Kiss

8th of December, 2006. Somewhere in the Dolomites.

When Malfoy entered the kitchen the next day mumbling his usual gruff and flat "Morning," Hermione was pulled out of her thoughts rather abruptly, causing her to jump on the chair and her tea to spill all over the table.

"Merlin, Granger, it's just me," he commented emotionlessly as he went to fill the kettle to make his own tea. Hermione found herself thanking every single existing and non-existing deity for the fact that, currently, it was their backs facing one another and not their faces, because she'd have absolutely no idea how to explain the violent shade of red that instantly claimed her cheeks.

She was reaching for a cloth when the spilled liquid vanished under her eyes. "Seriously," she exclaimed as her embarrassment transformed into sudden irritation and she turned to face him, "you have to tell me when and why you became such an expert in domestic charms."

Malfoy was leaning against the kitchen counter, hair still dripping from the morning shower. His body was wrapped in a blue bathrobe that—tragically—left little to no room for imagination, especially because of the way the heavy fabric was moving as he scratched the back of his head with his wand while eyeing the kettle on the stove. The moment she realised she was staring a bit too intently at the way his bicep was flexing under the long sleeve, it took Hermione a fair share of willpower to turn back to her breakfast.

"You haven't seen me in a bit, now, Granger."

"And I have never complained," she retorted while gathering her mug and placing it in the sink.

"Speaking of house magic," Malfoy said as he followed Hermione's movements in the kitchen with his eyes, "did you apparate in the bathroom last night or was that crack something coming from my imagination?"

Hermione was pretty sure her face was dangerously steering towards the purple area of the colour spectrum. Deny! screamed her brain, but could she trust Malfoy to believe it was just his mind going crazy? Improvise.

"I did. Ladies' emergency." She pointed to her stomach to make the matter more clear. "Don't really want to share details with you."

She missed his smirk as he watched her walk out of the kitchen and straight into her bedroom.

"And I have never complained," she retorted while gathering her mug and placing it in the sink. She missed his smirk as he watched her walk out of the kitchen and straight into her bedroom.

What Hermione had decided she was not going to do was thinking, even for the smallest part of a second, about what had happened the previous night. It happened. It was done. There was no reason for her to hyper-fixate on it and try to find a logical explanation, because there simply wasn't one. Malfoy's hand had flashed across her mind and that was it. Besides, let's be honest: Malfoy did have really nice hands, like, objectively. So, really, was she to blame? Physically—and strictly physically— speaking, there was no need to make such a fuss. It wasn't like who he was as a person had a role in making her come; it was just a hand. No big deal.

She'd masturbated to a thousand hands in her life, after all. Well, maybe not exactly a thousand but, you know… quite a few. There was no point in denying that, it was the truth. Lots of people had made an appearance in her late-night fantasies and her friendship with said hands-owners had not crumbled to pieces yet, so there was no reason to believe the Malfoy situation would be any different. There wasn't even a relationship of sorts between them. And it wasn't like he was ever going to find out either.

That would be a funny conversation: "I thought about you in order to fall asleep." Mhm, not quite. "I thought about your hands while mine was between my legs." Better. She could already hear his sneering answer ringing loud and clear in her head: "Should I take it as a compliment?" Would he be appalled? Presumably. He was probably mature enough not to be scandalised at the very act of Hermione pleasing herself, though, which was a point in his favor. After all, despite all that was going on between them—generically speaking—people would talk back in school, voices used to go around, and there was a certain reputation following Malfoy that Hermione couldn't ignore even if she'd wanted to. Not that she'd ever spared it more than a reluctant, fleeting thought; and she wasn't developing a sudden interest in it now, either. Malfoy's relationship with sex could stay blissfully out of her mind, thank you very much.

Hermione wrapped herself in a clean jumper and sat cross-legged on the chair at the desk, bringing her laptop as close to her as possible. It'd been eight days now. She absolutely had to write something, if only just to distract herself from the impending sense of doom she felt around the corner of her mind.

She clicked on the draft document and searched her handwritten notes to get into the right headspace. A deep breath and the decision not to resort to white wine at barely half past ten in the morning later, and her fingers were click-clacking on the keyboard.

Dead. Monica Temple was dead and the last memory Richard had with her was of a fight.

The ringing in his ears as he helplessly stared at pictures of her on TV was so loud that he didn't even hear a single word Jamie was telling him. He faintly realised the other man was trying to shake him back into reality, but the whole world felt dizzy, fuzzy, blurry, just a second away from disappearing for good.

