Okay, okay. I caved! The number of reviews just blew me away and I felt like the first chap got such a great response I would treat y'all with a follow-up. Normal disclaimers apply. This is the same scene as the last chapter- but from somebody else's perspective….No prizes for guessing who! Please review 3
By the way, guys- for those of you who read/speak/understand Chinese, there is now a translation available on FF's Chinese Language Filter. I've given permission to the very talented translater, Hyp-Evil, so if you're able to read Chinese, go check it out!
He took a deep breath as he entered the quiet but bustling coffee shop, trying to force himself to relax. Meeting the eye of the dark-haired waiter he had spoken to several days before, Draco raised an eyebrow. He gave a discreet nod, and motioned to follow him into a small room. It was empty. A wave of relief washed over him. That was good. She wasn't here yet. Yet, a voice in his mind repeated. That is, if she comes at all. He settled into a chair, gripping the arm tightly. If she had any common sense, she wouldn't come. If she was smart, she would realize who he was, what he was, and send a team of Aurors to storm the place and kill him on the spot. But he knew her. And she had long ago, just like him, tired of being sensible. Tired of being smart. It was at that point in both of their lives where their paths had crossed, and, after business had been completed, he had been the one who initiated the more intimate contact.
He had not deceived her, he chanted over and over in his mind, stubbornly trying to repel the wave of guilt that felt suspiciously Gryffindor and altogether foreign. He had simply withheld his name, withheld a detail that would have prohibited this level of trust, this level of depth. Hermione was far beyond smart, but she was also achingly tired of being who everyone thought she was. That he understood, because he felt it, too. A wry smile forced its way onto his face. The final irony was that, if she did see him, she would no doubt revert back to what everyone thought of him. He glanced at the clock. 2:57.
He rose, startled, knowing that, being the punctual person she was, she would endeavor to always be two minutes early. Malfoy stepped out of the room, asking the waiter to inform him once she had arrived. A few minutes later, he passed in the hallway, and gave a nod. He hesitated for a split second.
"Did-did she bring a scarf?" He asked. He nodded.
"Yes. An old-"
"-Gryffindor one, I presume," he muttered. Shoving all qualms into the back of his mind, he handed him the envelope. He knew why she'd chosen that scarf, it wasn't just out of comfort, it was because of his nickname, Red. She'd correctly identified part of the reason why it had been given, but Malfoy knew she couldn't possibly understand the larger part. The nickname had existed long before their written correspondence, subsisting as a strange kind of association in his mind for as long as he could remember.
Red was, in so very many ways, completely and utterly the essence of Hermione Granger.
Red was loyalty and passion for anything and everyone close to her heart. It was her unwavering, unflinching faith and determination in herself, in good: in, he dared to believe, himself. Red was the color the very tip of her nose as she sat in the stands, urging her house to victory in a Quidditch match, flushed from pleasure and excitement and happiness. He himself could say that he had been responsible for a similar blush that stained her otherwise fair cheeks on one cold day in third year, albeit for an entirely different reason. It was the color she had consistently made him see for seven years as she outshone him, the color he saw when he spotted her nowadays, still trailing around after her friends, who were so completely oblivious to her hurt, her confusion, her frustration.
Red was the color of the ink that had spattered her small hands regularly, probably due to the countless hours she had spent correcting her clueless friends' transfiguration essays. It was how she bit her lip when she concentrated; upper lip in Ancient Runes, lower in potions. Red was fire and fear, lions and dragons. Red was danger and beauty, volatility and vulnerability, destructive and mesmerizing. Red- both the color and the person it represented- was everything he wanted- fire, fierceness, depth, brilliance- but had always been too terrified to go after. Red was a color of death and a color of life- the color of blood and love, the only two things that, once lost, meant death, in some form, was ultimately inevitable.
It hadn't always been like that, though. Red had first meant something lacking in the depth that their conversations had perpetuated. He hadn't always felt this way- he hadn't spent seven years pining after her, but she'd always been there. No, first, he had recognized her as an equal to himself. He was ice, and she was fire. He was cold and unmoving, she was versatile and radiated heat. His was a strength borne from years of enduring cruelty and perpetuating oppression: hers a result of fighting it, of refusing to quit, growing stronger and brighter with each passing day, like a flame. As long as there was oxygen, he mused, a flame thrives, and Hermione Granger had done much the same. She had never stopped fighting for her survival. First, she'd had to learn to survive in a completely new world, then a world being ripped apart, then a world slowly piecing itself back together.
But those struggles were nothing, nothing, compared to the war she was waging now. A wry smile twisted his face. In all the years he had known her, watched her face off against truly menacing opponents- himself included- she had finally found a worthy opponent, one truly capable of destroying her: herself. He realized he was, by now, standing in the doorway, staring at her with a slight smile. He was somewhat surprised to see she'd honored his request and forgone the scarf, which now hung loosely around her neck, a sharp contrast to her white shirt. Her body language shifted, as if sensing his presence, and he cleared his throat, hoping-praying-she would remain unable to recognize his voice.
