way to avoid the possibility of being rejected for his vulnerability? Additionally, if he’s only avoiding that risk, is that selfish of him – to predetermine their fate and not give her the chance to make her own choice?" Granger asked the group, her brow furrowed in contemplation.

Draco didn’t know anymore. He was here, he was trying – he also felt incredibly egotistical from the audacity to invade Granger’s privacy and friend group. He craved her though, this was the most painful fix to endure but even with her near, he wanted more. Draco knew in the pit of his stomach that he’d never be able to stay away now that he’d gotten a taste of her proximity.

“What woman wouldn’t want to be loved this passionately?” Astoria admitted quietly. “I think it’s condemning to both the poet and his muse, not even giving it a chance. Even if he’s being selfless for letting her be with someone else, it’s almost selfish in the same way, not giving her the option to experience that passion. I can’t see how other men wouldn’t be disappointing in comparison to that.”

The group murmured in agreement.

“It’s quite rare, for people to experience the depth of desire quite like this poet.” Lovegood’s dreamy tone carried through the quiet space. “I understand someone being afraid of the ending and not wanting the story to start because of that, but Astoria’s right – it’s the experience that changes us, that makes the sacrifice worth it. Some of the greatest pieces of literature have been born from unattainable longing that explodes into wonderful, ecstatic beauty and heartbreak.”

Granger sighed, biting her lip in the same way Draco often found himself doing, a soothing mechanism to calm internal conflict. He wondered what storm might be stirring from this conversation’s prompting.

“Especially from the male perspective,” Longbottom spoke up with a clearing of his throat. “You want to make it out in one piece when you don’t think the witch you care for feels the same way towards you. It’s hard to call self-protection ‘selfish’, even if it swims in the same pond. When someone is selfish, they’re not thinking about anyone else but themselves. This writer though, she’s all he’s thinking about, which makes it impossible to consider the reality of her wanting him too because it’s all wrapped up and twisted in his brain. So, he never tries. It’s a horrible cycle to be stuck in, I’d know because I’ve been in it.”

Draco evaluated Longbottom, his words a forgiving and understanding perspective that soothed and surprised him. There was a silence that hung for a moment, Draco almost considered contributing to what Longbottom said but Granger’s voice interrupted his rising bravery.

“Thank you for sharing that perspective, Neville.” Granger said, nodding a little with her gaze still focused on the floor in the center of the gathered chairs. “It’s easy to dismiss the influence and power our own minds can have over our actions. It’s even easier to judge without knowing the full experience of the writer, regardless of how one feels like they might understand them based on the intimacy of the poetry.”

Her voice trailed off a little towards the end of her conclusionary reply, and Draco found his eyes drifting towards her to relish the vision of her thought occupied state. He’d seen this same state many times during their years at Hogwarts - the calm, steady rise of her chest, her lower lip sucked into her mouth to bite on, the fingers on her left hand picking at her cuticles. It filled him with a specific glee that bordered on ecstasy at the prospects of rendering the most brilliant mind he’d ever encountered consumed with thoughts.

Granger then abruptly snapped out of her mind-spun trance, smiling politely at the group that subtly waited for her to finish her thought process.

“I think that’s a good place to end for the night if everyone agrees.” She declared, clapping her hands together and pushing at her thighs to stand from her chair.

Relief flooded Draco’s body at the finality of the experience. He was fucking exhausted. As he stood, he took the excuse to look around the room, trying to memorize as many details as his mind could to enrich his poems describing this unique experience: the herringbone pattern of the wooden floors, the swirls of the golden tapestry that hung on the walls, the way the flickering candlelight softly reflected from the mirror over the hearth.

He sighed, rolling out his shoulders till they popped. Draco picked up his book and wand from the chair, the other members of the groups gathering into small groups amongst themselves to discuss tonight’s meeting. He didn’t want to stay; Draco was usually one of the first to leave a social gathering. It was easier than being asked to leave or unintentionally overstaying a welcome. He was tired anyways, but there was a sadness at going back into the quiet darkness when the present was such a warm light. His footsteps began to lead him away from the cluster of people.

As he walked out of the room, his body surged with confusing, conflicting thoughts and emotions. He simultaneously never wanted to come back and knew that this was the most thrilling event he’d attended in years. It was incredibly exciting and haunting – the bare honesty he’d craved for so long now a sting he strangely desired more of. He smiled to himself, shaking his head a little in disbelief. Draco couldn’t believe he actually did it, he’d been so afraid.

“Hey – Malfoy,” Granger called after him, stopping him in his tracks. He turned, facing his muse who inspired him so prolifically, “I’m glad you came tonight. We weren’t sure if you would.”

She had to look up at him with their height differences and Draco found his eyes drinking in all the details of her face. Her depths of daring eyes that never failed to hold a challenge, her freckled skin tinged with a lovely, subtle blush. Curved lips with a rosy hue, an ache of mourning echoing inside him at not being able to lean down and taste them. Curly wildness for hair that delighted him that she hadn’t yet tamed. He couldn’t remember when was the last time she’d ever been this close to him, but he savored it. The scent of her perfume washed over him with their proximity, Draco’s legs trembled slightly at the intoxicating notes of cedar and sandalwood with a hint of something spicy.

“I both personally requested to come and filled out all your copious amounts of paperwork, didn’t I?” He drawled, a smirk pulling the edge of his mouth.

Granger laughed a little to herself, looking down at her shoes as her hands slipped into her trouser pockets. Draco felt so jealous of the ease that radiated through her body, a quiet confidence and assurance, whereas it took nearly all his mental strength to compose himself before her for a simple conversation.

“Paperwork that represents a perfectly adequate amount of information necessary to make well informed choices as to reading material for the group, mind you.” She cheekily retorted, ever the swot with a finger held up in her defense. “Anyways, I just wanted to say that I hope you weren’t scared away by Gin, she does love a good back and forth but can sometimes get a bit aggressive with it.”

“No, it’d take more than a few comments from Weasley to put me off. I rather enjoyed myself actually.” He said and the smile that crossed Granger’s face burned Draco inside from the restraint it took not to pull her close.

“That’s good. I’m glad – I was actually quite surprised by your interest in the group and your survey answers.” She replied with a cryptic tone and a tilted head. “More muggle authors than I’d have ever anticipated.”

Draco shrugged his shoulders, heart pounding from the nonchalance he tried to display.

“I like the diversity. I find magical writers to be drier, less interesting than muggle authors. Too many just wave their wands and all their problems are solved, muggle writers have to actually find a way out.” He forced out, clearing his throat at the end to fight against the choking sensation.

As Granger’s thoughtful eyes peered at him, Draco wondered how he ever thought he’d experienced transparency before now. He wouldn’t be shocked if one of these moments she’d point at him with a knowing smile and revealed all the secrets he’d desperately tried to hide. The amber brown orbs that fearlessly matched his gaze were such an indescribable beauty; they were a vortex Draco couldn’t resist falling into.

“Pleasantly peculiar of you, Malfoy.” She said with an elusive smile, a hand raising up to tuck a cluster of her wayward, spiraling curls behind her ear. Draco’s hands shook with the desire to bury themselves into those curls, to tug a little in their passionate encounter, to drive their bodies against the wall. He coughed and tried to clear his mind from the flashing image that stirred arousal in his body.

“I’m sure you’ll bring some very interesting insights to our group whenever you feel more comfortable sharing.” Her voice simultaneously scorched him with ignited heat and soothed the burn. Draco struggled to focus on her words from the distracting passion that fought to rush forward. “Anyhow – I won’t keep you, I just wanted to say thanks for coming. Hopefully we’ll see you at the next meeting.”

Draco smiled politely at her, nodding, and with that, Hermione Granger walked away. Draco watched her head back into the room, wishing more than anything to follow her wherever she went, but his feet remained grounded. He lusted for more of her time but he knew his place. With a longing sigh, Draco resigned himself to never be satisfied and to perpetually thirst for her presence like Tantalus. He turned to leave, taking his coat from an elf who offered it to him and headed outside to apparate back to the manor.

When Draco landed in the front hallway, resentfulness flooded him at the feeling of the lonely hollowness that crawled back into each of the crevices of his soul. Betsy, one of his elves from childhood, rushed forward to give him a parchment note that had arrived for him while he was gone. Opening the folded paper, Draco recognized Theo’s sprawled handwriting, barely legible in his rush to write.

Draco, come quick, Pansy is beating up Blaise and I’ve brought chairs to watch. – Theo

Chapter 7

Notes:

I just wanted to say thank you for everyone who left a comment, bookmark, kudos, and who clicked this story to read in it's infancy - all of it has been so meaningful to me and made me incredibly inspired to keep writing.

I’d also like to say thank you to my alpha reader/editor, @Elaney for her endless enthusiasm, inspiration, great ideas, and motivation to continue onwards.

So excited to keep going, hope you enjoy this chapter <3

Lavender noticed a peculiar look on Hermione’s face when she walked back into the ballroom. It was an expression of thoughtfulness but also of conflict with her teeth picking at her lower lip and a hand rubbing the side of her arm. Lavender understood, Draco had come to the book club tonight when everyone thought he wouldn’t show. He’d been brave - it was confusing. 

Lavender saw him for what he was though, someone who was trying to change and be better. It was admirable and rather attractive really. There was something alluring about him that held her interest. It wasn’t just his fortune or devastating good looks, but there was a brooding depth to him and Lavender liked that. 

She’d noticed him from the second he tentatively walked into the room, the way his eyes took in everyone who was already there like she often did, before Pansy dragged him over to their group of Slytherin friends. Lavender had watched his expression during the whole event, her eyes couldn’t help but flicker back to his gorgeous blonde hair and weight sunken shoulders. She’d fought against daydreams the whole time of how she might be able to lift some of that weight from his consciousness, to whisper sweet nothings while she ran her hand through that perfect white-blonde hair. Maybe he’d take her on an extravagant date, pick her up with flowers and he’d laugh at all her jokes, ever the gentleman. 

He looked so tortured in a way that seemed deliciously sad - and there was nothing Lavender liked more than picking a sad boy and making him happy again. 

“Alright there, Hermione?” Ginny asked her friend, reaching a hand out to embrace Hermione in a side hug. 

Hermione nodded, smiling at Ginny and the group. 

“That was…eventful.” Neville commented, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

Lavender hummed in agreement. 

“I can’t believe he actually showed up.” Hermione said softly with a disbelieving shake of her head. 

“I know, I really thought it was all just a tug at your leg.” Ginny replied, squeezing her friend’s shoulder before releasing. 

“Did you really have to goad him like that, Ginny?” Hannah asked, ever the Hufflepuff and thinking of others. 

“What can I say,” Ginny shrugged her shoulders, “it’s a right of passage. The little git needed the fear put into him if he’s going to be hanging around us.” 

“I don’t quite think what he needs is more fear,” Hermione added, scratching an itch on the bridge of her nose. 

“He did show up and everything,” Lavender mentioned, “wasn’t that already hard enough?” 

“Alright, alright -” Ginny waved everyone off and rolled her eyes, dismissing their concerns. “I’ll be better next time, that is if he ever comes back.” 

That seemed to be somewhat satisfactory to the cluster, who afterward, began to disperse naturally with the late evening. 

Lavender didn’t stay terribly long, but when she got home, her thoughts and dreams were filled with Draco’s smokey grey eyes and anticipation of when she’d see him again. 

***

The entrance parlour was dark when Draco stepped through Blaise’s Floo, his hand protecting his head against the coarse brick fireplace. He was already so tired from this evening, he wasn’t planning on staying long, but as per Theo’s note, he wanted to make sure everyone was okay. Draco dusted off his clothes and hands, slipping them into his trouser pockets as he strolled towards the light and casual conversation he could hear emanating from the smaller library just down the hallway.

He peeked his head through the doorway, amusement filling him when he saw Theo sitting on the velvet couch next to Blaise, who nursed Pansy’s visible handiwork of a nasty cut to his lip and swollen eye.

“You’re too late, she’s already gone.” Blaise muttered dejectedly, clearly embarrassed.

“I figured. I was there when she found out.” Draco replied, walking into the room fully. “I just came to make sure she didn’t actually murder you.”

Theo smiled at him, his arms comfortably resting on the back of the couch.

“Who told her?” Blaise asked with a wince as he touched his lip gently.

“Daphne.” Draco answered, Blaise’s eyes snapping to him in shock and Theo’s stunned expression barely concealing his blatant delight.

“Fuck.” Blaise cursed, his head leaning back against the couch.

“Did you really think they wouldn’t talk sooner? They go to the same book club for fuck’s sake.” Draco admonished his friend with a disappointed shake of his head.

“It just got so twisted and messed up. You know how Pans can get sometimes.” Blaise groaned.

“Speaking of said book club,” Theo interrupted, mischievously probing for information, “how’d it go?”

Draco sighed, looking down at his shoes, the memories of the evening flashing through his mind.

“It went how it went. I’ll probably go back.” He replied evasively.

“You cannot be serious and think that’s all you’re going to tell me.” Theo said with a smirk.

Draco’s hands defensively raised as he shrugged, sending Theo’s head back with a groan.

“I can’t believe you’re going to make me pull this out of you.” He admonished and Draco rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Theo. We sat in a circle and talked about love and the ideal man.” Draco replied sarcastically.

Theo laughed and tilted his head at him.

“And how is our favourite golden girl?” He asked the layered question, sending a wave of nervous tension through Draco’s body.

“Good. Living her best life doing exactly what she’s always loved – reading and talking about it.” Draco replied.

Theo sighed heavily, nodding with a pulled smile, clearly unsatisfied with Draco’s response.

“I don’t even know why you’d ever want to go to that fucking thing.” Blaise scoffed, taking a drink from his whiskey.

Draco leaned against the wall, his hands pressed against his lower back and peered back at his friends. He knew they wouldn’t understand and it wasn’t something he could explain.

“Think of it like an investment.” Draco cryptically replied.

“An investment has actual returns.” Blaise sneered at him, “This is just wasting time and what’s left of your reputation.”

Draco knew that Blaise’s ego was wounded from Pansy’s scolding and attack so he didn’t take his friend’s dismissal personally. The man had possibly lost both witches in his rotation in one night; that’d bring anyone to their knees. Theo stared back at him with curious delight, a finger running back and forth against the fabric grain of the velvet couch. Draco always thought he looked a bit cat tracking prey when his mind spun scheming plans.

“How many people came?” Theo asked.

“Maybe ten or so.” Draco replied, unsure what Theo was conspiring.

“You know, Blaise,” Theo said suggestively, angling his head towards their friend. “Going to this book club might be one of the best ways to prove to either witch that you’re devoted to them.”

“Devoted.” Blaise mocked, and Theo shrugged his shoulders.

“I say devoted, you say laid. Plus, if either doesn't take you back, maybe you can find your next victim there.” Theo uncharacteristically encouraged, and Blaise strangely seemed to consider his proposal.

“What kinds of things did they talk about tonight, Draco?” Blaise asked.

Draco’s eyes flickered suspiciously between Theo and Blaise.

“We’re not doing this – we’re not using Granger’s book club like your personal fuck pool, and I don’t know what you’re up to,” He pointed at Theo in accusation, “but you’re not using this to get into whatever trouble you’re conspiring.”

Theo dramatically flung his hand over his chest in faux offence.

“Trouble? I would never.” He said, looking theatrically off into the distance, convincing approximately none of the conversationalists.

“You say we can’t use the book club, but what are you doing there then, Draco?” Blaise asked with inspecting eyes.

“I’m actually extremely interested in the books they’re reviewing, thank you very much.” He defended himself with an admonished tone.

“You? Interested in sappy love poems?” Blaise drawled sarcastically.

A flush of embarrassment coated Draco’s body as he looked down to pick a piece of invisible lint from his clothes.

“In general, literature. They just happen to be reading sappy love sick poetry right now. They’ll move onto other things afterwards though.” He replied quietly.

Blaise scoffed at him, clearly not buying his excuse.

“You can’t chastise us for our own motives when you won’t even be honest about yours, whatever they might be.” He said, groaning as he stood, a hand supporting his lower back. “I’m headed to bed. Everything hurts. Let me know how I can get in contact with Granger to join this damn group.”

Draco smirked as he wondered what Pansy did to the poor fuck, watching Blaise favor his left leg as he walked out of the room – but then again, the scoundrel definitely deserved it. Draco didn’t even think Pansy would’ve been nearly as upset if Blaise hadn’t hidden it from her and embarrassed her in front of their friends.

Theo patted the now vacant space on the couch beside him and Draco pushed off the wall, walking over to sit.

“So,” Theo impishly teased, “was it actually everything you hoped it would be?”

Draco leaned his head back against the edge of the furniture. He turned Theo’s question around in his mind, asking himself if it was everything he’d hoped, and unguardedly smiled as he nodded.

“Yeah. It was even better.” He sighed.

“Blaise is going to drive Granger insane.” Theo commented and Draco laughed easily.

“You’ll be worse. I think you and Weasley might actually draw wands one of these days.” He said, resting his hands on his stomach and closing his eyes, feeling the exhausted ache behind them.

“I think I can take her.” He snickered.

Theo was always so easy to talk to. Draco didn’t have many people in his life where he felt unconditionally accepted but Theo was one of them. They’d grown up together in a way that the others in their group hadn’t. Draco’s and Theo’s mothers had been childhood friends – after Theo’s mother passed, Draco’s mother took him in the majority of their pre-Hogwarts days and all of the summers afterwards. Now they were both alone, in their manors that were too big and echoed in the absence of company.

“So, what’s our nefarious scheme for pre-birthday celebrations this weekend?” Theo asked casually, “Anything you want to do?”

“Maybe we could just go for a drink.” Draco suggested with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Alright. Just the two of us before the rest of the group get their hands on you.” Theo replied, and Draco nodded in agreement.

“We can go tomorrow night if you’re free.” Draco offered, and Theo smiled so warmly at him that it sparked radiating guilt for all the poem scribbled nights Draco had turned his friend’s offer down before.

“Okay, I’ll floo in at eight and then we’ll go down together.” Theo said, closing his eyes and resting his head against the couch.

“I’ll let the elves know. They miss you and constantly ask how you’re doing.” Draco chuckled.

Theo turned his face towards Draco, genuineness flooding his expression as he expressed that he missed them too and to tell Betty that he still hasn’t found a better apple pie than hers. Draco knew the older elf would probably burst into tears and have one waiting for Theo tomorrow. He promised he would though as he got up from the couch, bidding his friend a good night, and walking across the room to head home through the floo.

***

Draco got home to a silent manor, the elves having already gone to bed for the evening. He left his coat on the rack by the floo, walking down the hallway to his office, the click of his shoes echoing against the marble floors.

His office was lit by the fireplace, still crackling with flames and strategically placed candlesticks adorning the spaces between the bookshelves. The mahogany wooden panels on the walls always seemed a deeper red in the evening times, the flickering light illuminating the room with an atmosphere of brooding reflection. Draco crossed the office, his mind preoccupied with all the details of the night he tried to remember in his memory. A thick white candle with solidified beads of wax drippings sat on his desk next to his stack of parchment, his steady companion through the long nights when he’d evade sleep in pursuit of the perfect phrase.

As his hands smoothed over the horizontal wooden grains of his desk, Draco basked in the moment before he’d write, when every smallest detail seemed incredibly prominent and he wanted to write about them all – how the thrill of the evening coursed through him with anticipation. He hadn’t experienced such a rush of not knowing where to start in so long. Picking up his pen and pressing it against the awaiting cream paper was such an invigorating exhilaration. He wanted to start with their goodbye, the memory of getting lost in her eyes, the slight teasing, how she smelled.

His prose swirled, the words tumbling out of his mind and onto the paper with an ease he’d craved for weeks.

I’m lost in the sway of your hips
My dreams are the curve of those lips
The sight of you renders me breathless
Everyone who touches you leaves me jealous
Smile at me from across the room
The pit of my stomach prophesizes doom
My heart stops and I can’t start it again
The agony worshipping you but scarcely considered a friend

Words fall short of the indescribable wilderness
The mind that radiates succulent cleverness
I’m in awe of the power, the capacity in your hands
I’ve always admired the respect it demands
I’d let you wield it over me, pay my debts due
End me with a whisper and I’d say thank you

I’ve never felt smaller than in front of your gaze
This inferno that erupted inside from the subtle praise
I am evaluated and afraid of the results
An arrow shot through my pride with their insults
I’m here for you, this is my first step
I’ve created a home in the shadowed web
This is my invisible risk, the fear mocked courage
I’ve got to advocate for myself and this love lined message

And when we said goodbye for the night,
I was lost in your amber eyes and their teasing delight
It felt like we were both meant to be just there
As if the fates strung our positions with calculated care
I’m not always good but I am very patient
I’ve watched you from afar and revered your brilliance
It took all my self-control not to reach out and touch your cheek
I don’t want to rashly sacrifice my strategically placed chess piece
So, I watched you walk away and hoped that one day
I won’t have to keep these roaring, enveloping passions at bay

Draco chewed on his upper lip as the last line flowed out, his mind continuing that fantasy, imagining how soft her skin would be to touch, what it might be like to have that privilege of her proximity. He felt like his more recent poetry captured the moment so much better than his previous ones and when his eyes skimmed over what he’d written, it was like being transported back into his memory.

The dancing shadows of the room seemed to come alive, Draco’s eyes flickering back and forth, wandering up towards the ceiling as he luxuriated in the experience of feeling content with his art. He liked to count the raised panels on the ceiling when he worried or got caught up in thought. It was exactly the same every time, six across and ten long. He used to sneak into this room when he was a child whilst his father was away on business and lay on the floor, his small body spread out on the lavish, green carpet to admire all the engravings of the wood. The ornate borders lining the square with a circle extruded from the middle, with various, prominent detailing transitioning each section, connected them all together. It was a masterpiece, gifted to his family many generations ago. Even now, as an adult with the uninterrupted right to admire the panels till he fell asleep on the couch as he had for many nights before, he always found something new to appreciate about them.

He wondered if there was anyone out there in the spirit watching him write poems about a muggle-born witch in his father’s office. He secretly hoped there was, and he smiled to himself as the next few lines floated into his mind.

I’m not what she needs,
But fuck, she’s what I want –
She’s taken this very breath from my lungs
Across this canyon of yearning, I’m strung
It’s not the competency but the courage,
This confession kept as a locked hostage
My admiration veiled truth,
Lurked beneath the proof –
Could my eyes betray this fear?
The goosebumps on my skin when she’s near
These knots in my stomach at her perfume
This exterior a fraught costume –
Don’t push me away for my sins
Let me prove I’m different within –
Give me a chance to show my heart
A new beginning for us – a real, fresh start

Draco decided that he’d ask the elves to begin burning amber and sandalwood candles in his office. The memory of their combination made his eyes flutter shut, Draco swallowing hard against the yearning that blossomed inside him. His lips parted, trying to imagine he was breathing in the taste of her on his tongue.

She’d been so close. He could’ve reached out and touched her if he was brave enough or welcomed. The impossibility of such a fact seemed like a hazy dream rather than his recent past few hours.

Draco’s eyes burned with exhaustion as he slowly blinked, trying to hold back the wave that warned him of his limits. A yawn stretched his mouth wide, his thumb and pointer finger pulling across his eyes and dragging across the bridge of his nose. Draco pushed away his quill and papers. His arms folded against the desk, his body slumming down as his head rested against his arms. He peered up at the flickering flame, appreciating the blue heat that faded into the soft yellow tip.

There was something hypnotic about the blackened wick that burned golden at the ends, the accumulating melted wax pooled at the top, not yet dripping down the sides or onto the collecting tray underneath. Such a small vessel of warmth didn’t seem to hold the capacity for such light but when Draco’s eyes looked at anything else, everything seemed dark in comparison. He thought Granger was like this candle, a glow so bright and resilient that nothing else equated. A grounded stationary force that offered guidance and unwavering light to those in its proximity – something that he feared would burn him if he got too close. Draco’s breath influenced the sway of the candle flame and he wondered if he could ever move Granger’s flame one way or another in such a capacity. He laughed a little, thinking of how, technically, his breath could be connected to his words, which turned into his poems, and they absolutely did influence Granger as evident by tonight’s meeting.

It was late and Draco needed to sleep. He blew out the flame and the scent of the trail of smoke followed him as he got up from his desk, walking out of his office to head to his bedroom.

***

Theo opened the door to the bar, the Celestial Connection, a pub that popped up post-war and quickly became popular amongst the younger generation. Draco followed his friend into the busy and loud room with booths and tables lining the edges of the darkened room and a large bar with standing room in the centre. Most of the edge tables seemed full so Draco didn’t protest as Theo began heading to the bar, weaving his way through the crowded cluster of people laughing around standing tables scattered around the pub. Candles floated from the ceiling throughout the space, suspending the room with a brooding atmosphere that cast a flattering, flickering light on its patrons in their various social interactions. Somewhere in the pub, a low thrum of music played but Draco didn’t recognize the song.

Draco’s body twisted as he moved through the area, his head low as he followed Theo. He could catch fragments of conversation floating around the air, various witches and wizards discussing their week and newest, meaningless gossip. The heat from the grouped bodies was palpable, and Draco questioned his decision to wear his standard black suit with a matching-coloured button down. It was at times like these where Draco sometimes thought it might’ve been best for him to wear a hat or something to cover the hereditary beacon of interest that identified him so immediately if he wasn’t careful. He’d hoped that he and Theo might get here soon enough to find one of the cornered, shaded booths tucked away, but Theo had taken an unbelievable amount of time perfecting his hair in the bathroom mirror.

He approached Theo at the bar, where he’d already started attempting to wave over the bartender to place their orders. Draco’s arms rested on the countertop, his eyes flickering over the variety of wall hangings that covered practically every spare inch of the available patterned wall space: Photographs that showed different witches and wizards in the pub, memorial-type papers, and scatterings of drawings that seemed to showcase the original building before it was renovated. He lingered on one picture that showed a particular group that held his focus, that being an enthusiastic Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Ginny Weasley, and Hermione Granger, all laughing, expressions gleeful and friendly as they held up their drinks. Draco wondered what it would be like to be celebrated so openly like that and swallowed his jealousy as the bartender approached them, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into the band of his trousers.

“What’ll it be?” The wizard asked over the volume of the room.

“Double Ogden’s, straight up,” Theo yelled in response, holding his fingers up to indicate two of the order.

The bartender nodded, reaching up behind a wooden panel that concealed the glasses for serving, and pulled down two tumblers that he set in front of Draco and Theo. He turned to grab a bottle of Ogden’s from the wall of available liquor, returning quickly to pour two shots in each of the glasses.

Draco drummed his fingers against the wooden counter, quickly taking a heavy gulp of his drink and hanging his head so as to not draw unnecessary attention. The liquid singed his throat as it travelled to his stomach and it was such a nostalgic burn that it brought a smile to Draco’s lips. He didn’t like lingering in public spaces, but he knew Theo wanted to do something special for his birthday. Plus, it wasn’t like Draco wanted to listen to him whine and moan about how long he was taking in the bookstore or wherever that Draco might’ve found actually appealing or interesting to spend his time at.

Theo, however, leaned his arms back against the bar, perusing the crowd with curious interest that Draco did not share. He would be happy if they made it through the night without ending up the targets of vengeful wizards seeking to even the scores for family members or friends lost in the war. Anxiety brewed in Draco’s stomach but he tried to temper it with meaningless reassurances in his mind. He took another drink from his glass to try and stuff the squeezing sensation that threatened perpetual, enduring danger and rarely proved to be right.

“This is fun!” Theo declared over his shoulder to Draco, who smiled tightly in return.

This was definitely fun, at least for Theo, the more socially comfortable and extroverted of the two. Draco would probably have his own birthday celebration on Sunday or Monday, just by himself, where he wouldn’t have to tolerate others' opinions of his interests.

Theo spun around to face away from the crowds, taking a sip from his drink while enthusiastically bobbing his head to the distant music. Draco almost rolled his eyes, but he knew Theo didn’t go out nearly as much as he wanted because he didn’t like to go alone. From the corner of his gaze though, he caught a glimpse of a flash of mischievousness cross Theo’s face as his attention seemed to track a moving target. Draco disregarded it as Theo scouting out a partner for the night, but his assumption proved wrong when a few moments later, his shocked and spellbound stare fell upon Hermione Granger waiting at the bar for her turn to order.

Draco immediately turned to look at Theo with accusation in his eyes but Theo was gone – and worse, to Draco’s horror, Theo was approaching the previously perceived Hermione Granger with a friendly smile. The floor felt like it was dropping out from underneath Draco’s feet as his mind scrambled to look for an exit; any way that he could escape from the absolutely malicious and currently grinning back at him devilish schemer he once called his best friend. Theo’s hands waved him over and Draco shook his head at him with wide eyes, before Theo released a visibly exasperated sigh and headed back over to where he stood.

