Oddly enough, the person Hermione felt as though she let down the most was Pansy.
There was something about the way that Pansy confided in Hermione that day at the Ministry that led her to believe that Pansy was just beginning to accept her help as something genuine. Even trust her. Hermione had taken that information, attempted to do something about it, and then when she failed, she neglected to follow up.
How could she do that to Pansy? How could she let all the distractions in her life steer her away from something as serious as the conditions present on her arm?
It stopped burning during the holidays. That should've been another sign that Aberfield was tampering with the potions. That's when Hermione should've done something.
Instead, she was playing cat and mouse with Draco.
Hermione might never forgive herself for that negligence.
Draco and Hermione had returned to the apartment and explained the faulty Draught of Peace to the others. How the Nulliwinkle acted as a counter-ingredient to the potion itself, and how it seemed more than likely that it was the reason for the pain that awoke their Dark Marks.
The Slytherins were undoubtedly frustrated. Hermione expected that. But she felt it strange that they weren't resentful. They put Hermione's nerves to ease with sympathetic responses and gentle affirmations, all singed with a sweetness that seemed unique to each one of them as individuals, as Slytherins, as close friends who still, after everything, trusted Hermione.
Hermione found herself watching Pansy the entire time that Draco explained the situation. The way Pansy's jaw tensed and the way her lips pursed at the news—Hermione feared that she'd lose her new friend. She'd failed to protect her, after all. Had learned something secretive about her and neglected to act to the best of her ability. It had taken so long to build that trust between them; with this one fault, Hermione feared the worst.
But the worst never came.
Instead, Adrian, cheeky as ever, put forth his own terms: "You can make it up to me by planning me the best birthday party ever, yeah Granger?"
Pansy had smiled and laughed at that proposition, easing Hermione's concerns with each breath that came with the chuckle.
And a week and a half later, on the day of Adrian's birthday, Hermione speaks to Pansy again.
It's on a walk through Hogsmeade in the afternoon in search of a present for Adrian. Pansy insisted that Hermione join her on the excursion, citing that "Granger now has such a sharp eye for pretty things, all thanks to me."
And although it's not a particularly cold day, Hermione still hugs the cuffs of her jacket around herself tighter to mask the shame of it all.
"I know exactly what we should get him," Pansy says, lifting her finger to point down the block. "Adrian thinks he's royalty, and that's not just on his birthday. Why not get him something to match that aura?"
Once inside the shop, Hermione discerns exactly what Pansy means by that. It's a quaint boutique, home to several shelves lined with brilliant accessories. Pansy darts to the third row of shelves, Hermione following close behind. By the time she turns the corner and enters the small aisle between two shelves, Hermione sees that Pansy is holding a crown with jewels lining the rim of the base. She balances it on her finger and shows Hermione.
"Let's give the king something to further boost his ego," Pansy chuckles, spinning the crown on her finger.
When they leave the store, Hermione feels the weight of the apology on her shoulders and in her stomach. She has to say it again.
"Pansy?"
Pansy turns around, and Hermione takes a deep breath.
"I'm really sorry."
"Granger—"
"No, I really am." Hermione looks at her feet, then back up at Pansy. "You trusted me that day enough to tell me what was happening to your mark, and I didn't do anything about it. I let you all continue to be poisoned because I was distracted and selfish and because I wanted to give all of them the benefit of the doubt—"
"It's alright, Granger—"
"I just feel awful that you trusted me with that information and I… I totally let you down."
Pansy sighs and purses her lips. She begins to fidget with her fingers and search for her response.
And when she finds it, Hermione is at a loss for words—something that normally doesn't happen.
"The reason I told you what was happening to me was not because I expected you to save me. You don't always have to be the hero, Granger."
Hermione listens intently, because it's happening again—Pansy is opening up in a way she never thought feasible.
"I told you because…"
She falters for a moment, and Hermione watches as the outline of Pansy's tongue circles around the inside of her mouth.
"I told you because I don't want to go through life without surrounding myself with people I can tangibly trust." Another pause. "I don't want to push people or feelings away anymore. I just want some… peace."
Peace. That word again. The one that Draco spoke about. Pansy desires it too.
"It brought me a sense of peace telling you what was happening to me. So—"
Pansy steps towards her and wraps her arm underneath Hermione's.
"No need to worry, Granger. Okay?"
With her head craned to the right to look at Pansy, Hermione nods and smiles. "Okay."
"Seriously, Granger. If anyone should be apologizing…"
Pansy hesitates, lifting the side of her lips in a trying smile. "It should be me. For a lot of things."
Mirroring the expression, Hermione squeezes Pansy's arm around hers. "It's in the past."
She responds with a shrug. "Still haunts me."
With a sigh that tries to sound like that sliver of peace which Pansy craves, Hermione smiles and gestures her head forward. "Come on. How about we buy each other a butterbeer and call it even?"
Pansy smiles—a real, authentic smile—and nods. "That sounds great."
Only a two-minute walk, the Three Broomsticks is not incredibly busy at this time of day. Friday afternoons usually bring upper-year students and regulars only, but when Pansy and Hermione enter the pub together, it's like the entire world is staring at them. And it feels as though the earth stops spinning, the sun stops shining, and the tides stop flowing. They're met with the stares of several witches and wizards, most of whom glare at them with perplexity and disgust. Who assume that the two of them together means the apocalypse is among them.
But none of those guests compare to the one that sits at the main bar against the far wall.
He sits on a stool towards the end of the bar, throwing back the remainders of his pint of beer. When he drops the glass back on the counter, he wiggles a finger in the air to signal a refill, which comes rather quickly from the eager bartender.
The ruffled brown hair and checkered vest give him away instantly, and as Hermione passes behind him on the way to her table with Pansy, she confirms the identity by noticing the temples of his distinguishable glasses.
"Harry?"
Harry turns over his shoulder at the sound of his name—he spots Hermione, gasps, and stretches his arms to his sides.
"Hermione!" he exclaims, hopping off of the stool and stumbling towards her.
Pansy turns and stares in shock. "Is that Potter—"
"Oh, 'Mione!" Harry exclaims, hurling himself into Hermione's arms in a jovial embrace. "How did you know I was here?"
Hermione can smell the stench of alcohol on his breath as he laughs near her. As she pulls away from the hug, she takes a closer look at Harry's face. His cheeks and ears are painted rouge, and his careless and enormous smile is representative of his level of inebriation.
She knows the answer, but she asks the question anyway: "Harry, are you drunk?" She cups his cheeks and lifts his sagging face up to meet hers.
With a snort, Harry replies, "Nothing gets past you Hermione, does it?" And then he laughs, and his eyes wander aimlessly over Hermione's head until they reach Pansy. "Oi! It's Parkinson!"
