Hello all! Welcome to the Berlin chapter. This will be a bit different than the formula of the previous chapters. No described balls this chapter - it's time for our characters to work some things out.
Content warnings:
CW: the Holocaust and genocide. Hermione and Draco have a discussion about the Holocaust this chapter. Nothing is described explicitly, but it is talked about. Please take care of yourself above all.
I would like to thank my dear friends Rose and Mani for reading this chapter in advance for content suggestions. Fanfiction is collaborative, and I owe you both for taking the time.
Berlin is the only True North city I have lived in. This chapter is very important for me - this city and what it represents.
Please enjoy.
Don't make me count my blessings
You'll make me die confessing
Your touch has cured my weakness
This night don't end, we're sleepless
Palace - Berlin
June 10, 1999
This was the absolute last place that Draco wanted to be.
He scratched awkwardly at his chin, starring at the name plate on the door in front of him. He wondered how long the Auror office would allow him to stand here before they demanded what he was doing. A couple minutes, he probably reckoned, enough time to get his bearings.
The reality was, however, that his options were quite limited in this situation. What he had was time – not choices. Three weeks until they left on the next trip. Enough to make a dent, perhaps, in her stone conception of him. If he tried. If he actually fucking tried.
So here he was. Going to the last person in the world he ever wanted to ask for help.
For the second time.
Gritting his teeth, he lifted his fist and knocked on the door.
After a couple of moments, he heard shuffling before the familiar click of the lock, as the office door opened to reveal none other than Harry Potter.
"Malfoy?" Potter asked, his jaw dropping, blinking rapidly as if he figured Draco were a hallucination brought about by no sleep or too much caffeine.
Unfortunately for them both, he was neither.
"Potter," he replied curtly. He gestured to the Auror's office. "Could I steal a moment?"
Raising an eyebrow, Potter glanced out of his office into the general department. Much to Draco's chagrin, he could feel the gazes and hear the murmurs behind him. Knowing the ministry, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter's secret meeting would be spinning out of the rumour mill by early afternoon.
He hoped she didn't hear.
The Chosen One gave a small sigh, and nodded, stepping back so Draco could enter. He strutted in, trying to maintain any sense of dignity, and avoiding the fact that he had come to Harry Potter's office for help. Required assistance from the bloody Boy Who Lived.
Again.
Potter closed the door behind him, and Draco heard the familiar incantation of a silencing charm.
The Auror walked around to his desk, gesturing for the other man to take a seat. As they both sat across from each other, Draco saw Potter's jaw clench.
"Malfoy," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Draco grimaced. "As if you don't already know."
Potter rolled his eyes, leaning forward on his desk. "To be honest, I was wondering when you were going to show up here."
"Took a bit of a pep-talk, Potter. I don't like coming to you."
The Auror drummed his fingers on his desk. "And yet you came anyway. You didn't have to."
"You know it's not that simple, Potter."
"No, it is simple, it's everything else that's complicated."
Draco let out a low whistle.
"Understatement of the century."
The two men sat in silence for several moments, as Potter's eyes glared at him, waiting patiently for him to crack.
Must it be so humiliating?
Draco sighed, figuring he might as well get the worst of it over with. "Did she tell you anything about Lisbon?"
"Not much," Potter shrugged. "Nothing more than what I saw in the papers. Quite a spectacle the two of you are putting on."
The other man cocked his head, appraising Draco.
"Not that you're putting on much of an act. Hermione may be the Brightest Witch of Our Age, but sometimes she misses what is directly in front of her. The way you look at her, Malfoy – Christ."
Draco flinched. "So, she didn't tell you anything?"
Potter sighed. "Nope. Something about a gala, something about Alfama. However, she did seem pretty quick to skip over the whole trip. That, alongside your presence in my office, tells me that maybe my best friend wasn't exactly forthcoming."
The Slytherin clenched his jaw. "Not exactly."
The other man took off his glasses and wiped them on his robes. After a moment, he put them back on and observed Draco.
"What happened, Malfoy? You wouldn't be here unless it was serious."
Draco took a deep breath, letting gaze wander around the office.
He would not be able to look Potter in the eye as he asked the following question.
"Why does she hate me so much?"
A deafening silence filled the room.
After a moment, Draco forced himself to look at Potter again.
The other man was observing him, pursing his lips, carefully considering his answer. Draco could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
He wondered if Potter could hear it, too.
"She doesn't hate you," Potter said slowly. "I'm not going to say she's your biggest fan, but she doesn't hate you."
"Feels like she does," Draco muttered. "She acts like she does."
Potter frowned. "From what she's told me about Vienna and Lisbon, it sounds like the two of you have been… getting on, for lack of a better term."
"That's the thing," Draco burst out, his frustration finally seeping through. "We are. Fuck. We'll be exploring the city, or dancing at a ball, and it feels… fine."
Potter snorted. "Fine? I'm sure that's the adjective you really want to use."
Draco nearly growled. "Perfect, Potter. It's bloody fucking perfect. You happy?"
"Not at all," Potter responded. "I'm deeply uncomfortable that we're doing this sober. At least last time we were drunk."
Draco flinched, the memory assaulting him briefly. Forcing it down, he returned his gaze to the other man.
"It's perfect, Potter," he muttered. "But you already knew that. It's everything that it could be… everything I imagined it could be. We can talk, and banter, and dance, and drink… and it's perfect."
The Chosen One rolled his eyes. "I doubt you came all the way here just to gab like we're at a sleepover. What actually happened?"
Draco sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "And then it's like something switches in her mind. Everything will be fine, and then I blink and she hates me again. She won't talk to me, no matter what I do… it's like she won't let herself admit she enjoys my company."
Potter was watching him with a muted gaze, and Draco couldn't help but continue.
"Vienna was… it was brilliant until the last day. And then suddenly she hated me. And then Lisbon was wonderful until I didn't know some bloody muggle history and suddenly, I'm the devil again."
Potter frowned. "What history?"
"Colonization," Draco muttered. "I had never heard about it until we saw some building and Granger called it colonial…"
"Ah," Potter remarked, frowning. "I bet that went splendidly."
"I just didn't know," Draco admitted. "And then she was yelling at me about how it was the same as the Death Eaters and I had no frame of reference for what she was talking about."
"Same as the Death Eaters?" Potter asked, raising an eyebrow. "Not… exactly. Like, sure, hatred manifests itself in different ways, but the rule of a tyrant is not synonymous with a system that dominated the earth for centuries."
Draco sighed, nodding. "Every time I feel like we're making progress, it always blows up in my face. Two steps forward, three steps back. It's like I can't say anything right."
"I mean, listen Malfoy," Potter said, leaning forward. "You've got to give her some time. She doesn't know what you did at the…"
"And she's not finding out, Potter," Draco interrupted, harshly. "Don't you dare tell her."
The Auror held up his hands in mock defense. "I told you I wouldn't, Malfoy. It's not my business."
"She's your best friend."
"And her own person," Potter continued. "Who has more than every right to be wary around you. If you care as much as you said you did…"
"Potter, don't."
He shrugged. "Then you need to give her time. You're working against years. You're working against yourself at age fourteen, who, must I remind you, was an utter fucking prat."
"That's the problem, though," Draco said. "She enjoys spending time with me, I know she does. And she lets her bloody brain get in the way of how she actually feels…"
"Well, we can't all be as stupid with our feelings as you are, Malfoy."
He nearly growled. "It's just whiplash. She acts like every time I'm kind to her, I have a plot or an ulterior motive."
