XI
"Fire that's closest kept burns most of all."
-Two Gentlemen of Verona
October 30, 2017, 9:04 A.M.
"Oh God, Ginny, it was awful. Just awful." Hermione moaned, burying her head in her hands as she finished recounting the last eight hours.
Ginny had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout Hermione's narration, but now the redhead quirked a mischievous eyebrow.
"You mean the snog was awful, or just the aftermath? Because call me crazy, but I can't imagine Malfoy lacking in that department."
"This, this, is all you've gathered from the entire hour I've been speaking?" Hermione wasn't sure if she was more horrified or impressed by Ginny's consistent ability to latch on to only the most dramatic snippet of a conversation. Either way, she intended to lead Ginny far away from the subject of snogging because, fine, Hermione could admit that it hadn't been horrible — what had she compared him to in her head? Oh God, fire and a freight train; how mortifying — but it was the matter of what to do post-snog that now dominated her worries. She could feel the anxiety clipping through her brain cells like a pair of shears, pruning away all logic.
That was where Ginny was supposed to come in — she was meant to be the rational stream of thought that Hermione currently lacked, and thus far, she'd been terribly disappointing in her role.
"Can you just describe it a bit more, give me some of the dirty details? You practically skimmed over the best part!" Ginny's body arched toward Hermione as she spoke, eagerness evident in everything from her eyes to the way she sloped her spine.
"Ginny, please. I promise to give you more 'dirty details' or whatever you said, but first, you need to help me figure out how to deal with this." The first part was a lie — Hermione had no intention of speaking about the matter to Ginny (or anyone) ever again if possible — but what was a tiny, white lie when so much was at stake? Hermione knew considerably more about time travel than the average person after spending the past four nights in the library, but she still couldn't bring herself to risk alienating Draco so completely that he reverted back to his old self (and she was sure, so sure, that he was no longer the person he was before they arrived in this universe). For the first time in ages, she had hope for him. More to the point, she had faith in him, and she was terrified of the possibility that he would not fill the mould she had created for him over the past few weeks. And now, now, she may very well have cracked him, broken him so irrevocably that the mould was rendered useless.
"Fine," said Ginny, sighing. "But don't think you're going to get out of that promise."
Hermione attempted to make a obliging expression but figured she was unsuccessful when Ginny rolled her eyes.
"So obviously you two snogged, and then he said…wait, what did he say again?"
"What the fuck did I just do," Hermione whispered. And it wasn't what he said, exactly, that haunted and horrified her every second they were left in the library but how he said it (she still heard it echoing in her head, his self-hatred squirming in her gut).
"Right," said Ginny, oblivious to Hermione's inner terror. "Well, that's understandable, isn't it? I mean, he's been taught to hate everyone like you since he was in nappies, and his hate for you is particularly…special."
Hermione gave a slightly strained smile in spite of herself. "Yes, I suppose that's true, but—"
"Look, Hermione. I think you're freaking out too much about this. I mean, I've snogged a couple guys I probably shouldn't have, and it's not a big deal." Ginny paused a moment then burst out laughing as if she'd told herself a private joke. "Sorry, it's just…it can be a bit awkward when you run into one of them."
"Well that'll be easy to avoid considering we're possibly stuck here together. Forever."
Ginny certainly was not providing the clear insight Hermione had hoped she would. Unfortunately, there was no way she could go to anyone else about this. Ron, of course, was completely out of the question, and Harry was not likely to take it well, either. Yes, Harry had begun the pro-Draco movement, but Hermione knew there was a clear difference between Draco no longer being the enemy and Draco being a friend. The wounds of past years were still too fresh (and why wasn't this the case for her? Why was she so willing to forget the way she'd cried when he'd called her Mudblood, the way he'd taunted the Muggle-borns when the Chamber of Secrets opened?). Harry's updated perception of Draco was not yet as developed as her own; he could still remember the disdainful sneer, hear the venomous insults and be angered by them, whereas Hermione could, if not forget, at least approach forgiveness.
So which was it: was she weak or just deluded? Which character default was it that allowed Draco to get under her skin so quickly?
"Look, Hermione," said Ginny, breaking Hermione's train of thought. "It's going to be uncomfortable to be around him for a while, and there's no getting around that." The redhead shrugged. "Give it a few days, and you'll be back to hating each other in no time."
"Right," said Hermione. "Of course, you're right." But more telling than her words was the way her heart jerked in protest. She didn't want Ginny to be right, even though every last minute spent in the library after their kiss was painfully silent, Hermione on one side of the room and Draco on the other, like the opposing poles of a magnet (and yet opposing poles eventually attract; they just can't help the way they're drawn to each other, the way they creep forward slowly then slam together in a burst of energy). No, she didn't want Ginny to be right.
Because maybe in the deepest recesses of her heart, she was hoping it would happen again.
.
~#~
.
12:34 P.M.