Hermione prepares herself to apologize, but when she turns around to do so, Pansy has an enormous smile on her face and is mid-laugh.
"You have got—" Harry points his finger at Pansy— "such lovely bone structure."
"And you're only just noticing, Potter?" Pansy retorts, tipping an eyebrow down in a tease.
"Pft," he mumbles, flailing his wrists in the air. "I've always known, Parkinson. It's just been a while since I've had the pleasure—"
"Alright, Harry!" Hermione cries, rolling her eyes and scoffing with a mix of embarrassment and utter amusement. "Why on earth are you drinking like this on a Friday afternoon? Don't you have classes to teach?"
He shakes his head as Hermione's hands drop to grip his shoulders—steady him as his feet start to wobble and his cheeks puff with air. "Not today. I've cancelled them." He leans forward to whisper in Hermione's ear. "Technically, I've got a wee stomach bug I'm dealing with." He ends his explanation with a chortle and a high-pitched, "Don't tell McGonagall!"
She fights with every fiber in her being to not laugh at the sight. Harry is as whimsical and amusing as a circus performance, his bright red cheeks as brilliant as strobe lights and his upbeat smile as captivating as acrobatics. But as hilarious as his demeanor is, Harry is also drinking at levels which Hermione has never seen him drink at before, and that worries her.
"Well, why are you here?" Hermione asks, and then she realizes that they're in the middle of a crowd of tables and that they've caught the undivided attention of the customers around them, all of whom stare at the scene with puzzled expressions.
She begins to tug Harry through the crowd of tables towards a booth nestled in the corner of the pub. Pansy follows closely behind, stretching her arms forward as a safeguard should Harry accidentally fall backwards.
Instead, he falls upon the bench that's appended to the wall, and Hermione slides in after him. Pansy pulls out the seat opposite of them and sits, grinning at the sight of a smashed Harry Potter.
Harry hiccups and leans against Hermione's shoulder. "You want to know why I'm here?"
"Enlighten us, please," Pansy says, raising her eyebrows in intrigue.
Clearing his throat and pounding his chest, Harry sits up and shouts, "My girlfriend would rather play Quidditch than have sex with me—"
"Oh, gods, Harry!" Hermione exclaims, the shade of pure embarrassment flooding her cheeks as an array of guests turn to glare at their table.
"It's true!" Harry cries, slamming his palm against his forehead and sniffling for effect. "I told her I was feeling lonely and that I didn't like how she refused to come home for the New Year to celebrate with me, and she—she got angry with me, and we fought, and now things are looking quite bleak and hazy for us, and I've just gone and made a proper mess of it all, and she's probably going to leave me at any moment now, and, gods, did I ever really love her? Do you think I ever really loved her, Hermione? Because if this is love, then I just—I can't understand why the world is pulling us apart like this when it seemed to want to bring us together—"
He continues in the same manner, spewing thought after thought as they come into his mind, and Hermione listens with her mouth hanging slack. Eventually, Harry tires himself out and drops his head upon Hermione's shoulder.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighs, wrapping her arm around his back. "It's alright. She'll come around eventually."
He sniffles. "I don't even know if I want her to! I mean, we haven't had sex in months!"
At the confession of a dry spell, Pansy leans over the table and reaches for Harry's hand. "There, there, Potter," she coos, rubbing her hand over his. "I'm sure the sex couldn't have been that good to begin with, judging by the fact that she's a Weasley—"
Hermione shoots Pansy a quick looking, cinching her eyes in a silent plea.
Pansy swallows her sentence. "Sorry. Erm…" Her face tightens as she searches for the right words. Then, she takes a deep breath. "Chin up, Potter!" she commands, her tone stronger than before.
Harry immediately shoots up, his chest out and his head up straight.
With a curt nod, Pansy continues to deliver her pep talk. "You say that you haven't had sex in a while. That… is unfortunate. I have sex all the time so I can empathize with how you are feeling. I know I would feel like rubbish if my partner didn't want to have sex with me."
Hermione smiles, appreciating the effort on Pansy's behalf and wondering if, perhaps, this is a moment of reconciliation that Pansy was referring to—one where the past is shed, and the future is borne out of something brighter and lighter.
"Tell you what, Potter," Pansy continues, removing her hand from his and clasping her fingers together in a manner that is… suggestive. To say the least. It's the way that her fingers slowly tap against the back of her hands. "We're going out tonight. Perhaps you'd like to… join us?"
Hermione gawks at Pansy.
No—that's the moment of reconciliation.
"Yeah," Pansy continues, straightening her back and nodding her head, "You need to go out and forget about the Weaselette for a bit. We're going to a club tonight to celebrate Adrian's birthday, which you know is guaranteed to be a riot." Her right eyebrow inclines in a cunning fashion, and a devious smile takes shape. "You remember Adrian Pucey, don't you?"
Harry lifts his eyebrows at the mention of Adrian's name. "I—yes—I do."
"Well then, it's settled! You'll come out with us tonight. We'll have lots of fun together, you'll get to dance with Hermione and maybe even the birthday boy himself, and perhaps you'll indulge in some drinks, and maybe you'll also—"
Pansy stops, leaning her head to the side and furrowing her eyebrows to gaze at Harry's shifting expression.
Harry's eyes water up. He begins to cry.
She cringes, her shoulders tightening and her smile morphing into an uncomfortable grin. "Oh," she sighs, "no need to cry… Potter."
"It's just—" he hiccups— "that would be really, really, nice."
"Okay," Pansy says, creasing her nose at the bridge and nodding.
"Right, I think we ought to get you into a bed, Harry," Hermione suggests, taking his arm in her hands and shaking him lightly. She turns to Pansy. "Do you think it'd be alright if he came back with us?"
Pansy nods. "Of course. Might be a shock to the others, but they can sod off." She rises from her chair as Hermione begins to drag Harry off of the bench and into a standing position, one that is only attainable when she's holding his arms tight to his side. "You think he's alright to apparate? I really don't feel like lugging him through Hogsmeade like this. Not that it wouldn't be fun or anything, but if we could avoid it—"
"No, I agree," Hermione responds, biting her lip and looking down at Harry. "Harry? Do you think you have enough energy to apparate? It's not a far trip at all. It should barely take three seconds."
Harry offers a shrug. "We'll see whether I end up there in pieces or not, won't we?"
Leaning forward to pat him on the shoulder, Pansy says, "That's the spirit, Potter."
He looks up at Pansy with dreamy eyes, his smile like that of a puppy whose just been pampered. "Have you always been this warm and welcoming, Parkinson?"
She snorts. "Only to people I like."
Harry tuts and smiles. "I am very likeable."