Why had Malfoy's hand appeared so clearly in her mind, though?

Thinking rationally about all the previous instances that something similar happened in her life, if Hermione had to form a pattern she would say that, generally, the common denominator was the personal relationship she had with whosoever-turn-it-was. There had obviously been Viktor: her first kiss, her first peek into physical intimacy. She'd never found anything particularly weird about that, and besides, the boy did have a Quidditch-physique. Then, once or twice (even though she would never admit it, not even in a billion years, not even under the effect of Veritaserum), the twins. Ron, clearly, pointless to deny it—especially after she'd caught him one too many times leaving the Prefects' bathroom. The secret she was going to bring to her grave was Harry—but that was proof of the fact that the world was not going to stop moving around the Sun just because once, at fifteen, she'd closed her eyes and thought, Hm. Harry Potter. And then Marcus, her parents' neighbours' son, even though that was slightly different from the others.

Point was, she'd never looked at a complete stranger's hands and then pictured them against her closed eyelids at night. It was true that—still technically speaking—Malfoy wasn't a simple stranger, but it was also very well true that he was nothing like Viktor, or the twins, or Ron, or Harry, or even bloody Marcus.

Hermione groaned and let her head fall back onto the chair's backrest, hopelessly eyeing the blinking cursor on the white screen as she tried to gather all of her strength into stopping her focus from staying obsessively on Malfoy and shifting more productively towards her novel instead.

Sighing resignedly, she decided it was useless to keep trying to write the opening scene and clicked on a new blank page, where she began to write without giving herself time to decide what, exactly, she was about to put out in black on white.

Parties had always stressed her out. There was something about the large number of people gathering all together that set her senses on high alert, and Monica was yet to find the precise number of champagne glasses she had to down in order to finally feel at ease.

It wasn't like that for William. He always seemed to thrive at parties, suddenly turning into the centre of attention, ready to dispense jokes to whomever might look in need of one. And yet, when Monica finally managed to have his head turn towards her, the tiredness in the circles under his eyes was unmistakable.

"Oh, dear. Is Hannah drowning you out?"…

Lunchtime came and went without Hermione moving as much as an eyebrow. Hours later, when the rumblings of her stomach became impossible to ignore, she typed a full stop and looked at her now very beautiful, very pretty, very stimulating and very exciting word count. She didn't have a whole book in her hands yet, but she had half a chapter, which wasn't nothing.

After stretching her arms and massaging her sore stomach, Hermione grabbed her phone to text Ginny the good news. The picture of an ultrasound welcomed her in the chat: written in Harry's intelligible handwriting, there was a speech bubble next to the forming head, saying, "Hiya! I'm James & you're my godmum!". Hermione chuckled, oddly feeling her tear ducts clog up; maybe her period was getting close.

She emerged from her self-imposed isolation to head for the fridge, hoping to throw together a resemblance of a sandwich.

In the living room, unbothered, was Malfoy, still watching TV.

Hermione hesitated a bit on the threshold, taking off the blue-light glasses to rub her eyes, unsure whether to announce her presence or just ignore him. She opted for the latter when she saw he didn't break his focus and walked decidedly into the kitchen. Her head was already trying to whisper treacherous things to her, doing its best to steer her thinking toward Malfoy. He was right there; Hermione could turn, stare at him blankly and come up with a thousand different scenarios about non-existing turns and twists of their unavoidable relationship that would all equally end up pissing her off. It was truly magical how much of an overthinker she was.

She distracted herself by concentrating on the kitchen noises. The rusting of the bread-bag. The toaster lighting up and sizzling. The sticky and mushy sound of ham slices being peeled from one another. The knife cutting the cheese. Leaning against the table, she took a bite. Right into her line of sight was a clock (almost four in the afternoon) and the TV in the living room. A show was on, something with a fake laugh track in the background. Malfoy was snorting every now and then, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"What are you watching?" Before she could finish the question, she was already regretting asking it. Alas, it was out there now, she'd lost control over it, and it was stupid for her heart to be racing like that—she was not going to have the beginning of a panic attack because of Draco bloody Malfoy.

He barely turned his head towards her, eyes still on the screen. "Friends, it's an American show. Do you know it?"

"Heard about it." Maybe this endless interest in Muggle comedies should be suspicious. Where did it come from? How long has it been going on? Was it realistic that in none of those films someone had to use a power generator?

"How is it?"

