Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Author's Notes: It's actually been a while since I've written anything, but I get a lot dramione feelings on almost a daily basis so I thought this up last night and so far it has pretty much written itself.
It starts off pretty light with sadistic undertones, but near the end of this chapter it gets a little angsty — though I don't know why that should surprise me — but I've planned this out (vaguely) to be a five-shot. It might be more than that, depending on the events I choose upon for each meeting but it will be in a linear layout, each chapter covering three dates.
This originally started off as the beginning to a completely different plot, I'm talking cliché fake-relationship trope, but I thought the idea of a love story based around a tree was quite meta and original so.
How canon-compliant this story actually is should be explained in this chapter, if not delved into later on. I promise it's not going to be as dark as the last extract suggests, but I felt as though it was necessary to acknowledge the War.
I drew this up on my iPad, so let me know if you spot any mistakes. I'm really excited to get this going, thus the lack of having it beta-d beforehand (I'll probably regret that later). If you've followed my older (tragically written, Jesus) stories, you'll know I'm not the best at updating regularly, so I do apologise beforehand.
Also, I wrote the entire chapter listening to this song on repeat, so it might create the atmosphere I had for you guys too: 'The Scientist - (cover) by Tyler Ward, Kina Grannis & Lindsey Stirling.' It inspired the title of this story, actually.
Enjoy.
Thursday, March 6th 1997.
"You've got to be kidding me."
He isn't normally this dramatic. Had this been any other day, a crude insult and short spell would've done the trick. But today, she's just begging for a fight. And Merlin help her, she's going to get one.
Thing is, Draco has a tree. It's a small, old tree a couple yards from the castle itself, tucked away at the bottom of the hill overlooking the lake. Branches drooping over picturesquely out of the worn down trunk, leaves almost completely blocking out the sun within the radius of its shadow. A few adolescent carvings are scattered across the surface of the trunk; "BB & CG", "VM & LE" and a particularly messy attempt at drawing a heart with the initials "JP & LE" scrawled in. The sickening couple inscriptions aside, he's adopted it as his very own tree.
And much to the public's disbelief, he'd rather spend his free period taking a nap or reading a book under said tree rather than, say, scheming the next rise of Death Eaters which is (according to Rita Skeeter's most trustworthy source of such stories, her arse) apparently the only thing that sells. Victory is so boring, bring on the next Wizarding War.
He gets looks to this day, suspicious over-the-shoulder glances and deep confusion whenever he rolls his sleeve up for the revelation that alas, he didn't opt for matching father son tattoos. A lot of them began to begrudgingly accept the new turn of events ever since he swallowed his heart and refused to leave the crowd of Harry Potter fanboys by the doors of Hogwarts. Granger had whipped around at the shake of his head to Voldemort himself, and among the murmurs of the crowds and the screaming of his mother fearing for his life, Draco found that all he could grapple onto without passing out was the way her muddy brown eyes lit up with surprise, her mouth twitching into a small smile.
He hasn't stopped thinking about her since.
But this, an actual encounter with the Witch who was currently leaning against the bark of his tree, under his shade, is something he's done very well to avoid since September.
She's sitting there, completely engrossed in a book judging by the way her eyes are glued to the page and she's got her teeth snagging at her bottom lip the way she does when she's particularly interested intellectually. It's driving him completely mad because that's supposed to be him, for fuck's sake and every muggle God help her he's going to make sure she knows it.
"Get up."
His tone is hard enough to have her eyes tearing away from the pages and she's finally, finally looking at him. Shit. He's suddenly met with a pair of wide eyes and he can't believe he thought this was a good idea. Images of her smile that has left him sleepless for one too many nights fly across his mind, having escaped from the dark corner he filed the thoughts away in.
Her eyes furrow once the words sink in, and soon enough she's scowling at him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me, Granger." He squints up at the sun, wondering how much time he has left before he has to decide whether or not to skive Ancient Runes. Dropping his bag to the grass with a thud, Draco stares at her, eyebrow arced expectantly. "Get up, and sod off. This is my spot."
Guessing by the way her cheeks tint and a hot flush climbs up her neck, she's angry. Nice.
"I don't see your name on it, Malfoy." She jabs back matter-of-factly, reaching to pick her book up from her lap where she deposited it earlier.
He's offended. How dare she act like he's not standing here waiting to be listened to. Pulling out his wand, he's surprised to see her only raise her eyebrows in question. Not even a flinch. Bloody Gryffindors and their bloody bravery. Insanity is what it is, a fucking death wish. He raises the tip of his now glowing wand above her head, and with a lazy twist of his wrist his initials magically carve into the bark.
