For Ned via GGE.
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Insane House Competition: DracoHermione
Word Count: 2905
"I'm telling you, Hermione," Ginny says, pulling Hermione through the crowded gallery, "you have to see this!"
Hermione doesn't protest. Her curiosity has been captured. Ginny had been reluctant to accompany her to the museum until roughly five minutes ago, and she can't help but wonder what changed her best friend's mind.
"See?"
Hermione raises her brows as she studies the painting that has caught Ginny's interest. It's a lovely enough oil on canvas, but not particularly interesting. A young woman sits in a garden, weaving together a crown of flowers.
"She looks just like you," Ginny says, her tone urgent.
Hermione frowns and takes a step back. She supposes there is some resemblance— the same messy brunette curls and clever eyes. As amusing as the resemblance is, it hardly warrants such excitement.
"Flower Girl," comes a voice from behind them.
Hermione turns, startled by the low drawl. A blond man smiles at her before offering Ginny a polite bow of his head.
"The artist is unknown, but the painting was discovered in 1897," he explains. "It's been in the family for years."
"It's an exquisite piece," Ginny says. "I was just telling Hermione that the girl looks just like her."
The stranger takes Hermione's hand gently in his own, studying her curiously, as though she's another painting on display. "Your beauty could rival any piece of art this gallery offers," he tells her.
Hermione feels her cheeks grow warm with color. She turns her gaze to Ginny, but her best friend is no help; she only grins and waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
"I think I'll get a drink," Ginny announces. "You two crazy kids have fun."
Before Hermione can protest, Ginny hurries off. She swears under her breath. This isn't what she'd had in mind when she asked Ginny to go with her to this exhibit. She had expected Ginny to stay by her side, for a great girls' night out. Now, she feels hopelessly lost.
"Your friend isn't very subtle," the blond muses.
"Subtlety is not a trait that runs in her family," Hermione agrees.
"I'm Draco, by the way. Draco Malfoy."
"Hermione Granger."
"Beautiful name for a beautiful lady," he says.
Hermione shifts her weight from foot to foot anxiously. This should make her uncomfortable, but there's something about the mysterious man that almost feels familiar.
She pushes that thought aside. Her imagination has always run rampant. She's imagining things, and Draco is just some handsome man who probably tries this pick up act all the time.
"I'd better go find Ginny," she says quietly.
Draco shrugs. "Suit yourself. May we meet again."
Hermione almost laughs. It seems like such a silly thing to say. Maybe he expects her to find him on Facebook later. "Have a good night," she says.
…
"He was cute," Ginny tells her. "Why didn't you get his number?"
Hermione rolls her eyes. "He may be cute, but that's not what matters." She digs in her purse, searching for the key to her flat. "I mean, that didn't seem creepy to you?"
The other girl exhales deeply. "A handsome stranger trying to get a date? Have you ever been to a bar, Hermione?" she asks. "That guy was the farthest thing from creepy."
Hermione shakes her head. She doesn't care for bars. In fact, she doesn't even want to look for a relationship at all; the idea of dating has always felt strange to her. She has never been able to explain it, but she feels like she's destined for something else, something that no man who's tried to catch her eye could ever provide her.
"I think we have different definitions of 'creepy'," she laughs, plucking her key from the bottom of her purse.
"Or maybe I just have a better sense of adventure," Ginny counters.
They come to a stop outside Hermione's home and say their goodbyes before going their separate ways. Once inside, Hermione changes into her pajamas before pouring herself a glass of wine. She plans to just relax and curl up with a good book, but her thoughts keep returning to Draco Malfoy.
There's something about him that seems so familiar, but she can't quite place it. It almost feels as though they've met before, but she's certain she would remember. As charming and charismatic as he appeared earlier, she doubts he's the type that would be easy to forget.
Hermione shakes her head, slamming her book shut. "Get a grip, Hermione," she mutters to herself.
Somehow, it isn't that simple. Her mind continues to race, and all she can see are those icy blue eyes and that crooked smile. No one has ever managed to get under her skin so completely.
Abandoning hope for a peaceful night, she sets her book on the bedside table and turns off the light. Maybe a good night's sleep will be enough to get him out of her head. With a yawn, she sinks back into the pillows, drawing the blankets over her body, and slowly begins to drift.
…
She giggles as he chases her through the garden. These little games they play have always brought her such great joy. She knows she ought not enjoy this; it's hardly ladylike, after all. But she grins as she lifts her skirt and petticoat enough to leap over a hedge. Coyly, she pulls off one of her gloves and drapes it over the hedge— white satin truly stands out nicely against the dark, glossy leaves.
"Where are you, my little mouse?" His voice drifts through the air, but he still sounds somewhat far away.
Still grinning from ear to ear, she hurries along, the buds and blossoms blurring into streaks of vibrant color as she passes them. "Come find me, my silly cat!"