And then his smiles fades as he reminds himself of his unfortunate reality. Harry begins to cry again. "Except for my girlfriend—"
"Alright, it's time go to," Hermione mutters, taking Harry's hand in hers and waiting for Pansy to grab his other before squeezing tightly and imagining her desired location. The air bends to her wishes and sucks the three of them up in a cloud of white smoke, and after a few seconds of passing through the atmosphere in a series of twists and coils and shrieks, the three land in the living room of the apartment.
Harry's first act is to groan in agony, releasing his hand from Pansy's and clutching his stomach tightly as he leans over in a fit.
Quick to respond to the uninvited visitor, Draco rises from the couch he's sitting on and creases his eyebrows to the center of his face. "What the—"
"Surprise!" Pansy cheers, reaching for Harry's arm again and elevating it in the air as if he's some Olympic medalist, though the image couldn't be farther from that appearance.
Draco's eyes trek from Harry to Hermione, his countenance vexed. And though she forces a smile to alleviate the tension, Hermione fears that her bringing Harry here might not have been the best idea, at least for Draco's sanity.
Adrian, on the other hand, is quick to shoot up from the couch and extend his arms to the sides in astonishment. "Potter," he says, shock ringing through the sound of the name as it comes hoarsely from his throat. Hermione detects a sliver of nervousness. "You look—"
Harry interrupts him with an audible lurch that echoes in the cavern of his closed mouth and blown cheeks.
"Oh, that's not good," Adrian comments, lowering his arms and wincing at the sight.
From the left where he sits with Daphne, Blaise rushes over and stops in front of Harry. He leans over and inspects his sagging head, searching for a source of life in the boy before him. "Is he alright?"
"Drank too much, I'm afraid," Hermione explains as Blaise uncurls his back and places his hands on his hips. "He just needs to lie down for a moment—"
"He can use my bed!" Adrian offers all too excitedly, stepping forward and shooting his finger in the air.
At his eagerness, Hermione smirks and giggles. For the first time, she witnesses Adrian's cheeks turn a pinkish hue, signaling his mounting awkwardness.
Quick to turn back the tides and regain his sense of composure, Adrian clears his throat and adjusts his chest. "I mean, you know, it's been unusedfor the past few weeks anyhow—"
"You are insufferable," Draco mumbles, bending his head back and staring at the ceiling.
"Well, I'm not letting Granger have the upper hand, here!" Adrian exclaims, poking Draco's arm and then gesturing towards his room. "Go on. Seriously. Let him rest in there."
Too weak to say a proper thank you, Harry just mumbles incoherent words as Blaise takes hold of one of his arms and Hermione secures her grip on the other. As a team, they support Harry's scattered strides as he ventures to the door.
Once inside, they lie him on Adrian's bed, and Harry immediately turns to the left, warms up to the pillow, and snuggles his face into the soft fabric. He mumbles again, his right hand crossing over his body to lay against the pillow as he deepens his ascent into the plush mattress.
Blaise snorts and turns to look at Hermione. "Adrian is probably doing cartwheels as we speak."
Hermione smiles back. "And why do you say that?"
He returns the look, steeped in an obvious explanation. "Come on, Hermione. Put two and two together, just like all of us have. Adrian's a secretive guy, but he—"
"Adrian?"
Hermione and Blaise turn their heads to gaze at Harry, who is still resting on his side. He yawns and continues his mumbling.
"I have to… tell him…"
The words start to falter as Harry grows more tired, closer to sleep than before.
"Tell him what, Harry?" Hermione asks, seating herself at the edge of the bed and placing her hand on his quivering calf.
"At the… Pensieve… he asked a question…"
But before Harry can finish his sentence, he's snoring. And the snoring turns to wheezing, and then Harry is fast asleep, and all it takes is a matter of seconds between standing loosely on his feet to lying in a comfortable bed with a scent so sweet to him to make him fall into this peaceful state of being.
"A lovely little mystery for us to solve, then," Blaise says.
Hermione smiles as she watches Harry's chest lift and fall in a steady pattern.
"Come on," Blaise says, nudging her shoulder. "We'll check on him once in a while to make sure he's alright. For now, he should just sleep. I may have some antidotes left over that will help with the aftereffects."
Sighing and nodding, Hermione rises from the bed and exits the room with Blaise.
"Is he alright?" Daphne asks as Hermione quietly closes the door.
She nods and crosses her arms over her chest.
"Why was he so bloody tossed?" Theo asks, tugging Pansy into his side as the two recline on the couch.
Hermione considers brushing over the real reason for Harry's state. It's not her information to gossip, and she doesn't want to put Harry in a position that would make him uncomfortable being around the Slytherins who know something that normally would be a rather private matter.
But there's something about the expression on Adrian's face—it's curious and anxious, like he has to know, or his insides will explode—that leads her to answer the question.
"He's, erm, got some relationship issues with Ginny Weasley—"
"Again? Oh, fuck yeah!" Adrian cheers, pumping his fist at his side. But when he recognizes the astonished looks of his friends, Adrian purses his lips and recedes his impulsive reaction. "Sorry," he says with a laugh, "but, I mean—let's be honest here—could my birthday get any better than this?"
Draco crosses the room and meets Hermione by the door, his expression stoic and blunt. "How long is he staying for?"
"As long as he bloody wants!" Adrian calls out, flapping his arms in the air.
Not even bothering to turn back around, Draco stares into Hermione's eyes and asks again. "How long, Granger?"
She forces a smile, hoping that her response doesn't compel Draco to have an aneurysm. "He might be coming out with us tonight, actually—"
A dramatic sigh falls from Adrian's lips as he tumbles onto the couch where Daphne sits. His head drops into her lap, and the back of his right hand slaps his forehead. "Daph—pinch me, darling! I've got to be dreaming!"
Draco huffs out of his nose, and Hermione can see the palpable discomfort with it all as he stares at the door behind her. She understands his reservations—she would've had the same if she were him. But there's a sliver of hope within her that says that he'll come around, that the happiness of his friend is more important than his silly, lifelong feud with a boy he grew up with. They're adults now; Draco already proved to Hermione that he could change his views and opinions on people. Hell, if he'd done it for her, he could certainly do it for Harry as well.
When he looks down into Hermione's eyes, she can tell there's a difference to them. They glimmer with this sentiment that assures her that he'll work for peace, because peace is what he wants, after all.
"Why do you always have to be so bloody kind?" Draco asks, shaking his head and smiling softly.
"Someone once told me that it's in my nature," she responds, raising an eyebrow and the side of her lips in a congenial smirk.
Draco flexes his fingers, licks his lips, and sighs.
"He's harmless," Hermione continues in a whisper. "And… Adrian…"
Draco turns over his shoulder to look at Adrian, head settled in Daphne's lap, laughing like a little boy on Christmas morning who's just woken up to dozens of delicately wrapped presents and sweets. And when Crookshanks leaps up and lies upon his chest, Adrian laughs even further.
Draco returns his gaze to Hermione, who pleads with her eyes.
