Hermione didn't want to be seen with him. At least, not in public, where Blaise Zabini could hover over them, toying with them like some cat and a ball of yarn. She did not want to unravel because of him, so she dishes headfirst into her schoolwork, into her research, for over three weeks. Until the Ball was brought up for the first time by Headmistress McGonagall. The Wizarding Winter Charity Ball, to raise money and remember the horrors of May. And who was the first to volunteer?
Hermione, of course.
Draco helped when and were he could, but ultimately this was Hermione's project, her mission. The Galleons and Knuts and Sickles they raised for this would go to multiple charities, from reuniting loved ones separated by Voldemort and his Death Eaters in raids to housing repairs, counseling and bursaries and money for both upcoming and beloved businesses. This was for the people she had been unable to save, the people who's memory she tried to honour. But it was also for herself, forget friends and everyone who had survived Voldemort, the people who had scars still healing. This was for all of them.
And it was an opportunity to get dressed up and get free drinks, which Hermione didn't disagree with.
It was two weeks before the Charity Ball, and slumped at the lunch table, doing tomorrow's homework between bites of her sandwich. She felt eyes on the back of her neck and resisted turning around. Ginny and Luna sat beside her, theorizing on the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch match the day after tomorrow. They'd spent most of the past six weeks together, and Hermione knew that Draco had asked them to keep an eye on her when he could not, to make sure that she didn't push herself, didn't go to far. If it was anyone else, she would have deemed such behaviour controlling and belittling, but Hermione had seen it in his gaze first-hand, the worry and concern and panic when she went off the deep end, got so invested in something she couldn't tell up from down. Because he cared. He cared about her, like no one else in her life did. So she let her friends fuss and help her with her planning, which all went in her new binder. On one of the rare evenings they'd spent together by the Reflecting Pool, Draco had laughed so much he'd started to cough at the sight of her Charity Ball Binder, which he oh so kindly referred to as 'The Battle Plan Binder.' She couldn't help the fact that she liked to be organized! And the pastel highlighters and sticky notes looked so pretty. Hermione Granger was not above admiring an aesthetically pleasing binder.
Hermione chanced a glance at the Slytherin table. Draco sat with Theo, chatting animatedly about something, waving the green apple in his hand as he gesticulated. The two had grown closer in the last few weeks, something Hermione noted with an equal amount of pride and awe, since even she had had her doubts that the two would completely reconcile. It seemed they'd at last found common ground, and Hermione suspected Narcissa Malfoy was somehow involved, since she knew Theo cared about the lady greatly. The woman had also been monumental in helping Hermione plan, from fabric swatches to table centerpieces and seating arrangements that will not cause any international incidents. She'd also helped reassure the struggling witch that what she and Draco were doing was for the best until all matters with Blaise were resolved.
Indeed, the wizard in question held court at the end of the Slytherin table, Daphne, Astoria and Pansy hanging on to practically every word that dripped from his mouth. Stupid girls, fawning over boys in such a manner! School was a place to learn, not dribble all over some boys robes just because he had money and a title.
"Your staring," Ginny noted.
"I'm not staring, Ginny," Hermione said tartly, stabbing her lemon bar with an unnecessary amount of force."
"You are," Luna chimed in. "You've got that murderous gleam in your eye that you have when you see something you disapprove of."
"Those girls are practically in Zabini's lap," Hermione huffed.
"And?" Ginny raised a brow, as if to say, Why are you getting so worked up about something so stupid?
"And it's completely inappropriate! The Great Hall is for eating and socializing, not some nightclub for meddlesome Slytherins."
"Ah, so that's what's bothering you," exclaimed Luna, as if she'd just uncovered a particularly fascinating secret of the universe at large. "You're annoyed because you can't spend time with Draco due to Blaise's threatening behaviour."
"It's not like he's cooled off, either," Ginny said. "Last week he stole all our notes for the Ball and hexed your binder. Good thing you made copies of everything. Then there was the Repelling charm on your cauldron, Draco's shirt being turned bright pink, and that Sticking Spell on your shoes the week before that."
"But why?" Hermione wondered. "Why all these little psychological mind games? If he wants to hurt me or whatever, why doesn't he just come out and get it over with already."
"To undermine you, of course," Luna uttered, brilliant Ravenclaw mind at work. "So that you will see his efforts as jokes, futile, so you'll let your guard down. So that he can strike when you least suspect it. Anyway, it's what I would do " Luna dug into her pudding.
"Remind me to never get on her bad side," said Ginny, making amusing shapes with the crusts from Hermione's plate.
"I don't think either of us need reminders of that."