…
Hermione wakes with a groan. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, sitting up.
She had been dreaming, but she can't quite remember what it was about. Colors blur in her mind, and she can still smell the sweet perfume of flowers, but that's all.
Yawning, she presses a button on her alarm clock, illuminating the screen. Four in the morning. Too late to call Ginny and— what, exactly? Tell Ginny about her strange dream? It's hardly Ginny's forte, and the most she could do is send Hermione to Luna.
The thought makes Hermione chuckle. Luna is a sweet girl, but she's a little too into the New Age scene. She'd probably offer Hermione a tea she'd call a potion before talking about the benefits of hypnosis and crystals.
It isn't a big enough deal to bother anyone with. People have strange dreams all the time, and, really, her dream wasn't exactly unusual. Just hard to remember.
Hermione lays down again, but her mind refuses to relax and allow her to fall asleep again. Her eyes refuse to close, and she stares at the ceiling until the first rays of sunlight filter in through the curtains.
…
"You look like shit," Ginny says bluntly, handing Hermione her regular morning coffee. "Busy night?"
"I didn't sleep well," Hermione admits, a smile on her lips at the warm, robust scent of the steam drifting through the holes of the lid.
Ginny smirks. "Facebook stalking the hot art bloke?" she asks.
Hermione rolls her eyes and sips the coffee as they continue their morning routine of walking to work. "Hardly," she answers. "Just… I had a weird dream and couldn't fall back to sleep."
"Weird how? You know my friend Luna can interpret dreams," Ginny tells her.
Hermione almost laughs. It's exactly what she'd expected Ginny to say. She shakes her head and pushes a hand through her messy curls. "Pretty sure I'd need something more substantial than flowers for interpretation."
"Were you making a flower crown, like in the painting?" Ginny asks teasingly.
Hermione glares at her friend. Sometimes she wonders why she even bothers trying to have a serious conversation with Ginny.
When Hermione doesn't answer, Ginny continues. "I'm just saying. He happens to own a painting of a woman who looks just like you. It's meant to be!"
"And you're meant to be at work now," Hermione says dryly as they near the sporting goods shop.
Ginny huffs, poking her lips out in a pitiful pout. "Fine. But this isn't over," she concedes. "I'll talk to you later."
The two part ways, and Hermione continues deeper into the heart of the city alone. By the time she reaches the library, the last few swallows of her coffee have grown cold. She downs the near icy dregs before tossing the cup into the bin.
"Good morning, Hermione," Irma greets her in a clipped, stiff tone that implies it isn't a good morning at all.
"Good morning, Irma," Hermione replies brightly before taking her place behind the desk.
The library is surprisingly empty for a Saturday morning. Most Saturdays are packed with university students making a mad dash to the reference section. Today, however, there are only a few students seated at tables, and a woman helping her young son pick out a book.
It's early enough that she doesn't have to perform any duties yet, so Hermione takes a seat in her favorite spinny chair and grabs her book from her purse. Her mind had been too distracted to read the night before, but she finally feels like she can focus now. She opens the book and sets her bookmark aside, eagerly taking in each line of text on the page.
It's easy to lose herself in the book. For nearly half an hour, no one disturbs her reading, and she gets through three chapters before she hears the approaching footsteps. She returns her bookmark and sets the book aside just as a familiar voice says, "Could you please direct me to the art— Ah! Miss Granger. Lovely to see you again."
Draco Malfoy offers her a genuine smile, as though he really is happy to see her again. Hermione shifts awkwardly in her chair, smoothing out any wrinkles that might have creased her blouse. "Mister Malfoy," she says.
"Draco," he corrects. "Mister Malfoy was my father."
"Draco," she agrees, climbing to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Irma glaring at her. The old vulture probably thinks Hermione is flirting on company time. "You wanted to see the art section. Right this way."
Even as she leads Draco through the labyrinthine rows of shelves, she can still feel Irma's judgemental eyes on her. "Old bat," she mutters.
"What was that?" Draco asks.
"Nothing. Sorry."
There's a quick stretch of silence between which Draco breaks after only a few moments. "Librarian, eh? Not surprising at all."
Hermione raises her eyebrows in confusion. She doesn't understand what he means. He hasn't spoken to her long enough to learn of her love for books. The night before, she had dressed so unlike herself that no one would have been able to guess her occupation with just a glance. "What isn't surprising?"
A soft pink creeps into his pale cheeks, and he pulls anxiously at his collar. "I just meant that you seem like the bookish type," he says, his confident tone wavering. "Tell me, do you feel the books calling to you?"
She considers it for a moment. She's never really looked at it that way, but it describes it perfectly. Since she was a little girl, she's never gone longer than a few hours without a book in her hand. "I suppose so," she answers.
Draco offers her a small smile. "A brilliant mind makes an already attractive one damn near irresistible," he tells her.
