Chapter 10

Winter 1998

The Portkey dumped them into a public loo with dim lighting and a grungy-looking toilet. The mirror on the wall above the sink was violently cracked, fractures splitting from what Draco imagined to be a good punch. It was very off-putting.

"Welcome to America?" Draco asked rhetorically.

Hermione burst out laughing, quickly putting her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound. They weren't sure what lay on the other side of the toilet door. They both knew it was best to be as inconspicuous as possible.

"I'll go first," Hermione said.

"My hero," Draco replied flatly, bringing a hand to his chest mockingly.

"Don't you mean heroine?" she asked, but not in a playful way. Draco rolled his eyes casually, but his mind was reeling as to why there was sudden animosity between them. Perhaps it was the distress he had expressed back in the darkened linen cupboard, but there was something not as frisky between them now. Had he made a mistake?

Hermione pulled her wand out of her charmed bag and slipped it into her pocket.

"Worried about those American gangs everyone's chattering about then?" Draco asked.

"I like to be prepared," Hermione said. She flipped her hair at him, then reached for the doorknob. It rattled, startling both of them. Hermione stepped back.

A gruff voice yelled through the door, "Oi, people gotta piss out here. Hurry it up!"

Draco and Hermione exchanged looks. "British?" Hermione mouthed at him. Had they taken the right Portkey?

"Occupied innit," Draco barked and kicked the door with his toe. "Let's go out together," he said to Hermione. She nodded, and Draco opened the door, keeping one hand in his pocket on his wand, just in case.

A short, threadbare man greeted them on the other side. It seemed the Portkey had taken them to a small pub, location still unknown. The stranger's eyebrows rose when he saw Draco and Hermione emerge from the toilet together.

"Little afternoon delight, then, poppet?" the stranger said in a thick cockney accent. He leered at Hermione.

"Jealousy is unbecoming," Hermione spat, walking past him quickly into the grubby pub.

"Oh, you wish, sweetheart," the man said, grabbing his crotch at her. Draco walked by the man, knowing he wasn't worth their time and that Hermione would just get angry if Draco tried to stand up for her. Somehow, she'd read it as "helping" her, and Salazar knew she had told him enough that she didn't need him for anything.

But he had told her that he "needed" her. What had he been thinking, expressing something like that to her? This was not part of their agreement. Shagging was their agreement. But their sex had bred intimacy. Perhaps the day had gotten away from him. It hadn't seemed that far off base, with Hermione not wanting to be apart in their travels and then the forlorn look she'd worn after her interaction with Ryan. But somehow the entire day's events had left Draco confused.

Draco quickly shook his head, and he followed Hermione through the narrow bar.

"Don't mind, Billy," the barman said, jerking his head towards the now closed toilet door. "He hasn't been a gentleman since 1973."

"No harm, no foul," Draco said diplomatically. Hermione kept moving towards the front door.

"A fellow Brit!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together with delight. Draco nodded politely but kept moving after Hermione. "Don't want to stay for a drink?" the barman asked.

"Erm," Draco said, noticing Hermione seemed eager to find out where they were. "A bit early, innit?" Draco asked, motioning to the bright light steaming in through the dirty windows at the front of the establishment.

"It's happy hour in London, so it's happy hour here," the barman said flatly. His eyes narrowed at Draco. "Say, how old are you?"

With that question, Draco realized they may have made it to America after all. One of the few things he knew for certain about America was that they were strict on their drinking age.

"We best be going," Hermione said with a smile to the barman and a quick tug on Draco's upper arm.

The barman shrugged his shoulders and the door to the toilet flew open. Taking their cue to hustle out, Draco and Hermione burst out of the front door into the afternoon light and poured themselves out onto the cramped pavement.

The street corner was swarming with yellow cabs and people hastily bustling past them.

"Welcome to America!" Hermione said, grabbing Draco's hand enthusiastically. She jumped into his embrace, kissing him freely. Draco held her close to him, letting his eyes slip closed as he kissed her. The need he had felt under that blinking red light returned to the pit of his stomach. It felt tainted now that he knew it was awkward and wrong for him to feel that way towards her—that it was outside of the boundaries of their agreement.

They broke apart. Draco checked his wristwatch, "It's about one in the afternoon." He was grateful for the wizarding tradition as to not have to use his wand. Draco's stomach rumbled loudly.