"Malfoy," Potter said, a bit more force to his voice than before. "You need to give her the room to move forward. If you don't remember, she was tortured in your home."
"Of course, I fucking remember," he spat. "It haunts me every night."
Potter's eyes softened. "Then you know how it haunts her, too."
Draco froze for a moment, Hermione's screams echoing through his head as if she were standing right behind him.
He paused. "We slept together."
Potter blanched. "Sorry, you what?"
"No, not like that," Draco clarified, watching as blood returned to the Chosen One's face. "We slept. Fell asleep."
Potter's mouth popped open. "In the same bed?"
Draco tried desperately to push the memory of how it felt to have Hermione in his arms for the whole night. "She… I heard her screaming."
"In Lisbon?"
"In Vienna," Draco admitted quietly. "On the last night. She had forgotten to put up the wards. And I heard."
Potter looked surprised. "Did she tell you what her nightmares are?"
"How could I not know."
The look on Potter's face was bordering disbelief.
Draco sighed again. "And then, in Lisbon, she left the wards down."
"She left the wards down?"
"I asked her to," he admitted. "Figured I deserved to hear."
Potter scoffed. "You heard that and wonder why she is nervous around you?"
"It's the bloody whiplash, Potter," he muttered. "On the last night in Lisbon, after avoiding me all week, I caught her having a panic attack. And she… she lost it. I held her and let her cry into my shirt… and she asked me to stay. To hold her. She didn't want to be alone."
"And she asked for you?"
Draco nodded. "She wanted me."
Potter sighed. "You two are a mess."
"There isn't a two of us, Potter."
"Yes, there is," he said, appraising Draco. "It's messy, and complicated, but the two of you have a relationship of some sort. It's not what you want…"
"Potter."
"But it's there," he continued. "And it's obvious that she feels some sort of way about you, Merlin knows why. But if she trusted you enough to let you in in that moment, then hope isn't lost."
Draco leaned back in the chair, watching the Chosen One for a moment. "And what do you think of all this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Meaning you are her best friend," he said. "And you know. Everything. I just told you I held her through the night. Where's the righteous Potter anger? Where's the 'stay away from her' talk I got last time…"
"I've had almost a year to think about it," the Auror replied, shrugging. "And to grow up. And to watch you grow up. You're no longer the idiot just released from your trial…"
"Ouch."
"You're now the idiot who Hermione trusted enough to leave the wards down," Potter said. "I don't get it, I still don't like you, but it's Hermione's decision. And I already know what you would sacrifice for her…"
"Potter," he interrupted again, his tone full of warning.
"So, that's what I think," Potter shrugged. "I'm not going to give you her secrets, or the way to her heart, but I'm not going to kick you out either. It's her decision. And if you really want to take the time to prove to her that you are the man you have the potential to be, that's your prerogative."
Draco flinched.
Potter cocked his head. "Why don't you just tell her the truth?"
"I'm not opening a conversation with 'Hey Granger, I'm hopelessly in…"
Potter waved his hand dismissively. "Not that. I get why you don't do that. I mean, about what you did. For her."
"She wouldn't believe me."
"But if you're trying to prove to her that you're a changed man, then why don't you…"
"It's too big, alright, Potter," he muttered, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "It's too much. I… I don't want her to feel indebted to me. I want… I want to earn her."
"And you can only do that with time," Potter continued. "Time, frankly, that you are fortunate enough to have an abundance of right now. Don't waste it."
"I'm not going to waste it," Draco said. "That's the entire reason I'm here."
"There's a purpose to you being here? I thought it was just to remind me of the worst hangover I've ever had in my life."
Draco sighed, forcing his eyes up and leaning towards Potter. It was now or never.
"Potter, what do I need to know about Berlin?"
The Chosen One looked confused. "Uh… it's the capital of Germany?"
"I know," he grumbled. "No, Hermione. When… when we were talking about colonialism, she said that if I were having trouble understanding, Berlin would be difficult."
Understanding passed behind Potter's eyes.
"Oh."
"So, what it is?" Draco pressed on. "What do I need to know?"
Potter sighed. "Look, Malfoy. I have no desire to explain this to you…"
"Potter, please."
"But that doesn't mean you can't do it yourself," he said, reaching into a drawer at his desk and taking out a pad of paper and a quill. He scribbled something on it, before folding the page and handing it across the surface to Draco. "Start there. Put the work in. Won't mean anything to her if you don't."
Draco's heart was pounding in his chest as he slipped the piece of paper into his robes.
"Thank you, Potter."
The Auror stood up and walked around the desk, gesturing towards the door. Draco stood up and moved towards it.
As Potter unlocked it, the Chosen One turned back in his direction.
"I'm not doing this for you, Malfoy. You're tolerable now, but I still don't like you."
Draco frowned. "You don't need to…"
Potter shook his head, cutting him off. "No. I… I'm doing this because I owe you. We all do. And just because no one knows, doesn't make us less indebted."
Draco flinched as Potter's gaze grew intense.
"I never got the chance to thank you. Not with… with everything. You… you saved my best friend's life. So, thank you."
A lump had grown in Draco's throat. "I don't want to talk about that."
Potter shrugged. "I just had to say it once. Good luck with Berlin. Next time you want to talk about your feelings, schedule an appointment."
With that, Potter went back into his office and closed the door, leaving Draco alone in the corridor. Taking a deep breath, he reached back into his robes and took out the piece of paper. Opening it, he frowned down at the collection of words he had never seen before.
Primo Levi
If This Is A Man
July 1, 1999
Hermione was early for the portkey this time, the memory of sprinting through the Ministry on her way to Lisbon still fresh in her mind. Her and Scot made idle chitchat as she watched the clock tick closer to the hour. Five minutes beforehand, she heard the door open and her heart stopped.
"Morning all," Malfoy said, walking into the office. Hermione kept her eyes downcast, suddenly interested in her shoes.
They had not spoken all month. She had not even seen him since that fateful morning in Lisbon. When she had woken up with him, tangled in sheets and limbs, the afterglow of a dreamless night permeating the air.
She could not remember the last time she had woken up not feeling haunted. Some evenings her nightmares were more muted – colours and images, blending together into a feeling of breathless fear. Other nights they were visceral, and she felt as if she was still on that drawing room floor, a cursed blade piercing her skin – her muddy blood dripping on the floor.
But not that morning in Lisbon. She had had no dreams. Sweet nothingness.
No – that wasn't quite correct. Nothingness implies numbness, a lack of. A want for. But when she woke up in Draco Malfoy's arms, she could not find any unfulfilled desires.
She felt whole.
Complete.
At peace.
It disoriented her almost more than the nightmares.
Because at least the nightmares were familiar – to be expected.
Whatever territory she had waded into when it came to Malfoy was the exact opposite.
Nostalgia for something that had not happened yet.
Why had she asked him to stay? She had spent the entirety of the last month wondering. Having told no one about the particulars of the Lisbon trip, she had been forced to consider her decision in the privacy of her own mind.
At first, she had blamed it entirely on the alcohol. However, she knew in her heart that a few glasses of wine were not enough to break down that barrier.
Secondly, she had blamed it on her anxiety. She was human and needed help, comfort in that moment. It was normal, wasn't it?
But that excuse fell through as well. Because it also could not account for the reason she had chosen Malfoy to find comfort in.
Which left the final and only option – the one that made her the most uncomfortable, the one that was the most disconcerting.
Her relationship with Malfoy had changed.