"I think that Adrian would really like it if you could give him chance."
"What happened that day that you two went to Hogwarts?" Draco asks. "Ever since then he's been… referencing then as a sort of golden day for him. Like it awoke something that was maybe on its way to wilting for good."
Hermione considers that—how Adrian might have wilted were it not for that day.
"I think something happened between them while I was in the Pensieve," Hermione whispers. "I don't know what, but there was something different about the way they interacted when I came back from McGonagall's memories. Like they'd just had some conversation of grand meaning." She shakes her head. "I just think that whatever they talked about, it brought something out of both of them. And maybe… maybe they could be good for one another right now."
She's shocked she says that, because what about Ginny? She knows nothing of what Adrian and Harry spoke about, yet here she is, seeing the way that Adrian revels in the knowledge that Harry's just a few feet away, and she's head over heels in love with the idea of her closest friend and this new lifelong friend making one another happy.
Draco sighs and studies Hermione's eyes before rolling his own in submission. "I will try to get along with Potter. For him—" Draco gestures his head back, and then reaches his hand forward to clandestinely stroke Hermione's cheek with his thumb— "and for you."
Hermione smiles, even as Draco drops his hand back to his side.
"Thank you. And who knows," she continues with a shrug, "he might even be too tired to come out with us after all."
Harry's anything but tired, and it has to do with the brilliant antidote that Blaise offered him when he ventured out of Adrian's bedroom a few hours later, just before the group planned on dispersing and preparing for the evening Bacchanalia.
"He must have an iron liver," Pansy comments as the girls slip into their outfits for the night. Pansy throws a red dress over her practically naked body, pulling down the tight fabric and adjusting the sleeves along her arms.
"I honestly didn't know he was capable of drinking that much in the first place," Hermione adds, slipping on another one of Pansy's dresses—a forest green slip, because that's what Pansy insists that Hermione looks best in, crediting the way that the fabric fastens to her figure and accentuates the natural curves present along her hips.
"Poor thing," Daphne adds, adjusting the bust of her indigo dress in the mirror on the wall.
"I don't know, perhaps he should stay in tonight," Hermione contemplates, sitting on the edge of the bed as she slides on a pair of black heels. "I just don't want him to get too careless."
Pansy shakes her head in objection. "No, no! He needs to get out and forget about what's happening in his personal life. It'll be good for him to be around us—you know, as distractions. Some of us being more distracting than others."
Daphne giggles, and Hermione smiles at the insinuation, reveling in how pleasant it is to be on the other side of the inside joke.
"Don't worry, Hermione. We'll take good care of him!" Daphne says, spinning on her heels and placing her hands upon Hermione's shoulders. "He'll feel right at home with us—nothing less!"
And when the three exit the bedroom and enter the living room, Hermione sees that Harry has already made himself rather comfortable.
He's in the kitchen with Adrian, and they're conversing in a whisper with smiles on their faces. Adrian carries the conversation with his suave disposition, leaning his body against the divide that exists between the kitchen and the living room, while Harry engages to the best of his ability, nodding and smiling and laughing whenever Adrian finishes a sentence. The way their conversation flows—Adrian as the lead and Harry following along with admiration—looks wholly natural. It's even further represented with the crown perched on top of Adrian's head.
Blaise, who sits on the couch furthest from the bedroom door, welcomes Daphne onto his lap as he plants a kiss on her cheek. Across from them, on the couch near the wall to Pansy's bedroom, Theo and Draco sit idly, occupied in a conversation that's too quiet for Hermione to decipher. Pansy breaks the banter between them, flagging to the back of the couch and wrapping her arms around Theo's neck. She leans forward on her toes and kisses the top of his head, and upon feeling that gesture, Theo smiles and turns over his shoulder to gaze at his her.
"There's my girl," Theo coos, beholding the sight of Pansy as she spins, giggles, and shows off her dress. "Heaven has absolutely nothing on you, Pans."
"Does it not?" she purrs, leaning forward and placing her lips on Theo's in a brief kiss.
Turning over his left shoulder, Draco rises from the couch and walks towards Hermione, whose feet have her planted at the foot of space just outside of Pansy's room. He stands in front of her, admires her up and down, and smirks.
"You look amazing," he says, the intent in his voice as strong as ever.
"Thank you," she responds with a sly smile, gazing at the ensemble that Draco sports—black slacks, a white button-up with the buttons only halfway done so that his tattoos peek through the slip, and a chic, black sportscoat.
Draco's fingers suddenly begin to toy with the hem of Hermione's dress. "I like this dress. The color, especially."
"I do too."
At her confident remark, Draco raises his eyebrows in delight. And then he slowly licks his lips, and for a moment Hermione believes that he'll lean down and kiss her right in front of everyone.
But a figure appears to her left, and before she can take matters into her own hands and lean forward, Hermione turns her head to see Harry. Draco pulls away and grinds his teeth.
"Hermione, you look great!" Harry says, offering a gentle touch on her arm.
She smiles. "Thank you, Harry. You look wonderful as well."
He's changed out of his outfit from earlier today—transfigured some new clothes, most likely. Navy slacks and a tight knit cream sweater. Hermione feels sentimental for a moment as she admires Harry's choice of outfit—it's similar to what she wore her first night at Amortentia, too. Moderate and reserved but still present of effort and intrigue. It's as if she is passing some metaphorical baton to Harry now—she only hopes that there's less drug use and awkward advances for him than there was for her.
Harry rocks back and forth on his heels, producing small noises with his mouth as he attempts to draw out the tension that comes straight from Draco's death stare.
"So," he finally says, breaking the silence between them, "I am, erm, sensing something here—"
"Oh, fuck's sake, Potter," Draco groans.
"No, no, I think I ought to say something—"
"So help me—"
"Really, I just want to say one thing, Malfoy."
Draco ceases his bickering and shrugs in consent.
"Hermione's told me a little bit about your situation. And… I just want to say that… I respect you all very much for the way you've treated Hermione. Her kindness is indispensable. I just hope that you recognize and understanding how lucky you are to have someone like her care about you."
Draco's stare softens by a miniscule margin, but Hermione does witness a moment of relaxation.
"I'm fully aware of that reality, Potter."
Harry nods once. "Fine. As long as you all know that fact, then I'm happy and grateful to be here." He sticks out his hand towards Draco, waiting to seal their fate and bring an end to the years of contention. And after a moment of looking at Harry's hovering hand, Draco takes his hand and shakes. Briefly. He withdraws his hand quickly, and Harry turns to walk away.
Draco blows air out of his nostrils in a moment of vexation, and Hermione boldly reaches for his arm with her right hand.
"You can't exactly blame him for what he said," she teases, shoving that same arm.
He twists the side of his lips into a half smile. "No. I can't."
"Try to relax."