"Hungry?" Hermione asked, her eyes amused.

"Extremely," Draco replied.

"Maybe we can find something along the way."

"There was a pamphlet in the waiting room that said New York City was known for its pizza and street hot dogs," Draco recounted.

"Neither of those sound really appealing, but I suppose—when in Rome?"

Draco nodded. He waited for Hermione to take the lead, knowing she would. He was counting on her always having her wand at the ready to keep his not having a wand permit from her. It wasn't that she would mind having to do all the magic on their trip, but Draco couldn't stomach the thought of Hermione being disappointed in him again like she had been when Professor Dobrev had shocked her with the news of his probation.

Without any hesitation, Hermione reached into her pocket and whispered a charm. A small map appeared on her palm, showing them how to get to the second store Headmistress McGonagall had spoken about buying the Mandrake essence: Claire O'Fyll's Floral Shop. It was located in the Flower District of Manhattan, about a thirty-minute walk from where they were in the East Village. He was grateful when she wrapped her fingers around his and set off down the busy street.

—xxx—

The handwritten sign in the window of Claire O'Fyll's Floral Shop read in thick lettering: CLOSED DUE TO FLOWER EMERGENCY. Hermione knitted her eyebrows.

"What could constitute a 'flower emergency'?" Draco asked between bites of his hotdog. They had stopped a couple of blocks away from the British pub to buy one from a street urchin with a rusty cart. Draco had hungrily scarfed it down. Much to his surprise and hers, Draco was immediately enamored of the food. For the next ten blocks, he talked animatedly about the flavors of the hotdog and how atrocious the aesthetic was and the delivery of it from the dingy cart. "But damned if it doesn't taste amazing!" Draco had said.

When they happened upon another hotdog cart, Draco asked Hermione to buy him another with her No-Maj money. She put a one-dollar bill into the mucky man's open palm and stared at Draco as he inhaled the second hotdog.

The one he was eating in front of the shop was his fourth of their thirty-block walk. Hermione wasn't sure if she was impressed or disgusted. She was a little tickled by how delighted the hotdogs seemed to make Draco. Hermione wondered what Lucius would think about his son eating such common food. Hermione's mind drifted to the ghostly peacock she'd spotted while they had been escorted through the grounds at Malfoy Manor by Fenir Greyback and the other Snatchers. She wondered if that had been Voldemort's addition to the Manor or is Lucius had always been that pompous. Either one wouldn't surprise her. But if it were the latter, how funny was the image of Draco bringing hotdogs to a garden party at the Manor.

"I suppose we have to come back tomorrow. Did Professor Dobrev say anything about us spending the night in America?"

"She did mention room and board, but it didn't seem as if she thought it was a likely event."

"Well we should owl her as soon as we can," Hermione said. Then she bowed her head towards Draco, who had just finished the last bite of his hotdog, and asked him playfully, "Was there anything about hotels in that pamphlet peddling hotdogs?"

—xxx—

Hermione and Draco walked a couple of blocks back the way they had come to find a small boutique hotel, Home Home on the Strange. When they passed it before, Hermione had noticed golden art-deco doors sheltered under a dark navy awning that yawned across the pavement. On the side of the awning were some small, glitzy geometric symbols that Hermione had found intriguing.

There was a deep magical community in New York, which operated mostly underground with the use of secret symbols and passwords and turns of phrase to help maintain secrecy and establish trust between magical strangers. Hermione had read several books on American magic—from Indigenous magic, to the different cultures between North and South, to the use of alchemy during the California Gold Rush. There was little written about the secrecy hiding each major city's magical community, but there was enough for Hermione to glean that being foreigners perhaps put them at a disadvantage, which was why she had exchanged plenty of No-Maj money in case they couldn't find magical accommodation.

Her gut told her that the symbols on the awning were indicators that they would be welcome at the hotel, and it didn't hurt to ask. Perhaps if it was just a standard No-Maj hotel, they would have enough money for a night's stay. Hermione knew New York was expensive, but certainly one night couldn't be more than $100.

They stopped just outside of the awning, Hermione holding Draco back from entering the hotel.

"See those symbols there," Hermione said, discretely pointing up.

"Hm," Draco said thoughtfully. "Interesting. To the unsuspecting eye, they look like mere finials."

"Exactly, that's the major part of their secrecy. Other 'secret societies' in American culture, like these people called the Free Masons, used very obvious symbology to connect with their community."

"So why not just charm them to be only visible to the magical eye, like the back of the menu to the Embassy entrance?" Draco asked.

"That's a good question. That charm is a more recent invention when it comes to making things visible to a large number of people. For example, Hogwarts is only visible to people who have been invited to it—in the past or present—and the castle itself can revoke that invitation. Dumbledore once told me that the castle had revoked Voldemort's invitation before his attack on Harry. But he was able to sneak his way back in by riding passenger with Professor Quirrell, and I would imagine that Snape's hands were tied when he was Headmaster.

"They hadn't yet figured out how to reveal something to an unknown audience. So, for establishments that wanted to make sure they were visible and yet invisible, Americans relied on glyphs.

"When America was first founded, there was very little population of money-earning and capitalist-participating immigrants. The Native Americans and enslaved peoples were not welcome in the capitalist society by the No-Majes. So many magical establishments had to rely on a dual purpose of their services—to both witches and wizards and No-Majes. The glyphs helped witches and wizards know who to trust.

"There were also charms on the glyphs to hide from the eyes of Scourers, so witches and wizards could practice their magic in peace. Especially since No-Majes took no mercy on those they believed to possess magic."

"You mean, the Salem Witch Trials?" Draco interjected.

"Those were the worst, but it's been documented that most of the 'witches' who were caught were actually just No-Majes the Scourers passed off as magicals, which is the most tragic part. They were persecuting their own out of fear of the unknown."

Hermione and Draco stood on the pavement deep in conversation for a while, discussing the pros and cons of the "coming out of the broom closet" global conversation—taking into consideration Rappaport's Law. Hermione felt as if they were back in his bed, discussing serious things and arguing about who was right. When they had first started talking before and after shagging, Hermione had been surprised by Draco's ability to converse on topics without the brown-nosing or the condescending tone he displayed in many of their classes. What perhaps surprised Hermione the most was their easy rhythm and ability to talk about all sorts of things. They came from radically different backgrounds, but somehow related to each other in a lot of different facets. Hermione had come to think of their dialogues as an extension of many of their classroom lectures—a way for her to intimately explore a different point of view and be challenged one-on-one with someone who had the capacity to keep up with her.

While they stood exchanging ideas and thoughts and facts, Hermione wondered if this way of interacting with Draco was better than the sex. And maybe there were other things that they could do together besides just physically tearing each other apart. Hermione briefly wondered if that was even possible with Draco; she thought them being anything more than secretly involved was too complex for people back home to accept.

They did not fear talking about magic in public, since most people walking down the pavement seemed preoccupied and self-involved in their own journeys and destinations. Many scuttled down the pavement, noses deep in various newspapers that all had the same front-page picture of a middle-aged white man in a suit, his head bowed, whose name was either Lewinksy or Clinton.

"Shall we pop in then?" Draco asked, and took a couple of steps towards the doors.

"In the mood to pop, are we?"

Draco's eyes narrowed at Hermione playfully and yet deadly serious. "Are you trying to make sexual innuendos at me, Granger?"

"Who, me?" Hermione responded, feigning ignorance, then looking away sheepishly.

"You are trouble, aren't you?"

"I can be," Hermione said wriggling her eyebrows and flashing him a smirk.

A baritone American voice boomed from behind them, "Out or in? And I mean the hotel, not with each other."

Draco and Hermione turned to find a tall gentleman in a flamboyant seersucker suit leering at them. He had a tall, skinny cane and a black satin top hat, which looked oddly ridiculous paired with the casual suit. It seemed as if he was going to tap dance on the beach.

Hermione hadn't realized they were blocking the entrance to the hotel.

"Oh, pardon us," she said quickly.

"Oh my, they are British! Well then, all trespasses forgiven, my lovelies! Wherever do you hail from?"

"London," Draco said. Hermione could sense that the years of being a Malfoy were churning in Draco—he seemed inclined to be polite, but also to make it clear that he was better than this stranger as quickly and deftly as possible. He even stood up a little taller than normal. "I'm Draco Malfoy. Pleased to meet you."

Draco extended his hand to the man, who brought his hand out of his pocket to reveal gaudy rings on each of his fingers.

"Alexander Pepperwood." Alexander turned his gaze to Hermione. "And who is this exquisite creature?"

