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Gertrude Copperpot, grief counsellor, practising vegan, and a devoted crystal enthusiast, clapped her hands to quiet her students, who were likely only three or four years her junior. “Alright, everyone, let’s begin.” The young adults continued their chatter, ignoring her calm request for attention. “Shut up!” Miss Copperpot bellowed, her zen-princess persona momentarily slipping. They finally fell silent.
Hogwarts had required a fair amount of time to rebuild, and due to the lack of external adult education facilities in Britain, there was a sudden influx of men and women who, having recently survived a war, returned to the site of their most harrowing experiences to complete their standard qualifications. Concerned that some might be ‘too mental’ (to use the Minister for Magic’s phrasing), Gertrude Copperpot was recruited to lead mandatory group counselling sessions for all students, with a particular focus on the older students who were ‘traumatised and whatnot’ (another direct quote from the Minister for Magic).
“We never get a second chance to make a first impression. These initial interactions can profoundly shape our perception of the world around us. Our biases and prejudices are often rooted in that very first encounter.” Miss Copperpot spoke as she stood in the centre of the small amphitheatre of chairs she had arranged that morning, without any assistance from the Hogwarts elves. She was met with a chorus of bored expressions and heavy sighs from the reluctantly recuperating child soldiers. "But what if a second first impression was possible?" she pressed on, undeterred by her class’s apathy; this was a brilliant idea, if she did say so herself. The grown men and women who, in any other context, would be her peers seemed less convinced of her brilliance than she was. “Several students have already agreed to participate in the initial phase of this experiment. You may have noticed that some of your friends are missing. They will enter two at a time, with no memory of one another, and we will observe their new first impressions. Does that sound good?” There was no response.
Ginny Weasley scanned the room; Hermione was not there. Interesting.
"Now, please keep in mind that we must not speak the names of our volunteers, as doing so will re-plant the memory of them into their partners’ minds." Gertrude had practised this speech multiple times before several of the portraits, and they had all assured her that it made complete sense. Judging by the blank expressions of her class, however, she now wondered if the paintings had simply been trying to get rid of her.
Miss Copperpot moved to her office door and opened it, leading Hermione Granger out. The golden girl shrugged at her small group of friends as if to say, ‘Of course I volunteered.’
Ginny snickered and nudged Luna in the ribs. “How is it she can be one of the most powerful witches in England and still feel like she needs to suck up to teachers?"
“Is this a real question? Or one of those ones where you just want me to laugh?” Luna glanced up from the book she was reading. It was invisible to all but her.
“Hermione’s never made a good first impression.” Cho Chang chimed in from Ginny’s other side.
“This is true. She had to almost die before Harry and Ron finally took to her.” Ginny muttered as she tugged at the sleeve of her pullover, poking her thumb through a small hole in the cuff. She flashed Hermione a grin, feeling once again grateful that they had agreed to return together for this final, disorganised year, where they tried to catch up on everything they had missed during the ‘dark days’. Even when it felt boring, it was still enjoyable to focus on the stress of teachers and homework rather than worrying about being possessed by Voldemort.
“Okay, just wait right there!” Gertrude popped away from Hermione and headed over to the other door, the one leading to the hall, to usher in the second student for her grand experiment. Best to start with a bang, Miss Copperpot thought. She grinned to herself as she led the second student in, realising she finally had their full attention.
Ginny pressed her balled fist to her mouth, letting out a strangled hiss of surprise. Her wide eyes swept toward the group seated opposite them, landing on the contorted form of Blaise Zabini. It was clear that this was as much a shock to him as it was to her; his mouth hung open as he clung to an uncomfortable-looking Theodore Nott for dear life. Pansy Parkinson, however, was smirking… a reaction Ginny had not entirely expected from the pug-faced princess.
"Shit," Luna Lovegood breathed, her eyes finally drawn away from her invisible book.
Hermione stood nervously in the circle of her seated peers, trying to comprehend the reason for their very odd behaviour. She shifted her gaze toward Miss Copperpot; her refusal to use the title "Professor" was a subtle protest against the mandatory mental health care the Ministry had imposed on them. Hermione felt certain her minor slight went unnoticed by Gertrude, who appeared to be no more than two years her senior.
The golden girl was jolted from her thoughts, her breath hitching as a boy, or rather a man, approached her.
No wonder her classmates had gone so still; this stranger was the single most handsome person she’d ever laid eyes on. She felt her blood surge in a sudden panic, rushing toward her cheeks, her neck, and her stomach.
"Hi," she said softly, with a hint of hesitation and a blush across her cheeks. She was acting shy, and she wasn't shy; she was Hermione fucking Granger, so get a grip!
"Hello." The Adonis beamed at her, causing her stomach to flutter and her legs to turn to jelly. She wondered if she was experiencing a swoon, an idea she had always fundamentally opposed.
“I was about to tell you my name, which would have rather defeated the point of all this." She let out an overly loud laugh and immediately winced, but he only grinned more broadly.
When the irritating hippie woman, whom he staunchly refused to call Professor, approached Draco Malfoy and invited him to participate in her experiment, he immediately refused, dismissing the idea as preposterous. However, her parting words continued to haunt him: “I thought you, of all people, would leap at the chance to make a second first impression, Malfoy.” Consequently, only an hour before the scheduled healing session, he had agreed to ‘assist’ the woman.
Upon entering the classroom, the first thing he observed was Blaise’s highly expressive face and frantic hand gestures. “You’re not helping,” Draco muttered, brushing past his friend. Then he saw her, and Blaise vanished from his mind. Draco’s heart, which, as far as he knew, hadn’t even fluttered in years, began to thud violently. He barely managed to choke out a greeting, so enraptured was he. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was also the perfect height, and height was so important, in his humble opinion. He always wanted to be with a girl whose shoulder was level with his armpit… For optimal cuddling, obviously. She said something cute before scrunching her nose, and Draco felt his insides melt.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, feeling the need to say something and fill the fizzy silence they were currently standing in. He extended his hand to take hers.
Hermione was hurriedly trying to unpick the whole situation. They’d been told to remove their identifying uniform pieces, like their ties and jumpers, so as not to colour the interaction with house bias. It was working; she had no idea where to place him. He was a completely new entity in her brain. She felt a pang of guilt for performing this very spell on her parents, but pushed it aside when she remembered they were still alive thanks to her guile. He reached out a hand to shake hers; his fingers were long, clean, and sturdy-looking. Not flimsy in the slightest. Oh god, am I a finger person? She stretched her own paw towards his, suddenly keen to know if his palm felt as warm as hers.
When they touched, it was odd; the initial contact of skin on skin made their classmates flinch, as though the world might end. The little jolt she felt on contact made her heart skip an actual beat, and judging by the way he opened and closed his mouth quite quickly, he’d felt it too. She tried to remember if she’d been pacing on Copperpot’s rug before she’d entered, and perhaps had built up some static.
Her hand was the exact same temperature as his; it was oddly comforting. Draco squeezed her fingers, not moving them up and down, instead taking the moment to experience what a perfect hand felt like in his. No matter how briefly it was there. She pulled back first, the blush on her cheeks intensifying. Clearly, this angel was worried she’d held onto him for too long. She had no idea that he’d have been willing to stand there, awkwardly, in front of a bunch of goons until nightfall, just for the opportunity.
“So, what are your interests?” Draco asked, attempting to initiate some form of conversation, lest she think him an idiot. He shrugged and gave her what he hoped was a sheepish grin. It was a lame question, and he knew it, but it was what they were there for.
“Reading.” Hermione smiled and rolled her eyes at the titters which erupted from the gathered students. “Famously.” She added.
“Anything particular, or are you just an overall bibliophile?” Draco crossed one arm over his chest and leaned in to better hear her response and also to count her freckles.
“Probably the latter, but if I had to pick one flavour, it would be non-fiction, more specifically history,” she answered with a playful grin. Hermione’s body did something quite new as, of its own volition, it started to shimmy back and forth. Perhaps nervous energy needed to go somewhere. “What about you?”
He liked how she said “flavour” instead of “genre”; it was playful and evoked strange images of licking the spines of books. “I’m partial to reading; one of my favourites is ‘Hogwarts: A History’”
“Mine too,” the girl spoke breathily, and he watched as she bit her lip and swayed side to side. “Have you ever read the book which Cloverleaf published at the same time?” She stepped closer to him, excited to discuss a shared interest.
“A history of Hogwarts?” He chuckled. Nobody knew about that book. It had been completely blown out of the water by its rival and went out of print after its first run.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Hermione found her eyelashes fluttering as he looked down at her with approval. Nobody had ever looked at her like that when she talked about obscure books. Oh dear. He was too handsome, by far, and was too nice to her. Handsome men didn’t talk to her about books she loved and look at her like she was a ten. And his height? He was her ideal height. If her calculations were correct, her shoulder would fit perfectly under his armpit. Ideal for comfortable canoodling. Ron always had to stretch up and over, what with his low armpits.
“Apart from one chapter,” his voice sounded serious and low, like a professor quizzing her. That imagery stirred something worrying in her.
“The chapter on the toilets!” She responded confidently. Among the seven living people who’d read the inferior A History of Hogwarts, it was a well-held belief that the Lavatory section was beyond reproach. The silver-haired hunk before her nodded happily, and the heat in her gut bubbled with anticipation, as if she were on the verge of something completely amazing.
“Wow.” Draco breathed. He couldn’t hold it in. How was this woman, this perfect woman, part of his life and not with him? “Do you like Quidditch?” one could hope.
“I like to watch it,” Hermione offered with a shrug. She didn’t hear Ginny’s quiet ‘yeah, she does’.
“Not a player then?” The hand hanging by his side wanted to reach out and fiddle with the buttons of her white Oxford as they talked. He focused his energy on restraining it, allowing his fingers to mime the actions they would take had they been permitted.
“I can’t fly.”
She’s a muggleborn. His subconscious spoke up. Only Muggle-raised witches and wizards could admit to that with a straight face. Too long had his classmates been labouring under the misunderstanding that he was a blood supremacist. Had he given them plenty of reasons to believe that? Yes. But what they didn’t understand is that he had been a terrified and stupid little boy. And, just as he’d grown physically, he’d grown mentally too. “Have you ever driven a car?” He asked conversationally. Cars were cool, as the little ones said, and the single aspect of Muggle life that he truly envied as a wizard, with perhaps the addition of televisions.
“Yes.” She nodded fervently. “I got my licence as soon as I turned 16. I’ve got a little red mini that I keep at my parents'.” Hermione had to stop her lips from spitting the words ‘I could give you a ride’. His slate eyes were so focused on her eyes that when they occasionally dropped to her lips, it felt massive. Like the ground might fall away below her feet. A silence hung between them as they continued to look at each other, silly smiles tugging at both their lips.
“Anything else you’d like to know about each other before we give another pair a try?” Gertrude finally spoke when it felt like neither of them would.
Draco had heard a first-year say something rather profound to another sprog on his first week back at school. The wise little chap had gotten tired of listening to his friend talk about a girl he liked and had turned round to him with a very serious expression and said, “Shoot your shot, Graham.” It had wormed its way into his psyche, and Draco found himself repeating it at the oddest times: Shoot your shot, Graham. Draco opened his mouth and asked his final question, “Are you single?” Shots fired.
Yes, it was forward. Yes, in terms of his blood status, this was akin to an intent to wed, but really, the reaction of his classmates was truly unnecessary. The Weasley girl had leapt from her seat, mouth agape, before sitting back down very quickly. Blaise was now practically perched on Theo’s lap. Pansy had leaned forward, almost bent double, and narrowed her focus as though about to watch a penalty at the World Cup. Other gasps and clapping of mouths followed; his eyes returned to her as she blushed and ducked her head.
“Yeah.” She finally responded, eyes raised to meet his again. Twin blushes painted their cheeks. “I am.”
“That’s good.” He grinned, and Hermione let out an uncharacteristic giggle.
“Excellent work, Hermione and Draco,” Gertrude spoke hurriedly and clearly. When she’d imagined this moment, had she hoped for this outcome? Kind of. Draco Malfoy’s single-minded gaze had been picked up on, not only by her, but by several other members of staff. She’d imagined that perhaps he’d smile at Granger, in this little experiment, and that could set them on a better path. She’d never imagined that the pair would literally smoulder in front of their classmates with a kind of chemistry only usually witnessed on the pages of broody romances.
The grins that had been so wide and earnest during their chat fell from Hermione and Draco’s faces as the twosome took steps away from each other. It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Nobody spoke.
