Lock-and-key theory.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling. I'm making no profit from this.
He combs his hair, attempting to tame it into something acceptable, before giving up. Harry remembers this one time, back at Hogwarts, and although he didn't think it meant anything, he still thinks about it when he looks out into the growing world of green and blue and red.
"You know, Granger," Malfoy had sneered, his wand being twirled in between his fingertips, making it seem like some type of trick. "For a Mudblood, I know some people who wouldn't mind knocking you up."
He had moved closer with every word, his voice growing softer as his wand came out to wrap around a tendril of her curls. He let it caress the side of her cheek, and Harry can't quite remember what Hermione's eyes were like at that point. He knows that they were dark, and they were mad, but he remembers thinking that maybe there was some other emotion there.
But Hermione had shoved Malfoy aside as his lips had come close to her ear, and Harry remembers thinking that they were moving, but he still isn't sure.
Harry had been waiting for her around the corner, and although he had heard voices, he didn't think they belonged to her. But he had turned and had watched the scene unfold, and when he came over and told Malfoy to sod off, his own wand tightly clenched in his fist, he felt that he stood next to Hermione as a protector.
But she had glanced at him with a hint of shock and a frozen smirk. She barely muttered anything but Harry remembers pivoting after her and noticing the flush on her neck.
---
He pulls on his black socks underneath his black trousers, reaching under his bed to pull out the shiny shoes that he must wear for tonight. Harry thinks again to another time where they sat around the Weasleys' large wooden table, waiting for other family members to come home.
Ginny and Hermione were talking, the latter girl's hair a ball of flame as the setting sun slipped past the windows. Harry glanced at the big clock, wondering what everyone was doing, but his eyes kept drifting towards the girls. Thinking about the freckles and the gangly limbs that were a trademark, wondering if it was really true that freckles could be transferred over to someone else with a simple spell. Wondering if their skin was smooth, soft like the epidermis of a baby, snow-white…
Harry remembers that he was trying to keep his mind occupied from remembering the white tomb, thinking of the rotting and decaying corpse with maggots writhing in the sockets. He remembers thinking that he had fumbled with the tablecloth for a while as Ron left for the loo, when someone with a white beam of hair had appeared in the fireplace, looking determinedly not at the brown-haired girl.
He remembers thinking, Holy shit, is that God? until he turned around and saw the disdainful look in Malfoy's sunken eyes and called for Arthur Weasley to take care of the prick. He couldn't be in the same room – not yet, not now. It was too early for him, he remembers thinking, and he pushed back his chair, purposely into Malfoy's face, and moves to Hermione's side. He placed his hand there, and even now, Harry can still remember the way that her whole body was locked into one position and she seemed to not award Malfoy a single token of recognition.
---
He pulls his belt through the loops before he buttons the white dress shirt. He struggles briefly with the bowtie before allowing it to just lie around his neck. There was this one time, Harry muses again, where they had sat around a mahogany table instead, but it was scratched with various names and numbers, some parts etched until Harry could trace the lines on the other side of the table. He remembers seeing an inscription of G+M inside of an incomplete heart, but there had been so many other hearts, it didn't really matter anymore.
People were yelling and shouting, mostly with tired voices but with frantic movements. Their speech was cracked, hoarse from strained vocal cords and beaten by the sharp cold wind from the depths of winter. Everyone seemed to be arguing very persuasively towards each other, and all Harry was thinking about was how Dumbledore would most likely be settling this: he would be listening and then telling everyone what to do. Sirius would argue to his last breath to ensure Harry's safety, but the curtain suddenly shivered against the windowpane and Harry dismissed his thoughts for Sirius. He still couldn't handle it.
He felt the table moving back and forth before he heard the methodical scratching sound of blade against bark. Harry remembers looking over at the disturbance amidst the rising crescendo of voices, and he remembers feeling a mild curiosity because his nerves were so zapped, he just needed a good night's rest before everything could finally reach to his brain quicker than now, and he had peered at the blond head, his aristocrat nose just inches away from the table as he carefully – almost dedicatedly – scratched his memoir.
