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Glass Houses: Chapter Three
Despite a resolution to thank Draco for finding Crookshanks, Hermione hardly even saw him for the whole week. She spent so much time wondering if she would run into him, and thinking about what she would say, that when it kept not happening, she started to feel resentful, and even snappish. As if he was somehow supposed to know that she wanted to see him but could not instigate it herself. In fact, it wasn't until she volunteered to collect more belladonna for the Fourth Years' potions kits that they were alone in the same place together.
Hermione had to admit to herself that, perhaps this time, she had volunteered in the hopes of running into Draco again. However, she had been trimming the plants in Greenhouse #3 for maybe 15 minutes and seen hide nor hair of another student, much less Draco, when suddenly the glass door swung inward with a gust of chilly air. She looked up to find Draco framed in the doorway, dressed all in black except for the dark ribbon of green in his tie.
"Professor Sprout said I could find you here," he said, his clipped, business-like tone familiar, and not in an entirely unpleasant way. He stepped into the greenhouse and let the door fall shut behind him.
"Yes," Hermione intoned. "Because apparently I'm the only student who hasn't used up their quota of goodwill yet. I think I'm the only one left volunteering."
"Don't be judgmental—prejudice doesn't look good on you," Draco said snarkily. "And everyone knows you're just padding your curriculum vitae." He said this last without much heat.
Hermione snapped a belladonna plant in half and braced her hands on the table, turning to look at him disbelievingly. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." She smoothed a hand over her hair, breathing fast and shallow. Why was she so angry? Hadn't she wanted to see him? And then she realized that was why she was angry. She wanted to see him too badly, and it made her terribly uncomfortable.
"Yes, and people who live in the real world shouldn't rely on primary school proverbs to make their point."
"Are you just here to argue with me?"
"No. To…thank you," he said curtly. "Whatever it was that you gave me helped. A little." He flexed his fingers experimentally. "It hasn't been happening as much lately."
"Oh?" Hermione focused on clipping the belladonna and arranging it gently in her basket.
"So…thank you."
"You're welcome." Snip. Snip. "And thank you for finding Crookshanks."
"Of course."
Hermione went to cut more belladonna, but then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Draco rotate his shoulder in that same familiar way and she lifted her head sharply. "It didn't actually help, did it," she said flatly, turning to face him.
He looked away uncomfortably, but when he looked back, his face was arranged in a haughty expression. "No. But my parents raised me well enough—" he flexed his fingers again, almost violently, his expression becoming a grimace—"to know that I ought to thank people."
"So, you're not really grateful at all."
"I'm here, aren't I?" he said harshly, his carefully superior expression slipping. They stared at one another for a long time, and slowly, Draco's fists unclenched and his shoulders dropped. He must have realized how ungenerous his words sounded, hanging in the frosty air of the green house, because he said, "I should go."
"No. Thank me properly," Hermione said, surprising herself with her boldness. Her heart hammered in her throat and she put the shears on the table with an unsteady hand.
"What do you mean?" A frown creased his brow, but he was studying her appraisingly.
"Kiss me."
Draco sucked in a breath, but wasted no time—he crossed the room in three strides, pressing his mouth to hers without hesitation. His kiss was firm, and Hermione's lips opened under his with a shaky exhale. The emotional rush of finally touching him the way she had imagined countless times in the past week left her breathless. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, and kissed him back feverishly. He crushed her to him, his lean thighs flush with hers. They were so close it felt their ribs were in danger of catching on one another. She gripped his upper arm, pulling him to her, and the kiss grew more urgent. He backed her against the wall of the greenhouse, rattling a rack of exotic ferns. They were showered by a sprinkling of dirt, but neither of them noticed. Draco's hands tangled in her hair and Hermione bit at his lower lip, drawing his tongue into her mouth. He tasted faintly of black licorice and earl grey tea, and the kiss turned deep and searching as he rocked against her. He pulled back from the kiss, his hands sliding down her arms to lightly clasp each of her wrists and bring them above her head. Her chest rose and fell rapidly against his, and she knew he could feel her pulse racing. He held her wrists there with one hand, and with the other, drew a soft line from her jaw to her neck to her collarbone to the front of her sweater. She pressed into his hand, his fingers electric even through the wool of her sweater. He ducked to kiss her again. A shudder rolled through her body and Draco made a small noise in the back of his throat.
"I had a dream like this," Hermione confessed breathlessly against his mouth and Draco's normally pale grey eyes went dark.
"Did you?" he nuzzled the soft, warm spot below her ear and pressed a kiss to the column of her throat. She swallowed hard, nodding. "What else happened in your dream?"
"Lots of good things."
"Show me."
"Okay. Well." Draco released her wrists and she swallowed again, nervously. "Let me see your hand," she said. "No, the other one, your left hand," she corrected, when he held out his right. Slowly, she unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve. When she began to roll it up, Draco clamped a hand down on his wrist, hard.
"No."
"Please?"
"I don't want to think about it right now. Knowing it's there reminds me that I'm a terrible person."
Hermione traced a finger across the lines of his palm. Goosebumps rose along his arm. "But you're not. A terrible person, I mean."
Draco met her gaze in surprise, his own eyes flickering back and forth between hers. Eventually, he lifted the grip on his sleeve and Hermione continued to roll up the soft black material, slowly revealing the Dark Mark.
She traced the outline of the Mark with her fingertip, and he inhaled sharply. "You have to take away its power," Hermione instructed evenly. "Or you will hate yourself forever. Don't you sometimes think your arm is like this because of an emotional disconnect?" She bent over his arm, her curly mess of hair falling forward. She pressed a kiss to his palm, and then to his forearm, just below the Mark.
Draco's eyes were shut, his face turned sharply away. He was trembling.
"Have you ever considered," Hermione said softly, "that the reason it sometimes feels like a phantom is that you just need someone to hold your hand and remind you it's there?" She held out her hand to him, and he lifted damp lashes to meet her gaze.
"And you're offering?"
"Well…yes." Hermione bobbed the flat of her hand up and down to indicate he should take it. He studied her face a moment, almost warily, but then he placed his hand in hers, winding their fingers together. Hermione squeezed his hand and he exhaled loudly, his own grip spasming tightly.
"And this is what you dreamed about?" he asked skeptically.
"Well…no. I dreamed that there was a storm inside me, a hurricane, and you were there, with your lovely hands, and you were…" Hermione trailed off. "Maybe we should go back to the castle."
"What?" Draco said, glancing outside at the pale rays of sun filtering through the glass. "In this weather? Are you kidding? We're trapped here for at least an hour."
"In that case, I'll just show you what I dreamed about," Hermione said and kissed him hard, their hands still tightly intertwined.
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Fin.