"Hermione Granger," she said, unable to determine if Alexander's comment had been flattery or mere commentary. Either way, she enjoyed the way Draco bristled slightly at the remark.

"Marvelous to meet you both!" Alexander purred. "Are you all staying at the Strange?"

"We aren't sure yet," Hermione said.

"Well, it's simply divine, darling. You must stay, come come, I'll introduce you to Sebastian."

With that, and no explanation of who Sebastian was, Alexander looped his arm through Hermione's and swept her through the double doors and right across the small gilded lobby to the concierge desk. Draco tagged along behind them, trying to keep in step next to Hermione.

"My dearest Sebastian," cried Alexander to the sallow elderly man behind the desk. He was dressed in a deep purple suit and a crisp white shirt.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pepperwood."

"I found this vagrant and that vagabond outside looking for a place to lay their gentle heads. I knew they just simply had to stay here with us." Hermione wasn't sure who was the vagrant and who was the vagabond, but she could tell that Alexander was a man of many words. It was becoming of him. Almost like a politician.

"Pleasure to meet you both. I am Sebastian Strangehaus. We do have a couple of rooms available," Sebastian said slowly. He turned to Hermione. "How many nights, miss?"

"Erm, just one."

"You should put them in the honeymoon suite," Alexander said. "I have a feeling about these two." He batted his remarkably lush eyelashes down at Hermione and then at Draco.

"Oh no, we certainly don't need anything fancy," Hermione said hastily.

"Luckily, that is available," Sebastian said, pointedly ignoring Hermione's comment. "And how will you be paying?" Sebastian turned to direct his question to Draco. "Cash or credit?"

"Cash," Hermione answered, pulling out a small billfold of her No-Maj currency. She could feel Alexander staring down at her. The attention seemed a little much, and her hands began to shake.

"Now, now," Alexander said soothingly, laying a hand on top of hers as she counted out the bills. "Isn't this a delightful feminist coup? Tell me dear, are you the one who brings the bacon?"

Hermione knitted her eyebrows together, not understanding the question, but assuming it was something to do with her being the one with the money instead of Draco.

Not missing a beat, Draco interjected, "Hermione is the cleverer of our pair."

"How delightful! You two, oh you two must be my guests! Sebastian, please book them the honeymoon suite and bill it my rooms."

Hermione snuck a glance at Draco, who was already protesting to deaf ears as Sebastian and Alexander exchanged details, and then a large skeleton key was handed to Hermione, and Alexander said, "The suite is just magical, you'll see."

—xxx—

Draco, feeling slightly uncomfortable with a stranger paying for their board for the night, followed Alexander and Hermione through the winding corridor of the top floor. He assumed Alexander was showing them to their honeymoon suite. The name alone made Draco feel a little queasy—if only he knew what Hermione was thinking about all this.

"The honeymoon suite is one floor below the penthouse," Alexander told Hermione as they turned a corner. "I live in the penthouse."

"Live?" Hermione asked.

"For twelve years, my pet."

What kind of grown man lives in a hotel? Draco thought as they arrived at the door to the Honeymoon suite.

"A very eccentric one, my dear," Alexander said, turning his head to gaze down at Draco.

Draco's eyes narrowed. He hadn't felt any presence in his mind.

Occlumency? Draco thought.

"I'm very good," Alexander said. "Exceptional, if I may say."

"Exceptional at what?" Hermione asked.

"Occlumency," Alexander said.

Hermione stopped herself from inhaling sharply with surprise and played it cool.

"Don't worry my pets, I know what you are."

"And that would be?" Draco asked, unwilling to show their cards.

"Magical," Alexander said with a wide smile. "In more ways than one."

—xxx—

The honeymoon suite was the most over-the-top set of rooms Hermione had ever seen. It was done in Rococo décor and reeked of Marie Antoinette. There were lavish tiny details everywhere, from the wainscoting to the trinkets on the shelves, to the enormous wall mural of a typical 18th century French garden. The tiny details everywhere made it seem cramped and overwhelming. It was certainly not romantic, and for that, Hermione was grateful. She had been extremely nervous about being strong-armed into the suite by Sebastian and Alexander. The entire walk from the lobby to the suite, a nagging voice in the back of Hermione's head had been telling her to downplay any romance at all costs. Keep things just sexual between them.

