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For as long as Draco could remember, there was a hierarchy and power dynamic inherent to communication. The Malfoy family did not indulge in idle conversation. Children did not speak unless spoken to, and when they did their answer was respectful and to the point. A father and son separated by a black walking stick, the handle’s snake head eyes glittering poison-green.
For years Draco had used that method himself. Those he spoke to were not his equals but inferiors intended to be ordered about or put in their place. Eventually his ‘friends’ grew as disillusioned with the hierarchy as Draco did with his own father.
Now, without that principle to cling to, he wasn’t sure how to still communicate. The void that existed between himself and everyone else felt like an absence, a tear, something intended to be precisely and expertly stitched back together with neat phrases which could be formed to bridge the gap, but when he attempted it, every word he knew to utter somehow fell empty, widening the chasm instead of closing it.
The frown-shaped platitudes of his friend echoed in his skull as though uttered from a great distance (I wish there was something more I could do or oh, you’re still upset about that or I’ve always cared too much about people—sorry, what were you saying?) and the replies he’d been taught, drilled into him like table manners, brought forth with a pained smile ( I’m fine, but thank you, or you’re right, I should just be more positive, or Nevermind. It’s not important.)
It was a quiet enterprise, satisfying his friends' need to feel like they were good people.
“Just explain it to me, Draco,” said Pansy. “I want to understand.”
She didn’t.
“You know we’re here for you, Draco,” said Theo, hands limp and awkward at his sides as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. The one time Theo had found him having a panic attack on the floor of the Manor’s parlour, he’d only stared at Draco with a stricken expression before asking him if he’d wanted to be left alone.
Blaise had simply handed him a drink. “Cheers.”
Draco plastered on a smile and took a sip, grateful for the burn to his trachea. Drinking was a less laborious activity than speaking, than trying to put into order words and feelings he’d never learned to express.
Malfoys were never uncertain. Never lost. Never wrong. They were better than everyone, therefore they needed no one.
It was much the same the entire summer before his last (last) year at Hogwarts. In between attending his father’s trial, and tending to his fraught mother, Draco kept busy—kept the winding, perilous thoughts that tried to make roots he could never hope to tear out at bay. But now, looking out at the large expanse of Hogwarts castle peaking over the large copse of autumn-tinted trees, those thoughts threatened to shake him loose like the last leaves of fall. He clenched his jaw so tight it made a clicking noise, and closed his eyes tightly, trying to gain a semblance of control.
He thought again about communication, as he opened his eyes and turned his gaze to the Thestral harnessed to a carriage near the front of the line of waiting students.
There never seemed to be the right words, the right exchange of emotions, that could communicate the depth of indescribable sadness that lay within him. Malfoy cowardice was an imprint of silver streaks on the theatre mask passed down each generation in place of affection. A gift and a curse. Now it was Draco’s turn totake up that lonely mantle. It wasn’t as if he’d had another choice, nor did he deserve one.
He steadied himself before mentally slipping the mask on again, as he forced the gnawing want for something he couldn’t put into words to ravage him in a contained space; he met the depthless gaze of the Thestral and stifled the shiver that came with feeling seen, and climbed into an empty carriage, wondering how he was supposed to survive the school year without letting the mask crack, or worse, slip off entirely.
Whilst others’ formulaic platitudes were predictable enough that he could offer half-hearted agreements, Hermione Granger was a riddle he could not decipher.
The version of him before the war, before the ugly mark on his left arm stood stark against his pale skin and the threat of death to him and his mother and father made every waking moment a nightmare, he was certain he had Granger pegged.
She was an ensemble piece to Potter. Smarter, most certainly, but still as fool-hardy and stubborn.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
With Weasley was absent to some career in the Ministry which Draco didn’t even care to ponder, and Potter too busy snogging Ginny Weasley all over the castle to pay attention to anything else around him, Draco often saw Granger on her own. In classes, or walking through the corridors.
The place he saw her most often was the library. Not a unique place for the acclaimed bookworm, but in between bouts of his own self-loathing—and fulfilling his Wizengamot-enforced coursework—he found his gaze straying to where she was sitting, her face only slightly peaking over the mountain of books she’d barricaded around herself. Strangely, she wasn’t always reading or studying, as one might’ve expected her to. Sometimes, she would sit by a tall window with a window seat, legs folded underneath her and her chin tucked in her arms. Her fingers played in the beams of sunlight that streamed through the opalescent glass, as if trying to catch the light.
She was so—expressive. Her dark brown eyes told a number of opinions, and the purse of her mouth had slight variations to it that differentiated with her mood. He thought it must’ve been the novelty of what played out over her face that kept him so enamoured—of why his attention always drifted to her whenever she was in his line of sight.
He’d never paid attention to her before as someone who was their own separate person. She was always Potter’s annoying friend, Potter’s annoying swot, Potter’s annoying Mudblood, but now, when she was alone as often as Draco was, and the way the light played over her hands or around her dark brown hair, as her expression changed from something pensive to downcast, he couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking.
He couldn’t help but wonder if she wore a similar mask to his.
“What are you staring at, Malfoy?” she’d demanded one day, hands planted on her hips as she stared down at him from the rolling ladder she was standing on, in the process of re-shelving a book high on the shelf.
It was late, and other than a few weekend stragglers catching up on coursework near the front of the library, they seemed the only occupants near the back corner.
He coughed, feeling a familiar tightness spread through his chest that made his breathing thin. “I wasn’t—”
One foot of her maroon leather boot tapped impatiently on the third step whilst her face displayed a masterclass in irritation. “Just spit out whatever vile insult you have roaming around in that head of yours and be done with it so I can—”
A thick tome came soaring round the corner. Granger, busy berating Draco, hadn’t noticed it, and it whipped by her hair, startling her and causing her to pitch backwards, arms flailing
Draco didn’t think: he sprung forwards and caught her, one arm wrapping around her waist and the other catching her under her knees, bringing her to his chest so he could balance her weight.
He felt a faint whoosh of air against his neck as Granger trembled against him, her breath coming in quick, sharp gasps.
“Gods…” She breathed in and out, before looking up at Draco through thick dark eyelashes. It was the first time he realised she had specks of gold around her irises. Ludicrously, he was reminded of a solar eclipse, of the sun breaching through the dark of the moon.
They stared at each other for one long moment.
Granger jumped out of his arms in a fitting imitation of a startled cat, and backed up until she was pressed against a bookshelf, leaving Draco to consider what to do with his hands. Her eyes glinted fire, and she had an expression of such dragon-like fury he half expected her to sprout scales and horns to match.
Sighing, he leaned down to pick up the book she’d dropped when she fell. Peering up at the cover, he raised a brow when he saw the title Advanced Hexes For A Modern Witch.
Granger’s entire face went crimson. She snatched the book out of his hand.
“It’s not what it looks like—”
Draco couldn’t help the upwards tilt of his mouth, and gave her a wry smile. “I’m only surprised you don’t know every hex in the book, Granger.” He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she’d created some of her own by now.
She scoffed. “Of course I do. I just wanted to know who took the book out last. Someone—” she broke up, cursing to herself. “Nevermind.” She took out her wand from her sleeve and waved it in a semi-circle, and the book flew up and nestled itself into the tightly packed shelf.
“You couldn’t have done that in the first place?” Draco asked.
This was the first time he realised Hermione Granger had a tell for when she was lying. She brushed her knuckles against the back of her other hand, not meeting his eyes as she spoke. “I thought I could’ve used a bit of exercise, is all.”
He thought she might have benefitted from gaining some weight, from the way her maroon jumper hung loose around her shoulders. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” was all he said, unable to stop the smirk nudging at his mouth when she rounded on him again, expression indignant.
She furrowed her eyebrows, then glanced away from him. She brushed her hands awkwardly over her uniform skirt, as if she didn’t know what to do with them, before finally saying, “That is… very nice of you.”
Draco gave her a ghost of a smirk. “I’ve never been nice, Granger.”
She gave him an unimpressed look before stomping away, leaving a whiff of something sweet mixed with petrichor.
He had warned Granger he wasn’t nice, was his excuse when he drew his wand and summoned the book to him, curious about what she was looking for. He flipped through the tattered text, confused at the simplicity of the hexes (bat-bogey hex, insect hex, knee-reversal hex.) These were all spells the younger years could learn. Courtesy of Snape’s vindictive drawl, he’d informed Draco that the only reason spell books were called advanced was so that inept Witches and Wizards could pat themselves on the back because of the mistaken belief that they’d learned an advanced brand of magic.
He smirked at the memory; ignored the peculiar ache behind his breastbone when he thought of the late Potions professor.
Reaching the last page, he couldn’t find any reason she’d be interested in this particular book. He was certain she wouldn’t have had any practical use for it.
He went to the front of the page, and raised his eyebrows at the most recent name scrawled on the library check-out card.
Romilda Vane.
Granger sat next to him in Charms class the next day. It was still early enough in the term that Flitwick didn’t do more than cast a cursory glance their way, less obvious than the other students who stared wide-eyed at Granger as if she’d sprouted horns on her head.
The discerning glare Granger aimed his way, so like the sharp poke of combative horns, made Draco think she’d get along well with a Romanian Longhorn dragon.
Golden Girl, indeed.
“So I was in the library this morning,” Granger said pointedly as she removed some parchment from her bag, followed by a red-feathered quill and a black ink pot.
Draco mimicked her, realising he’d still been shouldering his school bag. He’d been like that most of the term, prone to dissociating—at one moment present with the world around him and the next he’d blink and several hours had passed.
