A/N: Chapter Twenty-One! Sorry for the wait. I'm going on a little break. A few weeks, at the most.
The Head Girl followed Harry into the boys' dormitory. Because it was still relatively early in the evening, the dormitory was empty save for them and some clutter. She stepped over the mess, evading strewn articles of clothing as though they were land-mines, before sitting at the foot of Harry's bed. It was silent between them, as he paced the area with his map in his hand.
On some level, she anticipated it. It was inevitable. She knew very well that Harry kept close watch on the Marauders Map, but to think he had been spying on her was another matter entirely.
Without breaking the silence, she looked to him, resisting the urge to ask.
It was only a matter of time, before his movements came to an abrupt halt. Their eyes met. "Listen…" he started, looking to her firmly and evenly. "I…I know this is none of my business, but —"
"It's okay, you can ask m —"
"Are you dating Malfoy?"
Hermione froze. "I — I beg your pardon?"
There was a twitch along Harry's bottom lip. "Are you…dating Malfoy?" he asked again, rubbing the back of his head out of awkwardness. "I…I'm asking because I saw you with him in the Restricted Section…about a week ago. I had plans to meet Ginny there that night, but the second I arrived, I saw…I saw Malfoy…with his arms around you."
She swallowed hard, feeling the colour drain out of her cheeks and neck. It was the perfect moment to open her mouth and refute the evidence laid out against her, but all that escaped her lips was a struggled breath.
"I left as soon as I could," he explained, sensing the discomfort, as it seized control of her body. "If there is something going on between you two…I…I want you to know you can tell me."
Hermione looked to the floorboards in disbelief over the words coming out of Harry's mouth. She couldn't wrap her mind around it.
"I…I know it was wrong of me to spy on you, but…but this is Malfoy we're talking about, and according to the map, you've been meeting him in secret all week…" he continued. "I'm not here to judge. I just…I'm worried about you, Hermione."
There was a dash of guilt in her bloodstream. She couldn't lie to Harry, but she couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth, either…
One Week Later
It was around ten o'clock at night, when the door to the Slytherin Common Room was opened to reveal a tall, modelesque Astoria Greengrass with her wavy black hair in a messy topknot and her skirt folded around the waist, causing the bottom hem to rest mid-thigh. She chewed on a piece of bubble gum, looking less than amused, as she found Draco's side, with her arms folded over her shapely chest.
"Was —"
"Seventh night a row," Astoria cut in, plopping down on the gilded, leather loveseat, beside him. "And here I thought the bossy swot was known for her punctuality."
Draco's muscles tensed. Were it not for the fact that there were a few fourth years seated close by, he would have furthered the discussion, but he could not take the risk. Instead, he exchanged one look with Astoria, knowing her intuition was as sharp as that of the Headmistress.
"I doubt it," she voiced, brushing his forearm, comforting and protective at the same time. "If my instincts are right, which they always are, the Weasel has nothing to do with it."
"There's no way to know for sure," countered Draco. "I mean think about it for a second. Why else would she back out completely without letting either of us know, if not for a second chance with him?"
Astoria tossed him a hardened look. "Trust me, she's more likely to start up a relationship with Longbottom, than with her poor excuse for an ex. She's Gryffindor, but she's not an idiot."
"I guess…"
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation for all of this," the witch reasoned, in a sensible manner. "I'll corner her at breakfast or something." She yawned, looking at the time on her designer wristwatch. "Until then, I suggest both of us turn in. You, sir, have a Quidditch match in the morning."
Draco froze a moment, having forgotten about the sodding match. It was a grudge match — against Gryffindor of course — and the weight of winning rested solely on his shoulders. With a hard sigh, he rubbed the fatigue from his facial muscles.
"I'm fucked," he groaned. "Flint and Slughorn will crucio the absolute shite out of me, if Potter catches that damned Snitch."
Astoria scrunched her lips to the side, placing a comforting hand on his left shoulder; the one closest to her. "You've been practicing nonstop for a week and a half. If they don't recognize the effort, then…they can fuck right off."
Draco couldn't help but laugh a little. "I appreciate the support," he voiced, thankful for her lack of subtlety. "Anyway. Enough about my sorry arse. I'll see you in the morning."
"You're not going to sleep?" she asked.
"In a bit," he shrugged, leaning forward and staring intently at the glowing embers. "Night."
Astoria hovered a moment, before her expression evened out. "Night."
Without another word between them, the witch rose from the loveseat and made her way down to the dormitories, leaving Draco behind to think long and hard about the situation at hand. For some reason, his stomach was in knots. It wasn't about the Quidditch match anymore. It was about Granger. From what he'd seen of her during class, she seemed fine and healthy as an Antipodean Opaleye. If not for sickness or the rekindling of her relationship with Weasel, he could see no reason she would skip out on a week's worth of meetings with no indication as to what happened or what could possibly have changed her mind.
Fuck it.
In a moment of haste, Draco looked to the area with the fourth years. To his fortune, it appeared the lot of them had turned in for the night, leaving him alone in the Common Room. Without further ado, the wizard stood on his feet and marched straight for the door.
"Mate —"
He froze mid-step, turning around to find Blaise.
"Where are you off to?" asked the Head Boy, clearly on his way to patrol.
Draco swallowed a little bit, struggling to find a logical reason as to why he was headed outside the Common Room, about a minute into curfew. "I…er…I left a book in the library," he managed to say, instantly regretting his choice. "It was…the…erm…the Muggle Studies book."