"Pretty funny, actually." He turned completely. "Is that enough to cover a skipped lunch?" His chin pointed at the sad excuse of a sandwich in her hands.

Hermione shrugged, munching on. "I was working."

Malfoy hummed, still looking at her. "Since when do you wear glasses?"

"Oh, these," Hermione mumbled while swallowing a bite, "these are for the laptop screen. I spend way too much time staring at it." Harry had thrown a ridiculous tantrum when she told him she was going to spend money on glasses even though her eyesight was perfect. Everyone had looked at him as though he'd gone mental: who would have guessed that his breaking point wasn't coming from Voldemort, or Umbridge, or even the rat he refused to dignify with a name, but from his best friend buying blue-light glasses.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. Hermione felt the need to tear her gaze away, but found she couldn't. Her body had momentarily stopped responding to her commands. He turned back around, not before giving his opinion.

"Nice frame. It suits you."

She blinked at the back of his head, once, twice; then frowned. Maybe this was just a twisted dream.

"That's called a nightmare, and you should stop thinking out loud," he called from the sofa.

"Godric help me," Hermione muttered as she finished her sandwich, her cheeks blushing furiously, and wiped her hands clean from the crumbs.

When she was five steps away from her bedroom door, Malfoy's voice rose again over the television. "What are you working on, anyway?"

It may not be a nightmare, but all this was definitely not real. It couldn't be, not in the sense that most things are real. What was real, anyway? It was just a philosophical concept, completely arbitrary, that humans used to make sense of the world. Something was happening, but only Hermione and Malfoy were aware of it: she hadn't told anyone, and he hadn't told anyone. How could it be real, if no one else even knew it was happening? Real-ness had to be a relative concept; maybe it was real for her, but it wasn't real for Ginny. And if it wasn't real for the entire world minus two, then it wasn't real at all.

For fuck's sake, she'd masturbated thinking about him. How on Earth could that be real?

She squeezed her eyes and took her glasses off, placing them on the top of her head. She'd written half a chapter today: she deserved a break.

"Don't react in any weird way," Hermione warned him as she sat on the sofa next to Malfoy, who pressed himself into the opposite corner to make room for her. When she saw he kept his eyes on the TV screen, she took a deep breath, and then, "I'm writing a novel."

He nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. She rolled her eyes.

"Go on, say what you want to say."

"I don't want to say anything." He kept smiling at the television.

"Then what's that look?"

"What look?"

"This," Hermione said, poking his cheek with her finger, "look."

He tilted his head towards her. "Nothing. I'm just… not surprised." Before she could address him in a not-overly-polite way, Malfoy added: "What's it about?"

Hermione occupied her hands with her hair, for no particular reason other than making them do something. She felt fidgety, and running her fingers through her curls somewhat helped. It wasn't real. It wasn't happening in the real world. She might as well tell him.

"Well. It's a thriller-slash-romance." She glanced at him; the episode was still on in the background, but Malfoy's focus was solely on her now. "Um—the main character is a journalist, Monica. But the story starts with her love interest's point of view, Richard, who finds out that Monica is… well, dead." Hermione paused. He was the first person outside of her close friends circle she was telling the plot to. Malfoy seemed to contemplate for a few moments.

"Sorry, your protagonist is dead?"

"Uh, yes, I said it was a thriller—but," Hermione went on, springing up when she caught the flicker of interest in his eyes, "the story is told in two different timelines: the present one, where Monica is dead, and the past one, where Monica is alive and she's investigating the story that will eventually lead to her death."

"And what's the story?" Hermione felt weirdly self-conscious about him staring intensely at her, but she pushed through her nervousness.

"Well, basically she's investigating a rising political star of a far-right party. She believes this man is not actually a newcomer on the political scene, but has in fact developed a second identity to hide the crimes he'd committed roughly twenty years before, namely the assassination of two other journalists, who had died under 'mysterious circumstances'. She feels very strongly about this case because she read their previous work and also because they're her best friend's parents. In addition to that, this man is really not a good person overall and is spreading a very concerning ideology, so Monica is worried that conservative families who have power and influence in London will buy into his agenda and give him more and more voice."

Malfoy was nodding seriously and listening carefully, his cheeks twitching every now and then when he kept a smile to himself.

"The romance begins when Monica decides to ask her ex-boyfriend, Richard, who comes from a powerful family with old money, to help her infiltrate London's high society," Hermione went on, surprised that he hadn't shut her up yet. "Except that she doesn't tell him exactly that, because they'd broken up due to his family in the first place, years prior, so there's a lot of unresolved tension and issues there—so she kind of plays him. But while she's completely focused on the work, Richard catches feelings for her again and things go south from there. And that's all I'm going to tell you, because otherwise you'll know all the plot twists," she concluded with a little giggle, before clearing her throat self-consciously.

