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Chapter 3
But despite all that convincing of myself, when I change out of the dress and leave the shop, I ask the woman at the cash register for two of the peacock-silk dress… one in my size and one in Luna's.
Don't say yes, run away now
The memories didn't stop there. It looked like my mind is going to give me a crash-course reminder of exactly why I had come to this thrice-damned wedding in the first place. They kept coming, one after the other, for some reason in chronological order.
We are fourteen and both at the Yule Ball. I am dancing with Viktor, for once feeling like a proper girl and not just the brains of an operation. He looks at me like I'm the only girl in existence, and I should be focused entirely on him and him alone, but for some reason my eyes are wandering. Wandering to a figure in black, dancing with a figure in pink. Malfoy… and Parkinson.
The song ends and I pry myself away from Viktor with a smile and the excuse of needing a drink. He lets me go graciously, kissing my hand as I walk off. I walk to my table and ask my empty glass for punch, and it obeys. I sip and walk casually, suddenly deciding the Hall is much too stuffy. I walk outside in search of fresh air, not minding the fact that it is December and likely below zero outside. I stop when I hear voices and hurriedly hide myself in a nearby bush of mistletoe.
"— sick of these games, Draco. That's what it is to you, isn't it? Just a game?"
"Of course not, Pansy, but dammit just because I agreed to come to the Yule Ball with you—"
"You only agreed because you didn't want to look like an idiot without a date! I'm asking for the last time, Draco. Go out with me. A simple yes or no will do!"
There is a silence, in which I suddenly find myself hoping he will say no. Not because of any feelings on my part towards the albino ferret, but because Pansy would be so much better off without that fickle excuse for a boy.
"… Yes."
What? What did I just hear? Pansy squeals girlishly and I can only assume she has thrown her arms around him, for I hear a soft 'oomph' as though Draco has had the breath knocked out of him. He laughs and for some reason I feel the urge to run, far away. And I do. And that's when I run into Ron, who accuses me of 'fraternising with the enemy'.
I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door
We are sixteen and I'm standing in the graveyard in Hogsmeade, the snow falling thick and fast around me. The shrieking shack is visible at one end of the graveyard, and the village and shops beyond it. Hogsmeade at the moment would be alive with students from Hogwarts swarming around, but everything is eerily quiet here. I dust the snow off an old wooden bench and sit facing the village. I am in need of some peace to think for myself.
What Harry tells me about his lessons with Dumbledore so far is disturbing, to put it mildly. I do not wish to dwell on it too much. But it has got me thinking about other issues. Harry, I know, will stop at nothing to destroy Voldemort once and for all. As would all of us. The problem with Harry is that he refused to accept help sometimes. And so Ron and I have to present our help in a way that makes it impossible to decline.
I also need to think about my parents. If Harry, Ron and I are going to drop out of school (Harry hasn't said this yet, but it's obvious really and it's his only option) I need them safely out of harm's way. I will not allow them to be taken hostage and used against me. I already have a plan… but it is this plan that brings me up here today. Can I really do it? Can I really mess with my parent's memories, erase myself from their minds, and send them to somewhere as far away as Australia? I do not know if I have the courage to go through with such a scheme. A single tear wells up in my eye.
Just as it is about to fall down my cheek, a real sob comes from somewhere behind me and I turn. There is nothing and no-one there, save a ruined, crumbling old church barely standing at the edge of the graveyard. The whispers of haunting drift back to me and I push it out of my mind. The supposed haunting of the Shrieking Shack was due to Remus Lupin's transfigurations there as a boy, nothing more. I draw my wand and make my way slowly to the church. I open the back door, slowly, and stop.
I am looking down the aisle of what once must have been a magnificent church. However the left side of the ceiling is sagging and the beautiful stained-glass windows are mostly shattered. The pews are in disrepair, some snapped cleanly in half and some lying in piles of matchsticks where they once used to be. And kneeling at the foot of the altar, his back to me, clearly sobbing, is a pale, distinctively blonde figure.
"I don't know, I don't know what to do anymore… Funny, at this stage a stupid Gryffindor would be more use to his plans than me… Gryffindors, at least, aren't cowards… A Gryffindor might have had the courage necessary to go through with this… I – I—"
He stiffens, suddenly, and before I can move, he turns around. His silver-grey eyes bore into mine, and I find that I am quite helpless, pinned by his gaze like a small mammal under the scrutiny of a snake.
"Why are you here?" he hisses, getting up and striding over to me. I back out of the church. "Why are you eavesdropping on me?" I find my voice has deserted me as this boy-no-longer makes his furious way towards me. "Why are you here, Mudblood wench?!" he demands, and irritation gives me voice.