"Isn't it divine?" Alexander asked them as they took a turn about the room in shocked silence.

Hermione wasn't sure what to call it, but divine was not the first thing that came to mind. However, Draco saved her from having to lie to their new friend.

"Indeed, very appropriately opulent," Draco touted. "The window boxes remind me of Vanderlyn."

Who?

"My, my," Alexander purred. "Handsome and educated. My dear, how do you know of John Vanderlyn? He's American and you strike me as the kind of Englishman who wouldn't deign to sully your mind with anything American."

"My mother is a fan of American painters. I believe his panorama is in the Met, no?"

Hermione was baffled. The Malfoy money had certainly allowed Draco to be well-groomed if he was able to keep up with a card like Alexander.

"phenomenal eye, my young friend. That is precisely what gave me the inspiration."

"You designed these rooms?" Hermione interjected.

"Oh yes," Alexander replied. "My poor Sebastian's wife died tragically a decade ago, just after I moved in and she was the one who took care of the place. So, I found it my duty to help him get along. Believe you me, the place would have long gone to tatters had I not stepped in." Alexander stopped contemplatively for a moment. "Dearest Sebastian could not even look at the Honeymoon suite after she passed. So I extended my services from just fabric to the whole kit and caboodle."

"'Just fabric'?" Draco questioned.

"My specialty is fabric manipulation, but I'm also talented in Occlumency," he paused for dramatic effect. "If only I had been born in the heyday of the circus!"

Hermione giggled a little at Alexander's sudden flare.

"Did you know what we were when you approached us on the street?" Draco asked.

"Why yes; you two don't do a good job of hiding what you are."

"Where we come from, there isn't a lot of need for hiding."

"Ah, yes, I've heard the British magical community is quite separatist."

"It's for protection of both sides," Draco said, slightly defensive.

Suddenly finding his patriotic stride, Hermione mused, then caught herself and glanced at Alexander, who smiled at her knowingly.

"I would be absolutely delighted if you two would join me for dinner this evening. I am very intrigued to hear more about 'jolly ole England' and to show you the better side of my magical city."

"We'd love to join you," Hermione said, figuring they had to eat, and the man had already paid for their board, so it would be rude to reject the invitation.

"Too right you are, my sweet." Alexander took Hermione's hand, and with a dramatic bow, he kissed her fingers, then tipped his hat to Draco. "I'll knock at eight." And with that, he vanished into thin air without so much as an Apparating crack.

"What the bloody Helga," Draco muttered.

"I think he's 'delightful,'" Hermione said in her best American accent.

"Delightful? More like disarming."

"Well he was kind enough to pay for our room and invite us out for dinner."

"A proper gentleman," Draco said, his tone still a little insolent.

"Not used to having someone who isn't a Malfoy bestowing monetary kindness?"

Draco bristled, and Hermione knew she had struck a nerve. "It's all right, Draco. He seems harmless and genuine."

Draco nodded. "If you think so. I trust your instincts."

She turned away from him to inspect the suite more and plan for their next hours. They had to write to Professor Dobrev and come up with their agenda for the morning. Their Portkey would leave promptly at noon and it would activate anywhere they could find that was discrete—an alley or a cupboard would work.

That would leave the entire morning to go back to the flower shop, Hermione thought.

She felt a presence behind her. Knowing it was Draco, she leaned back into his body. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burrowing his face into her neck. He inhaled deeply, and Hermione brought her hands up to run her fingers through his short hair. Draco's embrace tightened slightly.

"Whatever are we going to do with this huge suite?" he asked.

Hermione, constantly vigilant about downplaying the romance of the Rococo rooms, replied quickly, "Fuck all over it?"

Draco chuckled. "Witch after my own heart."

They both stiffened a little bit.

"I didn't—"

"Draco—"

Draco's arms dropped from her waist, and Hermione turned. He had stepped back from her, realizing that he had made a mistake. Hemione was reminded of what he had said at the American Embassy before their Portkey activated: "I need you." His eyes were downcast, and he seemed ashamed.

Everything had seemed so simple when she had propositioned him in the library, and they had come crashing together in the Room of Requirement. It had been just straightforward shagging. Nothing more, and it could certainly be less if they needed it to be. But now, after having spent so much time together—which Hermione would never have thought they'd have been able to stomach before—Hermione was starting to wonder if McGonagall was wrong. Could something seemingly impossible, now be possible? Could they be friends? Could they be more?