“Granger’s here!” Theo announced, smiling like he’d won Draco this great prize and that he should be thankful.

“What the fuck are you doing, chatting her up like that?” Draco hissed at him, trying to hide his expression somehow from Granger’s amused eyes that peered at him from across the bar.

“She’s here with her friends. We’ve been invited to join.” Theo declared, seeming so smug as he announced his triumph, and Draco was dismayed and incredibly perplexed as to how he pulled off such a feat of nature.

“We’re just invited to join?” Draco sneered and Theo nodded with a smirk.

“Come on now, wipe all that broodiness off and stop pretending you aren’t thrilled.” Theo said, pulling at Draco’s arm.

Draco’s mind chattered excessively as it tried to convince him of all the ways this was a terrible idea, but he grabbed his drink from the bar and downed it in one go, somewhere inside him whispering, “Fuck it,” and deciding to sacrifice sanity for poetic inspiration. He allowed Theo to guide him away from his previous position and towards Granger, who strangely smiled at him as if they weren’t enemies. His nerves simultaneously felt blazingly alive and falling deeper underneath the weighted blanket of a steadily building buzz. Granger looked like she’d just come from work with her grey plaid skirt and brown sweater vest, a white shirt underneath with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and her hair rolled into a bun with her wand thrust through it, but Draco thought she looked fucking sumptuous.

“Hey!” Draco shouted over the noise, and Granger returned his greeting.

Maybe it was the way his eyes surveyed her brazenly with the intoxication accumulating in his veins or the curious expression on his face, but Granger leaned in closer to him, voice cutting through the volume.

“Theo said you two are celebrating tonight – we are too, Ginny just got a promotion today.” She said, and Draco blankly nodded at her, trying to remember to breathe and behave normally as her perfume hit his senses.

He was supposed to say something, but the words died in his throat as he looked at her, trying to think but his mind was completely empty. It was going to be a fucking problem if this was a repeating occurrence – which it seemingly was.

“What are you drinking? You’ll have to let us buy you and your friends a round.” Theo offered, interrupting Draco’s silence that stretched awkwardly, and Granger protested several times before she blushed a pretty pink and reluctantly gave their order.

Theo waved down the bartender and relayed the order along with refills of their own, instructing for him to put it all on their tab for the evening. Granger thanked Theo – Draco’s brain still trying to piece together how Theo and Granger were having a casual conversation, how he was even a part of that conversation in any capacity. The bartender quickly returned a tray of four drinks: a butter beer, two fire whiskies and some type of clear liquid drink in a curved glass. Theo thanked the wizard, picking up the tray and following after Granger, who walked over to a table at the edge of the pub, tucked behind a wooden divider in the corner. Leather booth seats lined the wall with a table for six covered in empty cups, seating Draco’s worst nightmare: Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Ginny Weasley.

“Ferret!” the she-Weasley called out as she pointed towards Draco with a laugh, clearly very intoxicated.

Draco tightly smiled in return, noticing he-Weasley’s off put expression crossing his face with the new additions to their company and Potter’s less aggressive but nonetheless watchful exterior.

“They’re celebrating Draco’s birthday, so I invited them to join us.” Granger explained to the group that clearly looked to her with silent questions, but she shrugged her shoulders, and Theo placed the tray of fresh drinks on the table.

“Congratulations on your promotion!” Theo exclaimed with a smile that was met with half hearted forced pleasantries in reply.

“Please, sit.” Granger motioned to the two empty chairs beside where she sat.

Theo and Draco accepted her offer, Theo sitting across from Potter and Draco across from she-Weasley, on the edge of the table. Draco thought this part of the pub was especially nice, it was quieter than the main area and had tall, stained-glass windows that let the light from the sunset trickle in.

“So.” Potter said tensely, taking a sip of his drink.

“So, how was your week?” Theo asked, trying to come across as friendly, but Draco could feel the nervous tension radiating from his friend’s body.

“Our week?” He-Weasley said across from the table with a sneer-lined chuckle. “Lets see, had a wonderful time chasing down some fucking death eaters that set fire to this old witch’s family run bakery –“

“Ron!” Granger chastised him, a stern and frightful expression across her face.

“Why is he fucking here, Hermione? You shouldn’t have invited them over.” Ron harshly retaliated, crossing his arms and glaring sideways at Theo and Draco.

“Draco’s just joined my book club, it’s fine.” Granger replied with a tense, clenched jaw.

“Oh, it’s Draco, now is it?” Ron sneered and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Ron we’re not in fucking school anymore. Cut the bullshit and enjoy your free drink.” Hermione’s sharp tone made shivers run down Draco’s spine as she apologetically smiled at Theo and Draco.

Ron slumped back into his chair, crossing his arms and pouted like a scolded, petulant child.

“And how was your week?” Potter amusedly asked Theo, tilting his head curiously at him.

“Alright,” Theo nonchalantly shrugged his right shoulder. “I hung out with Draco last night after he came back from Granger’s book club – which by the way,” He said, interestedly directing his reply towards Granger, “Our friend, Blaise, and I are both extremely interested in joining, would it be possible for you to direct whatever we need in order to apply?”

Granger smiled at Theo, clearly pleasantly surprised by the authenticity within his enthusiasm and nodded, saying that she would.

“See, Hermione, this is what I said would happen when you insisted the club had to stay open to everyone. We’re going to be overrun by Slytherins.” Ginny groaned with a roll of her eyes, but Draco could detect a gleam of teasing challenge in them.

“More Slytherins could also mean access to the oldest library and blood vaulted literature collections. Could make for quite the interesting selection of assorted reading.” Draco casually suggested with a shrug of his shoulder as he took a sip from his drink.

Granger’s interest piqued with his comment as she looked at him with badly concealed glee. When she bit her lower lip, something inside Draco groaned out a desire to reach across the table and touch that lip, to pull it free from where her teeth chewed at the skin.

“I’ve always wanted to see some of those libraries.” She confessed in a strained tone, and Draco smiled, knowing that was likely the case.

“I’m sure that could be arranged, I’m open to hosting one of the club nights. I’m sure Theo and Blaise would be as well, given the opportunity.” He replied coolly, but a wave of anxiety passed over him at the thought of Granger having to come to the manor.

“It's true. I doubt that anyone would want to come to such a dreadful place, but I’m open to the idea.” Theo nodded, inserting himself into their conversation.

“You’re not seriously thinking about going, right ‘Mione?” Ron asked with clenched teeth.

Hermione stirred her drink with the straw, her gaze drifting across the table to Weasley before shrugging her shoulder in a non-committal way.

“I’m not sure. We’ll see.” She replied cryptically, taking a drink of her butterbeer.

Watching her stand up to her friends was a fucking euphoric experience, as if there was a whole crowd cheering inside his head. Draco had to fight the smile that wanted to spread across his features, taking a drink to try and suppress the desire.

“So, Harry Potter,” Theo flirtatiously looked up through his lashes, running his finger around the rim of his glass. “What’s it like being the head Auror? It seems like quite a lot of responsibility.”

Draco almost rolled his eyes at the unlikeliness that Potter would ever be interested, but Theo never backed down from a challenge. Potter cleared his throat, his shoulders squaring with a sly little smile that crossed his face in a way that immediately sent more questions than answers firing through Draco’s mind.

“Yeah, it is. I really like it, but people’s expectations and definitions can get tiresome. I strive to always challenge myself though.” He replied while meeting Theo’s eyes intensely, his tone dipping lower towards the end of his sentence.

Draco felt like he was interrupting something intimate brewing between the pair with the heat that exchanged between their glances, and by the uncomfortable, confused expressions passing around the rest of the table, he wasn’t alone in the experience. Theo leaned his head against his hand, smirking knowingly across the table at his prey, nodding understandingly.

“Definitions can be so restrictive.” Theo sighed empathetically, “I, myself, also try to always be open to new ways and people.”

Potter swallowed, his throat bobbing as he ran his hand through his hair nervously.

“Exactly. I think most people have this idea of how I should be, who I should be with – I’m still my own person outside of that though.” He spoke with veiled honesty.

Theo tilted his head at him curiously, looking to Ginny then back to Potter.

“Are you two still together then?” He boldly asked and Ginny shook her head with a glassy eyed expression.

“No, no. Just friends now.” She replied, and Theo smiled at Potter with her response.

“You? Are you seeing anyone?” Potter asked Theo, and he shook his head.

“Just a free bird floating his way through life.” He answered, coquettishly holding Potter’s gaze with a knowing smile.

Potter nodded, breaking their contact to quickly finish his glass of whiskey in three gulps and set it on the table with a pronounced declaration of sound.

“You know, I am just so tired, I actually think I’ll be headed home early.” He announced to the table, his lingering stare fixed on Theo’s features, roaming between his eyes and lips.

“I was strangely feeling the same way, which way are you headed? Maybe you could walk me back – for my safety, you know.” Theo suggested flirtatiously, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“I’m going north,” He cleared his throat, his voice strained, “I could absolutely walk you to the apparition point. Just so you’re alright.” Potter’s lips pressed together as he stood up from the table.

Theo followed in suit, Draco’s eyes meeting his with shock, an open-mouthed laugh of disbelief replied with Theo’s defensive shrug of his shoulders. Potter helped Theo into his jacket hung over the back of his chair and Draco swore in the dimmed light he actually saw Theo blush.

“Don’t wait up.” Theo whispered in Draco’s ear as he passed, walking towards the door with Potter just behind him.

Draco scoffed, shaking his head at his friend who enthusiastically stranded him for Potter’s dick.

“Ron, I don’t feel so good either.” Ginny muttered, her face a little green.

“Ginny we can’t go, we haven’t even been here that long.” Ron whined, looking between Granger and Draco with conflict in his expression.

“I think I need to go home.” She groaned with a subtle sway in her body. Ron let out an exasperated sigh as his head leaned back.

“Fine. Hermione, are you coming with?” He asked pointedly, not subtly flicking his eyes to Draco suspiciously.

“No, I think I want to finish my beer.” Granger didn’t meet Weasley’s eyes as she took a sip of her drink.

Ron’s frozen conflict was interrupted by Ginny’s gargled moan, her hand covering her mouth with a knowing dissociated expression that would quickly be followed by an unpleasant sickness.

“Just – ” He sighed heavily, “Send a patronus if anything happens and I’ll come.”

Draco felt offended at the thought that Weasley thought Granger would ever need his help, as if she couldn’t put Draco on his arse just by her own damn self. Granger smiled tightly at him and nodded. Weasley pulled his sister out of the booth, holding up her body that leaned against his side. He seemed to linger a little before Ginny demanded they move and the two limped out of the pub.

Then, it was just Draco and Granger, sitting in the secluded pub corner as if they intentionally came together. Draco looked nervously around but no one was looking or marching forward in attack for him sitting alone with their Golden Girl. He tapped his fingers against the table, the silence between him and Granger elongating awkwardly. Draco’s chest felt like it was restricted in hollow collapse, his brain scattering to anything they could talk about but the only ideas that came up were stupid.

“So, it’s your birthday?” Granger broke the ice, taking a drink from her mug without a care in the world.

Draco decided to move to the chair across from her at her end of the table so they could at least speak face to face.

“No, Tuesday. Theo wanted to celebrate early.” Draco replied tensely, his fingers clutching his glass in front of him.

“That’s nice of him. Harry’s birthday is at the end of the month. I didn’t know that yours was so close.” She said with a nod.

As Draco perceived her, she seemed a bit more intoxicated than he originally guessed, her vacant eyes staring into her butterbeer in front of her.

“Yeah. I’m looking forward to going to book club on Tuesday though. I think I’ll be having a party afterwards if you’d want to come.” Draco suggested, too nervous to make eye contact.

He could feel her gaze burning into him during the pause between his question and her reply.

“Maybe.” She spoke softly.

“It’d be in the garden. It wouldn’t be inside.” He rushed forward to add, internally chastising himself for sounding like he was begging.

Draco braved a glance at her and Granger nodded, mouth pulled as she bit the inside of her cheek.

“I’ll think about it.” She finalised and Draco didn’t push the matter any further.

“Also, just because I’ve been drinking and I guess that makes me brave, I think what you’re doing with the book club is really important. There’s never been anything like it and it’s filling something that was missing from the magical world.” The words babbled out of Draco’s mouth and when his eyes drew up to look at Granger, her mouth pulled into a genuine smile.

“Thank you for saying that. I really love running it.” She admitted softly.

“You’re welcome.” Draco said as he cleared his throat.

Granger looked thoughtfully into the foam lingering around the rim of her glass, Draco recognizing the expression as one he’d studied well throughout their school days. Her mind was spinning with considerations and calculations that Draco would give so much for the opportunity to perceive unguarded.

“I thought you’d joined as a joke honestly, or maybe to undermine the whole thing from the inside. Like I said yesterday, I didn’t think you’d even come.” Her confession chilled Draco to the bone but he knew his past and reputation preceded him.

He nodded understandingly, giving her the silence to finish her thoughts.

“That’s not to say that I don’t still think you won’t fuck something up,” She said after a pause, “but I guess I never thought you’d be a romantic, Malfoy.” A disbelieving huffed breath lined her honest words and smile towards the end as her hand reached up to tuck a wild, frizzy curl behind her ear.

“You’d be surprised.” Draco retorted with a chuckled laugh, picking up his drink to finish the last gulp.

“I already have been.” Granger boldly acknowledged, Draco’s eyes snapping to hers, the breath rushing out of his lungs in surprise.

As he placed his glass back on the table, the tingling heat of hope coursed through his veins, despite the panicked protests echoing in his mind that she didn’t mean it, that they’d both been drinking, that this moment would be blamed on the circumstances they’d stumbled into. The way she held his gaze though, made Draco’s heart pound underneath his skin frantically, a flush rising to his cheeks uncontrollably. They burned him, those half-lidded amber depths that observed him so transparently; Such beautiful swirls of brown and gold that created the masterpiece he’d forever be subjected to helplessly admire.

Draco swallowed, breaking the contact as he snapped back into awareness of how long the moment had lingered, and he tried to regain his composure with a clearing of his throat. When his eyes skittered back to hers, Granger was still perceiving him with that stare that stripped him naked, his soul bare before her. Draco felt afraid of her competency and the silent vulnerability that was ripped away from his defences by the smallest of her utterances.

She was so dangerous and it thrillingly captivated him.

“I should get going.” He whispered, the words forced from his constricting throat, everything in his body screaming the opposite.

Granger nodded knowingly, a strange expression of disappointment crossing her face.

“Can I just ask you a question, before you go?” She asked and Draco’s pulse thrummed wildly as he agreed. “Were you bullshitting your application answers?” Granger’s challenging eyes bore into his, the examination an unprecedented intensity that transfixed him before her.

“No. I wasn’t.” Draco shook his head softly with a smile, matching that curious depth and allowing himself to absorb Granger’s perception, to memorise the openness of her intoxicated expression.

“Are all those muggle authors actually your favourites?” She probed further and Draco nodded, his arms resting against the table as he leaned forward to match her gaze.

“Yes. As I said when I first asked you if I could join the club, I’ve become a literature fanatic after the war. It’s become my sanity, my friendships, my mechanism for breathing, the enduring challenge that has faithfully kept me alive these past few years.” His honesty surprised even him but in this proximity anything of lesser quality would’ve been a lie by omission.

Granger seemed to soak in his reply, her tongue dipping out to wet her lips.

“I understand that,” she nodded with a smirk and a tilt of her head, “I suppose I find it strange to hear you say that, though.”

Draco shrugged his shoulder, trying to calm the wildfire exploding underneath his skin.

“It’s like everyone said at the book club, people can change – especially after the war.” He admitted, the confession that laid just inches underneath his words flaring scorching anxiety through him.

“I guess they can.” She agreed, leaning her head against her hand.

“Will you make it home alright?” Draco inquired softly; Granger seemingly taken aback by his integrity.

“I’ll be fine.” She quickly dismissed his unspoken offer, looking back down at her hands and picking at her cuticles.

Draco accepted her reply and nodded, fighting the urge to insist on walking her home with a press of his lips.

“Okay then. I’ll see you Tuesday.” He said, standing from the table, Granger’s eyes tracked up his body as he stood, lingering on his face.

“Till then.” She affirmed with a swallow that bobbed her throat.

Draco lingered for a second, allowing himself the luxury of drowning in her gaze for a moment longer than he should’ve, before tapping on the table with his hand and forcing himself to walk away. When he went to the bar to settle the table’s tab, he laboured in his determination not to look back at her, even when everything in him desired to do so. He paid the bartender for the whole group’s drinks for the evening and only as he was walking out of the pub, did he allow himself one last look at Granger, stunned when he found her already looking at him. Draco smiled tightly at her, embarrassed to have been caught, and slipped his shaking hands into his trousers, walking out of the door into the crisp, windy night.

Chapter 8

Notes:

Hi everyone!
This is a new chapter worth of content that I've just casually snuck into the middle of the story. It's filled to the brim with gratuitous and indulgent smut, I hope you enjoy my darlings xoxo - RTT

Theo and Harry apparated to a rather normal looking darkened alleyway with cobblestone walls on either side of them and small puddles of pooled water beneath their feet. Harry gave him a once over and Theo brushed some invisible dust off his sleeve to hide the nervous butterflies in his stomach. 

Was he actually about to do this? Go home with the saviour of the wizarding world? Theo had certainly wondered if Harry enjoyed the company of wizards but after they’d left the pub, when he’d bashfully asked if Theo wanted to come home with him instead, and his badly concealed shy smile when Theo agreed, it seemed he certainly did. 

Harry stepped forward and took Theo’s hand unprompted, leading Theo out of the alleyway and into a decently busy street. Theo blinked, not only from Harry’s warm fingers holding onto him with an inescapable grip, but also because of the people that surrounded him—was this muggle London? 

“Harry, where are we?” Theo asked, looking around at all the different clothes and clueless pedestrians, and all the colourful shops, eyes drinking everything in. 

There were cars and long buses and bicycles, people shouting at each other and a coffee shop they passed that smelled like espresso. 

“My apartment’s just around the corner.” Harry called over his shoulder, not answering his question.  

The noise of the city was so much louder than anything Theo’d ever encountered in Diagon Alley, comparable only maybe to the weekend before school started and all the families did their last minute shopping. Or, perhaps, even the Yuletide season shopping. 

Harry wove the pair through the crowds with expert navigation, which was very fortunate indeed because Theo’s head whipped around in every direction, drinking in the sights. He certainly wasn’t paying any attention to what street they’d need to go down or following Harry without being led. 

“What’s that?!” Theo gasped, pointing up at the sky at some large bird-like object floating through the sky. 

“Oh - that’s an aeroplane. They take muggles places like apparition or even portkeys.” Harry explained, lightly squeezing Theo’s hand. 

It was marvellous and huge! Theo’s mouth gaped open at the sight of it. 

Harry was right though, his apartment was just around the corner. Theo was slightly disappointed when the street they walked down was immediately quieter with very little people or interesting things to look at. It gave Theo a moment to gather his thoughts and sensibilities, appreciating the genuine smile that Harry shot over his shoulder at Theo’s previous moments of curiosities. Theo also took another second to enjoy how deliciously fit Harry’s thighs and bum looked in his pants while he walked. 

He led Theo up a short flight of steps before approaching a door and inputting some sort of number pattern into a giant metal box with buttons on it. The door buzzed, and Harry reached forward with his free hand to pull it open. He released Theo’s hand to invite him in with a dramatic bow, pushing up his glasses when he stood up again. Theo chuckled, walking into the hallway with strange white lights coming from the ceiling and the faintest buzzing sound emanating throughout the space. There was a faded carpet on the floor and the air smelled a bit like faded spicy noodles strangely. 

Harry pulled the door closed behind them, before motioning for Theo to follow him up the flight of stairs in front of them. They climbed for what seemed like hours, till Theo’s thighs burned and he tried to quietly hide his laboured breath. Harry didn’t seem at all impacted, which was a great look for him , but mortifying for Theo, who was quietly wheezing. 

Theo was on the cusp of asking Harry if he would either leave him there to die or if they could just apparate the rest of the way to his apartment when Harry didn’t continue up any further flights of stairs, and instead reached into his pocket and pulled out some tinkling keys, inserting one into the door and unlocking it. Theo watched the mechanism with genuine interest, it seemed so much less secure in comparison to the locking charms of the wizarding world, not even including blood magic. 

Harry welcomed Theo into an apartment with a cosy interior that radiated warmth. His kitchen was immediately off the right side of the entryway, smaller than even Theo’s elves’ kitchens but he supposed it would be fine for one person. A living room was straight ahead with a small L-shaped couch and a coffee table that looked like it had seen better days. There wasn’t any art work on the walls, hardly much decor at all except Harry’s broom propped up by the door next to his shoes. There was something about the space that Theo couldn’t help noticing felt too quiet and normal for someone of Harry’s notoriety. 

“Why do you live in muggle London?” Theo asked, eyes curiously exploring the space. 

Harry emptied his pockets onto the kitchen island, shrugging as if it wasn’t unusual. 

“I can’t really live in the wizarding world. I had people showing up at my place and it was impossible to handle. Reporters everywhere, everyone needing to know what I was doing and who I was with,” his hand waved in the air with an atmosphere of irritation, “it was just too much to handle. For me or for anyone I was seeing.” 

Theo nodded, understanding his words but not the experience. 

“It’s nice.” Theo offered and Harry gave him a small smile in thanks. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask before bringing you to the muggle world,” Harry’s voice had gone quiet, “I do understand if you’re uncomfortable and don’t want to be here.” 

Theo looked over at Harry, his head tilted at him curiously. Harry’s posture had become all stiff, an expression of nervous embarrassment crossing his face. Theo didn’t understand why Harry seemed so scared of his response.  

“Harry, it’s just an apartment. I don’t mind.” He chuckled, trying to reassure the wizard whose hands had begun to wrung themselves anxiously. 

“Oh, okay.” Harry’s smile tried to govern itself, resulting in a twitching appearance that shifted between large and small smiles for a few moments before his lips pressed together and he took a deep breath. “Do you want a cuppa?” he offered and Theo nodded. 

“That’d be nice.” 

The whole experience was already so bizarre—Theo felt the uncertainty of their encounter grow larger in his chest. He bit his lip as he watched Harry walk around the kitchen and fill a kettle with water from the sink. There was something strangely intoxicating about watching his hands work without magic, as if curiosity ignited a fire in his stomach that Theo didn’t want to put out. 

He slowly walked over to where Harry stood in front of the stove, standing behind him.Theo appreciated the smell of his cologne, some type of smokey leather scent mixed with rosemary and a heady woodiness. It made Theo want to run his tongue up the side of Harry’s neck to taste it. 

Harry’s breath quickened with Theo’s presence behind him and when Theo nudged his head to the side with his nose breathing into the crook of his neck, Harry shivered. Theo’s eyes fluttered closed as his hands wrapped around Harry’s strong core, fingers flexing and digging in a little as he felt the solid muscles underneath the fabric of Harry’s shirt. He bunched it into his fists, pulling Harry’s body closer to his, their hips moulding together like something out of a dream. Theo ground his hips slightly against Harry’s perfect arse, a sharp breath leaving Harry’s lips at the sensation. 

Theo could hear his pounding heartbeat in his ears as he pressed his lips into a kiss against Harry’s pulse that raced underneath the hot skin of his neck. Harry’s hand reached up, cupping the side of Theo’s head as he softly moaned, tilting his head back to allow for better access. Theo’s hands explored the utter indecent expanse of Harry’s firm body, his teeth scraping against Harry’s neck. Harry’s groan was louder this time, a whiny sound that made Theo smile knowingly before his tongue dipped out to indulge in his first lapping taste of Harry. A succulently clean and slightly salty taste flooded Theo’s senses, Harry’s hips bucked against Theo’s pressed crotch, and Theo groaned out in response. He could see the way Harry’s chest heaved up and down, arse beginning to firmly grind against Theo in circular motions that sent flutters of pleasure through Theo’s body. Theo’s hands slid down to grip the sides of Harry’s hips, pulling him ever closer, fingers digging into the cotton material of Harry’s trouser and feeling the rock hard upper thigh muscles underneath. 

“Forget the tea.” Theo whispered into Harry’s ear. “I need you. Right now.” 

Harry swallowed hard, nodding fervently in agreement. His hands rushed forward to turn some sort of knob on the stove before Harry turned, reaching up and grabbing Theo’s face to pull him into a passionate kiss. 

From the moment that Harry’s soft lips touched his, Theo’s world suddenly spun. Harry’s tongue slipped into Theo’s mouth half open from a moan and explored, sending tingles down Theo’s body. Harry tasted absolutely divine, the parallel movement of their bodies was the sort of indescribable synchronicity that Theo never anticipated. Harry’s thumb stroked the side of Theo’s face with a strange affection that made Theo’s heart flutter in irregular beats. Harry walked them forward against the island of the kitchen, the cold stone pressing into the small of Theo’s back. 

All the blood rushed south, Theo’s cock throbbing, needing Harry closer, the sort of desire that required clothes to be off and hands to freely roam. Theo groaned against Harry’s lips, hands reaching up and tugging at Harry’s collar in hopeless, desperate communication to remove - to get closer and Harry nodded, breaking apart for the briefest second. His fingers danced down the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with a remarkable quickness. They spun around, Harry now backed against the edge of the counter and Theo bit his lip, watching with eager anticipation as Harry easily slipped off his shirt. 

Then it was true and tragic, Harry Potter was both the brave saviour of the wizarding world, and bloody fit to a devastating degree. Theo took in the sight of Harry’s body, the dusting of hair across his chest, his abs, the bulge in his trousers that made Theo’s mouth water. Theo couldn’t stop himself from rushing forward and kissing Harry again, the smallest whimper releasing from Harry’s lips when Theo’s hands reached down to undo his belt, pulling it free from the buckle fastening. They broke apart, Harry looking down to watch Theo slide Harry’s zipper down but Theo’s eyes were fixed on Harry, on the way his lips quivered and his emerald eyes widened as Theo’s hand reached into his pants, to cup his very hard cock that pulsed underneath Theo’s touch. Harry huffed a smiled breath, his tongue dipping out to coat his lips. 

The skin of Harry’s cock was gloriously soft and smooth, Theo’s hand curled around the girthy shaft with a squeeze. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut and inhaled a quick, ragged breath through his nose. Theo began a pumping motion with a twist at the top, his thumb reaching up to wipe the leaking pre-cum around the head in the rhythm. 

“Look at me,” Theo breathed out. 

Harry’s beautiful green eyes came back into view and they took in Theo with an expression of awe and arousal, his pupils dilated and fixed on their target. Theo secretly thought Harry had the most stunning eyes he might’ve ever seen in his whole life, with unfairly long lashes that framed the whole picture. 

Theo tugged Harry even closer to him by his cock, making Harry’s feet shuffle forward a little. Theo didn’t release Harry from the fatal eye contact as he dropped to his knees, Harry gasped with the realisation of what was about to happen. Theo drank in the sight of Harry biting his lip with furrowed brows as he tugged Harry’s trousers and pants down in one motion, his cock springing free and mere centimetres from Theo’s mouth. 

Theo smirked up at him as a drop of pre-cum nearly dripped onto the floor, Theo’s tongue darting out to lick it from the bottom of the weeping head. Harry’s breath hitched as his hand leaned back to hold the edge of the island like a lifeline, the other weaving into the back of Theo’s head of dark hair, fisting the dark curls. 

Theo’s mouth welcomed the treat of Harry Potter’s cock, the thick heaviness of his length filling Theo’s mouth with warmth and pressure. 

A strangled moan clawed out of Harry’s throat as his head tipped back in pleasure with a sigh, tugging Theo’s hair slightly as his fingers tightened. The weight of Harry’s cock against his tongue was something out of a fantasy, it was in Theo’s definition, the perfect length, thickness, and taste. He quickly found his rhythm, curling his tongue on the underside of Harry’s erection with suctioned cheeks. 

“Theo, has anyone told you that you look beautiful on your knees like that?” Harry muttered, a thumb tracing Theo’s brow with reverent eyes. 

Theo shook his head slightly, slightly forgetting to breathe underneath Harry’s intimate attention. 

“Well let me have the honour of being the first, Theo you look absolutely ravishing with your mouth full of my cock.” 