"Don't call me that!" I yell, and he stops.
"What? Don't call you for what you are? I call people by their names, Mudblood. And it just so happens that Mudblood is your name. So why wouldn't I call you that?"
His taunting voice fires me up. "Because," I answer, my own voice shaking with fury, "then I should be calling you a weak-blooded coward, since you don't even seem to have the conviction to stick through the side that you chose in this war. What will your master say when he finds out you've been moping your eyes out in this dusty church, ferret? What then?"
His silver eyes snap, and I am suddenly afraid that I have crossed a line. His hand twitches, as though he is aching to draw his wand and hex me to oblivion, but the only thing he says after a long stretch of silence is "I didn't choose a side in the war. Just like you didn't choose a side in the war, either. Being born a Muggle-born, your side was chosen for you. And being born a Malfoy, my side was chosen, as well." With this speech, he pushes past me and out the back door of the church, only stopping just long enough to issue a threat: 'and if you tell anyone what happened here, Granger, I promise to make your every waking moment a living hell.' I open my mouth to yell back at him, but the only thing that stops me is the realisation he has called me Granger and not Mudblood.
Don't wait or say a single vow
We are seventeen and meeting in the worst possible way imaginable. I captured. Weak. Vulnerable. And he… he examining me with a raw emotion in his flickering silver eyes, refusing to identify me as the Mudblood girl despite having known my face for six years.
"Look closer, Draco! If this is indeed the Mudblood girl, then it might be that the Dark Lord will once again raise our standing—"
"I… yeah, maybe. It could be."
"But you're not sure?" Bellatrix Lestrange's voice snarls, frustrated with her nephew.
"I… not… really…" he says weakly, his silver eyes never leaving mine.
My lips almost quirk, despite the severity of the situation. A year ago, I had called him a weak-blooded coward for not having the guts to stick to the side he had chosen in the war. And now it was his weak-blooded cowardice that was even giving us this brief few minute's respite. His gaze still holds mine.
'Don't react to this. Don't wait.' A voice suddenly speaks in my mind, and I do my best not to start. It speaks in his voice and I know, somehow, it is him. I had heard from Harry that having someone else in your own head was an extremely discomfiting experience… but I must not have noticed, what with all the physical discomforts that my body was going through.
'Don't wait for what?' I think vaguely.
'Don't wait when… when something happens. If there's a chance. Take it. I can't give you any definites, I can't make you any vows, but… if anything happens and you can get away, don't wait for your friends. Don't wait for anything.'
Abruptly, he withdraws from my mind, and I regain my bearings only to find the demented eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange looking down at me, holding the sword of Godric Gryffindor and looking ominously crazed.
You need to hear me out
We are eighteen and meeting in a compartment in the Hogwarts express. For reasons unfathomable to me, McGonagall has elected him as Head Boy to my Head Girl, expecting us to get along. As if that wasn't an endeavour doomed to failure from the start.
"Granger," he acknowledges me with the simple word. I am tempted to return 'Ferret', but manage to restrain myself.
"Malfoy. Head Boy, I see? Looks like the weak-blooded cowardice paid off," I say, and immediately regret it. Some show of civility, Hermione. I scold myself internally as his features harden.
"My weak-blooded cowardice is ultimately what saved you, Granger. I wouldn't go shooting my mouth off about it," he says through clenched teeth.
"YOU saved me? In what alternate universe have you ever saved me from anything except perhaps feeling even a marginal bit of happiness in your presence?"
"Perhaps you forget I refused to identify you when you were captured and brought to my house, Granger? What do you think they would have done with you if I—"
"They ended up torturing me anyway, thank you very much! YOU didn't do anything! They—"
"Okay Granger, stop shouting, people are staring!" he cuts across me, sounding a tad panicked. And indeed, people are poking their heads out of their compartments, peering curiously at the ruckus. I threaten all of them with docked points and detentions, and they hastily withdraw their heads and shut their compartment door behind them.
"They, your family, your blood relations, tortured me, carved words into my flesh with their wands, left—"
"I'm aware of all that! Believe me, I am aware," he says, softly. "Please, Granger. I didn't call you to start a fight. You need to hear me out. Please, just—"
"No," I hiss, "You have nothing to say which will interest me."
"Um—" someone clears her throat, and both of us turn to look at her. "Yes?" I snap at the small girl with brown hair who is fidgeting nervously.
"Um, bad timing?" she says timidly. "I'm Millie Arthen. I'm Hufflepuff fifth year prefect. I… I thought the meeting was here…"
I blink and stare at Malfoy. He sighs and gives me a look that clearly says 'we are not done.'