"Hermione, I didn't mean it like that." Draco's tone was almost meek. It was off-putting coming out of his mouth. This was Draco Malfoy, the most pompous arse Hermione had ever known.

Hermione had to stop herself from asking, "What have you done with Draco Malfoy?" She had an idea of what the answer was, not that they had ever discussed it. After their first couple of encounters, where she had peered down at his arms for any sign of his Dark Mark, Hermione had honestly almost forgotten he had ever been branded. It wasn't until Professor Dobrev had mentioned his ban from Apparating that Hermione had remembered and realized there was trauma he had endured she would never know.

There had been so much to do in their last year of Horcrux hunting that Hermione hadn't thought a lot about Draco Malfoy—why would she? But there had been floating thoughts throughout their time together, especially while they had mindlessly waited in the American Embassy's waiting room, when she thought about what that had all been like for Draco. Now he wasn't just the pompous arse who bullied her in school, but the gentle man who made her feel more alive than anything or anyone else did. He was humanized; no longer just a foil or an antagonist, but perhaps hero of his own story.

To hear Draco talk about Snape, the few times he had mentioned his godfather, Hermione realized he had lost dear ones too in their battle against evil. While a lot of their trauma was shared merely by being in the same place at the same time, there was so much more that undulated under the surface. How had she not seen that in him before when it was exactly the same between her and Harry and Ron?

Draco and Hermine both knew their arrangement, but it seemed like the black and white lines were fraying into gray the more time they spent together.

What would it mean to get closer to Draco? Hermione thought. Draco had inferred that she had not wanted to be apart before they had boarded the broom at Hogwarts. He'd said it low enough so she wouldn't hear him, but she had. Was that true that she didn't want to be apart from Draco, or had that merely been her fear of flying speaking? She had figured the latter, but maybe this humanized Draco Malfoy had grown on her.

Hermione's gaze softened as she took in Draco's downcast eyes, bowed head, and wringing hands. There were complications to them being together in more than a physical way, but there was a pull deep in her chest that made her want to try.

She stepped forward and brought her hand to his chin to raise it. His gray pools devoured hers, searching for kindness. She grasped his hands in hers.

"I want more," Hermione said.

Draco's eye widened with questions.

"I want more than sex," she added.

He silently gazed at her, which was flustering. What didn't he get? she thought.

"I want more than sex with you," Hermione said. Draco's eyebrows rose, and his hands tightened in hers. "I want you."

The moment in time between them stopped. Draco's face changed as he took in what Hermione had just uttered. For a split second, Hermione wondered if she had a TimeTurner in her back pocket for fear that Draco was about to reject her. She didn't dare blink as the moment stretched impossibly thin, unraveling her nerves. But then Draco's lips crashed into hers, and his hands came to hold her face gently. Hermione placed her hands on top of his. He pulled back to gaze into her eyes. There was a lightness there that hadn't been there before.

So much for keeping the romance out of the Rococo, Hermione thought before Draco's lips evaporated all thoughts and encouraged feelings and actions.

—xxx—

Draco woke with Hermione's head on his chest, her curls plaited like a diadem around her head. She was laying perpendicular to him on her back with a book open in her hands.

"Nose always buried in a book," he said.

Hermione shifted to look at him. "Well, you dozed off, what did you expect?"

"You have this proclivity for wearing me out," Draco quipped

"Don't say it isn't fun."

"The most fun I've had in years," Draco said, and watched her eyes fill with amusement. "Probably ever," he added. The sudden pang in his chest made him realize it was true.

"Well, I learned from the best," Hermione said.

Draco rolled his eyes at her comment. "Hermione, can we try to refrain from talking about your sexual escapades with the Weasel?"

He expected her to laugh a little and agree, but instead she stayed silent and turned away from him onto her back again. Draco gave it a beat.

"It was a joke," Draco said. "I mean, I'm kind of serious. You know how much I dislike him. Thinking about you and him is unpleasant for me." Hermione remained quiet and didn't look at him. Draco began to fumble. "But you know, I want to talk about anything with you. Maybe just leave the details a little muddled?"

Nothing? he thought. Now he was starting to worry.

Draco sat up a little to look down at her, perhaps cajoling her to return his gaze. "Hermione?" She sat up quickly and turned away from him, making motions to get up from the bed. Draco quickly reached for her hand. "Hey—where are you going? Did I say something wrong?" He knew the answer to that already.

"It's nothing," she replied softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Hermione, I know what 'it's nothing' means," Draco came to sit beside her.

Her shoulders slumped a little while Draco held onto her hand, staying quiet to create space for her to reply in her own time.

Finally, after several moments, she said quietly, "Ron wasn't my first."

Well, that certainly wasn't what Draco was expecting. When they had all realized that the trio wasn't coming for their seventh year, the shrunken cohorts at Hogwarts was abuzz with wicked gossip, from the extremely dark to the hilarious impossible. Some joked that the three of them had run off to start a polygamous commune in America, since they were all clearly smitten with each other. There was also one where Hermione had fallen for Harry and Weasley had gone off the rails and murdered them both. There was one where they had run off to some place like Bulgaria to attempt to resurrect Dumbledore with dark magic or maybe American voodoo.

Not that Draco had believed any of the gossip. Having been freshly branded and tied to the success of Dumbledore's demise, Voldemort had brought him into the Death Eater's routine meetings. He would sit by his mother and father at the long table Voldemort had commandeered in Malfoy Manor's large banquet hall for his sinister plotting. He listen and do his best not to sweat with anxiety. However, Draco's primary goal was to finish his education. This had been at the behest of Severus who had convinced Voldemort that Draco was not yet qualified to fully support the Dark Lord's efforts.

Forever grateful to his godfather, Draco had observed Severus closely that year at Hogwarts and knew something big was coming. Draco suspected it had something to do with the pesky trio. Besides, Longbottom had continued their Dumbledore's Army trainings that they all thought no one knew about. Draco could smell the battle coming all year, and it terrified him. He had attempted to speak with his father about it over the holiday break he'd spent at the Manor, but his father had made himself unavailable at every possible moment. In the Death Eater meetings, Voldemort gave no inclination that he believed there to be an impending battle. Voldemort conducted business in the manner in which he had won the jackpot, and the only remaining loose end was that of capturing and killing Harry Potter (and anyone who got in his way while seeking the boy).

The constant talk of Harry Potter among the Death Eaters and at school meant that Draco was unable to escape thinking about them and perhaps where the three of them. There had been a couple of times before the Snatchers had brought Weasely, Hermione, and the disfigured Potter to the Manor that Draco's father had asked him if he had any idea where his old classmates could be. Draco, knowing that if Lucius was able to bring the Dark Lord Harry Potter he would be restored to his former graces, was saddened by his father's desperate airs. But sometimes Draco's mind would wander to the trio wondering what they were up to.

It was hard now for Draco to think about watching his aunt torture Hermione over her Gringott's vault. He knew that neither of them wanted to talk about it—it certainly wasn't a memory one wanted to bring up while snogging. But sometimes when Hermione was slumbering beside him in bed after a fun night together, Draco would stare down at her face and see phantom bruises blossoming across her cheeks mirroring the ones his aunt marred her with. Draco knew he shouldn't talk about it with Hermione now, but he wanted to tell her his reasons for not intervening. He wanted to tell her that it was important for him to play his part until Harry was ready to take on Voldemort. He wanted to apologize for Young Draco being a fucking coward.

So, if Weasleby wasn't her first, who was? Draco thought. He was curious about it, but knew he had to be careful. Some witches were ashamed when it came to talking about sex, and it seemed like this particular point was sore for Hermione. Maybe it's something more traumatic. Maybe she was assaulted.

Draco's heart sunk at the thought of someone using Hermione like that. A whole slew of emotions rushed through him in an instant at the thought. He took a steadying breath and asked, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Hermione bowed her head a little bit more, but then nodded and turned to look him directly in the eyes. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty. She took a breath and then in her exhale she quickly slurred, "Youweremyfirst."

That was definitely not what he had been expecting.

"What?" he asked before he could stop himself. He knew the answer, but it had been something to say in a potentially awkward moment.

"You're my first sexual partner," Hermione said now slowly in a clinical tone.

Draco took a moment before he asked another stupid question.

"Does this change things?" Hermione asked.

Draco snapped to and shook his head quickly. "Absolutely not." Something stirred in Draco then, something primal and fueled by the patriarchal system that had raised him. Something like conquest. Something like ownership. It felt amazing, knowing he was the first (and probably only) person to have had sex with Hermione. Especially since she was so fucking phenomenal at it. He reveled in the feeling for a fleeting moment, until he decided this was not about him. It was about her. It was all about her. His whole life had seemed to shift into focus finally, Hermione as his focal point. It took a lot of effort to stamp down the elation this news made him feel and refocus on Hermione.

"This is something you've been worried about," Draco said, more of a statement than a question.

"It's something I wasn't sure I wanted to tell you."

"Why now?"

"I don't know."

Draco leaned over and planted a chaste kiss on Hermione's lips. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around him.

"I want you," he said, burying his nose in her hair. They embraced for over half an hour with no other objective than to hold each other, and it was one of the most tender experiences of Draco's life.

—xxx—

"If I was your first, you really are a quick study, Hermione."

Hermione laughed. She had quickly realized that this "first" business was going to be a jolly point for Draco for some time. Apparently, this tickled him greatly, or maybe he was proud of the fact? She was a little unclear on why it was so delightful for him, but Hermione was just grateful that it hadn't sent him running.

Their embrace earlier had told her almost everything she had needed to know in that moment. Draco cared about her, and she him. It was a weird concept to grasp, but the more time she spent in his company, the more she began to understand that all of her perceptions of Draco were incorrect. Maybe at one point, they had been accurate, but now, he had just changed too much for most anything from his childhood to continue to stick. It was hard to believe one person could go through that much change in such a short time. But Hermione knew that trauma and survival did drastic things to the human psyche. It was something she had read about extensively in her Muggle psychology books.

While Draco had been snoozing, Hermione had thought about how much she had changed. This was something she had thought a lot about on Bald Head. How the last seven years of her life had changed her; changed her perceptions and understanding of the world. Magic was real, and she was magical. Good friends were hard to come by, but she was capable of making and keeping them. She could learn how to be patient and gentle with herself, not put so much pressure on herself to perform. Mistakes were all right to make as long as you learned something from them. And most recently, she had learned that she could be desired. That her desire could be returned.

But despite all this change, in a lot of ways Hermione was still the person she had always been—a curious creature filled with convictions.

She thought about Harry and Ron and Ginny. All of them had changed; when you survived something so traumatic, it was hard not to have those circumstances change you. But on reflection, her three closest friends were still essentially themselves. It made Hermione question the degree of change people were capable of. Draco seemed to exponentially explode this level of degree. Hermione caught herself thinking through the various possibilities. Had Draco changed, or had her perception of him merely changed? Could it be a mix of both? Had Draco's main mode of being a pompous arse just steamrolled everything else in his personality so that no one could see anything else? Or had it all been an act—one to deflect any meaningful connection as a child? Something learned from his father? But once that façade was lifted, you could see Draco was capable of multitudes. Or had the events of his side of their trauma actually changed him?

Hermione wondered if she needed to know the answers to this in order to feel comfortable with him, or if it was just her curious nature getting the best of her. Sometimes it was hard to turn her brain off. The only thing that successfully got her to stop thinking was kissing Draco. There was something enchanting in his touch—something that caused her skin to tingle and her soul to illuminate. He enabled her to tap into this part of herself that had been previously inaccessible—a calm place, a safe space. It was intoxicating. It was addictive.

But Hermione had had her fill of pining for things in her life. When she was younger it had been friends. At Hogwarts, it had been Ron. Never in her wildest dreams had she considered the possibility of pining for Draco or his touch or his lips on hers or his hands gripping her hips, pulling her close until it felt like they were one. Something struck her suddenly: this pining now for Draco was different than the other elongated pining in her life, because this time it was reciprocated. In every fingertip he touched to her skin, Hermione could feel him pining for her just as much as she was pining for him.

She knew he was trying to lighten the mood, or perhaps get them in the mood. But her heart was complicating things. She was suddenly flooded by a lot of emotions about them, about him. She really did want him. But why did she want him? Because of the way he made her feel? Because he desired her? Because he was Draco Malfoy? How could she know her want for him was pure in intent? Did it matter in this moment? Did it ever matter, or did the want justify it?

Hermione shook her head to try to clear it. She could think about this more later, but for now she wanted to enjoy the closeness with him. She replied, "You're a good teacher."

Draco smiled widely, his eyes displaying his desire for her. "What else can I teach you?"