Hermione made a whine in the back of her throat as all the bricks fell into place. The man’s face finally had a context, a history. Oh dear. Draco Malfoy. You just flirted with Draco fucking Malfoy.
Draco swallowed hard at least three times in succession, and he wasn’t sure why his throat was making the effort, as his mouth was bone dry. He’d exposed himself, and the worst part was, in a sick, twisted way, he’d hoped for this. When the therapist offered him a second first impression, it had been Hermione’s very face that had popped into his mind. But he never imagined in a million years that she would look at him like that, and the fact that she did look at him like that, it hurt; it hurt so very much more than before. Because now he knew for sure, it was unequivocally true that if he hadn’t been him, if he’d been braver… if he’d been better, she could have been his. The pain was almost overwhelming, like he was taking a dark mark to his heart.
“I want to leave.” Hermione’s voice broke him from these thoughts; she sounded upset and shaky. Her eyes were planted on her feet, the sliver of her face he could see was beet red. Fuck.
Hermione wanted to vomit. It was everything she could do to hold the bile in. “Can I be excused, Miss Copperpot?” She added when the non-professional bint didn’t respond to her first statement.
“You can both go, have a think about everything.” Gertrude knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the headmistress would be screaming at her before the day ended.
Hermione didn’t bother to grab her things; Ginny would get them for her. With her arms wrapped protectively around her waist, she fled the room, brushing past Malfoy as she went.
Draco thought that perhaps he should give her a head start, but the scrutiny of his peers was unbearable. His feet felt like they were fit to burst into flames as he scurried from the room. As soon as the door was closed behind him, he heard an explosion of noise as his classmates reacted to what he’d henceforth describe as the terribly bad incident.
“I’m not going in there.” The Ravenclaw who’d been waiting to make his ‘first impression’ stared at the door Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy had just burst through, one after the other, and shook his head resolutely.
“I’d be inclined to agree, lad.” The painting of a tiny duke riding a miniature Shetland pony nodded.
ggggg
“Is she okay?” Cho Chang nodded toward the wall that separated Luna’s room from Hermione’s. Returning to school as adults for the 7th and ‘unofficial 8th year’ had offered the war-ravaged, mature students some special freedoms. Mixed-house single-occupancy bedrooms and a year-group common room, which children couldn’t enter, were only some of the perks.
“She’ll be fine.” Ginevra nodded from the bed, where she continued painting her toenails. Luna drew her legs up, making space for Cho on the mattress.
“The school’s abuzz.” The Ravenclaw Quidditch goddess picked a bottle of black varnish from the small basket and shook it.
“When he asked if she was single, I thought I was going to shit myself,” Ginny, who’d been waiting for Cho’s arrival before they started dissecting the ‘incident’, expounded with wide eyes. “I’m surprised the whole castle hasn’t been swallowed by the earth itself.”
“Maybe he just worked out she was a muggle-born and took the opportunity to you know… make us all think he’s less of a prick.” Chang mused as she started on her thumb with the dark lacquer.
“You can’t fake that chemistry.” Luna chimed in, flipping through an old botany textbook and looking at the pictures for inspiration.
“I agree with Lovegood, and she’s terrible at picking up on social cues.” Ginny dipped her brush back into the small bottle.
“I am,” the blonde nodded in agreement.
“Also, he’s like the prince of the Purebloods; boys like that don’t just hit on random girls to make a point.” Ginny drew her lips to the side thoughtfully. “I was watching the snake pit, and they didn’t seem surprised.”
ggggg
“Scram.” Pansy cleared the entire Slytherin common room with a glare and a whisper. Despite having access to the new ‘mixed’ common room, the snakes stuck to the dungeon. They’d agreed it was best to let the badgers, birds and cubs have their fun without the presence of their barely tolerated scaly classmates.
“Where is he?” Blaise Zabini queried as he leapt over the back of an empty sofa, landing comfortably on the seat.
“He’s taken to his bed, in a tizz,” Pansy commented, finding her own perch with a lot more decorum, knees pressed together, legs turning to the right.
“Did you see how she looked at him?” The dark Slytherin man raised his eyebrows significantly.
“Yes, Bean, everyone saw how she looked at him. It was hardly subtle.” Pansy took a beat and glanced out of the large glass panes into the depths of the great lake. “More importantly, everyone saw how he looked at her.”
“Cat’s out of the bag now.” Zabini rubbed the palm of his hand down his face.
“Cats don’t belong in bags,” Theo muttered, his eyes never leaving his book.
“As much as I hate to admit it, that dullard, Copperpot, did us a big favour.” Pansy twisted her finger into her bob and tugged as she looked to Blaise for backup. It didn’t come. Was it necessary to explain everything to these idiots?
“Exactly how were we done a favour?” The man rolled onto his stomach to better look at Parkinson.
“Firstly, our dear friend may get his heart’s desire from this incident, and wouldn’t that be lovely for us all? to see a classmate happy?” Pansy asked, eyebrow raised, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed in cattish delight.
Blaise Zabini roared with laughter, and even the stoic Theo chuckled at her ‘joke.’ “Merlin, it’s really unsettling when you fake being sincere”
“She’s done us a favour, you dunderheads, because when we leave this death pit, we’re going to be out in society. And I hate to break it to you, but our people aren’t society anymore.” Theo and Blaise didn’t seem nearly as perturbed by this information as she was, so Pansy continued. “Our friend was the youngest Death Eater in history. He is the living embodiment of everything that went wrong. Granger is the cure. Who knows, maybe other members of the Golden Girls…” Pansy spoke her unintentionally hilarious name for Hermione’s new gang, “will have their heads turned?” She looked meaningfully at Blaise, who looked elsewhere to end the scrutiny. “Besides,” Pansy sighed, she was tired, “Wouldn’t it be nice, for once, if something… You know, not genocide-related, happened within our friend group?”
ggggg
“Come in,” the headmistress barked, and in walked the bane of her existence, Gertrude Copperpot. “Please, do take a seat, Gertrude and tell me all about your day.” Sarcasm dripped from Minerva’s tongue as she jabbed a finger at the empty chair opposite her. “You did complex memory magic, without parental permission?”
“With all due respect, I did complex memory magic on a bunch of twenty-year-olds,” Gertrude had been preparing for this since the incident. “I don’t think I need their parents' consent for that, just the student’s, and I got it… in writing.” Gertrude slid a pile of parchment toward the woman who’d called her transfiguration work ‘adequate’ ten years ago.
“and you just thought, why not launch this experiment with two people who’ve probably had enough of folk toying with them…” Minerva ignored the pile of consent forms; she didn’t care how old her charges were. They were students, and therefore children, and therefore in need of protection… she’d learned that the very hard way. Gertrude opened her mouth, but Minerva stopped her. “Do you think you’re the first person to pick up on whatever goes on between that pair?” The headmistress steepled her fingers and leaned over her desk. “That poor boy was just settling back in, getting his head down and doing his work. The whispers had almost stopped following him down the corridors, and now every eye is on him.” Minerva tutted, “And don’t get me started on the various and many wrongs done to Hermione Granger; you embarrassed them in front of their peers.” The old woman shook her head.
“You’re right, Professor, it was ill-advised of me to do it in such an open forum.” Gertrude nodded solemnly. “I’ll be more careful in the future.” She’d had enough tellings-off when she was a student to know how to handle them. She stood to leave.
“Hold on there, Copperpot.” Minerva nodded at the chair, more gently this time, and waited for her to sit.
“Yes?”
“What exactly was said?” Minerva poured tea and settled herself to listen to the explosive tale first-hand. One of the Portraits from the corridor outside the classroom had told the portrait of Dumbledore that Malfoy had proposed to Hermione in front of everyone, which Minerva knew couldn’t be true, as she hadn’t received a Howler from Narcissa.
ggggg
The problem with great minds was that they often thought alike, and if there was one nice thing Hermione could say about Draco Malfoy, it was that he had a great mind. She’d come to the library after official hours, thinking it would be the best time to avoid contact with inhabitants of Hogwarts who’d all been made aware, in short shrift, of her and Malfoy’s… very bad incident. When she rounded the corner into the runes aisle, she realised she wasn’t the only one who had devised such a brilliant plan.
Draco was cursed; that was the only explanation for Hermione Granger standing in the dim after-hours library lamp light, glaring at him as he’d just let Death-Eaters in the castle again.
They stood in a silence as thick as treacle, each independently deciding how to handle the situation. Hermione squared her shoulders; she would not be intimidated from her studies. Not by ‘Mister Are You Single?’ himself.
Draco took a resigned breath as she moved to walk past him, with resolution in every step.
“Granger-” he started, because he had to say something. He simply HAD TO.
“Don’t,” she shook her head, and he saw what looked like hurt cross her fair features. “You didn’t know who I was, or what I was. I’m not going to hold you to anything.” She rolled her eyes, as if the idea of her holding him to his ‘are you single?’ was the silliest of notions, and brushed past him, heading towards the translation section.
Draco seethed. Not only was the gorgeous know-it-all, who haunted his dreams, speaking for him, but she wasn’t bloody doing it right. She was saying things he wasn’t even thinking. “I knew you were a muggle-born without my memory of you, if that’s what you’re getting at?” he sneered at the back of her head as he dogged her footsteps through the library.
“Oh, yeah? What gave me away, Malfoy? Could you smell the mud?” Hermione hissed over her shoulder.
“I- I never… I asked if you had driven a car!” Draco stammered, feeling very put out. She had every right, of course, but it was just so, well, unjust! He wasn’t like that, not really. “I have no ill will towards those born to Muggle families,” he bleated the carefully crafted sentiment his mother’s solicitor had prepared for him, should this sort of thing arise. She scoffed at his rehearsed statement, which only served to make Draco Malfoy seethe even more.
“Oh, well, excuse me… mister Muggle lover” Hermione bowed exaggeratedly and once again let her eyes do the rest of the talking with an aggressive roll.
“You are not excused!” Draco Malfoy shouted petulantly as he stomped his foot. The spoiled little boy from years past was crawling out of him, and he couldn’t seem to reel the bastard back in. This is what tended to happen when something he wanted very badly was dangled tantalisingly in front of his face and then snatched from him; he became a brat. “What I wanted to say, before you rudely cut me off, is that…” Draco started strong, but then faltered. There was something about his little micro-tantrum that had given Hermione pause and knocked her angry expression into neutral. “I…I know you won’t think so, but, what happened in Copperpot’s… well, I refuse to call it a class, as I’m not learning anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously as he rambled.
“I call it a waste of time,” Hermione said quietly. She was watching him closely, analysing him. Draco didn’t know what to do. When she was angry or ignoring him, it was easy… this… this was not easy.
“What happened in Copperpot’s waste of time,” he offered, and watched as her lips ticked ever so slightly. “It was probably the best punishment the ministry could’ve conjured for me. It was very bespoke…” Draco let a sigh fall from his lips and vowed to punch that first year he’d overheard saying ‘shoot your shot Graham’ because the mantra was once again playing in a loop in his head, forcing him to do things that weren’t at all Malfoy or Slytherin, like being vulnerable and honest.
“Because you embarrassed yourself by publicly flirting with a mudblood?” Hermione shouted, her indignant accusation filling the library with sound. They were thankfully alone, as only returning students had after-hours privileges, but it still felt wrong.
“No, Granger, it’s a punishment, because now I know how you look at me when you don’t know who I am!” Draco barked, and Hermione was left with her mouth falling open in muted shock.
She stared at him, her heart suddenly thundering in her chest. The scary thing was that Draco Malfoy was undergoing a metamorphosis before her eyes, without actually changing at all. He was shifting into the man who had made her heart stop in Gertrude’s perfumed office, or perhaps he’d always been that man, and only now, with his composure snapped and his fingers tugging at his soft hair, could she see it. But Hermione could empathise with his undone state; she understood his perturbation; she’d felt it herself.
“Now I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I hadn’t been me, if I hadn’t been my father’s son… I could have… I could have had you.” His voice had gone from such a loud shout to such a quiet whisper. Hermione found herself moving closer to him, just to hear him better. “I made myself believe, all these years, that it wasn’t just that we were on opposite sides of everything. I made myself believe that you could never… even if we were…” His voice stuttered to nothing, only his breath filled the silence.
Hermione wasn’t sure what she was doing; her feet were moving toward him of their own volition, her fists were balled at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. He was saying words, and they were forming sentences, but they did not compute.
“It’s not a punishment, it’s a bloody torture, Granger,” he concluded, and she watched his usually sharp face soften. He was defeated. Done in.