Draco's pretty sure he sees her gasp at the act of vandalism. When her fingers reach up to brush across the D.M and he actually shudders, he's pretty sure he's losing his fucking mind.
She's choosing between being impressed and rolling her eyes when his patience runs thin. "There. Now, fuck off."
Hermione turns a page, running her finger down the spine of the book. "No."
His jaw almost drops, so he clenches it to keep it in place. "What did you just say?"
Her eye roll is almost audible. "I said no, Malfoy. I'm not moving. I'm very comfortable, and you can find another tree."
"The hell I can." With a groan, he settles in the shade of the tree, stretching his limbs out till he's lying on the grass staring up through the cracks in the assortment of branches. He can feel her presence, and watches her watch him from the corner of his eye. Bending an arm behind his head, he blocks her out before she can question him with a firm shutting of his eyes.
She does it anyway, of course. "What do you think you're doing?"
It takes a lot of willpower to not throw a curse her way, or better yet, throw her on her way out of his little sanctuary. A little dip in the pond wouldn't hurt.
Draco wonders if the stick lodged up her arse hurts.
He finds out he's really quite shite at playing dead when she prods again, frustration lacing her words. "Well, what does it fucking look like I'm doing, Granger? I'm getting some sleep and I'm ignoring your existence. Both of which are impossible to do with you prattling on so kindly," He throws an arm across his eyes and shifts atop the grass. "Shut up."
He hears her huff and smiles into his arm when she turns a page loud enough to rip it from the spine, but says nothing.
. . .
It's still daylight when he's nudged awake and he's fucking furious.
He blinks once, twice, to adjust to the light and his eyes settle on the girl hovering above him. At least he thinks it's a girl. After noticing the way the sun behind her halos her hair while it falls in curtains around her face as she leans over him, he catches himself wondering if he's finally fucking died and gone to heaven.
He almost laughs at the fleeting thought.
With his track record, Hell's already probably reserved a nice little fiery pit for him. Maybe he'll see Lucius, definitely Voldemort, his aunt Bellatrix - a good ol' family reunion.
"Malfoy—" She starts, and he's about to Imperius himself, God damn it.
"I swear to Salazar, Granger. Hogwarts better bloody well be on fire right now, or I'll—"
"You'll what, exactly?" She's sat on the back of her calves and she crosses her arms when he rolls his eyes. The movement pushes her breasts up just a tad, even under all those layers he can make out the curves of the upper cups of her bra and he finds himself looking away.
"Well, get to it then. There has to be a reason I'm having to endure your voice." He presses his palms against his face. They're cool in contrast to the warmth in his cheeks, and he rubs the tiredness away. It's been two months since he's realised the only cure for his insomnia is to sleep outside. And not waking up thrashing around in sweat-dampened covers from a nightmare is another crucial plus. He decides no one, not even the Gryffindor golden girl herself can keep him from getting at least some shut-eye.
"You're going to be late for Potions." She's saying in that matter-of-fact voice that makes him want to hear nails dragged across a chalkboard instead. He ponders over her words for a minute, watching the sunlight seep through the gaps between the branches. Potions. That means he's slept through Ancient Runes. Not that it matters, he'd be struggling to remain awake in that bloody class anyway.
"How late?" He asks, realising halfway through the question that he doesn't really care.
"Five minutes, or so." Ha, as if she doesn't know the exact seconds too. Hell would freeze over before Hermione Granger would be more than five minutes late to a lesson. Even five was stretching it. Thank god she's not in his Runes class, else she'd have annoyed him into consciousness much earlier.
"Better never, than late." Draco concludes, pushing himself up onto his elbows and Accio-ing his book bag to him to rummage through.
She sighs an impatient sigh, muttering something along the lines of "whatever" under her breath before stalking away to face Snape's sneer.
He watches her leave.
. . .
Monday, March 10th 1997.
She's there again, and he swears to God, he's going to hex her.
"Do you have a habit of showing up at places you're not wanted?" He begins, muscles sore and aching from practise this morning.
"Nice to see you too, Malfoy." She rolls her eyes impatiently, dog-earing the book she's reading before setting it on her lap. She's leaning up against the trunk of his tree again, but today's she's wearing a skirt, and her robes are sat neatly folded beside her. Her legs are covered, of course, in white tights that are torn at a spot on her left knee and tightly clinging to her skin around her thighs. Well, what he can make out of her thighs with her school-approved-length skirt almost reaching her kneecaps. It takes a minute for him to realise he's staring at her legs, picturing them bare even.