He kept looking at her for a while, before shifting his gaze towards the television. Hermione had a feeling he was still going over the plot, though.

"How much of it is inspired by true events?"

She frowned. "It's an original story."

His head fell on the sofa's back pillow. "I believe it is. I just think that the influential politician with an alias, who killed her best friend's parents and then comes back to gain more power…" He opened his arms and made a face, eyes dancing around the room. "It rings a bell."

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Hermione scoffed, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "Let me cope with my trauma alone, okay?" She deliberately ignored the fact that he, too, had had a part in shaping her trauma in the first place, and stupidly decided to muse over a different, equally true fact instead: he felt way less bony under her fist than she might have anticipated. But then again, Malfoy had been the Slytherin seeker for most of his time at Hogwarts.

He chuckled, massaging the point where her knuckles had met his muscles. Then added: "It's compelling, though. When do you think you'll be finished?"

"That's the fun part," Hermione sighed, sinking into the comfortable cushions. "I don't know. I was hoping to lock myself in here to write it, but…" She glanced at him. "You know."

Malfoy opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut short by Hermione's piercing scream when the television suddenly turned off and the lights flashed off and on, the low and powerful rumble of thunder crashing nearby making her jump. It lasted two, maybe three seconds, but when the light was steadily on again, Hermione found herself ducked under her own arm, body paralysed in fear, and her hand clinging tightly to Draco's.

After her breath turned back to normal and she realised they weren't in imminent danger, Hermione blinked at the firm grip, stunned. Malfoy's complexion had always been pale; in sixth year, it had almost turned gray. It wasn't ill-looking now, but it was still incredibly wan. Right there, in contrast with her golden skin, the difference was stark: he was clear and white. The pattern of his green-blue veins was distinctly traceable under the translucent skin. The bones on the back of his hand were sharp, ready to cut through the flesh: Hermione could sense each of his knuckles under her palm. One of her fingers was resting on his left ring finger, where the signet ring's cold metal was breaking the warmth of the tactile impression of him.

Hermione let go as though she'd been scorched.

Malfoy broke the silence. "It's just a little storm, Granger," he said. He didn't sound playful nor amused, but Hermione couldn't find the right word to describe the feeling his tone stirred. It wasn't nasty, but it wasn't comforting, either. Maybe it was a bit thrown off, just like she was feeling.

"Call it 'little'," she mumbled, gathering her legs up under her chin and locking her arms around them protectively. "It hasn't stopped for a second in eight days."

"The forecast says it might start easing down around the day after tomorrow." He grabbed a second blanket to cover himself; Hermione had claimed the one he'd been using.

"Oh, really?" Maybe he'd leave then, Hermione thought. Good. Excellent. "Um, so, is your friend going to…?" she asked instead, remembering about his first phone call.

(First of many. As it turned out, the widespread myth about Slytherins prioritising family over everything was not just a myth: Malfoy's friends were always extremely keen on knowing where he was, what he was doing, and whether or not he was keeping himself decently alive. Oppressive at times, but in a good way.)

"Who, Nott? No, he's not coming, I told him not to risk it." Hermione hummed. "Besides, I'm leaving anyway, aren't I?" She barely turned to look at him and—there it was again. A cheeky grin. Shocking on his face, truly. Not the grin itself; more the way it really complimented his features. It lifted his cheekbones, which were already particularly high.

"Right." With nothing else to say, Hermione tried to focus on the episode airing on TV. After a few minutes passed in silence, she returned to her thoughts. What was she still doing there? All of a sudden, Malfoy's closeness was impossible to ignore.

Her feet were inches away from his thighs.

Her right knee, if moved, would brush against his chest.

Her right shoulder was practically touching his left one.

His arm was angled on the back pillow, to keep his head propped up. A breath away from her back, and probably already covered in her curls.

His arm.

His left arm.

