Hermione's pianist

by saratinawrite

Draco Malfoy is the best pianist of his generation. Hermione Granger is butchering a song on a piano in the streets of Rome, so he has to make sure she knows. Except that her smile takes his breath away.

10. τῇ καλλίστῃ

τῇ καλλίστῃ

Tēi Kallístei is the inscription that Eris, the Goddess of Discord, wrote on the golden apple she tossed in the midst of the feast of the gods at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis as a prize of beauty, thus sparking a vanity-fuelled dispute between Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, eventually leading to the Judgment of Paris and the Trojan War. It means "To the most beautiful".

Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, is one of those people who just love surprises.

She loves to receive them and she loves to make them. As a kid, she used to get overly excited for Christmas because she couldn't wait to find out what was inside all those colourful wrappings. She grew up to become the kind of person who sends presents to her friends without there being a special occasion for it, solely because she loves to see their reactions at such simple, yet unusual, thoughts.

Even her then-boyfriend, now husband, Lucius had to come to terms with Narcissa's penchant for big and out of the blue celebrations. With time, he made it his mission in life to become a master of surprises. Too bad Narcissa had a peculiar talent for uncovering secret operations, so organising surprise parties wasn't exactly a piece of cake. But love works in mysterious ways, and eventually, Lucius became a real expert.

Draco knows how much his mother loves surprises; so much so that when he finally found the present she had asked for in Rome, he'd also thrown another little thing in the mix, knowing she'd be overjoyed. If someone had to organise a surprise, whether it was big or small, they would go to him for advice: he was pretty good at these kinds of tactics. It was, after all, the love language his parents showed him growing up. Sometimes, Draco would also take the reins of the planning and would throw parties for his friends himself (they varied from the classical birthday parties to the congrats-on-your-firing parties―odd people, his lot). And then, obviously, he was a wizard when it came to replaying these schemes for his girlfriends. If one had to rank them, the prize for best surprise would go to the one involving a summer night and glow-worms, but he doesn't like to linger on that.

Despite all of this (or maybe precisely because of it), Draco hates surprises. He's an expert when it comes to organising them, but should you try and pull a surprise on him? You'd be lucky if he didn't obliterate you on the spot.

"I hate surprises."

"Don't be silly, darling, you don't hate surprises." Naturally, Narcissa keeps just casually forgetting about this one detail of her son's personality.

"Oh, so now I don't even get to know if I do or don't like surprises?"

The woman huffs, fiddling with the lock of her handbag and checking her nail varnish before looking at him. "Why do you always have to be like that?"

"Like what?"

"Just… that," she says gesturing at him, a tad of exasperation in her voice. "You could let me have it."

"I am letting you have it, mum. And you could just tell me where we're going at this point, since I'm already dressed up and in the car with you," he retorts, modulating his voice in his best calm tones. "You think I'm going to open the door and just roll out on the road?"

"Knowing your liking for dramatics, I wouldn't totally rule it out."

Draco groans and lets his head fall back on the beige leather headrest.

With a light chuckle, Narcissa glances out the window to look at the English landscape. She can spot the London skyline in the distance. The car cabin is filled with pop notes coming from the radio on the other side of the partition.

"How's Rose?" she asks after a short while. Draco, if possible, groans even louder. "Odd answer."

"You know, you should just tell me our destination instead of asking random questions about my life." He straightens himself and looks at his mother sideways, brows furrowed. He really doesn't like surprises.

She ignores him, patting him on his knee. "But I'm interested in your life, sweetheart."

"Are you not telling me because it's something bad? Should I be worried?" he pushes, suddenly contemplating worst case scenarios.

"My goodness, no, love, it's nothing to worry about!" Narcissa exclaims with an expression that clearly indicates that she was right in calling out his dramatic antics. She adjusts the rings on her fingers. "Should I be worried about something?" she asks, glancing at him, "since you're not answering my question?"

"This is..." Another groan. "You could just tell me." His mother keeps ignoring him, carefully untangling the bracelets on her slender wrist. Rubbing his eyes and stifling another grunt, Draco claps his hands together. "Well, if you must know," he says with a sigh, "Rose and I broke up." She makes a face. "What? You already knew. I came to Marlborough alone."

At the beginning of the week, Draco joined his parents at their second home for his birthday. They always made sure to celebrate together, no matter their engagements, so he'd organised his schedule to make sure he could spend the 5th of June at their country house. It's a family tradition, which means he just appeared there the night before his birthday, thus managing to avoid the awkward phone call to inform his parents that Rose wouldn't be coming. His father didn't say much upon seeing him alone at the doorstep, and Narcissa let it slide as well. But Draco knew the question was underway.

"I liked her," his mother comments quietly.

"Yeah," Draco exhales, dejected. "I liked her, too."

Things with Rose had started out almost playfully. Pansy had called it a 'rebound bang' when he first told her, causing Draco to stand up and storm out while she kept shouting that, hey, she was just stating facts, and that she was sure this Rose girl was a lovely person―the issue was, as per usual, him, not her. (Pansy had to run after him and offer him dinner to his favourite restaurant to be forgiven.)

Anyway, despite the comments from his friends (or non-comments, in Zabini's case, who just kept repeating that he didn't say anything, ignoring Draco when he pointed out that the issue was precisely his quietness about the whole affair), Rose and Draco got officially together shortly after the Christmas holidays. It was a quiet thing, what they had, given how reserved both were and busy with work.

At the beginning, it was mostly two people enjoying each other's company, in and out of bed; soon, though, date nights became breakfasts in bed, and lunch dates became weekends spent at museums or at the park or snuggling on the sofa. By March, Rose had met all of Draco's friends and family. She spent the Easter holidays with him, too, which made Narcissa really happy, and even Lucius had managed to convey something close to enjoyment whenever he exchanged words with her. She really was a lovely girl.

"Then what happened?" asks Narcissa. Her son has never been too open about his relationships (those that counted, at least), which is why she's not really surprised he didn't tell her about the breakup. But things seemed… well, good.

"Nothing major," Draco mutters, head leaned back against the headrest. "It just… it wasn't… you know." He waves his hand around before rubbing his cheek self-consciously.

Narcissa looks at him as his gaze gets lost in the surroundings. Sometimes she still asks herself when, exactly, he grew up. Has she missed it?

"Is she okay?"

"Oh, yes, she's fine. It was mutual, really," Draco says, looking at her. "Seriously, it's fine, it's really… fine." He bites the inside of his cheek. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you in any way." Once again, Narcissa's eyes focus on adjusting her already perfect jewellery.

"That's…" He shifts on his seat, loosening his tie a little. "I know what you're thinking. 'You're almost thirty, I want to be a grandmother, I don't know why you're still looking for the adolescent thrill and not settling down'. Am I wrong?"

His mother smiles affectionately. "I haven't said any of those words, dear."

"But you are thinking them."

"Well," Narcissa says, clasping her hands together, "you are twenty-six and I would love to have grandchildren before I get too old."

"See!" he exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Should have thought about it when you decided to stop at me, a second child would have given you more satisfaction," he grumbles, slouching with folded arms and a pout on his lips.

Narcissa laughs, "You're always so theatrical, Draco." He mutters something under his breath, but she lets it go, deciding to address something else. "I never said anything about a thrill, though. Or thought anything." She gives him a meaningful look, anticipating his remark. Draco shoots her a dirty look and―there it is. The kid who never grew up.

When he was little, about three years old, Draco had a blanket that he loved more than his own life. It was one of those plushy blankets made especially for kids, white with drawings on the external side, and he used to bring it with him everywhere he went. The first time it was washed, he got so mad that he cried for two days because it had lost its original scent. It was an ordinary blanket, really; it collected several stains throughout the years―food sauce, mud, pencils―and came apart at the seams, so much it was overused. Nonetheless, little Draco just refused to let it go.

Lucius tried to bribe him with new toys, which was smart, except that Draco wasn't like other kids. Narcissa started suspecting this almost obsessive attachment was a shade of character that was manifesting itself through child feelings; and, well, she wasn't wrong. Even though she had no idea, at the time, that Draco would grow up to become the kind of person that prefers suppressing his feelings to prevent them from overwhelming him.

Eventually, something unexpected happened. One day, Draco's tiny legs, which weren't so chubby anymore, brought him to the white piano sitting in a corner of the large living room; he left his blanket on the closed lid before starting to press and play with the keys. To his parents' surprise and delight, he stopped carrying it around everywhere he went, as long as it was somewhere near the piano while he played. It took an incredible effort to convince their son to part from his most beloved possession for good―he was about to turn six by then. Mother and father swore up and down that it had been way easier to get him to stop using a dummy.

Through the years, Draco got more and more reserved about his feelings, and all that was left for Narcissa to do was watching him and analysing his reactions to events and situations, hoping to get something out of them. The outcome wasn't always ideal―he'd learned to hide what he didn't want other people to know quite well―but, more often than not, she did have a hunch about what her son left unsaid. She decided to respect this part of him, though, and never pried more than necessary. Besides, Lucius was as sure as he was about the sun rising from the East that Draco would end up marrying the youngest Greengrass, so he told his wife not to worry about their son not sharing anything about other fleeting relationships. (Narcissa had to hide a knowing grin when Draco finally informed them without ambiguity that he never intended to pursue Astoria in that way.)