And for reasons beyond her comprehension, beyond any explanation, she had trusted him.
Trusted him to hold her together when she couldn't do it herself.
But it was one thing to trust in the dead of night, with only demons and shadows surrounding them.
Because in the dark – Draco Malfoy was raw. He was stripped down to the bare bones of what a human being could be. Traumatized, distorted, flailing and lost and wracked with guilt.
Like she was.
Were they broken in the same was, she wondered?
Only in the shadows.
"Just on time, Malfoy," Scot said, his voice a bit more cheerful than previous months. Perhaps the good publicity the tour was bringing the department had warmed him to Malfoy.
A moment passed.
"Granger," he said, his voice low. But like magic, it compelled her to look up.
He was eyeing her with an expression that concerned her. It was too intense, too invested. The blankness of his Occlumency was long gone, shattered by their night together.
Now all she could see was a man drowning in a pool of emotion.
The only problem was what emotion it was.
She felt a trickle of recognition creep into her brain.
Intuition.
She shoved it down.
"Malfoy," she replied, aiming for neutral but somehow sounding breathless. Her voice hitched on his name, as if her vocal chords were sending her a message beneath her words.
She could not read it.
He smiled at her, a genuine smile. "Ready for Berlin?"
"Ready as I'll ever be," she answered, grateful for the opportunity to turn back to Scot. "Portkey?"
The Department Head put a glass on the desk. "A minute or so to go. Get in position."
She shuffled over to the object, sensing Malfoy as he came up beside her. Their arms brushed, and the very feeling of his skin on hers sent her into discomfort.
But why was it uncomfortable?
Because she knew she should not have relished the feeling as she did.
Their hotel was on Alexanderplatz, a square in the former East Berlin. Hermione looked out the window onto the plaza, watching Berliners march past socialist graffiti alongside new shops straight out of the west.
A fusion of complete opposites, existing not side by side, but in tandem.
Hermione pursed her lips as she considered where she stood. She remembered when the Wall had fallen – she had been nine years old. Sitting in the living room of her muggle home, watching the hugging and cheering Germans with her parents…
Her heart clenched.
Her lost parents.
A knock on the door broke her out of her reverie.
"Granger!" she heard his voice on the other side of the connecting door.
Her heart clenched again.
They had not spoken when they had landed at the German ministry. Nor on the way to the hotel. Not in the lobby, on the stairs, as they went to their separate rooms.
Separated only be a door.
Would she be wrong to admit she was tempted? To let him in again, to allow him to hold her throughout the night, to chase away her terrors.
The very idea was intoxicating.
Relief that she had not felt in years.
What had Malfoy said last month? Infatuation is the second most dangerous word in the English language.
Was intoxication the first?
Hermione forced herself to the door, unsure what she was going to do or say. What would he say? What would he do?
She was not the only agent in this.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She was accounting for him now, too.
Trying to force bravery she certainly did not possess; she reached forward and opened the door.
All at once he was too close. He stood directly in the doorframe, leaning against it with his hands in his pockets. The second the door opened, his eyes were on her, the kaleidoscope having returned.
Could consuming melted silver kill you? She wondered this as her mouth opened slightly.
Because this certainly felt like destruction.
"Granger," he repeated, his voice low again. It made her uncomfortable. No – that was not true. It made her uncomfortable how it did not make her uncomfortable.
Gods, when had she fallen over the abyss with him?
Everything had changed between them.
It had only taken two weeks.
What could he do with nine more?
"Granger," he said once again, cocking his head slightly. "Are you there?"
"Yes, sorry," she muttered, forcing her eyes down.
He is allowed to prove you wrong.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. "You've seemed off, since this morning."
She flinched.
Gods, was she that transparent?
"I'm fine," she lied through her teeth. "Just tired."
He rolled his eyes. "You'd have been a rubbish Slytherin, Granger. You can't lie worth a damn."
She felt frozen under his gaze.
He sighed. "Is this… is this about Lisbon?"
The second he said the word, any façade of neutrality she had concocted crumbled.
"I'm sorry, Malfoy," she whispered. "I just… we haven't talked since, and we ended on strange terms…"
"It wasn't that strange," he replied, frowning. "We shared a night of comfort."
She flinched again. "Gods, Malfoy. Don't make it sound so… lewd."
A smirk danced at the corner of her lips. She focused on it longer than she dared admit.
"A night of comfort and that's your first thought?" he chuckled. "My, my, Granger. Who are you in the dark?"
Broken.
She took a deep breath. "I wanted to apologize for that night… I was emotionally distraught, and it had been a difficult week. It was very… kind of you to stay, but I absolutely do not want it to affect our professional relationship."
He snorted. "Granger, we drink wine together at different parties. We do not have a professional relationship."
"But we do," she replied. "We are a partnership, thanks to the Wizengamot, and I let my… emotions get in the way of that. I apologize. It won't happen again."
Malfoy observed her for a moment, his smirk disappearing as his lips drew into a thin line. She swore she saw him pale.
Porcelain dusted in silver.
"Malfoy?" she whispered, after the silence had stretched too long. "Are you alright?"
"Always, Granger," he answered, curtly. She watched his eyes closely to see if he was Occluding again. But as the kaleidoscope spun, she did not see distanced distortion.
She saw pain.
Her stomach dropped.
"Did you mean it?" he murmured; his eyes downcast. "What you said that night?"
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
His eyes shot up to meet her with startling speed. "About letting me prove you otherwise. If I wanted."
Her breath hitched in her throat.
And she allowed herself to ask the question in the light.
Had she meant it? Permission whispered in the dark, wrapped in pain, served in a swirling glass of wine.
A desire for relief that only he seemed to offer.
She was reminded briefly of what Harry had said a few months before in London.
"And therefore, we must be drunk. Always be drunk, Hermione. That's all there is to it—it's the only way."
Baudelaire. Fitting with the Paris trip drawing ever closer.
Was that what this was? This indescribable feeling in her core when she looked at Draco Malfoy? That made her uncomfortable and safe and secure and lost at sea. And there were moments where she snapped back, forced herself to remember who he was.
The parts of him that seemed garish in the light.
But in the dark – in his arms, intoxicated by the feeling she got. Intoxicated by relief. But peace.
That's what this was – she felt drunk on Draco Malfoy.
And in her moments of sobriety, she was reminded of what he had done to her. How he had stood there and watched. How he had imprinted himself on her like a scar, carved in with a knife as if he had done it himself.
But when she was drunk – when they were in Alfama, when they danced, when he brought her to a bookstore because he thought she'd like it – intoxication. Pure and simple.
She was in danger.
She could recognize that.
But as she felt her rational brain slip – as she felt what she should think and what she should feel disappear into the abyss and all that remained was the truth.
How she felt in this moment.
He was like wine spiked with silver.
I can think of many things that should be illegal to taste.
She took a deep breath.
"I meant it. You can… prove me otherwise. If you'd like."
His eyes gleamed at the words.
"Then, Granger, I would like to start now."
"Start now?" she asked, confused. "With what?"
He smirked at her, and through the doorframe he reached his hand out.
"Hello," he murmured. "My name is Draco."
And she understood.
Like a woman transfixed, she raised her own and slipped her hand into his.
"My name's Hermione," she whispered.
"Hermione," he said, his lips caressing each syllable. "It's a pleasure."
"Likewise," she answered, feeling as if she was reaching through the Berlin Wall, into a place so close, yet beyond reach. Distant.
Accessible.
So close. Too close.
Who was he in that world?