He inhales through his nose and nods.
"Malfoy, are you rolling with us tonight?"
Hermione peers around Draco and sees Adrian holding a small baggie of green pills in his hand.
Suddenly, she's brought back to Halloween night, and the ghost of Draco on her neck and back and waist returns and glides up her spine. She stares at the pill and remembers just how close she was to receiving it from him that night in a manner so seductive and erotic that she physically couldn't breathe.
She adjusts her eyes to look at Draco, who gazes at the spare pill left in the baggie.
"Not tonight," he responds coolly, and Hermione feels her stomach contract at his denial.
"No?" Adrian asks, tilting his head. "Not even for the birthday boy?"
Draco shakes his head. "Sorry, Pucey. Not really looking for that kind of experience tonight."
As the others turn back into a circle and indulge in the ecstasy, Draco turns back to look down at Hermione. And with a clever smirk on his face, he leans over and whispers, "Not when I know you taste and feel far better than whatever that pill could give me."
Hermione grins and giggles as he pulls away. "Malfoy—"
"Granger," he murmurs back, that smirk still defining his expression and intentions.
Before she can respond to his suggestive tease, Adrian interrupts with a cheer. "Right! Let's get going, shall we? Tonight is going to be all about me!"
"Try not to flirt with the entire club tonight, yeah?" Theo teases, shoving Adrian's shoulder and successively wrapping his arm around Pansy' shoulder.
"If I can get free drinks from people in the club on the basis that it is my birthday, I will bloody turn on the charm in order to do so!" Adrian calls back, stampeding towards the door in large, powerful strides. "Besides, being the kind and generous person that I am, I'd be willing to pass them on to all of you. Granger, you in for some shots tonight?"
Hermione smiles and walks with Draco to the door. "For you? Of course."
Adrian slaps his hands together with an enormous smile. "Fucking brilliant! And Potter—you've got to let me swindle you a drink or two, yeah?"
Harry nods at the offer. "It'd be an honor to further impair my body and forget the catastrophe that is my life in the name of your birthday, Pucey."
Adrian falters at the rather depressing statement, but then pumps his fist in the air in solidarity and shouts, "Alright! I'll bloody take it!"
The glow of Amortentia's many strobe lights electrifies Hermione's skin, but what really drives her entire being and spirit to coincide with the bass of the club and the flow off the dancers is that shot that she takes at the bar, Harry at her side with a shot of his own.
The tequila stings when it reaches the back of her throat and even more when it trickles down, leaving its burning mark in her mouth. She scrunches her nose for a moment, shoves the wedge of a lime into her mouth, sucks, giggles, and watches Harry do the exact same thing. The taste of the lime spreads and conceals the burn of the silver liquor.
Slamming his empty shot glass on the bar's slab of mahogany wood, Harry shakes his head in one rapid motion. "Woo!" he roars, slamming his cheeks with his palms and jumping up and down, a sight Hermione never would've thought she'd see Harry do in all of her life. "That hits the spot!"
The bartender loops back around and leans over the counter. "Another one?" she calls out over the music.
Harry looks at Hermione, and she can tell by the look in his eyes that he's already decided that he wants more.
"Absolutely!" he responds, turning back to the bartender.
"And you, hon?" she asks Hermione.
She sees the enormous smile on Harry's face and the plea in his eyes, and so she nods and throws her arms in the air. "Sure!"
The bartender pours two new servings of the silver tequila into tall shot glasses. She retrieves two new lime wedges and fixes them so that they hang upon the rims of the glasses. Finally, she slides the drinks across the bar for Harry and Hermione, who receive them willingly.
"For Adrian?" Harry proposes, his eyes traveling past Hermione's shoulders to where the birthday boy is dancing freely on the elevated platform near the DJ's box. Crown on his head and body alive with the effects of the ecstasy, Adrian glistens in the strobe lights as he sways his body back and forth, invigorates the crowd with his charismatic personality, and dances like tomorrow was never guaranteed in the first place.
Hermione smiles at the way he commands a room full of people. Revels in his ability to exude positivity even when everything seems bleak and uncertain. She admires Adrian Pucey, not because he's outgoing and daring and a natural leader, but because he's taken everything dark in his life and sought happiness in the form of lights, merriment, and comradery.
And so in that moment when he commands the attention of the clubgoers and spans his arms in the air like a bird for everyone to cheer and hoot at, Hermione can't help but grin at the man before her in a way that speaks beyond where most of her friendships ever landed. Adrian's amicability stretched beyond theirs, and that's something she never thought possible.
Hermione turns back to Harry, picks up her shot glass, and holds it out between them. "To Adrian!" she shouts, clinking her glass against Harry's and then throwing down the alcohol. It burns all the same, so she reaches for that fresh piece of lime and sucks the juices right out of it.
"These drinks are on me, Stella, alright?"
The familiar Scottish accent draws Hermione to twist her head to the right. Titus stands just a few feet from Hermione and Harry, and he smiles as Hermione makes eye contact with him.
"How are you tonight, Ms. Granger?" Titus asks, leaning forward and grinning.
She places the shot glass on the bar and chuckles. "I'm well, Titus, and yourself?"
"I'm well! Just—you know—enjoying the free entertainment for the evening!" Titus responds, nudging his head towards the stage where Adrian continues to flaunt himself wildly. He's now engaging in a strip tease of some kind, his hips rolling up and down as his fingers fiddle with the first few buttons of his shirt. Titus laughs and shakes his head. "Bloody kid is such a little attention seeker!"
"It's his birthday!" Hermione laughs.
"All the more reason I let him have his little fun up there!" Titus responds with a wink, and then he glances over at Harry who's been watching the pair converse. Titus' eyes widen, and his mouth hangs open for a second as he discerns who the celebrity before him is. "Do my eyes deceive me under these lights or is that the famous Harry Potter in my club?"
Harry extends his hand with a smile. "Pleasure, sir!" he exclaims, shaking Titus' hand in his. "Many thanks for the drinks."
"My pleasure, Mr. Potter," Titus responds. "Welcome to Amortentia. I hope you have an enjoyable evening tonight."
"Oh, I'm sure I will," Harry replies. "Been here for thirty minutes now and I already never want to leave this oasis!"
Titus laughs, his cheeks beaming under the now cherry lights. "Well, drink! Dance! Do whatever you'd like! Amortentia is a safe place for you lot. But—"
He leans forward, gesturing Hermione and Harry to lean in with him.
"You two make sure those crazies don't mix too much of anything, you hear?"
Hermione nods—feels herself be brought down from that cloud of pleasure to reality for this moment. "Of course, Titus."
Titus winks at Hermione and straightens his back. "Alright, you two enjoy yourselves! Order as much as you'd like—it's on the house. Just be sure to take care of yourselves!"