Granger was staring at him, and he realised she was expecting a reply.
“And?” he answered after blinking at her.
“I had this feeling, and mind you—I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I just couldn’t get over it. And I had a free period this morning…” She looked at him balefully.
Draco sighed inwardly, but gave her a ghost of his usual smirk. “And?”
Her baleful look sharpened into a glare. “You looked at the book. Admit it.”
“And if I did?”
The horns gleamed with malice. “I did tell you not to, if you remember.” Her voice was perfectly neutral, though the look she sent his way was something else entirely.
He turned towards her then, abandoning any pretence at pretending he wasn’t paying attention. “And last I checked, the library is free for public use.”
“Yes,” she huffed, a wayward curl escaping her messy bun, “but you specifically opened it because I told you not to.”
“You mistake me for someone who has an impeccable moral code, Granger,” he drawled.
She scoffed, dipping her quill into ink, tapping once, twice, three times over the edge, before copying the assignment on the board. “Hardly,” she said primly.
As Flitwick set them to personal work for the next hour, Draco glanced at Granger again, rolling over the next set of words on his tongue carefully before finally speaking. “So it’s Vane who’s causing you trouble,” he said with an air of careful boredom. It used to be easier to adopt that tone. Before.
Granger shot him a glare, but he ignored it, edging closer. He hadn’t been this curious about anything for months. Years, if he were honest.
She relented after a minute of writing on her parchment. “I have my own way of dealing with her. She’s nothing more than a pest who thinks it’s funny to play pranks on me just because I reported her for bringing Gregory Goyle into our shared dorm.”
Draco felt a pang in his chest at the mention of Greg’s name, then remembered how his old friend refused to speak to him anymore after Crabbe’s death. “Of course she was stupid enough to get caught,” he said instead, banishing the frown that made his mouth tremble. Then he considered. “What if she reports you for whatever you plan to do?”
The slight smile she tried to hide hadn’t escaped his notice. She shook her head. “I won’t give her the opportunity to.”
“What a golden heart you have.”
Her face lost its playful glower, and in its place was a ruthless sort of cold that startled Draco.
“I’ve no time for golden hearts anymore,” she said, before looking up at him and meeting his gaze with her own. A strange clenching zig-zagged through his chest. It was as if she could see right to the heart of him.
He turned away before she could fall into the dark, bottomless depths, where even he did not wish to wade.
Sometimes, he could still hear Nagini hissing from there, coaxing him down down down to an endless void, to a place he knew he couldn’t ever return from.
A soft, rustling sound roused him from his thoughts, and when he looked up, Granger was moving her pointer finger in shifting circles around several tiny pieces of parchment, shaped like a carousel of multi-coloured birds flying in an orderly circle.
“What’s that?” he asked, curious despite himself.
She faltered for a moment in her movements before continuing. “Oh, this?” The charmed paper birds changed direction as she moved her finger the other way, before continuing their inescapable flight. Something about the motion left him feeling claustrophobic. “Don’t laugh, but the repetitive action of spells like these has always been calming to me. Especially since—” she broke off, giving him a pained smile, though Draco thought he had an idea of what she was going to say.
Since the war.
He didn’t think there was anything to laugh at. Then again, he also didn’t expect to be having a civil conversation with Granger in the first place, so he didn’t think too much about it.
Something must’ve shown on his face, because Granger dropped her hand, and the tiny birds fell into a gentle heap on the hardwood desk.
“Is something wrong?”
Draco opened and closed his mouth several times, before realising how inane it would be to admit how the idea of being stuck in a loop forever made his knuckles itch. He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t—wouldn’t panic over it.
The Malfoy mask tightened against his skin, like nails breaking against skin tissue.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
He thought Granger might have said something else, but after a moment, he heard the scribbling of a quill on parchment.
At the corner of his eye, he could’ve sworn he saw one of the paper birds—a silver one, twitch.
Draco walked through the courtyard alone with a grey scarf tucked over his face to stave off the cold. Wanting to get away from the oppressive feel of the Slytherin common room; of Pansy’s worried looks and Theo’s awkward gestures of comfort, of the whiskey he was sure made up at least half of Blaise’ bloodstream, he decided a brisk walk would be good for the pounding in his head.
He didn’t expect to see anyone outside with how cold it was in the early evening, but there was a group of students all sequestered together at the stone fountain in the middle of the courtyard.
Curious, he took a few steps forwards, only to stop and stare at the sight before him.
Romilda Vane stood on the fountain, yelling out what at first seemed like unintelligible words, but as Draco focussed, he blanched at what was coming out of her mouth.
“When I was in second year, I used to have a pillow with Lockhart’s face imprinted on it, and one of the seventh years’ helped me charm it so that he’d wink at me from the foot of my bed.”
“I still wish Harry Potter would see what a catch I am. I’m clearly the better choice if it’s between me and rags to riches Weasley.”
“I don’t shower over the weekend because I enjoy the way my knickers smell.”
As Vane continued her ghastly confessions, students all around her hollered with laughter. Near the far end of the courtyard, he could see Potter grimacing and the Weasley girl glaring daggers towards Vane.
Draco took a step back, looking out over the whole scene. He knew even before he saw Granger, that she was the one who’d orchestrated this show.
Draco had always preferred a slow-simmer revenge. The trick was to give your opponent enough time to think they were safe, before pouncing on them with a precise brutality. An intricate plan with no holes.
For Granger, it seemed only a day was necessary.
The curly-haired witch was leaning against a stone well, arms crossed, looking on at the scene with an expression of triumph.
From the din of raucous students, she met Draco’s widened eyes. She smiled.
He inhaled a teetering, ragged breath.
“So what was the spell?” he asked the next morning during Charm’s. Granger had arrived at class before him this time, sitting in the same spot she’d occupied yesterday. It was only a moment’s hesitation before he joined her, giving her a sidelong look. She didn’t seem to notice him; her attention was fixed on the parchments twisting in the air. This time it was tiny multi-coloured lions. When he spoke, she jumped up, startled. She gave him a Slytherin-like smirk when understanding dawned in her eyes.
“Veritaserum is a powerful potion, as you know,” she said by way of explanation.
Draco gawked at her, and it was an effort to close his gaping mouth. “You gave her veritaserum ?” he asked incredulously. “Where did you even get it?”
“I brewed it. Obviously,” she sniffed.
“Obviously,” he deadpanned. This witch… He cleared his throat. “But how did you get her to admit the things she did?” Draco’s face heated when he remembered some of her more indecent confessions.
She eyed him for a moment before answering. “I tinkered with the babbling curse, making it so that it would work in perfect synchrony with the veritaserum.” She ducked her head, seemingly embarrassed, as if she’d just remembered she should’ve felt bad for what she did. For how she manipulated a student into telling their most perturbing secrets. “It might’ve worked a bit too well,” she admitted sheepishly.
Too bad for her, Draco wasn’t Potter, and he only wondered how she wasn’t sorted into Slytherin. “I was right about one thing,” he said after a moment, when the class started settling in their seats, the novelty of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy seated together, lost among the gossip of Vane’s confessions. The younger Gryffindor had been sent to the infirmary for the foreseeable future.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“You definitely did not require Advanced Hexes For A Modern Witch.”
Her smile was a surprised one, and maybe that’s why it shone the brighter, her straight teeth a pearly-white directed at him of all people.
He had to look away, fearing that she could somehow see the thundering of his withered heart.
The next time he saw Granger, she’d taken his favourite spot in the library.
He cursed inwardly, then resolved to glare at her until she took her cue to leave.
She didn’t.
He was being dramatic. He knew he was. Still, that didn’t stop the anxiety racing in his gut like a rogue snitch. He’d been forced to give up almost everything. And though he deserved to have his wand monitored for the foreseeable future, deserved the scorn that ebbed his way like a regular tide, he felt adamant that he should have a right to that table. The table in the back corner of the library where no one could see you unless they went to the historical section dedicated to ghosts of the castle (no one cared), where he could hide from stares, from sneers, even though he knew he deserved them.
He was a coward, to the end.
Truthfully, he didn’t want Granger’s scorn, either. A few not-unpleasant conversations did not fix the hate she must carry like everyone else. And hate, like all other things, must be shared. It was his punishment to bear.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel at a loss for the table.
Granger noticed him. She looked up from her mountain of books, eyes opened wider in recognition. Her wand was trapped in her wild hair, and he thought for a moment that if someone were to challenge her to a duel, that there would have to be a delay so that she could untangle it
He expected her to glare at him—expected that now the quiet reprieve of a secret shared was gone, they’d go back to their usual enmity.
Something must have changed between the events of what occurred with Romilda in the courtyard and now, because she gave him a smile. It wasn’t a placid smile, nor was it the self-satisfying smile she gave him when he caught her eye over several laughing students. It was a curious, inviting smile, one that told him it was alright to join her.
Malfoy self-preservation forced him to stay still for at least a few more moments, wondering what she was playing at. Perhaps she meant to exact revenge on him the same way she did to Vane, who hadn’t been seen all week. Apparently, she was in the school infirmary, and that a curse-breaker had to be called in to see if they somehow could cancel the advanced spell for the babbling curse.
True to her promise, Vane hadn’t mentioned Granger's name. He wondered if the younger witch even knew who’d cursed her.
Draco made his way to the sequestered table, glaring at Granger all the way.
Her smile only widened.
“Last I checked,” she said, tossing her back and sitting against the chair with her arms crossed, her expression amused, “you didn’t claim ownership over this table.”