"It's a pleasure, Draco."
The welcome gala that night was at the German Ministry – the Zaubereiministerium. Beneath a ceiling of charmed stars and fairy lights, Hermione sipped on a Pinot Noir, chatting idly with the Minister for Magic – Sven Engel.
The man was in his mid-sixties, with pepper grey hair and kind eyes. He had welcomed them earlier with open arms, thanking them for their visit as the applause broke out under the night sky.
Welcoming her and Mal – Draco to Berlin.
She let her eyes wander over to where Draco was dancing. He seemed so focused on his partner, a pretty blonde witch Hermione had not met yet. But she watched his lips quirk from a distance as he laughed at her jokes, the way his eyes danced over her face – taking in every idiosyncrasy, every sign she gave about who she was and what she thought.
Because unfortunately for her, Draco was an excellent reader.
Perhaps it was the Occlumency, the experience with hiding every part of himself behind carefully constructed barriers – impenetrable. He was so skilled at hiding himself that no one could ever compete.
As inaccessible as the other side of the Berlin Wall.
She wondered, briefly, if there was a way to sneak across.
Or if the barrier would fall on its own.
Hermione took another sip of wine.
In a way, she pitied this unsuspecting dance partner of Draco's. Because she understood with perfect clarity how it felt when he looked at you like that.
Like you were lost. Like you were found.
When it came to Draco Malfoy, Hermione felt both.
The song ended, and she watched him bow to his partner, kissing her hand softly in parting. She saw the woman simper under his silver gaze, and the pity in her chest was replaced with something stronger.
Fire.
But not the comforting flames of embers, of hearth and warmth.
This was fierce, clawing at the inside of her chest, trying to force its way out.
She frowned, trying to distinguish it as she took another sip of wine.
The red liquor burned different on its way down.
Draco sauntered over to her, picking up a glass of champagne on the way.
"You've been favouring wine more lately," he noted, reaching her and leaning against the pillar as she was doing.
Hermione frowned, gripping her glass tighter. "What do you mean?"
"In London and Vienna, you mostly drank champagne," Draco said, lifting his own glass. "But since Lisbon, you've been drinking red wine."
Hermione shrugged. "Champagne is for special occasions."
He smirked. "Is this not a special occasion?"
"Not when it's one week of the month," Hermione answered. "It's becoming familiar to me."
He snorted into his flute. "Gods, Hermione. What does it say about you that travelling across the continent is suddenly mundane?"
"It's not mundane," she frowned. "Just… routine now. Once a month, the two of us go to another city, explore the sites, dance at the galas, meet the officials, and then we go home."
She glanced over at him. He had paused with the flute just grazing his lips, the bubbles glittering in the starlight. His gaze was on her, the gold of the champagne and the silver of his eyes a startling contrast that somehow took her breath away.
The sight was art, as rare as the precious metals from which it got its inspiration.
And she wondered – where did he get his inspiration?
"I don't think there's anything routine about what we're doing, Hermione," he murmured.
"Not necessarily," she answered, entranced by his gaze. "I just… I'm not drinking as much champagne."
"Your tastes are refined," he noted, glancing at the wine with a sommelier's eye. "You like a more grounded wine. Is it the airiness of champagne that offends you?"
"Champagne doesn't offend me," she muttered. "It's just for special occasions. Not every day can be special."
"I disagree, Hermione," he replied. "Every day should be special."
"That's not true at all," she retorted. "If everything is special, nothing is. Life is a series of contrasting moments – and if they are all the same, they blur. There's no distinguishable difference. I want… I want my special days to feel special."
He glanced over at her again. "I understand your point. Contrast allows for appreciation for the finer things in life."
Gold champagne and silver eyes.
"But," he continued. "Perhaps every day is not as magical as the next, but you can find special moments in each. What's the point otherwise?"
"The point?" she asked drily. "Are you getting philosophical on me, Draco?"
"I'm no philosopher," he answered, his gaze intense once more. "Just a man who has had enough dark days to realize the importance of the small glimmers of light. Not every day needs to be a fairytale."
"I've never been a fan of fairytales," Hermione admitted.
"Why am I not surprised."
She frowned. "We are in Germany, though. Perhaps I should give them another chance. Perhaps they'll feel different here."
He chuckled, taking another sip of champagne.
"Perhaps you'll find your own fairytale here, Hermione. If only you let your rational mind have a break."
"As long as it's not a Grimm story."
"Grimm?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow, Draco."
They made their way back to the hotel rather late. The Germans seemed to think that the party did not actually begin until at least two in the morning, and therefore, it was not acceptable to leave until after that. Draco and Hermione had made it until two thirty, when Hermione, wine-drunk and exhausted, had finally called it quits.
They took a designated portkey back to the hotel. As they landed in the lobby, Hermione saw the receptionist chuckle in them, as she stumbled backwards into Draco's arms.
"Alright there, Hermione?" he murmured, his lips brushing her hair.
She stood up straight, swallowing. "Fine. Thanks, Draco."
He chuckled. "I'm impressed you can stand up straight, honestly. I thought we had lost you when you started debating the Head of the Department of Magischer Geschöpfe about Germany's regulations on dragon imports."
"They should know better. The loopholes in their policy easily…" hiccup, "allow for dragons to be smuggled illegally. It leads to dragon breeding…" hiccup, "and the entire operation is unethical. He should be grateful that I didn't lay into him more."
Draco wrapped his arm around her shoulders and began to lead her up the stairs to their rooms. "I know. I'm just pointing out that perhaps the best time to bring this up was not in the middle of the welcome gala."
"He's lucky I didn't shout louder."
"Men take what they can get when it comes to you," he muttered, as they reached their doors.
And suddenly – it was as if she were stone cold sober.
Because the two of them stood in front of two doors, both leading to their separate accommodations. And each time they had done this before, they had parted at this point – amicably or not – before retiring on their own.
However, now there was an awkward moment of uncertainty, of possible expectation. Because now there was the knowledge that they could easily pick one of their rooms, curl up in each other's arms.
Where she had found relief for what felt like the first time in years.
Draco cleared his throat. "Well… I… uh… I hope you sleep well, Hermione."
She stared back at him, unsure exactly what she wanted to say.
Earlier when they had discussed it, she had said that it was a one-off. Because she was emotional. Because she was upset. Because she felt destroyed, and he held her together.
But she was always emotional. She was always upset.
She was always destroyed.
The scars on herself that were not as obvious as a word carved into her skin lay buried, beneath the surface, where no one could access them.
But he had.
And he had stayed.
And here she was, with the same option right in front of her. Could anyone blame her for wanting that peace again?
Intoxicatingly close.
But intoxication was dangerous.
Silver-spiked wine.
And she could not indulge herself more.
"Goodnight, Draco," she whispered, reaching towards the door handle. "I'll see you in the morning."
He gave her a small smile as a shadow of disappointment crossed his face. "In the morning, then. Goodnight Hermione." Draco turned on his heel, and disappeared into his own room, not looking at her again.
She was left staring after him, her mouth slightly agape, considering the flash of emotion she had seen in his eyes.
Why would he be disappointed?
A thought crept into her mind, one that her unconscious self had been considering since their last night in Vienna. A thought that rattled her every time it popped into her brain – a more frequent occurrence as he gave her more reason to believe it.
Perhaps, Draco Malfoy was just as shattered as she was.
And perhaps, just as she had, he needed someone else to hold him through the nightmares.
Until daybreak.
