Disclaimer: I think we all know who wrote Harry Potter.
It is just summer when he sees her in Paris, looking out over the Seine. The wind has been at her hair, and now it falls in disarray about her shoulders, over the loose thin silk dress she wears. He wonders if he should walk over and make some barbed comment, threaten her, frighten her. If he should capture her for his master or use Legilimency and see into her secrets. If he should kill her.
Instead, his legs take him over quietly. She can hear him, he knows, though she does not turn. Her eyes are still faraway, mirroring the deep water below, caught on the wind to a distant place. He thinks he cannot capture her like this, when she is absent, when he cannot touch her with his presence. He looks where her eyes look but cannot see her.
They stand motionless and wordless for a long time, until a bell begins to toll over the Seine and she stirs. He does not know what he wants from her. A nod of acknowledgment, perhaps. A shiver of recognition, a breath of fear. But he is disappointed when she drifts away and melts into the warm night as if it had swallowed her.
And then weeks later, back in London, she is running her fingers over the books. He had entered the little shop after a business meeting in Diagon Alley. He sees her now, feels her softness in the air. He moves behind her, searching the same shelf she touched. Her fingers brush his hand in their quest for a thin green volume, gentle and startlingly real, sending a note of music up his spine. She twists to see him this time and he finds he cannot look away. His own hand comes to rest near her own, the skin of their little fingers just touching.
He recognizes confusion in her eyes but does not understand it. He is beginning to consider how it would feel to cover her hand with his, hardness upon softness, experience upon innocence. But she quickly releases the green book and exits the shop before he can tell himself to move. It is only later that night, his mind hovering just above sleep's embrace, that he comprehends. His dreams are fragmented with amber eyes and the fleeting touches of a wish, though they are lost upon waking.
He returns to the same shop the next day, but she is not there. He takes a walk instead, along a lake path beneath the fading trees. A figure appears from the west, and when he makes out the features, he wonders if it is a mirage against the setting sun. Hermione Granger, he says for the first time, letting the words fall from his lips and looking to see how they would fall. She stops when she sees him, then walks slowly forward.
She regards him warily. He can see her thoughts on her face. Who is he to her? Her schoolmate's father? The arrogant man who works at the Ministry and whispers advice to ruling men? Is he the right hand of the cruelest master, is he her enemy, her nightmare, her death? In the end she chooses to view him as something else entirely, something infinitely more frightening.
Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. Her voice is clear, as if her mouth were pure and sweet.
He withdraws a package from his case and holds it out to her. I think you forgot this yesterday at the bookshop. Calvino is a great author, I didn't want you to miss out on account of me.
Her indecision is tender and new. Take it, he urges. I won't hurt you. He's speaking of many things now, many unknown areas that they both are unsure of. She steps forward carefully, amber eyes fastened on his. Her hands come up to clasp the book, though neither of them moves to release it or draw it away. Instead, he runs his hands over hers, holding her hands, holding the parcel. When she doesn't flinch back, he follows the smooth white skin up her arms, underneath the mane of windy hair, softly up her jawline.
They are poised there for a moment, trapped in time, trapped in her amber eyes. When he kisses her, the music travels up his spine again.
She sees him as a man.
The next day they meet in the same place, hidden from the world. He greets her with a kiss, and she responds eagerly this time, curling her hands in his fair hair. Do you trust me, he murmurs against her white neck, and feels her nod.
He guides her off the trail to a secret clearing made of soft grass, green trees, heavy light. He releases her and sweeps of his cloak and lays it down, lays her down upon it. He lays beside her and tells her that the moon is golden and full, that if she's cold, she ought to remind him. He tells her that she's beautiful. She smiles and asks him what he wants.
His mouth finds hers in answer. One hand travels to the sweetness between her thighs, and draws out her sighs. He sits her up, raises the loose dress from her shoulders, marvels at her young form, flushed pink in the still light. When she moves into him, against him, he shudders, presses himself more tightly to her. His clothes are confining; he removes them. This first time, he is gentle with her, pulsing deep within her, the coil tightening, building, until they both cry out in the darkness.
Afterwords, as she lies naked in his arms, the cool air dries them. She is looking away from him, at that faraway place again, and he traces her neck. Did I hurt you?
No.
What are you thinking of?
Paris. I want to go back.
Why don't you go?
She curves her neck to him, eyes finding his mind. Why don't we?
They meet again in the same place, again, again. The sun follows his hand on her body, traveling down until it cannot be seen. The nights are growing colder. He brings blankets for them to lie upon. She grips him tightly, deep within, eyes opening to the stars above.
September draws near. I love you, he says to her, many times. What will we do when you leave for school?
This will run to the end, she replies. As all things must.
Is that what you want? He asks, his blood rising as poison to his heart.
Her fingers trail down to grasp him, already stiffening again at her touch. I want to remember you.
Days pass. He does not speak of the future any longer. I love you, I love you. We are spiraling faster, flying, spinning, I cannot find you. Feel the sun set on you, my love, think of this and now, remember me.
He thinks about Paris, considers taking her there on the last night. The memory of the first time is hard and flushes him with grief. Her faraway eyes, seeing nothing, knowing everything. Her loose silk dress, the seaside hair, she is a painting. You live deep within oil paints and lacquer, motionless and so far off, so far. I will see you beneath my eyes.
The last time is not gentle, not lingering. He rides her hard, long, fierce as a storm. She lies against the earth and receives him, feels his breath warm on her neck, her breast. When the tempest fades, he cannot move, cannot bear the loss of the soft skin, dewy from his embrace. They lie together a long time.
The next day, he sees his son off. She is there, too, though her eyes do not search the crowded subway to find him. She's with her friends, laughing.
I love you, I love you. I'm sorry I didn't take you to Paris, I couldn't, you would be one thousand miles away from me, and I could not follow. Perhaps your Ronald will go with you there and you will feel music in you. Perhaps you will marry him, love him, bear his children, and you will have a good life. But I am here too, alone and hidden, and I cannot find you except in silence and the touch of darkness, my Hermione.
Thanks for reading! Until next time,
Little Sparrow