With Rose, things seemed to be different. Draco looked happy with her. Maybe not exaggeratedly happy, not in its most fulfilling and all-round sense, but… content, serene. Like something in him was finally starting to thaw, bit by bit. And it seemed like it would last. Narcissa even thought that, maybe, he was letting go of that need for attachment that always left him bruised, or at least it looked like he wasn't hiding it as much. Draco had suppressed that part of him for so long that, eventually, it changed his character, and he ended up shaping his life around that pretence. After all, he was good at creating schedules and sticking to them.

But now, this remark about the thrill and the mixed expression in his eyes that was reminiscent of Draco's expression when someone dared touch his favourite blanket… Narcissa knows there are things he's withholding. She's had this feeling for quite some time now.

Reaching out to his arm, she straightens the sleeve of his black shirt. "It's not a bad thing to look for the thrill, you know."

Draco scratches his short nails, pondering the next words. His mouth opens, then closes again. He draws in a deep breath, "What if I just know I can't get the thrill?"

Her hand lingers on his shoulder. "How do you mean?"

"Just…" He exhales heavily, biting his lip. "Say the thrill is out of my reach. Shouldn't I just be happy with whatever comes close enough?"

From the look in his piercing grey eyes to the clenching of his jaw, everything in Draco's face screams that this is not about Rose and that there's a lot he's not saying―can't say―but he hopes his mum can guess it. After all, don't mothers have some kind of intuitive magic?

Narcissa cups his cheek. "Darling, I wish you were the kind of person who settles for enough. Life would be so less painful for you." Her thumb strokes his cheekbone, and it's easy to see the kid that always loved too much in her son's troubled features. She'd thought he would never resurface again.

Before she can enquire some more, Draco draws a sharp breath and pulls away. "Anyway, I answered your question. Your turn."

"You are relentless," she chuckles. "And we're almost there anyway."

"All the more reason why you shouldn't keep it a secret anymore. Just tell me, where in God's name are we going?"

Narcissa sighs, "You know what, I'm tired. Fine." She passes a hand on her arms to smooth the already perfect fabric of her elegant suit. It's a whole habit. "You remember your grandfather, right?"

"What does this have to do with him?"

"Well, it… I'll get to it. You remember he had a sister?"

"Yes, I remember your family, mother."

"And her son, Regulus?"

Draco pauses at that. His mother never talks about her family because they all seem to hold grudges against one another; the story of how his mother and her sister Andromeda didn't talk for decades haunted several dinner parties. He vaguely remembers about this cousin of his mother's: Regulus used to play hide and seek with him when he was little, but it's not a very vivid memory. All Draco knows is that he had a fall out with his parents and died shortly after.

"Is this some kind of memorial for..."

"No, just… Okay, hear me out." Narcissa shifts in her seat and huffs out a steadying breath. "It's not pretty."

"Nothing's ever pretty with your family."

"Regulus had a brother," she blurts out.

Draco blinks a few times. "I'm sorry―what?"

"Yes." She clears her throat, sounding remorseful. "He had a brother, I had another cousin, and you never met him because he fought with my aunt, too. A charming woman, that one." Sarcasm drips from her voice. "He ran away from home when he was sixteen."

Trying to process the baffling news, Draco says the first thing that comes to his mind. "Past tense?"

Narcissa stares at him blankly, before understanding his question. She shakes her head, "Oh no! No, sorry, present tense. I have a cousin. He's very much alive." A beat. "His name is Sirius."

Unsure as to what to say or how to react, Draco keeps quiet. After a moment, he nods slowly, "Great, happy to find out about a new branch in the family tree. But how is this related to…"

"When Sirius was sixteen, my aunt kicked him out and then I lost contact with him. I think the only one who kept talking to him was Andromeda, and maybe, but I'm not sure, Regulus, while I… well, I just didn't. I like to blame it on Aunt Bella's influence, but the truth is, I decided to ignore him, like the rest of the family." She interjects Draco's disapproving look. "I told you it wasn't pretty."

"I don't even want to ask why he was kicked out in the first place."

"Right, let's not revive that… it's really not pretty," she says sombrely. "Oh, don't look at me like that."

"Believe me, I'm holding back as much as possible." He's really trying not to think of insults towards his own mother. "Anyway, what's the point of this story?" He gestures for her to go on.

"Sirius moved to the States in the late Eighties. He formed a band with some friends." God forbid one single person in this family doesn't live by music. "I believe they were called The Marauders."

Draco snorts. "Interesting name." He would know about quirky band names.

"Fitting though," Narcissa chuckles. "He's always been the reckless type, I remember that much about him." A small smile curves up her lips. "They had a fair success, but unfortunately the band was forced to break up because, uh… the lead singers had a kid. The couple went to London, they had family there, and got caught in a tragic car accident that cost them their lives."