The oddest feeling took the best of Hermione. Something in her told her to recoil immediately, to stand up, to go back to her room and lock herself in there until he'd finally left the cabin. It screamed "Danger!", it yelled "Run!", it barked "Constant vigilance!" in an uncanny imitation of Mad-Eye's rough voice. But something else was there, too, something that didn't really speak in loud alerts but that Hermione couldn't possibly ignore all the same. It was a patchwork of memories, a pull towards an irrational urge to empathise with people—with him—something that brought her back to Malfoy's trial and decided to insist on the classmate part, not the Death Eater one. That man wasn't just a stranger with a tattoo that meant literal death, he was someone she knew, someone she could understand. Half of her mind was telling her, "Hey, you silly girl with a soft heart, this is the boy who stood by and watched as his aunt tortured you in his house". The other half, instead, was saying with equal strength, "He didn't watch. It might not be an excuse or an assolution, and to some people—to your friends—it actually makes him a coward, but he turned away. You were all just seventeen."

The war had happened to them.

"Ganger? Are you okay?" Malfoy snapped his fingers in front of her, furrowing his brows as he scanned her face. Hermione blinked, finding herself turned towards him, her eyes meticulously analysing his features. He looked so much like his father: the colours, the proportions, the shape of his face. But something else was there, too: the shape of his eyes, the curve of his nose. Hermione had seen Narcissa Malfoy only a couple of times over the years, but the image of the woman's cousin and niece (not to mention her sister) were pretty familiar to her—the Black traits on Malfoy's face were impossible to miss.

And yet, nothing was more evident than the signs of time. There were wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. His hair wasn't perfectly slicked back and styled anymore, but ruffled and missing that signature shininess of his teen days. His gaze bore the weariness only years, and the participation in a war, could give.

He'd shaved that morning; she could smell the moss scent of his aftershave.

The television, with the fake laughters echoing all around the room, was suddenly too loud. A man and a woman were sitting at a table, where she was complaining. "I'll die an old maid," she said. The man tried to cheer her up, his tone encouraging as he joked, "You're not going to die an old maid. Maybe an old spinster cook." Hermione felt her heart start ringing in her ears as the man went on: "Hey now, besides. Worse comes to worst, I'll be your boyfriend." The woman laughed straight in his face, the laugh track joining her instantly.

Malfoy was about to wave his hand in front of her face again, when against all better judgment, Hermione leaned in and kissed him.

Her head started spinning so fast that it blanked out. It was like the whole world, the whole universe even, disappeared into a tornado of blur, and the only palpable thing—the only real thing for Hermione was the feel of Malfoy's mouth against her lips.

Amongst the absurdity that was crashing against the walls of her brain, a single thought formed: soft.

Malfoy's lips were soft.

He was as still as a statue, and Hermione figured he was probably looking at her as though she'd gone completely bonkers. Maybe she had. But she wasn't all the same able to bring herself to pull away, to duck and cover into her room.

Shockingly, after what felt like eons but were probably just a handful of milliseconds, Malfoy's hand slid on her cheek and he started kissing her back.

His mouth parted just slightly, catching her lower lip as their noses brushed together. It was soft, so soft, and as sweet as sour candy. Hermione felt like melting when his fingers crept into her hair, cupping her ear, and his thumb traced a short line alongside her temple. It was all feeling and sensations; her mind was struggling to put the pieces together, her brain was failing to paint an accurate picture of what was actually happening. Everything that was left for her to comprehend was the sensory experience.

A warm palm against her head.

The quiet rising-and-falling of his chest, flush against hers.

The muffled rustling of the blankets, adding warmth to their bodies.

Malfoy's tongue sliding into her mouth to caress hers.

Hermione opened her eyes in a flash.

Malfoy's tongue sliding into her mouth to caress hers.

It happened in the blink of an eye, but one moment they were kissing and the next one Hermione was steady on her feet, Malfoy was cupping his left cheek, grimacing, and the loud smack of Hermione's slap was still ricocheting around the two of them.

A few seconds of silence went on without Hermione doing so much as breathing.

"Ow," he lamented, massaging his cheek.

"Fuck," she mumbled, coming to her senses and covering her mouth with both hands. "Sorry, I—I'm sorry, I shouldn't—"

He had the audacity to scoff. "It's fine, Granger."

"It's not fine, I shouldn't have—and you shouldn't have—and we—" Hermione stammered, groaning when she saw the look on Malfoy's face, something that looked too much like exasperation. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?!"

"Do you really want an answer?" Malfoy hissed, his hand still stroking his reddened skin. He narrowed his eyes, and suddenly he was the twelve-year-old in the Hogwarts courtyard that was about to let her know exactly how much spite one person could fuel into a single insult.

"Piss off," Hermione muttered, feeling dangerously close to tears. She spun on her heels and rushed to her room, falling on the bed as the door slammed shut behind her.