Blaise looked at him, blank. "Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles?" he asked. "You're more than welcome to use my copy. It's in the dormitory, if you need it."
"Thanks," he forced out, sufficiently annoyed with himself. "I'll do that."
"Cheers." Blaise patted him on the shoulder, and wrapped a hand around the doorknob, before clapping a hand over the side of his own face. "Shite," he voiced, looking to Draco. "I forgot to tell you; a delivery came in during morning mail, whilst you were at practice."
Draco sighed with disdain. "The last thing I need right now is another care package from my mother."
"I don't think this one's from your mother…" the Head Boy said to him. "It was wrapped in brown, not black, and there was no note."
"That's odd."
"I thought so, too…" offered Blaise. "…but I had Slughorn take a look at it, for hexes and sinister magic. Whatever it is, it passed with flying colours."
"Oh." Draco looked to his estranged friend, surprised. "Thanks…"
Zabini shrugged. "I figured it was the least I could do after the, er…tenting incident," he explained, looking as uncomfortable as the blonde. "Anyway, I left the package on that table by the fireplace."
Paler than usual, the fair-haired wizard nodded in thanks. "Cheers."
"Yeah. See you tomorrow." Without another word, Blaise left the Common room, headed for patrol duty with the Head Girl.
Draco pondered on that thought an extra moment, before he made his way to the table in question. As described, there was a package resting on top in brown wrapping, bound with a single white string. Curious, and the tiniest bit hesitant, he tugged at the string and unfolded the wrapping, unveiling a brown, leather-bound journal, with a black Quill tucked inside.
"The fuck…" Without further ado, he took hold of the Quill and scanned it, taking note of the closed tip and dark, feathered end. There was no opening for ink. But stranger than that, there was a single word scrawled on the first page of the journal.
Hello?
With an odd, foreboding sensation in the pit of his stomach, the young man took his new journal and Quill, and found a seat near the fireplace, staring intently at the word…but more specifically, at the handwriting in which the word was written. It was understated and delicate, and impossibly neat. In the back of his mind a tiny voice whispered the answer to his questions but he ignored it.
Draco swallowed hard, feeling his fingers tremble a little, as he grasped the Quill between his thumb, forefinger and middle finger, before scratching an anxious response. Who are you?
Seconds turned into minutes, and before he knew it, the clock struck eleven with his eyes glued firmly to the page. About thirty minutes later, when his resolve was starting to wear thin, a name emerged below his question. Eyes wide and skin prickling with heat, he counted eight letters, four syllables…and one enormous wave of relief.
Hermione.
A dozen or so questions raced through his mind, lightning fast. Caught in a battle of what he wanted to say and what he couldn't say, the Slytherin boy stared stupidly at the page, as several sentences appeared.
I'm sorry for the silent treatment. I've a good explanation, but it's best we save that for another time. Blaise and I have finished our rounds, and I'm sure he's headed to the Slytherin Common Room at this very moment.
Draco glanced to the door, on instinct. There was no sign of Blaise, but the witch was right. It was nearing time for the Head Boy's return.
And for the record, I haven't backed out of our arrangement, she continued. I will explain everything to you, in person, when the time is right. Just…both you and I, and Astoria, need to lay low for the next little while.
Without an ounce of hesitation, he scratched a response. How am I to know this is the real you? Better yet, how are you to know I am the real me?
It took about three minutes, before his questions were answered. I recognize your handwriting, and you recognize mine.
Touché, he wrote back. And exactly where did you find this strange little journal?
Hogsmeade, she answered, taking him by surprise as she sketched an image of the local bookshop, with tiny balls of snow falling around it, carrying the likeness of the wizarding village.
There was a falter in his expression, wherein his smirk transitioned into the faintest smile. You're a regular Picasso.
Why thank you, kind sir. Although I do prefer the work of Dalí, myself.
A note of perplexity coloured his eyes. I would never have pegged you as a fan of surrealism.
And I would never have expected you to be familiar with Muggle artists.
His smile twitched into a soft laugh. On the contrary, he wrote. Both Dalí and Picasso were wizards; the latter a pureblood. I believe some of their work is housed within the Spanish Ministry.
There was a brief pause, before her response emerged. Oh…that's…I had no idea. I take it you prefer Picasso?
On the contrary, he wrote again. My favourite is, in fact, Muggle.
Miró? Ernst? Magritte?
Before he could respond, the door to the Slytherin Common Room creaked open, to reveal Blaise. Perturbed by the interruption, and the smalltalk that followed, Draco was forced to the dormitory, where he waited until Blaise's snoring joined Crabbe and Goyle's symphony, before opening the journal a second time.
Sorry about that, he quickly wrote. Blaise came back.
It was difficult to see in the dark, but one minute later, Hermione Granger's soft, understated handwriting appeared. That's quite all right, she wrote. You should rest, as it is. Big match tomorrow.
Right. This time around, try not to stand in the way of a rogue bludger, yeah?
And relinquish the chance of being saved by Draco Malfoy? she asked, teasingly. That was sarcasm, by the way. I'm not sure it's detectable through script…
It is, he answered, laughing soundlessly, as to not disturb his dorm-mates. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow.
I suppose you will, she wrote back. Have a good night, Malfoy.
And you, Granger. Though he was reluctant to end the conversation so soon, there was no choice in the matter. Draco stared at the page for another three or four minutes, before closing the journal and tucking it under his pillow. That night, his dreams came to him in words.
A/N: It's like the wizarding equivalent of instant messaging! Cooooool. As per, I'd love to know your thoughts on this chapter.