"Goddamn it," Draco exclaims. "Will there ever be one happy ending?"

"Don't swear."

"The kid…"

"Oh, no, thank God the kid wasn't with them. Which is why Sirius and his other band mate, now husband, came back to London: he was chosen as the child's godfather, and together the two of them decided that it was best to raise him away from the touring life. So, they moved back here and have been living in London ever since. Now that I think about it, I might have spotted him at Reg's funeral…"

Draco is still a bit perplexed. "So you brought me with you for… what? A family reunion?"

"No," Narcissa says with a light frown, "the reunion already happened. He contacted me."

Once again, Draco tries to process the words. "Hold on. Your family ignored him for years, you included, and yet, in the end… he contacted you?"

"I know how it sounds."

"Like he's the bigger person."

"You should let me finish…"

"I can't believe he had to run away, go all the way to the States, come back, raise a kid alone―"

"He contacted me because of you."

Draco shuts up on the spot.

"Pardon?"

A hint of a smirk pulls up the corner of Narcissa's mouth. "He's a music manager now, and he… well, he heard about you. And he works with big enough names in pop music, so, you know, he put two and two together and reached out."

The swirling of Draco's thoughts accelerates like crazy. Shaking his head firmly, he holds his hands up. "Hold up, hold up," he says, maybe to his mother or maybe to his own brain, "let me get this straight. You're telling me that there is an old-slash-new addition to the family that I've never heard about before, and that the only reason you mended the relationship with him is because… uh…"

"Sirius."

"Thank you, because Sirius," it sounds weirdly familiar, but there are more pressing matters right now, "who happens to be a music manager, heard about me and decided to contact you and put an end to the whole affair."

Narcissa's eyes wander around for a few seconds. "Well, yes, that's about it."

"Oh my God." Draco falls back into his seat, wide-eyed and shocked. "I can't believe Nott's idea worked." His mother is puzzled. "You know, the account on Instagram, I'm sure I told you about it―that must be the way he… isn't it?"

"Actually, when we met up, he did tell me how he heard about you, and the connection came to be because―"

"Sorry to interrupt," the voice of the chauffeur comes from the intercom. "We're at the destination, Ma'am."

Looking out the window, Draco sees they're stopping in front of a building in Mayfair. He can spot the trees of Hyde Park down the road.

"Oh." Narcissa clasps her hands together, a smile on her face. "Well, I guess Sirius can tell you himself."

The driver opens Narcissa's door as Draco circles the car to offer an arm to his mother. He shoots a look at the terraced house in front of them, just one among the countless that populate the street. He's fairly certain there's a top patio: he can hear voices and chattering coming from up above.

It feels like a flashback.

An usher stands at the entrance, a wide corridor behind her back. The sounds coming from the house are muffled or distorted, as though there was something blocking them from resonating in the right way… maybe they're coming from a staircase.

"Good evening, Ma'am. May I ask your name?"

"Of course, darling, it's Mal―"

"Narcissa!" A deep, masculine and mellow voice calls from behind the young lady at the door, and she steps aside with a polite bow. Narcissa's arm slips away from Draco's as she whispers a thank you to the young woman, then opens up in a smile when the man joins her with a big grin of his own.

Damn, damn, damn the Black genes.

"I'm so glad you could make it," the man says, grabbing Narcissa's hands before wrapping her in a hug. He's taller than her, a few years younger―around five, give or take, Draco muses looking at his crow's feet―but all in all, he really looks like he just entered his forties.

"Thank you again for having us."

As the two squeeze their hands, Draco notices the tattoos on the man's fingers. Goes with the ensemble, he thinks, spotting other tattoos peeping on his chest from under the tieless and half-unbuttoned white shirt, which is tucked in red slacks and paired with black pointed boots. His medium-length hair is impossibly black, and Draco once again wonders who decided he had to get all the Malfoy aesthetic genes and completely pass on the Black ones. (Not that he'd ever admit having ever thought such things to anyone, especially not to Theo, since he's always bragging about dark-haired men being more handsome than blonds.)

There's a casual and yet elegant attitude that exudes from Sirius' persona, a tad of haughtiness in the twinkle of his clear eyes and the faint shadow of that old aristocratic beauty that his family must have passed him in his grin.

"You must be Draco," the man says, pulling Draco from his scrutiny. "I'm Sirius."

Draco gives a firm shake to the outstretched inked hand. "It's a pleasure, sir."

"Oh, you can forego the pleasantries," Sirius smiles. "We're family, aren't we?"

"Right," Draco replies with a chuckle as he buries his hands in his pockets. Narcissa rubs his back, whether in encouragement or reassurance he's not really sure.