"Perhaps you'd like to take one more with us?" Harry asks just as Titus is preparing to turn and leave.
He stops in his tracks and laughs. "Why not!" he cheers, and then he settles himself between Harry and Hermione and orders three shots, one for each of them. They clink their glasses, throw back the alcohol, and subsequently suck on the sweet limes.
Titus places his empty glass back on the bar, thanks the bartender named Stella, and places his hands upon Hermione and Harry's shoulders.
"Take care of yourselves tonight," he says again, and with a final nod and wink to each of them, Titus turns and disappears into the crowd of dancers.
Hermione reaches for Harry's hand and begins to drag him towards the dance floor. "Come on, that's enough drinks for now." Harry doesn't object as Hermione tugs him through the sea of sweaty and crammed bodies who jump in the air and wildly sway their torso and arms to the beating bass of the music, the bass that Hermione can feel pound up and through her feet.
They catch up with Theo and Draco, who stand just before the platform and watch with amused expressions as the others enthusiastically dance on stage.
From left to right, Daphne, Adrian, Pansy, and Blaise form a dance line, each one of their backs and chests pressed up against someone else's. The four grind and wave their bodies against one another, smiles of ecstasy growing larger and larger with each passing moment of bliss.
In a moment of conviction, Blaise bends over and edges his behind against Pansy, who chuckles at the way he sweeps his body against hers. There's something utterly amicable and organic about the way in which Blaise and Pansy interact, as if there's this unspoken understanding about the boundaries of their platonic relationship.
Pansy continues to chuckle as Blaise transitions to swaying his chest left and right in wave-like motions, his arms following the direction of his body in one fluid dance. And then she leans back into Adrian's broad chest for support, and Adrian's arms jut out and wrap around her neck in a tight snuggle. He peppers kisses along Pansy's head, to which she laughs with pure merriment.
Daphne's little hands hold Adrian's waist tightly as he simultaneously backs himself up against her in a joking manner, same manner as Blaise to Pansy. She screams in wholesome pleasure and willingly grinds back against him, running her fingers through her hair and letting herself flow freely to the music.
The sight is precious to Hermione—one she wishes she could freeze and remember forever.
It only gets better when Pansy decides to turn around, grip the flaps of Adrian's half-undone shirt, and yank it open entirely so that his entire torso is exposed. With Daphne's enlistment, Pansy tugs the shirt off of Adrian, and he howls like a wolf as the shirt falls from his arms. She stuffs a corner of it into the side of his waistband and cheers along with the clubgoers who watch the scene unfold.
Adrian's built like a Greek sculpture, his chest firm and his arms defined. Beneath the heat of the lights, his torso glimmers and shines with an indescribable source of magic—perhaps, Hermione considers, it's just him and his effervescent personality shining through. It's coupled with the way he engaged with the crowd and dances like his life depends on it. He's the embodiment of joy and pleasure and kindness submersed into one body.
As she turns to head to witness the expressions of the others, Hermione notices Harry's bright red face and curious expression. He stares intently at Adrian, unmoving and in a state of total fixation. Beside him, Theo laughs in glee and nudges Harry's arm, to which Harry breaks from his hypnotic state and laughs back.
Draco snorts and drops his head in a fit of laughter at the sight of his friend onstage, and that's music to Hermione's ears.
She reaches for Draco's hand.
Takes it in hers and laces her fingers between his.
He rotates his neck and stares down at her, and the way his lips slowly bend up leads Hermione to assume that he has intentions for the evening. The comments about the dress and the pill run through her mind as Draco suddenly pulls on Hermione's hand, leading her through the crowd towards one of the walls near the hallway to the back offices.
Mirrors and neon signs line the wall in an array of wonder, and when the two arrive just in front of them, Draco spins Hermione in front of him and places himself taut against her back. It's that same position as always—the one that drives her mad with lust and now longing—that Draco creates right in front of a wide mirror.
He leans into Hermione's ear and whispers, "Let me show you something, Granger."
Hermione never denies a demonstration.
With the index finger of his right hand, Draco lifts Hermione's chin so that she's looking at herself in the mirror. She catches Draco's eyes wondering at her in the reflection—he's looking at her like he's sure to devour her.
"You see yourself?" he asks, a hint of seduction in the rasp of his voice.
Hermione smiles and looks closely at herself in the mirror. Her reflection has never been something she's particularly enjoyed, but it seems that with every new adventure and step out of her comfort zone, she's coming to accept everything that she is more and more. And Draco's words only make that newfound reality easier to accept.
"Mhm," she answers, feeling Draco's slow hands wrap around her waist and pull her in against his body. His warmth is addicting—it heats her as well, and she's well on the way to melting into his arms if he continues holding her this way.
"You don't understand what you do to me, Granger."
A shaky breath escapes her lips as Draco begins to kiss her neck.
And she watches it happen through the mirror. Watches the way Draco's lips press firmly against her neck, witnesses at certain points his tongue push through his lips to acknowledge the sweet taste of her skin, and even whimpers at the moment when he finds her pulse point with his mouth and grazes his teeth against it.
His lips begin to migrate as he speaks to her.
"You have no idea—" he laps his tongue around her neck— "what this dress does to me—" suddenly he's traveling down to her shoulder with staggered kisses— "and how good your skin tastes—" he bites down lightly on the space where her neck and shoulder meet, and that garners another whimper from her that's as light and fluttery as a cloud – "and how badly I want you. How badly I've wanted you since the first day I saw you again."
A development. A peek into the origins of this fire between them. Hermione sighs at the realization that it's been there all along.
She smiles and takes her eyes off of the scene in the mirror for a brief moment to look at Draco, but when he sees that she's looking away, he reaches with his right hand and yanks her chin back to face the mirror.
"Watch, Granger."
His hand falls from her chin to her neck, and he lightly presses his fingers against her skin, enough to draw her back into a smile that screams pleasure and satisfaction. Then he's kissing the back of her neck, shifting slowly to her bare shoulders, toying with the strap of her dress with his teeth—an action that causes Hermione's breath to waver and her back to shiver—and then he jumps from there to her ear, whispering affirmation after affirmation in each new location, each part of her body that he so preciously worships.
"You taste so sweet… You are fucking incredible… I'm addicted to you, Granger…"
He's hard to resist. In the midst of the eroticism, Hermione takes matters into her own hands. Turns around and presses her lips against his without fear. Their teeth collide and click with the fervor of the kiss, but it goes by unaddressed, because they're both far too focused on the way that their mouths feel swollen from the enthusiasm already, and they can only focus on so much at a time.
And then, Hermione thinks about the way that Draco's hands, still desperate to be all over her body, snake up and down her back. They venture down until they reach her backside, and his fingertips dig into her skin, which produces a small yelp from her mouth to his, followed by one word that somehow gets lost upon his lips:
"Bathroom."