Draco lounged at the end of the Slytherin table with Theo, feeling like he'd been exiled to another country rather than the end of their House table. He tried not to notice Hermione, how tired she looked, her schoolbag bear bursting at all hours of the day. But she was doing okay, could perfectly handle herself and didn't need him worrying over her; the girl had ridden a dragon for Merlin's sake, she could handle planning the biggest charity event since probably the death of Gellert Grindelwald or something. However, she was his best friend, so of course he was still concerned.
"You're marinating in your feelings again," Theo smirked.
"You make me sound like a sandwich."
"A mopey Draco sandwich, extra brooding and crispy platinum locks in frustrated disarray for garnish," retorted Theo.
"Are you actually aware of the words that just came out of your mouth? Or does your brain simply not think these things through, Theo?" Draco pondered aloud.
Theo put up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Don't bite my head off for speaking the truth, mate. I have to say, the pining look oddly suits you."
"I'm not pining," Draco snapped.
"No? Pining doesn't have to be about romance, just so you're aware. You can pine for a friend." Theo put a hand to his forehead. "Dear Draco, go line for your brainy friend. Grow, and become the biggest pine tree known to man!"
"Are you actually okay? Sure that the stress isn't getting to that brain of yours?"
"Stress never gets to my brain. It simply sails in, realizes there isn't any room, then hastily vacates before it gets traumatized by my dark thoughts."
Draco frowned. "That's not funny, Theodore."
"No, but it's true. Since when are you stressed about exams?"
"Since forever."
"I thought the bookworm was the nerd in your relationship, not you."
"Friendship, Theo. Friendship, not relationship," Draco reinforced.
"Are you so sure about that anymore, Draco?"
It was halfway through December, and although it had yet to snow, the wind was a bitter and brutal thing, as cold and penetrating as a blade as Hermione stood on the path that led to the doors of Hogwarts, taking measurements for decorations. She could have easily just used magic, but in recent weeks, thinking about her parents, she'd realized how dependent she had become on it, and it never hurt to have a change of scenery. Standing in the darkening night, hands fisted in the pockets of her coat, Hermione gazed at the Christmas trees Hagrid had dragged in the previous week, how she'd helped him with some of the decorations. Last year, her Christmas had been spent with Harry in a graveyard, feeling the threat of Voldemort draw around them like a tightening fog. Although he was now dead, she still felt like his presence lingered, the taint of him so deeply rooted in everything, from the scars still left in the castle, the grief she still saw in people's eyes. In her own.
And was a Ball really the best way to celebrate their victory, while honouring those who had fallen? Was a night of drinking and dancing and smooching up to influential people to donate to good causes that they should what to help anyway really the best way forward. Then again, there wasn't much else that could be done. You could not sit every witch and wizard on the entire planet down in one room to hash out treaties and charities and acts and institutions to better the world, could you? Since planning this Charity Ball, Hermione had really started to consider her place in the world. Yes, she'd given a few interviews, yes, she'd spoken at trials and was a spearhead of the Inter-House Committee, but she still felt like she should be doing more, making more of a beneficial impact. A fervent believer in equal rights, she could go work for the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, maybe work her way up to Minister one day, if she so desired. But what good was sitting behind a desk all day, filling in paperwork? She wanted to be among people, be a part of something. Hermione just didn't know what.
At least after this, she could always go into the party-planning industry.
Moments past, and Hermione found her feet carrying her, unbidden, to the Reflection Pool. While she still visited the space, she found lately she preffered the Room of Requirement, which was more cheery and bright with a crackling fire and a good comfy armchair. This was a room of stillness, like a held breath cupped in an unsteady palm, an oasis in the middle of a typhoon. Sometimes vital, to untangle an ensnared web of thoughts, but quiet could also creep up on a person, slither in through the cracks and hurt as much as heal. But she was not surprised when the door opened for her, Draco smiling tiredly at her.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," he told her, holding the door as she stepped in, blowing on her hands.
"Draco, it's freezing," she admonished, casting multiple heating and warming charms as she draped her coat on the nearby pile of cushions.
"I hadn't noticed." He had his arms crossed over his chest, and to anyone else may have looked fine, but his posture was too rigid, jaw clenched too tight, like he was trying to internally subdue something that was desperate to come out. He looked like her, her on her bad days, where she just went through the motions and prayed nobody noticed anything amiss, the days where she couldn't walk into the Great Hall or the courtyard or walk past the Astronomy Tower. The days where the memories haunted her, the good as much as the bad, for good memories carry their own cruelty, especially when you believe you will never have that kind of peace again.
So Hermione just sat, waiting, feeling him out, letting him come to her. If she'd learnt anything from the degradation of her relationship with Ron, it was not to push someone to tell her how they were feeling.