So she knew the reason for his glare. He scoffed, and was only mildly irritated by the surprise spreading warmly through him, wrapping around his ribs like an embrace. “Sure I did, Granger,” he said. “My name is on it.”
She arched an eyebrow, making a show of looking around the large, grooved table. “Is it?”
“Yes.” He took out his wand, wondering if whoever was monitoring it wondered why Draco was carving his name into a piece of old wood, but decided he didn’t care. He finished the O with a grin of satisfaction before flicking his wand again and banishing the wood shavings.
Granger just stared at him in astonishment.
He shrugged, then after a moment of contemplation and several alarmed nerves resisting the potential for Granger’s rejection, he pulled the adjoining chair out and sat.
“A man being possessive of a large chunk of refined wood.” She looked unimpressed, but he thought it was a good sign that she didn’t outright demand him to leave her alone.
“Says the witch who would marry words if she could.”
She huffed in exasperation, and Draco couldn’t help the smirk tilting the sides of his mouth up.
After another look of feigned chagrin, she returned to reading the book that was propped up in front of her.
Draco took out his own school work, starting his Potions essay on ‘the uses and difficulties of using wormwood when brewing the Draught of Living Death’.
He peeked over at Granger after several minutes of surprisingly—dauntingly, companionable silence, and saw that Granger was already lost in her reading, eyes avid.
He licked his lips. There was a tension underlying every single thing he’d said to her, as if he could never say the wrong thing. “Are you searching for who took that book out last?” Draco asked, hoping that the joke came out teasing rather than cruel.
He pretended that the small smile at the corner of her mouth didn’t make something inside him flutter.
After that day, it became an unstated routine: Draco would meet Granger at their quiet corner of the library. Away from prying eyes, it was a surprising refuge, though he tried not too think too hard about why that was.
Before he knew it, he’d started relishing the time they had spent together. He decided it was because Granger didn’t pry. Though the looks of his friends’ followed him in the Slytherin dorm, and at mealtimes, this place was free of their incessant worry.
He knew why. Granger didn’t ask him about the eyebags showing a lack of sleep, because they were a mirror version of her own. He didn’t chase after Granger’s demon’s, though curiosity belted against him almost unbearably on the day she seemed extra solemn, her face downcast, her eyes dulled by exhaustion.
Something like a friendship formed between them, though he’d dared never voice it. For him, it was merely a desperation for solace; for her, it seemed he was the only choice remaining.
Selfishly, he wouldn’t remind her that even as a last choice, he wasn’t a good one.
“Are you also working on your charms project alone?” she asked one evening as they sat together. Draco was having a difficult time concentrating. The late evening light trickling in through the prism-coloured glass window cast Granger’s normally dark hair in highlights of light brown, and he found his eyes drifting despite his best efforts not to.
“Malfoy?”
“Hmm? Yes, I am.” He let out a surprised snort. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, Granger, but I’m not exactly people’s first choice for a friend these days.”
Most people would have reacted with a pitying look at his words. Provided they didn’t hate him already. Granger merely arched a brow, then said, “I wasn’t aware you were ever a good choice for a friend, Malfoy.”
He chuckled, then dipped his quill in ink before continuing his note-taking. He cleared his throat before speaking. “I didn’t realise you had other friend’s other than Potter and Weasley.”
The words hung oddly at his mouth, and he wished at once he could take it back. This seemed like too personal territory, the mentioning of her closest friends.
To his surprise, Granger only laughed. She shook her head, and her curls bounced with the motion. “You’re right. I’ve never been good at making friends.” She said this as a statement of fact, but the smile she shone at him didn’t reach her eyes. “Harry’s always been my best friend. I didn’t think I needed anyone else other than him and Ron.”
“Is that no longer true?”
“Ron’s gone off to Auror training,” she said, now giving him her full attention as she looked up. Her gaze was wistful. “Hogwarts is Harry’s home, so he wanted to complete his last year. Doubtful for the education, but he seems happy.”
“Seems? Don’t you know?” He wasn’t sure why he was prodding. He didn’t give a damn about Potter. But there was something slowly unravelling in Granger’s expression, and the selfish part of him wanted to tug at it.
(He wanted to know if Granger’s heart held the same emotionless chasm his did.)
(He doubted it.)
(He still wanted it; wanted that empty pool to have a twin.)
A flash of hurt reflected in her eyes, and she started to lean away from him, a visual display of discomfort. “He’s been busy, especially now that he and Ginny can be together without the threat of other things.”
Draco’s left arm twitched on the table. He clenched his hand in a tight fist.
“I see,” he said coldly after a moment. Though he didn’t see at all. How could Potter just ignore her after everything she’d done for him?
Something in his voice must have caught Granger’s attention, because she bristled, before narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s not wrong for him to be happy,” she said sharply, her lips forming a thin line.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He didn’t mean to imply his true thoughts. His stupid mouth which said stupid things unspooled further now that he’d let some of his thoughts out. “I just don’t think it’s unreasonable for saint Potter to include you in that happiness, Granger.”
Granger stood, her hands visibly trembling at her sides. “I won’t stand here and listen to you criticise Harry,” she said in a rising voice. “Not after all that he’s done for—”
He stood as well, his body committing to a fight as his brain screamed to stop. “What about you, Granger?” he demanded.
She stopped gathering her things, which he took for a good sign. “What about me?”
“Don’t you deserve to be happy?”
She gulped, eyes wide and affronted. “I am happy,” she said, sticking her chin up. Her words belied the shake of her chin, the quick breaths Draco could hear from where he was still standing.
He sighed, sitting down in defeat, everything inside him deflating. “Then you’re happy. Forgive me,” he said in a dull voice.
“I didn’t mean to imply anything,” he added after a moment.
Granger looked sceptical.
“Please,” he said, needing her to stay, gesturing for her to sit too, “it would be a shame for you to leave before we finished our assignments.”
It was a stupid, pitiful reason, but a relieved breath left him when he saw a smile crack beneath Granger’s frustration.
“You just want my Transfiguration notes,” she said with mock accusation.
He laughed. “You’re a terrible liar, Granger. My notes are far superior to yours.”
She reached over the table and smacked his arm. “Take that back! Lying like that,” she huffed.
“Slytherin.”
“A snake, yes.”
He chuckled. “What’s your special project for Charms?” he asked, desperate for a change of subject.
Granger’s reassured gaze met his. “The capacity for change,” she said after a moment.
His heart felt tight, but he sketched out a nod in affirmation. “It’s a bit ambiguous,” he said after a moment.
She smiled. “What’s yours, then?” she asked, eyes twinkling.
His own smile was razor-sharp. “It’s a surprise.”
She stuttered slightly, and he watched with incredulous satisfaction as a blush crept over her cheeks. Something terrifying like laughter welled up within him, in spite of the situation, in spite of everything.
“Keep your secrets then.” She rolled her eyes, returning to her work. He was glad she wasn’t looking at him anymore, because he was trying to tamp down his panic. He’d almost upset her enough that she likely would have never spoken to him. Something about that made it difficult for him to breathe.
Granger looked up again, her expression suddenly worried. “Malfoy. Are you okay?”
He gave her a pained smile, then dropped his eyes to his work so he wouldn’t have to see her face. “I’m fine,” he lied.
( Wretched, wretched boy, approved his father in his head.)
Draco’s gaze had a mind of its own, and often strayed to wherever Granger was in a room. He didn’t know why he’d found her so fascinating, when before, she’d merely been a passing blip that just happened to be friends with Potter. He supposed he’d never taken much time to really look at her.
Not until now.
She was standing amongst a circle of people, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere else. Potter and Ginny Weasley looked like they were seconds away from rubbing off on each other, while Longbottom and Lovegood only had eyes for each other. He saw Granger grimace, but when the group looked to depart, Granger tugged on Potter’s sleeve. He nodded his head at the group that made its way downstairs, and turned back to her with a question in his gaze.
Draco took a few steps up from where he was going and caught their conversation. He reasoned it wasn’t spying if he was already nearby and simply happened to have sharp hearing.
“You know you’re always welcome to come with us, Hermione,” he said.
Granger’s grimace deepened. “Thanks, but I’d rather not be a fifth wheel today.”
Potter adopted his look of perpetual confusion. “Hermione, that’s not—” he ruffled his dark hair, making it stick up at odd ends. Draco kept enough of his dignity to be horrified. “We want you there.”
“I know that, Harry,” she said, smiling brightly at him, and the fool Potter believed it, because he relaxed then, smiling back rather than recognising that she was clearly upset.
“I really am exhausted, though,” she said “I’ll try to join next time, I promise.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “You really ought to take a break from studying,” he teased.
She laughed. “One day. Now shoo, go have fun.”
As they parted ways, Granger’s expression fell, her smile dimmed, and Draco felt anger flick and flake away his common sense. He took the last few steps and marched over to Granger, now alone in a corner near the statue of Gunhilda Gorsemoor. She startled upon seeing him, but as she opened her mouth to say something, he cut her off.
“Are you seriously going to tell me you didn’t just perform a farce for Potter?” he demanded.
Her eyes widened. She stared at him for one beat, then two, before her own expression contorted into fury. She crossed her arms around her middle as if in protection, her chin rising as she glared up at him. “And who are you to demand any of my thoughts?” she shot back.
“I’m only kindly reminding you that you’re a liar.” He could feel the sneer forming itself, hated it, but it was always his best defence mechanism.
“I’m not lying! And even if I was, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” It was demonstrably clear how upset she was, and yet. And yet.