And suddenly there were three of him, all fighting for dominance. The boy she had known, who had watched her be tortured. The man who held her through the night, who danced better than any partner she had ever had.
And the man who had hairline fractures on his soul.
Indistinguishable from the rest of him.
But that was the thing about marble statues depicting men. As smooth as his porcelain looked, when you took a step forward, you could always seek the cracks.
But it never seemed to distort the beauty.
Not until he was dust on the floor.
July 2, 1999
"Sleep alright, Hermione?" Draco asked her.
They were standing in the coffee shop down the street from the hotel. Hermione was staring morosely at the cup in her hand, a slight haze in her brain.
"Hmm?" she asked, looking up at him.
He chuckled. "You just seem a little off. Did you sleep alright?"
"Oh, fine," she muttered. "Just not enough."
It was a lie. A small lie that held so much weight.
Because no – she had not slept well. She had foolishly thought that the wine may allow her a reprieve, but it only added potency. Vividness.
Flavours swirling on her tongue until they were toxic.
Until they burned.
Draco appraised her for a moment, and she knew he did not believe her. They had slept in each other's proximity for too many days now – he could recognize when she was tired. When she was haunted.
He understood what haunted her.
"Fair enough," he responded, taking a sip of his coffee. He gestured to her cup. "Suck that back, we'll get you another one before we head out."
"Where are we going?" she asked, confused. "I thought we were getting coffee."
"We are getting coffee, Hermione," he said, as she flinched slightly at her name on his lips. It was so new, so different.
A staple of this new Draco.
Whoever he turned out to be.
"But the thing about Kaffee zumitnehmen," he drawled in a terrible accent. "Is that you can zumitnehmen it."
"Draco, I don't speak German. Neither do you."
He rolled his eyes. "We can take it with us. As we go. Explore. Berlin. Not a coffee shop."
"Do you have a plan for us, then?" she asked, following him to the door.
He shook his head. "Not at all. Sometimes you're allowed to make it up as you go along, Hermione. Or is that thought too scandalous for your rational brain?"
She scoffed. "I'm not always rational, Draco."
"At least if you're going to lie, make it believable."
"What?" she stuttered. "Is this about the sleep thing…"
He shook his head and muttered under his breath before looking up at her.
"Don't bother, Hermione. I pay attention when it comes to you."
Her breath caught as she followed him out of the shop.
They wandered through Berlin without so much as a direction. They were without bearings.
In a way, Hermione supposed, it seemed to be a fitting metaphor.
Because she was certainly without direction when it came to Draco Malfoy.
Like the kaleidoscope in his eyes, her view of him was rapidly shifting, spinning so quickly that there were moments that she could not recognize her own thoughts, let alone understand them.
He was trying – that much she could admit. Ever since Lisbon, no – Vienna. No, before that. Ever since the night that Kingsley announced the tour, he seemed different. Less like the boy she had thought she knew, and more like a man whose company she enjoyed.
He was proving her otherwise.
The question remained though: why?
Draco glanced around them. "What's the weird architecture about? Very… blocked."
Hermione was broken out of her reverie by his ludicrous examination of the buildings around them. But as she took a moment to observe them, she understood what he meant.
"We're deeper into the former East Berlin," she explained, glancing at the 50s style apartment buildings surrounding them. "It's… it's communist architecture. From the Soviets."
"The Soviet Union, you mean? From after the war?" Draco asked, taking a sip of coffee as he glanced at the buildings. But as the words left his lips, Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"The war?" she asked tentatively, not sure if they were talking about the same thing. "Which war?"
He glanced over at her. "The Second World War. Surely, you've heard of it."
Hermione flushed. "Of course, I have. My confusion is why you have."
It was so slight that she should have missed it. But as Draco paid attention to her, as he knew she had lied about sleeping well, she had begun paying attention to him.
And everyone had tells.
If there was one thing she was good at, it was reading.
Inference. A conclusion reached on the basis of evidence and reasoning.
And as his eyes darted away from her, as his Adam's Apple bopped, she had all the evidence she needed.
He was hiding something from her.
"Draco," she said, trying to get him to look at her again. "How do you know about World War II?"
"Must've heard about it somewhere," he answered, still looking forward.
Another lie.
Why lie about something so mundane?
Unless it wasn't.
"That's bullshit and you know it," she interjected. "When would you have learned about World War II? The only part of that whole time period that matters to wizards is Grindelwald…"
"Probably read about it then," he muttered, scratching at his chin. "Just… somewhere."
She stepped out in front of him on the sidewalk, blocking his path, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"If you think I'm a shite liar," she said. "Then you should see yourself."
He rolled his eyes. "Actually, Hermione. I am remarkably good at hiding my thoughts."
"So, you admit it," she continued. "You're hiding something."
He sighed. "Why does it matter, Hermione?"
"It matters because you're not telling me."
"You know, I don't tell you everything."
"Malfoy, what is this about…"
"Oh, so we're back to Malfoy, then? I don't tell you one little thing…"
"About why you recognized the biggest war in recent muggle history. That's huge."
"I told you, I read about it."
"Where? Why?"
"Granger, please drop it."
"I will certainly not drop it, if you choose to be childish…"
"You're the one blocking up an entire sidewalk because I won't tell you one thing!"
"And I'll relent easily if you just fess up…"
"Fuck!" he nearly shouted, as passerbys glanced over at the bickering Brits. "I'll tell you where I read it."
She couldn't help but smirk. "Finally."
He held up a finger. "On one condition."
Her smirk faded. "Which is?"
He took a step closer to her, overtaking the barrier of her personal space. His eyes bore into hers.
"You need to tell me something in return."
Her heart skipped a beat. "Absolutely not."
He shrugged, taking a step back. The distance felt visceral. "That's the deal. I get one question and you must give me an honest answer. Whenever I ask it. And if you agree, I'll tell you."
She opened her mouth to refute, to refuse.
But a funny feeling was scratching at her brain, a feeling that was not rational. That did not make sense.
This was intuition.
I'm not always rational, Draco.
She took a deep breath, and against her better judgement, she spoke.
"Alright."
The shock on his face was evident. "Really?"
She nodded, trying to ignore the dread sinking in her stomach. "One question. One honest answer."
His lips parted. "You're serious."
"I am."
"Whenever I want."
"Whenever."
"Whatever I want to ask."
"Within reason, Draco. Not too personal."
He snorted. "Don't worry, I have no desire to ask about yours and Weasley's sex life."
She flushed. "Ron and I never…"
Her mouth snapped shut. But it was too late.
His eyebrows scrunched together as he considered what she had revealed. His jawline clenched.
"Interesting."
"But that's not what this is about," she rushed out, trying to ignore her red cheeks. "This is about why you recognized the words Soviet Union and World War II. Sot, ell me the truth. How did you know it?"
He sighed, glancing over her shoulder.
"I told you. I read it in a book."
"Which book?" she pressed on.
His eyes flicked back to hers.
"I read about it in a Holocaust memoir, alright?" he admitted. "Primo Levi."
Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it certainly was not that.
Her mouth popped open.
"If This Is A Man?"
He nodded. "I… I read it earlier this month."
"You… you what?" she whispered, disbelieving of the words that she was hearing. They didn't make sense, none of this made sense.
He ran a hand through his hair – a nervous tick she recognized easily. Harry did the same thing. "I… I thought a lot about what you said, alright? About Lisbon and colonialism, and how I would have trouble in Berlin. I didn't know what you meant, so I researched it myself."
"You researched it yourself," she repeated. "You… you looked it up before the trip."
He nodded; jaw still clenched.
"But," she spluttered. "Why?"
"Gods, you're fucking oblivious," he muttered. "Because it's not your job to explain it to me. And I needed to know. I needed to understand."
And just like that – his statue crumbled into dust.
Not because this man was broken, though he certainly was. Not because his fractures had finally gotten to his core, destroying any chance at stability.
But because any image she had of him in her mind was gone.
None of the Dracos reigned supreme, fitting into her box of who this man was.
Because she had no idea.
No sweet fucking clue.
She did not know who Draco Malfoy was.
She stood, shell-shocked, staring into his imploring eyes. What was he imploring her to do? Understand his rational? To understand what he had done?
He had read a book. It seemed so simple. It was so complicated. There were too many layers to this, threads weaving together a tapestry of motivation, of identity, but she could not see the picture. All she could see was miscellaneous fabric, strewn across an artisan's table, the final image not imagined yet. Not created yet.
Who had created Draco Malfoy? What had created him?
Had he created himself?
He had read Primo Levi. He had read a book because he felt it wasn't her responsibility to explain it to him. He had put in the effort to learn, on his own time. To prepare himself for this trip. So that he would not be run aground in shallow waters of incomprehension, as he had been in Lisbon.
And that was the enigma of Draco Malfoy in a single word. Because she may not understand him – she knew she did not anymore, if she had ever.
But the question was not who. In a way it did not matter.
The question was why.
Because motivation was a factor in all decisions, in all parts of someone's identity. The who is irrelevant if you do not understand why.
They were not all molded in Hephaestus's workshop and sent into the world, unable to be imprinted upon. Without agency. They were actors in this.
And Draco Malfoy was making decisions. She could see it with her own eyes. And those decisions were molding together, sculpting marble into perfection. But why? Why lift the tool? Why choose the stone? Why mark this line or that curve?
Why. Why. Why.
And that was the one question she would not be able to answer.
No matter how desperately she wanted to.
"Hermione?" he sighed. "Are you… are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she answered, and this was not a lie. "I'm just confused. Why did you read it?"
"I already told you."
"But that doesn't make any sense…"
He scoffed. "It doesn't make sense because you've already decided who I am in your mind. And if it doesn't fit your image, it doesn't fit."
What had he said earlier?
I pay attention when it comes to you.
It seemed he certainly did.
She took a deep breath. "What did you think?"
"Of your inability to see me in any other light than darkness? It's bloody annoying."
"No." She shook her head. "Of the book."
"Oh," he said quietly. "I… I thought it was horrible."
"Primo Levi is one of the best writers of this century…"
"Fuck off, Hermione," he nearly snarled. "You know that's not what I meant. I mean… the camps. The war. The Holocaust. It was horrible. Every part of it. Disgusting and unimaginable and rancid. It took me two weeks to finish the book because I kept having to put it down to go throw up."
"But you finished it."
"Of course, I finished it," he continued. "And I understand why you didn't want to explain it to me, why it's not your job. And I… I was horrified, alright? By every part of it. By the content. By the fact that it was memoir, not fiction. By the fact that I hadn't known. The whole bloody continent? Six million people? That's not even it though. Six million Jews. Five million others. Not even including soldiers. Not even including the war. And I had never known."
Hermione felt her chest constrict. "And did you see any similarities to our war? Do you understand why I brought it up? Do you… do you understand?"
He bit his lip, considering his answer for an infinite moment.
"Yes."
She let out the breath she had been holding.
"And no."
"What?!"
"Let me explain," he rushed out, his voice bordering begging. "I do understand. Not in the way that I experienced hatred like that, not in the way that I felt it directed against me. I'll never understand it like that – just vile, senseless hatred. But I understand why you brought it up. How far it can go. How… hating people for parts of themselves they cannot control… or even in general… how it can lead to that. To that extreme. To the camps. To genocide. Over time. When left unchecked."
"But…"
"But," he said slowly, watching her face closely. "I don't think they're comparable."
"Draco, what on earth are you talking about? How can you say that?"
"People died in our war," Draco answered, his voice gaining force. "In the 70s. In the 80s. And in the three years that the Dark Lord was back. They died. They were murdered because of their heritage."
"Exactly…"
"But what happened to us was not this," he insisted. "And it wasn't colonialism either. It wasn't four hundred years of enslavement and genocide that still ripples across the world today."
"How… how do you…"
"Because I learned, Hermione," he whispered. "I… it was important. So, I learned."
"So, how can you say that they're not the same?"
"Because they're not!" he burst out, frustrated. "You can compare things and see similarities without viewing them as carbon copies. Evil like that… like in If This Is A Man, you could argue that's the conclusion to what Voldemort spouted. To blood supremacy. If he had won. But he didn't."
Hermione felt her stomach drop.
He continued. "I think it's a bit… inaccurate to view them as the same. It's your damn rational mind again, Hermione, trying to fit everything into neat little boxes that you can stack up and sort away. But… history is not like that. History does not repeat itself, but it rhymes."
"Mark Twain?"
"Squib," Draco responded. "But that's not the point. And now that we're in this city – Berlin – the centre of the war. The command centre for a genocide. And I see the rhymes. I can hear them. And I'm so fucking sorry that it could have repeated… but it didn't. It just didn't."
If Hermione felt disoriented before then she was standing in the middle of seismic waves now. Because she heard everything he was saying. And she should be disagreeing – who was Draco Malfoy to tell her about her experience with blood supremacy?
But as the thought entered her mind, it failed to make an impact.
Because he was right.
"You're.. I…" she whispered, the realization washing over her like tidal waves. "I didn't mean that they were exactly the same."
He sighed. "Yes, you did, in your anger, in your reasonable anger. And I'm glad you did, because I would never have read this book without it. I would never have understood this bloodstained city without you. Because for all our talk of fairytales last night, this city represents nightmares in their final form. And I… I should not have visited it without understanding that these cobblestones were bombed, and the city was split in half, as millions had their lives ripped away. I recognize bloodstained rubble, Hermione, but it's not ours. This was not our war to claim or our trauma. We have enough of our own."
And that, for the first time all day, felt like the absolute truth.
They wandered Berlin in silence for the rest of the afternoon. On occasion, Draco would ask left or right and she would reply with a direction.
But that was all.
However, despite the quiet in the air, there was no peace in her mind.
Every time they walked by a building that had bullet holes in the side – a permanent imprint – she felt ricocheted herself.
Because yes, they were walking on bloodstained rubble.
But she was also created of it.
Her mind was working on overdrive, trying to place pieces of a puzzle together that didn't fit. Had it fit before? Had she understood before?
Because the truth was destructive to her psyche – she had been wrong.
And it had taken Draco Malfoy shouting at her on a Berlin sidewalk to realize it.
Her rational mind. Her beloved mind. Brightest Witch of Their Age and all that. Compartmentalizing. Fitting things into boxes.
He was right. These events of history, some spanning decades, some centuries, they were not her experience. She could not claim her trauma.
But there was a link – wasn't there? Hatred, racist supremacy.
But like a tapestry, three threads could start at the same entry point, breaking from each other only to make opposite parts of the image.
Or a river. Water flows forward from the source, die Quelle, before it splits, leading in all different directions until one tributary pours into the Atlantic, one into the Pacific…
And the other through the centre of Berlin. The Spree, splitting the city in two.
Nature's version of the wall.
Starting in the same place meant something, did it not? That you could find the roots. But the tree dangling off the end of a branch was different from the seedling.
And it had taken Draco Malfoy for her to realize that.
They ended up going back to the hotel mid-afternoon after she could no longer take the bitter silence. She went into the room without saying a word, slamming the door behind her and sliding to the ground.
He had said he was not a philosopher.
Then why was she in Plato's cave, suddenly seeing the shadows for what they were?
And how could she get back to the light?
"Granger?" she heard him whisper through the door. "I… are you alright?"
That seemed to be his favourite question as of late.
They had stumbled through a dinner together with the cabinet members of the Zaubereiministerium. The more of these state dinners she sat through the less she enjoyed them. It felt repetitive at a certain point. She couldn't focus on the mundane policy chat and small talk.
Her brain was otherwise occupied.
She could not stop thinking about Berlin. About what it represented. All places have their history, but here – it felt different. Every moment, every cobblestone was layered with the past. And she could see it; imprinted in city blocks. Invisible threads tying each moment to what had come before.
And what would come after.
And as she watched those threads weave a city together, she saw the ones that tied into her. The ones she recognized. And the others that had nothing to do with her.
What she had thought she had known.
What she had understood.
It had crumbled down. Contradictions forcing it down like people breaking through the Berlin Wall.
And here she was – in the middle of two opposites. Unsure of what to do.
What would her Berlin look like after the wall?
Who would she find in the rubble?
"Hermione," he said again, breaking into her philosophic meanderings. She was sitting on her bed, staring at the door opposite.
"I'm fine, Draco," she answered, speaking loudly through the wall, willing him to hear her.
"No, you're not," he replied. "We're past that."
"I just need to be alone," she said. "I… today was a lot."
She heard him sigh.
"Alright," he said. "I… get a good night's sleep, then. If you… if you need me. I'm here."
And of all the walls that had crumbled for her today, that was the one that scared her the most.
Admitting that a part of her did need him.
She dreamt of war-torn rubble and blood-stained cobblestones.
Would she ricochet?
Would there be an imprint of her left?
July 5, 1999
The next few days in Berlin passed without incident. They woke up, interacted awkwardly, went to state dinners, then returned home. Every night, she closed the door between them.
Every night she wished that she hadn't.
If she didn't know better, she would have thought she were in a time loop.
The conversation with Malfoy was weighing on her heavily. But whenever she tried to broach the topic, her voice fell short.
She couldn't do it.
So, the awkwardness continued.
She woke a few days later to the sun streaming through the window. It was harsh – much brighter than it should've been. It must be mid-morning. She rolled over, confused.
Why hadn't he woken her? He… he always woke her up.
She stumbled out of the bed and over to the connecting door. Without considering the consequences, she pounded on the door.
"Draco!" she shouted. "Are you there?"
After a moment, the door clicked open and he appeared – fully dressed with his reading glasses on. He raised an eyebrow, his lips parting slightly as he observed her.
"What are you screaming about, Hermione?"
"You didn't wake me up," she said indignantly.
He looked confused, his gaze nowhere near her eyes. "No, I didn't. I thought you needed the sleep."
"What time is it?"
"Almost eleven."
"Eleven?" she nearly screeched. "You let me sleep in half the day."
He looked amused. "Eleven is hardly half the day."
"We have so much to see! To do!"
He frowned. "Are we speaking again then?"
She flinched. "What?"
He sighed. "Look, I know the past few days have been hard… and I'm sorry if I was harsh…"
Her decaffeinated brain took the lead, speaking before she allowed it to, finally saying the words that ego had been preventing.
Rationality took a back seat.
This was pure intuition.
"You weren't harsh. You were right."
And there it was.
The only thing she needed to say.
His mouth popped open. "I was right?"
She nodded, unsure what was prompting her burst of honesty. "I… I see things in black and white sometimes. And the comparison… it was inaccurate. It rhymes. It… you weren't too harsh."
His shocked expression morphed into jubilance. "Someone take a picture! Hermione Granger admitted I was right."
"Oh, stop," she said, chuckling and feeling better already. She swatted at his chest. "It won't happen again."
He caught her hand, pulling her closer to him. They were flush before she could react.
"Not if I can help it," he murmured, his eyes darkening.
She chuckled nervously, pulling back. "If it's already eleven, we should get going. We have a whole city to see."
"I am your obedient servant, Hermione. Put on some pants and we'll go."
Hermione froze, looking down in horror.
She was wearing a tank top and underwear.
And nothing else.
Slamming the door in his face, she screeched.
All she could hear was maniacal laughter from the other side.
They toured Berlin differently today – with intention. Hermione had a list, and Merlin dammit, she was going to hit all her spots.
This was intention.
They started at the Brandenburg Gate, where Draco took some more polaroid photos of her. She couldn't help but laugh as he cursed the muggle technology, not understanding how to replace the film.
They meandered through the Tiergarten, sipping coffees as Draco observed multiple times that there were no animals to be seen. In response, every time she saw a squirrel, she smacked him to point it out, resulting in a stained Oxford and a hastily cast whitening spell.
They had lunch on Hannah Arendt Street, as Hermione sipped a Radler, staring at the street sign, feeling grateful for the first time in her life that a tyrant and a totalitarian were not the same.
And finally, as the afternoon drew to a close, they ended up at the place where her invisible string had led her to. Where it had been pulling her all along.
The East Side Gallery. The remains of the Berlin Wall.
"So, this is where they split the city, then?" Draco asked, glancing at the artwork adorning the stone that had once separated two countries. "Seems that worked out well, then."
"It was up for thirty years," Hermione said, running her hand down the remaining wall sections.
"Not long, then."
"Longer than both our lives," she answered. "And what it symbolized was far greater. This was the Cold War. This was the separation between the West and the East."
"Gods, Hermione. I hope that when we do the Moscow week you say West and East as loud as possible."
She snorted, as she walked further down the wall to a break where a section had been torn down, leaving an access point. Carefully, as if she were walking around landmines, she placed one foot on either side of the barrier.
"I'm in both now," she muttered, staring at her feet. "Both sides of the wall."
"Now, that doesn't make sense, Granger. You have to pick a side. You have to make a choice."
She glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. "What if I like the in between?"
"You may like it there, but it's unsustainable."
She snorted. "What if I just get trapped here then? I'll live in between forever."
"Can't escape then," he muttered, slipping in next to her and leaning against the next wall segment, placing his feet on either side of the barrier as she had done. "Seems like as good a moment as any."
His tone shifted, ever so slightly. Enough for her to notice. Enough for her to be concerned.
Her eyes shot up. "Draco, what are you…"
"While we're in the in between," he continued, keeping his eyes trained on her. "While you haven't made a decision, I have a question for you that might just force the issue."
"The issue? What?"
"Hermione Granger," he said, as they stood on either side of the Berlin Wall. "I believe you owe me an answer."
A promise made.
Her heart dropped.
She swallowed. "I… yes."
"To any question."
"Yes."
"Then it's the moment for my question," he said, leaning forward infinitesimally. "And I expect honesty. Otherwise we'll be stuck in this wall forever."
"Draco, I don't…"
"Hermione," he repeated, his eyes blazing into her scared soul. She gulped.
The wall fell.
"Why do you hate me?"
The words were like bullets, knocking the wind out of her, sending her shattered parts flying against buildings – imprinted for half a century. As tangible as memory.
She gasped. "Draco, I…"
"Don't try to deny it," he repeated, his voice steady. He had been thinking about this. He… he had planned this. "I've spent weeks with you now. I watch you enjoy yourself with me – I know you do. And then you snap back, like a bloody rubber band. Not letting yourself be happy in my presence. Because you hate me."