It had been — Draco checked his watch — going on five hours since the incident with Granger, and he could still feel her lips pressed against his mouth. His own lips were bloody tingling with the sensation. Somehow, Granger had managed to become both a living presence and a ghostly one — the living version was easily avoidable, but he didn't have a shot in hell of escaping the ghostly hand caressing his cheek, the phantom tongue tracing his bottom lip, the invisible fingers tugging his hair to pull him closer… He could feel her all over him, yet she was nowhere in sight.
It was a fucking disaster.
The most logical thing to do, of course, would be to find another girl and snog her until Granger was only a distant and very tragic memory (ideally, he would forget about her altogether, but Draco realised the irrationality of that scenario). Being trapped in a place in which no other females could see him, however, created a bit of a problem, and in attempting to rid himself of the taste and feel of Granger, he'd rather stick his fingers down his throat than go anywhere near the Weaselette.
What was he supposed to do? Live with the phantom feel of Granger on his lips and skin for the rest of his life? He would explode — no, worse. He would eventually cross the brink of insanity and snog her again (eventually being, what? A year? No, fuck no, he couldn't last that long; he wasn't sure he could survive a month of this torture by proxy). And maybe he'd slam her against one of the stone walls of the Great Hall, taste the tea and lemon on her tongue, press against her so closely that he could describe every dip and curve of her body with his eyes closed… And maybe he would enjoy it. And maybe he'd enjoyed what had happened earlier in the library.
Shit. He had.
Draco rubbed his hands over his eyes (and wouldn't it just be a dream come true if he could rub away the way he'd come to see Granger, the way he couldn't stop seeing her). He no longer knew how he was supposed to feel, let alone how he actually felt. He wanted to be filled with a rage so dominant that it made his hands shake, but all he was sure of was a distinct wave of self-loathing approaching nausea. Merlin, he hated her.
But he hated himself more.
.
~#~
.
6:44 P.M.
The Great Hall smelled like pumpkin and cinnamon, as it did during most of October, and Hermione couldn't help but smile as she saw Hagrid eagerly tuck into his piece of pumpkin pie. Left and right, students chattered about the upcoming Halloween festivities, the first years at the Gryffindor table appearing more apprehensive than excited.
James, Hugo, and Al were together, as Hermione had come to expect, and the rest of the table seemed to be listening into the trio's conversation.
"D'you remember Dad telling us that a troll was let into the castle his first year?" asked James, a mischievous smirk on his face.
Al rolled his eyes.
"Whoa, looks like this first year isn't scared of any old troll, no way, no how," said James, knocking his elbow against his brother's shoulder as the students around them laughed. "Maybe Scorp and I'll let one in ourselves and see how you feel then, hm?"
Giving James a withering glare, Al reached for another piece of pumpkin pie. As he attempted to add whipped cream to the top, James intervened, using his wand to lift the cream into the air and plant it onto Al's face in the form of a moustache. The table went wild with laughter, particularly Hugo, whose face turned as red as his hair.
"Well, James is a bit of a troublemaker, isn't he?"
"Oh, Harry!" Hermione turned around at the sound of her friend's voice. "I didn't notice you there! But to answer your question, yes he is, though that's hardly surprising, is it? I recall you breaking a few Hogwarts rules every now and then."
"Every now and then is an understatement," said Ron, joining them, "but no judgment, mate. I participated in most of that rule-breaking myself."
Hermione joined in on their laughter until remembering that she had been involved in her own troublemaking earlier today, and it wasn't the kind Harry and Ron would find amusing. She felt a crippling amount of guilt, a guilt so overwhelming it constricted her laughter and made her chest ache, but it wasn't what she'd done that made her feel this way, exactly, just the knowledge that she didn't entirely regret it. That she might even kiss him again if given the chance.
Just then, Hermione felt a change in the energy of the room — many of the students stopped talking, and the air came alive, almost buzzing with excitement.
A name flew across the room, carried through a susurrus of voices: "Harry Potter." James and Al stood, and Hermione turned to follow their stares.
She almost didn't believe her eyes.
"Bloody hell," Ron whispered to her left. "This is bizarre…But on the bright side, Harry, you don't look half bad."
It was different than seeing his picture in The Prophet, Hermione decided. As strange as it had been to see Harry with a few lines in his face and the distinct look of a father, this was infinitely stranger. This was seeing those lines in person, seeing Harry's age in person (and wasn't that glorious, being able to see Harry's age? Thirty-seven wasn't particularly old, but right here, right now, it felt ancient…And being on the brink of war with Voldemort in their own time, thirty-seven felt like immortality).
"Dad!" Al flew across the Great Hall and threw his skinny arms around Harry's neck. James lagged behind, offering Harry a much shorter hug, but his eyes exposed his joy at seeing his father.
"Hi, boys."
A/N: Sorry it's so short! I just wanted to be sure I got an update in over break... College has been kicking my butt (still shooting for that 4.0, though!)
I hope that all of my American readers have a lovely Thanksgiving (it's one of my very favorite days of the whole year) and that everyone else's day is also filled with love and happiness :)
-Cam
P.S. Thank you for the wonderful reviews of the last chapter! And to answer one of them, the T.S. Eliot reference was the yellow fog from "The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock."