Here's the next one. Enjoy!: August (it is really weird writing summer months in January)

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I don't attend Harry's birthday party. I've had enough of parties for now.

Of course, there were other reasons too. For example, the article I just remembered that I was supposed to be writing for Luna's magazine (she sent me a text the day after the business-merger-debacle, an awkward reminder of the upcoming deadline). I've been working on that ever since, finding journals on the internet for some inspiration, looking over her list of ideas, desperately hoping to come up with something interesting to say. I settle for something that might be a little obvious:

10 books your English Professor will tell you to read, and 10 books your best friend will tell you to read.

There are some added psychological quips about why these two options are different in terms of reading environment. It gives me a great excuse to peruse my bookshelves and decide which ones I would pick. On my way, I carve out some fun ones for me to have a look at later (because I really need more things to read, she says sarcastically).

Another reason I don't go to Harry's birthday party is, as is often the case now, Ron. He was irritating at best before we were together, then wonderful, and then even worse afterwards. Sometimes I can just about muster the strength to feel sorry for Natalie, but then I remember that I don't actually care all that much anyway. I know, sounds cold, but that's me right now.

Metaphorically speaking, anyway. The weather has been scorching. Gives me a great excuse to sit outside on the bench in the middle of the lawn that I so rarely cut.

The last reason, as previously established, is Draco.

I didn't want people to ask me about how the event was, or where Draco was, or about the nature of our friendship. There isn't much of a friendship right now, considering we each took our blows to each other at the party. I don't feel any particular remorse about him, I'm just still angry at him for how he treated me.

Doesn't mean I don't miss him though. Which I don't love.

I reserve the right to be mad at him.

And so, the days begin to blur together, with reading and writing and working maybe even more than I might have done during the school term. I don't have time to actively be angry at Draco, except when he deigns to send me a message to ask how I'm doing, as if we could simply return to the way things were so quickly. Still, my traitorous heart flutters when I see that he's been in contact.

Ginny calls me the weekend after Harry's birthday, sometime during the afternoon that I'm picking out the last three books on my list (A Clockwork Orange, My Sister's Keeper, and Confessions of a Shopaholic). I open the call on my mobile and grab my headphones to keep working.

"Ginny, hey," I say into the microphone, listening to the shuffling on the other end of the line. Maybe she had the same thought as me.

There's muffled speech, then louder: "Hermione! Sorry, Harry was trying to steal my phone."

In the background, I hear him shout, "Tell her I'm upset she didn't want to celebrate my birthday!"

I roll my eyes and grin. "Is that what this call is about?"

Ginny scoffs. "God, no. I know Harry wants it to be though."

"Sorry to disappoint him," I say. She laughs over the phone and repeats to Harry. He must be close-by. When she returns, I ask, "So, what's up?"

"Hey, I'm the one doing the questioning," she argues, but I know she's joking. "You didn't come to Harry's birthday. That has been established. I guess I should ask why, but I feel like I maybe already know the answer?"

I wander into the reading room and collapse into the sofa there, resigned. "Please, feel free to guess."

"Something happened with Draco?" she asks. Harry shouts something over the phone, asking belligerent questions. Ginny shushes him. I'm flushed red, suddenly feeling very embarrassed. I don't know why, but it feels like it might be easier to talk about this in person, so I don't have to be quite so articulate about it, and I could gesture wildly, shout, and then cry about why I'm shouting.

"Kinda," I admit. "But it's not a good thing," I add before she can jump for joy.

"Oh," she says. "What, then?"

I sigh. "We had an argument. And he was… he was really rude to me. He ignored me for the whole night, left me with his boss, didn't really talk to me at all. Then at the end of the night he was asking me why I was so annoyed with him."

"Huh."

Thank you for that intelligent response, Ginny.

"Yeah, I know."

"Was it maybe because he was focused on working?" she suggests tentatively.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, when Harry does these kinds of things, he's distracted and he wanders off, and I end up talking to whoever is around. He forgets about me, but at the end of the night we meet up, and he says he's missed me, and we're all good. I got to have alcohol and nice food, he did his work thing, and we've still got each others' backs. Divide and conquer, you know."

I think for a moment. "I guess that makes sense. I was just disappointed."

"Because you wanted some time with him?"

"Because I was his last choice," I say.

I can practically hear Ginny frowning. "Yeah. That is annoying. Then again, he might have been playing it down, trying to be cool or something. One of those stupid things that guys do – Harry, get off me right now or I will burn all of your socks!"