"It's alright, Red. Don't hex me now, will you?" He spoke, breaking the silence that radiated anticipation. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but not fully.
"No promises," she replied, falling with strange ease into a familiar, comforting pattern. She tugged at the end of the ribbon, seeming frustrated. "This is ridiculous." Malfoy bit back a smile, unable to resist taking a few tentative steps forwards.
"Not ridiculous," he murmured back. "Humor me, remember?" She smelled of caramel and spices, mingling with a fresh, clean smell like rainwater that was elusive and essentially Hermione. A stray lock of golden brown hair fell across her forehead, and he clenched a fist to avoid brushing it away. She beat him to it, scooping the hair behind her ear in a familiar way he must have inadvertently seen her do at least a hundred times during their school years. She cleared her throat, breaking his spell somewhat.
"And what, may I ask, was so affronting about the Gryffindor scarf that made this necessary?" She asked, amusement masquerading as indignation on her expression. The comment elicited a rare laugh from him, so natural, done without thinking, so easy it surprised him.
"It was just so very typical of you, Red. And you're anything but typical," he whispered. This, he thought, was surely penance for the years he'd thought she was exactly that. Boring. Uninteresting, unimportant. Her body language shifted closer towards him, and for one terrifying second he thought she was going to tug the red silk away, open her eyes.
"Take it off," she whispered. "I want to see. I want to know." Of course she did. Not knowing something was painful for her. But he knew that knowing, in the long run, would be a far more painful process, and he was loathe to cause her more pain than he already did, so he smoothly diverted her attention, knowing she'd see right through it, but deciding to do it anyway.
"It scares you, doesn't it? That you know, somewhere inside of yourself, that that would be a very bad idea. You know, Red, I think that somewhere inside of you, you already know who I am," he whispered, then pausing, adding an afterthought. "What I am. You just don't want to admit it just yet." Her breathing quickened; they both knew he was right.
"W-what if I figure it out?" The words tumbled quickly out of her mouth, and she bit the corner of her lip. He tensed, knowing that it wasn't a question of if that she was talking about, and they both knew it. It was a question of when.
"Everything will change," his voice replied, then frowned, trying to sound more light-hearted. "What are names anyway, Red? What do they matter? What good do they do anybody?" There was no way she could have missed the undertones of seriousness in his voice, but she played along.
"They help you to know somebody."
"Judging a book by its cover, Red?" His voice was low, edged with a black kind of humor that he could tell from her body language she appreciated, even if it frustrated her. "There are other ways of doing that," he whispered. "You're smart, Red. You have four other senses. Tell me who I am, based on them. And blindfold or not, I know you're rolling your eyes," he added, and her eyebrows raised, she laughed. The sound, although soft and quiet, was genuine and warm.
"Alright. I…I know your voice, it sounds familiar…Like I knew it once, but that you've changed since then." He had frozen when she admitted she recognized his voice, but then relaxed a little.
"Thank you, Red," he said gently, his tone full of warmth and sincerity, but still laced with the same sadness. The thank you couldn't really make sense to her, but it did to him. By telling him that, she was admitting that he had changed. That he was a different person now, that it wasn't just the inside that had changed, but the outside, too.
"T-Then there's…Touch," she whispered, and instinctively, reached out, smacking into his forehead. He made an amused sound but didn't comment as her hand trailed over the shape of his face. Her touch was light but surprisingly confident, and the way her fingers briefly ran through his hair made his stomach clench, relaxing briefly into her touch. Then it was gone, and she was holding his shirt under her hands, fingers curled around the material, her fingers just slightly brushing the exposed skin where he'd loosened his tie and undone the shirt's top button.
"What color is it?" She whispered. He hesitated for a second, staring down at her fingers, and the black button-down shirt she was holding.
"White," he replied quietly, the lie coming easily, far, far too easily. She nodded slightly, uncurling her fingers and pressing her hand out flat just over his heart, running her thumb idly over the material of his tie.
"Tie?" She quizzed, and he tensed visibly.
"Green," he whispered back, staring down at the black tie with a dull sense that he had failed her, that he was failing her, somehow. Was it hypocritical or just neurotic that he didn't want her to see his true identity, but that he couldn't even face it himself?
She arched an eyebrow, clearly storing that information away for later. Her hand fell from his shoulder to his arm. The contact surprised but didn't startle him, and by the time she reached his left hand, he'd relaxed somewhat, but could feel his heart beating erratically. She gave a slightly smile, as if aware of the reaction she was elicting, and idly began to trace her fingers up the inside of his arm where his shirtsleeves had been rolled up. His eyes flew open in horror, going immediately to the remenants of the cursed scar that lingered on his skin- the scar she would recognize in an instant. He caught her hand a second before it reached the Mark, hoping to divert her attention.