"Prefect's meetings, Granger. We're supposed to tell them what to do, remember?"
"Of course I do," I snap, annoyed that he is the one reminding me what to do. "Come on, Millie, let's get inside the compartment."
And they said, 'Speak now'.
We're a month into our new year at Hogwarts. He corners me one day in the Head's Commons, apparently tired of my ignoring and avoiding him. I am not aware I had been doing that, and I tell him so. His lip twitches, and I scowl.
"Don't give me that rubbish, Granger. Despite what you think, I do possess some intelligence."
"You've yet to show it, then," I retort. He sighs.
"I know, Granger, I know… in your mind I am irredeemable. And maybe I am. But I have been showing remorse. Not only that, I am genuinely remorseful. I volunteered to be Head Boy this year so I could at least try to make amends. You think back and tell me…. Has there been any instance in the past month in which I have treated you with anything less than the highest courtesy?"
"I—you…" I stop, unable to think of anything.
"Exactly," he says, rubbing his temples. "Look, Granger, I'm not looking to be friends, or anything. Even I know that's beyond my league after everything you've suffered from me. All I want is just a general acknowledgement that I exist, and that I am some kind of human being. I know that sounds ironic after years of me believing that you are sub-human because of your blood… but wouldn't that make you a hypocrite if you did the same?" He grins twistedly. "Besides, this is going to be a long and unproductive year if the Head Girl and Head Boy are ignoring each other. Please, just… pretend to be civil and you can bad-mouth me all you want in your head. I just need something to work with."
I just stare at him, utterly surprised. This is complete sincerity from Draco Malfoy, the boy— well, not a boy anymore, man— who wouldn't know the meaning of either word.
"You can speak now, Granger," he says, when I just stare at him without talking.
I still don't say anything.
His features harden. "Look, Granger, I'm sorry I tried, okay? Fine. I'll leave you alone from now. I'll only come to you when I absolutely have to, I assure you." He turns to leave.
"Yes," I squeak, impulsively.
He stops. "Yes what, Granger? Yes, you'll try to be civil to me?"
"No," I say, and he turns. I gulp. "Yes, let's be friends, Draco Malfoy."
The breathtaking smile that breaks out across his face has mine quirking in an answering smile.
Don't say yes, run away now
It's a week after our so-called truce. I run into the Head's Commons, my cheeks flushed and my hair wild. My heart is beating a thousand miles a minute.
"You look particularly dishevelled today, Granger," comes the voice from an armchair, hidden behind a Daily Prophet that he is perusing. "Care to tell me what it is… or just let me hazard a guess. It's the Weasel, isn't it?" he raises an eyebrow at me and I colour even deeper red.
"It's none of your business why I'm so 'dishevelled,'" I snap. "And his name is Ron, not Weasel."
"I'll remember that when he remembers my name is Draco, not ferret," he says. He puts down the Daily Prophet and sighs. "Did he ask you out?"
"None of your business!" I retort again, looking away.
"You were the one who suggested we become friends, Granger. Don't friends tell each other these sorts of things?" he wrinkles his nose, showing exactly how much he would care being told about my relationship with Ron. Answer: zilch.
"Ha, ha, Malfoy. If that were the case, Ron and Harry would have known a lot more about girls during their adolescent years and they probably wouldn't have such a hard time trying to woo them now," I say.
"But the question still stands. Did he ask you out?"
I fidget. "Yes."
He tenses and becomes stock-still. "And what did you say?"
"I…" I take a deep breath. "I… ran away."
He looks up at me incredulously. "You ran away? Are you mad, Granger! I thought you were supposed to be a brave Gryffindor? And—"
"I ran away, okay? I'm not proud of it." I say sullenly.
"Don't get me wrong, you should have run away. Don't say yes." He murmurs, relaxing back down into the armchair. My temper flares up.
"Oh? And who are you to tell me what to say to Ron?"
"Privilege of a friend. I'm suggesting you don't say yes, because you two are so mismatched."
"And since when has your advice been sound enough to follow?"
"A little faith please, Granger."
"No!" I yell, for some reason upset at his cool, matter-of-fact tone. "You do not own me! I'm going to say whatever I damn well like to Ron, and so there!"
I run away again, this time not from a tall, freckly boy with red hair but a pale, blond boy with the grey eyes that know too much, hold too much.
I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door
We are twenty-one and I am in the peacock-silk dress, my hair swept up in elegant ringlets. White flowers are pinned in my hair and my feet are enclosed in a pair of simple green satin pumps. I'm standing behind Ginny in her white and red dress, beaming at my two friends who have eyes for no-one but each other.