Theo’s cheeks burned red underneath Harry’s strangely wonderful words and something inside his chest sighed in wistful contentment. He tried to instead focus on bobbing his head up and down enthusiastically, his hands crossed behind his back so Harry could appreciate what a good cocksucker Theo really was. Harry’s hips began moving in soft thrusts with Theo’s rhythm and they were connected in an intimate affinity that made Theo’s heart soar. 

 Harry thrusted rather harshly against the back of Theo’s throat, his concern-filled gaze snapping immediately to Theo’s but when they made eye contact, Theo hummed his perfect agreeableness for the roughness, smiling around Harry’s girth. Harry laughed disbelievingly before doing it again, Theo’s eyes shining with delight when Harry’s cock slid down his throat. Saliva dripped from Theo’s eager mouth onto his kneeling thigh and he tried to slurp it up with his occupied tongue but couldn’t gather it all. Harry’s cheeks were the most delicious shade of flushed pink, his mouth slightly ajar in amazement and Theo thought he looked so pretty it hurt. 

Theo decided to impress Harry by taking the whole length of his cock down his throat, his nose pressed flush against Harry’s dark curls surrounding the base. Theo could feel the pulsing beat of Harry’s cock against the sensitivity of his flat tongue and eager throat. Harry moaned loudly, gasping for breath as he thrusted softly. Harry smelled like the best mixture of clean and masculine musk, Theo thought he might be content to stay here forever. 

“That feels unbelievable,” Harry whispered down to Theo. “You’re incredible.” 

Theo relaxed his jaw and throat to accommodate Harry staying there, tears accumulating in the bottoms of his eyes and dripping down onto his cheeks as he breathed through the desire to cough. This was the best part, Theo decided, as he looked up at Harry through his lashes and Harry wiped away his tears. 

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that.” Harry croaked out with a quivering lower lip. 

Theo hummed around his cock and reluctantly pulled off the length of him. 

“But then who will fuck me?” Theo hoursely whispered, licking his lips. 

Harry let out a muttered prayer before helping Theo to his feet, urgently pressing his lips to Theo’s, kissing him with fervent need as his hands cupped both sides of Theo’s face. It made Theo’s heart swell with excitement—boys never kissed him after he sucked off their cocks. 

Harry’s strong hands fell from Theo’s face to cup the back of his thighs, lifting Theo up onto the kitchen counter. He rushed forward to stand between Theo’s spread legs, pulling him closer by the back of Theo’s neck for more kisses. Theo drank in the taste of Harry like the finest whiskey, a delightfully light and thrilling sensation travelling over his whole body as their tongues danced together. Harry’s scruff against Theo’s cheeks and lips sparked a stomach-clenching desire to pull him even closer, to have Harry fill his body and fuck him like Theo meant something to him, even for a night. Theo’s cock strained against its confinements, desperate for release. 

“Take me to your bedroom,” Theo whispered against Harry’s lips and he swallowed the moan of agreement that followed. 

After kicking off his trousers and pants, Harry obediently lifted Theo’s legs off the counter. His strong arms unshakingly supported Theo’s weight with hands underneath his bum, Theo’s legs wrapping around his waist with clenched thighs. They never broke their mouths apart, desperate and clawing for more of each other. Harry walked them out of the kitchen and into, what Theo assumed was his bedroom, before breaking their kiss to gently set Theo down against his soft bed. 

It was an unholy sight to behold, Harry Potter in just his loose hanging, unbuttoned shirt, glasses and a bouncing cock, Theo’s eyes roamed his body and the abundant assortment of toned muscles. Theo wanted to run his tongue over all of them, starting with his impossibly defined abs. Harry had other ideas though as he held Theo’s eye before shucking off his shirt, now standing before him starkers with Theo still fully clothed. 

That simply wouldn’t do. 

Theo leaned forward, pulling his own shirt over the top of his head and flinging it somewhere onto the floor. Harry’s eyes danced over Theo’s exposed chest, breath quickened at the sight of him. Theo quickly reached down to undo his trousers but Harry rushed forward, urgently to stop him. 

“No, let me,” he breathed. 

Theo smiled at him, finding the demand strangely chivalrous. 

Harry knelt down onto the floor, his fingers popping open Theo’s trouser button, smirking up at him with eyes that danced with desire and a cock that bobbed with it too. He pulled the zipper down, tapping the sides of Theo’s hips to encourage him to lift up so he could pull the bunched fabric down his legs. 

Theo was naked before Harry now and insecurity abruptly bloomed in his throat. Theo pressed his lips together and averted his eyes from Harry’s indecent gaze. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry immediately asked, looking up at him. 

“Nothing,” Theo lied, his mind racing with thoughts of what happened the last time he was naked with a man. 

“No, something just happened, I’m sure of it. Tell me.” Harry’s voice was instantly soft and laced with concern as his hand rested his hand on Theo’s thigh, thumb running back and forth against his skin. 

“It’s fine, really.” Theo sighed, picking at the bunched little balls of fluff on the bed comforter. “Let’s just fuck.” 

As Harry’s hand reached forward to cover Theo’s, he could feel Harry’s scorching gaze burning into the side of his face. Theo bit his lip, strangely overwhelmed at how different this experience felt. 

“Theo,” Harry coaxed, “you can trust me. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine. We’re definitely not doing anything until you’re alright though.” 

Theo sighed, head tilting up at the ceiling. Why did Harry have to be so bloody perceptive and say things like that? 

“I guess I feel a little out of my depth. Normally the blokes I sleep with aren’t like you,” Theo quietly admitted, the confession twisting inside his chest.

“Oh,” Harry sighed with disappointment, “well, I understand. It’s too much pressure  to be with me. That’s alright.” Harry twisted and started to pick up his shirt from the floor but Theo stopped his arm. 

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Theo’s brows knitted together as Harry looked at him, confused. 

“What do you mean then? What type of blokes do you normally sleep with?” Harry asked. 

“I dunno, they’re just - It’s just not like this, they don’t usually bring me back to their place, they don’t want anyone to see them leave with me, it’s just different.” Theo babbled, trying to ignore the hurt look on Harry’s face. 

“And it’s bad that I’m not like that?” Harry’s question plummeted Theo’s stomach. 

Theo groaned, his hands reaching up to cover his face. 

“It’s not bad, you’re perfect and lovely and horribly wonderful,” Theo’s reply came in muffled. 

He wanted to be with Harry, his dick wanted him, but there was a kindness to him that made Theo hesitate. The way Harry’s hands had stroked his cheek earlier, how he’d complimented him and offered him tea, how he was sweet to Theo - all of it felt like it would hurt so more than all the others when he kicked Theo out after being done with him. 

Harry laughed in disbelief, and his fingers pulled Theo’s hands away from his face. 

“Then let’s enjoy our night together, Theo. You’re so lovely too, I hate to see you upset when there’s nothing wrong.” Harry’s fingers gently nudged Theo’s chin to look at him. 

Harry’s expression was so open and honest that it terrified Theo. He looked like he was excited to be with him and like he was having just as good of a night as Theo was. When Harry leaned close to softly kiss Theo’s lips, the sigh of contentment that left Theo’s mouth was uninhibited and afraid. 

He figured even if it hurt though, one night with Harry Potter would be worth all the pain. He could remember this, the way Harry’s lips moved against him and sent the most exquisite sparks down his spine - Theo resolved to embrace the agony filled descent into madness. 

And so, he nodded in agreement, feeling the way Harry smiled against his mouth, not in a way that felt lewd or eager that Theo agreed to fuck him, but one accompanied with soft touches that traced Theo’s ear curvature down the length of his neck, across the sweep of his broad chest, and down his arm. Touches that made Theo feel frighteningly cared for and dangerously warm inside. 

***

 

Draco couldn’t stop thinking about Granger’s eyes. The gaze that pierced him and rendered him utterly transparent before her. How she burned him, leaving him totally at odds whether to bask in her presence or flee for his sanity. She was everything he imagined and more, the proximity of her was incomparable to any of his fantasies, as if she electrified him, her monster, and brought him back to life. 

Draco leaned back in his office chair, tapping his lips with eyes that fluttered shut against the deliciousness of memories—each one was so invigorating and inspiring. He needed more of her like water in the desert. 

His darling, transfixing muse.

Draco smiled to himself because he knew he’d chosen so well. There was endless depth to her, with potential that spanned kilometres and could never be totally explored. He wondered if she understood the sort of game they were playing - of course she wouldn’t though. To her, he was still the gruesome, traitorous Death Eater who wasn’t worthy of her time or attention. To him, though, she was everything. 

He tried to imagine what her night had ended like—had she made a cup of tea, maybe curled up on the couch with her fierce creature cat with a book? Perhaps she thought about what he’d said, maybe he’d intrigued her like she intrigued him. 

A shiver ran down Draco’s spine at the thought of having a place in her thoughts. He wanted more than a place, he wanted a permanent residency in her mind, her life, her body. This unquenchable lust held for her was also paralleled with how overwhelmed he felt in her presence. Maybe as he spent more time with her, he’d become acclimatised, maybe he’d be able to have more moments to bask in her light. 

Draco inhaled sharply through his nose, an erection beginning to swell as he remembered how her perfume smelled and how much he had wanted to lean close to that scent, to bury his nose into the crook of her neck and breathe deeply. The torturous desire was so delicious, the longing so familiar and out of reach, yet, Draco had seen the curiosity in her eyes that night. 

They danced with a desire to seek out the truth within him, if she asked the right questions he honestly might be inclined to tell her that truth, but he didn’t want to scare her away either. Draco knew exactly what he was—to her, the world, even to himself—he’d always be the death eater coward who didn’t have the balls to stand up and say he didn’t want to be a part of the Dark Lord’s plans. There wasn’t anything he could do to erase that opinion of him, no matter how many pretty poems he wrote in the cloaked anonymity of his manor. 

The elves had made him tea before he’d arrived for the night, the hot cup rested on his desk and waited for him to drink the liquid with curling tendrils of steam. Draco didn’t drink it though, instead his mind danced with fantasies of Granger’s mouth and eyes and hands. Draco’s head tilted back, his teeth sinking into his lower lip with a groan, his hands reaching up to cover his face and drag down the skin. He could feel the thrumming pulse of his cock demanding attention, and though he wanted to write poems about tonight’s events, Draco was desperately horny. 

He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood, leaning over to blow out the candles that flickered light to the space on the table. Draco’s footsteps sounded throughout the empty hallways, as they always did, but he didn’t feel alone, not with the memories of how Granger’s tongue had dipped over her lips and her gaze that unapologetically looked through him. 

Draco entered his bedroom, the room was dark but that was fine. He walked straight into the connected bathroom. The floor was a dark marble swirled with veins of light stone—it felt warm underneath his feet after he slipped his shoes off.  He leaned a hand against the countertop as he reached down to pull his socks off as well. The stone was charmed to always allow the floor to radiate delicious heat, an idea of his mothers that he found wonderfully luxurious, especially in the wintertime. 

The rest of his clothes quickly followed to the floor. Draco’s hand casually reached down to grip his hardening cock and gave it a few tugging passes, pleasure sparking through his veins. With a wave of his wand, the water began to flow down from the ceiling, a rush of hot droplets that were modelled after a waterfall. Draco had spent many nights here, letting the water soothe his skin and soul amidst the cold interior that for many months felt like an eternal fate. 

Draco stepped into the shower, tilting his head back and allowing his hair to soak in the cascading liquid, his hands reaching up to glide over his face and slick back his hair. The warmth was utter bliss and he allowed himself a few moments to sigh in relief at the comfort, physical and emotional. 

It wasn’t long though before his cock twinged with an aching reminder of what he’d started, and Draco touched the long, thick shaft, curling his fingers around the base of it and working strokes across the length. He always liked to do a quick, rounding swipe around the head, it sent tingles down his legs and made his toes curl up against the pleasure. Immediately, his mind began conjuring images, thoughts of Hermione. 

Her mouth, her smile, her feisty courage, her eyes. Burying his hands in her hair and dragging her to his lips, Hermione on her knees looking up at him with those huge, consuming amber depths. 

Draco’s hand moved faster, copious pre-cum leaking from his cock and gliding the path to climax. His breath came in huffing pants as the scene before him got more elaborate and detailed. 

Hermione’s tongue darted out to coat her lips, touching her body, her breasts and he imagined the way they would fill his palm perfectly. Hermione reached down between her legs to touch herself, gasping out with desire and wantonly looking up at him with hooded eyes, her fingers swiping at the slick moisture that accumulated there before dragging it up to her lips to taste herself. Hermione’s tongue, flat and waiting for him to cum across it, her eyes dancing with impatient enthusiasm and excitement. 

The building pressure in Draco’s stomach was becoming more focused, tense with the arching crescendo. His head tilted back as his hand worked more furiously, up and down his cock with experienced pressure, wrist deftly twisting around the head, dragging the arousal back down the shaft. His breath was turning into soft moans, the water hitting his forehead and dripping down his face. He thought of how lovely it would be for that liquid to be Hermione’s arousal from sitting on his face, how he’d lap it up so wantonly, his tongue would dart in every direction, lick every possible place that was offered to him. 

His mind took the thought and ran with it, imagining the pressure of her perfect, milky thighs across his cheeks, Hermione’s hands perhaps gripping a bar above them, suspending herself and allowing him the unparalleled privilege of feasting on her body. He wouldn’t stop with one orgasm, he’d bring her to two, three if she’d let him. As many as she could stand. He’d drink her cum like it was the only sustenance in the desert, as if she were his only source of nutrients to survive a barren winter. Every swipe of his aching tongue would be euphoric, he’d climax from her pleasure but wouldn’t move till the shuddering oversensitivity took her sanity and he still wouldn’t relent. 

He’d suck and fuck and probe and drink till she begged him to stop, till she weeped from pleasure and her body pulled away from his licking with shivering breaths and quivering thighs. He’d do fucking anything to experience the way her hips would rock against him, grinding down to seek more pleasure that he so willingly would offer. He’d let her take advantage of him, to grant him the gift of being used for as long as she would, nothing would matter, the world could burn down but Draco would stay pinned beneath those holy thighs. 

He’d be devoted, persistent, he’d channel his longing into her acute, glorious ecstasy over and over again, his tongue would spell the poems he wrote to her against her succulent cunt till she writhed and then he’d tongue them across her spine. He’d grip her hips, pulling her flush against him, she’d cry out and tears might streak down her cheeks, she might say that she couldn’t take anymore but Draco would sink into her and show her that she could , that she didn’t even know how much she could actually take but that he would show her. 

The thought of Hermione hyperventilating from overstimulation, her body milking his cock was more than Draco could handle. With a cry, streams of hot cum sprayed from his cock, hitting the floor and walls of the shower, splashing across his torso with the cresting wave. It was potent, the climax, a pure white sensation of overwhelming desire as Draco’s hips thrusted against his hand. He kept going, the long strokes beginning to turn into softening pleasure that sent shivers down his spine. His thumb ran over the slit of his cock, a sharp protest of sensitivity sparking up his spine. He was relentless, forcing himself to stay there and his mind imagining Hermione working the head of his cock to circle her clit, to elicit pleasure from his writhing sensitivity. 

Draco gasped, the stimulation was nearly too much to endure, his twitching body desperate to pull away but Draco couldn’t stop thinking about how he longed to be used by Hermione. He wanted to be her plaything that she couldn’t give up, the delicious suffering was a repentance and he’d fall to his knees before her and give her power over him. He’d offer her anything, he’d gloriously suffer under her touch till he came again, till his cock was milked and nothing left to ejaculate but mere drops and a twitching, overused organ. 

Draco let his hand fall away from his cock, breath heaving as the blanket of exhaustion now weighed down his shoulders. He leaned against the shower wall, the tiles an edge of cold and warm, but his skin basked in the sensation. After a moment to recover, Draco stepped back into the stream of water, allowing the cum to wash away from his skin, his now soft member hung between his thighs, used by not by the person it desired. 

Draco wondered if his fantasies would ever come to life, if he was a horrible person for thinking those thoughts, if Hermione would hex him viciously for such a delicious discrepancy. Draco shook it off though, leaving the thoughts in the shower as he let the water flow over his face, reaching up to wash away his total, pathetic desperation for a witch he’d never have. 

 

***

 

Hermione’s toes swished back and forth with the bubbles in her bath as she stared at the motion, mind completely occupied with the events of the night. The water was hot, charmed to stay at the perfect temperature that turned her skin pink and warmed her body both inside and out. 

Malfoy. 

Those burning silver eyes that had clawed into her thoughts and hadn’t left. How dare he be so genuine and confusing. 

Hermione chewed on her lower lip, rolling waves of conflicting emotions running rampant through her heart. She both hated and loved what he’d said, the words he’d used, the intense, pouring gaze she couldn’t look away from. It captivated her, and now she couldn’t stop bloody thinking about him. 

Honestly, it rather thrilled her watching him be a bit scared of her. 

Good , she thought, he should be.

When he spoke to her, he had the strangest way of making her feel powerful, maybe it was the way she’d noticed him hanging onto her every word, how he drank in the challenge she’d offered and thrived in the confrontation. 

Hermione sighed. It had sent a horrible excitement through her body to challenge him too. It was a rare sight to find a man who walked the line of respect and danger. 

Maybe it was just that he intrigued her, she’d stared at him from across the bar after inviting Theo to join them and tried to figure him out. She’d just been so fucking bored with the men in the dating pool recently, along with that persistent desire to cause trouble that never had died out from her youth. Draco Malfoy was nothing but trouble and she shouldn’t be thinking about him whatsoever, nor thinking about his eyes or how frustratingly gorgeous he had become in his adulthood. 

There was something delicious and bad about thinking of him, it sent rushes of twisting intrigue to her stomach. As if she was being naughty, but thoughts never hurt anyone. Now that he would be coming to the book club, it wouldn’t be so bad to investigate just a little bit, to dig underneath the surface of who he’d become. She’d been rather surprised with his contributions to the conversation on Thursday, she didn’t expect him to say anything really. Even though Ginny had scared him off a bit, he stood his ground for longer than she anticipated. She was quite looking forward to what he had to say, especially with the way he’d laced together his words tonight, there was something about him that drew her in. 

When he’d suggested she could have access to those pureblood libraries, Hermione had to swallow down her gasp of excitement and rolling waves of fear. Her mind danced with imagination at the archived research projects she would be able to complete, a totally unexplored world of knowledge suddenly able to be accessed. It made her pulse pump faster in thrilling anticipation. That thrumming beat raced under her skin as her mind flashed to the events that had happened to her in that Manor, her arm hauntingly tingling in response. 

Then he’d gone and invited her to his birthday party - what was he pulling? What game was he playing? Surely it was some sort of manipulation tactic to get her to lower her guard. Her mind tumbled over the foggy memories that she tried to make sense of but couldn’t. 

Did he want her redemption for what had happened in the war? She wasn’t terribly inclined to give it freely, even if she did consider them all to be children at the time who couldn’t be held responsible for the decisions made under such intense distress. It wasn’t necessarily that she thought Malfoy was exempt from judgement, but there was a weight to his shoulders that seemed heavier than she thought it should be. 

Did he want to be friends with her? Why would he want to be friends? He’d hated her not too many years ago, surely someone couldn’t change that much in such a short amount of time. 

And yet, those compliments - saying he thought her book club was important and a contributing evolution to the wizarding world. Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion at not understanding why he would’ve said that to her. It seemed so out of line with who she remembered him being. Something about his eyes and the way he allowed himself to be open and perhaps even vulnerable had slithered underneath her skin and made her heart beat faster. 

She was honest in her admittance that he’d surprised her. He had. 

And then he said he wasn’t faking his answers just to get into her group. When Hermione searched his expression, he didn’t seem to be lying, in fact - the opposite. His voice had taken such a gravelled tone of honesty that Hermione repressed a shiver. The transparency had been everything to her. It meant something, him describing reading in the same way she felt. 

The experience also brought forth a deep rooted suspicion in her belly, something in the back of her mind warned her that Malfoy wasn’t everything he seemed, for better or worse. She’d need to be careful around him and not let her guard down too quickly, lest she be taken advantage of by not knowing the game he was playing. 

Hermione could feel her toes pruning up from the extended amount of time in the bath but she pushed her body to sink further underneath beneath the water. She submerged her chin and mouth, then the rest of her face and hair, the lapping warmth against her skin and the rush of the water filling her ears was grounding. Hermione blew air out of her nose, feeling the bubbles tickle against her skin as they rose to the surface of the water. 

Here, Hermione could hear her heartbeat so clearly, a racing, pounding beat that told her that she needed to forget all about this Malfoy business and quickly. He was probably disgusting and still engrossed in pure blood nonsense, maybe he didn’t wash between his toes when he showered, whatever it was, Hermione resolved that he was someone she shouldn’t think about. 

Her lungs began to burn as she held her breath for too many seconds, pushing herself to force her mind to release Draco Malfoy from its considerations. It worked, and when she popped above the surface, taking a deep breath and wiping the water from her eyes, all she thought about was her wall of red string that she could thrillingly continue to work on tonight and a more suitable wizard she liked to think about. 

Hermione quickly got out of the bath and dried off her body, getting dressed in the clothes she’d laid out for herself. Her hair dripped onto the floor but she quickly dried it with a charm that tingled her scalp and left fluffy curls resting on her shoulders. Hermione braided the trusses down her back, sighing with relief of having it back out of her face and tamed. Before going into the guest bedroom, Hermione quickly hurried to the kitchen to make herself a glass of wine as she hummed to herself, giving Crookshanks a few head scratches that he purred from and rubbed against her hand. Then, the excitement brewing in her stomach, she went to work on her wall. 

Hermione’s guest bedroom had become transformed into an investigation of who her poet was. It was complicated, both her organisational system and her feelings for him. In one way, she felt like he understood her better than anyone had ever before. He said all the right things, in a way that were both simple and complex, he was a master at giving her butterflies in her stomach and better than anything - he was careful. Hermione respected him, and had studied the way the palate knife of poetry smeared just enough detail to make out a painting’s subject‘s outline but not enough to distinguish the person depicted. It was enthralling and exhilarating, a challenge that Hermione considered herself quite the witch to rise to. A mystery. 

Fuck , she loved mysteries. They made her blood sing with such purpose and thrill. 

Both main walls had cut outs of poems, red string that wrapped around push pins and connected different themes and thoughts, paired with XL yellow sticky notes surrounding the cut pages where she wrote down her own theories and considerations. 

Hermione sat with her glass of wine in the centre of the room, looking up at the massive right hand wall that was in the middle of deconstructing the second book. She was currently also considering having the smaller wall that joined the two opposing walls be some sort of overlap theory wall, where the common themes or communication found between book one and book two could be explored. She had a desk against that wall which proved helpful so far to have a writing surface to scribble down her thoughts, so if she was to use that wall, she’d have to move the desk. It wouldn’t be too difficult but there wasn’t a good place to have it other than that wall. 

Anyways - she interrupted her wandering thoughts - that was for future Hermione though, present Hermione needed to finish her project before starting anything else. 

There were several processes that she liked to go through when deconstructing her poet’s work: 

First, Hermione read the book, cover to cover, to soak in all of the new content, details, and information. 

Second, she went back through for a second read but this time with highlighters and pens to annotate anything that stood out to her. 

Third, she cut out the pages of the extra two copies of Invisible String that she’d purchased, carefully making each cut as straight as she could for consistency. Each page had two poems on either side of the paper, which was why she needed two copies so that she could have each poem up on her wall, side by side as she could imagine her poet had organised them on his floor prior to publishing. One needed to see the whole picture of what was being said in order to comprehensively take it all in. 

Fourth, Hermione pinned each page up on her wall, first in order, then when she could see everything, grouped together in themes or if something about it stood out to her. She was trying to find the man in the maze of wonderful words. It was as if she was trying to reach him through his own devotion. 

The process had made her feel quite close to him actually. She doubted that any of the other witches sighing wistfully over his words took the time to understand him like she did. It was wonderfully meditative, her standing back and finding the commonalities between the lines. She’d stand there for hours until her eyes burned and her head swam with rhymes or lines that stood out to her more than others. When she’d try to fall asleep after a long night of working on her project, sometimes she could swear she heard him whispering sweet poetry to her as she drifted off, the ghost of his touch across her forehead. For someone as devoted to his muse as her poet was, she liked to think he might feel flattered by her own attention. 

So far, she’d pinned all the papers up on the wall and now the real work began, organising them by topic or emotion. Most nights she was here, trying to see through the polished words and find the gritty reality underneath. It was hard work, sometimes she got a headache from squinting at the wall for too long or drinking too many glasses of wine, but it would feel worth it in the end. 

Hermione wasn’t even sure what she was looking for, to be honest, or rather, who. She supposed she wanted to meet him, as if finding him would prove to her that he was as real as he felt to her, maybe even prove that at least one wizard out there actually could be worth her time. It felt like a challenge, his anonymity, but as she chewed her bottom lip, tapping her finger against the tip of her nose in thought, it also brewed conflict because she understood the desire for privacy. Plus, it wasn‘t like she was this crazed fan, she just liked the idea of knowing him, of having someone who understood intensity in the same way she did. Surely, he wouldn’t mind that, would he? 

Crookshanks meowed to find Hermione in the hall, a desperate wail of abandonment and longing that echoed throughout their small space they shared. 

“I’m in here, Crooks,” Hermione called out to him. 

Soon enough, she heard his soft, stomping footsteps approaching the bedroom and his fluffy orange self came into the side of her vision a few moments later. Crookshanks rubbed up against the doorframe, scratching himself as he gave her a few blinks of affectionate greeting. Hermione smiled over at her companion, reaching out her arm to welcome him into her lap. He quickly bounded over, Crookshanks nuzzling her chin, purring a deep and steady vibrating rumble that always reminded Hermione of a car engine. Hermione pet his head, sighing heavily as she looked up at her wall, unsure if this really was the right thing to do or if her poet wanted to be left alone, undiscovered. No matter what she ended up finding, it wasn’t like she ever had to take action on it anyways. 

She just needed to know that he was real, she needed to meet him one day, to touch him and then maybe she’d believe that she wasn’t as alone in their world as she couldn’t admit that she felt. 

 

***

 

Harry kissed his way softly down Theo’s spine, following the curve of his back. Theo’s body hummed in anticipation as he laid on his stomach, the soft covers of Harry’s bed warm against his naked skin. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry whispered against his lower back, “thank you for letting me touch you.” 

Theo swallowed the wave of nerves at Harry’s sweet words, unsure how to respond. 

When Harry’s lips reached the cleft of Theo’s arse, Theo’s breath hitched, feeling wildly exposed as Harry’s hands spread his cheeks wide. Theo bit back a groan when Harry’s thumb circled his puckered hole, a wave of glorious arousal washing over Theo’s body like sunshine after a rainy day. He felt a subtle tingle of cleansing charms, followed by the warmth of a lubing charm in his arse, Harry’s lips lingering to kiss the top of his cheek before Theo felt the hot, wet sensation of Harry’s tongue flat against his arsehole. Theo gasped out, air rushing into his lungs as nearly every muscle in his body clenched around the pleasurable lapping of Harry’s tongue suddenly against him. Over and over, Harry licked around the rim, for what seemed like an eternity. Theo was rendered an aroused, desperate mess, his cock throbbing underneath Harry’s teasing. He was nearly on the cusp of surrendering his dignity and begging Harry to breach him, before Harry’s tongue probed Theo’s arsehole. 

Theo released a hot-blooded moan, loud and embarrassing even by his own standards. Harry’s muffled groaned response was music to Theo’s ears as Harry’s hands reached around Theo’s thighs and held him in place like an offering to feast upon. Harry’s tongue was relentless, darting in and out, diving inside Theo’s body, sending shivers down Theo’s spine from the sparks of pleasure. His legs began to tremble under their tense constricted strain to draw even closer to Harry’s mouth, naturally desiring more of Harry’s sinfully delicious exploration. Theo’s cock pulsed with desperate need, a scorching desire to be filled, to be fucked, to be Harry’s . 

“You taste utterly magnificent,” Harry pulled away for a moment to say, “I can’t get enough of you,” he muttered. 

Theo keened underneath his attentions, a flush of sweat beginning to coat his body. Harry’s teeth suddenly scraped at Theo’s arsecheek, digging into the skin and making Theo cry out with delighted encouragement. 

Harry sat up from where he previously was kneeling between Theo’s legs, his hands curling up around Theo’s thighs to effortlessly lift his hips onto Harry’s lap, sort of reverse straddling him in a way that left Theo spread wide and utterly, indecently exposed at Harry’s mercy. 

Harry’s finger was quick to replace his tongue, dipping into Theo’s arse, eased by the lube. Theo moaned, letting his forehead fall against the covers as Harry’s fingers worked in and out of him. He arched his hips up, offering more of himself and Harry swore under his breath. 

“Do you think you can take another finger?” Harry’s ragged voice gloriously reflected Theo’s effect on him. 

He nodded earnestly. 

“Is that a ‘yes’?” teased Harry.

“Yes, please, Harry,” he whimpered, arching back a little more to show exactly how much he needed it. 

Harry dipped a second finger against Theo’s eager hole, pressing in slowly but steadily. Theo groaned against the stretch that slightly burned, Harry’s rocking motion that pressed against his prostate left Theo gasping while still wanting more. Theo’s cock was so hard it ached, demanding attention but getting none. 

“I need you Harry, please! Just fuck me.” Theo cried out when Harry’s fingers curled and hit a spot that shot sparks up his spine. 

“Shhh…” Harry’s hand rubbed Theo’s lower back gently with his thumb. “We have all night. I don’t want to hurt you. Be patient and let me enjoy this.” 

Theo’s world spun round when Harry added a third finger, twisting and pressing till Theo’s legs shook and he was making a dripping mess all over Harry’s lap. The stretch was delicious, Harry took his time and was in no rush, making sure Theo was utterly ravaged and ready for his cock to sink into him. Theo had never experienced such an attentive partner and it wasn’t until he was quivering and begging that Harry placed a gentle kiss on Theo’s arsecheek and gave in. 

Theo nearly sobbed in relief. 

Harry lifted Theo’s body like he weighed nothing, dragging his limp body down the bed and propping up Theo’s hips at a sharp angle so they met Harry’s when he stood off the edge of the bed. Harry whispered a fresh cast of a lube charm and Theo shivered as the slippery sensation filled him. He was so sensitive, so desperate for Harry’s cock that the seconds of hovered anticipation was bloody torturous. 

Then, he felt Harry’s thumb stroke his played-with hole that twitched with need, tracing the rim, before Theo felt the breaching pressure of the head of Harry’s cock slowly sliding into his body. Theo moaned out loudly, one of Harry’s hands resting on the small of his back as he pressed in, another on the side of his hip. Further and deeper, Theo breathed through his nose and willed himself to relax and accept the cock that still stretched him despite all of Harry’s attentive preparations. It seemed like he went on forever, every centimetre of space available inside Theo was claimed by Harry. Theo’s skin prickled with pride when the glorious sound of Harry’s damn angelic moan reached his ears and Harry’s hips were finally flush against Theo’s arse. 

Harry let out a strangled moan when Theo involuntarily clenched around his girth, his hands digging into the side of Theo’s hips as they struggled to accommodate each other. Theo breathed heavily, he felt so full it didn’t seem like there would be space to even draw air into his lungs. 

“Harry, please ,” Theo panted. “Fuck me.” 

When Harry complied, the drag was acutely glorious. Theo felt every centimetre of his cock and he met Harry’s thrusts, his body singing underneath Harry’s deepening plunges and quickening rhythm. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Harry gasped out, “you feel so good.” 

Theo was hanging on for dear life, his arms outstretched and hands fisting the covers as Harry’s thrusts became relentless, their bodies snapping together in a desperate, fast-paced rhythm. The sound of slapping skin and broken moans echoed throughout the small space, Theo’s eyes squeezed shut against the rising wall of pleasure that was already almost too much to bear. 

Theo cried out as his orgasm suddenly drew nearer, he strained against a few more thrusts, searching blindly for the one that would crest the wave. As if Harry knew Theo’s body like his own though, he suddenly slowed down his rhythm, much to Theo’s whined out frustration. 

These strokes were different, they felt savoured . Harry took his time pulling and pushing in and out of Theo’s body, rubbing the small of his back while Theo’s body quivered as it strained to hold onto the retreating orgasm. 

“I don’t want this to be over yet,” Harry softly explained, Theo’s thighs shaking underneath his fluid motions.

Theo strained against Harry’s torturously slow and deep movements, desperate for more, but Harry was restrained and determined to deny Theo what he needed. After a moment, Harry tapped the side of Theo’s hip. 

“Here, flip over.” He suggested. 

Theo’s brow furrowed in confusion as Harry pulled his cock completely free, his body frantically clenching on the absence that was left. Harry walked around the bed, sitting down on the edge and scooting to be against the headboard. His hands waved Theo over, patting on the top of his thighs. 

Theo smirked, pulling himself from his stomach up onto his knees. Holding Harry’s gaze, he seductively crawled up to meet him. Theo swung his legs on either side of Harry’s hips, mounting him, those green eyes burning into him as Theo settled. He reached behind his body, a hand using Harry’s shoulder as an anchor, and grabbed Harry’s slickened cock, positioning it for Theo to slowly impale himself on. Harry’s fingers dug into the sides of Theo’s hips, supporting his weight as he lowered. Centimetre by centimetre, Theo took in Harry’s cock, his body opening and accepting the offering that slid inside of him like a dream. The friction was delicious and when Theo was at the base, the position felt so much more intimate and deep than before, sitting so close to Harry with the ability to witness all of his expressions. Theo’s eyes flickered over to Harry’s face, which was tipped back in open-mouthed euphoria, the sight making Theo involuntarily clench, drawing moans from them both. 

There was something that felt complete, a sensation of perfect rightness when he sat chest to chest with Harry, both men panting with the sticky, hot pleasure that coursed through their veins. This close, Theo could take in all of Harry’s details: the dusting of freckles across his cheeks, a small mole on his left temple, the most kissable pink lips. Theo’s eyes drank in the sight of his lover for the night, a strange affection blooming when Harry’s eyes opened to meet his, their gazes drowning in each other.

Harry shifted his hips, thrusting lightly into Theo, the sensation sparking a warm, delightful tingle throughout his body. Theo moaned, Harry’s eyes watching him with the same intensity as Theo’d watched him before. It was a peculiar thing, being perceived. Every thrust, gasp, and shiver was noticed by Harry; his movements and actions influenced by what Theo reacted to the most. Theo’d never had someone tune themselves to his pleasure quite so attentively before. 

“Harry,” Theo moaned deeply when Harry directly thrust against a spot inside him that drew goosebumps onto his skin. 

Harry smiled, his flushed cheeks widening with the joy of drawing such a response from Theo. His left arm was circled around Theo’s back, the other underneath Theo’s thigh as they moved together. Harry’s motions were purposeful and direct and soon, Theo was shaking from the building pressure that he couldn’t hold back much longer. 

“Please, I need to cum,” Theo whispered, meeting Harry’s eyes that burned with heat. 

“Promise me this won’t be the last time we’re together and I’ll let you cum.” Harry’s gruff voice filled a space inside of Theo that glowed with hope. 

Theo nodded, absolutely desperate and nearly willing to agree to anything. 

“Say it, say that I can have you again,” Harry panted, his thrusts harsher and vigorous. 

“I promise. I promise.” Theo cried out, and Harry’s hands reached around to wrap around his cock and pump it. 

It was sudden, the snapping sensation as the heat of the cresting wave burned Theo’s body, everything muscle tensed as his movements suddenly stuttered. Theo’s head tilted back with ecstasy, rope after rope of cum splashing onto Harry’s abdomen with his orgasm. Harry moaned, not letting go—Theo felt his walls fluttering and milking Harry’s cock that felt altogether too big and overwhelming, but Harry kept thrusting into Theo with whimpering grunts of passion. 

“I can’t hold back anymore, I’m gonna cum—” Harry gasped out. Theo pressed his head limply to Harry’s shoulder as Harry used him, drawing out the last lingering seconds of his orgasm. 

The sound of Harry’s climax was something Theo would never forget for the rest of his life. A throaty cry that filled the room, Harry gripping Theo tightly, drawing him as close to him as possible, and his thrusts stilled as Harry buried himself as deeply inside Theo as he could get. Theo felt Harry’s cock twitching inside of him, followed by the hot sensation of his cum filling him. Harry moaned lowly, breathing hard and not letting Theo move an inch. Theo didn’t want to, he drank in the sensation of Harry, allowing the relaxation to float over his body, all the tension leaving behind an utterly peaceful bliss. 

Theo shivered, his body was overly sensitive now, clenching around Harry’s cock but neither man pulled away. They luxuriated in each other’s presence, Harry’s fingertips rubbing soft circles into Theo’s skin, Theo’s arms curled into Harry’s chest as he allowed himself to be held. They stayed like this for a few minutes, Harry’s cock softening inside Theo’s body and the evidence of their orgasms dripping down their skin. Harry’s hand reached up and cupped Theo’s cheek, dragging his lips to meet Harry’s. 

Harry kissed him with a searing depth, sending a shiver down Theo’s body. It wasn’t a kiss to re-initiate passion, but it was passionate. 

“Let’s get in the shower.” Harry suggested when they broke apart. 

Theo nodded, muscles protesting as Harry’s cock slipped from inside him. There was a sadness that filled Theo’s chest at the loss of contact. He hadn’t allowed someone to hold him like that in years. Now that it was over, he solemnly resigned that he’d have to wank to the memory of how Harry smelled and being temporarily desired in such a way. At least Harry would let him borrow his shower before sending him on his miserable way. 

Harry’s naked body climbed off the bed, cheeks beet red and his eyes a bit skittish as he pulled two towels out from the closet by the door. Harry didn’t need to be nervous, Theo knew how it usually went. The only difference was that the boys Theo fucked didn’t offer a towel out to him with a bashful smile, or, when he accepted that towel, pull him in again for another kiss while stroking his cheek. 

A goodbye kiss. 

Harry couldn’t have been serious about wanting to see him again. That’s never how it happened. It was probably just a kink of Harry’s, to have someone desperately on edge and desiring more of him. How could someone not though? Harry led Theo down a short hallway, Theo appreciating his fit frame and toned legs, the curve of his arse, how his shoulders were so broad and had held Theo to him; Harry was absolutely lovely. 

He turned the corner into a small bathroom barely big enough for two, smiling gently at Theo before reaching over and turning on the shower. It roared to life, Harry turning back to Theo and running his hands over Theo’s arms. 

At least I’ll be clean , Theo glumly supposed. 

He smiled back at Harry, trying to soak in the sight of those eyes that danced back at him, the taste of his lips when Harry reached down to kiss Theo again, how Theo’s head swirled at the sensation of Harry pulling his body flush against his. Theo sighed contently into Harry’s mouth. 

This is what Theo wanted. Frighteningly, intensely, he wanted this. Every day he wanted this. His hands reached up and tangled themselves into Harry’s dark, unruly hair. There was nothing more terrifying than the misery he knew would await him the second after Harry sent him on his way, slamming the door behind him and shoving him out into the hallway. 

Steam began to rise in the bathroom and Harry broke their kiss, grinning at Theo. The sight of it made Theo’s chest burn hot and it took everything in him not to drag Harry’s lips back to meet his. 

“Come on,” Harry whispered, nodding his head towards the water that poured behind the pulled curtain. 

Theo allowed Harry to tug his hand, guiding him into the shower where the temperature of the water was perfectly warm, on the edge of being too hot. Theo’s eyes fluttered shut as Harry allowed him to step underneath the stream first, the water soaked Theo’s hair, the strands plastering against his forehead as he tilted back and let the water wash over his face and body. After a moment though, Theo’s eyes snapped open at the sensation of Harry’s slippery hands running over the width of his shoulders, cleaning his body with soap that smelled like heaven and masculine notes of a crisp woodsy scent. 

“What are you—-” Theo started to protest but Harry quieted him with a soothing voice, much like how one might speak to a startled animal. 

“Shh…let me take care of you.” 

Theo stopped outwardly arguing but internally raised an eyebrow. What sort of game was Harry playing at? They’d already fucked. Theo couldn’t understand what Harry might gain from this action. 

“You really do have a beautiful body, Theo.” Harry said softly, working Theo’s toned stomach and hips. 

“Thank you.” Theo whispered back, almost afraid of Harry’s kindness. 

Harry soaped up again before lathering Theo’s thighs and cock, smirking a bit when it quickly became erect again underneath Harry’s touch. He trailed the soap down Theo’s buttocks, knees, and calves before quietly asking Theo to turn around so he could wash his back. Theo silently complied with Harry’s request, allowing himself a few minutes of enjoying the massage of Harry’s fingers that dug into his shoulders, sighing deeply as his body relaxed. Harry shuffled behind Theo before his hands came back into contact, but this time, Theo felt his head being encouraged to tilt back as Harry rubbed shampoo into his hair. 

The soft intimacy brought sudden tears to Theo’s eyes that embarrassingly dripped onto his cheeks, quickly washed away in the stream of water. Theo governed his breathing, refusing to allow Harry to know just how much this impacted him. The scent of Harry’s shampoo filled the small space, Theo breathing a heavy sigh at how lovely it was to smell like Harry, thinking to himself of how he’d have to preserve the scent when he got home so it’d last as long as possible. He didn’t want to admit how deeply the lovely experience really impacted him, but as Harry’s fingertips massaged into Theo’s scalp, scratching a little, Theo’s heart fluttered against his will. 

Theo hadn’t ever felt this taken care of, much less by an intimate partner. The only comparable experience was perhaps being bathed by the elves when he was a child after his mother passed, but they didn’t make Theo feel like this . After a few minutes, Harry guided Theo’s head into the running water, hands massaging out the bubbles until he was clean. The same pattern was repeated with the conditioner, and by the time Harry washed out the product for a second time, Theo was struggling to regulate his breathing amidst the emotion that flared throughout his chest. 

Theo was always the person who took care of other people, who made sure they were alright: Draco, Pansy, Blaise—but when Harry’s lips met his after Theo was completely clean, he wondered if he’d ever felt anything as safe and wonderful as Harry’s hands. The grief of knowing their time was limited, that he’d have to leave soon, echoed inside Theo’s mind but there was something that alarmingly felt like home in how Harry tasted, in the swirl of his tongue that explored Theo’s mouth. When Harry pulled Theo close, his skin tingled underneath his touch, goosebumps rising on his skin even though he was perfectly warm. Theo wondered how he’d ever be able to fuck anyone again, how he could ever go back to being thrown out of hotel rooms or feel undesired after tonight.

The thought prickled in the back of his mind, the briefest hope in the luxurious weight of Harry’s hand against his jaw, that perhaps Harry didn’t want him to go. An idea so foreign and inconceivable that it felt like a cardinal sin to everything Theo had ever known before. As Harry’s thumbs affectionately caressed Theo’s cheeks, Theo could’ve fallen onto his knees and begged Harry to let him stay forever. 

Theo bit back the whispered pleas, his mind instantly flashing to how he didn’t think he’d be able to take watching Harry embarrassingly make up excuses as to why he couldn’t stay, muttering or babbling lies to placate Theo till he got the hint and left mercifully. It rose bile in his throat and sunk Theo’s stomach down to his feet. 

Harry washed himself quickly after Theo, smiling at him warmly, silently spreading the lather across his chest and down his body. Theo wanted to offer to take care of him like Harry had done for him but the words got stuck in his throat and he wasn’t sure how to say it. So, Theo just admired and tried not to think about the ticking clock in his mind that taunted him on the finite quantity of those beautiful green eyes that looked at him like he was special. 

After the shower they both dried off in the small bathroom, the steam having blurred the mirror. Harry tucked his towel around his waist, picking up his clothes from the floor and walking out of the bathroom door. Theo followed behind, the apartment was so much colder than their private oasis. The shock prickled Theo’s skin and reminded him that he was a visitor, not a resident. Harry walked into his bedroom but Theo couldn’t bear to go back in there, not when he knew he needed to be brave and walk out that front door even though everything in him screamed not to. 

Theo had just started to pull on his button up shirt when Harry rounded the corner with that smile that warmed Theo to the core, holding a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt. His smile dropped abruptly when he saw Theo getting dressed in his clothes, as if that wasn’t exactly what was expected of him, as if Theo wasn’t being kind by leaving without making Harry ask him to go. 

“Are you leaving?” Harry’s eyebrows scrunched, his eyes softening in confusion. 

His expression made Theo’s stomach clench in shame. 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to pretend like this is more than it is,” Theo said softly, looking down as he finished buttoning up his shirt. 

“Oh,” Harry’s voice was quiet. “I thought we were having a nice time.” 

Theo swallowed down the rushing adoration that filled his chest, unable to meet Harry’s searching gaze.  

“I did have a nice time, I just—” 

“You could spend the night, if you wanted,” Harry boldly offered, shrugging awkwardly. “I was hoping you would, at least.” 

Theo had never been offered to spend the night with a boy, much less someone like Harry. The proposition was daunting but everything in Theo wanted to accept. 

“We could go down to the shops tomorrow morning and get a few things, maybe make breakfast together,” Harry continued, stepping forward slowly. “I don’t have much here if you’re hungry.” He sheepishly smiled at Theo. “I normally go shopping on Saturdays.” 

“I’m not that hungry,” Theo lied quietly, frozen with uncertainty. 

“We could put on a film. I have lots of ones that I think you’d like.” Harry’s voice sounded hopeful and cautious. 

“I—” Theo started, but he didn’t know what to say, conflict coursing through his body. “I just don’t know what we’re doing here or what it is that you want from me,” he admitted. 

“That’s a big question.” Harry laughed a little, but Theo looked at him pointedly with his vulnerability crossing his face. ”Okay, I just really like you and I want to spend more time with you. Time that’s not just fucking—” Harry’s hands flew up when Theo started to protest, “even though that was a shag sent from the gods, I just want to get to know you.” 

With every step that Harry took closer to him, Theo’s breathing became more ragged and uneven, his chest burning with indecision and a flightiness that he couldn’t deny. Eventually, Harry got close enough to stand in front of him, taking Theo’s hand in his with gentle caresses across the back of it. 

“We don’t need to know everything about what this is right now, but maybe we could just start with your middle name?” Harry teased, eyes searching Theo’s. 

“Thaddeus,” Theo croaked out, a smile tugging at his lips when Harry’s eyes went wide. 

“What a cruel name to bestow upon a child.” Harry smirked, shaking his head. “Come on, stay. I’d really like you to.”

After a moment of searching Harry’s hopeful expression for genuineness, Theo sighed heavily, his anxiety tapered momentarily as he slowly nodded. 

“Alright,” The acceptance felt foreign and Theo had to force the word out, “I’ll stay the night.” 

Harry’s grin could’ve illuminated the night sky as he held out the bundled clothes he previously had kept behind his back. Theo accepted them, the fabric was soft and squished in his hand. 

Theo’s heart pounded in his chest, frantic in confusion of all the directions he felt pulled in. A tug towards self-protection, a lunge towards gleeful happiness, a pull back to caution. The looming acceptance of the clothes felt so much bigger than just a night, it was the bleating voice in the back of his mind warning him that things could still go south, paired with the childlike hope that they wouldn’t. Harry said he wanted to watch films with him, to get food in the shops, to be seen with him. 

Theo smiled down at the bundle still in his hands and tried to swallow the thick lump in his throat at how terrified he felt; Whether that was because of everything he had to lose or because he might’ve found someone to lose at all. 

“Come on,” Harry said softly, gesturing back to the bedroom. “I’m starving, I know you said you weren’t hungry but maybe we could order some takeout. You can have some of my fries.” 

Theo blinked back the tears that prickled at his eyes and nodded in agreement. He followed Harry’s soft footsteps into a future that might scare him, but that he was brave enough to admit that he desperately wanted. 

Chapter 9

Notes:

It's been so delightful to read all the comments as the fic continues along, thank you to anyone and everyone who was kind enough to leave one!

I'm also back in the market for a new beta reader for this fic if anyone reading along would ever be interested, shoot me a message and we'll see if it would work out!

Finally, I'm getting into a groove for this fic so updates should be coming on a regular schedule of every 2-3 weeks unless anything pressing comes up in my personal life.

Hope everyone has a great week and enjoys this chapter!

Draco’s weekend was spent exclusively writing poems about his chance encounter with Granger. The infusion of life into his poetry was illuminating his creativity like a lightning strike engulfing a tree in fire. The way his pen scratched across endless papers, his prose composed even in the spare moments of his existence, his mind churning through his recent memories to string together words – it was a different type of intoxication.

He also hadn’t even heard from Theo since he left the bar with Potter, that was until he swung Draco’s office door wide open late Sunday night, strutting across the space and collapsing onto the leather couch with a swooning sigh. Draco had been in the middle of writing a poem that he hurried to shove into his desk drawers as Theo let out a strangled groan, covering his face with his hands. His head leaned back against the edge of the sofa as he began to recount the unparalleled gloriousness of Harry Potter’s cock in unnecessarily reflective detail.

“Draco, you just don’t understand.” Theo’s eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall, his words slightly muddled together, “I’m so fucked. I never even spend the night with these wizards and I literally didn’t leave his apartment for two days,” His distressed lament seemed both a complaint and whisper of frantic prayer. “What the actual fuck am I going to do?”

Draco rolled his eyes at his friend, slipping his glasses off and placing them onto the desk as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t quite understand what the problem is here, Theo.” He rubbed at his tired eyes, strained from the flickering candlelight. “It sounds like you had a great time together.”

“How can you not see the problem?!” Theo screeched as he abruptly lurched forward to look at Draco pointedly. “I’m practically already in love with the savior of the wizarding world.” His hands gestured wildly as he spoke. “This is terrible. It might actually be the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

Draco tilted his head at his friend, giving him a look of skeptic disbelief. Theo snatched the pillow resting in the corner, pressing against his face and frustratedly screaming into it as he fell back onto the couch.

“Maybe this is just the dick to end all dicks for you. There had to be one out there.” Draco mused, leaning back into his chair as he crossed his arms.

“I’m not ready though!” Theo whined, throwing the pillow across the room, “I haven’t even begun to fulfill my fullest potential as a disgraceful whore and now I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t even want to be here; I literally want to go back over there and tell him to call out of work, tell them that he has the bloody plague so that we don’t have to get out of bed for the rest of the week. This bastard has the actual potential to domesticate me. Me!” Theo pointed a finger into his chest in incredulity.

Draco raised his eyebrows at Theo, covering his mouth with his fingers so a laugh wouldn’t bubble out. Theo noticed his friend’s amusement and sent a middle finger Draco’s way, which released the withheld laughter that radiated throughout his chest.

“Theo this isn’t bad.” He affectionately tried to offer comfort but Theo held out his hand against Draco’s advice with a shake of his head.

“You simply cannot understand the distress I’m under.” His dramatic groan echoed around the room. “I would do disgusting things for this man, I’m in real danger of compromising my dignity here. I don’t know how I’m going to make it to next weekend.”

“Next weekend?” Draco’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“That’s when we’re seeing each other next.” Theo sighed, biting his lip as he looked off into the fire.

“Hm.” Draco acknowledged with a nod of his head.

“At least it’s some comfort in all of this wretched horribleness that my father is probably convulsing from disdain in his grave.” Theo remarked with a smirk of pride. “I mean, really – of all wizards to be bloody cock-whipped by, this one actually might bring the fucker back from the dead.”

“I certainly think he’d have an opinion about it, that’s for sure.” Draco laughed, shaking his head in astonishment of it all.

“It only took two days and I’ve been absolutely done in for.” Theo squeaked as he rolled onto his side, using his arm as a pillow. “This is my rock bottom. I’m ruined.”

“I promise it isn’t.” Draco sighed, Theo sending a wayward glance of accusation towards him.

“This is your fault, you know. If it wasn’t your bloody birthday we wouldn’t have been in that fucking pub and I wouldn’t be in this situation. I'd still have my self-respect and my decency.”

“You’d also still be hopelessly tortured over Blaise – isn’t it funny how you haven’t mentioned him whatsoever in this exasperation fit?” Draco retorted with a sneer, crossing his arms. “In fact, this might be exactly what you need to finally be rid of that awful, pathetic pining of yours.” He rolled his eyes, gathering his wayward papers together with an irritated sigh.

“You’re one to talk.” Theo defensively scoffed, his lip curled, “You could barely hold your composure in front of Granger on Friday.”

Draco’s stomach immediately sank as his eyes met Theo’s knowing, accusation-filled glare.

“How many years have you had a thing for her?” His chin snapped forward, Draco struggling to swallow the overwhelming dread that so instantly flooded his body. “Since fourth year? So that would be nearly ten years of ‘awful, pathetic pining’,” Theo snapped at him as his fingers quoted in the air with a pointed, mocking impression of Draco’s deep voice.

Draco’s horrified expression sent Theo smirking with amused triumph.

“Yeah, you’re not particularly cunning for being the prize of Slytherin – you couldn’t hide something like that from me, I’m your best friend.” He shifted back onto his side to look into the fire again. “You also talk in your sleep. Fifth year was particularly chatty.” Theo snickered a laugh that disintegrated into a heavier chuckle.

Draco shook his head in disbelief, a laugh sputtering from his lips as his fingers covered his eyes, dragging the skin down.

“I can’t believe you never told me that you knew.” He admonished.

Theo let out an offended scoff, rolling back onto his back to look towards Draco knowingly.

“Of course I told you I knew. I’ve been trying to get you to admit it for years.” He replied, his cheek pulled tight to the side in fluctuating tensions as he bit the inside – a nervous habit from his youth.

“What on earth do you mean?” Draco incredulously asked, Theo rolling his eyes in response.

“Come on, all those times I’ve asked if you were interested in someone, trying to figure out why you wouldn’t just marry one of the precious pureblood society offerings; I’ve honestly been at my wits end here – thank Merlin you decided to go to the damn book club and put me out of my misery.”

Draco’s pressed smile stretched as his mind flashed to their hundreds of conversations.

“So was the pub somehow your plan?” He pointedly asked, Theo’s arms stretching out to rest behind his head.

“I’ve been trying to get your stupid, stubborn arse to come with me for months now.” He grinned, his eyebrows wiggling in pleased accomplishment. “Friday was a happy coincidence but yeah, I’d heard about it being their spot.”

A huffed sigh rushed over Draco’s lips, a mixture of anxious relief and uncertainty brewing inside his chest.

“You really are such an arsehole for keeping that from me for all these years.” He laughed a little with an impressed shake of his head.

“You could’ve told me yourself,” Theo’s shoulders shrugged. “You really could’ve, you know? I wouldn’t have judged you or told you to give up.”

It was Draco’s turn now to shrug, not quite knowing what to say. It had been his secret for so long that the space of it being shared was foreign and frightening. His pinky fingered the edge of one of the empty papers still remaining on his desk; his vast, hidden world that Draco wasn’t sure if he felt ready to share in its totality yet. Theo silently sat up on the couch, moving to face Draco with his arm on the back of the sofa.

“I guess I didn’t even know how to say it.” He quietly confessed; his throat tightening as his teeth sunk into his lower lip.

“I know.” Theo nodded understandingly. “That’s why I’ve never been mad at you for not talking about it.”

“I’m sorry – for what I said earlier, you aren’t awful or pathetic for pining after Blaise. I don’t know why I said that.” Draco’s heart squeezed with genuine remorse for his jab earlier, Theo looking down sadly but flashing him a quick, reassuring smile after a moment.

“It’s alright,” he dismissed Draco’s apology with a wave of his hand, “all of it was pathetic pining, Blaise hasn’t ever thought of me like that and I don’t think he ever will.” His lips pressed together; his voice strained. “You weren’t wrong.”

“No, I was wrong.” Draco affirmed, meeting Theo’s eyes with intention. “It wasn’t awful of you to hope, and you aren’t pathetic. He’s flirted with you off and on over the years and I could’ve said something to him – I could’ve told him to stop if he wasn’t actually interested. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Theo nodded, looking back at the fireplace, his throat bobbing with a heavy swallow. Draco stood, walking over the couch and sat down beside Theo.

“I had a really nice weekend.” Theo quietly admitted after a moment of shared silence. “I don’t think I can remember the last time I actually enjoyed myself that much.” His fingers reached up to touch his lips, lost in the memory as he stared at the dancing flames. “It wasn’t just the sex,” he shook his head, “I mean,” he smirked over towards Draco, “don’t get me wrong, the sex was bloody obscene – but just the moments in between, I felt so…at home.” A wistful smile stretched across his expression; his head tilted with nostalgia. “He made me breakfast and let me borrow his hoodie, he even washed my hair in the shower,” Theo’s voice cracked towards the end, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m so used to men throwing me out the moment they’ve finished with me, I barely ever have time to pick up my shirt before they’re embarrassed and asking me to leave.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head incredulously. “Harry wanted me to stay. I tried to go so many times but he kept asking me to stay. He wanted to hold me and wake up in the morning with me and spend the afternoon together. Then he asked if he could show me his favorite film and it was so wonderful, and we made dinner together and stayed up just talking till after midnight and I don’t really know how to go home tonight, Draco.” When he turned to look at Draco, his eyes were filled with haunted despair, starkly contrasted with the love-struck dramatics so characteristic of his beloved friend.

“Stay here then.” Draco immediately offered, Theo flickering a grateful smile to him with fast blinking tear lined eyes. “No expiration date.”

“Alright.” He nodded after a moment, before sniffing and wiping his nose with his hand, laughing a bit. “I suppose this means we both have Gryffindor problems.”

“We are so fucked.” Draco admonished with a shake of his head and a stretching grin.

They both looked at the flickering flames, basking in the glow of their mutual confessions and the meaningful weight that had been shared.

“I am absolutely terrified.” Theo whispered, leaning his head back on the couch.

“Me too.” Draco admitted.

Beside the fear though, in the crevices and dark corners that he fervently tried to avoid, was something Draco found even more frightening than his befriended torment - it was the whispers of possibility that if Theo could be happy, maybe, one day, he could be too.

 

***

 

There were lovely sounds of chirping birds and a cool spring breeze the next afternoon as Draco walked beside Theo in the garden. The elves had been delighted to wake up to Theo’s company, declaring they’d make a breakfast feast along with his favorite soup for lunch. With pleading eyes, they asked if Theo would be staying for a few days, to which he smiled and said that he would. The way Betsy rushed forward and hugged Theo’s legs, her small, wrinkled arms too short to wrap fully around made Draco realize that perhaps he wasn’t the only one in the manor who had gotten lonely.

Hands behind his back, Draco inspected the blooming red roses clustered together in bushes. They were beautiful, the aroma reminiscent of his childhood, how he helped his mother prune these flowers on their knees, the dirt smudging into his linen gardening trousers. Draco loved his mother and missed her often, but in a way was also content in her absence. The manor was far too large for just himself, sure, but it was incredibly exhausting always being paired off with suitable witches to court and all the social events where he’d be paraded around like their rare peacock, the prized product of the Black and Malfoy merger.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Draco asked Theo and he nodded in reply.

“I always sleep well here. It’ll be a nice break from my place for a little bit.” Theo leaned down to smell a cluster of lovely orange peonies, smiling over his shoulder at Draco as he complimented the color.

“I don’t know how you manage living there. Have you thought about reconstructing?” Draco inquired.

Theo shrugged, standing upright and resuming their walk down the cobblestone path.

“I just do. I haven’t really thought about it but it’s not a bad idea. Maybe tear the whole thing down and make it actually something decent.” He replied nonchalantly. “I mean, you’ve got the whole Dark Lord of it all here, what about you?”

Draco had thought about it several times over the years, especially since going to the book club last Thursday night and seeing the stylistic choices of the MacMillian’s. While the manor had been his childhood home and his fathers before that, there were so many corners that seemed tarnished with memories of gasping fear from his youth. As if a terrible odor lingered and no amount of air or cleansing charms could hope to remedy it.

“I’ve definitely considered it, especially some of the areas like the dining room and the drawing room.” He answered.

Theo looked at him with a nod of understanding, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I say purge the place. Fuck them all. All of their wretched history and damn bigotry.” He declared, leaning his head back to soak in the sunshine that cast upon his face. “But keep the library. Granger still wants to see that.” Theo teased, winking at Draco knowingly.

Draco laughed, an easy smile crossing his face with a blow of spring breeze that ruffled his hair. He would like to show her, if she ever truly wanted. There were lots of things he wanted to show her. The pair continued in peaceful silence, listening to the birds and the way the wind shifted through the leaves of blooming hedge bushes and the grass.

After walking a bit further, they turned the corner to see Pansy in the distance, evaluating one of the large, willow trees with a tilted, raised head and hands on her hips.

“Hey Pans!” Theo called with a wave of his hand.

She turned towards the sound of his greeting and smiled, watching them walk over to where she stood. Her floral skirt whipped around her legs as a rush of air pulled a strand of dark, wavy hair across her face. She tucked it behind her ear, looking back up at the tree as the three gathered together.

“I was just figuring out how Betsy and I are going to decorate for tomorrow night.” Pansy remarked with a sigh. “I’m thinking we’ll do strung lights in the trees,” she turned, pointing her finger towards an area in front of the balcony, “drinks, snacks, general party assortments over there.”

“Blaise is bringing music and intoxicants.” Draco commented, noticing a quick flash of displeasure across her face at the sound of their friend’s name.

“The music can go by the roses, that way we can hear it but it’s not too loud for conversation.” She nodded; the edge of her hand flat against her eyebrows to provide shade as she looked towards the sunlit bushes. “The specific drinks and such that he brings can go on maybe one or two tables throughout the area.”

“Are you really alright with him coming?” Theo asked considerately, “Draco and I could ask him not to stay.” Pansy shrugged apathetically at his offer.

“It’s not like we were exclusive or anything.” Her hand waved dismissively with a tight smile but Draco could hear a tone of strain underneath her words. “Plus, I do need to move on. It’s time for me to finally get serious with someone who wants that with me too.” Her chest lifted and fell with her heavy sigh as she looked up again. “Blaise just finally lost his chance with me for the last time. It’s okay though, really.”

“Alright,” Draco nodded, “we won’t say anything then.”

“Well,” Theo cheerfully exclaimed, clapping his hands together, “we’ll just have to make this Draco’s best birthday party yet, something truly distracting from all of this godforsaken awfulness.”

Pansy smiled at Theo gratefully. “There’s just the six of us coming?” She asked Draco who nodded in confirmation.

“You, Theo, myself,” Draco counted on his fingers, “Daphne, Astoria, and Blaise.”

“And Harry.” Theo dramatically whispered the scandalous confession, eyes wide with pressed lips as his gaze bounced between Draco and Pansy.

Pansy whipped her head around to look at him with a gaped expression, mouth open as she hit Theo’s arm playfully with the back of her hand.

“We ran into each other at the pub on Friday.” Theo’s cheeks turned bright red as he avoided Pansy’s gleeful investigative searching of his face and looked down at his shoes with an uncharacteristically bashful smile. “We sort of spent the weekend together,” his rambled words rushed out in a hurried excitement, “and then last night – I couldn’t sleep, it just seemed so long until I’d see him again so I sort of invited him to the party and this morning he kind of said he’d come.” He looked sheepishly towards Draco who rolled his eyes, amused.

“Are you bloody serious?” Pansy asked incredulously with a cheshire grin, “Harry fucking Potter? Theo – you dog.”

“What Theo also failed to mention is he somehow got us sitting at Granger’s table with her friends to celebrate Weasley’s promotion.” Draco smirked at his friend who held his hands up defensively.

“Hey – I just offered to buy them drinks and she asked if we wanted to join.” Theo retorted like it had been the easiest thing in the world.

“Who have we become?” Pansy shook her head in disbelief, her arms crossing over her body. “You shagging Potter, me becoming friends with them all and Draco even going to the book club – our Slytherin roots are shaking in their boots.” A light chuckle left her smiling lips.

“It’s true, I feel the ghosts plotting vengeance over our betrayal even now.” Draco mused, his hands slipping into his trouser pockets.

“Well, we’ll expect seven then.” Pansy declared, warmly smiling towards Theo. “I was planning on going to the book club meeting before the party, I’m sure the elves can take care of the decorations.”

“I’m thinking of going to that as well,” Theo added, “I asked Hermione on Friday at the pub and she said it was alright.”

“Just make sure you get the paperwork done today then,” Pansy pointedly suggested with a snicker, “it’s quite the stack.”

“I mean how much could it be?” Theo’s brows creased in confusion, “It’s just a book club.”

Draco couldn’t hold back the loud laughter that bubbled out of his chest, a knowing smile meeting Pansy’s amused expression.

“Let’s just say you’d benefit from getting started when we go inside. I’m sure she’s already sent it over.” Draco’s teasing advice made Theo’s eyes go wide with disbelieving surprise.

“It’s barely noon! We’ve just had lunch!” Theo exclaimed, Draco’s head tilting back with savored enjoyment.

“Come on then,” Pansy’s head nodded towards the manor, “I’ll help you fill it out while we confirm all the party details.” Theo stepped forward, gratefully reaching out and threading her arm into the crook of his elbow. The pair walked off, chattering away about menu options and how many different types of cheese they should have to offer for snacks.

Draco lingered behind, a wistful smile stretching across his lips as he watched them climb the steps and head inside the manor. It was remarkable really, watching Theo’s torturous affections for Blaise be practically erased with one eventful weekend spent with Potter. A strange jealousy burned at the back of his throat that he tried to swallow down to no avail. His friend was happy, it should make him happy to watch Theo more or less move on – and he was happy for him, but there was a cavern of resentful sadness that creeped in his stomach as well. As Draco tried to breathe space into the building restriction in his chest, he wondered if now that he was once again alone in the prison of his own affections, if it was wrong to continue as he was. Somewhere inside, his instinct roared that he should hide away, never go back to the book club, abandon all his hope and desire to at least know one way or another if there could ever be something real between him and Granger. A softer whisper persistently lingered amidst the deafening loudness and reminded him of what the group talked about on Thursday, that it would be selfish of him not to at least try, that he didn’t know how it would end – that it could end well. It scarcely seemed even possibly true, it felt nefarious and awful and corrupting of him to insert himself into her life – he desperately wanted to protect her from himself but more than any of that, he just wanted a chance.

He started to walk deeper into the gardens, down the cobblestone path which would lead him to one of the only places on the grounds where he felt safe. The manor still felt tainted by the people and events that stained its halls, but the garden never did. Here, he could exist outside of the memories and expectations that tried to govern him; here, the smallest sliver of him dared to believe that the worst might not happen – that he might not be a terrible person for hoping after all.

Draco’s feet led him through the rows of bushes and blooming flowers to where his favorite place was: an old, decrepit wooden swing tucked away in the corner of the garden that he and his mother used to sit on together. It was out of sight of the manor and most of the outdoor space – surrounded by tall hedges and a few bushes of assorted flowers, it was a secret place they had shared between just them, where anything could be said there and it wouldn’t ever leave this space. Throughout his childhood he’d find her here most evenings and nights after his parents would fight, many occasions with tears flowing down her cheeks and stifled sobs covered by her hand. He’d never seen his father raise a hand towards her but nevertheless he always suspected that he had. Draco would stoically sit beside her and promise himself that whoever he married, regardless of his own feelings towards them, would never endure such a painful existence such as his mother’s. It was a bitterly admitted relief knowing that his father would never be released from Azkaban – though his crimes against the magical world were for his alliance with the Dark Lord, Draco felt it was an appropriate punishment for the crimes he’d privately committed against his mother and himself.

The wood creaked with its age as his weight lowered onto it. The scent of lilac and bergamot of the surrounding flowers carried through the breeze that teased strands of his hair. It wasn’t all bad memories on this swing, the motion of his momentum rocking back and forth bringing forward so many cherished confessions and conversations. The nostalgia washed over him as his eyes fluttered close, a blissful moment of peace and quiet within the never-ending chatter of his mind that perpetuated his constant reality. His mother used to pat his hand when he’d admit how scared he was to leave her alone during the school years and say that one could never truly be alone if they carried with them their courage. He didn’t feel very courageous these days, when his hands had shook when he went to the book club, and yet knew that he had been. It was the endurance onwards when everything inside him told him it was hopeless – perhaps even the very hope itself that was courageous.

The pit in his stomach was so exhausting sometimes. He always felt like something bad would happen at any moment and somehow, it would all be his fault. The what-ifs of his existence, all the things he couldn’t control – the hauntings of the things he couldn’t change; he thirsted for a whole day where his mind would grant him silence. There really had only been a few times where he’d found that momentary, quiet peace: here, on the swing, the space in time after he would finish a poem that fully expressed a memory or experience, and when he looked into Granger’s eyes and felt every thought vanish.

Draco smiled up at the sky, unguardedly reminiscing about her intoxicated inquiries of his intentions and how her gaze felt more invasive than learning Occlumency. He wondered if she could sense the depths of her possession over him. It was a palpable force, a magnetic sensation that tugged him towards her - he could try to hide it but suspected that the very brilliance he so adored would see through his desperation composed illusion. White, puffy clouds slowly passed across the blue canvas and he sighed, teeth sinking into his lower lip with a strangled, anguished groan.

He was going to actually go insane from whatever bullshit hope or courage continuously persuaded him he ever had a chance with her. It would’ve killed him if he never tried though. Draco was becoming increasingly and concerningly okay with all this risk-taking endeavor becoming the highlight of his life. That dangerous hope, the flickering candle that couldn’t be blown out – he lusted for it to grow into a forest fire and consume him. Let this courage burn him till there was nothing left but his ashes and desire. This longing was the soul of his art and he would die on the altar of his adoration if that was the price for the opportunity to know her affection.

 

***

 

There were times when Draco felt on top of the world and others where he felt like he was buried underneath the pressure of everything that ever had and ever would exist. He thought that it would feel different, somehow easier, coming back to the book club for the second meeting – but as Draco and Theo stood outside the front door of Ginny Weasley’s apartment, it didn’t. The anxiety he hoped would be smaller threatened to burn his veins till they turned black as Theo reached up to knock.

Weasley opened the door with a smile that faded when she saw the pair standing there: Theo’s broad smile and enthusiastically held up two bottles of red wine, Draco with his book pinned under his arm and gangly stature.

“Oh, it’s you again.” She sighed, opening the door wider for them to enter the receiving hallway. “Evening Nott, Hermione said you’d be coming along too.” She smirked at Theo.

“Weasley.” Draco greeted with a tilt of his head. He’d never really anticipated being in a situation where he’d be welcomed into Ginny Weasley’s apartment but life was strange in its twists and turns.

“Ginny, thank you so much for having us over, it means a lot to us. These are for you,” Theo beamed in his typical eagerness as he held out the bottles, Weasley accepting them with a hesitant smile.

“It’s just my turn to host, no need to get sentimental now.” She admonished with a chuckled shake of her head. “Thank you though,” she held up the bottles, “we go through wine like you wouldn’t believe.”

There was a moment where the cluster stared at each other awkwardly, unsure how to continue from their social and physical positionings. The chattering of guests already arrived drew Draco’s attention, his heart leaping in his chest when he thought he heard Granger’s recognizable laughter in the next room.

“Well, come in already, don’t just loiter in the hallway like ghosts.” She teased, trying to ease some of the stiffness. “Here, let me just run these to the kitchen, you can hang your coats just there,” she motioned with the bottom of the bottle to the rack mounted on the wall.

As Weasley turned to dart into the kitchen to their left, Draco and Theo made quick work to hang their cloaks that were quickly unclasped from around their bodies.

“Don’t be so nervous, Draco. It’s just book club.” Theo whispered with an easy smile and a wink. “It’s not like they bite.”

Draco rolled his eyes, taking a moment to look around at the décor that adorned the transitional space; a cluster of mirrors hung next to a shelf that held a picture of the Weasley family smiling together, a tribal rug with red and black markings on the floor, a tall lamp that bathed the small area in a warm light – Draco was yet again struck by the foreign, welcoming atmosphere a space could hold. He didn’t understand how someone could have meaningful things where anyone could walk by and see – but maybe that was the meaningful thing about it, how casual it all seemed. He supposed though that if someone didn’t have a lifetime of painful memories with their family perpetuating them, this might be the result.

“It’s a great temperature in here.” Theo blurted out when Weasley returned from the kitchen, his hands slipping into his pockets as Draco looked at him incredulously.

“Would you mind taking off your shoes?” Weasley laughed and Draco looked at her in surprise before slipping off his dragon hide boots, leaning down to line them up on the floor where a cluster of assorted shoes remained. Theo followed in suit, Draco chuckling at his mismatched socks. Theo smacked his arm for his quiet teasing before following Ginny down the hallway into the large living room.

“Hello!” Draco heard him cheerily greet the attendees.

He sighed, dread bubbling in his throat before padding his way down the hallway to follow suit. He walked into a small, intimate living room with a large, gray l-shaped couch covered with blankets and pillows. The gathered witches with wine glasses in their hands quieted their various clusters of conversations to perceive him. Draco took a seat on a chair by the small fireplace, his hand running through his hair as he settled.

“Ladies,” Draco nodded at the filled couch.

The group was almost exclusively witches except himself, Theo, and Potter who’d found himself sitting quite close to the aforementioned. He smiled politely at the Slytherin women who sat next to each other in casual conversation: Astoria, Daphne, and Pansy. Granger sat with her legs crossed next to Weasley, wearing professional brown trousers and a gray sweater turtleneck with sleeves that he noticed she had a tendency to pull over her hands. Lovegood, Abbott, and Brown filled the rest of the space remaining on the couch. Brown tilted her glass towards Draco in greeting.

“The Slytherins boys have brought wine – which I suppose pardons them from being our intended sacrifice tonight.” Ginny teased from the couch, winking cheekily at Draco.

Draco tightly smiled, his knee bouncing as he eyed the hallway that he could bolt towards if necessary.

“I’m glad we didn’t scare you off last week,” Abbott chuckled, taking a sip from her glass.

A pair of lines popped into Draco’s anxious mind as he smiled tightly at Abbott:

‘When I walk into the room, I feel so perceived,

Little do they know; they’ve all been deceived’

He discretely scribbled down the phrases in the margins of his book as quickly as he could. When he closed the cover, Granger was looking at him with a curious expression across his face. Draco’s cheeks burned but she didn’t say anything other than take a sip of her drink.

“Though I am surprised by our new addition,” Pansy knowingly gave Potter a mischievous look, “are we to be further infiltrated by wizards week by week? I thought our reading material would’ve been quite the deterrent.”

“Oh Pansy, don’t be discriminatory. I can enjoy a wide variety of activities and literature.” Theo playfully retorted, smirking at her. “As for Harry, well –” he gave a half-shrug and a blushed cheek smile, “I’m sure it’s the same.”

“Yes. Literature, poems, and wine are my ideal Tuesday night.” Potter smiled uncomfortably, shifting in his seat while fingering his collar.

“Evidently.” Pansy sighed with exasperation. “Honestly, Granger, is this really open to anyone? Neither of them even have books.”

Granger shrugged, replying that anyone who filled out the paperwork to satisfaction technically could join. Pansy’s eyes narrowed in playful suspicion towards all three wizards, reluctantly accepting Granger’s answer till she sank back against the couch and nursed her glass of red wine silently.

“I’ll just grab myself something to drink before we get started,” Potter groaned as he stood from the couch, smiling down at Theo as he offered to get him something to drink as well.

“I should just come along, preferences and all.” Theo chided, following Potter into the kitchen.

Draco rolled his eyes at the pair who couldn’t be more obvious, Theo pinching Potter’s bum with a quiet snicker as they rounded the corner into the other room.

“Well,” Granger spoke up, placing her glass on the center table. “It is seven o-clock so we’ll just go ahead and start our readings from poems forty through sixty. Just in an overall sense, I thought the poems in this section have definitely started to build in subject and depth, I specifically wanted to start with poem number forty-three if that’d be alright with everyone.”

When she was met with nods of acceptance, she began reading.

“Your footsteps sound like earthquakes and turbulence

They echo and cleanse the world of pestilence.

I get so exhausted of seeing my reflection

Watching this creature worthy of dissection,

This heart frantically pounds under my skin

The monster that stares back with a grin.

Whispers of your name leave my lips like smoke

Enveloping me against the solitude, my sacred cloak.

I thirst for you and drink in this sight

The way you illuminated my blackest night;

Keep me like a secret and it’ll stay ours forever

Stain me with the ink of your moral surrender -

I promise myself this is the last night then break it

This mountain I climb just to fling myself off the summit.

Dancing with your ghost is the only life I lead

Even without my prison chains I’ve never felt freed;

I can’t resist its call, this siren that pulls me close

The vines in her image climb my body and grow.

Together, we could create something beautiful and tragic

Chaotic, calamitous, unspeakably glorious twisted magic.”

 

“I think this poem certainly speaks to the moral integrity and heights that the poet holds his muse to – I found the comparison between her honor and his reflection in the beginning lines quite compelling.” Granger began the discussion in an official sounding tone.

Draco crossed his legs, his teeth pulling at the skin on the inside of his lips. He knew that this section of the book held particularly personal and reflective poetry that he anxiously anticipated a review on. His nails absentmindedly scratched at his knuckles, the repetitive motion a soothing burn.

“I thought it was interesting, the comparison to this muse who’s obviously someone who’s a good person and who is evocative of positive change – and the literal next line, ‘I get so exhausted of seeing my own reflection -- Watching this creature worthy of dissection -- This heart frantically pounds underneath my skin -- The monster that stares back at me with a grin.’.” Ginny words carried weighted pauses in between her reading from the book, “We talked about the writer’s courage last time, but with these lines, I almost wonder if his muse would even want someone who’s clearly deranged and aware of his own internal corruption to such an extent as this.” Her lips pressed together in a slight grimace with the conclusion of her thoughts.

Draco swallowed hard, a sick feeling brewing in his stomach that he tried to ignore to no avail.

“I mean, good people aren’t exclusively reserved for other good people to be with.” Hannah advocated with her soft but understanding tone, her eyebrows drawing together. “There’s goodness in anyone if you look close enough. It’s also important to remember that this is his own perspective, I know plenty of people who loathe themselves and I wouldn’t consider them evil at all.”

“The loneliness that the author discusses is probably also eroding his own self confidence at a very fundamental level. When you’re the only one around and you don’t even like yourself, it would drive anyone crazy.” Pansy spoke up, her arm protectively drawing across her body.

“Building on that,” Granger said with a point of her finger as her body learned forward, “I think it’s really interesting how the fantasy of the muse keeps our poet company, as seen in the lines, ‘Whispers of your name leave my lips like smoke -- enveloping me against the solitude, my sacred cloak,’. I wonder though if the isolation is a defensive mechanism to how evil he considers himself, almost like he’s keeping himself from the world to protect them, or maybe to protect himself as well in a way. It’s easy to hate yourself but it’s hard to watch other people hate you.” She paused, her tongue dipping out to coat her dry lips. “Additionally, I don’t think anyone truly evil would have the self-reflection or emotional intelligence necessary to write poetry like this.”

Draco held his breath, nodding along as she spoke. He tried to soak up every word she spoke like a sponge for his poems but his heart distractedly stuttered over the hopefulness that flooded his chest at her perspective.

“You’re definitely right, Hermione – our poet absolutely understands the degree of separation between him and his muse but he’s desperate for her.” Lavender smiled wistfully, turning her head to look out the window behind the couch with a heavy sigh. “I find it really romantic when he writes, ‘I thirst for you and drink in this sight,’ as if he’s seen her somehow and didn’t want to get close enough to taint her. In the next lines I think it also speaks to this idea that if he touches her or starts a real relationship with her, it will corrupt her somehow. I’m specifically talking about the lines, ‘Keep me like a secret and it’ll stay ours forever -- stain me with the ink of your moral surrender.’ Ugh,” Lavender groaned, her hands fidgeting with a ring resting on her index finger, spinning it round and round. “It’s just so sexy and forbidden.”

A light chuckle radiated through the group in agreement, a flush running down Draco’s neck and spreading to his cheeks. A prickling sensation tingled his neck and he instinctively took a peek at Granger’s expression but quickly looked away when he found her looking at him first. Embarrassed nervousness flooded Draco’s system, his teeth ripping the loose skin away from his lower lip as his mind babbled with self-deprecating comments and criticisms.

“It’s like he thinks her being with him will diminish her goodness in some way.” Luna thoughtfully added, “Which isn’t true because someone as moral as our muse wouldn’t be swayed against her values.”

“What I can’t seem to stop noticing is that the poems keep talking about how wholesome and perfect this witch is,” Hermione sighed, her brows scrunching together as she searched for the words. “but we don’t even know if the evaluation of the muse is the whole picture. There could be, and likely is, a completely different side to her that he just doesn’t see - whether that be because of the distance he puts between them or because no one really shows their whole selves to strangers or people who aren’t their friends or intimate partners.”

“Which honestly makes the whole thing more tragic.” Daphne mused, taking a sip from her glass. “Can you even imagine if this entire time he thinks he’s protecting someone who isn’t even the same person as the one in his mind?”

“Could she even be?” Astoria shrugged, “He’s totally alone and dreaming of her - there’s no way that’s an accurate depiction of who she really is. We don’t even know if his evaluation of himself is true, so why would her description be either?”

Draco’s heart thudded in his chest like a banging gong. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him when he wrote those lines. His eyes flickered to Granger as she leaned back against the couch, swirling the wine in her glass around with a thoughtful, composing expression. It seemed so bizarre to consider her in this new light, as someone more evolved from his memories and imagination but yet he couldn’t deny the truth of it.

“I think it makes it so much less meaningful to stay away from her when he clearly can’t even bring himself to think that she could enjoy a good dose of corruption to spice up her dull life.” Hermione cheekily added the group, laughing in a way that made Draco’s cheeks flame with heat.

The idea enraptured him with lethal curiosity - as if his man-made defenses spontaneously cracked open from the foundation to the highest watchtower. All the sudden the potential flooded his mind, the mental dam straining to hold back the hope that his self-denial labored to deny, the meaningless excuses and reasons cast aside, his chest raising and falling quicker.

“Definitely less meaningful,” Lavender chirped in, “I mean, we find all of this exciting and romantic, why wouldn’t she?”

“It sounds like he’s trying to stay away from her and just can’t stop going back for more.” Ginny lightheartedly teased with an ease that sparked a bitter, burning sensation in Draco’s stomach. “Can’t say I blame him though; she sounds like quite the witch.” She chuckled.

“I’m certainly inclined to agree.” Daphne snorted, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Alright, alright,” Hermione raised her hand with a roll of her eyes. “It definitely at the very least builds on what we talked about last week, where we asked ourselves if it was loving of him to make the decision to stay away from her. Is that still true with our poet’s own confession and evaluation of his internal darkness?” Hermione asked, a thoughtful silence blanketing the prior joking atmosphere.

When there was a moment when no one rushed forward to answer Granger’s question, Draco raised his hand to speak, pausing several times to allow anyone else the opportunity to answer instead of him. Granger nodded quickly at him, encouraging him to share as she leaned forward with her chin resting against her fist.

“If he believes that he’ll inevitably taint her, then I can’t imagine how he wouldn’t find it loving,” Draco’s mouth felt unbelievably parched, distracting his articulation of his thoughts. “He’s giving her a chance to preserve the goodness that he’s fallen in love with. Maybe he knows that she’d be drawn into his orbit and doesn’t want to even risk the likelihood of her being corrupted by his immorality to any degree.”

The witches blinked back at him incredulously by his outspokenness, Granger’s Cheshire cat smile spreading across her features with rapt attention to each of his words. Draco’s gaze darted around the room nervously, his breath quickened with the spotlight uncomfortably resting upon him now.

“Again though, it goes back to the concept of free will. Maybe there’s a distortion of his own perception of his muse and she’s not as good as he, himself, even believes her to be.” Hermione argued, igniting a wildfire in Draco’s blood, his whole attention brought to the height of awareness and sensation. “No one is ever infallible; this poet certainly speaks highly enough of her that it’s likely he believes her to be though.”

Draco’s lips parted, enraptured as he maintained Granger’s scorching gaze. Her intellectual challenge made his pulse race and he hoped more than anything he wouldn’t bumble the opportunity to impress her in his nervousness.

“We can’t know if she is or not, at least through the poetry – but you’re right,” Draco half-shrugged his shoulder, “it’s a possibility. Good girls always want to do something bad.” Granger smirked at him with a tilt of her head, the tension building in his chest. “That’s not to say though that it’s still not loving in its own right for the poet to try and protect the witch he loves from making that decision, or as he puts it,” he looked down at the words he didn’t need to a reference to recite, “her ‘moral surrender.’”

“Some people don’t want to be the good girl forever,” Hermione countered with a lift of her chin, holding Draco’s gaze like a spell he couldn’t break free of. “Sometimes they want more out of their lives than other people’s opinions and expectations. And,” she smiled knowingly at him, “even the poet himself admits that they could have something spectacular together, with the last lines of the poem, ‘Together, we could create something beautiful and tragic -- Chaotic, calamitous, unspeakably glorious, twisted magic’.” Hermione read out from the book opened and resting in her lap, where Draco could see a particularly thrilling highlight on those last two lines, along with several others throughout the poem.

“Spectacular doesn’t always mean for the best.” He retorted, his hand smoothing out on his pant leg to wipe away the accumulated sweat.

Granger tisked at him knowingly, shaking her head slightly. “You know it’s not about that, Draco.”

A shiver ran down his spine when she said his name with that tone of erotic intellectualism as he blinked back fantasies playing out inside his mind.