Draco didn’t dare breathe; he’d just said a whole host of words he really should not have, and now Hermione Granger was standing closer to him than she ever had. Closer than in Copperpot’s office. She was looking up at him with confusion, like he was the runes she’d been set upon translating. He watched as she rose onto her tiptoes, like perhaps she intended to look him in the eye before she punched him, because she was surely going to jab him in the nose. She leaned forward, and Draco could smell sugar quills and parchment and ink and bergamot and something that was entirely Hermione Granger; it was a note he sometimes scented on his jumper when he least expected it, like she had the ability to mark him without even touching him. Draco watched her blink and was sure he felt the air in front of his face move from the simple act. And then she kissed him. It was a peck. Another experiment, surely. Her petal-soft lips pressed against his for less than two seconds, and yet his brain was full of sparkling lights and fizzing wizbees and…
Hermione stumbled backwards, her hand raised to her mouth as her good sense slammed into her, and she gasped in shock. He followed her, his shoulders hunched, his brow furrowed, and Hermione thought for a moment that he was going to yell at her. To tell her off for daring to kiss him without warning or consent. He grabbed the hand covering her offending lips and roughly pulled it aside, and then with what sounded like a growl, he descended on her, his mouth crashing into hers, his hands clutching her waist and pulling her flush against him. Hermione gasped, parting her maw to further waves of attack, only she wasn’t fighting back; she was surrendering, she was welcoming him in. Her arms snaked around him as she inhaled that expensive smell that seemed to linger down every corridor he walked. Sandalwood and oak and leather and stone. He cupped her face in one large paw and tilted her, giving himself better access to kiss her so thoroughly she thought she might pass out.
“Granger…” he ground out, against her lips. And it was like a cup of cold water to the face. She remembered who she was, again. Who he was. She detached herself from him and pushed against his chest. To his credit, Draco released her instantly, his lust-heavy eyes following her as she took three long steps away from him.
She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand as she panted, staring at Draco like he’d grown a second head. The blonde man self-consciously touched his neck just to make sure.
“I have to go,” Hermione bleated, and then she was gone, and Draco was left standing with the taste of Hermione Granger on his tongue and his heart aching.
ggggg
“I’m fine.” Hermione trudged down to the Great Hall for breakfast, ignoring the concerned glances from Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood. People were staring at her, but then, when were people not staring at her? She was the brave little Muggle-born Golden Girl, who’d been tortured and survived. She was the elusive Harry Potter’s best friend and the girl Ron Weasley let get away. She was the smart one. She had been the subject of press speculation since her fourth year in Hogwarts, and as such, Hermione Granger was accustomed to unwanted eyes on her. It didn’t make it any less annoying, but at least it was familiar.
“You’re not fine,” Ginny threw her arm over the curly-haired girl’s shoulder and squeezed.
“When are we allowed to talk about the ‘very bad Malfoy incident’?” Luna asked from Hermione’s other side. Nobody could give the Ravenclaw a solid answer on the matter, and she kept getting shushed every time she asked.
“When I don’t feel like I want to set the world on fire,” Hermione responded tartly.
“And when exactly will that be?” Luna queried, meaning no malice.
“Shush now, Luna.” Ginny shot her a warning glance but then winked.
“Maybe tomorrow.” Hermione softened and smiled at her strange friend.
“Awkward, awkward, very, very awkward!” Cho Chang was pelting toward them from the large doors of the Great Hall, her long arms and legs flailing as she moved.
“Oh, for balls' sake! What is it now?” Hermione groaned and rolled her neck.
“Malfoy’s waiting.”
“He’s waiting?” The golden girl clutched her chest and winced with anxiety.
“At our table?” Ginny sought to clarify the situation, something one often had to do with Cho, who was prone to hyperbole.
“No, he’s at the Slytherin table, but he finished eating like fifteen minutes ago, and everyone is staring at him, and he’s just sitting there, and it’s…”
“Awkward?” Hermione finished for her, her own voice thin as a silk thread.
“Very.” Cho nodded.
Hermione took a large gulp of air, her eyes widening, her decision made as she hissed, “I can’t go in there.” Her cheeks reddened as memories of the night before, and her absolute idiocy in the library, flooded her brain.
“Why?” Ginny narrowed her eyes and sniffed the air. She could smell something amiss, something beyond the ‘very bad’ which happened in Copperpot’s classroom.
“I… He… There was an occurrence of kissing last night.” Hermione finally explained after several seconds of humming and hawing. She delivered the news with an attempt at a casual wave of her hand, but it was entirely undercut by how tight her throat sounded.
“An occurrence of kissing?” Ginny Weasley snorted a laugh.
“Lower your voice.” Hermione ground out between her clenched teeth.
“Between who?” Luna stared at Ginny and Hermione, once again lost in the conversation.
“You and Malfoy? A kiss occurred?” Cho whispered frantically; the four were thankfully alone in the entrance hall and huddled together as though about to launch a Quidditch set piece.
“Yes.” Hermione’s head dropped. How had she let herself behave so foolishly?
“FUCK OFF!” Ginny Weasley gasped, taking a stumbling step away from their pod before flinging herself back into it, jostling Hermione and Luna.
“Where?” Cho queried, moving closer.
“In real life?” Luna blinked, not sure if they were carrying on their conversation about dreams from the common room. Because that surely made more sense than Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy actually kissing.
“I will be fucking off, Ginny, preferably to another continent. Thank you very much! It happened in the library, Cho. And yes, Luna, in real life.” Hermione responded to all three of them smartly, folding her arms over her chest before turning to head back up the stairs.
“No!” Ginny’s fingers were wrapped around Hermione’s arm before she could make her escape. “We’re going in there.”
“Why?” Hermione whined, sagging into her grasp.
“Because you’re not a coward, you’re Hermione fucking Granger! You spent weeks as a half-cat, you kept a woman in a jar, you got filleted by a serial-killing bitch, and you’re the only girl in this school who can say, ‘I’ve been fingered by a World Cup Quidditch player.’” Ginny held Hermione by the shoulders as she made her impassioned speech, and Hermione laughed, Which had been the desired outcome, all along.
“Krum did not…” She looked around and blushed furiously. “Finger me.” Hermione was not as easy with sex talk as Ginny.
“I know that, but you’re the one girl who can say it, and most people would believe.” Ginny threw her arm around Hermione’s shoulder again and turned her toward the doors to the Great Hall. “Chin up, ladies.” The redhead shoved her shoulders back. “If they’re going to stare, let’s give them a show.” She tugged Hermione forward and then watched with a hint of pride as Hermione did as she was told, throwing her head up and sauntering toward the hall as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.
There was a ten-second silence, like a vacuum, as everyone in the Great Hall turned to look at them. Had Ginny Weasley ever seen a Muggle movie, she would have known that they were being observed in slow motion. The silence ended with an explosion of energy as the denizens of Hogwarts all started talking at once.
“I’m going to throw up.” Hermione managed to strain through gritted teeth.
“Sit down.” Ginny Weasley, with intent, pushed Hermione into an open seat, which just so happened to have an unobstructed view of Draco Malfoy.
Hermione looked up, caught his eyes, blushed furiously, and knew in an instant that Ginny was working against her. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You love me.” Ginny grinned and pulled some toast onto Hermione’s plate. “Cho, sit opposite Minnie so she can look up without wanting to snog him again,” she snorted quietly in the direction of the Ravenclaw.
“Ginny! Not in the hall! Anyone could hear you and get the wrong idea!” Hermione shot Ginny an indignant glare. She could see Malfoy every time Cho tilted her head, and when she did see him… he was looking straight at her. Fuck.
“I threw up a privacy charm the minute I sat you down.” Ginny turned her serious eyes on Hermione. “So, let’s talk about it.”
“I don’t want to.” Hermione picked up her dry piece of toast and attempted to nibble it.
“I’m going to say something, and you’re not going to freak out, okay?” Ginny placed her palms face up on the table in placation.
“Okay.” Hermione nodded, because she never freaked out. It was rude to even suggest she did.
“I think, if you could have convinced Harry and Ron, you would have tried to save Malfoy. I know deep down you wanted to.” Ginny spoke earnestly and ignored the screw of Hermione’s face. “I think you’ve always been drawn to him, but given his behaviour and everyone hating him, you’ve pushed that down. And yesterday, when you blushed and batted your eyelashes in his direction, that very controlled feeling you put in a box and shoved away all those years ago popped back out, which resulted in what I’m assuming was the world’s hottest library kiss.”
“Exactly how hot was the library kiss?” Cho leaned closer as Hermione continued to gape wordlessly.
“I never said it was hot,” she finally managed to grumble as she nudged her scrambled egg with the corner of her bread.
It had been hot. It had been the best kiss she’d ever experienced, and she had a very genuine worry, which had bloomed overnight, that she might never feel a kiss like it again. He’d kissed her, on reflection, like a man who’d been desperate for her. Like a man who was ready to make her his, right there and then.
“Merlin.” Ginny whispered, focused on Hermione’s profile, “She’s been staring at those eggs and hyperventilating for a minute and a half; that must’ve been a seriously hot kiss.”
“It was fine.” Hermione shot with no conviction, straightening and turning accusing eyes to her alleged friend.
“As your friends, we think you should explore your options.” Cho chimed in before Hermione could scold them any further.
“Malfoy’s your option.” Luna clarified.
“Have I had some sort of aneurysm?” Hermione touched her fingers to her forehead just as Cho leaned to her left. Her eyes automatically locked onto him; he was hissing something at Blaise Zabini, who looked to be giggling furiously. And then, as suddenly as he wasn’t, Draco was looking at her again. The new context of their heated occurrence of kissing altered how she read his expression; what had appeared as anger at the start of her meal now looked somewhere in the region of hungry. Their gaze held, and, for a flash, she saw how handsome he was, how Draco Malfoy made her heart… Cho’s head returned to its duty of blocking Hermione’s view, protecting her from her own desires, and breaking the moment.
“Why are there so many Ravenclaws at our table?” Seamus Finnegan leaned over the girls to grab some bacon, shooting devilish winks at the lot. He didn’t wait for an answer, because it wasn’t a real question. The four girls ate all of their meals together. “The lads and I wanted to know if you needed an escort to your classes today, Hermione?” "He shot her a cheeky grin. “What with the ferret sniffing round you?”
“You worried he’s going to ask me about my interests again?” Hermione’s indignation, which had been aimed mostly at Ginny, turned to Seamus and the ‘lads’: “You’d all be dead if it wasn’t for me.” And just to articulate her point, she fired a tiny barrage of stinging hexes in the direction of their shins, sending the boys screaming from breakfast. The faculty chose to ignore Hermione’s violent outburst, assuming the squealing boys had deserved their punishment.
ggggg
“You’re staring at her.” Pansy mouthed quietly, shooting Draco a warning glance.
“I always stare at her.” He responded flatly, and it was true. Draco Malfoy spent a great deal of his time staring at Hermione Granger; he’d even consider it one of his hobbies.
“Yes, but that was before the whole world found out you both love the same chapter on toilets.” Pansy sighed dramatically. Why was he so bullheaded?
“She’s looking at you now,” Theo Nott noted. “And now she’s all red.”
“Thank you, Theo, that’s quite enough with the running commentary.” Draco Malfoy had come to the conclusion that he was tricked somehow into taking part in that bloody Grief Counsellor’s experiment. No amount of poor judgment could explain to him how he’d ever thought that would have been a good idea.
“You should say something to her,” Blaise offered.
“And what do you propose I say to her?” Draco hissed viciously. “Hello Granger, long time no torment, anyhoo now that daddy’s in jail, fancy being my wife?”
“You could start with a walk or something.” Blaise giggled furiously. “I don’t know why in these little hypotheticals you always jump straight to marriage.”
“She’s looking again,” Theo muttered through clenched teeth.
Draco snapped his head around in her direction. Her face was different, and the look was something new. Like she didn’t entirely hate him, completely. It was almost like the way she’d looked at him in that awful Gertrude’s classroom. It made something strange flare in his belly, something he struggled to identify. Was that Hope? Stupid Cho Chang and the back of her head blocked his view once again.
“You know,” Blaise pondered as he stood, letting his eyes drift over to the golden girls, “our friend Draco’s mortification aside, you were right, Pansy. It is fun to be stared at for something other than being in a death cult.”
“Technically, only Draco was in a death cult; we were all just death cult adjacent.” Theo mused with a hum and a tilt of his head as he drew a rune in his bean sauce.
Pansy smirked and ignored Draco’s violent snort of derision. “Try not to stare at Granger the entire walk out, Draco. Last time you stepped on the hem of my cloak and nearly beheaded me.”
ggggg
The rest of the day had been rather uneventful for Pansy Parkinson. Even the double potions they had, after lunch, with the Golden Girls, had gone smoothly. Meaningful eye contact had been made between She-Weasley and herself, resolving her to make verbal contact with the redhead.