"I don't have time for this, Granger." He really does, though. He's free from lessons the rest of the day, not planning on missing anymore for another week or so since Snape's most recent lecture of attendance last night.
"Truly disappointing. I was quite enjoying our repartee." She almost fucking smirks at him. Yeah, that's it, he's going to kill her.
"I'm sure you were. Must be hard to get more than a one-syllabic response from the Weasel." It's his turn to smirk, and Merlin was he revelling in the way her face dropped or what.
"Piss off, Malfoy." She snaps. Ha! Ooh, he hit a nerve. He makes sure to file that tidbit of information away in the back of his mind for later.
"Unlikely. This is my spot."
"We've been through this," She's sighing at him, flipping through the book in her hands. "I'm not moving."
"Get your own fucking tree."
"I like this one." Her eyes are hard when they catch his.
That no-nonsense tone probably works with Dumb and Dumber, but he likes to think he has somewhat of a backbone. He flips her the bird and she scoffs in response. Well, great.
He drops to the grass by his bag, facing away from her and pulling out his homework. At least he doesn't have to look at her.
Draco has to be two paragraphs in to his Potions essay, and on a roll he might add, when her voice draws out words to hang in the air between them once again. She just wants 'homicide' to be added to the endless list of reasons he should go to hell, doesn't she.
"Are you doing the Potions homework?" He has to admit, he almost laughs at her attempt at civility, knowing such a situation arising where they could both be civil to each other only existing in parallel universes.
"Yes, and it's hard to concentrate with you talking. Or breathing for that matter."
"Oh, I'll just kill myself then." Comes her deadpan response from behind him.
"That would be grand, thanks."
The scratching of his quill against the parchment is the only sound between them for the next ten minutes, and he's falling back into the zone.
"You spelled that wrong, by the way."
The first thing he notices, after the pang of annoyance, is the fact that the voice is much closer than before. A tilt of his head later, he realises it's because she's fucking leaning over his shoulder. The scent of Jasmine and Vanilla and something so distinctly Granger it disgusts him (no, it doesn't), invades his airways enough to make him want to cough it out. Jesus Christ, her face is right there, chin barely brushing his shoulder and her arm reaching around him to point at the word she's referring to.
"Mind your own business, Granger." He finds himself not caring about being discreet when he scoots away slightly. The tightness in his chest loosens when she's no longer fucking on him, breathing the same fucking air as him, Merlin.
"I'm trying to help you." She's surprised he's not lapping up at her help like the two lap dogs she hangs around.
"The only way you can help me is by go fucking yourself."
"My fault for thinking you're someone who wants to pass the class."
She's on her knees with her legs digging into the dirt and there's green stains all over her legs but he can't seem to find 'dirty' being the adjective he'd use to describe her right now at all. He can't take this, he's losing his goddamn mind out here. Too much sun exposure, that must be it. Before she knows it, his parchments are being stuffed into his bag and he's rising from the grass.
"Dish out your wisdom to someone who needs it. I'm second in the year to you, and that's only by a measly percentage." She doesn't look shocked, she knows, she knows he's smart; only frustrated. Good, she gets this rosy colour dab at her cheeks whenever she is, and he doesn't completely despise it. "Besides, I'd rather slit my throat than take advice from the likes of you."
"Seems drastic."
He's fisting his hand around the strap of his bag and counting to ten in his head. He walks away without responding, without turning back and ripping her bushy little head off.
He changes the spelling later on that day.
. . .
Tuesday, March 11th 1997.
This time when he spots her, he doesn't stir up an argument.
He thinks it surprises her as much as it surprises him.
In fact, he doesn't even mutter a word, let alone an insult. He only settles down under the canopy of the branches and leaves and wills himself to fall into blissful sleep to make up for the hours lost to insomnia last night. Trying his best at ignoring her presence entirely, he pushes his crumpled cloak under his head and loosens his tie, popping open a couple buttons of his Oxford.
"Hello." Of course. The bitch can't go twenty seconds without opening that godforsaken mouth. He mentally makes it his mission to find a way to shut her the fuck up. It's weird, but he swears he can hear uneasiness in her voice. It occurs to him that she's not even reading anything, just sat in the shade of his tree, hands wringing together.
Draco makes a grumbling kind of sound in response, as close to a greeting as she's going to get.
He's faking being asleep when she does the stupidest thing she could've at this moment. He doesn't know how she even thinks it's okay for her to pull such a stunt. Merlin knows this girl is certifiably insane. She lies down next to him.