"What's that Granger?" he sighs, biting her lower lip and dragging it sweetly through his teeth.
"Bathroom," she begs, latching her hands through his and tugging him a few paces over to where the entrance of the lavatory is. She flings open the door, but it's Draco that guides them both inside with his eager steps and cautious hands. He shuts the door as quickly as she opens it and then drives Hermione against it with enough force to draw out a hollow bang.
Before Hermione can breathe, Draco's lips are back on hers. She hears the click of a lock from below her, and then his hand is winding down her side and gripping her bare thigh, just below the hem of her dress. Deepening the kiss with the tilt of his head and introduction of his tongue, Draco lifts Hermione's leg to wrap around his waist. Their centers brush—she whimpers again.
"Remember last time we were in here?" Draco asks, his hand still ferrying its way up and down the leg that's now wrapped around his waist.
"Mhm," Hermione answers, not willing to speak any longer than she has to in fear of his lips not caressing hers.
"And the time before that?"
She produces a giggle against his lips. "Yes," she moans, followed by a yelp when Draco suddenly lifts her from the ground and balances her against the door. Instinctively, her legs cloak his waist and interlock behind him, and now he's pressed fully against her, and she can feel every single part of him heave and lift and throb with this coursing desire, desire that feels much like fire and ice and stars and every single celestial being in between.
"Each time I have you in here," he says through kisses, "You are somehow more and more beautiful."
Another giggle, because she simply can't help it. She can't help feeling any of it. And she certainly can't help the way her mouth often takes control of her actions.
"What?" Draco asks sweetly, the smile on his face only an inch from Hermione's lips.
She shakes her head and rakes her fingers through his hair, staring into his eyes and admiring the way that they sparkle in the dim light.
"I'm just looking at you, and… I feel like I have this whole new understanding of who you are."
Draco gulps, his fingers drawing shapes across the bottom of Hermione's thighs.
She laughs again, trying to find a strong enough breath to say everything she needs to say. "Every time you show me another part of yourself, I just want to remember the moment forever. Scrapbook it and remember every little thing about the way you act, how you speak in poems, how your touches feel so warm, even when you think that they're frigid. They're not. You're not. You're so warm. And I don't exactly know where this came from, or how it happened, but I feel like I just understand you so much better—"
"You just talk and talk and talk, don't you, Granger?" Draco asks, tilting his head and smiling.
She laughs sweetly, smoothing her forehead against his and closing her eyes. Inching forward to tease her lips upon his, Hermione whispers, "You could stop me any time you want. You know how."
Draco snickers. "I want you rambling on and on, Granger."
"Oh?" she chuckles, placing a small kiss on the corner of his mouth.
He nods against her head, and suddenly she feels his fingers dig even deeper into her thighs, and his shoulders tense with the conception of a blaze inside of him. "I want to make you do more than that, actually."
"What are you—"
Hermione pauses. Almost stammers over her words as they fall from her lips.
"In here?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow.
Draco huffs and shrugs. "Well, I suppose I can take you back to the Ministry if you prefer Aberfield's desk—"
Hermione playfully shunts his shoulders and scoffs, and Draco laughs and dips his head into her neck, continuing to suck and kiss her skin with fire.
"I want to show you—" his teeth scuff against the curve of her neck— "just how warm you truly are."
She knocks her head back against the door, because that truly sounds like the most wonderful thing she could ever receive. And then her response comes out in a whimper, and it's when Draco's mouth climbs up to the spot just below her ear.
"Please."
In an instant, Hermione's back on her feet, her lips being nipped at by Draco's.
"You'll let me touch you, Granger?" he asks in between those perfect kisses.
She nods and moans an affirmation in his mouth.
"Burn me."
It's at that comment that Draco removes his lips from hers. Stares at her with an even brighter sparkle in his eyes, a sparkle that the moon envies on nights like this, nights where the sky is pitch black and all the attention is on one being that would do anything to keep the world moving the way it is supposed to move.
Suddenly, he drops to his knees.
Hikes up her dress.
Tugs her underwear aside.
And with precise excellency and a touch that could melt even the sun, Draco's tongue begins to stroke her core.
She doesn't expect it—couldn't care less, though. Not when it already feels like her soul is being sucked out of her body.
Hermione knocks her head back and whimpers at the subtlety of his motions, the alternation between delicate flicks and moments of extreme vigor. Draco is soft by exacting, his tongue swirling and his fingers raking up and down her legs.
She spreads herself further to feel him plunge deeper, and it's like she's orbiting in outer space, passing by planet after planet and star after star on this warm cloud, this soft and supple swirl of moisture in the sky.
He's so warm—everything is warm—how can he not think that he is warm?
Hermione can't help herself. A quiet "oh, gods" spills past her teeth and lips and flutters through the air as an echo, and from below her she can hear Draco snicker. And it's like a vibration against her heat, and so she sighs with desire and grasps the back of his head, tugging his hair for the added friction of the kiss.
He contests with the introduction of his fingers. At first, he's just teasing her, the tips dancing against her entrance. But in a matter of seconds—seconds that seem to take an eternity—Draco's dips two fingers into her while simultaneously sucking and lapping his tongue around her clit, and she can't hold it in—she has to whimper and hum again.
"Good girl," Draco whispers against her in a breath of hot air, and that's when she knows that he's burning her in the way she pleaded for.
She looks down, intoxicated on the sight of him below her. Reminiscent of the same lustful looks he gave her in the mirror just a few moments before. It's clear that he delights in all of this—praising her. Appreciating her. Exalting her.
And then while she's admiring him and the way his tongue labors upon her, a force unlike any other begins to grip the muscles in her stomach, and she frantically reaches for the handle of the door and the back of Draco's head to steady herself as her legs begin to tremble.
Draco knows she's almost there, because he begins to speed the motion of his fingers and the rate at which he flicks his tongue against her clit. She shuts her eyes, hangs her mouth open, and tips her chin to the ceiling while simultaneously burying his face further upon her. And she imagines—for a brief moment—gliding through a continuum so long and warm that time itself seems to leap forward, thrusting her with it.
She rides the crescent curve of the moon as an orgasm rips through her body.
His tongue rides her out. And as her thighs clench and her teeth grind, Draco streaks his tongue across her one more time—a nice, warm, long motion upwards—until all that's left of Hermione is just her staggered breathing and dumbfounded headrush.
When he pulls away from her, Draco takes the side of his thumb and swipes it against his lips, and that image drives Hermione crazy. He's standing straight again in moments, his eyes glued to hers the whole time, and then he inches closer and closer to her and hovers his lips just before her own, teasing her with the promise of another kiss.
"Finally have you speechless," he whispers, brushing his lips against hers as he speaks.