Hermione swallows dryly, unable to resist a shiver that shoots down her spine at his words. She looks away quickly, trying to ignore the heat that floods her cheeks. Why should she care what he finds attractive? They barely know one another.
"Here you are," she says, coming to a stop and gesturing at the row of books before them. "Everything we have on art. If you need anything else, let me know."
As she turns to leave, he catches her hand gently in his. Hermione gasps; it feels like a powerful surge of electricity is shooting through her body.
…
"You've given me quite the chase, my little mouse."
She keeps her back pressed to the trunk of the tree, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. His soft footsteps, muffled against the grass, grow closer.
"Are we not too old for these childish games?"
"Never, my silly cat," she answers before pushing herself off the tree and sprinting through the garden once more.
As she turns the corner, she catches a glimpse of him. Pale skin that is only slightly lighter than his fair hair. Thin pink lips pulled into a smile. And the most beautiful blue eyes she's ever seen.
…
"Miss Granger?"
Her eyes flutter open. With a groan, she sits up. Her head throbs, and when she goes to rub it, she can feel a knot forming already. "What happened?"
"You fainted."
Blue eyes. Beautiful, familiar blue eyes.
Hermione blinks rapidly, shaking her head. She winces from the pain of the movement. "I dreamt… I dreamt…"
Her sentence trails off. It doesn't matter what she dreamt. It's just a silly dream, and he wouldn't care. So why does she feel the urge to tell him?
"Yes?" Draco presses.
"Nothing. Doesn't matter."
Irma appears before her, scowling. "If you aren't well, you shouldn't have come in," she snaps. "Go home. Shoo!"
Normally, Hermione would protest. Now, she doesn't have it in her. Though she would much rather stay at the library, she feels like there's something more important she needs to do.
She offers Draco a polite wave before hurrying off to collect her things.
…
Luna Lovegood's flat is just as strange as the girl who lives there. As Hermione passes through the beaded curtain, she's hit by the overpowering scent of burning sage. The living room is in disarray. Runestones and tarot cards sit on the coffee table beside a star chart that has been stained by tea. Vials line the shelves, filled with strange concoctions.
"I hope you don't mind," Hermione says. "Ginny said she spoke to you."
Luna offers her a bright smile and guides her to the couch. "No problem at all," she assures her. "Strange dreams?"
"They feel more like memories," Hermione murmurs, plucking a book on healing magic from the table and thumbing through it just to have something to do.
"Past lives are funny like that," Luna says, as casually as someone commenting on how strange the weather can be.
"Past lives?" It takes every ounce of restraint not to laugh. "Like reincarnation?"
"Yes. Exactly like that. There's often a connection in our lives. Occupations, places, people. All of mine were occultists in one way or another," Luna explains. "I'll make tea."
…
Hermione feels ridiculous as Luna places the strange crystal on her forehead. Still, she feels at peace. She doesn't know what was in the tea Luna gave her, but it has relaxed her mind.
"Close your eyes."
Hermione does as she's told.
"Now, feel your body relax slowly. Every part of you. First, your toes. Feel it slowly spread up your body. As each muscle relax, you will feel yourself sinking into the sofa."
It's strange. As though Luna's voice has some control over her, Hermione feels her body tingle. Slowly, her limbs begin to sink. Her mind is completely clear.
"You are in a corridor. Just as you've had many lives, there are many doors along the hall. Which one calls to you?"
She can see them perfectly. Each door is exactly the same, but there is one the seems to pull her closer. Hermione's legs carry her forward, and she reaches out, opening it.
…
"There you are, little mouse!" Brutus laughs. His white blond hair looks yellow in the sunlight.
"But I wasn't done with our game," Elyria says, pouting.
Her husband chuckles, setting his easel down. "Quite easy for you to play games when you are not burdened," he teases, preparing his canvas.
With a mischievous grin, she lifts her skirt and petticoat, revealing a scandalous amount of leg. "Shall I pose like this?" she asks. "I hear it's all the rage in Paris."
Brutus snorts. "Savages," he says simply. "I want something that will hang in the finest galleries some day."
She laughs and sits down in the grass, pushing her messy curls behind her ears. "Why would anyone want to look at me?" she wonders aloud, plucking a few flowers and carefully tying the stems together.
"Only a fool wouldn't."
…
Her eyes open, and a smile stretches her lips. "He found me," she whispers.
She climbs to her feet, pulling Luna into a tight hug. She's never believed in this stuff; it's always been ridiculous, impossible nonsense. Still, this is enough to make her believe.
"Thank you!"
And with that, she bolts from the tiny flat, running through the busy city. It's all so clear now.
…
Draco seems to be waiting for her. He stands beside the painting, greeting her with a smile. "What do you remember?" he asks.
Hermione throws her arms around him, kissing him. "Hello," she whispers, "my silly cat."
With a laugh, he brushes his fingers through her hair. "I knew you'd figure it out, little mouse."