"You were right, by the way," Sirius says, pointing at him and huffing out a small laugh. "He really is the spitting image of his father―you must get that a lot, I'm sorry…"

"It's fine, I'm used to it."

"So, a pianist, is it? I've heard wonders about you, and your mother told me so many great things… I was really looking forward to meeting you." Sirius turns around as he speaks and gestures for them to follow him inside, heading for the staircase at the end of the hallway. (Draco reins in a smug smirk when he gets the confirmation of how well he can recognise sounds―it's not a competition, and Zabini is not even around.) "I've also seen those videos on the Internet... my goodness, can you play. And I've got to say, I think you have a beautiful voice, too―oh!"

He stops when they get to the second floor, almost bumping into another man turning the corner. Thinner than him, roughly as tall, light brown hair, small moustache and light summery clothes, he looks at Sirius with an odd expression, a mix of resignation and fondness.

"Ah, just who I was looking for!" Putting his hand on the man's shoulder, Sirius addresses his guests. "Narcissa, dear, this is Remus, my husband. And this is…"

"Yeah, I know, I know," the man hushes him, shaking Narcissa's hand with a small nod. "It's good to finally meet you, Narcissa. I hope my husband hasn't already bored you to death with his talkativeness."

Draco stifles a snort while Sirius theatrically rolls his eyes.

"I don't get bored easily," she smiles back, earning a genuine laugh from Remus and a comical face from her cousin.

"Let's not stay here," the latter says, taking Narcissa's arm under his and guiding her up the staircase. "Some people are finishing with rehearsals." He exchanges a look with his husband, but it's not long enough for Draco to guess what the silent communication is about.

As they climb the stairs, the conversation is steered back to where it was left off, with Sirius asking Draco about his job and his prospects for the future. The blond has all the answers ready, of course; discussing his life plans is meat and drink to him.

He's explaining the job he's been doing with the orchestra when they enter the large, opened terrace on the roof. It's crowded with several people, all dressed in fancy clothes. There's a small stage on the opposite side, and rows of chairs in front of it. Some people are already sitting down, but most of them are standing in small groups, chatting, drinking, and eating the canapés served by expensive-looking waiters.

There is a piano on the podium.

Draco eyes his mother, unsure of his feelings regarding this whole situation. "What exactly is happening here?" he asks.

Sirius raises an eyebrow at Narcissa. "She didn't tell you?"

"Well," she says, smoothening invisible wrinkles on her trousers, "I wanted it to be a surprise," followed by a graceful shrug.

"Oh, I love surprises!" Sirius exclaims, which makes Remus nod with a long-suffering expression.

"He really does. It's the bane of my existence," and he pats Draco on his shoulder in sympathy.

"Draco claims he hates surprises," Narcissa says, gesturing towards her son.

"I do," he sighs, tired out by their previous conversation in the car, "I really don't―"

"Spank my arse and call me Merlin! Is that DracoMalfoy?!"

Draco's head snaps around towards the shockingly familiar voice. Standing at the entrance, all poshed up in a suit and black oxfords, there's the unmistakable black mop of hair messily falling on rounded spectacles, behind which a set of gleaming green eyes are wide in surprise and excitement.

Harry Potter runs, actually runs towards Draco until he crashes into him and squeezes him in a fierce hug. "I haven't seen you in ages, mate! What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," Draco says, mostly because he still doesn't know what he's doing here.

"Well, I live here!"

"You what?"

"Draco, Narcissa." Sirius clears his throat, his arm folding around Harry's shoulder. "This is Harry, my godson. But you already know him, don't you?" he says, winking at Draco.

"You invited him?" Harry is bewildered, while Remus simply scratches his cheek, suspiciously unimpressed by the whole ordeal but still unable to hide a chuffed grin.

"As it turns out," Sirius explains, "Narcissa Malfoy is my cousin. It's a bit of a long story, but yes, here he is." Harry blinks, then looks back at Draco and then at his godparent again. "Surprise!"

Narcissa laughs, the sound startling Harry. He apologises profusely for not having introduced himself yet, and does so with a radiant smile, although there's still some confusion in his gaze about the dynamic of the encounter.

"See? Surprises are nice," Narcissa teases her son, leaving Harry even more puzzled but making Sirius laugh again.

With a yielding exhale, Draco relents: "I just don't like them for me. I don't… I like well-structured plans. I like to know what comes next, so that I can control where my life is going," he says, even though he's not sure he really believes it anymore. "I don't like risks." That last bit, if anything, is painfully true.

"But, my dear boy," says Sirius, giving Draco's arm a little squeeze, "what's life without a little risk?"

"That's a great quote," Harry exclaims. "You should put it in your autobiography."

"When you make me famous enough that I'll need an autobiography, I will." Then, winking at Draco, "I'm their band manager."