That’s how Pansy found herself climbing the ladder to the owlery, in search of Ginny Weasley.
“Fucking… fuck!” Ginny screamed into the night sky as she balled the parchment in her fist and struck out at the wall, thankful for the solitude of the owlery in her moment of distress.
“Oh.” Pansy Parkinson paused midway through the trapdoor to the bird keep and hovered.
“Sorry,” the redhead sucked in a breath of cold air and tried to stem tears which were already rolling down her freckled cheeks.
“I can go?” Pansy, half through a hole in the floor, really didn’t know what to do with herself.
“No, I’m done. The owlery is free.” Ginny canted her chin, thrust her shoulders back, and moved with purpose toward the ladder and her exit.
“Actually, I was here for you” Parkinson hauled her body fully through the gap in the ground to stand face to face with Ginny. “I thought…” Pansy stopped in her rehearsed speech; Weasley was red-eyed and ashen-faced. “Are you quite alright?”
“Not really, no.” The Gryffindor looked down at her bruised knuckles. “Harry’s not coming back.” She barely spoke.
“To school?” Pansy hadn’t really expected to see the bespectacled boy who lived back in their classes; surely he had a plum job with a fat salary waiting for him at the ministry.
“To the wizarding world.” Ginny swallowed and finally looked at Pansy. “He’s asked not to be contacted again unless it’s by ‘telephone’ or ‘email’, not owl.” She shook her head, and more tears spilled from her eyes. “He’s… he’s moved in with a muggle girl, and she’s afraid of birds.”
“Oh.” Pansy wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say, or why Ginny Weasley was telling her, of all people.
“He wants me to ‘spread the word’, might as well start with you.” The crying girl answered the unasked question.
“Did you know he was seeing someone else before now?” Pansy queried gently, sensing the answer would not be a happy one.
“No, no, I didn’t know he was doing that… He told me he just needed some space to sort his head and asked me to wait for him… so I did, and I don’t know what a fucking email is, so I can’t tell him he’s a prick and that I hope he chokes on his own tongue” The little redhead veered back to anger from distress.
“What an arse.” Pansy tutted. She took an awkward step toward Ginny and patted her lamely on the arm.
“Oh no, because here’s the silver lining, Parkinson.” Ginny was at full shout, every word dripping with sarcasm as she released her fury into the ether: “He’s wrote to Gringott’s, had them transfer his holdings over to me… said it’s ‘what I’m owed’…” Ginny swallowed, not wanting to finish her thought ‘so now I feel like a whore’.
Pansy didn’t need the thought finished; she understood, “What chance has the female population got if even the Chosen one is a rat?” The raven-haired girl offered Ginny an almost sincere smile; it was as close as she could get.
“I kind of wish you’d fought a little harder to hand him over now, Parkinson.” Ginny quirked an eyebrow as she forcefully wiped away a tear, veering back to the comfort of dark humour. She was such a Weasley.
Completely caught off guard, the usually composed Slytherin girl let out an unruly bark of laughter. “I’ll pretend I never heard that.” There was a moment of quiet consolation between the two: “I’ll spread the word for you. Take breakfast in your room, and by lunchtime, the whole school will know of Potter’s new lifestyle. I can even shoot an owl over to someone at the Prophet tonight.” Pansy concluded, presenting her olive branch with a final offer, “and I’ll make it exceptionally clear that you don’t care to discuss it.”
“That’s really decent of you.” Ginny nodded her thanks as she wiped her eyes.
“Well, what with Granger and Draco, we are practically in-laws,” Pansy smirked and tilted her head; it made the redhead chuckle.
“Oh, so you’ve heard about the library kiss.” Ginny laughed wetly and then stopped, quite suddenly. Because Pansy Parkinson was no longer grinning, she’d straightened entirely, her eyes narrowed, her lips thin and smirking, and Ginny knew she’d made a mistake. “You did not hear that from me,” she breathed, fingers on trembling lips. It was a rookie mistake, and she’d blame Harry’s letter for it if push came to shove.
“They kissed in the library?” the Slytherin’s mouth split into a glorious smile. “No wonder he’s been a wreck all day. I take it Granger ran off?”
“I don’t know.” Ginny lied. She did know, as she’d managed to pry every detail from Hermione throughout the day.
“He’s very sensitive to abandonment.” Parkinson mused out loud as she tapped her lip. “I wonder who kissed who?”
Ginny Weasley kept her mouth shut, not trusting herself to be in control of what would come out of it next. She was far too emotional for this level of scrutiny.
“What say you to a little bit of friendly and loving manipulation?” Pansy took a step toward Ginny and raised a conspiratorial brow. “It’ll help you take your mind off scar head.”
Ginny Weasley thought for a long moment. Hermione would, of course, be furious at her, but on the other hand, Hermione was going to be really upset when she found out Harry was abandoning them all… so really, by creating a preemptive distraction, Ginny was probably actually doing Hermione a big favour… at least that was the warped logic The Weasley girl managed to find to justify her next actions.
“I’m in.” Ginny nodded and put out her hand. “So long as it’s not evil.”
“Always good to make that distinction, Weasley.” Pansy shook the proffered limb up and down. “I’ll send Draco to the library with Blaise in about an hour. Make sure Granger is there too. Let’s bash our dolls together a bit and see what happens,” she smirked.
“Why wouldn’t you bring Malfoy?” Ginny felt an inkling of suspicion creep up her neck.
“I’m allergic to books. If I asked Draco to come to the library with me, he’d think I was possessed.” The Slytherin girl tittered slightly at her own self-awareness. “Besides, I’ve got some owls to send, and Blaise is going to want to hear first-hand, all about how you’re single again. You should tell him.” and with a wiggle of her eyebrows, Pansy Parkinson was off.
ggggg
“You shouldn’t leave these things to the last minute,” Hermione continued her scolding as they marched toward the library. “You know, I thought we were really getting a handle on your time management, Gin. This is so out of character for you.”
“Stop nagging, Hermione, I just forgot!” Ginny Weasley rolled her neck and wished she’d gone with her first plan, which was to simply ask Hermione ‘Do you want to go with me to the library’; a request she’d usually say yes to. But she’d wanted to shore up her odds, and so she was caught in a constant loop of chastising for not doing an essay she’d finished a week ago.
“I’ll check over what you’ve done and then point you to what books you need to fill in the blanks.” Hermione would help her friend, obviously, but she wasn’t one for doing someone’s homework for them.
“Are you alright?” Ginny pulled Hermione to a halt and looked at her seriously. As much as she wanted to follow through on Pansy’s plan, Ginny was also aware that her friend might be too vulnerable.
“I…” Hermione opened and closed her mouth. “I just felt a lot of things I hadn’t felt before when the kissing occurred, and coming to terms with the fact that he was the one making me feel… these things. It’s frightening…” Hermione swallowed nervously; her lips were dry, and her eyes darted left and right.
“How you’re feeling is normal, totally,” Ginny assured Hermione with a hand on her cheek, turning back toward the library and the trap she had laid. She almost felt bad, but not enough to stop their ploy. Ginny’s mind kept going back to the way Hermione had looked at Malfoy in that classroom when she didn’t know who he was. To the absolute lack of surprise on Pansy’s face. To the way she’d seen Malfoy stare at her friend over the years, now through the new lens presented to her; it all seemed so bloody romantic. “Feeling things is good, Hermione.”
ggggg
“Development of the Dragon Pox vaccination?” Draco quizzed as they stomped through Hogwarts toward the library.
“1645,” Blaise responded easily; he really didn’t need help with his history. He knew the answers to all the questions he would be asked in his exam, and surely that was enough.
“Give me three examples of the lasting impact it had on society?” Draco folded his arms primly across his chest, where he clutched his own personal notes on magical history, and shot Blaise a sharp look.
“That’s not going to be on the test.” Blaise shot back.
“Yes, but one should know these things, nonetheless.” Draco chided as they turned onto the library's corridor, “It cemented Britain as a leader in healing, saved millions of lives, and lessened the academic gender divide.”
Blaise remained silent; when Draco started using ‘one’ instead of ‘you’, one knew it was going to be an unbearable night. Draco liked playing professor far too much; it had become an ongoing and much-whispered joke among the snakes that he was practising for his wedding night with Granger.
“Bastard!” Draco whispered when they finally entered the sanctuary of books he’d long loved, his eyes immediately snagging on Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley pouring over an essay.
“I don’t know what one is talking about.” Blaise chuckled, moving to a table diagonally opposite the girls, sitting on the chair with its back to them to force Draco to face Hermione.
The noise of their arrival alerted Hermione and Ginny; their eyes shot up to register the newcomers. Hermione seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Malfoy as she turned accusatory eyes to her conniving redheaded friend.
“I’m going to stab you in the face with my quill.” Hermione groaned through gritted teeth as she focused on the essay, which, now that she’d read it through, was clearly complete and in need of nothing more than a spell check.
“Oh, at least go for a place I can hide the scar, Minnie.” Ginny grinned impishly over at Draco, who seemed to be doling out his own threats in Zabini’s direction.
“You’ve misspelt clockwise, you traitor.” Hermione continued to check Ginny’s essay as she seethed.
“Silly me.” Ginny twirled her quill between her fingers and watched Hermione furiously correct mistakes in the homework. “You once told me that not doing something because it scares you is the stupidest reason not to do something,” Ginny commented placidly, as if what she was saying wasn’t profound and drenched in meaning.
“Stop using my words against me.” Hermione tutted as she erased an unnecessary apostrophe.
“Stop being so wise.” Ginny countered.
Hermione allowed her eyes to glance in his direction, just to see if he was as snippy as she. Draco was watching her as Blaise scribbled notes from his open book. Usually, she’d blush and look away when she caught him, which, with hindsight, was quite often, not daring another peek for at least ten minutes. She’d always assumed his eyes on her were some sort of intimidation tactic, but now she knew better. Usually, she’d allow it, simply too tired and confused to fight, but Hermione was feeling defiant tonight. She was feeling harangued and manipulated. Hermione Granger did not look away this time; instead, she kept her focus pinned on Draco Malfoy and watched as he frowned.
“What?” he mouthed in her direction, a sneer pulling at his lips.
She merely shrugged, shooting her eyebrow up and refusing to back down.
Ginny remained silent, observing the mad staring battle that had erupted with rapt interest. She noticed that neither of the combatants seemed to realise Blaise had stopped scribbling and had also turned to watch the staring contest.
“Next page!” Draco barked at Blaise, slamming his hand down on the desk, making them all jump as he ripped his eyes away from Hermione.
“I won,” Hermione said primly and returned to the essay.
ggggg
“She keeps staring at me,” Draco grumbled, very perturbed by Hermione Granger’s gaze.
“That makes a nice change from you being the one doing all the staring; now you can take a break.” Blaise giggled, completely distracted from his history notes and now doodling frantically.
Out of a force of habit, Draco raised his eyes again; he’d now lost two bouts of this staring battle with Granger, and he was beginning to feel very put out indeed. He managed a whole minute of observation before she looked up, eyes once again defiantly piercing his soul. Look away, woman. He screamed internally, but she didn’t. So he wouldn’t either; he was sure that this round would go to him. He didn’t care what Blaise was doing any more, so he had absolutely no distractions to speak of.
“Oh, it’s this again, is it?” Blaise commented, turning in his seat to acknowledge to Ginny that hers and Pansy’s plan was… doing something.
Hermione Granger technically lost when she, in a fit of frustration, leapt to her feet, grabbed her bag, and fled the room. Well, she would have lost if Draco hadn’t gone running after her.
“Should we follow them?” Blaise grinned over his shoulder at Ginny Weasley. He already knew the answer; he just wanted something to say to the pretty girl he’d been doodling.
He watched as she shook her head, standing to move towards him. Almost timidly.
“What are you drawing?” she asked, peering over his shoulder.
“A pretty girl,” he smiled up at her, showing Ginny a really rather stunning, half-drawn, ink on parchment rendering of her own face.
“Finish it,” Ginny smirked as she slipped into the chair beside him.
ggggg
“Granger!” Draco yelled as he jogged behind her.
“Go away.” Hermione spat over her shoulder, trying to get out of the library corridor and back to the grand staircase where they’d surely part ways. She felt fingers tighten on her wrist and her body being dragged backwards.
“Not until I’ve had my say,” Malfoy growled, pulling her into an alcove behind two tapestries. He threw up a silencing charm. She wondered if he was going to kiss her again. “Stop staring at me.” He ordered. That was probably a no to the kissing, then.