I turn and for a moment think that I see a flash of pale blond hair caught in the sunlight, but when I focus on the place more clearly there is nothing there. I dismiss it as a trick of my eyes.
But then I hear a voice.
"Psssst! Granger!"
There is only one person in the world who still calls me by my last time. My lips curve into an unwilling smile, and my eyes are searching for him of their own accord.
"Back door, Granger!" he says, and I find him, poking his head around the doors of the church. I look around discreetly and sneak out to join him.
"Malfoy. I do recall saying something to the effect of picking out the bridesmaid dresses not equating to an invitation to the wedding." I say, but my tone is light and the muscles of my face betray me, obstinately staying in a smile. His eyes rake down my figure, taking in what I am wearing.
"I always knew you scrub up well," he murmurs, before clearing his throat. "You look good, Granger. As I said you would. The she-weasel should thank me for making her bridesmaids look this good without outshining her."
"The she-weasel, also known as Ginny, is very thankful and surprised that you should help me pick the bridesmaid's dresses," I say.
"I know the she-weasel's name," he mutters. I narrow my eyes.
"Then you'd do well to use it," I say primly. "Why are you here, Malfoy?"
"To fulfil my ulterior motive," he says, grinning roguishly. His eyes never leave me. I cross my arms and tap my foot, feeling rather exposed under his scrutiny.
"Well? Is your ulterior motive fulfilled?" I ask, impatient.
"More or less," he replies, his eyes lingering. I fight back a shiver. A… pleasant shiver.
"Why are you here, Malfoy?" I ask again, quietly. We are leaning towards one another again, unconsciously.
"I told you," he says, his voice husky, "I'm fulfilling my ulterior motive."
"What is your ulterior motive?" I demand, frustrated. He looks over me again, once, very deliberately, and shakes his head.
"If you still don't know what my ulterior motive is, Granger, you're more clueless that I thought you were," he says and walks away, leaving me feeling very confused… and warm… and tingling.
Don't wait or say a single vow
We are twenty-two and out in the streets of Hogsmeade at 11.p.m, walking to the apparition point. What had originally been nothing more than a simple Ministry meeting has run overtime. It is late summer and the air at night is chilly. I shiver, and he in a surprising moment of chivalry hands me his jacket.
"I'm not cold," I say automatically, straightening out of the hunched position that I had unconsciously adopted to keep my body heat in.
"If you catch a cold and have to call in sick tomorrow, I'm the one who gets to finish this assignment. Take the jacket."
"If you catch a cold and have to call in sick tomorrow, I'm the one who gets to finish this assignment. Put the jacket back on."
"I'm a guy, Granger. I'm currently wearing a singlet underneath my dress shirt and I'm wearing long trousers with loafers. You are wearing a short-sleeved blouse and skirt and open-toed heels. Take the jacket."
"It was hot this morning," I grumble defensively, but my hands reach for his jacket. It is warm from his body heat and there is a scent clinging to it that vaguely stirs my memory, soap and leather and that something else I now come to identify as him.
"So Granger," he says, breaking the silence, "not with Ron Weasley anymore?"
I look up at him in surprise. Surprise that he should remember something that I told him in passing once a year ago when we had been…. 'dress shopping', and surprised that he should even care about my relationship status.
"Not since—"
"Halfway through your last year at Hogwarts, yeah," he interrupts, and my surprise mounts. He looks uncomfortable.
"Yeah," I concede, my mind working furiously to try and work him out.
"If you don't mind me asking… why?"
I make a face. So many people have asked me that. So many. And the thing is, I still do not have a satisfactory answer.
"I don't know," I say, deciding to try honesty. "It wasn't like he was bad to be with or anything. He just wasn't… it just wasn't there, you know? I do love him a lot, but it's in a brotherly way. We just… mutually drifted apart, I suppose. Even though we're still best friends."
"I see," he says, though he sounds distracted and unsure. "So… no-one has ever approached you in that way since Weasley?"
"No," I say, now positively alarmed at the amount of interest he is showing me. Alarmed, but not… unpleasantly so. "Why do you ask?"
He ignores my question. "Are you sure? Nobody? Not anyone that you can think of has expressed any interest in you romantically?"
I stop and look at him. "Draco," I say, and he stops too.
"Yes, Hermione?" he whispers, and his voice is strained. We are almost at the apparition point, standing just at the edge of a forest. The village is far beyond us by now and there is no-one around. The moonlight is scintillating, catching in his silver eyes.