The picture of what exactly is happening is getting clearer and blurrier at the same time in Draco's head.

"I can already see the front cover: Sirius Black," Harry says, mimicking the display of the words with his hands, "What's life without a little risk? A memoir."

"It's a life that will eventually get you killed," Remus chips in, again that expression of affection mixed with resignation on his face.

"Remus worries even if you cross the street with a green light without checking for cars," Sirius informs Narcissa.

"I live with kids, as you can see," his husband comments, making her laugh.

"I still don't fully understand what's going on," Draco says, trying to keep track of the steps that brought him to this terrace. "You're… is he…?" he points at Harry before turning towards Narcissa. At her shrug, he faces the other boy again, a new question flashing in his brain. "Are we…?"

Harry's eyes widen in understanding, his head snapping towards Sirius, who just laughs. "No, no―well, I don't know, legally speaking, but… no, you two are not related."

"Oh. Okay, fine."

"Yeah, cool―not that it would have been a problem."

"No, right. Absolutely."

A moment of awkwardness follows. Remus huffs out a laugh from under his moustache.

"That said…" Sirius clasps his hands, "This is the annual event for the scholarship we instituted in memory of James and Lily." He squeezes his godson's shoulder, and Harry squeezes back before looking at Draco with a small smile.

"Oh, that's great. Will you choose the recipient tonight?"

Something crosses Harry's face then, but it's probably just the sunlight.

"No, they've already been chosen and they're playing tonight. It's going to be fun," Sirius says with another wink in his direction.

Draco searches for Harry's eyes but he averts them, as does Remus. Something's going on here, and Draco feels like everyone is in on the joke except him.

"Anyway," Sirius continues, "Harry here is the main reason why I found out about you. He once mentioned something about their Favola bella single, and also… Hozier, was it?"

Draco almost chokes on his own saliva.

"Yes," Harry exclaims, "Hozier! Actually, about that, I have some things I'm working on and you being here… can I steal you away?"

Draco doesn't have the time to reply because he's grabbed and pulled towards the staircase in a matter of seconds.

Sirius frowns. "But I wanted to…"

"Catch up with your cousin. Sorry. I haven't seen him in ten months, I can't let him slip through my fingers."

As he's being dragged away, Draco turns his head to find his mother looking at him with a small smirk; she cheerfully waves at him when he mouths an apology.

Harry keeps him busy for a long time. They walk for a few minutes before finding an empty room; most of them are occupied by musicians that are going to perform during the ceremony and are doing last-minute rehearsals. The blond gapes at the grandness of the house―it's huge and majestic―but Harry grimaces when he notices the awe in his expression; he says he preferred their old place in Claremont Square, but mid-life crisis hit, and Sirius decided he wanted a change because he needed a top roof. Harry rolls his eyes at that and keeps complaining (apparently, his godfather blamed the relocation on their dog, Padfoot, who―Sirius' words―needed a place in the open air, even though he'd always lived indoors his whole life). Eventually, they find an empty room and Harry trails off in his rant.

Draco is not sure why they didn't go straight to Harry's room, but he doesn't really want to dig into that thought. He's actually trying to keep all of his thoughts at bay, since the first, instant connection his brain made when he saw Harry was with another H-named person that he's trying his hardest to ignore and―if he's lucky―forget. Harry distracts him by talking about the band's music and playing some pieces; he sends him the scores to look at, claiming he needs an expert's notes.

After a while, Draco collects the willpower he has stored somewhere in him and makes Harry listen to a couple of things he wrote, to which the boy responds enthusiastically and repeats to exhaustion that he's going to talk to Sirius about it because he's sure his manager can do something about it.

Harry seems to remember about the event upstairs, then, and with a loud "shitfuck," he checks the time and hastily drags Draco up the staircase. He feels like a tennis ball today, mindlessly tossed back and forth from person to person.

The chairs in front of the stage are all occupied now, and there's a low murmuring coming from the crowd as guests, sitting and standing alike, wait for the ceremony to start. Harry and Draco make their way to the left side of the audience, from where Draco can spot his mother's elegant updo next to what must be Remus in the first row. She's chatting with people he doesn't recognise (he hopes they're not some more long-estranged family members).

"We need another chair," Harry says, pulling him from his survey. "I have a guest."

Draco turns in time to see Neville and Ron, eyes wide in shock and mouths agape.

"Malfoy? What are you doing here?" asks the redhead in a hushed tone, while Neville smiles at him enthusiastically and scoots over to make room for him.

"It's a long story," the blond replies, sitting next to Harry.