He cracks an eye open, expecting an explanation. Hermione doesn't have one. She just scratches at her arm and stays quiet. Well, this is the absolute worst time for her to keep that gob shut. She's kept her body at a moderate distance from his and he pretends his eyes don't latch onto the way her chest rises and falls with every breath.
"What are you doing?" He's looking at her but she's looking at the sky, arms on her stomach, fingers relentlessly rubbing at that arm.
"Would you fight?" There's no beat of silence between his question and hers, she just throws it at him and he's left trying to figure out when she lost her mind exactly.
It's when Draco asks her what medication she forgot to take in the morning that she turns her head to face him. "The war. If it was to happen again," her breath hitches and he knows she's picturing it. So is he. His heart is racing. Thump, thump, thump. "Would you fight, or hide?"
"Don't you fucking dare—"
"What would you do, Malfoy? Which person would you be? The boy this time last year, or the boy I watched defy the Dark Lord himself?"
Thump, thump, thump. Her smile, Jesus, that small smile. Those eyes, that stared at him with such surprise, such gratitude, fuck fuck fuck. A crowd of people but all he saw was her.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Mud—"
"Say it, Malfoy. Say it. Show me who you really are."
Thump, thump, thump. He fists his hand in the grass between them and yanks out a handful.
"I swear to Salazar, Granger. Shut the fuck up right now, or you're going to regret it." His voice was icy, but it ran over her like she was immune. He roughly pushes his body to face the other way, putting as much distance between them as he could. He is so sick of her shit. Thump, thump, thump.
There's a shaky breath, and he notices it's not his. "I always thought Ron was supposed to be my hero, you know?" Despite her words, Draco realises she's not actually talking to him, she's talking to herself. And he's too sure his voice might waver to interrupt. Thump, thump. "There are no heroes. Not in war. Did you know that? There isn't good or bad, either. Not really. There aren't winners or losers. There is only the dead and the living."
Her voice adopts a haunting tone, and it's slowing the drumming of his heart, easy, easy. He's almost leaning closer to her, her words tugging at him.
"It changed me, the war. It changed us all—yes. But I can't look at the world the same. It's not black and white, good and evil. There's so much more than that."
She's saying aloud the thoughts he's had cluttering his mind for a year. He shifts his body to face her. She's staring up at the sky, words tumbling absently from her lips.
"I have nightmares. Almost every night. Madam Pomfrey says I have PTSD. Sometimes I wake up screaming." Her nails scratch at the arm again. His eyes narrow when he realises why. Shit.
"I get them too." It's not her voice this time, it's his. Her head snaps towards his and it's like she forgot he was here. He doesn't know where this is coming from, but a dam is broken and it's rushing out, gushing out of his mouth. "The only way they stop is if I don't sleep. I have severe insomnia."
"You sleep here."
He wants her to stop scratching at that arm, it's red and raw and bruises are forming.
"Only way I can." What is he doing? "Stop it."
Her nails are almost ripping away the skin.
"I used to get panic attacks. Did you?" Her voice is vague, distant, and he's fucking scared.
"Granger, stop."
"I don't love Ron anymore." She blurts out, and her eyes widen when she realises it's the truth.
He's not listening anymore though, he's sat up now, reaching out and grabbing her arm, pulling her up. Draco pries her fingers off it, and looks back at her. Her eyes hold more clarity, and she's staring at him like he's the only thing to hold on to without blacking out.
Thump, thu-thump.
"Bloody hell, Granger." He whispers, casting his gaze downwards to her mauled forearm. His fingertips graze over the bumps of the newly formed bruises and she shivers. It's not cold, the sun's rays on his back remind him. His forehead is damp, when did he start sweating? Spells are muttered in hushed tones and her arm heals itself, his thumb still dropping fleeting brushes over her soft, soft skin.
He should say sorry, but he just can't. It's not enough. It'll never be enough. He's glad his Aunt is dead.
"Thank you."
Draco stares at her wordlessly. Her eyes are shiny with tears, he can see his reflection in them. A nod is all he can form. That, and the realisation that he needs to run.
Dropping her arm like he's been burned (and he swears to Merlin he is, his fingers are on fire) by the feel of her, he almost scurries up to stand. His knees shake a little, so does her bottom lip before she bites into it, looking up at him.
Thump, thump, thump.
"I would fight." He says and it's almost inaudible, but the glimpse of her eyes widening again lets him know that he's heard her. He really shouldn't have said that, his verbal control is at a minimum today.
He's about to leave when she does it, she smiles.
She smiles that small smile, the exact one that he suspects is branded onto the inside of his eyelids, and he's fucking wrecked.
. . .