"Why are you asking?" I murmur, and he closes his eyes. I feel a strange urge to kiss them open again, to see those silver-grey orbs trained on me. He takes a shuddering breath.
"You answer my question first. Nobody, as far as you're aware, has made any sort of intentions to you in that way clear? No-one at all?"
"This game doesn't work as well without butterbeer," I breathe, and he lets out a strangled laugh. We are no more than half a meter apart, and we are leaning in closer to one another again. Suddenly we're thirty centimetres apart, then twenty, then ten, and then my hands are resting on his chest and his at my back.
"Still…. No-one?" he asks, his eyes taking on the liquid quicksilver quality again.
"Still… not answering my question?" I counter. The space between us is gone, and I'm enfolded in his arms now, held flush against his smooth torso. But our heads are still tilting, leaning in towards each other…
And he kisses me in the moonlight.
"Why did you— wait so long…" I sigh against his lips, and feel them quirk into a smile.
"Still no one, Hermione?" he asks, and I laugh.
"Still claiming you're asking me about my relationship status out of innocent curiosity?" I reply, and he laughs too. He kisses me again.
"Hermione," he sighs, and I forget about the world. "When I finish my internship— you— me—"
"Shh," I say, silencing him with a finger to his lips. "Don't promise me anything. Don't make me any vows. Just… live in the moment. Kiss me."
And he does.
Your time is running out
We are twenty-four and living on borrowed time. He has his arm around my shoulders and we are sitting on a little hill, watching the snow enfold everything in its white embrace.
"It's running out," I say quietly, and he turns his head to look at me.
"What is?" he asks, although I have a feeling he already knows.
"My time with you," I answer, and he is silent. He cannot deny it.
"Your parents—"
"—Are my problem," he cuts through and kisses me. There was a time when that kiss soothed everything, but now it is just a painful reminder of what I cannot have.
"No," I say quietly, "your parents are your life. They've… done so much to protect you. You can't go against them. I understand, Draco. I really do. Do you think… I can bear... to watch you be unhappy every day because you don't speak to them anymore? This… this is what's right. This is what we both should do." I stand up, my tears flowing freely, and walk away while I can. Before he has every part of me and not just one part. At least this way, the only thing that can be broken is the part he holds— my heart.
And they said, 'Speak now'.
We are twenty-five and I am throwing myself into my work. I request a transfer of department so I no longer have to see him. I am not avoiding him; I merely have a lot of work to get done. At least, that is how I am convincing myself.
"Hermione," a voice calls, and I am tempted to lock my office door so he cannot get through. But before I can act on this temptation, he opens my door and walks in.
"Yes, Draco?" I say brusquely. "Make it quick. I'm busy."
He swallows. "Hermione. Please, listen to me. I… it's been a year since you've walked away from me. You know I'm getting married to Astoria Greengrass soon. But… I have to know… please… I know it's been a year, but… do you still love me? Did you ever love me?"
I look up at him. "Malfoy, this is so incredibly improper a conversation to have in an office—"
"Just answer me, Granger!" he cuts through me loudly, his eyes squeezed shut and a hand to his temple, and it is his use of my last name, which he hasn't used in years— unfamiliar, jarring— that shuts me up more effectively than anything he could have said. We stare at each other in mute silence.
"Hermione…?" he says, and his voice sounds like that of a little lost boy's.
"What do you want me to do, Malfoy?" I ask, my throat dust-dry, also reverting back to our formal mode of addressing one another.
"Speak to me. Answer my question. Please, Hermione, it has to be now!" his voice is pleading, and I note the use of my first name again, but I say nothing, just staring into his grey eyes. I am afraid that if I let myself speak, I will spill every errant thought that I had had about him in the past year. And that will hurt too much.
An unbidden 'I'm sorry' escapes my lips.
He exhales. His grey eyes go blank as I have seen it capable to be, completely inscrutable. This Draco scares me. Not because of any harm he might cause me, but because of the harm he might cause himself. My eyes brim over with tears.
"Draco…?" I whisper, but he turns, stalking out of my office in long strides. He pauses at the doorway, and speaks.
"I loved you. More than you can possibly imagine. I still love you. I never cared about what my parents would have said or anything like that. It took me a year apart from you to realise it though, and that cost me you. I'm sorry too, Hermione. I love you… and I'm sorry."
And he leaves before I can say anything in response, before I can put in words the explosion of dangerous emotions welling up inside of me— fear, love, hope. Fear that it might be too late. Love for him that comes back only stronger for the year I have denied it. And most dangerous of all… hope for the things that still could be.