Why did he care? “I don’t,” he said. “I simply fail to see why you lie to your supposed best friend. Surely he’d understand you wanting to spend time with him where you weren’t just an afterthought.”
Her flinch chopped at his own heart, and he regretted the words immediately. It was brief. A flash of pain that sliced through her expression of fury for little more than an instant, but an instant was all that was needed to cut straight through him, too. The moment he saw it, he knew he never wanted to provoke that expression from her again. Her fury he could take, but not that.
It was only when she poked her finger at his chest, spouting her defence with occasional tosses of words like ‘ferret’ and ‘lout’ that Draco belatedly realised how close he and Granger were. Her back was pressed against the wall, and Draco’s hands were on either side of her head as he leaned down so their faces were level.
Granger, too, seemed to realise their position, and Draco was surprised by the pink that suffused her cheeks.
A sudden horror overtook him. Was he frightening her?
Ripping himself away, he rubbed his hand over his jaw, trying to control his breathing, wanting to bolt. Instead, he forced himself to turn to Granger again: she was still leaning against the wall, her hands pressed to the stone. She looked up at him, and for a moment, as his eyes met hers, as Draco lost himself in the warm brown of her irises, he’d forgotten why they were both angry.
Granger had come to herself first, and, as those bright-brown eyes hardened and ceased shining with curiosity, as she placed her hands on her hips in a defensive gesture, Draco wondered how he had ever thought he could match up to someone like her. Even with her light dimmed, she’d still held within her a supernova.
“Whether I’m lying to Harry,” she said cooly, “it's not your business.”
Of course, he thought. What a fool he was, thinking Granger would ever deign to care for his opinions on anything.
“Right,” he said after a moment, then let out a bitter laugh. “I apologise, then. Clearly I thought wrong about—” he gestured between them, reminded again of the length of his father’s walking stick, and sighed “––being—”
His voice stopped. He tried again. “Being—”
He stopped.
He almost said they were friends. But that was foolish, and he’d spent enough time being foolish to fill a few lifetimes at this point.
“Nevermind,” he said instead.
He was well and truly out of things to say.
Her eyes widened. “Wait, I didn’t mean—”
He grimaced. “It’s fine.” He turned to walk away, but her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. A sizzling current swept through him at the touch, and when he turned around, Granger’s cheeks were flushed a soft pink. She (regrettably) let go.
“I didn’t mean to say that you aren’t… I consider you a friend,” she said with more force, straightening her shoulders as if to indicate her sincerity. “I just don’t appreciate anyone telling me what I can and can’t do.”
He frowned. “But Granger—”
“Even if,” she interrupted, “you have cause to be right. You can’t expect people to accept and learn things at your pace.”
A smile broke through this misery. He coughed, then let out a full laugh. It was an ugly thing, something his mother would be horrified by, and maybe that’s why he kept doing it—why he couldn’t stop. His stomach started to hurt, but even so, he kept on laughing. Enough that Granger joined in with him, her smile making him forget, for at least a moment, what they were arguing about.
She wiped tears from her eyes; her smile still in place, though she now sent a scowl his way. “Now, will you kindly explain to me what was so funny about what I’d said?”
“I quite agree, Granger, but it’s rich coming from someone who I’ve read with and who felt I read too slow and kept turning the page because surely I must be done.”
A smile cracked her own annoyed face. “Shut up.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised.
She shook her head, but he was glad for the wilted look on her face to be gone. Something about Granger being sad didn’t look right to him.
She stepped forward, proffering her hand. “Friends?”
He stomped down the niggling feeling in his chest that what he wanted from her was more than friendship. He hated himself for it, that selfishness that clung to him like a second skin. He’d always been selfish, and he was ravenous for Granger most of all.
( Spoiled little boy, chided his mother.)
Thankfully, he was also a good liar, so he shook her hand.
“Friends.”
He blinked. Opened his mouth. Blinked again.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Granger’s eyes sharpened in a way he knew conveyed that she believed him especially dumb at the moment. “I asked if you’d like to join me in Hogsmeade this weekend,” she repeated.
Something seared inside his chest. “Oh.”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because she went rigid. “If you don’t want to go, then—”
“No!” he exclaimed, then shut his mouth again, embarrassed at how loudly he’d reacted. He ruffled his hair. Paused, then swallowed. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to.”
She huffed, crossing her arms. “Did I imagine it, or did we not become friends?”
He never thought the word ‘friends’ would cause a pang in his heart, but it did. It was. Granger wanted to be his friend.
Granger’s exasperated smile faded, and suddenly her features went still, turning her rigid with indifference. “Nevermind,” she said with a pained smile. “It was foolish of me to ask.”
As she turned to walk away, Draco caught her arm. “I want to go,” he threw out, and winced at how rough he’d said it. “I do. I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect you’d want to be seen in public with me.”
Her face softened, but she narrowed a glare at him. “Yeah, well, I do, so get used to it. And don’t ever dare to presume my feelings about things,” she huffed. In a quieter voice, she said, “I’ve no reason to be embarrassed of you, same as you do me. Right?”
Something in him wanted to run away, and her using his first name only threatened the feeling further.
“Right,” he said dumbly. “Great.” He cursed inwardly. “This weekend?”
She gave him an amused smile, then her fingers curled inwards to lightly grasp his wrist. Her touch was a destabilising sensation. “That’s typically when the Hogsmeade trip is,” she said wryly.
He nodded. “It’s a d—” He cut himself off. He’d almost said it was a date. No, that was certainly not why she’d asked him. He was the only option, he reminded himself. “
She gave him a bemused look, but all he could think about was how fucking adorable she looked with her nose scrunched in confusion. “Right, well, I have to go to class now,” she said.
“Right. See you later for studying then.”
She nodded. Gave him her stupid, brilliant smile again. “You have to let me go for that, Draco.”
He realised he was still grabbing hold of her, and let go immediately, stepping back and fisting his traitorous hand at his side. “Right.” All the etiquette classes he’d been forced to take as a child, reduced to cinder in the face of Hermione Granger smiling at him.
She shook her head at him, as if she found him amusing—likeable. Bitterness welled up in his throat and rooted itself there, making it difficult to breathe.
Something flickered across her face, but it was there and gone before he could parse what it meant. “See you later.”
He nodded. Then he stood there for a long while after, wondering how someone could smell like thunderstorms.
Draco’s bones murmured their discontentment as he took the path down to Hogsmeade. It was only mid-October, but the Scottish chill had settled in bright and early. He regretted not wearing his thicker coat, and was just about to whisper a warming charm when someone called out his name.
Unready for the sudden sound, he missed the last step of the path and fell right on his arse on the cold, wet ground.
“Oh my gods, Malfoy, are you all right?” Granger came bounding down the last few steps and reached her arm towards just as Draco started counting down the days to his death. It was official—there was nothing more terrifying than this very moment. He hung his head, waiting for the ground to sink beneath him and take him somewhere where he would never be found.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, and when he looked up at her, he couldn’t help the flush that spread from the top of his head to the tips of toes. “Ronald always used to fall down this specific step. It’s probably because you’re both taller and so you miss the indent right there.” She pointed to a broken patch of stone he henceforth would call Public Enemy Number One.
He gave her an unimpressed look. “Comparing me to Weasley is not comforting, Granger.”
Granger rolled her eyes, then cocked her head to the side in disbelief. “Yes, yes. Now, are you going to get up, or do I have to cast a feather-weight charm and lift you myself?”
“I’m fine,” he said stiffly, glowering at her playful expression as he got to his feet, deigning embarrassment beneath him at that very moment. “I just didn’t expect anyone to call out.”
“There are other people who attend this school, or did you not know?” she asked wryly.
His continued glower did nothing to deter the small smile she gave him. Bloody annoying, adorable witch. He huffed, then started making his way towards Hogsmeade again, expecting that she’d follow behind him.
“Draco?” she called.
He sighed. Stopped and turned towards her. “What?”
“You have a bit of mud—” she gestured at his backside— “there.”
He wanted to go find a spare burrow in the ground and die.
One cleaning charm later (and ignominy featuring as a prevalent sentiment; Draco was sure Weasley didn’t even know the word, so felt better overall using it), before he and Granger made their way into Hogsmeade. The chill must have been too intolerable, because the streets weren’t as busy as they usually were.
Granger was apparently not bothered at all, because she marched determinedly forwards towards her destination.
The bookshop, called The Wordsmith , resided in a corner of Hogsmeade, in an entirely new building that hadn’t been there before. A wizened wizard managed the till, though he was more energetic than he at first let on. He gestured for Granger and Draco to peruse at their leisure, making cart-wheeling motions with his arms to show them his newly stocked shelves.
Normally, Draco would’ve nodded and went on his way, but Granger had struck up a conversation with the wizard, something about a new Transfiguration text from some acclaimed Wizard in the Philippines.
Draco excused himself to go explore the shelves, telling Granger she could catch up to him when she was finished with her conversation. She squeezed his arm in affirmation, and something about that felt disconcertingly intimate. He was relieved his back was to them, because his alabaster skin was inconveniently red.
Though he normally enjoyed walking through book-shops, there was a buzzing underneath his skin that kept him from focussing on the stock of new books.
He was incredibly nervous. His fingers felt heavy as he took books out of their spots and examined their contents. He could barely read the words embossed on the front of them, because every sensation was attuned to waiting for a sign of her presence.
It wasn’t as if this was a date. Granger clearly just wanted some company at the bookstore, and he was the only one who was available.
Still, his treacherous heart drummed against his chest when Granger found him in one of the aisles, making her way to him as if she were actually happy to have found him.
Still, he couldn’t help the small smile that lifted his mouth when she beamed at him, as if being with him made her happy.
Still, he followed her like a pathetic puppy when she told him she found a comfortable spot for them to sit together.
Still, still, still.
The booming fire by their seats cast a warm glow over the area, contrasting the cloud-massed dark of outside.
As Granger got lost in her book, Draco gave in and looked at her, his palm resting on his cheek and a book open on his lap. He still didn’t know the title. There was something about her that made it hard to look away once you’d started paying attention. It was the subtle shift in her expressions: the purse of her mouth that marked her displeasure, the crease of her eyebrows when she was concentrating especially hard, and the way her almost-sentient hair made its opinions known through every bob and wave as she moved back and forth, never seeming able to settle in; her thoughts always seemed rampant and unending.
He wanted to know everything that was inside that enormous brain of hers.
She looked up at him then, catching him in the act. Her smile was frozen mid-motion as she stared at him. Her dark brown eyes held a wealth of forgiveness. And something else.
“Are you blushing?”
He coughed, shifting awkwardly in his seat so she’d stop looking at just his face. When she didn’t, he pretended vexation and said, “I’m only abashed by how intimate you look with your book. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were making swoony eyes at it.”
She arched a dark eyebrow. Shook her head. “Whatever you say, Draco.”
He smirked again, disguising the thrill of hearing her call him by his first name, but she must have took his smirk as devilish because she reached for him to swat at his arm, but Draco caught it, laughing now at the affronted look on her face as he held her hand in his grip.
It was her smile, most of all, that he most regretted not noticing.
His hand slid down her arm, longer fingers interlocking with her shorter ones. He frowned at how cold they were, and without thinking, he took her other hand and brought them both to his mouth and blew warm air onto them, only to freeze when he realised how he’d pretty much dragged her to his chair. Her chest was disconcertingly close, her face a vivid painting in front of him. He could count every freckle dusting her nose.
His heart was pounding inside his chest. “Your fingers are hilariously short,” he said idly, trying to distract from how he was having a panic attack over such a simple touch. “How do you even pick up a quill, I wonder?”
Her nose scrunched up. “Pardon me. Yours are just skeletal.”
He grinned at her. “Watch out for your throat then, Granger. I might grab it one day.”
He stilled when she blushed, wondering if he went too far with his morbid joke, but then her lips tilted up in an amused smile.
“I’ll be sure to wear many scarves in your presence then.”
He chuckled, and it was only then he realised he still had hold of her hand.
And that she was gripping his hand in return.
They both looked down at the same moment, then ripped away from each other.
“Erm—” Granger started.
“Right—” Draco continued.
Granger drew her wand, casting a slight cooling charm.
“It’s quite warm here, don’t you think?” she asked, fanning herself with her hand. “Oh! And it’s already dark outside. We should get back before dinner starts. I need to ask Neville a Herbology question.”
Draco could only nod his affirmation. He feared if he spoke, it would come out as a croak.
The walk back to the castle was mostly silent, but it was a comfortable type of silence. Granger smiled shyly back at him whenever he looked her away, too weak in his resolve now that he’d given himself to the luxury of looking at her.
He’d been a wretched, spoiled child, never left wanting for the things he desired. Some habits were hard to break.
When they arrived at the Great Hall, Granger stashed her books in a small purple beaded bag, one he’d seen her carry around everywhere with her.
He looked down at her. “Is that your Charms project?” he asked, gesturing towards the bag.
She followed his gaze, and then her face broke out in a wicked expression. “No, this is something I’ve had for a couple of years now. It’s…” She smiled wryly. “Pretty spacious.”
“The amount of illegal things you’ve done since coming to the Wizarding World is truly something to behold, Granger,” he said in awe.
She huffed. “I had good justification!”
The pull to kiss her swotty mouth was almost overwhelming, and so he had to force himself to take a step back from her inviting warmth, and gestured for her to go ahead of him.
“I’m sure you did,” he said instead, and followed Granger into the Great Hall.
He couldn’t stop glaring at the arm slung around Granger’s shoulders. Namely (and only to himself he will admit this) was because it wasn’t his.
He felt a flare of disappointment spear through him when she tossed her head back and laughed at something Justin Finch-Fletchley said. A pang started in his chest and travelled down and tightened around something uncomfortable swirling in his stomach.
Granger noticed him just as he was about to turn around and leave, already deciding that he’d just study alone for today because clearly Granger had already found another partner.
“Draco, where are you going?” she called after him. Just as he turned around, she waved goodbye at Fletchley and made her way over to him, a stack of books half her height floating behind her. His jaw ticked as he tried to feign a smile.
“Justin almost didn’t let me come over here,” Granger said by way of hello.
He frowned, turning a glare at the now empty space where the Hufflepuff had last been standing.
“You were practically glaring daggers at us,” she said, amused.
Only Fletchley’s arm, he thought viciously. “Oh,” he replied instead. “I must have been narrowing my eyes.”
The look she gave him told him she didn’t quite believe him, but she said nothing else, only nodded, then blew a curl out of her face.
He couldn’t help himself. He reached towards her and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
“How do you even see with all this mass of hair,” he chided, trying for levity as he tried to figure out if touching her hair was going too far.
He searched her face, but she seemed determined not to look at him. Merlin, she probably hated him.
“I really should cut it all off,” she lamented after a moment, though she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“No!” he said, then shut his mouth. He coughed. “I mean, it’s pr—it’s not ugly.”
“You’re too kind,” she said, but didn’t look offended. She shouldered her bag, before reaching towards him, picking a hair, a decidedly long brown hair, off his robes. He shivered at the touch. He wanted to laugh in despair. Magic had been a constant for him as soon as the synapses of his brain could form thoughts. Yet it’s only here, in the trap of her touch, that he felt it so deeply it made him light-headed.
“My hair really is a menace,” she said, tilting her head and smiling at him, brushing a curl from her eye. Now that she was looking at him, he wasn’t sure it was any better. It wasn’t as if he’d never been touched by a girl, but there was something about Granger’s touch specifically that had him reeling.
He could only nod, unsure if words were wise. Before he could say anything else, she linked her arm through his and guided them towards the library doors.
He didn’t question why he’d suddenly felt more at peace.
A voice disrupted the quiet of their studying a few hours later. Draco had been lounging on his chair, proof-reading Granger’s Transfiguration essay as she made some notes on his Potion’s proposal.
He glared over the top of her essay when he saw all the red lines. “Surely I don’t require this much revision.”
“Hmm. Never hurts to add more,” she said, giving him an angelic smile before returning to destroying his self-esteem in the form of a red marker.
“Draco.” Pansy was standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed over. She spared Granger a brusque nod before gesturing to Draco. “Can we chat?” she asked.
Draco furrowed his brows. “Of course.” He turned to Granger. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She gave him a hesitant nod, as if she didn’t believe him. He didn’t have time to wonder why because Pansy started making impatient noises with her shoes. He stood from his seat and followed her out of the library, glaring when she turned her head and smirked at him.
“You and Granger sure are cosy,” she remarked, stopping only a few feet from the outer doors and leaning back against an opposite wall with her arms crossed, a perfectly arched brow conveying a question she didn’t voice.
He tried for an indolent shrug. “We’re friends.”
She snorted. “You look at her as if she holds the only fire on a cold night.”
Hilarious to think anyone would want to warm his miserable heart.
Feeling himself blushing, he looked away. He straightened, casting Pansy a look. “What did you want to talk about, Pans?”
Something in her deflated. “I am happy to see you talk to someone. Even if it’s not your friends.”
Draco’s chest throbbed painfully, and he scuffed his shoe on the flagstone floor so he wouldn’t meet her piercing stare. Feeling defensive despite his best efforts, he raised his head and narrowed his eyes at her.
“I didn’t ask for anyone’s help—”
She cut him off. “That’s the thing about friendship, Draco. You’re meant to lean on your friends when you’re hurting.”
He clenched his jaw. “I’m not hurting.”
She scoffed. “Keep lying to yourself, but we both know you’re falling to pieces.” Her sharp gaze softened for a moment, and she stepped towards him, her hand reaching out. “I’m just worried.”
“Well, don’t!” he snapped, hands clenched in white-knuckled fists at his side. “I don’t need your help, or anyone’s, for that matter.”
Pansy’s look of exasperation only fuelled his anger. He didn’t understand what was happening with his emotions. Maybe it was because Pansy had caught him off guard. He realised now how ridiculous he’d been. He’d let his guard down. He forgot about his mask, and now it was slipping off, no longer something tight and unyielding.
He had to fix it. He had to fix it now, or he’d be lost to the torment of his emotions forever.
( Such a coward , jeered Potter.)
“I don’t need your help, or Granger’s, or anyone’s, you hear me?” His heart was pounding painfully in his chest, and he was sure that at any moment it would tear through his chest cavity and fall onto the flagstone. “I don’t need anyone!”
If Draco hadn’t been unravelling—if he hadn’t been so caught up in the emotional debris that Pansy’s words had caused, he might have noticed that the library doors opened again.
He might have noticed Granger standing there, wide-eyed with shock, with sadness for him.
But he didn’t. And it was only when he was heaving for breath, and Pansy was baring her teeth at him, that he saw Granger’s curls in his periphery. He stilled for only a moment before he jolted, turning his head and looking at her.
Her unwanted, pitying face with her eyebrows creasing in concern.
“We have class in ten minutes,” Granger said after a moment, looking between Draco and Pansy as if she were afraid to fuel the fire of their argument even more.
It seemed that fiendfyres were a common occurrence between the two of them.
The air was silent and deadly, none of them speaking.
He called for the familiar discomfort of his Occlumency walls, brick and mortar building around the fault lines of his emotions.
He noticed that Granger was carrying his book bag and jumper. He steeled himself. “I have to go,” he said to no one in particular, taking his things from Granger, before turning on his heel and storming out of the still-quiet corridor, unable to be there for a moment longer.
He ignored Granger calling his name; ignored the feel of Pansy’s poisonous glare against his back.
Draco had been ignoring everyone for three weeks, including Granger. He sat in a different spot during Transfiguration and Potions, and took to ignoring her in Charms, even when her stare was a physical weight.
He couldn’t handle the prospect of looking at her, of ever seeing that pitying look levelled at him again.
He would cede to Malfoy cowardice in the face of it. She was the only person who hadn’t looked at him as if he were damaged goods, and now that had been ruined too.
He didn’t need to ignore Pansy, because she ignored him just as well.
That was fine by him, he thought petulantly, knowing he was lying, knowing he missed his best friend, knowing she deserved better than to worry over him.
Granger, on the other, seemed to have other ideas. She cornered him on his way to breakfast, her expression a study in determination. The bags under her eyes showed her exhaustion.
“Come with me,” she demanded, posture determined.
He shook his head, but before he could side-step her, she drew her wand and aimed it at his sleeve.
“What the—”
She reached forward and caught her fingers in his sleeve. Raising an eyebrow, he tried shaking her off, but after several attempts of trying to ease her hand off, he realised with a start at what she’d done.
He sighed. “You stuck yourself to me.”
She smiled. “Yes. Now, come to the Great Lake with me.”
“Granger—”
“Please,” she said, stepping closer, until her chest was close to his. His breath hitched, and his heart pounded so hard he was sure she could hear it. Her big brown eyes stared up at him with a ruthless sort of efficiency, but he could sense sadness there too.
“I think you owe me an explanation, Draco, if you’re going to stop being my friend without a word.”
His heart sank. “I wasn’t—”
Her glare silenced him. “You have.” She blew out a breath. “Please.”
As if he could ever deny her. It was a wretched realisation. He nodded, and even through the smog of his painful yearning, he couldn’t help being amused at the sight they made. Granger walked forward, but as Draco was still stuck to her, he’d followed a bit behind her, very much like a lost dog.
The truth of that made him want to hang his head. When had he become so pathetic?
The air was crisp, and though some leaves had begun to fall, the grounds were still a vivid display of rich golden leaves and the chirp of birds who protested against the coming winter.
They walked at a semi-brisk pace, Granger’s determined legs marking the way.
If the air was less tense, he might have made a joke about how, even with her quickened pace, he still had to slow his own pace to match her.
They made it to the Great Lake. It was quiet with no else around this early in the morning. Draco could see the faint splash of fins in the water, likely the Merpeople, and wondered idly about what they were doing as he waited for Granger to speak.
They stood silent for a while, still stuck together, Granger’s gaze faced towards some spot on the horizon, expression pensive.
The silence lengthened, tension stretching like a wire, until she finally spoke.
“You’re quite uncharitable in your views on me, Draco,” she said at last, turning to him.
He grimaced, opening and closing his mouth, picking over his words carefully but unsure what he could say. “I—” he closed his mouth again, shaking his head.
She sighed. “At least before,” she started, and her voice lost its rigid determination, and in its place was a heavy sadness, “when you hated me and called me a jumped up Mudblood, I knew where the line was.” She stepped closer to him. “But you have a way of blurring that line, don’t you?” From this nearer distance, he could see the tears gathering in her eyes. “You make me confused.”
He frowned, then raised his hand to reach for her. “I don’t mean to.”
She scoffed, and with a wave of her hand, she broke the sticking spell so she could move away from him. This made more sense, at least, that he would be the one always reaching for her.
“You don’t mean to? Well, what do you mean, then?”
He’ll never be sure why he did it. Why that question, laced with the interminable tension between them, taut with something unsaid, caused him to step forwards and kiss her.
Her mouth was pliant heat, and he took that burning with all the selfishness in him.
What is communication? It was the lack of words—it was the actions which conveyed his feelings better than anything.
In his mind he thought: I’m sorry, he thought: I’m a fool, he thought: please don’t leave me.
With these declarations he used his hands, entwining in her dark brown tresses, his thumbs curving her cheekbones; his lips, pressing softly, then more desperately, against her own.
She met his actions with her own, though she was far better at verbalising her feelings, seemed to say her own words through her touch, though he couldn’t gather what they were. All he knew was the feeling of her mouth and hands. She brushed her mouth to his throat, and he let out a low groan, tightening his arms around her.
He felt something touch his nose.
The Whomping Willow had shaken out its leaves so dramatically that some of the yellow leaves started falling around them.
Granger laughed, pulling away. Draco was loathe to release her, but she only moved enough so she could see the falling leaves around them.
“Winter is close,” she said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes vibrant as she directed her gaze back to him.
“It is,” he agreed, looking out around them: at the still-falling leaves, at the bite of the crisp air on his cheeks, at the heat of Granger as she stood in the circle of his arms.
It was scant minutes before she wriggled out of his hold, as she awkwardly gestured them inside now that their quarrel had been resolved, but that was still a few minutes from now, and so he revelled in the sensations around him. He felt something inexplicably like joy at the way Granger regarded him. And even though he already knew the conclusion to this story, already knew this was a one-off, he still savoured the taste of her mouth all the way back to the castle.
They hadn’t talked about the kiss. Logically, he knew it was for the best. Once this interminable year was over, they’d go their separate ways.
The Hermione Grangers of this world were too important to be brought down by a ruined line. By him.
“Can I ask you something?” she said as they huddled together on a bench near the Great Lake. It seemed as great a place as any to chat, now that they’d seemed to break a few walls down between them. Ever since that fight and their subsequent kiss, there seemed to be little left between them they didn’t talk about.
(Careful Draco, chided aunt Bellatrix. You musn’t lose control.)
“Of course.”
“Communicating is what you struggle with, right? That’s what you and Pansy were arguing about that day?” She brushed a hand over her face, leaving slight ink stains on her face from when she’d been scribbling notes earlier. “And why you thought you had to stop speaking to me? Did you think I would force you to do the same?”
He couldn’t help it. He raised a hand and brushed the ink off, showing her his now ink-stained thumb. She bit her lip.
“Yes,” he answered after another moment, deciding that if anyone were to not judge him for his thoughts, it would be Granger. A foolish part of him even hoped that she might understand.
“I get what you mean,” she said after a moment. She tucked a windswept curl behind her ear, only for it to revert to its original place in front of her eyes. She huffed, blowing the curl away.
“Talking about things means acknowledging the chasm between you and the other person.” Her smile was sad as she met his gaze. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it? That I worry about being perceived as doing something wrong no matter what it may entail?”
Draco shook his head. Returned her wan smile with his own. “You’re not doing anything wrong. With that, there’s also that fear that when you acknowledge the chasm, that you’re not doing anything right by it. I—” he stopped, unsure if he should voice his thoughts, but the small hand she placed on his knee encouraged him. “You tell people how you feel, right? All the troubles you’re having and where your head's at and how they could help, but that isn’t… that isn’t what I want. I want someone to know, to want to help in the way I need without me having to spell it out for them.”
Granger’s brows furrowed.
“How are they meant to know if you don’t communicate that?”
His face fell. Of course, it was silly of him to hope that she might understand. “I don’t know.”
She glanced at him again, considering.
“I think I know.”
His head pounded perilously inside his chest. “Do you?”
He didn’t want to get his hopes up. Knowing Granger, she likely thought he needed a hug.
(Maybe her embrace would be a balm.)
“I think you want someone to just listen. I think you want them to feel what you feel without questioning or judging why, and staying with you despite it.”
She said it with such conviction that he knew it was because she felt the same; that she felt the same gut-wrenching loneliness he was plagued with.
He turned to her, relaying the words she’d given him into something she likely hadn’t been told for a long time. Something which he’d been wanting to say to her since she first started picking at his stone heart.
“I think,” he said, weighing his words carefully, then tossing them to the wind in favour of the truth, “you’ve been doing everything by yourself for a very long time, and that you deserve to have someone carry some of it for you.”
His eyes widened when he saw tears well in her eyes. She gasped, as if there were emotions inside her waiting to cascade out, but her stubbornness didn’t seem to want to let it. At least not yet.
“And I think,” she said, taking deep, faltering breaths, “that you’ve been told all your life that you’re supposed to be a specific type of person; that you’re the boy who has only ever been given the wrong choices, and that you deserve to know that you can still make the right ones, too.”
The stone mask over his feelings grew heavier and heavier as she spoke, until the first crack broke through. He started trembling, and Granger drew her towards him, her stupid, beautiful, compassionate eyes telling him in something that was more than words that it was okay—that he was okay.
He fell to his knees, taking her down with him, as he let out a gasping sob, letting the tears finally fall.
Letting the heavy silver-streaked mask break and slip off, lost to the waters of the Great Lake.
Granger tried to hold him closer, but he wrapped his hands around her hips instead, his head falling into her lap as his body was wracked with sobs, as he felt her tears on the back of his neck.
“I’m here,” he heard her say, as she ran her fingers through his hair. “I won’t go away.”
And he believed her.
He would just do it. He’d bloody do it. It wasn’t even a big deal, he told himself. He was only making it out to be. If he could ask an unimpressed Pansy in fourth year, then he could ask Granger, who was far more approachable (though no less frightening, he reasoned.)
There was a tremor in his voice when he said, “Would you like to go to the winter ball with me?”
Granger’s eyes widened.
“As friends!” He rushed to say, “It’s only. My mother has sent me a fresh set of dress robes, which for her is an affectionate way of saying I’m ordered to go. And, well, it will most likely be ridiculous, but you did mention you liked the Weird Sisters, and they're going to be performing…”
He was babbling. He was babbling and yet he couldn’t stop. For a moment, he wondered if Granger put the same spell on him that she did to Vane.
Granger only looked at him in astonishment. He thought he might have seen disappointment flicker across her face, but it was there and gone in an instant. She smiled.
“I’d love to.”
“Great. Right.”
“Draco?”
“Hmm?”
She reached forwards and kissed him on the cheek. “Shut up.”
He did.
“You look tidy,” Pansy remarked, her back to the wall, and her arms crossed as she surveyed Draco with her midnight-blue eyes.
Draco looked at himself in the mirror. His dress robes were charcoal-grey with a white button-up dress shirt, his hair neatly coiffed at the top, though there was a longer strand that wouldn’t stay.
He couldn’t help a familiar smirk, even as Pansy gave him a ‘you’re hopeless look’ before pulling out her wand and fixing the hair herself. “Do you remember when we went to the Yule Ball together?”
“And how you slobbered all over me during our first kiss?” she asked, and rolled her eyes at him. “I looked amazing, just as I do now.”
She did. Pansy was wearing a dark green dress that complimented her olive skin well. Her bobbed hair sleek and straight, her smile inviting trouble.
“So, who’s the poor soul you’ve ensnared for this evening?”
“Blaise.”
Draco raised a brow. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“You didn’t see much of anything this year, did you?” she challenged, and Draco winced.
“Pans—” he started, but she waved a dismissive hand. “I’m far from inexperienced with your dramatics. I’m only curious how Granger is going to handle you.”
He felt a blush spreading across his face. “That’s—”
She fixed the collar of his robes. “You look good. And don’t try to pretend you don’t make moony eyes at her. Practically the whole school knows except the two of you.”
He coughed, then for old time’s sake tried messing up Pansy’s hair. She shrieked indignantly at him before producing her wand and sending a minor hex at his ankle. The bad ankle she knew he’d injured during Quidditch in third year.
“Ow! You bloody witch—”
“Oh, quit being a baby.” They glared at each other, then Draco’s face cracked into a genuine smile.
“I hope you have a good time this evening, Pans.”
“I will. I hope you and Granger and whatever ridiculous tension you have snaps off this evening.” They walked out of the dormitory together. “And you owe me a dance.”
He offered his arm, and they walked down the steps. “Anything for you.”
Bright lights accompanied flashes of silver walls and golden serving trays. Crystal flutes filled with Elfin wine, and miniature gilded cakes gliding through the air and were taken by passersbys.
All of that was barely noticed as Draco gaped at Hermione, standing at the entrance to the hall, blushing as she looked around the din of the crowded hall.
He was certain she was trying to kill him. She was wearing a dove-blue dress that went to her ankles, short heels the colour of silver framing her ankles. Her normally raucous hair was styled in a loose chignon.
He wouldn’t think too hard at how his fingers itched to unravel it and let her glorious hair tumble down her shoulders.
He swallowed tightly. His fevered, raving heart felt as if it would hurt itself out of his chest if he didn’t get a hold of himself.
She caught sight of him and made her way over, and if he didn’t know any better, she seemed shy when she saw him. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to bow, shake her hand, or take her into his arms, and ended up doing all three of them in some haphazard sequence.
Granger gave him an amused look as he dropped his hands, then ran her hand down the diaphanous fabric. “I feel a bit silly in this.”
“You look beautiful,” Draco said, with his stupid, open, aching mouth. He froze, unsure if that was the right thing to say.
She flushed a bright red. His heart soared. “Thanks.”
He coughed. “May I ask for the first dance?”
Her brown eyes twinkled a lighter brown under the lights. “Yes.”
His skin buzzed wherever she touched it.
He made sure to keep his movements fluid and graceful, but never had he felt so clumsy with his limbs as he did. His hand at her waist trembled, but if Granger noticed, she didn’t show it.
She was too busy trying to kill him with her infectious smile. She was radiant as he spun her, once, twice, laughing as he made a show of twirling her in outrageous motions. She twirled, curls spinning wide around her because Draco tugged at the pins framing her hair, and the sight of her was almost too much to bear.
Mother would have been very disappointed in him. But he didn’t let that ache break through. Not now. Not with her.
The world disappeared as seconds spun into moments, for their bodies to mesh as one as the upbeat music dipped low into a soft melody. Draco brought Hermione closer. Her eyes were bright with interest, and it was only because he was so lost in them that he noticed their downward turn to his mouth.
He swallowed.
Granger suddenly let out a peal of laughter that surprised him. “Out of all things, this was not what I expected.”
“Me neither.”
He tugged her back into his arms, revelling in the breathlessness that overtook her. He wanted to swallow every breath of hers.
He didn’t know how long they’d danced together, but eventually Hermione pleaded rest so she could freshen up. He watched her walk away, her gown moving behind her and making her look ethereal.
He couldn’t stop staring. Not until someone poked him hard in the shoulder.
He turned and saw Pansy giving him an unimpressed look. “You’re drooling,” she said cooly.
He immediately went to wipe at his mouth, then glared at her when he found nothing.
She smirked, then offered her hand for him to take. “I was told you’d save me a dance.”
“Yes, Pans,” he said, rolling his eyes as he took her proffered hand and placed his other hand on her waist. A more upbeat song started up and soon after they abandoned decorum and Draco was twirling Pansy in obnoxious circles. Her scowl was softened by a genuine laugh, and all he could feel was the relief that came with reuniting with an old friend you thought you might’ve lost forever.
When the song ended, Pansy gave him one of her more private smiles, before rising up on her tip-toes and kissing him on the cheek.
He smiled down at her, at this girl who’d always be his closest friend. A shattering of glass startled them both, and Draco turned to see Granger a few steps behind them, two broken crystal glasses at her feet.
He couldn’t figure out the devastation written plainly on her features until he followed her gaze.
Fuck.
She must've seen Pansy kiss him.
Granger gave them a strained smile, before seeming to get a hold of herself, before storming out of the hall.
Pansy scoffed. “She can’t possibly be so dramatic. How much of a prude—”
Draco was already detangling himself from her grasp. “I have to go—”
“Yes, yes,” she said, sighing, before her familiar smirk fell into place. “Tell Granger I’d rather fuck a tree.”
Draco didn’t even have time to roll his eyes. He patted her head affectionately, making her scowl, before heading in the direction Granger went.
Panicking as he left the crowded hall, he felt immediate relief when he saw Granger walking quickly up the steps, her gown trailing behind her like starlight.
“Granger,” he called out, scaling the staircases two at a time.
She rounded on him, and the ferocity of her glare made him still.
“Granger,” he tried, but he was silenced again when she drew her wand. He had no idea where it had come from, or where or how she’d stashed it in her gown.
She huffed, then she reached down and took one of her heels, then the other off. He wondered if it was so she could run away faster, but then she surprised him by hurtling her heel directly at his face. He ducked just in time to miss the first one, but the second one hit his abdomen, and the wedge of the heel made him hiss sharply through his teeth.
“Hermione!” he said, his eyes wide with shock. Did that little minx just throw something at him?” “Are you trying to hurt me?”
“Yes!” she yelled, before huffing again, gathering her dress and stomping up more steps. She was almost close to turning a corner before Draco realised he was still staring at her, dumb-founded. He shook his head, resolve strengthening his muscles, as he bounded after her, delighting in the shriek of protest Granger made when he wrapped an arm around her waist and held her to his chest.
“Let go of me.” She was thrashing, and he was sure she was going to bite his arm, so he wrapped his other arm around her and hoisted her up, moving her the same way one might a drunken Niffler away from their goal.
“Draco…”
He set her down, but caged her in against a tapestried wall, leaning in close, tilting her chin up so she would meet his face.
“If you’re done having a tantrum,” he said, amused. This bloody witch would be the end of him. “I’d like to inform you that Pansy and I had a friendly dance, nothing more. She only kissed my cheek.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I wasn’t jealous!”
“You’re the one using the word,” he reminded, tipping her chin up again when she tried ripping out of his grasp. He thumbed the tears gathering in her eyes, trying to fathom how it was possible that she was crying for him of all people.
“In fact, I don’t think you should ever feel jealous of a single person when it comes to me.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“You know,” he whispered, and he could see that she did. Her eyes widened fractionally, but there was knowledge, and what he hoped was a mirrored yearning, playing in her eyes.
His heart gave a loud thud in his chest. He leaned down just as she tilted her mouth up and—
A loud shout startled them both, and they jolted away from each other. When Draco turned, it was to see that one of the portraits was hollering at two of the younger students who were trying to sneak into the ball.
Granger laughed at his side. “Of course.” She looked at him mischievously. “Shall we?” she asked, breathless and beautiful and fuck—could he ever deserve something as precious as her?
He took her hand in his, and as they walked back into the hall, they didn’t let go.
Even though he’d prepared for it, and had several days after the winter ball to check that his gift was in working order—making sure everything was as perfect as could be, Draco’s throat seized up with nerves as he waited for Granger to arrive in the shared Eighth-Year dorm.