“Is it all right for you? You’re allowed to stare, but I’m not?” Hermione chirped back, chin jutted defiantly up once again.
“It’s my pastime, not yours,” he crowded her space, his heart thudding. He was angry, yes, but he was also a million other feelings.
“Staring is not a pastime!” She barked, and he scoffed.
“It’s mine!” Draco knew that he sounded petulant and childish, but at this point, he did not care. “Get your own hobby.”
“Oh, piss off, Malfoy! I’ll look wherever I like, you’re not the eyeball KGB!” She tried to shove him, but he held firm.
“You cannot reject me and then stare at me, Granger; it’s too bloody confusing.” Draco was sure he sounded like he was begging now, even though he was very much opposed to the notion of it.
“I’m confusing?” Hermione yelled as she threw her arms in the air. “You think I’m being the confusing one!?” Her hair sparked with magic in the tiny alcove; if it bothered Malfoy, he didn’t show it. “You can’t stare at me, Malfoy, and kiss me like that, and then act all fucking butthurt and rejected because I don’t just fall into your arms like some grateful wench! What the hell were you expecting? especially when you’ve never… not once… said you’re sorry!” She glared up at him, cheeks burning with indignation. “God, you’re so entitled!” She tried to shove him again, but this time, Draco Malfoy grabbed her wrists. He held both arms firmly between their bodies; his brow dipped in confusion.
“I did say sorry,” he breathed, and his voice was suddenly quiet. This was no longer an argument; it was something else entirely. Hermione Granger’s refusal to accept his apology had very much shaped and dictated Draco Malfoy’s self-worth. How could he forgive himself if she couldn’t forgive him?
“Ha.” She let out an indignant bark, but it faded when her eyes absorbed his hurt and confused expression. He wasn’t playing. He wasn’t lying. Which made no sense, because Hermione would remember if Draco Malfoy said sorry to her. That would’ve been a very big day for the girl who had always hoped that he was more than just a cruel vessel for his father’s hatred. “No, you didn’t, Malfoy.” Hermione’s voice was no longer sharp; it was concerned, as though she worried Draco had perhaps had a psychotic break and imagined saying sorry.
“I wrote you a letter, seven sheets of parchment, front and back.” His breath had become rapid as several realisations crashed into him all at once. “I sent it to the Burrow eleven days after Voldemort died. My owl returned empty-clawed, he delivered the letter.”
Hermione Granger blinked as her mouth softened into a pretty ‘oh’ shape. It seemed she was making her own discoveries. “I didn’t stay at the Burrow; that was just where the papers thought I was. I was with Harry and Ginny in Sirius Black’s old house. And I didn’t receive a letter from you.”
Draco’s face went whiter than normal. “But you testified at my trial, Granger!”
“I know,” Hermione’s brow dipped further. What had that to do with anything?
“You… you spoke up for me, thinking I hated you?” Hermione heard the strain in his quiet voice as he spoke; it was probably the most emotive she’d ever heard Draco Malfoy, when not screaming. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. The alcove in which they stood, suddenly far closer together than she remembered, fell into a thick silence as she nodded. He stared.
“Why?” Draco thought he might cry, and for the first time in his life, that thought didn’t bring a wave of shame. He was too preoccupied with the witch he had somehow pressed against the bricks of Hogwarts to remember that Malfoys did not cry.
“You didn’t deserve to go to jail.” Hermione breathed, mesmerised by his silver eyes, now swimming with unshed tears. She wanted to reach up and run her thumb along his cheek, to comfort him.
“Granger,” he grumbled, lowering himself to look her dead in the eye, “You testified for me, thinking I… wasn’t sorry?” Hermione wasn’t sure if it was a real question, given they’d already covered this, but she answered anyway.
“Yes.”
“You’re too good,” and suddenly Draco Malfoy’s hands were splayed against the sides of her face, holding her in place, staring into her soul. The tears that had threatened to spill for minutes now finally rolled down the Slytherin’s cheeks, and Hermione, with her wrists liberated, did what felt natural: she wiped at them. “I was so sorry, Granger.” he petted her cheek, his brow dipping in earnest confusion.
“I… I didn’t know.” Hermione repeated, because she was at a loss for words. She had a distant thought that she was going to murder Ron at some point, assuming him responsible for the missing letter, but other than that, her brain had gone quite smooth.
“Of course, I was sorry, Granger.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “I’ll never stop being sorry… I thought, I thought you’d read it and you couldn’t accept my apology.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I was respecting your decision.” Draco ran his nose along hers, a damp and exhausting mist that had filled his brain since Voldemort moved into his home, suddenly lifted. And for the first time in years, Draco Malfoy felt clarity.
“What was in the letter?” Hermione queried as she pressed onto her tiptoes. She had a sudden urge to kiss Draco Malfoy again. It was so strange, but the notion of such a wordy missive, written just for her, from him, made her heart beat so fast.
“I need to go,” he breathed before pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“What?” Hermione grabbed his tie and held him in place. “No, stay here and tell me!” or kiss me properly. She added silently.
“I have to write you another letter,” Draco knew his eyes were wider than normal; he knew there was something a bit manic about this response, but he also knew she deserved this letter. It was more than a ‘sorry’; it was an itemised bill of his wrongdoings; it was accountability; it was a declaration.
“I don’t need you to write it again, just tell me what was in it.” Hermione found her words almost luring the man back towards her starving lips; perhaps he could say sorry with kisses.
“There’s things I can’t say out loud, Granger, not without puking or fainting.” Draco stared at her mouth as he made his confession. “Expect something in the post.” he pecked her cheek almost groaning from the restraint it took not to try to devour her lips again, released her, and exited the alcove at a speed that was surely a personal best for the Slytherin.
Hermione panted against the masonry, feeling entirely undone despite the fact that he had barely touched her.
Draco grinned as he sprinted to his rooms and his finest stationery. He had rewritten that letter to her so many times in the past that he could remember every word, so writing it again wouldn’t be taxing, not even on his spirit, because she’d pulled him into her. She’d looked at him like she wanted him. She hadn’t known he was sorry. She hadn’t known that he kept a list of the moments he thought everything could’ve changed. She hadn’t known he loved her.
ggggg
Ginny Weasley looked up to find a dazed and bagless Hermione Granger ambling toward the table she now shared with Blaise Zabini. The golden girl had only been gone for twenty minutes or so, and yet she looked like she’d just done ten back-to-back Charms essays while fighting a troll.
“Everything good?” Ginny asked cautiously as Hermione sank into the chair opposite Blaise, making no comment on his presence.
“Malfoy said he was sorry.” Hermione blinked. “He wrote me a letter after the war, sent it to the Burrow… but I never got it.” Her voice was distant, and so was her stare. It was like she had been confounded.
“I’m going to fucking kill Ron!” Ginny barked as she balled her fist on the table, which seemed to snap Hermione out of her trance. The brown-eyed girl focused on the redhead, her eyebrow raised.
“You didn’t get his letter?” Blaise Zabini realised he shouldn’t have spoken when the two girls turned their sharp eyes on him, and he suddenly felt like prey. He recognised his mistake far too late, however.
“You knew about the letter?” Hermione asked, trying to sound like his answer didn’t matter all that much, as though she were just making polite conversation, but she of course failed in this endeavour. Her gaze and tone were too intense by half.
Blaise looked down at the desk and tried not to move a muscle. He was sure he heard Hermione Granger growl.
Ginny, fearing for Blaise Zabini’s safety, decided to throw another spanner in Hermione’s works and distract her: “While you’re reeling, Minnie, let me add another Blast-ended Skrewt to your pile.” Ginny drew Hermione’s attention away from the petrified Slytherin Man who had the THICKEST thighs Ginny had ever seen. The Weasley girl couldn’t stop staring at them.
“What?” Hermione’s shark-like attention was now fixed on Ginny.
“Harry wrote me. He wanted me to tell you, he’s decided to cut ties with the wizarding world, and we’re not to send him any more owls because his live-in girlfriend doesn’t like birds,” Ginny spoke the truth out loud and watched as Hermione’s face contorted in shock, then hurt, then horror. Ginny tried to ignore the eyes burning into her profile from where Blaise sat.
“His ‘LIVE-IN GIRLFRIEND’?” Hermione veritably screamed, and the redhead was silently pleased that Hermione had chosen to focus her rage on the personal betrayal against Ginny rather than just being generally sad about Harry’s departure. Ginny had often wondered if Hermione was simply her friend by virtue of association; she was Harry’s girlfriend and Ron’s sister, so it made sense that they’d spend time together. Ginny had never quite known exactly where she stood with Hermione, but now she did. Hermione was her best friend, not Harry’s and certainly not Ron’s. It was childish, but the Weasley girl needed a win this night. “He told you to wait for him!” Hermione hissed, scandalised, but a lot quieter, having remembered where she was. “I was there, I heard him say it!”
“I know, he’s a bastard. But he’s given me Grimmauld Place and his vault, so at least there’s that.” Ginny shrugged sadly. The signing over of his wealth had really pissed her off on so many levels. “I’ll split his gold with you; you were his work wife.”
“I’m really sorry, Gin.” Hermione softened, ignoring the offer, as she leaned across the table and took her friend’s hand in her own. “For what it’s worth, you’ll always have me.”
“It’s worth a lot.” Ginny smiled at Hermione, sniffing the possibility of tears back up her burning nostrils. She kept Hermione’s gaze for all of five seconds before the Golden girl’s eyes warily slipped to the man Ginny had been trying to ignore. The man who was just sitting silently in their ‘moment’ like an intruder.
Hermione hadn’t paid that much attention to Blaise Zabini growing up. He liked attention, and Hermione was a contrarian at heart, so she had refused to give hers to him, but now it was hard to look away from the Slytherin whose dark-brown skin always seemed to glow. He had turned his whole chair ninety degrees from the desk; his knees were now pointed at Ginny, his eyes fixed on the side of her head, and his mouth was split into a grin so wide it could be considered almost scary. “You alright there, Zabini?” Hermione tilted her head, watching the man’s eyes flick briefly toward her before fixing back on Ginny.
“Does this mean you’re single, Weasley?” His voice was so deep it could only be measured in fathoms.
Ginny, who never blushed, who was unshakable, felt heat creep up her neck. “I guess so. Pansy thought you’d like to know.” She finally turned to look at the man and found her breath caught in her throat. She never, ever, reacted like this. Ginny surmised that the shock of Harry and all the Draco drama must’ve made her more susceptible to girlish nonsense.
“Pansy was right.” His smile turned sinful as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees in a bid to take a closer look at Ginny.
Hermione’s eyes bounced between the two, like she was watching a tennis match. If what happened between her and Malfoy in Copperpot’s Grief Class was half as captivating as this, she now understood why the whole student body was abuzz.
“How about I make you a deal, Red? I’ll tell Granger whatever she wants to know about Malfoy… for a price.” Zabini ran his teeth against his lower lip as he dropped his gaze to Ginny’s pouted mouth; the smile never left his face. Ginny Weasley felt all kinds of strange bubbles and fizzes deep in the pit of her stomach.
“You’d flip on your friend so fast?” Hermione laughed at the man; his eyes once again flicked to her for only a second.
“For Ginevra Weasley? Merlin, yes.” Blaise Zabini knew he could be smooth when he wanted to; he also knew he could be a goofy fucking idiot. It really depended on the wind and the day of the week. He walked a very fine line most days; on this day, he was walking the high wire without a net.
Ginny Weasley had never heard her name sound so grown-up, so sophisticated, so sexy. People always shortened it to Ginny or Gin; nobody ever said her full name unless she was being scolded. But coming from his lips, it did something quite novel to her insides.
“What do you want?” she licked her lower lip, her eyes fixed on his very white teeth digging into his own plump flesh, “in return for this information.”
“Kisses?” Blaise said, far too quickly and with far too much need in his voice; the goofy fucking idiot was crawling his way out of Blaise at the worst possible time, perhaps undoing all the good groundwork he’d just laid.
Ginny Weasley laughed, it was a loud snort laugh, that made his self-doubt melt.
“You’ve got three questions, Hermione; use them wisely.” Ginny winked at her gaping and slightly blushing friend.
Hermione felt like the intruder now. An unwanted voyeur of something very intimate indeed. The chemistry between Blaise and Ginny was palpable, and it felt indecent to observe. “Em, so, does he fancy me, then?” Hermione asked, feeling absolutely fucking foolish.
“Seriously, Hermione?” Ginny turned angry eyes toward her.