"Married life treating you well then, I gather?"

"Splendidly," Ginny mutters. "No different from before, really, except now I have to make an effort and get my name changed everywhere. I have half a mind to simply not bother."

"I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to."

"Yeah, I guess," she muses. "I kinda like it though. Ginny Potter. She sounds great."

"It's a good name," I agree.

"What are you going to do about Draco then?" Ginny asks, skipping back to the previous conversation as if nothing had happened in between. "Anything?"

"I don't know," I say, sighing again, sinking lower into the cushions in my wallowing. "I'm angry about how he treated me, but I can't avoid him forever. We're friends – at least, I'm assuming we still are. And I don't want to avoid him. I just want to… Urgh. Be around him, you know. God, it's so dumb."

Ginny is giggling over the phone and I'm brought back to our high-school days, laughing in our dorms about boys and how dumb they are, and how dumb we were for liking any of them. Sometimes it really does feel as if nothing has changed.

"I guess I'll message him, see how he is. Maybe we need to just talk. I'm assuming things will be easier with neither of us being inebriated and over-tired," I think aloud.

"Good call," Ginny says. "I know it sucks, and I don't like that he treated you that way, but see it from his side. If he doesn't have a good explanation, then leave him be."

"Thanks Gin."

"No worries. Anyway, what else have you been up to?"

Ginny and I talk for another hour, about all sorts of things. Eventually Harry starts grumbling for food and she's pulled away by his anxious stomach, apologising me with one breath and playfully berating him in the next. It's so nice to hear that they've already sunken into the wild squabbling of an old married couple. When Harry starts pulling Ginny off the phone she is shouting at him and me at the same time, so the conversation is confused and I'm laughing into the receiver.

After she's gone, I go back to my books.

Draco sends me a few fleeting messages over the next couple of days, apologising that he hasn't been around but that he wants to talk in person. I'm busy enough as it is, hurriedly finishing the article for Luna just a day or two before the final deadline (I'm pleased with the end result, and actually enjoyed the smattering of journalism. I did not enjoy the pressure of it, though). I talk to Draco briefly on a Thursday night, just the plain talk about days and weekend plans, and nothing of strength. I wonder if his distance from me is, too, because of the party, and not just because of the work overload.

I'm leaning towards the prior next morning when I see that he's been photographed with the same woman as before – Lucille Baxter, gorgeous model from Heaven. Legs for days. Hair extensions non-existent. A radiant beauty. All phrases that the press uses to describe her – none of which anyone would ever use to talk about me.

When Draco messages again that night, I don't ask about the woman. I dare not.

Over the weekend, I dally around, looking at old lesson plans, reading manuscripts. I even text Bill to assuage a little of the boredom I'm feeling. My laptop practically stares at me from across the room, daring me to write something. I put it in the cupboard for the day, unable to look at it for fear of feeling guilty for still having written absolutely nothing in the way of a novel that I've been promising myself.

At this point, I'll take anything.

Hilary emails me back on Monday with some advice.

Dear Hermione,

I'm enjoying the summer sun greatly, thank you. Dave and I are going to be holidaying in Lanzarote next week which will be very exciting. Something different this year, rather than the usual pilgrimage to Derbyshire! I hope you are also well. Are you liking your time away from the school?

In terms of finding something to write, I would start with a monthly prompt, or something like that. Maybe there is something in August running through and you could try to write 500 words on a character every day. That's a fantastic start.

Alternatively, if you're finding creativity isn't coming to you, you might want to start with a different outlet. Do you play any musical instruments? Something to get the gears grinding is often a great way to start.

Wishing you the best,

Hilary Dunphy

Okay. 500 words a day. That kind of seems like a lot, but I can try it. You know, in addition to all of the other things I'm currently working on. That's fine. Right?

I give up after three days of failed writing and buy a piano on eBay. My dad collects it the following day and brings it over for tuning and set-up.

"All good to go," he says, the piano tuned and his tools set aside. "Everything alright? You haven't played in years."

"Yeah," I say, smiling. "Yeah, it's good. I just wanted to start up again. You know, get the creative juices flowing – and now that I say that aloud I hate it."

He laughs with me, stays for a cup of tea, then leaves as I'm suggesting that he could stay for dinner if he wanted. It's the leaving as I'm asking that stings, but he does have my mother to get home to, and I'm basically a proper adult – full-time job and money to buy a second-hand, slowly-decaying piano. Fully functioning adult. That's me.