Draco lost the battle, for he sat down next to her, knees touching, and stared at the stone floor. "I received a letter from my mother today. About my plans for Christmas."
"I see."
"You're probably the only one who does. I want to go, I want to spend Christmas as a family, but I know that..."
"That your father will want to speak with you," Hermione finished, so that he didn't have to.
"Exactly. Does it make me a coward if I don't want to talk to him?"
"Do you want my opinion, or what I think you will do?"
"I want your opinion."
Hermione cocked her head, contemplating. Although she couldn't see it, Draco smiled, just slightly, at seeing the familiar gesture, the look that was so purely her.
"Family is always difficult, for love and hate can walk so easily hand in hand. I think you need closure, at some point, whether it's in two weeks or two years, in my opinion I think there will come a day where you want to talk to him. But no matter how long it takes, it won't be easy, not in the slightest. Since I can't relate, I can only hope to speculate, but I think if you are going to talk to him, you must be honest with him, mad honest with yourself, about how you feel, about what he's done to you and your mother, the hell you suffered at his expense."
"Does he win if I don't?" It was barely a breath against her ear, but Hermione still felt the vulnerability in it, how it hurt his pride to even ask it aloud, even to her.
"Only you can decide that, Draco. You owe your father nothing, but you owe it to yourself to be happy."
He didn't reply, just laid his head against her shoulder. Hermione brushed his hair away from her mouth but didn't say anything. "Where did you get all these wise pearls of wisdom? It's like you have them on hand in your brain, like napkins, ready to be dispensed."
An image of a PEZ dispenser came to mind. Hermione chuckled. "I think it's just because I'm an observant person. I've had to mediate more than one argument amongst my circle of friends, but it's also just from experience. And I read a lot, and if I'm unsure how to handle a situation, I think of what one of my favorite characters would say or do, then adapt and apply to the current predicament. But more importantly, I know how your brain works, your train of thoughts, since it is not dissimilar to my own, and that helps me know what to say."
"You are a wonder," he told her.
"Only on Tuesdays," she deflected.
"No, every day. You've turned me into a completely emotional sap, but I am grateful for it, because I now realize that it's okay to feel things, and express those feelings, rather than try to hide and compress them and hope they dissipate at some point. For so long, I never thought I'd smile again. Then you had the absolute audacity to sit down next to me and say, "I'm going to sit and have lunch with you, if you don't want to, that's perfectly fine, but since we are going to be working ten feet away from each other for the considerable future, we may as well be civil. And I have apples,'" he imitated in a high-pitched voice.
Hermione cackled. "I do not sound like that!"
"No, only on Thursdays."
"Fine, I left myself open for that one. You could never resist an apple."
"I could never resist you. And my mother wouldn't stop going on about you, how nice you were, how smart and gifted, and I wanted us to get along, if only for he sake."
"Who'd have thought we'd end up here? Sitting in the dark, the best of friends?"
"Yeah, who'd have thought it."
Why couldn't she have been born with manageable hair? Sitting on her bed, toothbrush in her mouth, hairbrush working through the tricky nots, Hermione was practically dead on her feet after sitting with Draco for so long when an owl began to peck at the window. Narcissa's owl. And it did not have a letter.
More than a little curious, Hermione got up and opened the window, tossing her hairbrush onto the bed. The owl swooped in, feathers rustling, and nuzzled her on the cheek. The two sent frequent enough correspondence, and that had only increased as the Charity Ball drew near, that the owl now had a great fondness for her. And the owl treats she left on the windowsill.
Laying the parcel on the bed, she undid the wrapping to find a large silver box, tied with a deep green satin ribbon. Narcissa had enclosed a note.
For my dearest Hermione,
I hope preparations are going well. I know that you do not have a dress, and since you will most likely be too busty to shop, I thought this may be of interest to you. Please let me know if it is to your liking; it hasn't been used for many years and deserves to be worn by a worthy witch.
With love, Narcissa.
Of course, it was a dress. Not just a dress, but a magnificent ball gown, so unlike the common robes worn to functions by witches and wizards. Bedecked in thousands of tiny glass beads that formed beautiful butterfly traceries, they caught the candlelight and glowed, a rainbow of colours. The gown itself was of palest cream with delicate golden floral embroidery. The sleeves were off the shoulder, and it didn't have a million ruffles, wasn't gaudy or showy. It was understated yet elegant, and it was perfect. Narcissa had even added a pair of matching gloves and a beautiful glass butterfly necklace. Hermione couldn't help herself.
Hugging the dress to herself, jumping up and down like a fool, feeling like a princess, Hermione squealed.
Author's Note: To the Ball! But first, a few obstacles...
With love, Temperance Cain.