“Why don’t you educate me then, Granger?” Draco enunciated his words with purposeful clarity, his tone low.

The onlookers silently glanced around at each other with frozen, uncertain half-smiles. Granger took a deep breath, sighing with spirited eyes as she stroked her bottom lip unconsciously with her thumb, thoughtfully pondering her words before articulating in the exacting way that Draco craved to hear.

“It still doesn’t address the root concern I have, which is that this poet is taking away his muse’s choice, and that is fundamentally wrong.” Hermione pointedly leaned forward, her arm anchoring against her knee. “The writer should know a thing or two about freedom himself. He literally says, ‘Dancing with your ghost is the only life I lead -- Even without my prison chains I’ve never felt freed -- I can’t resist her call, this siren that pulls me close -- The vines in her image climb my body and grow.’,” Her fingers gathered into a point, emphasizing her articulation. “He’s exercising his own free will, which he acknowledges is a foreign experience, in order to fall into her orb of allure – but whose authority is it that she’s not allowed to do the very same thing? It is cruel and inhumane and belittling to deny someone the right to disgrace their own name. Someone’s reputation is a living entity, that oftentimes is cultivated out of necessity and survival, then shamefully used to control the person, supposedly out of protection for their honor. In reality, though, taking away someone’s ability to decide for themselves how they’d like their own life to be, something everyone has a birthright and a capacity to do, is like governing a child because you don’t deem them fit enough to make decisions at the same evaluation of competency the decider sees themselves as.”

Draco’s inaudible adoration hung in the air; his mouth agape as his gaze drank in the erotic, indecent sight of Granger’s eyes burning into his as she silently dared him to fight her. A slow smile spread across his face into a grin with the pounding of his heart, Granger’s tongue dipping out to moisten her lips, her breath quickening. The stunned silence of the group stretched till it was cruelly interrupted by Harry and Theo walking hurriedly back into the room, both with flushed cheeks and Potter’s hair completely in scandalous disarray.

“Sorry, I lost a really important family heirloom outside and Harry was helping me look for it.” Theo charmingly gushed, taking a seat on the couch Pansy, Potter sitting down on the other side of him.

“Alright then,” Hannah’s brows raised at the pair, “I don’t think anyone has much to say outside of all of that about this poem. So, if it’s okay, I wanted to read poem fifty-five, I thought it spoke to the character of our poet and helps us get to know him more intimately in his struggles.” She flipped the pages to reach the poem that Draco knew intimately, his eyes staring off into a blank spot on the rug as he listened to her read, clearing her throat before beginning.

 

Chapter 10

Notes:

Hi everyone! Thank you for returning readers, commenters, bookmarkers, and kudo'ers, you are are making this an incredibly fun and exciting experience! I also want to say thank you to my new beta readers who reached out to me: @augustaoctavia, @KariLarsson, @Slytheraven, and @HereForTheTropes - I'm grateful for your friendship, time, thoughtfulness, and attention on this fic!

I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, let me know what you think, and I hope you all have a wonderful week!

“All the sacrificing and surviving without the prize,

I laid here in the grass while it rained and wanted to die

The droplets hit my skin, I’m grateful for their touch

The darkness envelops me, I forgot isolation could hurt this much

What were all the lies worth if I’m still here, alone

The pain still stings, even if it’s helped me grow

I look at the mirror and hate my reflection

I cut and carve and try to purge this infection

I’m haunted in my dreams, I can barely fucking sleep

The things I fought for don’t feel worth to keep

Then my eclipsed sun shines her light upon me once more

In her smile, I feel healing on these wretched sores

She is the beautiful spring day after endless winter

I need her but hate that I feel like the eternal splinter

Always irritating, constantly clawed out, forever endured

Seldom savored, rarely praised, never adored

I can survive profound loss but I can’t lose her

So instead, I pine in silence and hold my nerve

I’d rather never try than be left with even less

These wounds in my soul might be old but feel fresh

I always think back to our childhood

When things were simple, I understood

The black and white, the morals of our society

How I was raised in their image with deepest anxiety

Sneaking glances at your laugh and genuine smile

Knowing what I cannot have raises stomach bile

Jealous bitterness poisons me till I’ve become a stranger

This weapon they carved in the heat, my affection’s a danger

When death knocked at my door, I thought of you

This contradiction tears me apart, but I swear my love’s true

She is the secret I cannot confess, my ultimate sanctuary

And the sound of depths that threaten to drown me.”

“Um, most of the poems we read from this section are definitely sadder, but there was so much about this particular one that felt very intimate and vulnerable to me,” Hannah thoughtfully stated after she finished reading, her hand resting against her chest. “There’s this current of self-hatred which flows throughout the poem and I found that intriguing when it’s contrasted by the desperate love and admiration the writer holds for his muse. I know it’s probably silly but I just want to give the poor bloke a hug.” She laughed lightly, chuckles of agreement reverberating around the group.

The pressure in Draco’s chest sparked flashes of sharp pain through his heart, his pulse still racing uncontrollably from the prior moment with Granger. The audacity that pounded through him previously exponentially shrunk into embarrassment over their conversation happening in front of everyone else. He wanted to dart out of the room to compose himself for a moment in the bathroom but knew he couldn’t without raising suspicion. Heat spread across his cheeks and ears as he swallowed, eyes fixed down at his book.

“I admittedly don’t love the implication that his muse is some sort of prize,” Astoria articulated with a hesitation that betrayed her struggle to find the right words. “Women are so much more than some consolation trophy for success or endurance through difficult experiences.”

Hannah nodded attentively.“That’s absolutely true,” she responded slowly, “but also, we don’t really know what the prize is — if he’s referring to his muse or something else, it doesn’t exactly say. The next lines are more about the isolation, maybe the feeling that he’d fought for something and now he’s just alone in his trauma.” Hannah gave a shrug of her shoulder. “So maybe the prize was something good that was promised after the struggle, maybe even a sense of victory that the writer doesn’t seem to have.”

Draco struggled to compose his breathing or even to hear the group’s opinions over the deafening roar of his mind. Nearly all the mental capacity he possessed raced with an unparalleled fervency to analyze Granger’s words, what they meant, if they would’ve been the same if said to another person. Anxiety brewed in his stomach as Draco desperately fought off the growing sensation of inevitable doom.

“Especially the lines, ‘What were all the lies worth if I’m still here, alone – The pain still stings, even if it’s helped me grow,’. I really relate quite profoundly to that feeling after the war,” Daphne admitted quietly with a heavy sigh. “I’ve definitely asked myself if I could go back and change the decisions I made, the things I said, would I be brave enough?” She licked her lips, pausing to collect her thoughts. “So, what both you and Astoria said could be right at the same time. The writer is alone and he’s struggling with the understanding that these wounds never go away, maybe he’s afraid that the sacrifice of his youth and innocence has only resulted in more struggles that never get better, he can’t see the way out, that sort of thing.”

Draco’s eyes flickered up to Daphne who tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. Astoria nodded along beside Daphne, listening intently as she fidgeted with a silver necklace around her neck. Hannah hummed agreeingly as took a sip from her glass of white wine. The impatience to hear Granger’s thoughts burned with a pang of selfishness that rattled inside Draco’s chest. He found himself constantly fighting the consuming urge to look at her, to watch her every reaction, to drink in all her sighs and emotions as she listened to the group’s thoughts.

“I think it’s also interesting how we can see a second instance of the concept of reflections with the line, ‘I look at the mirror and hate my reflection – I cut and carve and try to purge this infection.’ It actually makes me wonder if our poet has a history of self-harm,” Pansy added, her eyebrows drawing together.

Draco fought the screaming urge to scratch at his arms that suddenly sparked alive with itchiness. A slight tremble flowed through his hands as he gripped the pages of the book, the edges turning up under the pressure of his pressed white thumbs. The edges of the cover bit into the centers of his palms, he desperately pushed away the desire to slice open that skin, to let any of the despair bleed out for a crumb of relief.

“I agree with Pansy, I think self-harm is actually quite likely,” Lavender mused, her finger stroking the poem’s page. “I really love the healing association with the muse, especially in the lines, ‘Then my eclipsed sun shines her light on me once more – In her smile, I feel healing on these wretches sores,’ I just think it so gorgeously speaks to the effect that she has on him, the positivity she adds to his life. She brings light into the darkness, nurtures him, heals him.”

“An ‘eclipsed sun’ is also a peculiar way to phrase that, eclipses are moments of total darkness, so it’s a bit strange to associate an eclipse with light.” Hermione further probed into the concept with a thought-tilted head.

“You can’t look at eclipses without burning your eyes,” Draco blurted out, his gaze darting over the group that looked back at him. His breath quickened under their attention but he continued with a nervous hesitation. “They have to be appreciated through another medium, like smoked glass. That could, theoretically, be a metaphor for the distance which is required for this poet to admire his muse,” he swallowed a thick lump in his throat, “through a degree of separation for his own safety and sanity.”

“That’s a really interesting perspective as well.” Hermione smiled at him with an expression of curious attention.

Draco repressed a shudder than ran through his whole body in pleased contentment at her compliment.

“We also see just how scared our poet is and how much he values his muse’s approval,” Luna contributed, her dreamy features soft with understanding. “Especially in this context with the muse being associated with healing and survival of whatever has come after the struggle in a sense, I think it makes sense why he wouldn’t be able to handle losing the one thing that’s keeping him alive.”

Potter cleared his throat after a momentary pause, Draco’s gaze flickering over to him and noticed his blushed cheeks.

“I actually really liked the last few lines, um – can I see your book?” He bashfully mentioned, smiling when Astoria leaned over and sweetly showed him the page they were reading from. “The lines, ‘Jealous bitterness poisons me till I’ve become a stranger – The weapon they carved in the heat, my affection’s a danger.’” His body sat back into its original position on the sofa. “ I fucking get that, the idea of being poisoned by something inside you that just eats away at your heart.”

His brows furrowed together with a heavy sigh. The attentive eyes of the group drank in Harry’s words. “When we were all fighting, it felt like anyone I cared about could be used against me or I could hurt them without meaning to while trying to survive. It actually felt safer to not feel anything at all, especially towards the end, even though feeling the pain is how we do survive, not by suppressing it.” Harry swallowed hard, blinking quickly and clearing his throat with a tight smile.

Draco recognized a look of admiration cross Theo’s face as his hand instantly reached over to cover Potter’s and squeezed. His fingers tucked underneath Harry’s palm and lingered, Theo’s thumb rubbing over the top of his hand. Harry flashed a grateful expression towards him before his lips pressed together, looking down at his lap, at the hand that rested there on top of his trousers and the cuticles that Draco noticed were inflamed with crusted blood.

Harry’s words sent a disorienting, stunning shock through his heart because that’s exactly how he felt too. Images suddenly flashed across Draco’s mind, the mirrored experience across different sides of the battlefield, their sacrifices - the horror of it all, he instantly pictured his pen scratching across the paper as he tried to deconstruct the foundations of their dualities. He had to manually remind himself to breathe as he watched Harry’s glazed eyes stare at a spot on the carpet. Harry Potter - the envious filled memories of lusting after his praise and notoriety - all resulting in the same scars and fears. It was dizzying. Draco swallowed the rising emotion that gripped his throat.

“Particularly the part, ‘The weapon they carved in the heat’, it just reminds me of being a childhood soldier, how none of us deserved the responsibility to fight, how painful it was to learn how to defend yourself, knowing that you’d be facing people older than you, even people who went to the same school as us.” Ginny’s fixed eyes held an unblinking, haunted expression. “I still remember the screams of the first years being crucio’d when I went back to Hogwarts for sixth year.” She whispered, her chin subtly quivering with the memory.

A mournful silence fell over the group for a few moments. Draco felt his hand unconsciously beginning to rub soothing, rhythmic circles on his arm, the hair becoming upright from its natural pattern and direction.

“Forging is a painful process too,” Draco quietly admitted, a cold flush traveling over his body with the thoughts that surged to the front of his mind. “If you think of swords, how they have to go from hot to cold, how they’re beaten into a particular shape, molded to become a weapon that’s useful to someone. I think the poet could mean something literal here, along with the metaphorical experience as well.”

“That’s definitely a possibility,” Hermione softly agreed, but this time it didn’t feel thrilling.

“I can’t imagine how hard it would’ve been for our poet to love his muse like this when it could be used against him during the war, or worse, put them both in danger.” Hannah shook her head, eyes glistening. “The lines, ‘When death knocked at my door, I thought of you – This contradiction tears me apart, but I swear my love’s true – she is the secret I cannot confess, my ultimate sanctuary – And the sound of depths that threaten to drown me.’. It’s so honest.” Her voice cracked with emotion as she looked up at the group. “This woman is both his haunting and the person he desires most to be with. To think of someone in such an intimate moment as when you think you’re about to die, that’s the real thing.”

“Yeah, the contradiction of it being someone he’s not supposed to want or unable to want and her being someone he does despite those facts, it’s a secret, it’s his sanity – a sanctuary like he said,” Astoria murmured, her chin dropping towards her chest. “Someone who is both an escape and something that haunts him. I’m admittedly curious about the last line, ‘And the sound of depths that threaten to drown me.’ I wonder if the sound is her voice, maybe something she said to him, maybe even her calling for him.”

“It could be something darker even,” Draco whispered, transfixed as the memory echoed in his ears, “something like a scream.”

When his eyes unconsciously flickered up towards Granger, he found her already looking towards him, lips parted with the full understanding of exactly what he referenced.

Draco couldn’t help but avert his gaze, the tightness in his chest and pain in the back of his throat threatening to break his composure. He walked the halls of the memories from that night more often than he’d like, both in dreams and his existence. No matter what he did or how many pretty words he wrote for her, Draco knew he could never erase what was carved into her skin, what he’d called her himself for so many years – and it burned him with shame.

After a passing silence that lingered, Pansy cleared her throat.

“If everyone’s alright with finishing the discussion there, I’d like to read poem number fifty-two.”

Granger nodded, encouraging Pansy to read out the next poem they’d talk about.

“I reach out and search for her through the veil

This corrosive desire leaves me broken and frail

The ghosts dance around my grief and mock me

I never thought this would be the cost of being free

I can keep up or at least I’d fucking try

Instead, I just waste away and get high

I wish her weaknesses seemed less like strengths

That I didn’t have to try this hard and go to these lengths

My hatred churns amidst this romantic resentment

The silence likes to chips away at me till I’m repellent

I win fights with myself and lose to the dead

These screams that echo around inside my head

I can’t escape them, trust me I’ve tried

But everywhere I walk, someone has died

At what point did all this pining turn into fatal madness?

Some days my love for her seems like a poisonous abscess

My decomposition’s charming, or at least I hope it is

The repair seems impossible, even with true love’s kiss

Is there a limit to my own tolerance of myself?

Will my legacy be a tragic story dust rotted on her bookshelf?

I have so many demons to run from with endless distractions

You can only pretend to be okay for so long in conversations

This hopelessness threatens to drown me entirely

If you only knew my sins, you’d laugh at the irony

She is my mourning, the absent sun in my perpetual night

I don’t know how to cope so I decay away and write

Her laugh leaves me gasping in sharp, white pain

My past is inescapable, my burden heavy chain

I don’t want the money – I’d give it all away

How could I ever be poor if she’d ever choose to stay?”

“I think that these are really important poems, and there’s so many layers that I want to talk about, honestly.” Pansy’s normally unafraid voice came out a bit gravelly and strained. “There’s a lot about this poem that I really relate to, even just starting with the feeling of resentment that I’ve also had towards people I’ve had affection for.” Her hand reached up to rest against her chest, “It’s almost a sign of respect but it’s rooted in comparison, an admiration for things that they do better than me and also a frustration that I can’t be like that.” She confessed with a shrug of her shoulders. “That’s at least my initial opinion on it, does anyone have any other thoughts on this one?”

Theo shot Pansy an understanding smile, such warmth conveyed in mere seconds - Draco always admired how he could do that. Pansy bent forward, her delicate fingers lifting her glass of red wine and bringing it to her lips to take a deep drink. Draco found his mind wondering about her confession - of who she might’ve once admired and also desired yet could not have. He hadn’t ever known Pansy to ever want someone and not be able to be with them.

“The line, ‘The ghosts dance around my grief and mock me – I never thought this would be the cost of being free,’ is just so sad.” Luna sighed, “When we think about the writer never feeling free, I wonder if this is his own haunting or more like the ghosts who live with him in a very literal sense, maybe even feeling haunted by the idea of who he should be or what he should be doing – I think it’s all a part of why he feels captive still.”

“It’s definitely an interesting point.” Granger replied with a nod, “I can see all three perspectives in their own way but there’s not really much in the writing that would give an inclination as to which analysis would be more or less correct or what the poet was specifically inferring to when he wrote it.”

“The substance abuse of trying to find his own way through the maze of himself is really hard to admit that I relate to, but I do.” Lavender’s eyes fixed on the page, her voice hesitant and quiet. “I’ve definitely had the thought that I survived the war and now I’m just wasting my time,” a nervous laugh huffed over her lips, “just trying to endure the aftermath of it all.” Her smile faded as she shook her head, her fingers nervously toying with a stray string loose from the sleeve of her pink sweater.

“I understand that.” Ginny smiled gently towards Lavender who quickly shot an expression of appreciativeness back. “I think a lot of us really can.”

Various heads around the circle nodded in agreement, Draco among them.

After a moment, Granger cleared her throat, speaking up, “I think this poem reminds me that people have limits. Longing, desire, love – we all have a finite capacity inside us before the despair of those unfulfilled desires darken and turn into malicious unworthiness, self-hatred, and a belief that the world is bad, or maybe even that you’re not good enough to live in it.” She swallowed, her throat bobbing with the motion. “With the lines, ‘I wish her weaknesses seemed less like strengths – that I didn’t have to try this hard and go to these lengths – My hatred churns amidst this romantic resentment – The silence likes to chip away at me till I’m repellent,’.”

Her eyes lifted towards the ceiling as she took a deep breath and sighed heavily in a way Draco often did to vent the pressure inside. “I just find the phrase, ‘romantic resentment’, so interesting and a really hard sensation to describe. It’s like this line between wanting to be like someone and also with them, it’s really specific.” Her tongue darted out to coat her lips as she looked for the words, her brows furrowed. “It must be so hard for this writer to watch someone that he loves be successful and want them to succeed, but also feel upset because he’s alone or not where he thinks he could be, whatever that place of achievement is for him. It’s like what Luna said, that is the haunting, the reflection between who he's witnessing and who looks back at him in the mirror – the difference between that is the space which we’re reading about in this poem. I think that’s the decomposing catalyst that never dies, never fades, and perpetually creates distress that is unable to ever be relieved.”

“I can’t imagine how crippling that becomes over time.” Pansy shook her head as her hands rubbed absently over her arms.

“That’s such a good point.” Hannah nodded towards Pansy and Granger. “I think there are a few lines that go beautifully with that same idea.” She looked down to read from her book. “‘At what point did all this pining turn into fatal madness? – Some days my love for her seems like a poisonous abscess – My decomposition’s charming or at least I hope it is – The repair seems impossible, even with true love’s kiss.’.” She paused, a saddened, wistful expression crossed her face as she composed her thoughts. “I know I can admittedly have a tendency to skip over the sadder poems, it’s easy to get caught in the fantasy of it all, but this is important to remember that this love that we all love,” her hand gestured around the group, “is painful for him. He’s decomposing. He’s literally withering away and no one is there to witness the ecstatic beauty he’s leaving for all of us to appreciate and pine after. What does that say about us,” her hand pressed against her chest, “that whoever wrote this felt like it would be easier to just never be known, never be thanked – rather than try and not be alone in this suffering?” Hannah’s gaze darted over the room, “We can say all we’d like that we’re a changed society but if even the worst person any of us can imagine wrote this, it is evidence that there’s still goodness inside of them to say ‘thank you’ for, and I wish I could say that to this writer.”

Draco was determined not to cry. He was not currently holding back the tears that took all his strength to restrain them from slipping down his cheeks. He tried to swallow down the wave of emotions that burned his chest and threatened to make him blubber like a child. It was simply everything he’d ever longed to hear someone say about his writing. All the letters, the lovely sentiments felt so distant even if they meant well. Hearing Hannah’s words, watching her burdened shoulders droop under the weight of her conviction made the confession bubble up in Draco’s throat. The desire to tell her that it was him, that he was right there, that he heard her - felt overwhelming in a strange, foreign disregard and repentance for his previously prized anonymity.

“The next few lines, I honestly haven’t been able to get them out of my head,” Astoria spoke up with a nervous smile, “‘I win fights with myself and lose to the dead – These screams that echo around inside my head – I can’t escape them, trust me I’ve tried – But everywhere I walk, someone has died.’, it just grips me somewhere inside my throat.” Astoria’s delicate fingers touched her neck. “Like honestly, I don’t know how anyone could move on from the war if they’re perpetually haunted by the decisions we were forced to make in our emotional infancy. None of us deserved to be put in those impossible situations and yet now we are evaluated and condemned and judged and forced to carry the brunt of the damage which we’ll never be rid of.” Her cheek pulled with the motion of her teeth biting the inside. “It’s just not fair, I don’t know how to move on without forgetting everything that happened but forgetting leaves all the lessons and people behind and that’s not right either.”

“I went back to Hogwarts during the war for my sixth year and afterwards for my seventh, it was just a walking nightmare. I felt exactly like those verses, especially the last one.” Ginny spoke in a ghosted tone. “At least in seventh year, I found myself constantly thinking about everyone who didn’t make it out, trying to understand what the difference between myself and them was, wondering if there was some reason everything happened the way it did, why I’m here when there are a lot of days where I don’t know if I feel deserving to have survived.”

Draco painfully understood Ginny’s uneasy confession - so honest in her admittance. He’d laid in his bed, eyes burning with exhaustion as his brain repetitively wondered the exact same thing many times before. He hadn’t found an answer either.

“The next lines flow beautifully with that exact train of thought,” Daphne added, “Is there a limit to my own tolerance of myself? – Will my legacy be a tragic story dust rotted on her bookshelf?’ When we think about those who died and consider their legacy, their fingerprint that they leave on everyone else – it’s just so important to acknowledge how meaningful our past is to create a future that we all have dreams for. I want so much to tell whoever wrote this that his legacy is already so much more than what he feels like he deserves, but in the end, I understand that he’s protecting himself as much as his muse because we don’t live in a kind or decent world and there are probably a lot of people out there who wouldn’t understand his metamorphosis and would hate him for the very words they once claimed they loved.”

“A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” Draco murmured, unconsciously flickering up and meeting Hermione’s eyes as they widened, immediately understanding his reference.

“Exactly.” Daphne smiled, nodding. “His lines, ‘This hopelessness threatens to drown me entirely – if you only knew my sins, you’d laugh at the irony,’ just speaks to that same concept, I think. People would judge him for his name and not even look any closer at the things which he’s already confessed to changing under the name, ‘Anonymous’, but they’re still his words and his genuine feelings and experiences.”

“I actually really like the ending of this poem.” Draco cleared his throat and read out loud the final verses that were his intimate confession. “‘She is my mourning, the absent sun in my perpetual night – I don’t know how to cope so I decay away and write – Her laugh leaves me gasping in sharp, white pain – My past is inescapable, my burden heavy chain’.”

Draco sighed heavily, leaning back against the chair and trying to maintain his best composure amidst the nervousness bouncing in his body. “The eclipsed sun in one of the previous poems we read tonight comes up again here but this time it’s associated with decay, pain, something beautiful that’s connected to suffering. There’s this resonance, an echoing of the past that perpetually reminds him why he can’t have her – all the things he’s supposed to be grateful for just are empty, there’s no value to them anymore.” His forehead pulled together as his eyes fixed on one of the wine glasses on the table. “The one person he does value, the love of his life, is constantly out of his reach and it mocks him, it’s creating this horrible cycle of desire and denial that can never be escaped without catalytic change or,” his eyebrows flickered up, “perhaps his own death.”

When Draco looked up, shaking his head as he smiled uncomfortably, acutely aware of the revealing way he’d rambled, the smiles of the witches looking back at him made him feel appreciated. “Our poet is who’s trying to just make it through the day, who dances with her ghost to keep him company. He feels like he deserves this, that this is his retribution for things he once thought were the right choices, that now in retrospect are the fixed condemnation he can’t ever escape.”

A hanging silence echoed throughout the space, Draco’s chest rising and falling as his mind flooded with a babbling, nervous tension that he’d said too much. He was so tired of always being afraid of saying too much.

Draco could feel a probing curiosity upon his features and when his eyes rose up to meet Theo’s, his friend’s investigative, tense expression immediately betrayed that he knew Draco’s intimate secret.

Theo cleared his throat after a moment, leaning forward, his arms resting against his thighs. “I think from the perspective of someone who did grow up with money and the expectations which that comes with, it has a tendency to grow into this exact feeling - a heavy chain, something that’s a burden. You have to live in a certain way to not disrespect it somehow – but when you‘re rich it changes the perception of what you value.”

Draco smiled gratefully towards him, thankful that he didn’t immediately jump up and point towards him with all of his beloved dramatics - but of course he wouldn’t have. It was Theo. Harry’s hand reached up to rub against Theo’s back understandingly and Theo flashed him a quick smile before his eyes drifted to evaluate the other members of the group.

“This whole poem is depressing as shit and I’m tired of feeling sad.” Ginny announced with a heavy sigh, pushing against her legs to stand up with a groan. “I desperately need some goddamn booze. Who’s with me?”

Several raised their hands but Draco shook his head.

“No, we’ve got to be getting back,” he replied, gesturing to Theo and Harry.

“Somewhere better to be?” Ginny retorted with a smirk.

“It’s actually dear Draco’s birthday tonight so we’re having a party in the garden,” Theo replied with a pulled expression, several people’s attention peaked at his statement.

“Is it open for anyone to come?” Lavender interestedly asked and Draco shrugged his shoulders.

“I suppose. It was just going to be a few of us but yeah – if anyone would like to come, they’re welcome,” Draco said.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind a good bit of celebration after all this melancholy and denial and emotional suffering.” Ginny smirked much to Draco’s surprise. “I can bring some bottles along with us.” She offered.

“I have work tomorrow.” Granger shook her head.

Draco’s heart dropped in disappointment but he didn’t protest, smiling understandingly at her.

“Oh come on, Hermione. Just call out sick, be bad,” Ginny playfully encouraged, scandalously whispering the dare over her shoulder as she walked back to the kitchen.

“I can’t just call out sick, I’m not sick,” She indignantly replied with an upturned nose.

“Well, if that’s the criteria for calling out, that can absolutely be rectified,” Ginny cheekily suggested with a wink as she leaned from around the kitchen door frame.

“It’s fine, it’s not anything huge, just going to drink a bit, Blaise is bringing his muggle sound system for music, we might pick out a story from the library for dramatic readings under the stars,” Theo’s nose scrunched, “- you won’t be missing much.” His hand waved dismissively as Granger perked in badly concealed interest with pressed lips. “Harry’s only coming along because I asked him to.” Theo shrugged.

“It’s true.” Potter nonchalantly nodded.

Draco nearly rolled his eyes at the trap Theo laid for Granger but she seemed quite unsure.

“I think it sounds like a blast, I’ll just go home and change from my work clothes and then pop over,” Lavender announced with a cheery smile, standing and drinking down the rest of her glass. “Is it alright if I come through your floo?” she asked when she finished and Draco nodded.

This was bizarre. Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley and Lavender Brown coming to his party? His fifth year self would be beside himself with confusion and concealed glee. The Gryffindors always knew how to party, at least that’s what the rumors had always said.

“Luna,” Astoria warmly smiled at the Ravenclaw, “were you interested in coming along? I’m sure it would be so much fun to have you there.”

Luna smiled and considered the offer before agreeing in the fantastical tone she always spoke in. Astoria beamed in response, blushing a pretty pink with her excitement. Draco noted Astoria’s eyes bashfully flickered away but her expression was nothing less than utterly pleased.

“Alright,” Granger sighed, giving in, “I’ll go. Since apparently everyone in this bloody group is going.” Ginny grinned, rounding the corner and walking back into the living room as Granger muttered to herself about early morning meetings and responsibilities.

“That’s my good witch!” she exclaimed, raising her freshly filled wine glass towards her. Ginny stood and motioned for Granger to follow. “Come on, you can borrow something from my closet to wear so you don’t have to go in your work clothes. Pansy, we’ll need your expertise on this endeavor.” Ginny sighed knowingly and Pansy nodded solemnly, standing and walking to follow Granger.

“I’ll see what I can do to tame that mane but it might be too much even for my magic.” Pansy tisked with a shake of her head.