The meeting ended and everyone hurried out, ready to do their own things and to sacrifice their time even more. Malfoy had flicked his switchblade closed and with a swift, final glance at his surroundings and a brisk nod, he stalked out of the room, probably to rest. Only Harry and Hermione were left in the room, and she was packing all her belongings for she had brought books and a quill and paper, and Harry remembers her jotting down her notes at every meeting, almost as if a secretary.
He remembers hearing the crunching of paper, as if she was shoving all her parchment hastily, making sure that Harry couldn't see anything, but Harry thought it was because she had wanted to spend time with him and Ron. So he said nothing about that to her that day, although now, he wishes that he had.
Harry can almost feel the way the words are engraved into the table; like Malfoy wanted to make sure that they would stay forever. They were clean and clear; apparently, the other boy had blown across the surface to make sure that none of the shavings would make it look less than perfect.
"Hey, Hermione," Harry's fingers were clenched to his side, "what does this mean?"
"Nothing," and with the finality in her voice, he dismissed it, slinging an arm over her shoulder as she approached. He had seen her glancing down, but he thought back then that it was because she wanted to check the stability of her bag, but now he realizes that she was reading what Malfoy wrote, secretly, and Harry understands now that she knew exactly what it meant.
---
The bowtie is now placed perfectly around his neck, and he looks at his reflection in the mirror. There are some moments imprinted forever in his mind, Harry knows, thinking about the times when Hermione had acted strangely emotional. Even today, Ron and him would wonder why Hermione would burst into tears after laughing hysterically five minutes before. They would chalk it up to her menstruation period, looking at each queasily, shifting their body weight, before launching into another healthy stream of Quidditch talk.
There were few times when Hermione would openly display acts of violence. They had had a discussion – her, Ron, and him – talking about a spy that had infiltrated their ranks. Everyone was being monitored, and it was only now where the trio had been able to talk to each other, alone.
They were sitting in the kitchen, Hermione making them grilled sandwiches. It was warm inside, and Harry and Ron were joking to each other about Hermione's culinary skills, but after she had snapped at them (with a cheer in her eye, Harry notes) to make their own food, they kept their smiling mouths shut. Soon, she had served the burnt bread to them, and while Ron's food was in his mouth, he began speaking about the mole.
"You know what," he started and Hermione handed him a napkin, "thanks, Hermione, I'm thinking that, it's gotta be Malfoy. I mean, you really believe his 'reformed Death Eater' shit?"
Harry remembers trying to exchange looks with Hermione but she was looking firmly at Ron with her lips pulled back into a grim line. "Stop talking about it, Ronald."
"Harry, don't you agree? It's definitely got to be the bugger. He leaves at certain times during the day while clutching his arm." He raised his eyebrows emphatically, munching through the other half of the sandwich. "Then, he disappears during the certain times of the day, and we have no idea where he goes off to. He doesn't talk to any of us, and he's always got that ugly disposition with the 'I've got something rotten under my nose' look. His – his trademark, practically," he swallowed the lump in his throat before continuing. Ron glanced at Hermione, "And he obviously still abhors –"
"Stop it, Ronald!" Hermione's sandwich was placed on the countertop, a few bites present in the bread. "You don't know what you're talking about! You're always trying to frame Malfoy for everything!" She was advancing on him, as Ron twisted his head to the side, his mouth agape. She jutted her finger and stabbed Ron viciously in his chest until Harry had intervened.
Harry shudders still at the memory of her face, how angry she looked at him, brown eyes smouldering, her cheeks flushed and the severe angles of her face highlighted by the shadows of the room. Harry remembers placing his hand over hers, bringing it away to prevent her from leaving Ron an indentation in his chest.
"You know, maybe if you weren't so blinded by your hatred of the Malfoy name, then you'd understand that some people can change!" Furious tears began to slide down her cheeks, slowly, and Harry remembers releasing her shaking hand.