I pour myself another cup of tea and take to the piano stool, sitting down with a heavy weight in my chest, hoping for something good to happen. I stare at the keys, waiting. I press a few of them, feeling my way around the noise and the sensation of it again. It's strange for this to feel quite so alien to me as I've been playing for more than the better half of my life. Yet, here I am, at a loss for what to do.

Slowly, uncertainly, a little something comes back to me.

It's something that my father taught many years ago, about a fireside dance that two people share. Although the song takes a little while to get to me, once I have started, the notes come quickly. No doubt that I mess it up several times, but at least I'm playing.

Results day comes around a lot quicker than I anticipated, and soon enough I'm waking up stupidly early, checking my phone to see if I'm late to the hall. Nope. Six hours to spare. I flop back into the pillows, a hand over my face in anxiety.

It's the same every year that I've been doing this, even since I was back taking my own examinations. The painful waiting to see if I have achieved a pass or fail – because the school are far more likely to cut their losses with me if my students don't do so well. Even in adulthood there are tests that we have to participate in, which is increasingly painful.

I try to ignore the text from Draco that wishes me good luck. The thought of him twists a knife in my gut.

It doesn't help that I keep reimagining the event, thinking of the many, many ways in which it could have gone better. I could have left, I could have stopped drinking, or forced my way out of the conversation with Marcus. I could have been braver and actually just not taken any of the bullshit at all. But I didn't, and it's done, and I don't like the result but there's no going back.

Funny how that kind of resonates with today being results day. There are no do-overs for an examination – sort of. I mean, there are resits and things but… I'm getting ahead of myself. The thing is that it's done, and I can't change it now. Like my students and how they can't change their results.

The sun is barely over the horizon when I start getting dressed, resigned to just be awake for a ridiculously long time today. Time passes horrifically slowly. I shower, get dressed, change my mind, stare at my laptop for what feels like hours, then stare at the piano for just as long. I'm too tense to be creative today, that has been decided for me.

At long last it's time to go, so I walk to the school and put on my bravest face. You know, the one without all the tears.

By the time I get to the hall, it's about half-filled with students and staff. I spy Sammy over in the far corner and hurry over, eager for a friend. She smiles at me, albeit nervously, and hands me a biscuit that she pulled from her bag. I don't ask questions but eat it in silence.

"Is it always like this?" she asks eventually.

"Yes," I reply, smiling weakly.

"So much to look forward to."

I give her a comforting pat on the shoulder.

Thankfully, just like last year, I had no need to be worried. I mean, worrying is all subjective anyway. I wasn't concerned that all of my students should be high achieving in the same way; I know that not every person in my class would be awarded an A. Just as last year, I am proud of them and how far they have come, regardless of the grade really. When it boils down to it, the students matter, not statistics, and the thought that I have encouraged at least some of them down a path of further education makes me inconceivably pleased, and just so proud of them all.

It puts me on a high for the rest of the day. So much so that, when a knock on my front door sounds late in the evening, I'm more shocked than anything to see the blond-haired man on the other side of it.

"Hey," Draco says, hands in his pockets, looking equally guilty and embarrassed. "I get it if you want to turn me away, because of how I acted. And I understand the… distance. But can we talk?"

I'm too flummoxed by his presence to feel much against him. So, I nod.

"Can I come in?"

I unfreeze and realise our positioning. "Uh, yeah. Come in." I open the door wide enough for him to pass by me. Maybe this was his plan, to catch me unawares so I that I would be unable to quite as furious at him had this gone any other way. It could also be that I'm exhausted, having had one of those especially long days where not a lot happened. Honestly, I'm relieved that he's here, in some weird way. So, I ask: "Everything okay?"

"Not really," he admits, laughing nervously, leaning up against my kitchen counter. "I'm an idiot."

Nice. Factual statement.

"Yes. And?"

He shrugs as if to say fair enough, then continues. "I'm an idiot, and I don't deserve a friend who is as wonderful as you, which I get sounds horribly cheesy." It does. "I have no idea what possessed me that night – to say those things to you, to be so rude and unwelcoming, especially as I invited you as my guest." Draco sounds utterly disappointed in himself, disgusted by actions he couldn't believe he had done.

"Thanks, I guess," I mutter, still at-odds given he hasn't actually apologised yet.

"There's something you should know. You weren't my last resort choice."

I balk. "What? That's not funny."