“What’s wrong with my work clothes?” Granger whined as she was hurried by Pansy’s rushing hands around the corner to where he assumed Ginny’s bedroom was.

The door clicked close after them and Draco was suddenly spellbound in disbelief that he was about to be the host to quite the array of guests, including someone he never anticipated to ever spend an extended night with. Now he had a whole night of her time.

“I probably won’t be able to make it,” Hannah leaned towards him and kindly replied, “but I hope you all have the best of fun and definitely we can all do something another time.” She genuinely smiled and he nodded.

“Absolutely.” And he meant it.

“Also,” Hannah smirked at him playfully, “Next year let us know it’s your birthday a bit more in advance so I can at least bring you a present and a cupcake to make a wish with.” She laughed, Draco’s heart clenching with the happiness that she planned to know him next year and even wanted to.

He agreed he would as Theo stood, leaning his hands on his lower back with a groan as he stretched.

“Alright, well we have a party to throw. Draco and I will just pop over to make sure everything’s good to go and why don’t you all come through in say, thirty minutes?” Theo offered with a resolving clap of his hands and was met with smiles and agreement. “Will you let Hermione and Ginny know too?” he asked Potter and he said that he would.

The two stood, waving their temporary goodbyes, walking down the hallway to gather their shoes and cloaks, slipping them onto their bodies. Draco turned the doorknob, opening the door and the crisp nighttime air flooded his senses. It seemed like it’d be a great night – he felt optimistic and anticipatory, but as Theo followed him through the door, he wondered when he’d started to become someone who felt hopeful with the good things happening to him, and if that was actually a good thing at all.

Chapter 11

Notes:

Hi there! It's been a while, almost a year exactly, and I just want to thank everyone who's sent in comments to encourage me along the way. I couldn't be more excited to share with everyone the progress written in this fic, it's turning out to be everything I imagined when the idea came to me. I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

I'm not sure if I've posted the links to the spotify playlists for this fic, but you can find them all here: https://open.spotify.com/user/31iflgi4hacc2wfk3ua4yjbaj5ye?si=808c09e95aee45b2

The four witches fluttered around Ginny’s room, all composing themselves in a variety of ways: Ginny leaned against the wall, observing the group, Hermione sat on a chair in front of the long mirror, Pansy behind her with a wand gently taming her wayward curls, and Lavender fussed over her lipstick in the reflection of a compact held in her hand.

“So, are you interested in anyone right now?” Pansy teased Hermione, picking up a strand of hair and isolating it from the others.

Ginny noticed the way that Hermione’s lips parted slightly, then pressed together again, her hesitance to find the right words evident.

“I…I actually did meet someone,” Hermione admitted quietly to the mirror, “but he’s sort of in his own world. I’m not sure how to get his attention,” Pansy twirled her wand around one of her curls, calming the frizz into soft ringlets.

“Well, what about him got your attention?” Ginny asked, eyeing the way Hermione blushed as her thoughts clearly brought forward an answer.

After a moment, Hermione sighed.

“I guess I like the way he talks.” She looked down at her hands and began to pick at her cuticles. “I could listen to him for hours, honestly.”

Ginny tried to think of any wizard that she’d seen or heard Hermione even mention talking to, but the only one that came to mind was maybe some older man at work. As she thought back to watching the two’s interactions, though, how she’d seen Hermione’s weight shift side to side uncomfortably, Ginny could comfortably assume that he wasn’t the one bringing blushing ideas to her friend’s cheeks.

“Maybe he likes the way you talk, too,” Ginny suggested, walking over to her closet and beginning to narrow down the choices of what she’d force Hermione into. “You could always write down what you’d want to say if you’re nervous about it.”

“Like a letter?” Hermione shyly smiled, a huffed breath flowing over her lips. “What would I even say to him?”

“Maybe just, 'hello, you’ve been granted the esteemed attention of the one Miss Hermione Granger, please meet me promptly for a confirmed shag and dinner on Saturday night, you lucky bastard',” Pansy teased, drawing a surprised squeak from Hermione and a boisterous laugh from Ginny.

“That would definitely make any wizard come running.” Lavender giggled.

“I’m not sure he’d actually like that,” Hermione sighed. “He’s more of the thoughtful and romantic type.”

Ginny shared a quick look with Pansy, whose eyes widened in dancing curiosity.

“Where’d you meet this bloke?” Ginny curiously asked her, and Hermione smiled to herself.

“At the bookstore, a little while ago,” she quietly replied.

“So basically this is a sensitive romantic who loves books and chatting you up, who probably also thinks you’re his dream girl, and you’re worried about getting his attention?” Ginny teased, fingers skimming a little maroon number in her closet that would certainly make any wizard look twice at her friend.

“Yeah, maybe it does sound silly when you say it like that,” Hermione nervously laughed. “I think he’s seeing someone else, though, or at least he’s interested in her pretty intensely.”

“What makes you say that?” Lavender asked.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, avoiding the curious gazes in the mirror in front of her.

“Just a suspicion is all.”

Ginny side-eyed Hermione’s vague answer, making a note to ask her more about this mystery man later, when they could be alone. Her fingers lingered on the maroon dress; she wasn’t sure if Hermione would feel comfortable enough to wear the dress that she knew would flatter every curve of hers that she loved to hide. Hermione wasn’t the most confident witch in the world, but she’d made quite a number of heads turn over the years, whether she knew it or not. Lavender walked over to sit on the edge of Ginny’s bed.

“You know who’s fit as fuck?” Lavender sighed with a dreamy smile across her face, leaning back against the comforter on her elbows. “Draco.”

Pansy’s head snapped immediately to look at Lavender, who didn’t notice the horrified look Pansy shot her.

“Draco?” Ginny snickered, fingers rubbing the gauzy fabric of the dress. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Ginny, even you can’t deny that he’s unbelievably gorgeous,” Lavender drawled, cocking her head at Ginny. “I mean, plus, he’s got those hands,” she sighed, “I don’t even know what it is about him, but I can’t help but notice him.”

“I guess he’s just not my type.” Ginny swallowed hard, dismissing the claim with her breath held, not daring to look at the dark-haired witch calming Hermione’s curls. With her heartbeat quickening, Ginny could swear she felt the prickling sensation of Pansy’s curious gaze upon her skin. The game they’d been playing the past few weeks was rising to a peak, yet Ginny couldn’t bring herself to approach Pansy about her suspicions.

“I swear, if he ever gave me the chance, I’d ride that stallion all night.” Lavender snickered. “I’m actually hoping to talk to him at the party tonight.”

Hermione had gone quite still during Lavender’s distasteful, girlish chatting about her crush, eyes fixed on something by her shoe.

“He’s more than just someone to fuck,” Hermione sharply said, her jaw cocked with irritation. “He’s got thoughts and feelings, and I’m sure if he were interested in you, you’d know.”

Lavender sat up, looking at Hermione, who didn’t meet her gaze in the mirror. Ginny’s attention was drawn in confusion to Hermione’s outburst of bizarre combativeness.

This was Malfoy - what was she doing picking a fight with Lav over him?

“That’s quite rude, Hermione. What do you care if I wanna fuck him or not? It’s not like you’re fucking him.” Lavender’s tone had gone nasally, laced with offence.

“I don’t care, but it’s like you didn’t even hear anything he said in the meeting tonight. I don’t think he’s looking for something casual like that.” Hermione’s words carried across the room.

Ginny couldn’t help her eyes flickering up to Pansy, who looked back at her with a frozen tension in her expression. They both silently watched the conversation in the small room play out, some sort of understanding passing between them.

“And how would you know anything about what he wants? You don’t know him at all. I know him, and I’m sure he’d be happy to take me out sometime if I had the balls to just ask him!” Lavender’s arms crossed against her chest.

“Have you ever even talked to him? Just one on one?” Hermione now turned in her chair to look at Lavender directly.

The blonde witch sputtered a little underneath Hermione’s intense, investigative gaze.

“Well—well, not exactly, but we have a connection, I’m sure of it!”

“A connection,” Hermione deadpanned.

“It’s not like you’ve talked to him either one on one, I mean, you didn’t even want to go to his fucking birthday party!” Lavender’s voice was shrill with defense. “Why do you care so much about this!?”

“Why do you care so much about this, Hermione?” Pansy softly asked, taking advantage of Hermione’s turned position to curl some of the pieces around her face.

Ginny tilted her head, appreciative of Pansy’s astute ability to ask all the right questions at the right times.

Hermione looked up at her, teeth pulling at her bottom lip. She sighed, some of the wind seeming to deflate out of her chest.

“I just think he shouldn’t have to be in an uncomfortable position if it’s unnecessary, and I don’t think reducing him to a body to shag is giving him credit.”

Lavender’s mouth gaped open at Hermione’s dig, but Pansy only took a thoughtful nod, pausing to compose her thoughts.

“As strange as this’ll sound, Hermione is right, Lav. Draco hasn’t been with anyone in a really long time, and he’s not one for casual flings.” Pansy said.

Lavender scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I know he’s your friend and all, Pansy, but trust me, I think I can tell when someone’s interested in me, and I’ve definitely gotten some signals from him.” Her nose pitched upwards, a sneer of self-righteousness crossing her face.

Ginny’s breath went still, eyes quietly drinking in the way Pansy slowly turned to face Lavender with the sort of intensity that sent thrilling butterflies through Ginny’s stomach. Pansy looked Lavender up and down, as if assessing her prey’s defenses before attacking.

Fuck, she was so bloody attractive. Ginny bit her lip at the sight.

“You might think you know Draco so well for someone who’s spent a few hours total with him in the same room, but I grew up with him.” Pansy’s authoritative tone carried over the deathly silent room. “I’d consider myself one of his most intimate friends, and trust me, you’re not his type. You’d be smart to respect that.”

Ginny couldn’t stop her mouth from falling open, something inside her appreciatively respecting Pansy’s protectiveness and harsh honesty. It swirled in her stomach, a deep pull that wanted to pull Pansy against her body, to kiss those lips that bit truth.

Lavender huffed, abruptly getting up from the bed. She threw her bag over her shoulder, storming out of the bedroom and slamming the door behind her.

A silence lingered for a moment, Ginny’s thoughts preoccupied. Her eyes roamed over a creamy brown silk tank with lace adorning the collarbone, wondering if it would catch Pansy’s eye that night.

“I didn’t mean to make her so upset.” Hermione sounded conflicted, but Ginny waved her concern away.

She decidedly pulled out the red dress she’d gone back and forth on for Hermione to see her selection.

“She’ll get over it. Lav always bounces back from her crushes. You, however, will be utterly delicious tonight and quite the star.” Ginny held out the dress, snickering at Hermione's wide eyes, which seemed filled with an insecurity she couldn’t hide.

“I can’t wear that!” She shook her head, looking back at her reflection. “I’m sure other people won’t be dressing so fancy.

“You can and you shall,” Ginny simply said, laying the dress flat on her bed for Hermione to change into. “I’ll dress up too, Pansy already looks the part - we’ll all have a great time.”

Pansy walked over to the bed, dragging her fingers down the soft fabric.

“Trying to impress anyone tonight, Ginny?” Pansy's voice was soft but low, and Ginny swallowed the lump in her throat from Pansy’s intoxicating presence.

“Maybe.” Ginny smiled, unable to keep the butterflies at bay.

Pansy smirked, eyes lingering on Ginny’s lips for a moment before turning to walk back over to Hermione. Ginny took a deep breath to try and compose herself before spinning around and hopping up on the edge of the bed.

There was something definitely brewing between Pansy and her, of that much Ginny was sure of. These past few weeks, Ginny’s gaze had lingered a little too long on Pansy’s perfect dark hair and classic red lipstick, bitterly wishing those lips would leave marks on her. Now that Pansy and Blaise had split, though, what was once a late-night fantasy, Ginny’s fingers curling inside herself as she gasped out, wishing they were Pansy’s, might actually be coming true. It seemed that Pansy’s classic seductiveness had found a new target, and Ginny was finding herself unexpectedly flustered under the attention.

Ginny had always found her romantic interests easily; boys were simple-minded, and she got her way with them. With witches, though, Ginny was surprised to find that she desperately wanted to be dominated, preferably by a certain dark-haired woman with an affinity for tall heels and bossing people around.

Pansy quickly finished up with Hermione’s curls and tapped her on the shoulder to signal she was done.

“You look lovely,” Pansy declared to Hermione, who shyly appreciated her reflection that smiled back at her. “My work is done here.”

Ginny held back the words she wished she were brave enough to tell Pansy. She wanted her to know how lovely she looked, in her black skirt, fishnet tights, and dark blue blouse with more than a few buttons undone.

“Thank you, Pansy, you’re so talented.” Hermione’s fingers ran over her soft curls.

Pansy shrugged nonchalantly, her eyes flickering up to meet Ginny’s. “That’s at least what people say.”

Ginny’s cheeks rose with a blush, her heart thudding quicker at Pansy’s intense eye contact.

“Well-” Ginny’s voice came out a little squeaky on the first try, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Well, I guess we’ll see you at the party then, Pansy.”

Pansy smiled knowingly, utterly unfazed by the palpable heat between them. She gave Hermione one more look before grabbing her bag from the small dresser next to her, beside where Hermione sat. Pansy crossed the room, her heels clicking against the wooden floor as she approached Ginny with dark eyes.

“Why don’t you find me after you both arrive?” Pansy muttered as she lingered briefly. “It seems we have things to discuss, don’t we?”

Pansy’s ocean-blue eyes looked her up and down, and Ginny tensely nodded since no words could leave her frozen throat. She swallowed hard, unable to shake off the flustered nervousness that had washed over her. Pansy passed her, closing the door softly, leaving Hermione and Ginny alone.

Ginny’s eyes glazed over, her stomach tumbling over itself as the words played over and over again in her mind. The soft, lingering scent of Pansy’s perfume clouded all of her senses. Jasmine mixed with something sultry that Ginny couldn’t put her finger on.

Find me after you arrive. Things to discuss. Find me.

Ginny could barely breathe; the air that managed to sneak into her lungs seemed more suffocating than if she had forgotten to inhale at all.

“Ginny? Are you okay?” Her oblivious friend asked, snapping Ginny out of her daze.

“Yeah,” Ginny cleared her throat again, shaking the mist from her head.

Hermione smiled back at her reflection, fixing something small on her makeup close to the mirror. Ginny walked over to stand behind Hermione, putting her hands on her friend’s shoulders.

“So, you have two wizards you’re interested in?” Ginny smiled knowingly at Hermione’s reflection in the mirror.

Hermione wouldn’t meet her gaze, but shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m not interested in Malfoy,” she defended, but Ginny rolled her eyes, not buying her deflection.

“Well, if you’re not, then I don’t know what all of that was.”

Hermione sighed, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. Ginny let her have time to process, allowing the honesty to tumble from Hermione’s lips, not even a few moments later.

“I think I’m just intrigued by Malfoy, I suppose…I like how intense he is. I’m not sure how I feel about everything or him, though. It’s all very confusing.”

“That makes a lot of sense.” Ginny’s fingers twirled one of the soft curls that spiraled down Hermione’s back. “And I wouldn’t judge you, you know, if you did want to go out with him.”

Hermione’s eyes jerked up sharply to meet Ginny’s eyes, expression flooded with surprise, “You wouldn’t?”

Ginny shook her head, smiling at her friend, the sister she never had.

“I do think he should apologize for everything he did and was complicit in, but I can understand what about him might draw you in, honestly.”

Hermione swallowed hard, nodding in agreement.

“I’m not saying anything definite, I mean, there’s still the wizard from the bookstore. It’s all so complicated, and it’s not like I can have both—not that I’m saying I do want Malfoy definitively,” she clarified, a smile tugging at her lips and a blush rising to her cheeks. “But, I guess if Malfoy apologized, I might be open to at least being friends and getting to know him more.”

Ginny’s suspicions were confirmed when Hermione’s eyes shyly met hers in the mirror. After the unexpected heat between her and Malfoy during the book club meeting tonight and the looming party, they had yet to attend, she wasn’t totally surprised that Hermione was talking to her about all of this.

“I’m excited for you. Honestly. After tonight, you owe me a coffee date to hear more about this mystery bookstore wizard, though.” Ginny squeezed Hermione’s shoulders with a wicked smile before leaving her to change into the dress she had laid out on the bed.

 

***

 

Theo was quieter than Draco anticipated after they walked through the floo. He avoided Draco’s nervous gaze, sliding his hands into his pockets and casually walking out of the entry hall towards the doors that led to the gardens. Draco held back the words that longed to question Theo: to ask if he was upset, if he thought Draco had made a mistake – he swallowed them down. He knew what he’d probably say.

Theo likely thought Draco had been stupid and foolish, that his decision to attend the book club was asking for trouble. It was one thing to have feelings for her; it was an entirely different matter to risk compromising his art for the selfish desire to know her opinions.

Draco’s chest tightened with anxious pressure. He’d never had anyone close to him know his secret, and now the vulnerability chewed through his rib bones and left its indentations of uncertainty. The ache was potent, his mind scattered into pathways of thoughts that all clanged simultaneously. He needed to get it together and keep it together. People were coming – Granger was coming. She’d be walking through his floo in a short while, and she couldn’t see him nervous; he wouldn’t have a good reason for it.

Draco tried to shake his racing thoughts by rolling back his shoulders, his spine cracking with the alignment. A breath passed over his lips in resolution; conversations could be had with Theo another time.

Right now, he had a party to throw and a witch to woo.

His footsteps clicked through the empty hallway. He governed his breath as he walked through the ballroom that led to the garden; the set of massive glass double doors magically opened as he approached. The fresh air hit his cheeks in a pleasantly warm but invigorating rush that he savored, eyes roaming over the beautiful sight before him.

The sun was almost totally set now, the late spring evening crisping the air, but Draco found it refreshing. The elves had set up an atmospheric setting for their gathering – strings of warm lights hung between the fruit trees, tables with candles and plates of snacks were scattered around the garden, and the beauty of the space drew a smile across Draco’s face. Theo was standing down at the centre of it all, waving his wand to arrange a small circle of floating pillows down onto the grass, with blankets covering the ground for them to all lie on. A dance floor had also been constructed, along with a relatively small wooden platform outlined with hanging lights, which would be sonically decorated with Blaise’s music.

“Is everything up to Master Draco’s expectations?” Betsy’s small voice asked Draco to his side.

As he looked down at her with fondness, he saw a small grouping of elves behind her with hopeful eyes seeking his approval. When Draco replied that it was even better than he anticipated, Betsy broadly grinned with a blush adorning her cheeks.

“We’ll also be expecting five additional guests. Could you please ensure we have enough refreshments and food for everyone?” Draco asked the cluster, and they all gasped, their hands clenched.

He knew they hadn’t had a proper gathering to host since his mother left, and a small part of him was secretly proud to see them hurriedly whispering to each other with glee. Betsy calmed the stirred excitement with an outstretch of her experienced hand and declared that they would quickly return with enough drinks and snacks for the larger crowd.

“Betsy,” Draco called as the elven cluster broke apart to begin cooking.

His childhood elf looked up at him with patience, awaiting to hear his desires.

“Hermione Granger is coming tonight, could you please make sure all the portraits are silenced? I’m uninterested in their opinions of our guest. I’d also like the drawing room to be locked and warded against wandering visitors.” Draco’s requests sent a flash of a mischievous conspirator-like grin on Betsy’s face.

Draco honestly didn’t know who was worse, Theo or Betsy.

“Of course, Master Draco. Betsy will personally make sure that everything is just perfect for Mistress Granger. She will take care of it all.” She assured him, and he thanked her genuinely.

Betsy apparated with a soft pop, and Draco took a second to breathe deeply, trying to soothe the rampant anxieties that skittered underneath his skin. After a moment, he walked down the stairs of the terrace to approach Theo. With a grateful smile, he looked around approvingly at his friend’s eye for perfection.

“It’s certainly not my immaculately curated Slytherin after-finals blowout, but it’ll be fun nonetheless,” Theo commented as Draco now stood by his side.

“It’s wonderful, Theo. Thank you for your help,” Draco said with a tense smile.

“Of course, it’s the least I can do.” His reply came out slightly strained, which Draco could only assume it was due to earlier.

Just as Draco breathed in the air that would form his probing response, the sound of Blaise’s cheer from behind them prompted both of the young men to turn and grin at their friend.

“What’s up motherfuckers?!” Blaise yelled, raising his boombox over the top of his head.

Draco chuckled as he looked over at Theo, his dimples popping out on his freckled cheeks as a grin spread across his face.

Blaise bounded down the stairs in time to the beat, a grin plastered on his face.

“Lads, we are getting fucked up tonight!” Blaise declared, placing his speakers on the table and walking over to the refreshments table to unload his variety of concoctions from the bag slung over his shoulder. “I’ve brought everything we could ever want and then some. Oh, and happy birthday, big D,” He called over his shoulder.

Draco thanked him with a laughing shake of his head.

He hoped it would be a good night, but as usual, his worrisome mind nagged at him that something would go wrong and everything would be ruined.

The book club group came shortly after: Weasley, Potter, Pansy, Lavender, Luna, Astoria, Daphne, and…Granger.

The breath emptied out of Draco’s lungs in a rush when he saw her walk out onto the terrace. She was adorned in a short red dress with long sleeves that clung to her curves in all the right places with a plunging V-neck that made a flush rise on Draco’s cheeks—his tongue dipped out to coat his lips.

She was stunning.

Her curly hair was loose along her shoulders, spirals of dark brown that he immediately lusted to bury his hands into and pull her towards his lips. He was altogether grateful for the distance between them so that he might have the mercy of composing himself before interacting with her.

She started to walk down the stairs, a perfect hand elegantly gliding against the railing. Draco’s eyes lingered on her slender fingers, the delicacy of her touch, immediately planned to run his touch over that same wood. He drank in all the details, memorizing her gleefully, a gift to himself - to his art.

As she approached the bottom, Draco saw how short her dress actually was and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. It seemed like an impossible dream that this magnificent creature was approaching him with a shy smile, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Hello.” Granger's knowing eyes looked up at him, a criminally intoxicating shade of grounded earth.

“Hi,” Draco croaked out.

He forced himself not to fidget with the rampant nervousness that coursed through his body.

“I’m sorry that I don’t have a present for you,” she smirked, looking down for a moment before her gaze flickered back up at him. “Not much notice.”

“You being here is enough of a gift.” His words tumbled out before he could censor his adoration, his chest burning with embarrassment.

Granger's eyes widened slightly before a blush rose up on her cheeks.

“Hello, Draco, darling,” Pansy said as she approached, lifting up on her toes and planting a quick kiss on his cheek.

He was so grateful for her distraction, as it allowed him a moment to silently die inside from his babbling big mouth.

“Marvelous work, Pans,” he whispered in her ear.

Pansy shrugged, “I know.” Her smile spread wide as she walked over to the drinks table to fill a new glass of red wine to begin the evening.

“This is a beautiful party, Draco,” Lavender complimented profusely.

“It’s all thanks to the elves, Theo, and Pansy,” Draco replied simply with a courteous nod of his head.

Weasley gave him a once-over with a look that felt evaluatory but not overtly hostile like he would’ve expected. Draco felt surprised she would’ve changed or put effort into getting dressed for his party, her outfit seeming intentionally eye-catching. It was even a little flattering in a strange way.

Blaise walked over to the group, drink in hand and a lit joint pinned between his fingers. Theo’s eyes met Draco’s for a moment, silently communicating their mutual uncertainty. Theo walked over to stand beside Potter, who shot his friend an expression of distinct, warm familiarity. It was heartwarming, really. Draco thought Theo deserved happiness more than anyone.

“Ginevra Weasley,” Blaise drawled with a smirk. “My, my, my! So not all the ginger shits were cursed with ugliness.” His eyes shamelessly roamed up and down her figure—Ginny stared him down, unamused.

Granger's eyes widened behind Weasley as she seemed to watch their friend’s encounter apprehensively.

Weasley's lip curled in distaste. “Is that your idea of flirting?” she deadpanned with a raised brow, crossing her arms. “How rather unimpressive for being the so-called sex god of Slytherin.”

Blaise’s grin grew to epic proportions at his nickname that Draco suspected he’d bribed a fourth-year witch handsomely to ‘coin’.

“What can I say?” Blaise’s arms fanned wide from his body, “My reputation precedes me.” He did a dramatic bow, his drink sloshing over the edge of his cup with the motion. Draco’s eyes rolled in indignant distaste at his dramatics and carelessness. To his right, Lavender snickered, his eyes glancing over to catch her hand covering her mouth, which turned up in amusement.

Blaise peered up at Weasley through his lashes with a knowing smirk before standing upright again. Pansy rolled her eyes behind Blaise’s back, taking a sip from her drink.

“The only reputation I seem to recall was when you gave nearly every fifth-year witch that was willing to sleep with you, Chlamydia back in school,” she sneered at him knowingly.

“Well, at least they had a wild night getting it,” Blaise chuckled.

Lavender squeaked, eyes wide. Draco debated on whether or not to cast silencing charms on his friends, lest he make an unfortunate impression.

“And a mortifying trip to the nurse's office,” Weasley countered.

“Where’s the pity for me?” Blaise pouted his lip. “I also had quite the stare down from Pomfrey—actually, do we have a mirror somewhere? I swear, you look just like her right now! You have to see!”

The scowl that crossed Weasley's face and the venomous glare in her eyes sent a shudder down Draco’s spine. The witch was bloody terrifying when she wanted to be. Draco saw both Potter and Theo cringe, but Theo at least hid his expression in a sip of his drink. Potter watched the horror unfold before him with wide eyes. Granger seemed at least entertained, which kept Draco’s hexes at bay.

“Did you even apologize to those poor witches burdened and plagued by your proximity?” Her chin jutted out, and Blaise took a step closer to her with eyes that danced with amusement.

“Of course,” he said, “I’m not a monster.” He smirked down at her; their height differences became more evident the closer he got. “You want to know how I offered apologetic repayment for my sinful transgressions?” Blaise taunted her with wiggling eyebrows, drawing a groan of exasperation from Ginny.

“You didn’t.” Weasley sighed disappointedly.

Blaise grinned at the implication, the utter delight crossing his features evidence that he’d found his new prey. He stepped even closer to Weasley. Draco wanted to be anywhere but right there as he already knew the answer, and had been in the Slytherin dorms when Blaise both discovered his problem and found his “solution."

“Oh, I did. Free oral for up to three orgasms, refundable at their choice of time for the duration of one academic school year.”

“Gods,” Weasley shook her head in disgust, matching his stare with unflinching animosity, “how do you even live with yourself?”

Draco had wondered the same thing.

“By ensuring they had a very, very nice time.” His gaze was indecent as he stared down at her, his tongue dipping out to lick his lips. “I could show you a nice time, too, if you ever wanted.”

Draco turned his gaze to see Pansy’s guarded, cautious expression, her eyes snapping quickly between the two of them. It was a look he’d seen before, and knew that Pansy wasn’t happy with whatever was going down. It made sense, seeing Blaise flirt with another witch right in front of her.

Weasley scoffed at him. “In your dreams, plague spreader.”

“Trust me, you certainly will be.” His smile was licentious, and as she rolled her eyes and pushed past both Blaise and Draco to go get a drink.

Draco wondered if Blaise was trying to get Pansy back by flirting with Weasley, an attempt that would be ill-fated and unproductive in his opinion, merely judging by Pansy’s darkened gaze.

Blaise sighed longingly after Weasley, watching her approach the table filled with his concoctions, some Draco himself hadn’t felt brave enough to try yet. Draco watched as Pansy walked after Weasley, to which he could only anticipate a thorough interrogation and harsh warning.

“You know, D, you might’ve been onto something with that book club.” He laughed, patting Draco on the shoulder before turning and shooting a winning grin at the witches who had watched that scene unfold before them, some entertained, some disgusted. Draco’s eyes were wide as he stared at the grass in front of him, unsure how to exactly respond.

“Sure,” Draco awkwardly chuckled, before nodding towards the drinks table. “I’m going to grab a drink.”

Draco didn’t linger for more than a few seconds, needing a reprieve from the mortifying, excessive ego of his friend. He walked over to the now vacant drinks table and poured himself a few fingers of Ogden’s, grabbing one of the pre-rolled joints available on a tray and tucked it behind his ear for later. There were little dishes filled with unknown sugared gummies and vials of brightly colored, unlabeled potions, which, knowing Blaise and his curious tendencies, any one of them could inspire a variety of effects. Draco didn’t have any desire for self-sabotage or experimentation tonight and stuck with what he knew wouldn’t lead him to strip naked and believe the trees were whispering ancient wisdom and brilliance.