Ron leans towards Neville to whisper something in his ear, which makes the guitarist pat Harry's shoulder and pull him closer to the duo. Draco can't hear what they're mumbling about, but he can see Ron's furrowed brows as he looks at him from the corner of his eye. Harry mutters something that sounds like "my own" (my own what?), but then there's a loud hush, followed by Sirius walking up the stage and an applause from the small gathering, making it impossible for Draco to make out more words. He could make a joke about whispering in people's ears when other guests are around, which is something―as his mother loved to tell him―incredibly rude. But it would be pointless anyway, wouldn't it? Let them talk, who cares about what's so urgent they need to share right this moment.

"Welcome!" Sirius says, grabbing the microphone from the stand. "Welcome, everyone, and thank you for being here. It's an honour to have you." He bows to the applauding audience. "For those of you who may not know me, I'm Sirius Black, and today we're going to introduce you to the recipient of this year's fellowship for the Stag Foundation. I say we not because I have a superiority complex―although some may disagree," a small laugh snakes among the attendees, "but because I speak for my husband Remus, too. He gets stage fright nowadays, so he doesn't want to come up here, but this Foundation is my greatest accomplishment as well as his."

Remus stands up from the first row and bashfully turns around to wave at the audience. Draco notices a queue of musicians on the other end of the terrace, all holding either an instrument or some scores or both, neatly dressed in black robes. He recognises a few of them from other events, a couple from Academy or College of Music classes, but most of them are unfamiliar. He wonders if the recipient of the scholarship is among them or if they're going to be announced with a big entrance.

"I am overjoyed to present this year's recipient," Sirius resumes. "The person I have the honour to welcome on this stage is a wonderful musical talent who has already graced some of the most important stages in Europe thanks to a collaboration with the renowned Zeno Bonamore. As you know, Professor Bonamore…"

Draco stops listening at the mention of Bonamore. All of a sudden, his heart starts pounding furiously in his chest, echoing in his ears. His brain pings between all the impossible connections and coincidences that have been happening today―from his mother and Sirius to Harry to the boys to…

Eyes closed shut, he draws a shaky breath. It can't be. Bonamore knows a lot of people. It doesn't have to be…

It can't be.

"Usually, we open the ceremony with a song by Riddikulus," Sirius waves at Harry, Ron, and Neville as someone in the crowd whistles, "but we decided to stir things up this time. So, without further ado… I will have the absolute pleasure to accompany her at the piano―oh no, please," Sirius stops the growing applause right away, but Draco's mind is already lost by then, blasting warning sirens and making his stomach jump around in somersaults because of the feminine pronoun.

It can't―she's not the only female musician who walks the Earth. It's impossible. And there's the tour―Bonamore is still touring, he knows it, he's seen it on Instagram, he…

It cannot be.

Draco doesn't hear the people around him murmuring excitedly, he doesn't see Harry, Ron, and Neville apprehensively looking at him, waiting for his reaction.

"Save that energy for this extraordinary violinist."

What was it that Potter said? Shitfuck.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… Hermione Granger."

Time freezes.

Space doesn't exist anymore.

Every breath he takes feels like the last one; he can sense the piercing air entering his nostrils and then flowing down his system to reach his lungs. The notion of control over his body is something that sounds completely stupid right now: he doesn't even know if his mouth is opened or closed, if his fists are clenching or just dangling from his lap weightless, if he's standing or sitting―hell, he doesn't even know if he's alive anymore.

Hermione walks on stage from the right corner, a violin clasped in her hand. She opens in a broad and bright smile when Sirius takes her hand and turns her towards the clapping audience. Her hair is styled in two loose Dutch braids; one of them slips in front of her when she tilts her head forward in a light bow. Doesn't bother her much; she throws it back as she straightens up.

Everything and everyone else around her blurs up. She's the only focus point.

"Sirius flatters me," she says on the microphone, and her laugh echoes all around.

She is as magnificent as she's ever been. Draco doesn't even know how to think anymore, every natural function seems too impossible for his body to conceive in her presence. He just feels locked into his spot fighting against invisible ropes that are stopping him from making a single move. The notes of Hermione's voice drip down his ears, and he just feels the impelling need to drown into her.

He knows what he wants to do―what he needs to do: he needs to stand up, run to her and tell her everything he didn't have the courage to say, do everything he didn't have the strength to do. It's been ten months since he last saw her, but now it feels like it hasn't been ten seconds, and he needs to fix his mistake. The world can't keep spinning if he doesn't make things right.

And yet, he can't seem able to move a single muscle, incapable to even understand how it is possible that she's standing there, right in front of him.

"I'm terribly excited that he agreed to play this piece with me," Hermione says as Sirius sits at the piano stool. "It's the first time I play it for an audience, and I hope… well, I hope you'll get the right message out of it."

Did she look at him? Has she seen him? Does she know he's here? What the fuck is going on? Draco can't say he fully understands what she's saying, her lips move, but he just wants them to move against his own.