“Yes, Granger.” Blaise laughed uproariously, “Famously so.” He looked between the girls, who seemed, if not entirely shocked, then a little taken aback; not necessarily by Draco’s proclivities, but by Blaise’s own ease and familiarity with the information, as though they were shocked that this wasn’t newish information to him. “Surely one of you, over the years, noticed that he’s constantly staring at Granger?”
“To be fair, we thought he wanted to murder her.” Ginny shrugged, allowing Hermione a moment to process the implication of ‘years’.
“For how long?” The allegedly ‘smart girl’ pressed, with another bad question.
“I take payment on receipt of goods. I answered a question.” Blaise tapped his cheek, indicating where he’d like his kiss. He was being racy, not lecherous; he wasn’t going to force the girl to kiss his mouth for information.
Ginny Weasley blushed across her nose, making her freckles glow, as she leaned over in her chair to plant an only slightly lingering kiss on Blaise Zabini’s cheek.
“For ages, Granger, obviously. I don’t know the exact date, but I know we gossiped about it, Pre-Yule Ball,” he rolled his eyes, but stopped when Ginny Weasley planted a second kiss on the corner of his mouth, leaving him slightly breathless.
“Last question, Hermione, make it count.” Ginny egged her friend on as she tried to compose herself. She was notoriously cool-headed and wouldn’t allow this handsome bastard to shake her foundation, no matter how many butterflies erupted in her gut when her lips touched his skin.
“Do you think he’s sorry, truly, for the past?” Hermione finally asked after a thoughtful second. Blaise turned his full attention to her and gave her a soft smile, his eyes creasing at the edges.
“Yes, Granger, I think he’s desperately sorry for how he treated you in the past. I think it’s the kind of sorry that gives him stomach aches and keeps him up at night.”
“Right.” Hermione breathed, staring at her hands and contemplating everything that had happened in the last three days. Her whole world had turned upside down. Harry was gone, Ron had possibly broken postal laws, Draco Malfoy was apparently involved in some unrequited, long-term relationship with her, and Ginny was… Hermione looked up and then really wished she hadn’t. The pair sitting across from her were no longer two separate entities; instead, they were one heap of limbs connected at the mouth.
Hermione felt like a pervert as she stared, frozen to her seat, watching as Blaise Zabini pulled her friend into his lap and rammed his tongue into her mouth. “I’ll just… go… find my bag then, shall I?” Hermione muttered as she clambered from her chair, ignored by her best friend who was sitting across a man’s thighs and humming into his kiss, like she’d been waiting for it for years.
ggggg
Ginny Weasley almost danced her way to bed. Blaise Zabini had walked her back to the common room, like a proper gent, and then he’d pinned her against the portrait of a wicken nun (who protested quite vehemently),and he’d slipped that meaty thigh between her legs, and Ginny had almost melted then and there. The little redhead considered only for a moment, sending one last owl to the Boy Who Lived in Hammersmith, and was doing an apprenticeship in plumbing. it would read:
Dear Harry,
Remember when I told you that I wasn’t really that into kissing? Turns out I am, I just wasn’t into kissing you. Also, it was weird when you tried to put your tongue as far into my mouth as possible; that’s not a thing people try to do, I was right. You’re a loser. Hope this owl shits in your new ‘live-in’ bird’s hair.
Love Ginevra.
But the desire was only fleeting; it was quickly replaced with the hot sizzle of possibility that bubbled in her tummy when she remembered how Zabini had whined and slammed his palm into the brick wall when she ground herself against his lovely thigh. Only for a moment. Only to see what it was like.
She went to bed with his parting words lingering on the surface of her brain, like quicksilver. She chuckled as she remembered them, “I think you might’ve just experienced the world’s shortest rebound period, Ginevra.”
ggggg
Gertrude Copperpot wasn’t at all sure what had gone on between the students in her Grief Counselling class, which she found out they’d recently been calling ‘Grief for dummies’, but something had gone on, and it was palpable. There was an almost sticky heat in the air, which made no sense as it was the dead of winter in the Scottish Highlands. It was something which had the flavour of possibility and pennies, but more than that, there had been a shift in the ‘grand scheme of things’, and even the particles of magic in the ether knew it. This would be an excellent night to charge her crystals.
“I think we should just work quietly on our gratitude journals.” Miss Copperpot finally announced to the tensely silent room; perhaps they were worried she’d experiment on them again. “Last class of the week and all,” she muttered more to herself as she moved toward her gramophone and lowered the needle onto an album of calming pan-pipe music.
Copperpot sat behind her desk and observed as not one of the bastards wrote about what they were thankful for. ingrates. Instead, Ginny Weasley whispered something to Hermione, who blushed, then looked up, caught eyes with Draco Malfoy for the seven hundredth time since they entered the room, and then dipped her head, hiding behind her curls as she sucked her lip between her teeth. Draco Malfoy didn’t take his eyes off her, and he wasn’t hiding it any more; he almost looked relaxed in his fixation for the first time in years.
And as for the Weasley girl, her behaviour was the oddest of all. There had been a picture of her splashed across the front page of the Prophet that morning, with the headline “The girl who loved, Betrayed by the Boy who lived”, and yet here she was, passing notes with the Zabini boy.
When the bell finally chimed for the end of the day, Gerturde was relieved; it had almost become hard to breathe, what with all the charged particles and hormones in the air. She watched as the blonde former Death-Eater approached the golden girl of legend. “Can we meet in the entryway after dinner?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice.
Granger nodded, and blushed, and smiled. And Gertrude Copperpot couldn’t wait to rub this all in Minerva’s face, because what she was witnessing was surely the start of something groundbreaking. They’d probably write papers about how she, a lowly grief counsellor, had changed the course of wizarding kind.
ggggg
Friday night dinner was always an occasion of sorts in Hogwarts; students were encouraged to bring down board games or cards, and to socialise after meals. Hermione had no want for a game of exploding snap with the third year who offered it; all she wanted to do was push the chicken and potatoes down her dry throat and then meet Malfoy, to hopefully get her letter finally. Her impatience was not well earned. She’d only known about it for a day, and yet the fact that she should’ve received the letter ages ago grated on her. She shook her head at the small boy, and he huffed off, his cards in hand and his friends laughing at him.
Hermione looked over at Malfoy; he was already staring at her, nervously bouncing in his seat. She nodded to the large doors, indicating she was ready to meet, despite having barely eaten, and he nodded back.
“I’ll see you in the common room,” she said as she bid her friends goodbye.
It was cold in the hall; Hermione could see her breath as she looked out the large open doors over the grounds, listening for his footsteps. They came not long after; they were hurried, and she hadn’t realised until this moment that footsteps could sound desperate.
“Granger,” he cleared his throat after he spoke, and Hermione could feel his hot breath on her neck. She turned to face him. There was a thick envelope in his fingers. “I thought to owl it to you, but that seemed unnecessary and also like tempting fate. Knowing my luck, Artemis would have dropped it in the lake or something,” he rambled nervously, holding the letter to his chest.
Hermione put out her hand and waited, watching as he seemed to falter in his desire to present it to her. “I… I’m not giving this to you with any expectations. After you read it, if you still don’t feel you can accept my apology, I’ll understand,” he spoke words that felt rehearsed.
“Thanks,” Hermione breathed, pinching the envelope between her thumb and forefinger.
He finally released it, and she watched as he sagged; his fate was no longer in his own hands. She looked out at the grounds again, and the fog lay heavy over the grass. She wanted to read her letter out there, away from the scarred stones of the castle, under the stars. She turned back to Malfoy one last time; he seemed frozen to the spot. Hermione offered him a smile. “Do you want to come with me while I read it?” She wasn’t sure why Draco wasn’t leaving, why he was just standing, staring. She wanted him to say no. She wanted to read her letter alone, as the gods intended.
“I… I do… but I don’t think I can or should,” he laughed and nodded and finally took a step away from her. “I mean every word in that,” he nodded to the parchment.
Hermione found a spot by the lake, cast a warming charm, threw down her robe, and sat under the stars with only her wand for light. She started to read.
*Granger, I began writing this the night Voldemort died- it was the first thing I thought to do. It took me eleven days to get the words right, and in that time, they carved themselves into my soul, so it’s easy for me to pen them again for you. In fact, as I sit here at my desk, I wonder if writing you this letter once a day might be a fitting penance.
He was a lot more forthcoming on paper than he ever had been verbally. Hermione wondered if he hadn’t been right to insist on doing this on parchment.
The words you’re about to read were written by a boy, the man I am now might feel the need to interject, if I do, I shall make it clear. So without further ado, this is what I wrote you:
Dear Hermione Granger,
I shall inform you firstly that this letter is from Draco Malfoy, should you wish to burn it without reading. If the parchment has managed to stay out of the fire, let me say secondly that I don’t think I’ve ever had cause to write your full name before; it’s very satisfying to scribe.
I know I am the last person you want to hear from as you grieve the loss of your friends, but you are the first person I need to apologise to, so you’ll have to forgive me for my selfishness. Though that is rather on brand for me, isn’t it?
Hermione felt her heart thump as she read each line. He started from the beginning; he told her that he had known from the day he met her on the train that his father had been wrong about Muggle-borns all along. He wrote how the night after he’d called her a mudblood for the first time, he’d lain awake and cried. He hadn’t been sure why back then, but he’d known deep down that he was the dirty one.
I’m sorry I ever said that word to you; I’m even more sorry I was the first. The truth of that day was, Hermione, that some part of me thought you’d be impressed with my appointment to the team. Which I realise now was so bloody ridiculous, and while not an excuse, I hope you know that your verbal jab that day landed. And I deserved it… Unlike my spot on the team, which I should’ve earned with hard work, as you suggested,
Hermione could imagine him smiling as he wrote the words, could see the tilt of his head as he came to terms with his actions.
When you were petrified, I too was frozen. My mother noticed, in my letters home, that I was fixated on whether you’d ever wake up. She told me to stay away, that it was none of my business. But I couldn’t. I snuck into the hospital wing, out of hours, and I saw you. I knew my father was behind it, and it was the first time I truly hated the man.
He wrote to her of how, in the third year, the worst part of Buckbeak maiming him was that she’d witnessed it, and how ashamed and embarrassed he’d felt. He explained that when she’d struck him later that year, it had been one of the more confusing moments of his life, because she was finally touching him, even if it was in anger. Hermione swallowed, feeling a fleeting guilt as she read his admission. He confided that he knew she’d used a time-turner in third year, but had decided not to tell anyone.
I told myself it was our secret, though; how I was the only person who noticed you were in two places at once every day is beyond me, Hermione.
His letter was freer and more expressive than any of the stilted conversations she’d shared with Malfoy around the castle. He’d poured himself into the words; the entire spectrum of the man was on full display in black and cursive on a beautiful sheet of parchment. He called her Hermione on the pages; he even acknowledged the strangeness and lack of formality in the missive itself.
I know this must be odd, reading all these words from me, when in reality I’ve said so few to you. But I always imagined this. Had things been different, would this be how we’d talk? Freely, openly, exchanging ideas? Silly, I know.
Draco wrote at length about the fourth year; he had no idea what his father had planned. But he did know Lucius was part of the mob at the World Cup. He told her how worried he’d been, how much he wanted her out of harm’s way. And then there’d been his page on the Yule Ball, and Hermione only realised then that she was weeping;
I saw a whole life flash before my eyes as I watched you cry on the stairs. I wanted to give you my handkerchief, I wanted to tell you that Weasley was an idiot and Krum was too old, I wanted to take you into an abandoned classroom and claim a dance. Just you and me, no prying eyes. I would have told you how beautiful you looked. But I chose to walk past you, and that life died. I lie awake at night and think about that universe, where I wasn’t such a coward. Would you have even accepted me? Probably not, but it’s nice to dream.
Hermione scanned line after line, trying to swipe at her eyes to combat the blurring from tears. He wrote about how assisting Umbridge had been shameful, how he hadn’t stopped thinking about the night he caught her sneaking out of the Room of Forgotten Things, and how he’d held her against his chest for an unnecessary amount of time.
I was taking advantage of the situation, and it was wrong. So I’m sorry. Though in this list of things I’m sorry for, I will say it ranks rather low.
Hermione could read his smirk. He said he hated that her teeth had changed because of his actions, about how much he missed her little overbite. He wrote about how many times he almost asked her for help, how often he’d stare at her and will her to know what was going on, willing her to interfere, the way she interfered in everything else.