"Are you daft, Hermione? I know that you feel like you should forgive everyone, but I think this has gone too far, even for you!" Ron began to raise his voice back at her, his skin turning the same shade as his hair.
She raised her hand and slapped Ron as hard as she could, and Harry thinks about the time that she had slapped Malfoy, and sees the similarity in Ron's face, almost as pale as Malfoy's when Hermione's handprint was stark red against his cheek.
"The difference between you and the Draco today, Weasley, is that he wouldn't dare say these things about you anymore." Hermione looked at the both of them with an almost imperious look, as she swiftly turned her back on them.
Ron began to sputter something, but Harry only told him to stop, just leave Hermione be for right now. Harry, today, shakes his head, knowing how hard it was for Ron to have Hermione forgive him. He still doesn't know whether Hermione had defended Draco's name because she believed him repented or whether it was because of some underlying feeling.
---
It is a couple of years after the Dark Lord's death, and finally, Harry Potter and the rest of England can peacefully celebrate New Year's, sitting around a table with their comrades – friends – while leisurely sipping champagne or dancing. Harry sits next to Ron, tapping his toes steadily to the waltz, remembering how Hermione had taught him, between the rolling of her eyes and the clutching of her sides from laughter.
Thinking about her seems to have made her appear magically from the crowd as she walks confidently towards them, her brown hair tamed into a French knot with Sleakeasy's behind her, and she wears a satin dress that clings to her body in a modest way. Harry grins at her approaching and elbows Ron roughly.
"What the – oh," Ron manages to utter, staring at her in shock, before pulling a chair out for her.
"Thank you, Ron," she smiles at him. "So, boys, where are your dates? I do hope that you're treating them better than the Patil twins at the Yule Ball."
Harry smiles and inclines his head towards the redhead on the dance floor. "She graciously allowed me to sit down for a dance or two."
Hermione rolls her eyes before turning to Ron. "And you, Ron? Where's your date?" She cranes her neck, apparently searching for a girl sulking in a corner.
"Very funny, Hermione. She's currently in the ladies' room."
"Oh right, that's where she said she was going," she winks at both of the boys before they laugh.
"And what about you, Hermione?" Harry inquires, and he notices she looks at him with a different air, tilting her chin up almost defiantly, and she glances at the door.
Malfoy has her coat under his arm as he speaks pleasantries with the maitre d'. The latter man calls one of his boys to take Malfoy's coats hurriedly, and Malfoy nods at him. He relinquishes himself from the idle chitchat, moving assuredly across the dance floor towards Hermione.
Her lips are quirked in a small smile, a token of affection that Ron scowls at before looking away, towards the loo.
"Potter, Weasel," Malfoy greets them with a clipped tone, as he reaches down for Hermione's hand. "May I have this dance, Granger?"
Harry notices her squeezing his hand gently before acquiescing, and they are both on the dance floor, quickly, her body moving fluidly with his as they seem to spare each other no words, just movements that Harry knows they have practiced off the dance floor.
When he sees the light sparkling from a ring on her finger, he remembers back to the time where night had already fallen, and rain was beating heavily against the ground, making swirling puddles of dirt. He had seen the boy that Harry hated for all his years during Hogwarts talking animatedly with Hermione.
He had been caressing her hands, bringing her fingertips up to his lips to kiss them, when he sunk to his knees. Harry had stood under the cover of shadow as Hermione's hand placed itself over her heart, and she had torn her hand away from Malfoy's. Harry remembers her hair clinging to her face as she covered her mouth.
She had gone down on her knees as well, sinking into the mud, grabbing hold onto him, as she kissed his cheek tenderly. She brushed back a lock of his hair as they held each other under the rain, letting the wet dirt slide from their sopping skin.
Harry continued to stand in the shadows before turning away, only hoping that they would have the sense to get out of the rain.
Now all the things began to click into place.
AN: