Apricity – Chapter Fourteen
"Get in here, then."
Draco watched as Granger padded into the room, ducking underneath his outstretched arm to do so. The end of her blanket trailed on the carpet after her. She stood halfway between the doorway and the bed with a strange expression on her face. Brows furrowed and lips frowning, but eyes wide with trepidation. Like she was already regretting her decision.
Seeing Hermione Granger standing in his room was starling. She looked small and blue under the moonlight, half bathed in shadows and seeming on the verge of toppling over. With her blanket and the way she kept biting her lip, he thought she looked rather cute.
He choked on the air he was breathing and coughed.
Had he just—?
That wasn't his business. No. No, he had not just. The thought had not crossed his mind, and if it had, he was possessed.
Except it's a thought you've had before, so don't act new.
Draco walked past her, towards the bed. "You can take the bed, and I'll transfigure something on the floor. The dorm's not big enough for two beds."
"Okay," she said.
He grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and set it on the floor. Then, he picked his wand up from the bedside table and pointed it at the pillow, preparing to transfigure himself a mat. He inhaled.
"Wait!" she cried, her voice ringing in his ears. "Sorry—that was loud. Just, wait. We can share."
He looked at her. "What?"
"We can share," she repeated. "You've got a full size bed and there's not much room on the floor. Also, you're like, twenty feet tall. It doesn't make sense for you to be cramped on the floor."
"So logical," he said, twirling his wand around his fingers. He arched one eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because I want to lay next to someone, Malfoy," she snapped, stomping over. She ripped the green coverlet back, exposing the black satin sheets. Glaring at him, she plopped down ono the mattress. "Why do you always have to make everything so sodding difficult? You're the one who told me if I had a nightmare, I could come in here!"
Draco felt old anger rising and it was like it was November and the dishes were dirty again.
"Well, forgive me if I don't believe you'd be wanting to sleep in a bed with your old nemesis, Granger." He scraped his hair back. "I made the offer so you knew I was here—I didn't think you'd actually be comfortable enough to."
"Why wouldn't I be comfortable?" she said through clenched teeth as she laid back and curled onto her side. "There's nothing for me to be uncomfortable about."
He sensed the tension pulling taut and he closed his mouth. He'd strayed too close to the memory—to the nightmare. She had specifically told him not to talk about it.
But Salazar, if he didn't wish he had somewhere he could put his memory of it away for a while.
Draco climbed back into bed, pulling his half of the coverlet over himself and facing the window and its cushioned seat. He closed his eyes. The silence was as awkward as he'd expect it to be when sharing a bed with Granger, but he supposed it wasn't as bad as it could be.
At least she didn't seem scared.
"You're not gonna put a shirt on?"
"Nah, why would I?" He propped himself on his elbow so he could fluff his pillow, and then laid back down. "'Sides—you said you liked my tattoos. There's plenty to look at on my back."
"Yes, your entirely unique dragon tattoo with wings that span your shoulder blades," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Intermingled with flames and thorns. How original."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, feeling a distinct urge to roll over and kick her leg with his foot. He did arch his head back to give her a sour look, but her back was still to him.
"It's just that your tattoos aren't as original as you think." She let out a haughty sniff. "Every Muggle boy with a tattoo has a dragon, an anchor, a skull, a rose, a—"
"Yeah, yeah." He scowled. "But I'm not a Muggle, so I'm unique in the wizarding sense."
"Bold of you to assume, however, that I'd want to look at them."
"You seem to have no issue looking at the ones on the front of me."
"That's because they're on the front of you, idjit!" she snapped. "Where the bloody Hell else am I supposed to look?"
Draco was powerless to stop the chuckle that slipped past his lips. "You're feisty as fuck at night, Granger."
"Shut up!"
He rolled his eyes. "Why are you always such a bitch?"
"Why are you—" She cut herself off, likely realizing that he wasn't actually doing anything wrong. "Why don't you just get over it?"
"I will."
"Fine."
"Already am."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"I said okay."
Draco bit his tongue hard enough to silence himself. Granger was acting like a child—like a brat throwing a tantrum in her nappies. It was so unlike the sort of person he thought she'd be, yet so much like her that it could only be described as a darker part of herself. He could handle it, but that didn't mean he wanted to.
They laid there for a while, his irritation running so high that he didn't have the energy to put focus on the fact that he was lying in bed next to Hermione Granger. It existed so far outside of the realm of absurdity that it felt like a dream in and of itself. Like his consciousness was trying to float out of his body so it could catch a glimpse of what they looked like as a pair.
"I was ashamed."
He shifted, his eyelids feeling heavy as they dragged upward. He'd been halfway to slumber, but something in the quiet of her voice had yanked him back into waking.
"Mm—what?" he mumbled.
"I was ashamed," Granger whispered, "and that's why I haven't talked to you about it yet."
"About what?" Draco rolled onto his back and turned his head toward her kinky curls in the darkness of the dorm room. She hadn't turned around.
"The dream. Or—or the memory. The spell. Whatever it was." She was silent for a second, and then, "No one knows what happened, and I hadn't planned on telling anyone. Having someone—having anyone see it is humiliating."
Draco's mind snapped to attention and he felt his hands begin to tremble from an emotion he didn't understand. It was something like nerves, but not quite. He laid there on his back beside her, his gaze honed in on the back of her head, and tried to think of something to say.
He didn't want to fuck this up.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he said in a soft voice. "All right?"
She didn't respond. Instead, he saw her curl into a tighter ball beneath the coverlet.
His heart wrenched, remembering what it had felt like to be inside of her mind while she lie awake, staring at the hotel room's wallpaper. How much her own heart had despaired, and how her anguish wove its way through her veins like blood until the moment she closed her eyes.
He wanted her to know how was there so he could fix it.
But am I even capable of doing such a thing?
Can I fix someone who's pretending not to be broken?
"We can talk about it when you're ready," he said.
"If."
He turned to face the window again. "If."
As he started to drift off once again, he felt the mattress rocking. He cracked one eye open, and then Granger rolled over. She scooted closer, until her forehead was pressed against the dragon's head—right between his bare shoulder blades. He held his breath, feeling pebbles rising on his skin with every breath she exhaled that brushed against him.
When she burrowed her face into his skin, her nose and lips smoothing across sensitive flesh, he felt his mind begin to whirl. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it—the grey storm of haze and confusion. The smoke that seemed to draw him towards her.
She placed a tentative hand on the wing of the dragon, her palm and fingers tracing the outline of its scales and claws. It felt like his veins were on fire, burning him from the inside out. But even as he burned, he felt his muscles relaxing into the bed, her touch carrying him across the sky on a cloud.
Granger's fingernail moved up and down, arching down to trace the inked flames and thorn-covered branches that were embedded in his skin. She traced his ribs, pausing only when he took in a sharp breath.
"Should I stop?"
"No," he breathed, his voice somewhat gravelly from his exhaustion. He couldn't open his eyes even a fraction. "That feels good."
Draco's eyelids fluttered and his toes curled into the softness of the sheets. He felt relaxed. Soothed, like when his mother would draw on his back as a child. It was comforting and gut-wrenching, all at once.
She resumed her tracing, only her forehead touching him so she could watch her finger travel down to the lowest part of his spine and back up. He felt her fingers touching each and every vertebrae. Sleep drew closer.
"When."
"What?" he mumbled.
"When I'm ready," she whispered.
That would do.
She traced his dragon until he fell asleep.
The stars were green.
They always were in Draco's dreams. Ever since he was a kid, the stars in his dreams were the Slytherin colors, and the sky was silver. It didn't matter what he was doing in the dream—whether playing Quidditch or flying on the back of a dragon—the sky was always the same.
But when Draco opened his eyes and saw green and silver cosmos, he was confused.
He hadn't been inside one of his own dreams in five years.
Sitting up, he saw sprawling hills, distant mountains, and white flowers. The flowers were drifting back and forth with the wind, bathed in faint green moonlight. The mountains were tipped in snow, but it wasn't cold on the hill he sat atop. When he got to his feet, in the distance to the left he could see the ocean stretching the length of the horizon. He glanced to the right and saw more hills and fields of thick, lush grass and glowing white flowers.
Malfoy.
Well, this was odd. He'd been inside Granger's dreams for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to have one of his own.
Granger's dreams were always memories—just play-by-plays of her experiences with Potter and the Weaselbee through the years. They could be arbitrary, like studying in the Gryffindor common room or drinking Butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks. Or they could be a little more exciting, like the time that Granger and her friends had infiltrated the Department of Mysteries.
Draco's dreams were more whimsical, which was in sharp contrast to the way he felt when he was awake. He dreamed of things like flying, riding Abraxans, or sitting and watching the sunset. Peaceful things that didn't cause him fear or concern. He was always alone, with no other humans or civilization nearby, and that was something he'd always liked.
It felt almost alien to be inside his own head for a change, but he was glad for it.
Malfoy.
Draco decided to head down the hill towards the white flowers.
He always had liked flowers. Especially gardenias. They were his mother's favorites, and they were the only bright spot in the Manor. The only part of Lucius that Draco liked. At any given time, fresh gardenias could be found in every windowsill, on every shelf, and in every vase just for Narcissa.
His lips curved up into a smile. Kneeling down, he plucked a flower out of the ground with a quiet snap. It was a gardenia. They were all gardenias. The aroma was heavenly.
Eyelids fluttering shut, he inhaled the scent of the flower in his hand and a sense of calm washed over him. Perhaps he would take the flower to the seashore. It would feel like his mother was there with him, watching the water crash along the sand.
Standing, he turned and headed west across the field.
MALFOY!
Draco nearly leapt out of his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He whirled around to look behind him.
Granger.
She was here.
"Can you hear me?" she said.
Draco stared down at her. She wore the same pyjamas she'd been wearing when she came into his room that night, and the breeze was playing with her curls. There was a strange curiosity in her eyes that didn't match the fearful frown on her lips.
"I guess you can't," she said. "But you can see me."
"No, I—" He cleared his throat, the sound of his voice a little jarring. His dreams were usually devoid of words. "I can hear you. Can you hear me?"
She nodded. "Is this a memory?"
"No, it's—" His brow furrowed. "Granger, the sky is silver and the stars are green. I mean, come on."
"Well, I didn't notice!" she said, throwing her hands up into the air. "I was a little busy wondering how the bloody Hell I got into your dream!"
Draco bit his lower lip. Was now the perfect time to tell her? He wanted to. He was just scared what she would think. Five years of walking her dreams, watching her life unfold and progress, and he'd never said a thing to her. Not that they were on speaking terms, but . . . He knew he'd be irritated if someone was invading his privacy like that, willing or unwilling.
If he was ever going to win her trust, he needed to start somewhere.
"Well, given that I've been watching your dreams for five years now, I'm not as surprised to see you as I probably should be," he said. "I'm trying to figure out what's different."
Her jaw dropped. "You've been doing what?"
Draco twirled the flower stem vertically between his forefinger and thumb, grimacing. "Dreamwalking in your dreams for five years?"
She was speechless, eyes wide underneath the eerie green light from above. He didn't blame her, knowing how shocked he'd been the first time he dreamed of her the Summer after Third Year. A few moments passed by and then she held her hands to her cheeks.
"You didn't see that dream I had in Sixth Year, did you?"
Draco's face contorted with his confusion. "Wait—what?"
"The dream. In Sixth Year, the dream!" She leapt forward and grabbed his wrists, her fingers closing over the twin Golden Snitch tattoos he had on his pulse points. Her eyes were manic. "The one I had about Ronald! Did you see that dream?!"
Draco wracked his brain, trying to . . .
Oh.
That dream.
She saw it when realization dawned, and then she tipped her head back in a groan. Turning away in her mortification, he saw her reach up to tear at her unruly curls.
"It's not always dreams," he said, grimacing to himself. "It's usually memories. Glimpses of points in your life. They've been chronological, too."
"Dreams and memories?" She groaned again, stamping her feet without turning around. "As if that makes it any less humiliating!"
Draco twisted his lips and glanced off towards the faraway mountains. During Sixth Year, he'd dreamed of Granger every night. There was one point around Christmas where Granger had dreamed about snogging the Weaselbee underneath a mistletoe. He'd seen the entire thing.
In the dream, the Gryffindors were both naked.
So, he remembered the dream well. He'd just purposefully been trying to forget about it for over one year. It was only a dream, so it was highly unlikely dream-Weasley was the same as real-Weasley, but it still felt wrong. Draco didn't want to see anyone nude without their permission, especially the Weaselbee.
He shuddered, pulling a face.
The Weaselbee naked. Ew.
"So, that means you knew where we were."
"Huh?" Draco scratched the back of his head. "Where? Who?"
She spun to face him, looking shocked. "During the war. If you saw my memories, too, then you must have known where Harry, Ron, and I were the entire year. While we were hunting Horcruxes."
Draco opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself. He lowered his gaze in thought.
"Yeah," he said. "I suppose I did."
"And you never outed us." She took a step toward him. "You knew we were in the Forest of Dean for weeks, and you never told your aunt, or your father. Or the Dark Lord."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Why?"
Draco hung his head. He wished he could tell her it was because he was protecting her, but he couldn't. The only reason why he hadn't told them was because he hadn't realized the dreams were real. He'd thought he was just dreaming about her because she'd cursed him.
He knew better now.
"I didn't realize that they were memories at the time," he said. "That's a . . . New development. If I had known they were real, I think I might have given your location up to save my own skin."
"I'd call you a prat," she said, clasping her hands behind her back, "but the fact that that would have gotten us killed and lost us the war makes you a little bit worse than that."
"At least you haven't deluded yourself into thinking I'm a good person," he said with a small laugh.
"No, I haven't deluded myself. But I don't think you're a bad person."
His heart skipped a beat. What was that supposed to mean?
Draco held his hand out, and she took the proffered gardenia from him. She stood there, barefoot in the grass with the fingers of both hands clutching the stem. He watched her lift the petals to her nose so she could smell it.
If she didn't think he was a bad person, what was it about him that she knew to be true?
"You're forgetting that I turned away from you when my aunt was—when you were in the Drawing Room. So, don't convince yourself of my heroics," he said. "I would absolutely have handed the war to the Dark Lord back then."
"But, you're different now," she said with an air of finality that told him there was nothing he could say to change her mind. "I think if the Dark Lord returned tomorrow, you'd pick the right side."
Draco could feel the blood rushing up to his cheeks, trying to force him into blushing. He ran his fingers through his hair to distract himself from it.
"I tell you I've been in your dreams for five years, and you're most interested in the fact that I saw your dream about fucking Weaselbee and the fact that I've 'changed,' but you're not the least bit interested in why I was in your head in the first place?"
She pressed her lips into a flat line, still gazing down at the gardenia. He could tell she was thinking, so he remained quiet, choosing to listen to the wind rustling through the flowers until she spoke again.
"I am curious as to why, but I think there's a magical explanation. There's always an explanation. It just may take a bit of research. You said it's memories?"
"Yeah, memories," he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trackies. His dream had chosen to keep him clad in his pyjamas, too. "The level of hope I have for the naked mistletoe dream to have been just that—a dream—is immense."
She let out a short laugh, one that seemed to have escaped her. "Well, that one was a dream. So you can rest easy."
Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "You never slept with the Weaselbee? It wasn't just this year that you couldn't?"
"No," she said, frowning again. "We never slept together."
Draco bit his lip to keep himself from pursuing the conversation further. It wasn't his business, and he never should have said anything. The fact that they were standing here, talking in his dream, was enough to worry about. If she was here talking to him right now, but a few weeks ago, he was in her memory and couldn't seem to extract himself from the inside of her mind and talk to her, then what was different now?
Had something changed?
"You've been walking my dreams and my memories for five years," Granger said, still looking at the gardenia, "and I never noticed. But now, I'm here inside of your dream. That means we have a connection of some sort, we just don't know what it could be." She looked up at him. "Have you noticed anything else?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "Just a sort of . . . Emotional colorblindness."
"What is emotional colorblindness?" she asked, her head pulling back on her shoulders in bewilderment.
"It's like . . . Everything is muted," he said, struggling to find words to describe what he'd been feeling since the end of Third Year. "When it first started, I could barely function. I hardly ate, slept for hours, and rarely got out of bed. My mother thought I was sick. Eventually, I got used to it and she attributed it to stress and depression. I've just accepted it. And when I think things or feel things, it feels . . . Hazy. Capped off."
"Grey."
They locked gazes, and Draco nodded.
"Everything is grey," he said. "I can see color, obviously—my eyes work—but it doesn't . . . Matter. It's like its all empty, or—or missing something. And the grey is like a storm of smoke inside me." He pointed the fingers of one hand at his sternum. "I can feel it here. Sometimes, it gets overwhelming. It's like anger—like when you're really angry, but I can't actually feel the anger. The storm is there, but there's nothing inside of it."
Granger held the gardenia with one hand and tapped her chin with the other. "It sounds like a curse."
He paused, averting his eyes. "Oh, I know."
She gave him a sharp look, and when he looked at her again, he knew she'd caught on.
"Well, it's definitely not a curse," she said in a clipped tone. "You say five years. That's . . . Fourth Year?"
"End of Third Year. Right after you punched me."
She scowled. "Come off it. That was hardly a punch. It was a slap."
"You made my nose bleed."
"No, it was a slap."
"Granger."
"It was a slap!"
He sighed. "Keep telling yourself that."
"I will! I will keep telling myself that!" Then, with a furious hand, she practically slammed the gardenia in place behind her ear. The flower added a bit of light to her face, making her look pretty in a way that Draco found himself unable to look away from. But before he could think of what to say, she shoved past him.
"Where are you off to?"
"To sit by the water. Come on—it's not that far."
Draco fell in-step beside her, and they walked across the grass towards the seashore. The closer they got, the heavier the air felt. Its salty scent grew thicker and more heady, and a sense of peace settled over him in a way that made his lips curve into a soft smile. He wondered what it would be like to sit by the sea with Granger in reality like he used to with his mother.
He could feel that something had shifted between them, too. He wasn't sure if it was on Granger's part or his own, but it didn't feel like he was scaling a thousand kilometer wall any longer. Something felt inevitable between them, like the passage of time. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, but he didn't think he'd be seeing it happen without Granger in some position in his life.
In a strange way, it was exciting.
"I think," Granger said as their feet crossed from grass to thick, cool sand, "that we'll have to research it when we awaken."
"Right when we awaken?" He chuckled.
She stumbled in the shifting grains, and his hand shot out to wrap around her own. To his surprise, she squeezed it and held on while they made their way closer to the water. Her words continued.
"No, we have class, idjit. But I'm going to get started as soon as I can and once we both have free time, we should go to the Library and see what we can find. Because according to Professor Trelawney, dreamwalking is time-space magic—it's not Divination. I think we're going to have to check the Astronomy section."
"Do you think the answer will be there?"
"Maybe." She slipped again and he pulled on her hand, keeping her upright. "At the least, it'll be a good start. The only thing I can think of that's similar to this sort of connection is us having touched the same cursed object—which I highly doubt we would have done in our Third Year—or it's a soulmate bond. Which is just . . ."
They looked at each other, searching their eyes for a moment. She was giggling uncontrollably, like she'd never heard of anything so absurd before. Draco felt the hilarity bubbling in his chest.
Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy soulmates?
They burst out laughing at the same time, fingers still wrapped around one another's. Their laughter ripped through their guts, causing them to double over. Tears of mirth gathered in Draco's eyes, and he saw her wiping her own away.
"It's probably something inadvertent," Granger said, still laughing. "Because the alternative is just—"
"Mental."
"Exactly."
She was still stifling hysterical giggles as they found a massive piece of driftwood to sit on. Draco kept hold of her hand to assist her in sitting, and then he sat down next to her. Resting his elbows on his knees, he wrapped one hand around the opposite wrist and gazed out to sea.
"This is weird," she said.
"Yeah," he said, voice somewhat gravelly.
"Like, really weird. I'm in your dream, talking to you. And in real life, I'm just . . . Asleep next to you."
"Yeah."
They sat and watched the waves kiss the shore for what felt like hours. The soft sounds mingling with the somewhat forceful whip of the oceanside wind offered a strangely familiar sconce within which to exist. It wasn't uncomfortable, perhaps because this was Draco's dream and he was in control. He knew that nothing could happen here that he didn't want to happen. No one could hurt them by this sea.
Maybe she knew that, and that was why she had linked her arm through his and put her head on his shoulder.
Draco wondered what would happen when they woke up.
"Is it all right if I call you Draco?" Her voice was quiet, swallowed by the immensity of the sea.
"Yeah," he said in a voice that was just as soft. He tried to glance down at her, but instead got a face full of curls. "You can call me Draco."
He saw her tracing the outline of the ravens he'd gotten tattooed on the outer part of his right forearm. "And you can call me Hermione."
"All right." His heart was racing, and he couldn't place the reason why.
She drew circles around one raven's eye. In spite of the sensitivity of his skin, there was a tension in the air that kept Draco frozen. He feared that if he moved, it would shatter.
"Draco, I . . ."
"Hm?"
"Earlier, when you asked me what I would say if you asked me if you could kiss me, I wasn't clear enough. Do you remember?"
His heart nearly tore its way out of his chest. He forced himself to stay as calm and still as possible. It was quite literally four or five hours ago, so of course he remembered, but he wasn't going to destroy any sort of moment they were having with sarcasm.
"I do."
"I should have been more honest."
"And what would you have said?" he murmured, watching the waves on the choppy sea with intensity.
"I think I would have said—I mean, I'd like to think I would have said yes." Her fingers moved down his forearm, tracing his prominent veins. "I haven't exactly kissed many wizards, but I think it might be all right with you."
"A week ago, you were avoiding me."
"No," she countered, "a week ago you were avoiding me."
"Well, you slapped me."
"Well, you yell at me for the dishes. And, what? What about it?" She lifted her head, her arm remaining linked with his and her hand curving over his fingers on his wrist. A glare was affixed to her face. "We all have stupid things we get angry over."
He glared down at her. "Having a clean common room is not stupid. It's basic human decency."
"Because you're the expert on basic human decency. Not you, the boy who went out of his way to bully me when we were kids. I know you're not the one saying this to me."
Annoyance broiled in the heat of his stomach. "Not the witch who was bullied by me telling me she wants me to kiss her."
"Not the wizard pretending he doesn't want to kiss me by way of deflection," she snapped, giving his face a once-over.
"Not you pretending like it wouldn't be the scandal of the fucking century if I did."
"Not you acting like it ever has to leave the confines of your dream."
Draco looked at her with scorching hot anger for two seconds before he felt the grey storm rising inside of his body. It drowned everything else he felt out, fading into a firestorm of multicolored desire. The way she was looking at him, like she wanted to throttle him until he died, was quite possibly the most attractive thing he'd ever seen.
Maybe he'd just gone mental.
He surged forward, dipping his head down to press his lips against hers. It was just for a moment, because he didn't want to mistake her comments for consent if they weren't, and then he pulled back. Her lips had been as soft as the gardenia petals and when he'd kissed her, the storm seemed to have quieted down.
Her eyes were as wide as saucers—like she'd seen a ghost.
"There," she said, her voice quivering. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No," he said, resisting the urge to laugh. "But what was it for? Practice for the Weaselbee's sake?"
"No. It was for me."
She laid her head on his shoulder again, wrapping both of her arms around his right arm. Draco's lips twisted up into a half of a smile, and he looked out to sea again. He knew when they woke, they'd have to discuss the fact that she'd been in his dream like this. They'd also have to figure out why he'd been dreaming of her for so long. Eventually, they'd have to talk about Paris. But the rest?
The rest could stay here in this dream, witnessed by the sea.
Draco walked her to Divination.
It was the least he could do, seeing as he'd kissed her and everything. They hadn't discussed it and when he'd woken, she was already gone from his room. But he knew it wouldn't be very respectful of him as a Pureblood wizard if he kissed a witch and then made her walk to class alone. Since he couldn't find her before Charms, he made a point to find her before Divination and offer to walk her there.
She'd been with a Seventh Year wizard at the time, whose eyebrows had shot up into the mop of brown hair on his head when Draco had interrupted them. Hermione had been surprised, given that her after-lunch class was on the complete opposite side of the castle from his, but she'd recovered quickly. Ignoring the Seventh Year's shock, she'd agreed to let Draco escort her, and they'd set off.
Things weren't awkward between them, which was a relief. He'd thought they'd be doomed to be in a tension-induced limbo for the rest of the year. It was just a peck on the lips, but after what had happened to her, he knew that was monumental for her.
At least, he thought it might be.
One thing was curious to him.
When Hermione was with the Weaselbee, she hadn't wanted him to touch her. That was understandable, given the events in Paris. However, that was her best mate of seven, almost eight years.
Why would she be okay with Draco—the wizard who had bullied the shite out of her for just as long—snogging her?
"Did you exercise this morning?" he asked, trying to make conversation as they wove through the crowded corridors. They were getting quite a few interested looks, given that Draco was a terrible Head Boy. The two of them were almost never seen together, yet now they were walking down the hall side-by-side. Whereas he wore a pair of trousers and a black jumper underneath open black robes, she wore her robes closed and her curly hair up in a pile atop her head.
"Huh?" she said, her Charms textbook hugged to her chest. Her head snapped up to look at him. "What do you—I was—what do you mean?"
"I mean, did you exercise this morning? You weren't in bed when I woke up."
There was a small moment of regret as he realized how domestic it sounded to say those words, but he shrugged it off.
"Oh . . . Um . . ." She kept her eyes on the corridor ahead. "Yeah. I did for a little bit. I wasn't running off on you, or anything."
"I didn't think you had," he said, combing his hair back. "And it's not as if we fucked, or anything."
She coughed, clearing her throat. He looked down at her, seeing her eyes watering from trying to catch her breath. He felt a bit guilty for his vulgarity coming so easily to him.
Had he just reminded her of Paris?
"Forgive me," he murmured and then he placed a hesitant hand on her upper back as they turned down a mostly-empty corridor. "I didn't mean to remind you of—"
"Ahhh—ah, no," she said, holding one hand up to his mouth. Her cheeks tinged darker. "Don't say anything. It's okay. Forgiven."
He wanted to kiss her fingers. He didn't know why—he just did.
"Let's just get to class."
She set off, forcing him to catch up.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, Draco knowing that anything he wanted to talk about with her could make things turn volatile fast. The loo, the food packaging in the couch, the fact that they'd kissed, the exercise. It was all off-limits.
For now.
When they made it up the stairs, the previous class was trying to file out while their class was attempting to file in. This wasn't abnormal—Trelawney's classes often ran late. It didn't stop the grumbles of irritation coming from both sets of students, though.
"Here, come here," Draco said to Hermione, putting his hand lightly on the back of her neck and drawing her to the side.
They stood there against the stairwell wall as ten or so students trundled on down the steps. He watched them go by, wondering to himself for a brief second if what he was doing was too forward. He'd done this to Theo and Pansy—and to Crabbe, and anyone who was shorter than him—for years. However, Hermione was different.
She didn't seem to think anything of it. In fact, it felt like she was leaning back into his chest, but he couldn't be sure.
He glanced down at her and frowned, his hand still wrapped around the back of her neck. "Granger?"
Slowly, she tilted her head back until it was resting fully against his pectoral. Her eyes seemed unfocused as they gazed up into his. Her lips curved up into a lazy, almost coy smile. "Yes, Draco?"
"Are you all right? You're swaying a bit."
"Hm?" Her brows twitched together. "I'm fine. Just a little tired."
The previous class finally gone, the new class was able to start pouring into Trelawney's room. Draco didn't move his hand, feeling paranoid that she might topple over if he did. He knew their peers would see him holding onto her like that, but he was actually growing concerned. This was the umpteenth time she'd suddenly gone unfocused.
"Are you sure—"
"Draco, mate!" Blaise's voice from behind caused Draco to turn. "Why are you blocking the . . . Hey, Granger."
A series of events took place, one right after the other.
Blaise came to a stop two steps below them. Behind him, Pansy's head peeked over his left shoulder. Blaise's gaze landed on Draco's hand on Hermione, and his eyes widened. Pansy cast Draco a wary look, likely due to the strange behavior she'd been exhibiting, and then zeroed in on Hermione. Hermione looked over her shoulder and gave both Blaise and Pansy a polite smile.
"Afternoon, Zabini, Parkinson." Her voice was still a bit faint. "Sorry—we'll move. Come, Draco."
She slipped out of Draco's grasp, who stood there with a bemused expression on his face. He had no idea how to explain this.
"I knew you were a bloody liar," Pansy spat, storming past Blaise and past Draco. She hissed up into his face. "She must have the cunt of a fucking queen for you to ignore the fact that she's full of mud."
And then she went into the classroom.
Draco clenched his hand into a fist at his side and turned a sharp glare down to Blaise. "Have you got anything to say, too, then?"
"So, I take it you didn't tell her about the tea," Blaise said, his mouth tilting with sympathy. "If she's greeting Pansy like that."
"What the fuck are you on about?"
But Blaise was already entering the class.
Draco's mind raced, memories fitting together like cogs in a Muggle machine. Remnants of the conversations he'd had with Pansy and Blaise, Paris, and the way Hermione had been unable to see just before they both went under.
"You wouldn't know poison if you drank it in your tea."
No.
That didn't—
Pansy?
If the fact that Hermione had been forced to relive that nightmare—and he had been forced to experience it with her—was in any way Pansy's fault, Draco was going back to Azkaban.
He turned, his blood aflame with steadily-growing rage, and went to his seat. Trelawney was at the chalkboard, erasing some things she had written. The other students in the class were engaged in amiable chats all across the room. Blaise was looking down at the tattoo on his hand, which was almost done healing. Hermione was sifting through her notes from the last class period.
Pansy was glaring at her.
Draco sunk into his seat, then turned to face his friends' table.
"Pansy," he growled, drawing her glare in his direction, "what the fuck did you do?"
She looked confused for a moment, her blue eyes glinting with defensiveness, and then her eyebrows went up. The color drained from her face, turning it whiter than white. Right as she started to reply, Trelawney began the lecture.
Draco watched, vibrating with ire as Pansy tore off a corner of her note-taking parchment and wrote something down on it with her quill. Sliding it across the small round table, Blaise took it and passed it over. Draco's eyes gave it a quick scan.
I'm sorry.
I just hate her so much.