Just to be clear, Hermione, I’m not accusing you of inaction. It was my own cowardice that saw me in the position I was in, and my own cowardice that saw me betray us all. Wishing for you to stop me was a foolish and unfair thing to place on you. I only tell you this, so you know, you were never far from my thoughts, and I held you in the highest regard… I realise now that I should probably stop writing this letter, but I can’t, because I feel like I have been holding something in for eight years and if I don’t get it out, I won’t be able to breathe again. **Present Draco Malfoy here, please excuse my past self-pity and dramatics, and remember the boy who wrote this thought he was being very profound**
Hermione couldn’t hold in her snort of laughter as she read his words, both past and present. He was very dramatic. And funny. And romantic, and if the man in the castle behind her was anything like the man on the paper before her, she thought she might like him very much.
All the silly musings and girlish thoughts were knocked from Hermione’s head when her eyes landed on the place in the retelling of their lives she dreaded to remember:
I’m sorry most of all for my inaction and cowardice when you lay on the floor of my home. I wanted to stop her. It hurt, physically, to watch you scream. At one point, I tried to enter your mind, to redirect the pain from your nervous system, the way my mother had taught me when they started punishing me, but I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t smart enough, and I hate that I couldn’t even lessen your pain. I’d have taken every cruccio and cut of her knife to my own body if I could have. I swear on whatever gods are left, Hermione. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough.
The concluding paragraphs of the letter were about his relief when he saw her alive and glorious in the battle, and how sorry he was that he wasn’t more help. And lastly, he wrote of the hope he had that she could one day forgive him, that they could one day sit and talk, and she could see him without his mask.
I know, because I’ve heard you say it, that you think I hate you. If this letter serves one purpose only, let it be that you finally understand that was never the case, Hermione Granger. I have felt a great many things for you in my sorry life; certainly, anger and envy were there, but never hate. Not once. It’s quite the opposite, really.
Yours with a thousand apologies,
Draco Malfoy.
Hermione folded the letter back up as she sniffled. Her warming charm had worn off, and her breath was once again making clouds form in the air in front of her face. She turned, half expecting to see Draco standing at the main door, waiting for her. But the entrance was empty, the grounds were quiet and dark. Hermione was alone. She started at a walk and then found herself running as her foot met the stone of the stairs up to the main entrance, as if she had no more time to waste. She skidded over the flagstones of the hallway and almost stumbled to a halt because there he was on the grand staircase, almost exactly at the same spot she’d cried over Ron’s words all those years ago.
“I tried to leave, but I got stuck,” Draco spoke without looking up.
Hermione ascended three steps until she was standing on the stair he was sitting on. She looked straight down at the top of his head, his white blonde hair almost glowing in the dim lamp light. “Come with me,” was all she whispered; anything louder or more would break whatever tentative spell of bravery his letter had woven on her.
Draco looked up at her, his neck bent almost all the way back. Hermione thought briefly that they must look like an old Caravaggio painting; there was an almost pained expression on his perfect face. But he didn’t speak. She gave Draco the slightest of smiles, then tilted her head in the direction she was going, and headed away, trying not to care whether he came or not. She heard him stand to follow after she’d only taken a few steps.
Hermione led him down the charms corridor and around into a room he recognised. She walked in and waited for him to follow; he did. It wasn’t chosen for any sentimental value; rather, it was the classroom she least respected, and therefore felt less bad about utilising out of hours and without permission.
She started to pull off her outer robes. “Take off your cloak,” she intoned quietly, her cheeks hot with anxiety, anticipation, and something else. Draco did as she bid and removed his outerwear, too. There they stood, across from each other, in Copperpot’s small room, where everything had started. Hermione waved her wand in a complicated little whirl, and the room filled with music; then she placed her wand back into the waistband of her school skirt and clutched her hands primly behind her back. “Ask me.” She took a little anxious huff of air and swayed to the orchestral music she’d somehow conjured from thin air.
Draco Malfoy was confused for all of thirty seconds. Ask her what? And then he felt something burn at the back of his nose as dawning realisation split across his synapses. “Will you dance with me, please?” he asked in a rush, after taking two steps toward her.
Hermione nodded, relaxing her arms and letting them fall on either side of her body. She took a step toward him, her toes almost pressed against his. He raised his left hand slowly, placing the flat of his palm on her waist before deliberately curling each finger around her. Time slowed as Hermione felt everything: the heat of his hand, the way his breath made her eyelashes flutter, his spare hand circling her wrist before sliding it down to take her own. And then they were dancing, back for two, forward for two, left for two, right for two- and repeat. They moved with a synchronicity Hermione had never experienced before. She wasn’t even looking at her feet; her eyes were locked on Draco’s, and yet, for the first time in her life, her body seemed to know where to go without her telling it to. Their steps grew smaller as they drew closer together, the hand she’d rested on his shoulder snaking around his neck. His own palm now pressed on her lower back, and soon they were just swaying, the magical music growing distant as the spell waned.
“Thank you for my letter.” Hermione finally said, with her chin tilted up and resting on his chest. They stood, pressed against each other, staring deeply into each other's eyes.
“It was alright?” he asked, nerves evident in the flicker of his brow.
“It was good,” Hermione drew back just enough to nod. “I accept your apology,” she said with a smile that illuminated the old classroom.
Draco Malfoy felt his body sag, as a weight he’d carried for so long finally lifted. “Thank you,” he ground out and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I forgive you.” The hand she’d placed at his neck moved to his cheek, petting him lightly, with a familiarity she’d earned only in her imagination. His breath shook as the force of her words hit him.
“I’ll never stop being sorry,” he muttered, brushing the bridge of her nose with the tip of his own. But Hermione shook her head and pulled away. She gave him a puckish smile as she took a single stride away from him, before clearing her throat and putting her hand out to him.
“Hello, I’m Hermione.” She grinned and waited, pinkness creeping on her cheeks as she started to worry if this ploy was more cringe than cute.
“Hello, Hermione.” He sighed her name like a prayer as he reached over and took her hand, tugging her close to him. “I’m Draco.”
“Hello. Draco.” Hermione spoke quietly, almost in a haze as the smell of him engulfed her. “Nice to meet you.”
“I really like you.” Draco Malfoy finally admitted, staring down at her, his chin tucked against his chest, and his eyes focused completely on her.
“We’ve only just met,” she laughed coyly, as her fingers curled into his shirt.
“First impressions, Hermione, they can be very important.” Draco grumbled as his fingers finally found their way to the front of her shirt, where he toyed with her buttons, just like he’d imagined doing during that brilliant experiment of Copperpot’s. “So,” he sighed, moving impossibly closer, his hands now trapped between their bodies as he traced a single plastic fastener. “Tell me about yourself?”
“em.” Hermione sucked her lip between her teeth and blinked up at him, her mind suddenly blank, “I like books.”
“We have so much in common,” Draco chuckled, his head tilting to the left as he took in her blushing cheeks. “We should get married.” Hermione’s sudden choking noise prompted him to do the only thing he could think of, which was to laugh and play it off as a joke. Blaise was right; he always jumped to marriage. What was wrong with him?
“How about we try a date or something first?” Hermione also laughed, but there was something about the panicked expression on his face right after he spoke that gave her pause. She knew pure-bloods married young, but seriously, they’d only properly kissed once.
“Yeah, we can do that,” he nodded, his lips a hair from Hermione’s. And then they kissed like two people who should have been kissing for years, like they were trying to catch up with their ‘should have’s’ and ‘could have beens’. “You’re so beautiful,” Draco mumbled absently, his lips trailing over her cheeks as his hands moved to her thighs.
“So are you!” Hermione squeaked with surprise as Draco hoisted her into the air, pulling her legs around his waist. He held her aloft, kissing her. All the while, he turned aimlessly on the spot, apparently content just to hold her in his arms. The fingers at her rear curled into her flesh, drawing a groan from Hermione’s mouth, straight into Draco’s.
His feet finally stumbled forward, thankfully toward Copperpot’s desk, where he placed Hermione with a gentle reverence that made her feel all tingly and warm, and then he was on her again, over her, pressing her back into the wood as he devoured her mouth and ground his clothed hardness against her.
Hermione groaned, her back arching off the table as his lips moved across her jaw. She tightened her legs around him, pulling him flush against herself as her inexperienced hips, working on nothing more than instinct, rocked against him, seeking friction and a release.
“SHIT A BRICK!” A voice that was neither Hermione’s nor Draco’s split the air and drew the panting pair apart. Gertrude Copperpot stood in her usual patchouli-soaked attire; the only new addition to her get-up was the massive glass of red wine she was clutching in her hand.
“Sorry, Miss Copperpot.” Hermione squeaked as she released her leg’s death grip from Draco and sat up rigidly on the woman’s personal desk. She tugged her skirt down in concert with Draco’s retreat and hasty spin away from the teacher. Lest she see just how much fun they had been having on her… personal desk.
“We were… expressing our gratitude… for each other.” Draco attempted, as he hastily pulled his outer robe back on, and finally turned to the woman, his smirk undeniable.
“On my PERSONAL desk?” Gerty shrieked and rolled her eyes. “Five points from each of your houses, and let us never discuss this, nor repeat it, again,” she looked at them both warningly, and felt for the first time like a real teacher.
“Thank you…” Hermione appeared to swallow what pride she had left “Professor.”
Gertrude Copperpot knew the honorary would be offered to her just this once, so she soaked it up.
“You made her night.” Draco Malfoy muttered when he caught up with the quickly fleeing Hermione Granger. There was no retreating, not now that he knew what her lips tasted like. “She’ll probably forget to dock the points now that you’ve acknowledged her,” he offered Hermione a nudge, wondering if she was still easily upset by chastisement.
“I’m so embarrassed.” Hermine laughed, breathily, her head still pointed down, her eyes focused on her shoes.
“Because it’s me?” he held his breath as he waited for the answer.
“No, because it’s Copperpot!” Hermione huffed, finally slowing down to allow them a more gentle return to the senior quarters. “She’s going to be so insufferable.” Hermione groaned as she rolled her neck, dropping her hand so her knuckles brushed his.
“So am I,” Draco snorted a laugh and grabbed her loose fingers before she could protest.
ggggg
“We were about to play drunk truth-or-dare snap!” Luna beamed up at Hermione from her spot on the floor, cross-legged on a throw cushion. Granger and Malfoy had entered the senior common room to find Luna, Cho and Ginny sitting opposite Blaise, Pansy and Theodore Nott. The Slytherins, to Hermione’s knowledge, had never once sat down in the mixed house space. And yet here they were, sitting on the couches and armchairs around a small tea table, grinning like old friends.
“The Snakes brought champagne!” Ginny waved a large, expensive bottle in the air, her face split into a knowing grin as her eyes danced between Hermione and Draco.
“That sounds like fun.” Hermione nodded, her cheeks glowing cherry red.
“It’s not. Blaise cheats.” Draco grumbled into her ear.
Hermione blushed as she smiled at their group. The others had changed out of their school uniforms, leaving Hermione and Malfoy the only two still in school shirts and ties. Ginny was wearing the tight Muggle jeans Molly called her ‘Harlot Pants’. “Do you want to get changed first?” Ginny shot a smirk at the two partially vibrating students, as though she knew exactly what they’d been up to in Gertrude’s classroom.
“Yes.” Hermione’s voice came out stilted as she stood close to Malfoy, the backs of their hands bumping against each other.
“Well, hurry up, then.” Blaise rolled his eyes as Hermione and Draco scurried around the hallway to their sleeping quarters. They glanced at each other as the corridor split into two. Left for boys, right for girls.
“See you in a minute.” Hermione blushed prettily as she made to move off, but then her wrist was caught in long, capable fingers, and she was being dragged into him. He kissed his witch with the force of a tidal wave before suddenly releasing her.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help…” Draco started, but found his lips occupied once again as Hermione surged back at him.
ggggg
With Granger and Malfoy out of earshot, Ginny turned wide eyes to Pansy. “That must’ve been a fucking brilliant letter.”
“He’s excellent on the page,” Pansy smirked proudly, as though she were the one who had raised Malfoy and not Narcissa. “Always has been.”
“Who let snakes in here?” Seamus Finnegan laughed as he, Terry Boot, and Neville Longbottom entered the shared space. Ginny felt rather than saw her new friends stiffen.
“They’re exactly where they’re supposed to be.” Ginny snipped, kneeling up on her little chair so she could get a clear shot at the boys should she need to curse them.
“He was joking.” Neville frowned as he ambled over to them, a good-natured smile on his soft face. “He’s not very funny. What are we playing?” he sat down with the ease of a man who didn’t have to prove himself any more.