The castle was mostly empty now that it was officially Christmas break, with only a few stragglers remaining at the school. Granger stayed because she couldn’t have her parents back; Draco stayed because he didn’t think he could handle a lonely manor after finding out from a letter his mother sent him that she would be in the chateau in France with relatives until the end of winter.
So they spent all their time together. The shared eighth-year dorm turned into their own personal lair. They played exploding snap and talked until their mouths were tired; they had mulled wine and cider that somehow got Granger drunk (she was a terrible, hilarious drunk.)
“Okay!” Granger clapped her hands together as she entered the dorm that evening, a mischievous look playing on her face. She’d wrapped some red and green tinsel in her hair, and Draco had to stop himself from kissing her. “I got you a gift.”
Draco smiled nervously. “I got you one too.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Shall I go first?”
“Granger, this is…” She’d gotten him a notebook, but he knew it wasn’t just a simple notebook from the feel of magic against his palms. It was grey and little larger than the size of his palm. And it was perfect.
Granger’s clever eyes gleamed in approval. “If you’re ever experiencing emotions that feel too large and overwhelming to say in person, but you want me to know where you’re at and that someone is there to listen, you can write it in this notebook.” She pulled out another notebook, this one the colour of purple, and waved it in the air. “I’ll do my best to be on the other side of it.”
“Granger, I…” He was speechless. “Thank you.”
She shrugged, as if making a Protean Charm that could direct itself on a repeating large surface area was a small thing. He set the notebook down, then directed a smirk her way.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“Close your eyes,” he admonished when he caught her peeking behind her hands.
She huffed, then listened. He set down the item against the fireplace, before turning around and telling Granger she could open her eyes.
She smiled. “You got us a mini Christmas tree?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course I got you more than a tiny Christmas tree. I’m not Weasley.”
She gave him an admonishing look, but he only grinned. He drew his wand and pointed it at the tree. “You asked me before what my Charms project was,” he said.
Her eyes widened, and having her full attention, he cast engorgio, and the full size large Christmas tree bounced into view. And on it was a cascade of revolving books hung by magicked tinsel in neat rows in place of ornaments.
“Draco,” Granger gasped as she saw the tree transform before her eyes.
He smirked. “It’s a self-renewing book tree,” he explained. “I got the idea when I was at a Muggle book store, actually. The clerk had set up this tree at the front with the little books hanging down from these thin strings, and I wondered how I could set up the same thing using magic.”
“And then?”
“I decided that who best to give a book free to than the swottiest witch of her age.” He gestured her forwards. “Each time you finish a book, you only need to set it back in its place, and a new book will appear. Usually at random, but I’m sure if you wish it hard enough, the book you want will appear.”
He wanted to bottle the impressed look she gave him. “Where do the books come from?”
He gave her a rueful smile. “I thought the manor’s library was as good a place to start as any.”
He didn’t expect the tears that filled her eyes. Panicked, he stepped towards her. “I’m sorry,” he said, as tears started spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”
“Upset?” she cried, wiping messily at her face. “I’m far from upset—Draco, you did this for me?”
He nodded, but he couldn’t say anything more because she jumped into his arms, trembling hands wrapping around his neck as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her weight and letting her press all of herself against him.
(Yes, she could be a balm.)
She lifted her face, and, because he was carrying her weight, they were now eye to eye.
She didn’t give him much time to overthink it. Her lips pressed to his, soft and tear-stained, and it was the best kiss he’d ever received.
If anyone could make winter warm, it would be Granger. She was tinsel and ornaments; the soft touch of newly fallen snow.
The best of his intentions, laid to waste because Granger was climbing into his lap, taking his face into her hands as if he meant something to her, kissing him until he was dizzy.
He wondered how to touch her. Surely she wanted softness, wanted to be comforted and soothed, but Granger was the take-action sort, and so he could only follow her actions when she pulled him with her on the revolting Gryffindor-red bedspread.
He wanted her hair to show evidence of his hands, for her skin to be raw where he kissed it. He wanted to scrape his teeth along the side of her throat, picking up her erratic pulse and devouring it, carving her there with his tongue, where only he could see it.
The craving for her made him feel monstrous. This undiluted craving seemed to be reciprocated, with how Granger was pulling and scratching at him, her small teeth sharp on his shoulder, her bitten nails marking crescents on his shoulders.
He groaned, rising to his knees so he could take off their clothes. His heart was pounding inside his chest, hands shaking as he undid the buttons of his shirt.
Granger’s face was cast in moonlight and the dim light of a soft lamp illuminating her curls in warmth.
Nails raked through his hair, and his breath trembled, tight in his lungs.
She had given him a piece of herself by confessing her feelings, the truth of her own hunger: that she would want and want and want and never have enough of him. Of them. Something starved in him relished the idea of forever.
“I want you,” she whispered, slowly thrusting herself upwards as he sank into her, her hands trembling as she took his face into her hands. Gentle, so gently, as if Draco mattered to her. “I want you to move.”
“You sure?” he croaked out, gaze glued to hers.
“Yeah, it’s good now,” she said, breathless, pale cheeks flushed. “You feel good.”
Fuck. Exhaling a ragged breath, he leaned down and kissed her as he slowly pulled out, before sinking back inside her, chest heaving with the effort.
She looked up at him curiously, her big brown eyes a signal to his ruination. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her so she could kiss him. It seemed to be her favourite part of this, so he obliged her.
“Is this good?” he breathed, rocking his hips.
Moaning into his mouth, Hermione nodded and rocked against him as they built up a slow, gentle rhythm. Trailing his hand down her body, he hitched her thigh around his waist, causing them both to moan when the move made everything feel deeper, tighter, more connected.
“You feel so good,” she whispered, trembling beneath him. Releasing the death grip she had on his neck for a moment so that she could rake her nails down his chest.
“Fuck—Hermione—I need—”
She tightened her thighs around him and pressed her face into his neck. “Please, Draco.”
Draco interlinked their hands together, raising them above their heads and moving faster.
For one overwhelming, engulfing moment, they were the same person, giving and receiving, as the stars brightened in the moon-light sty.
She kissed him, gently, with lips that tasted of thunderstorms and early morning dew; of blizzards and crisp autumn trees.
The aftermath was quiet. They both looked out the window to see the winter moon sailing slowly over the school, blanketing them in silver light.
It was New Year's Day.
They sat at the Great Lake, Granger leaning against his shoulder, her curls whipping in the wind as they huddled under a tartan blanket and Draco’s arms wrapped around her. She’d made a foolish mistake to be with him, he thought, because he was unsure how he would ever let her go.
She stuck one hand out of the blanket and opened her palm to reveal her parchment figures, now in the shape of a man and a woman.
His wretched, miserable heart felt the smallest thistle of hope.
A woman and a man, dancing together in a moniker of a waltz. She even got the moment where Draco had obnoxiously twirled her right.
He chuckled. “Charming.”
“I always am,” she sniffed, letting the charmed figures complete their waltz before letting the parchment figures drop. “It’s part of my Charms project,” she said.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “The Paper parchments?”
She nodded. “You know how Muggle-borns have essentially zero introduction into the Wizarding World?”
He nodded.
“Well, I thought I would come up with a way to change that.” She let the parchment figures resume their never-ending dance, and Draco was glad that only a sense of continuum went through him. “Devices such as computers and mobile phones are too staticky to work between here and there, at least for now, and owls take far too long for any reasonable mode of communication.” She spread her hands wide as she excitedly explained her plans. “So, I decided to make double parchments, so Muggle-born witches and wizards can chat with liaisons, hopefully somewhere in the Ministry once I start working there and petitioning for its use, and then they’ll be better prepared when they come. So they can feel like they belong.”
He smiled. “I’m honoured that you’ve chosen the disgraced Pureblood wizard as the first to try out the first of your great inventions, Granger.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re just…” She bit her lip. “You’re just the one I want to speak to the most.”
His pulse jumped in frenzy as she set a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re incredible,” he breathed.
He teased that she couldn’t blame only the cold for the flush in her cheeks, but she merely huffed at him. “I’m really not.”
He pushed a curl out of her face. “No, you are. I’ve never known anyone to care as much as you do.”
She said nothing, only pressed her mouth against his in a chaste kiss. He had no complaint against that.
“And what about the shapes?” he asked as they paused for a breath.
She laughed. “I’m quite sure most eleven-year-olds would be elated if their charmed parchment arrived to them in a dancing circle. I’ll even provide them with different options.”
He snorted. “Fair enough.”
She seemed to deliberate what she wanted to say next, biting her lip and opening and closing her mouth several times. Finally, she said, “I was wondering if you might like to help me? You don’t have to, of course,” she rushed to add. She interlinked their fingers just as Draco reached for her face and kissed her.
He hoped the passion of his kiss said all he needed to say, before he remembered again: what is communication?
Maybe it was always meant to be an imperfect thing. Maybe it was trip-ups and accidental hurts—and maybe that’s what made them human. Maybe that’s why he’d told Pansy and Theo and Blaise that he wanted to keep in touch with them over the summer. Maybe that’s why he wrote to Greg to ask about reconciling their friendship.
Maybe it was the girl sitting in front of him, with her golden-brown eyes reflecting the brightness of the milky way and an expression that told him she believed in him.
Maybe that was enough to try to make a language out of the tumult of his thoughts.
“Yeah.” He leaned back on his elbows and watched the setting sun say its last goodbye for the day. “I wouldn’t mind that one bit.”
The sun had set, but her smile ensured he was still lost in the light.