"I don't hate you," she said, the words bursting forward from her lips. "It's… it's complicated."
"Then un-complicate it," he answered. "I'm not going to get angry. I… I just want the truth. I understand why you would be wary around me, but I… I don't understand why you don't let yourself just be when I know you want to."
"Berlin is a city filled with unsolvable questions," she retorted.
"So, solve one. Tell me the truth."
She nearly caved under his gaze. "Draco…"
"Hermione," he whispered, her name a plea on his lips. "Please."
She felt frozen in time – between present and past, between what she wanted and what she should have thought.
"Is it because of your scar?" he prompted, glancing down at her forearm.
"I have many scars, Draco."
"Stop stalling," he retorted. "You… we'll never be able to move forward if you don't tell me."
"Who says I want to move forward?"
His eyes were electric.
"Because I pay attention to you."
She faltered.
He pounced.
"It's the drawing room, then?" he asked. "Because I stood and watched?"
"Yes," she whispered, her voice lost in the hecticness of the Berlin streets. But he heard. "And no."
"And no?" he asked, his skin pale.
"It's not that you were there," she muttered. "It's… it's that you knew me."
"What… what do you mean?"
"I mean," she started, before taking a deep breath. She knew this was coming. She should have prepared better.
She should've.
She should've.
She should've.
"Your father," she continued, watching as he flinched. "Your aunt. The snatchers. To them, I was another mudblood. Sure, there was the Harry connection, but that's who I was to them. They didn't know me."
"Hermione," he started, frowning. "I… I don't know what you mean."
"Here's what I mean," she said, finally putting it into words. As if language could ever summarize this. "We grew up together. Sure, we hated each other. You were an arrogant ass. We fought. But you still knew me. You watched me change from an eleven-year-old to an adult. You were there. Always a few desks away, a table in the Great Hall down the line."
She took a deep breath. "You had seen me almost every day for seven years. At a distance, sure, with no sort of fondness. But you knew me. As I knew you. As I watched you turned from infuriating twerp to a child in an adult's war."
"You never think your neighbours will turn you over," she whispered. "Sure, they annoy you, you don't get on, but that's mundane nonsense. It doesn't matter. Schoolyard rivalries didn't matter. But it mattered enough for you to watch it happen. And I could never understand how you could watch me be tortured. You must have really hated me. Because no person could watch someone they know be carved into with a knife and look on with passive indifference."
"The others – they were following doctrine. Hateful, evil doctrine, but doctrine, nonetheless. I was just a pawn in their game – disposable. To you – I was a classmate. A peer. And you stood there and watched as if I was nothing."
"The others watched it happen because they didn't give a damn about me. But you… you did. Hatred is still an emotion, Draco. A feeling. And you hated me because you knew me. And that hatred transformed."
Her eyes glanced up at him from their downcast position. He was pale as snow, his eyes wide and haunted.
"Hatred is not the most dangerous of human emotions. Indifference is. And where you should have felt hatred, you let indifference win. That's why I… that's why, alright? Honest enough?"
She watched him swallow audibly, his Adam's Apple bobbing.
"Hermione," he whispered, his voice tortured. "I… I'm sorry."
"I know," she answered. "Gods, I know you are."
She stood up straight from the wall, stepping to one side. Turning back, she watched him flounder in no-man's land.
There was more than one reason to be trapped in the in between.
The rest of the day passed. After Draco had finally stood up from the wall, the walked in silence through the streets of Berlin back to the hotel. Before she knew it, they were at another damn dinner, before returning to the rooms for the evening.
Hermione sat in her bed, wearing Harry's old t-shirt, fighting with herself. She stared at the door, trying to work out the feelings in her chest.
Berlin was getting to her.
Every moment in this city provoked questions that had no possible answers, she had learned this. It was never merely a walk down the street; it was an engagement with the past, the present and the void in between that demands of each of us: what was here? What will be? What could have been?
And here she was, face-to-face with what could be, unsure if she should take the leap.
He is allowed to prove you wrong.
Lisbon was haunting her. Berlin was pushing her forward. The past and the future, at odds at the detriment of the present.
And before she knew it, she was standing at the door between their connecting suites, praying that this wasn't a mistake.
But it wasn't. She knew that.
Because she needed him.
She knocked.
He answered.
"Hermione?" he asked, yawning into his hand. In green pajama pants and a black T-shirt, he looked like he had rolled out of bed. His hair was ruffled.
"Draco," she responded, staring at him. "I… I'm sorry to bother you."
"No bother," he replied, leaning on the doorframe. "What can I help you with?"
She took a deep breath. "I… this week has been a lot."
"An understatement."
What was she doing here?
Trusting her intuition.
"And I've been thinking a lot about everything," she muttered. "About black and white and about indifference and hatred. About you, and me, and the tour, and I've finally come to a conclusion."
"Which is?" he asked after her moment, his voice much lower than before.
She stepped out of no man's land.
She chose a side of the wall.
"I've decided that I don't hate you," she said softly. She watched him swallow. "I don't. I… I don't know who you are, Draco Malfoy. Sometimes I think I do, and the colours blur and then I'm not sure anymore. But I don't hate you. I… I'm not sure if I forgive you…"
"You don't need to," he whispered.
"But I want to move forward," she continued, ignoring how her heart pinched at his confession. "I… I like you, Draco Malfoy. Whoever you are."
Whoever they both were.
He watched her for a moment before a small smile appeared on his face.
"I like you too, Hermione Granger."
"And more than that," she murmured, barely hearing his voice hitch on her name, as she took a small step forward. "I need you."
"You… you need me?"
"At night," she clarified as he paled. "I… the last night in Lisbon was the best I've slept in years. And for reasons I don't know, you calm me, and I know it makes no sense, and we shouldn't…"
"Why?" he prompted. "Why not?"
She was startled. "Because it's us."
"Means nothing, Hermione," he responded, gaining speed. "You just said you don't know who I am. So, this whole 'us' business is moot, is it not?"
She nodded. He was right again. "It is."
"What then?" he said, a smirk appearing on his face. "If you wanted to get into my bed, Hermione, all you had to do was ask."
"This is me asking," she said, meeting his eyes once again. "Not because I'm having a panic attack or emotionally distraught, but because I want to. Gods, I want to."
What was the opposite of Occlumency? Because whatever it was had taken over Draco's expression. Pure emotion, raw and feral, appeared on his face.
It made her nervous.
It made her happy.
It made her feel safe.
He reached out his arms, and she fell into them – safe harbour. Guiding her to bed, he pulled the covers over their body as she curled into them. As she drifted into sleep, she heard him whisper.
Is this otherwise?
And it was, in a way.
She slept peacefully that night.
And the next night.
And their final night in Berlin.
Because it was no longer this trip that was the escape – the fairytale that allowed her reprieve. The wine and the parties and the ballgowns. The adventures and locations, traipsing across the continent.
It was him.
No fanfare. No spotlight. No expectations.
Just him and her, holding each other through the night, chasing the demons away.
When they returned from Berlin and her friends asked her how it was, the only thing she could do was lie. Because the truth was unimaginable.
But it was also unescapable now.
She did not feel hatred towards Draco Malfoy.
Nor did she feel indifference.
What did she feel? Complicated in one way. Simple in the other.
She felt brutally and supremely fucked.
Thank you for reading! Leave a review, let me know what you think :)
The next chapter - Athens - will be out August 19th.