He turned back around and saw that the group had organically clustered off into pairings. Potter and Theo shared disgustingly happy and affectionate looks between them, their fingers shyly hanging onto the other’s underneath the large, twinkling tree. Blaise chatted up Lavender and Daphne with his usual swagger and animated hands, the two witches looking amused but reserved as they sipped their drinks. Over by the picnic table, Astoria and Luna had already found themselves in a profoundly enthusiastic and lively conversation about the ethics of cleansing infections.

As Draco’s eyes skittered over the garden, though, he didn’t see Granger, and he noticed that Pansy and Weasley had also somehow vanished. He could only assume that Granger had gone in search of the loo or some sort. A wayward anxiety floated through his mind that the manor wasn’t safe for her to walk through, that maybe he should go look for her - if she’d found his office, all his papers were still scattered on his desk. He’d warded the room; no one was allowed in there except for Theo and himself, but this was Hermione Granger, and he never underestimated the power and capacity of her magic. Did he even remember to reset the wards from when he had been so distracted upon arriving at the manor?

He could just imagine it, his heart pounding as he pictured her horrified expression as her shaking hands gathered his scribbled confessions, the way her wide eyes would look up at him as she threw the papers in his face, running out of the office. He’d chase after her through the hallways of the manor, yelling his defenses upon deaf ears, but nothing would matter as she flung herself away from him through the floo. He’d stare at the green smoke that would take her, body rejecting the idea that he threw away his only chance with her, that his fears had come to life, all because of an unwarded door.

He took quite a few swallows of his drink that soothingly burned his throat. He had decided to look for her and, at the very least, check his office, when Lavender approached him with a flirtatious greeting, pulling his attention from the churning nervousness in his mind.

Lavender twirled a piece of hair around her finger, smiling at Draco with half-lidded eyes.

“This is quite the party.” Her voice was overtly sultry as she met Draco’s gaze. “It means a lot to me that you invited me tonight, Draco.” The way she purred his name sent a bolt of cringe through the center of his chest.

He forced a polite smile at her, calling upon every ounce of his childhood etiquette training.

“It was nice for everyone to come,” he strategically replied, taking a sip from his drink.

He needed to get out of there; he needed Lavender to fuck off so he could go check on wherever Granger was and be completely sure his secrets were secure. The need for reassurance bugged him like a fly that buzzed near his eye, that wouldn’t go away even as he swatted the pest.

“One should always be surrounded by their closest friends on their birthday.” She sighed, grinning broadly when he hummed in agreement as he took an even larger swig from his glass.

Draco swallowed the tightening sensation of his throat, his stomach beginning to do flips as his imagination grew more vivid by the passing moment, as if Granger was actually opening the door to his office with every second he spent in this insipid conversation.

“What is it like to run your family’s estate so successfully?” Lavender pushed her tits out towards him, but his gaze barely grazed her body before looking up to admire the tastefully strung fairy lights.

“Arduous and financially incentivizing,” he sarcastically drawled.

Her hysterical fit of giggles jiggled her breasts, and her laughter continued for an inordinate amount of time, Lavender even going so far as to rest her hand upon his arm to support herself. Draco scowled in displeasure, annoyance rolling through his gut.

His immediate thought was that her laugh sounded like a braying mule that occasionally snorted. Her perfume was this overwhelming clusterfuck of flowers that muddled together and gave him a brewing migraine. She wiped her eyes from the tears that evidently accumulated before gushing on about how he was so much funnier than she’d ever known.

“Lavender,” Theo came to Draco’s rescue, spontaneously appearing at his side like an angel, “I think you have lipstick in your teeth - why don’t we go and fix that, together?”

Lavender turned beet red, stammering out a broken reply as she allowed herself to be led away by the merciful Theo with only a few mumbled protests. As she walked away, Theo looked over his shoulder to throw Draco a mischievous wink. Draco pressed his lips together in an appreciative smile and then immediately began instinctively searching again for Granger, but she still had not reemerged.

His feet carried him across the lawn, passing an out-of-place Harry Potter nursing his glass. Potter smiled at him, as if they were familiar, as if he was trying to be pleasant. Draco couldn’t help but wonder if it was only Theo who was as desperate and dedicated to their pairing.

Draco noticed Astoria and Luna now sitting together on the lawn, Astoria’s fingers resting on Luna’s arm. She looked so enraptured with the witch, Draco had the panging thought that she’d never looked at him like that. He struggled to think if she’d looked at anyone like that at all.

The thought sent a pang of happiness for her as he approached the stairs and began to climb. His chattering mind was still the background sound, his body almost felt jittery at the sensation and potential of being here tonight.

Of her being here tonight.

Draco’s heart thudded underneath his skin, echoing a feeling too large for his body to contain, an uncertainty, a pinching need to be close to her, a thundering desire to flee the intensity. His breath quickened, feet ascending the steps.

Now at the top of the stairs, he walked into the grand ballroom, his mouth swallowing to moisten the dryness accumulating in his throat. He hurried, mind conjuring images that were likely not true, but he couldn’t know for sure until his eyes confirmed.

Faster and faster he walked, till he broke out into a jog, then into a run. Down the hallways, weaving through the place where his memories haunted, Draco’s chest heaved with the exertion. Finally, with heat that had begun to prickle his skin, he laid eyes on the office door. His breath came out in pants, but relief didn’t coat him like he anticipated. Draco walked forward determinedly, opening the office door and surveying the space.

It was exactly how he left it, the fragments of a poem he’d begun composing still waiting completion on his desk, the fire simmering and suspending the room in a soft glow. It was as if Draco’s mind couldn’t comprehend that his fears had been unbiased, his eyes unable to stop roaming across the different surfaces and corners as if he’d see her there. Draco huffed a breath out, running knuckles up and down the center line of his chest. His heartbeat began to slow, and Draco rounded the desk, fingertips dragging along the wood as he looked down at the parchment with his scribbled ideas.

My admiration, this dedication - this living being that was constructed as a monument to how highly he thought of her. Draco swallowed, his throat bobbing with the movement. It was a sickness and a twisted desire, yet he couldn’t turn away from his creature. The poet. It scared him, the desire that burned low in his stomach at even not being in her proximity.

What would become of him if she cast him away?

Would he whither, crusted and deceased - would his art ever be anything but this cavernous longing, could he even imagine life without seeing her? At least when he was starving, the idea of her wasn’t something that could be taken. He could nurse his addiction with small drips of fantasy.

Now that he’d argued with, absorbed, and became enchanted by the true source, Draco bitterly wondered if he was instead doomed.

Draco snapped himself out of his thoughts, blinking as he shook his head slightly.

He couldn’t waste tonight, not when she was downstairs. Draco determinedly walked out of the office to find her.

 

***

 

It had happened in a flash, a briefest moment between spaces in time. Hermione had been standing there, watching Theo and Harry chat away with a stunningly open expression of adoration towards each other, when the thought hit her—the panic colliding straight into her chest.

A sudden image flashed in her mind of dungeons, grimy and cold, their occupants imprisoned. Buried sounds of screams deep in the underground of the manor, where people had been tortured, where her friends had banged against the bars trying to reach her.

The cells could even be just below her feet.

Hermione couldn’t help but look down, the innocent grass underneath her shoes. She felt like it could be true. She knew at least that the dungeons were distinctly underground. There was every possibility that they could be directly underneath her feet.

Her stomach plummeted as the idea of it formed in her mind. That dirty, dark place where people were tortured - where Luna had been held, where Harry and Ron had listened to her screams and couldn’t reach her. They’d shoved their hands through the rusted bars, pressing their face against the small space to minimize the distance as they yelled for her. The moment when Dobby whisked them away, only to be plunged into death himself.

Her throat had tightened, hearing her screams inside her mind, her nails aching as if they clawed to get away from Bellatrix that very second. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop her mind from painting the picture from her memory. Her breath began to increase, lips parted as the anxiety began to rise, a cold ache that paralyzed her from within.

Hermione flashed a quick smile at Harry, his eyes immediately looking at her with a degree of understanding that only long-term friends could communicate. He knew that tonight inevitably would’ve been hard for her, even at the book club, he’d given her a look of surprise when she agreed to come. Hermione hadn’t wanted to be the only one left, and even amidst her fear, she knew that she didn’t regret attending the gathering. She’d been working so hard over the years to conquer the fears lingering to her like sticky tar, and she’d found exposure to be the most effective.

She politely excused herself from the conversation, her drink in her now trembling hand, and began wandering to find a quiet place to be alone. The heat on her skin prickled with dread, a franticness building underneath the bone of her sternum.

It was all she could do not to apparate directly to her apartment.

She wanted to stay, though; she knew she just needed to breathe, to keep moving, and not let herself become frozen. That’s what her mind-healer always advised her for getting through her episodes. She had been having fun; she had actually felt accomplished for coming to this party. If she hadn’t been here, it would’ve just been another night shut in her apartment, alone with her thoughts and her red-string wall.

Her feet led her deeper into the gardens, where the hedge rose up towards the sky and blocked out the sight of the imposing manor, where people couldn’t find her.

There was a cavernous sadness that ached alongside her anxiety, rising up and taking space where she thought perhaps the episodes had finally settled with the years of time. It’s not as if she assumed she’d be immune to fear, but the smallest part of her had hoped that she wouldn’t have one tonight. Yet, here she was, trying to manage her now gasping breath with eyes that focused on the flowers lining the stone path. Over and over, Hermione reminded herself that she was free, that she could leave if she wanted.

But she didn’t want that, not really.

She tilted her head back, gazing at the paper lanterns and soft lights hung from posts that lined the path, illuminating the trees with the gentlest of warm light, draped among the canopy of leaves. It seemed rather contradictory, really, that such a beautiful place could coexist with one of her darkest memories. There wasn’t darkness here, though, strange enough. As if this one area of the grounds was untouched by Voldemort’s influence, as if this was sacred.

Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if she’d wandered into Narcissa Malfoy’s special garden, if this was in fact the sanctuary for another woman who tried desperately to shield herself from the darkest of influences that roamed the hallways of her home.

There was a delicacy to the garden's organization, the winding paths scattered with colored mosaic stones in decorative patterns. They encouraged a playfulness, as if Hermione could imagine a small giggling boy jumping widely from stone to stone, a hand held by his mother for security.

Her footsteps slowly traveled along the winding, roaming maze. The deeper she went, the more Hermione found herself relaxing. Her eyes couldn’t help but notice so many little details throughout the space; turn by turn, the beauty of the garden became a strange intoxication.

The edges of the path were adorned with such a stunning array of florals, a rainbow of colors that mingled and drew one’s attention. Lavender, sage, daisies, coneflowers - and so many more that Hermione couldn’t even name. Orange, yellow, purple, red, the colors were so vivid and stunning that the fear strangely began to fade into static. She found herself noticing the aroma of lavender around her, which permeated the air; it soothed her like a mother’s hug, a woman’s touch that ran a hand down the top of her head to settle her worries.

Hermione’s arms came to wrap around her, longing desperately for her own mother as she swallowed the pang of grief that always tightened her throat at the thought of her obliviated parents.

She continued walking along the winding path, following the lights hung between tall posts. Hermione wondered absentmindedly how long the grief and heartache would linger, if she was condemned to this feeling till her last breath. She couldn’t help but think of the last time she’d touched her parents, the smell of her father’s cologne, how her mother’s thin fingers had tucked a stray curl behind her ear with endearment.

Heart heavy, Hermione approached a new feature of the hedges, the heart of the sanctuary revealing itself to her and inviting her to the delicate design of the space laid out before her. A curved arch made of intertwining branches stood as a door, with soft lights wrapped around the arch, creating a sense of magic and wonder inside Hermione. She walked through it, half expecting her fingers to disappear into a portal of some sort, but she passed through normal air.

The space beyond carried an air of femininity, designed by a woman with a refined sense of style. It was an open-air, sectioned, and larger than Hermione would’ve ever anticipated from the initial size of the maze from a distance. She could see a modestly sized garden house with fogged windows, a large pond with a bridge that crossed one side to the other, tall trees scattered along the edges of the path, and lights strung between them. Flowers of so many different types adorned the sides of the paths, as if it were a museum of floral possibilities that Hermione had never seen before. Her eyes went from section to section, taking it all in, almost overwhelmed at the simple beauty before her.

The path forked, the left guiding to the garden house, and the right leading into an area with raised garden beds. Hermione went right, investigating further and guided by her curiosity. The lights were strung across the wide expanse of the open air, five large garden beds per row, with no less than five or six rows in the space. The contents of the containers varied from more flowers Hermione had never seen before, to vegetables, fruits, and even spring herbs. She even saw fruit trees lining the back, adorned with yellow lemons, limes, peaches, and green apples. The air smelled so fresh and inviting, an earthiness that beckoned respectful appreciation, even a sense of exploration.

Hermione approached one container, filled to the brim with strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. Shifting her wine class to her non-dominant hand, she looked over her shoulder, as if someone might be following her. When she confirmed no one would witness her crime, Hermione’s fingers plucked a strawberry from the short bush and brought it to her lips.

The flavor exploded in her mouth, a succulent juiciness that made her eyes flutter closed.

It might’ve been the best strawberry she had ever eaten. It was simply perfect, with the moisture of the fruit and the exact balance of ripeness, yet there was a satisfying firmness that accompanied the experience. She swallowed, licking her lips, and nodded appreciatively.

Hermione looked around and saw that the path extended beyond the garden bed area, so she curiously walked to explore further.

The path didn’t lead her far away from the previous section before her feet stopped, mouth falling open in appreciative awe at the sight before her.

This was the true heart of the maze, she decided.

An enormous willow tree stood unapologetically in the space, with a bench swing that hung from a thick branch extending outward. A pond flowed behind the willow, the length of it stretching beyond this space, likely connecting to the other pond that Hermione had seen when she had previously walked through the branch arch. The softest, flickering fairy lights wrapped around the inner branches of the free, yet the outer leaves were left untouched. The effect created a stunning illumination of the delicacy of the drooping willow. It was a homage to nature, a celebration of the beauty it provided. Someone had stood where Hermione now stood and understood how to adorn nature in jewelry. They had loved this area fiercely, and it was evident in every single area that she looked.

She walked up, approaching the bench as her neck craned back to look at all the details she could. Hermione ducked underneath a section of drooping leaves and inside. The area was special, creating an emotional effect of protection against anything bad that might happen outside this one tree. As if the leaves created a barrier for one to truly let their guard down, for the safety that it provided was stronger and protective against any evil. Secrets whispered in this space would never leave it; thoughts or fears that filled one’s chest could be set down for a moment here without worry. This space was a relief, a defiance, a mother’s protection against the world that sought to claim her child.

Hermione sat down on the bench, a soft creaking sound with the added weight, yet she was unafraid of falling. Her feet softly pushed off the ground, swinging gently. She took a drink from her wine, still in her hand, heart filling with a gratitude for this space. Hermione sighed, letting her guard fall as her eyes fluttered closed and she allowed herself the luxury to relax in the peace. Her previous panic had completely fallen aside, her grief had ebbed, and now Hermione appreciated the comfort that the now vacant emotional space provided.

She sat like that for a while before Hermione’s eyes flickered up from her glass of wine at the sound of gravel crunching.

Draco Malfoy stood at the edge of the sanctuary, a dumbfounded expression across his face. Hermione’s heart stuttered, unsure of how he’d found her.

Had he been looking for her? Or rather, had he come to this space for relief, too?

“Hello.” He gently smiled at her.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to -” Hermione began to get up as she apologized, but Malfoy held his hand up.

“It’s alright. You wouldn’t be Hermione Granger if you weren’t curious.” He laughed a little.

A blush rose up onto her cheeks as she realized how much she liked the sound of his laugh. The feeling of being here, underneath the willow canopy and the intimacy it provided, made her feel a bit nervous about sharing the space with him.

“Your gardens are really beautiful,” she said, letting her foot scuff against the soft dirt, the bench swinging softly with the rocking motion.

Malfoy approached her, hands in his pockets as he ducked underneath the willow with an ease that made Hermione feel as if he’d been here hundreds of times. She watched as he walked up, leaning a shoulder against the thick trunk of the tree, his expression strangely open as he looked up into the branches and leaves spiraling above them.

“My mother designed them,” Malfoy replied simply, confirming her previous thoughts.

Hermione nodded, looking down at her lap.

“And your parents? How are they doing in Australia?”

Hermione’s gaze snapped up to meet his as he looked at her with eyes that understood what she had done, his head tilted.

“How did you-?”

“Gossip spreads quickly, all your conversations with people regarding reversing memory charms and all. I put it together after the war, what happened to them.”

Hermione nodded, an enormous wave of shame and grief washing over her. She bit her bottom lip to hide the trembling, looking down at her lap to avoid his gaze.

“I happened to them,” she forced out, throat tight.

“You did what you had to,” he said softly.

Hermione shook her head, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. She always wanted to cry when she talked about them.

“I shouldn’t have done that, I shouldn’t have taken their memories like that.” Hermione sniffed, pressing her lips together.

“You greatly underestimate how infuriated the Dark Lord was when he couldn’t find them.” His voice was gravely, with what Hermione could hear was a heavy burden of a memory. “When I couldn’t find them.”

Hermione looked up at him with that admission; his brow was furrowed and his gaze distant.

“You? You were tasked with that?” she whispered, heart clenching with a sudden gratitude for her decisions.

She’d never known if Voldemort actually had thought of them, and when nothing happened, she almost had let herself believe that her actions had been pointless.

Malfoy nodded silently, a barely visible shiver crossing over his body.

“I thought they’d look for them,” Hermione admitted. “I didn’t feel like I had any other choice.”

She thought back to Harry and Ron’s expressions of horror when she’d told them what she’d done, how Harry hadn’t understood and judged her harshly for her decisions. How much that had hurt.

“They would’ve never left me behind, or even understood why they needed to,” she said.

“For what it’s worth, I, at least, think you made the right choice.”

Hermione blinked back tears as she met his eyes. Her throat felt so tight as she swallowed thickly.

She’d never had anyone understand so intimately why it was the most important decision she’d ever made. Why it was necessary, and what the stakes really were.

“I honestly still don’t know if it was.” Her voice was quiet, words trembling. Her head turned to look at all the flowers around the perimeter of the tree, the beauty of the garden that had comforted her earlier. “You know, they still don’t recognize me. After all these years, it doesn’t matter how many charms I do or healers I employ, or even how much time I spend with them. I’m just gone.”

She sighed heavily, weighed down by the memories and tears, and grief that she’d solely endured.

“I think I’ve finally reached the point where I’d be okay to just let them be happy without me.” Her lip quivered, and she sniffed. “Every time I go back to visit them, they get so upset.”

Her mind flashed to her mother screaming, how her mind healer said she’d started pulling out her hair shortly after Hermione’s first visit. The deep scratches on her arms after they’d had lunch together that Hermione had noticed the next day.

“My mother-” Her voice broke, a tear spilling onto her cheek. “She gets hysterical. I think somewhere she still knows who I am in the way that a mother will always know her child. It’s distressing for her to be so blocked off, like a longing that’s never reachable, never satisfiable. It’s torturous,” she shook her head sadly.

She didn’t even know why she was saying all of this to Malfoy, but other than her mind healer, there just hadn’t been anyone else who could understand - who she could talk to.

And he listened. Unjudgmentally, not interrupting her, not forcing his own thoughts or opinions on her decisions - Draco Malfoy heard her story.

“I should just do them a favor and let it all wash away.” Her head tilted to the side, heart clenching painfully at the idea. Another tear followed the first, dripping down onto the fabric of Ginny’s dress. “I should let them just start over. Maybe they’ll adopt or foster a little girl, and somewhere inside they’ll feel like everything is almost how it used to be. It’ll be good enough.” She numbly nodded.

She’d been such a coward, knowing that’s what she needed to do, but selfishly, she just wanted to see them. She hadn’t been ready to say goodbye. She had been the one causing them such pain.

Their mind healers said that they stabilized again every time she left.

Every time she went, Hermione swore to herself that it was goodbye, and then she booked another trip. She couldn’t stop.

“You’ll remember them, though.” Malfoy tried to offer a crumb of comfort.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, laughing a little incredulously as she took a large drink from her wine.

“I’d almost rather forget, if I’m being honest. It would be easier if they’d died, isn’t that awful?” Her lip sneered up at her own disgusting truth, shaking her head. “Rather than them being somewhere, someplace that I can never get them back. At least if they were dead, it wouldn’t be so haunting as being able to visit them.”

Malfoy didn’t reply, and a soft silence hung before Hermione continued.

“It’s like they actually are dead, but without the comfort of being able to put flowers on their grave. Like someone took them away, and I’ve never had the comfort of finality. I just ebb in the haze of perpetual agony, and I expect to be suspended in this river till I die.” She shook her head.

That was exactly it.

“I genuinely feel like some Greek tragedy, like Orpheus traveling through the literal underworld to get Eurydice, only to fail himself every time because of his own selfish inability to accept the truth.” Hermione didn’t know if Malfoy even knew what she meant by that, but in a way, it didn’t matter.

“At least they’re not suffering in Australia,” he said softly.

“I’m suffering, though. Every Christmas, every birthday, when I’ll get married, if I ever have children - I wish all the memories would be fucking gone so that I could move on, and maybe one day I’d be alright.”

Her shoulders were so heavy with the burdens she couldn’t even admit. That no one would ever understand. The selfishness that had permeated so deeply within her, the twisted craving of relief that had walked her to a place that shame crusted the walls and painted them red.

“You could do that. You could erase all their touches and moments and looks of affection,” Malfoy’s voice was gentle, his words understanding, “but I think I’m starting to understand that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

Hermione smiled sadly, taking a drink from her wine. Her foot flexed, swinging the bench softly back and forth. She sighed heavily, tilting her head back and groaning as she stomped her foot into the dirt.

“I know you’re right.” She bit her lip, eyebrows furrowing. “Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt like a bloody bitch though.” She laughed a little at the enormous absurdity of it all.

“Yeah.” He nodded.

Malfoy’s quiet acceptance of all she’d revealed punched a hole through her defenses. It was a realization that startled her, a bizarre idea really. In a few weeks since she’d encountered him outside the bookstore that one time, he’d begun to reveal himself to her.

The oddest part about it all was that more and more Hermione liked what she saw. He seemed different. Genuinely changed from her last perception of him on the battleground of Hogwarts as he crossed the sides to join his parents.

“Here.” Hermione shifted from the center of the swing to make enough space for him to sit with her.

She patted the spot beside her, suddenly feeling selfish for making him stand for the duration of the time.

Malfoy’s eyes cautiously shifted from her to the seat, as if he was disbelieving that she’d invite him to sit with her. He walked over to where she sat, turning and sitting down on the swing beside her. The wood groaned with the added weight, and Hermione desperately hoped that she wasn’t making a massive mistake by trusting him.

They swung together, Malfoy’s foot helping the rhythmic sway. The summer heat of the night permeated the air, yet Hermione didn’t feel overheated as she took another drink from her now almost finished wine. The alcoholic burn in her stomach was pleasant, though. Sitting with Malfoy was also pleasant, to her surprise.

“Granger, I know this isn’t the best time,” He took a deep breath, drawing up a string of anxiety through Hermione’s chest, “but honestly, there’s never going to be a good time, and since we’re being honest with each other, I must apologize to you.” His words were almost whispered as they left his lips in a hurry, as if he had a desperate need to reach the end of his sentence.

Hermione’s gaze snapped to him, eyes widening impossibly. She hadn’t expected the night to go like this at all, yet her heart swelled in appreciation that he even wanted to apologize.

Malfoy’s mouth opened to speak as his eyes met hers, those strangely beautiful steel gray orbs that looked so terrified, yet nothing came out. She saw him panic, felt the open anxiety that ebbed from him in this moment.

Hermione gave him the smallest of nods to encourage him forward, curiosity probing her as she took in his sharp features. He’d really grown quite attractive. A strange, quiet fact that Hermione noticed.

Malfoy took a deep breath in, throat bobbing as he swallowed and began to speak.

“I have been hollowed out with irreconcilable regret and shame for the actions and words of my youth.” He began, eyes searching hers.

Hermione listened intently, letting his intensity and genuineness wash over her.

This was a gift, his openness. She’d been needing this apology for longer than she could admit.

“Not a day has passed that I haven’t wished I could go back and change my beliefs, my choice of cowardice, and instead choose to be brave. I am ardently apologetic and remorseful.”

Hermione’s eyes began brimming with tears, but she didn’t look away from him. The moment, his words were intense, yet purifying.

“You were entirely blameless and undeserving of my tormented fixation,” he said, softer, guilt heavy in his words. “More than anything, I wish I could erase every insult, all the judgment, the superiority - everything.”

His honesty made Hermione’s heart swell in gratitude. She couldn’t help but think back to all the flung insults, how she’d cried in one of the hidden alcoves after she was first explained what ‘Mudblood’ meant, the shame and embarrassment that she’d never be able to be considered an equal.

Malfoy’s eyes broke from hers, and she felt a pang of subtle disappointment that the intensity had been broken in some way.

“My decisions are mine and your opinions of me are fair - and in this torrid confession that’s far overdue, my conscience is somewhat eased, but I know it’ll never take back what I’ve done or how I’ve hurt you.” He swallowed again, his fingers nervously picking at his clothes. “I honestly couldn’t live with myself for another day without saying that to you, and I’m grateful for the opportunity, for you listening and letting me.”

Hermione knew he had said what he wanted to.

“Thank you for saying that.” Her voice was quiet, heavy with the shared admissions that had taken place under the willow tree.

“Thank you for listening,” Malfoy croaked out, body tense.

Hermione looked up at the lights suspended at the willow and was overcome with a sense of gratitude that she’d wandered into the space. The things that had been said needed to be said, for different reasons. She felt lighter, actually. Saying what she had to Malfoy, to one of her peers, felt more freeing than when she’d told her mind healer, and Hermione hadn’t expected that.

Her mind naturally reflected on what Malfoy had said, and then the thought sprang up - a wonder if Malfoy had only joined book club because he’d felt so burdened by his need to apologize to her. A sense of disappointment washed over her, and Hermione found herself desperately wishing that wasn’t true.

She looked over at Malfoy, noticed his chest rising and falling faster than it had when he’d even apologized, but she couldn’t stop herself from needing to know.

“Does that mean you won’t be coming back to the book club now?” she asked softly. “Your conscience is cleared, there’s no need to continue onwards if you only wanted to get me alone and saying that was your goal.” A bitterness coated her mouth at the idea.

It would almost taint his apology, she realized. Hermione shook her head and looked over her shoulder and the beautiful garden to hide from his expression that she anticipated to confirm her worst fears.

“No, Granger. Absolutely not. I’ll be there as long as you’ll have me.” Malfoy laughed a little, and Hermione’s head snapped to look at him again.

He smiled, a crinkle by his eyes exuding genuineness. Relief washed over her heart.

“You greatly mistake and underestimate my interest in continual improvement, both in an intellectual sense and a moral one.” Malfoy leaned back a little; the way he spoke was more casual than the words he spoke, which Hermione found intriguing.

She continued to search his face, looking for truth.

“A single desire of mine to begin righting my wrongs and to take accountability for my actions doesn’t constitute the totality of my intentions.” He smiled at her knowingly. “Or, at least, I’d never hope to be so shallow.” He chuckled with a shrug of his shoulder.

Hermione looked forward again, unsure of how much she liked the way he spoke. She sighed, forehead wrinkling.

She supposed there was quite a lot she had to re-learn about who Draco Malfoy was.

They sat together in a comfortable silence, something that Hermione never anticipated in her wildest dreams.

“I think you articulate yourself beautifully,” Hermione whispered to the open air.

She heard him take a sharp breath in, but she didn’t look at him.

“Thank you,” he quietly said.

They swung together in the gentle quiet, both having exorcised demons tonight in the garden. A few minutes of this passed, without Hermione feeling the need to fill the air with other words or chat. She relished the way she felt a little lighter, a bit more room having been made inside her heart. She hoped that Malfoy felt the same way. She didn’t think he deserved to feel so ashamed or burdened, and clearly, something had changed within him.

“We should get back to the party,” Hermione suggested after realizing that they’d both completely abandoned their friends.

Malfoy nodded silently, and he stood, extending a hand out to her to offer chivalrous assistance in standing, but Hermione brushed it off, rolling her legs with a scuttered laugh and declaring that her legs would work just fine on their own.

They walked away from the willow, side by side. Malfoy was much taller than her, and a feeling warmed Hermione’s belly, a feeling that she’d never associated with Malfoy before.

Safety.