"You still have two left," he said quietly. Clearly, the distraction made her curious, but not enough to press the matter. Announcing that smell was the next, his breathing became yet more erratic as her hair tickled his jawline pleasantly, raising a chill down his spine. Her own smell- natural, beautiful, and utterly authentic- made his eyes widen, feeling his muscles tauten with a mix of fear and what could only be described as desire, but more intense. Hermione was beautiful, he had known that for a long time. This was a more intense desire. It was a desire for understanding, for complete and utter truth. It was a desire to know her fully, completely, perfectly that drove his response. He attempted to take the edge off of his emotions by chuckling dryly.
"Red, I swear to God, you are driving me insane," he informed her, shifting to physically sit on one of his hands, determined to control himself. She shrugged.
"Fair's fair," she spoke, her voice drawling slightly as her nose tickled the hollow where his jawbone met his neck. She paused for a second, but didn't move away.
"I-I still have one left," she whispered, and there was both fear and anticipation in her voice. "But you're going to have to help me." There was a heartbeat of silence before she tilted her face upwards, her hair falling around her shoulders as he angled his head downwards to meet her full, slightly bitten lips. And for a few blissful, perfect seconds, there was nothing, there was just her, her smell, her softness and intensity taking over every single rational thought and memory. It started as careful, fragile, as if she feared it would break, but then he realized that he was, after all this time, kissing her, that she was here and everything was okay, for a split second of reality.
The intensity began to build but the fragility remained, hanging over their heads like a reminder. Her hands threated through his hair and all oxygen in his body seemed to vaporize, not altogether holding back a groan. This was part of her power, this was the fascination. She, unknowingly or not, was in control. All she would have to do right now was pull, tug slightly at his hair, and he would be a lost cause, he would be completely and utterly gone. But she didn't. It was as if she knew it, but chose not to. She was forcing him to stand up on his own, like she knew how easily she could make him crumble, and wouldn't let him.
Then suddenly, all too quickly, reality was back, and the contact had broken just as quickly as it had come. She was still close, he could reach out if he wanted, but something stopped him as they both fought to get emotions and breathing under control. He watched her lick her lips slightly, then shift her weight.
"Y-You're good at that," I stammered. Unable to resist the opportunity to tease, and knowing he couldn't say what he was really thinking –that it was her, that it had never been that good, that this was special- he smirked slightly.
"You aren't terrible yourself, I suppose," his voice said teasingly, and was rewarded with a slight tongue poke.
"Red," he said softly. "I'm sorry, but I…I have to go, now." He hated himself for doing it, but knew that any more, any further, and he would lose complete control over himself.
"Alright," she said gently, taking a deep breath, dropping her hand from his shoulder to her side.
"Thank you. For-for, you know. Putting up with that." He choked out the words, unable to express just how much he appreciated it. She nodded.
"Will we-Will I ever be able to-" she started, and knowing what she was going to say, he interrupted.
"Maybe one day," he said quietly. "Not soon, but one day." Her sigh was more musing than it was sad, but he couldn't be completely sure.
"Why won't you at least tell me your name?" She asked quietly, voice laced with doubt. The pads of his fingers reached out to outline her cheek, raising a slight blush there. He didn't want to forget any of this, he wanted to remember it all, in case this never happened again, in case she figured it out, came to her senses.
"Because, Red," he whispered, the nickname coming easily. "If you knew my name, there would be no way this could ever happen. If you knew my name, you would never want anything to do with me again. If you knew my name, there would be no way this could end happily. Trust me on that." Her breath was shaky, but then she nodded slowly, seeming reluctant yet willing to accept this. Her instincts, he knew, were backing up what he was saying.
"Alright. I'll wait a few minutes." He studied her face one final time, and, impulsively, left a small kiss on her forehead.
"Someday," he replied, and turned swiftly, backing out, away from her, into the cool afternoon sunshine. Head still swimming, he collected his overcoat from the rack, nodded curtly to the waiter, moving silently through the tea-room, knowing he wouldn't be recognized.
And maybe he just loved the danger, or was a machoist, but he didn't leave. Didn't apparate. He walked slowly in the other direction, making no effort to conceal his identity. When he heard the tinkling bell of the tea-room he'd just exited, he knew it was her.
And for a brief, fleeting moment of time, he could have sworn he felt her gaze on the back of his neck, before she vanished.
As he walked slowly through the busy street, an errant thought crossed his mind. Hermione was fire. He was Ice. In all of his musings, he had forgotten one crucial detail about the two.
They are exact opposites, completely and utterly made for each other, that much he was certain of.
But what he was equally certain of was that, should ice and fire get too close to each other, the destruction of both would be inevitable.
The strong, smooth, enduring ice would crack, then melt.
And the fire, the bright, beautiful, precious, fire would be irrevocably extinguished.
I think I actually like this version better than Hermione's POV….But that could just be me being weird. Comments/Critiques are loved!