He takes a step closer to me, apparently frustrated. I'm not understanding whatever it is he's trying to convey.

"Hermione, it was a really, really stupid joke that I made. We talk in jokes sometimes, and it's hard to get that across in messages," he explains, gesticulating wildly. When he catches me staring at his flouncing hands, he returns them to his sides. "You were the first person I asked, despite what I said. I just wanted you there."

When I don't interject, he sighs and goes on talking. "Then I fucked it all up anyway. I was so stressed about the evening, about it being work and you all at once, and I didn't know what I was doing. I thought that you'd be able to ground me a little"

"Ground you?" I ask.

He nods. "You're humble, and brilliant, and a spectacular wing-woman in any situation. One of the many reasons I like you is because you remind me of good people."

Honestly, Draco has never been quite so talkative.

"I should have stayed with you the whole night, made sure you were having fun, and done my job as a friend or whatever –"

"This isn't a great apology, you know that, right?" I comment, starting to smile. I can't quite be mad at him anymore, with him practically unravelling in front of me. He's just trying so hard, and though I want to be angry, it's like shouting at a puppy right now.

"I'm sorry," he confesses – whether for the quality of the apology, or otherwise. "It's… feelings. I hate feelings."

"Feelings?"

"Yeah." He shudders, as if trying to get away from whatever emotion he intends to quash. "I care about you, and I'm frustrated with myself for what happened."

"I second that," I say.

He almost smiles, leaning back against the counter again. "I just had to tell you how sorry I am, for being such a ridiculous, painful arsehole. Maybe if I had just been a bit more present, and hadn't gone for the argument, then we would have had a lot more fun than either of us did."

"You forgot I was there," I remind him.

"Another shitty act of Draco Malfoy to add to the ever-growing list," he says, groaning. "I'm a coward, and I should have been better. I really am sorry. Have I ruined everything?"

The last remnants of my anger melt away into butterflies that I recognise.

"Not unless this apology isn't back by clear evidence of your hopes for redemption. By which I mean, don't ever do that again." Draco nods sincerely, accepting this. "If you pull something like that, we just can't be friends."

"I understand."

"Thank you for coming over here, though. And for being so sincere. I'm not angry anymore."

Draco visibly deflates with relief. "I was worried for a second there. But also, just to be clear, I apologised because I meant it, not just because I want you as a friend –"

"Jeez, alright, enough," I say, laughing now, feeling lighter than I have done in weeks. I think this must mean, aside from other things, that I am hungry. I check the clock – yep, dinner time. Draco notices this action.

"Listen, I don't know what you're doing tonight, if you have plans, but maybe we can hang out? I can order food, I know you have some killer games in that cupboard over there, or TV is good too. Unless you have plans, in which case I will fuck off and leave you alone."

I shrug. "Can't say no to a free meal."

He grins. "Who said it was free?"

"Are you saying you don't want to be in my good graces?"

"Good point," he muses. "What'll it be then?"

As promised, Draco buys the food and pulls out a pack of cards and we play until the food arrives – pizza this time. I make cups of tea and things are just comfortable. It is as though we belong in this space together, laughing and talking about all things. He persuades me to play him a tune on the piano, after much begging, and then we turn to the lounge, settled into the sofa. His arm is wrapped around me and I'm leaning up against his chest, explaining the characters of Vampire Diaries to him. He agrees that Damon Salvatore is a stone-cold-killer both literally and in terms of making the ladies swoon too.

It's nice being with him like this, in the dark and quiet, without the drama, forgetting about what happened. I was being truthful earlier. I'm not angry anymore. That's not to say that I have totally disregarded what occurred, because I certainly haven't and will not, but I know that not everyone is themselves the whole time, and everyone has bad days. That night just happened to be true for the both of us for both statements.

This is us, though. At least, it's the us that I recognise.

By the time we're yawning, it's so ludicrously late again that I make up the spare bed for him. As we're putting the pillows on it together, a thought springs to mind.

"Draco?"

"Yes, Hermione?" he replies, feigning seriousness.

"Did I strip naked in front of you when I was drunk once?" I ask, hoping for a negative on that.

Draco opens and closes his mouth, stunning, for a moment, into silence. "You did. Yes."

I blush furiously, instantly embarrassed.

"Oh. Okay. Great. Well, sorry about that."

He smiles, tired. "Trust me," he says, "nothing to apologise for," and bids me goodnight, leaving me astounded in the hallway, and suddenly very awake.

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Thanks for reading!