"I'm sure you can guess why," she teases back, her hands finding his cheeks in a warm touch before she drives her lips against his. Their lips pulse in a steady kiss for a few moments before there's a hearty knock at the door.
"Fuck," he groans into her mouth, "Not yet. I don't want to be done with you just yet."
Hermione rolls her head back and sighs. "Come on," she says, taking his hand in hers and lifting herself off of the door, "I want to dance now. Don't you want to dance with me?"
The alcohol begins to talk for her.
He smiles. "I can think of a lot of things I'd like to do with you, Granger."
Hermione grin stretches across her face. "Well, we have plenty of time."
She turns within his arms so that her back is up against him again, and then she pulls the door open.
At the entrance is Theo standing with his arms wrapped around Pansy's front and his chin nestled upon her shoulder. They sway in the music, their heads turned inwards as they smile against one another's lips, but when they realize that the door opens, their heads twist to behold the sight.
"Beat it, lovebirds!" Theo shouts, thrusting the door open wider and gesturing for Hermione and Draco to leave. "Pans and I have a little business to attend to, if you don't mind."
"Right. 'Business,' huh?" Draco asks, lifting an eyebrow.
Pansy points her finger in Draco's face and puckers her lips. "Don't act like you didn't just have a little briefing of your own, darling. It's written on those sweet little rosy cheeks!"
With his free hand, Draco lifts his fingers to his cheek and rubs. Hermione bites her lip to conceal a smile as she drags Draco away. Pansy and Theo prance into the bathroom behind them with devious laughs and shut the door.
Once she's pulled them far enough in the crowd, Hermione lets go of Draco's hand, turns around, and coaxes him towards her with kittenish gestures and tempting hips as she rocks her body to the music. He crosses his arms and watches her dance for a moment in a crowd of people, a smile creeping slowly on his face. Hermione beckons for him once more, and he obliges, reaching her in a matter of moments.
Her arms find his neck while his find her waist. Draco pulls her in close, centers pressed together and mouths only an inch away. She dances against him, spins through his arms, and savors this bubble with Draco.
And then, over his right shoulder, Hermione sees something else.
Adrian and Harry. Dancing.
Or, at least, Adrian's dancing. And he's still without a shirt.
Harry struggles to keep with the beat of the music, but he's trying his best. Each step is robotic more than it is smooth, and it appears as though he focuses more on counting the steps in his head than just letting the music guide him.
"You're way off rhythm, Potter!" Adrian shouts at Harry, glancing down at Harry's unkempt feet and laughing at the way he trips over himself with each step. "Here—" Adrian takes Harry's hands in his and begins to physically guide him with the proper steps— "it's like this. Just follow me, yeah?"
Hermione watches in awe as Harry slowly begins to warm up to Adrian. A smile grows on his flushed cheeks as he begins to comprehend the rhythm, and then Hermione watches as one of Adrian's hands dips to Harry's waist.
She's even more shocked when she witnesses Harry's do the same upon Adrian's bare torso.
And suddenly the space between the two closes, and their chests sway against one another as they travel in a circle. She catches a glimpse of Adrian's face—he's beaming with delight, more than she's seen him glow in a long time. And he's talking to Harry, right in his ear, unquestionably charming him with something sweet, because a moment later, when they're flipped around in the circle, she catches a look of pure bliss on Harry's face.
And then the Gryffindor lifts his head to meet the eyes of that Slytherin as they continue to spin in their little circle, and there's something endearing about the way that Harry looks up at Adrian with such admiration, such curiosity, such passion and fire and desire—
Hermione stops breathing when Harry impulsively shoots onto his toes and kisses Adrian.
Her nails dig into Draco's shoulders to mask the gasp that comes out of her mouth.
She witnesses the look on Adrian's face when it happens—Hermione can see that he is shocked based solely on his wide eyes. But then, when Harry pulls away and frantically apologizes, Adrian places his hand on the back of Harry's head, pulls him in abruptly, and plants his lips upon his again.
To one, it might seem like a drunken act. Like in the middle of their bubble of bliss and ecstasy, the two just needed an outlet. Needed an impetus that could break through what's been hidden and resisted for so long—for the both of them.
But then there's the way that Adrian cups Harry's cheeks, and the way that Harry has to lift himself higher and higher every other second to reach Adrian's height that suggests that maybe none of it is accidental or by chance. There's the quiet conversation from earlier today, the trip to the Pensieve, the secretive agenda which the two have played at ever since, the tumultuous circumstances which Harry finds himself in with Ginny, Adrian's strong desire to have someone hold him and care about him—to Hermione, and to anyone who knows them, all of those things manifest here stronger than just 'chance.'
Maybe they're exactly what one another needs.
Maybe they've known longer than she has.
Maybe they discussed it at the Pensieve.
They have to have discussed something at the Pensieve.
Maybe Adrian—
"Do I have to stop that little mouth of yours from rambling again?" Draco teases, leaning into Hermione's ear and kissing the top of it.
"Sorry," she responds, blushing and pursing her lips. Watching as the two continue to kiss, Hermione tugs Draco's neck towards her further.
"What are you up to, Granger?" he tuts, journeying again across her neck with his tongue and teeth in those fluctuating patterns of admiration.
"Nothing!" she squeals, tilting her head further so that he has more access to the crooks of her neck.
He huffs near her ear and then peppers kisses along the rim, to which she giggles and dips away. His eyes reach hers, and she finds it much harder now that he's staring at her to contain her secret.
"What are you hiding? What did you see?" he probes, inching closer and closer to her with each word.
She smiles against his lips. "Your friends dancing and being happy. That good enough?"
With his hand cupping her cheek, Draco tugs Hermione in for a deep kiss, using his other hand to support her lower back. He pulls away, shakes his head, and tsks at her.
"That's good enough."
And in that cornucopia of pleasure, Hermione presses her forehead against his and thanks the stars for a night so perfect, so endearing, and so beautiful that it feels like anything and everything good is attainable. Just an arm's reach away. She'll take that leap the moment she can.
But elsewhere, under those same stars and sky that seem to give the Slytherins and their Gryffindor companions everything, the luck of the group seems to run its course. And the stars do nothing to stop it.
"Just watch, Quincy. The time will come."
Quincy Aberfield paces across the back of his desk, teeth fixed against one another and fists tightened.
"Not soon enough," he says, agitation driving his steps and his mind.
Seated on a chair in front of his desk with her legs crossed, Healer Bruiser taps her foot against the air in a nonchalant manner. "Stay on course. Watch them with the trackers."
"How—" Aberfield slams his fist against the desk— "am I supposed to continue when they're not attending meetings? And when they are constantly together?" He scoffs. "It was easier with that weak son of a bitch Montague. Always alone."
"Patience, Quincy."
She rises to meet him behind the desk, and while stroking his arm and tapping her fingers against the wood, Bruiser says,
"Our time will come."