“I’m hilarious!” Seamus protested, his eyes catching on the array of bottles under the table. “Is that booze?” He smacked his hands together excitedly before dropping into the seat behind Blaise, who was perched on the floor. He slapped Zabini on the shoulders, as if they were friends of old. It appeared the promise of free drinks was enough to sway even the staunchest of lions into befriending snakes. “What’s the game, Zabini?”
“The rules are simple,” Blaisie started, “Challenge another student to a game of snap; for each hand won, the victor challenges the loser to a truth, a dare, or a shot.”
“What’s the liquor?” Cho asked, with a raised hand, as though she were in class. The Slytherins couldn’t help but snicker at her.
“Cho can’t do tequila; it makes her vomit,” Luna added helpfully.
“Ogdens, obviously.” Blaise tutted, slamming his bottle onto the table. “After the loser has taken their forfeit, they step aside, and the challenger can pick another victim.”
“Blaise invented this game because Snap is the only thing he’s good at.” Pansy groaned and rolled her neck. “There was one night where he didn’t lose a single round.”
“Why do you play with him then?” Luna asked; she appeared to be the most comfortable in the snake pit. Terry Boot was reserving judgment, sitting back coolly and observing the goings-on.
“He supplies the whisky.” Pansy grinned and wiggled her eyebrows at Lovegood, who hummed and nodded, as if it made complete sense.
“As it’s my game and my bottle, I pick the first challenger.” Blaise scanned the group, crinkled eyes landing on Ginny “Ginerva.”
“Silly boy.” Ginny Weasley tutted and then absolutely obliterated him without even looking at the pile. She just watched for his move and moved faster, and that’s why she was the best Seeker of her generation. Never mind the boy who fucked-off or the ferret.
“Truth, Dare, or shot, handsome?” Ginny tilted her head and eyed the beautiful man who looked genuinely shocked that he’d been beaten… The beautiful man she’d now snogged three times.
“Oh, Bean, you just got trounced at your own game…” Pansy clutched her belly and screamed with laughter at her childhood friend’s demise.
“Dare.” Blaise Zabini raised a challenging brow at the little redhead who’d captivated him so.
“Take your top off until you win a round.” She made a little clicking noise with her tongue as she thumbed the air. Blaise looked around at the gang, slightly abashed.
“Take it off. Take it off. Take it off!” Theo Nott, surprisingly, was the one to lead the chant. Blaise groaned.
“This is the best day ever.” Pansy smiled happily to herself.
ggggg
Hermione smiled at her reflection: bushy hair? check. oversized sweatshirt? check. Leggings, only slightly thinning at the chafed points? Double check. She nodded at her mirror image and took a steadying breath. She wasn’t going to gussy herself up for him; if he liked her, he liked her as she was. She pushed open her door to find the space outside already filled.
“You own jeans!” Hermione blurted as her eyes trailed down Draco Malfoy in casual Muggle wear, a vision she had never seen in her life.
“Blaise and I went shopping on Oxford Street last summer; it was a bit of a disaster, if I’m honest.” He smiled sheepishly, his sweatshirt bunching as he shrugged.
“You look… good,” Hermione finally said. What she meant was HOT. He looked hot.
“Thanks, Granger.” He didn’t move, just hovered in her doorway, smiling down at her.
“Should we go?” Hermione asked, her mouth very dry, her eyes infatuated with the vision of Draco Malfoy in light denim. These were his Harlot pants.
“Or, we could just...” He smiled, devilish, as if he knew exactly where her mind was. “Stay here for a bit.” Draco took a step into Hermione Granger’s sleeping quarters and was assaulted by the essence of her. It was everywhere, clogging his cognitive pathways and making him feel reckless and so very hungry for her.
“They probably won't even notice.” Hermione hummed her assent as she took a shaky step backwards.
“I doubt they even really wanted us there,” Draco grumbled as he double-fisted the thin material of her leggings at her hips. “These things are the bane of my existence.”
“What things?” Hermione queried, genuinely confused.
“These leg coverings, that are essentially a second skin and nothing more.” He pinged the springy fabric back to her thighs and let loose a shaky sigh, “the third most distracting item in your wardrobe.”
“Oh?” Hermione stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and relishing in the closeness. “What’s more distracting?”
“The denim summer shorts and your school uniform.” Draco slipped his hands around to her lower back and pressed her into him.
“I’m always wearing my school uniform.” She raised an eyebrow at him.
“I’m always distracted,” and then his lips found hers, less harried and frantic than the kisses before. Like their change of clothes, this kiss was soft and casual, and felt familiar. He wasn’t sure how someone could smell of reassurance, but she did. Her scent lulled him into thinking ‘everything is going to be fine’. “Come here,” he muttered against her lips, though Hermione wasn’t entirely sure how she could get any closer to him. His meaning soon became clear when he was once again hoisting her up by the bottom, and her legs were once again obligingly wrapping around him. “You fit me so well,” he grumbled against her neck as he clutched her to his body, like a comforting blanket or his favourite teddy-bear.
“I’m still a virgin!” Hermione blurted, sensing him moving them toward her bed, and feeling she should really say something.
“So am I,” Draco hummed with no shame into her neck as he sat, planting her on his knees, her legs still snaked around him. “I’m glad that when we get there, we’ll be experiencing it together.” Draco kissed her lower lip gently, and then her upper, seemingly trying to map the topography of her mouth. His statement was both reassuring and declarative: they would experience it, just not right now.
Hermione felt heat flood her belly as his teeth scraped her jaw; her back arched, and she felt him hard and insistent against the tough denim of his Muggle jeans. “Can I…,” she started, then faltered. She wanted to see him, to look at what had pressed against her in the library and the alcove and Gertrude’s sacred Grief shack.
“Can you what, baby?” he dragged his thumb along her cheek, soothingly. The term of endearment fell from his lips as though it had always been there, just waiting to be said.
“Can I?” Hermione swallowed, her cheeks burned, “Can I see it?” She glanced down at the tight blue fabric.
Draco felt suddenly faint; his penis seemed to have developed an inner monologue of its own, and it was screaming, “RELEASE ME!” Draco nodded, reaching down between them for the hard metal button which kept the oddly comfortable Muggle garment on his body. He then found the zipper, which had granted him a whole day’s worth of revelation when he’d first discovered it. Draco pulled it down slowly; he wasn’t trying to put on a show. He just had to be very careful; even the slightest jostle could end with Hermione Granger sitting on his lap, her eyes fixed on the dark space between them, her lip trapped between her teeth. Draco’s breath became ragged; it was almost too erotic a situation for his intimacy-starved body to bear.
“Wow.” Hermione was awed by him when he was finally free and standing proudly between their bodies. She moved her hands from where they were balled on her thighs. Draco was on the verge of telling her not to touch him, yet when she did something very unexpected, she hovered one balled fist next to the base of his shaft, not touching, just evaluating. Then, she placed her other hand on top of the first. Draco sucked his lip between his teeth, and he felt himself twitch when her warm breath skated across his delicate skin as she moved her face just a little closer, as though to fully inspect him. Finally, she moved the bottom hand onto the upper hand, and Draco understood what she was doing: she was measuring him. Two fists and four fingers, by his calculations.
Hermione drew her hands to her pelvis and repeated the action from before, a smile popping onto her lips. She pulled the hem of her sweater up and pointed to a spot just below her belly button. “I think that’s where you’ll reach,” she said, informatively and with absolutely no agenda.
Draco Malfoy almost wept, “Fucking Merlin.” He groaned, reaching out his shaking fingers to press against the spot she’d indicated. Hermione groaned, as though he was already buried in her. “I need to touch you,” he breathed shakily.
“Why?” Her curiosity was innocent; its effect was not.
“Because I’m about to explode, and I want you to feel the same way,” he rasped a little frantically.
“Yeah, ok.” Hermione nodded with an urgency she didn’t know she possessed. She’d never felt this before, lust and wanting and hunger. It had always been something she’d had to internally manufacture when she’d kissed Krum and Ronald: always something she was trying to enjoy and not something she needed desperately. But she needed Draco Malfoy, like she needed air, like she needed books.
Draco, it appeared, was just as desperate. He showed her how much when he dug his fingers into the fabric of her old leggings and yanked, ripping them along the seam, uncovering her now very damp knickers.
“DRACO!” Hermione yelped, half chiding, half impressed, “Those were comfortable!”
“I’ll buy you more.” His fingers tugged her panties aside before finding the spot where she needed him most. Hermione’s head lolled back, and she felt lips attacking her neck again. “Fuck, you’re wet.” Draco whined as he picked up his pace.
“Should I…” Hermione reached for his turgid cock, unattended and weeping between them.
“No.” He groaned, swatting her hand away. “Not yet,” he swirled his fingers against her and stared intently at her contorted face. “Does that feel good?”
Hermione nodded, pressing her hips into his diligent fingers. “Had lots of practice, have you?” she tried not to sound jealous and failed.
Draco scoffed as he pressed a reassuring kiss to the corner of Hermione’s mouth. “Pansy drew us all diagrams in fourth year. Slytherin boys are probably the best educated virgins in Britain.” And as though to demonstrate exactly how rich his schooling was, Draco Malfoy slipped one of his elegant digits inside her. He crooked it and beckoned to her from within while his palm remained in constant contact with that bundle of throbbing nerves he knew to focus on.
“Outstanding.” Hermione managed to whine as she writhed against his hand, feeling wet and hot and hungry. He pushed a second finger in, watching her intently, the same way he watched a potion just after he’d added a new ingredient. Hermione’s whole world seemed to expand and contract, and then her hand was in his, and suddenly her fingers were wrapped around him as he pumped his own fingers inside of her. Draco placed his big hand over hers, and she squeezed lightly, just as her walls clenched down on his fingers.
“Fuck. Fuck.” he hissed, his lips latching onto her neck in a frantic bid to have more of her. “Lift your top again, please?” he muttered his request against her jaw, and Hermione could only oblige, what with her brain becoming smooth and muscles she never knew she even had coming into action.
He pressed the head of his cock against the spot she’d shown him earlier. Hermione pumped him one more time, with his hand guiding hers, and then she felt it all at once. Her mind exploded into a thousand tiny pieces, her neck snapped back, there was a wet heat spurting up her belly and another wet heat spilling from between her legs. She whined throatily like a wounded animal as she clenched violently around his fingers and ground her hips into his palm, driven only by feeling and the need to drag every ounce of pleasure from this experience he’d gifted her and shared with her. And then it was over, and endorphins were flooding Hermione at a rate she’d never experienced; affection and fondness pooled in her chest, and she wrapped herself around Draco.
“That was so good,” he panted frantically as he withdrew his fingers and hugged her back, kissing her temples over and over again.
“I concur.” Hermione hummed, and then she pulled away. “I need to get changed again,” she blushed as she hopped onto the floor and shimmied out of her ruined leggings, right in front of him.
Draco watched her move with hawk-like eyes, his gaze never leaving her as she wandered around her room, pulling the clothes off they’d ruined together. He didn’t even look away as he searched for his wand and cast a cleaning charm on himself… he could’ve done the same for Granger, but then he’d miss her, standing coyly in her underwear, chewing her lip, picking an outfit. And that would’ve been a crying shame.
ggggg
When Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy returned to the common area, they were unashamedly hand in hand. Hermione had changed into her own light-blue denims, making the pair look like a his-and-hers set from a catalogue. For some reason, that notion tickled Hermione. She’d expected a reaction from her friends; what she hadn’t expected was to find Pansy, Luna, Cho, Blaise, Theo, Terry, Neville, and Seamus Finnegan in various states of undress, while Ginny Weasley sat, fully clothed, on a pile of their laundry like a fabric dragon.
“She’s a ruthless monster.” Theo cried in mock distress as the pair stood, gaping at the scene.
“We let snakes in the common room for one night, and the whole thing turns into an orgy,” Hermione muttered, as Draco chuckled and squeezed her hand.
“It’s mad that it took you forty minutes to put on jeans,” Ginny smirked up at them from her hoard.
“It’s mad that it took you forty minutes to remove everyone else’s.” Hermione raised a challenging eyebrow at her friend before the pair burst into an almost hysterical laugh.
Seamus Finnegan looked between Draco and Hermione, and then at their linked hands. “You know you two are going to have to name your firstborn Gertrude?”
“Aw, little Gertrude Granger-Malfoy.” Pansy sang, rocking back on her bum to look at the pair. Draco just shook his head with a smile as he sat down and pulled Hermione onto his lap.
Ginny Weasley expected her friend to brush off the notion of having a baby, given that she and Malfoy had just started public hand-holding. The Weasley woman was therefore shocked when Miss Granger declared quite firmly, “No child of ours will be named Gertrude.”