"Some of you may know the story of the Trojan War and of how Paris stole Helen. Did you know Helen had a daughter with Menelaus? Her name was Hermione," she smirks, earning another applause. "The title of this piece comes from the prequel of that story… when Eris, the Goddess of Discord, threw an apple in the midst of a feast, sparking a fight between Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite. Quite hilarious to think that a petty fight triggered the Trojan War, if you ask me; I guess it tells us how minor details can have the most unexpected of outcomes." Shitfuck. There's a moment of charged anticipation in which Hermione places the violin on her shoulder and tries out a few notes. "On the apple there was an inscription: To the most beautiful. Or in Greek: Tei Kallistei."

~ • ~

The night was warm and punctuated with stars, like every other night that unfurled in the Italian sky during the summer. The sound of engines could be heard from outside through the open windows, but it was mostly quiet, heavy and light at the same time, like the feel of the bed sheets on Draco's bare body.

Hermione was sleeping in his arms, their limbs intertwined and inseparable. His hand was on her back, fingers drawing random patterns and tracing her spine as it raised and fell with her breathing. Sleep couldn't seem to get to him, though, the awareness of every second dripping away kept his eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. Turning his face slowly, Draco ghosted a kiss on Hermione's forehead and carefully untangled his body from hers before slipping out of bed. He grabbed his boxer-briefs, trousers, and t-shirt from the floor, pulled them on and closed the door quietly behind him.

After restlessly pacing from the sofa to the kitchen, to the bathroom, back to the kitchen, and then skimming the spines of the books in the library, Draco finally found some semblance of peace when he sat at the piano stool in the living room. His fingers started to play some notes without a conscious decision on his part―just an old tune he knew by heart. The melody changed and shifted then; slowly but surely, Draco lost control over it, until it occurred to him that he was playing something different. Something new. He stopped, unsure of what was happening.

He had never gotten the inspiration to compose before. But the feel of the piano keys under his fingertips was soothing and calming, and the last thing he needed was falling into a spiral of agitation and uneasiness. It was as good a way as any to take something out of his chest, wasn't it? He opened the voice memos app on his mobile and pressed play, before resuming the melody.

The next morning, Hermione was none the wiser about Draco's night detour, and he didn't mention it. He didn't even know what to think about it himself. He wasn't a composer. Not in the true sense of the word. He'd never truly had ideas for new melodies. Composing was long and agonising, those scarce times he was forced to do it. He would have loved to just be able to sit down and write notes after notes, like Theo was (no matter how much his friend shouted in the process), but it simply wasn't him. So, Draco thought, he would delete the memo and that would be it.

However, the following night he still couldn't sleep. The absence of Hermione's body pressing against him in his bed was so present, it hurt like a ghost limb. He got up―lest he started dwelling on what that absence was going to transform into once he returned home―he sat at the kitchen table, grabbed a few blank musical scores and wrote down the notes his phone had dutifully recorded the day before. Once it was done, Draco stared at the traces of graphite on the pentagrams for a few minutes, forcing himself not to throw the pages away. After folding them neatly, he went back to his room, put them on top of the suitcase, and tried to sleep for a few hours.

It was after he and Hermione played together at Ginny's that he picked them up again.

It felt right.

The following night at Hermione's place, as she slept soundly, he sat at the piano. Fearing he'd wake her if he played, Draco only brushed the keys, trying out the melody: softly, almost a phantom touch. Delicate.

When the clock started ticking towards morning hours, the piece was finished.

In the afternoon, while Hermione was busy with Bonamore, Draco went to the Conservatory, found an empty room and locked himself in. He played and re-played the piece, adding variations, taking notes away, editing tempos and pauses, pondering every detail until the knot floating between his stomach and his lungs disappeared. Only then he knew he was done.

The last time Draco touched those pages was on his last night in Italy.

He held Hermione in his arms the whole night, in silence, with few meaningless words shared between them. Neither wanted to open a box that could make Pandora turn in her grave. His chest felt heavy and hollow when the alarm went off in the early morning. His hand was shaking when he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack: stored in the inner pockets were the sheets of paper with the melody. (It was still untitled.) He read the notes again―just out of habit, really; there was nothing left of him to give, to put into it.

He turned towards the bedroom; closing his eyes, Draco could make out Hermione's figure on the mattress, huddled on herself when she was once snuggled around his body. So pure and beautiful, it felt like a firm and cruel grip was squeezing his heart for the billionth time that day, and every day since the night of the gala. His merciless mind was already playing out their moments together like they were old and rusty memories.

Drawing in a sharp breath, he grabbed a pen and wrote down the first words that came to his mind: something referencing old myths, and wars and chaos, and impossible loves that are so strong and passionate that they can only be born from a sick trick of the gods.

Tei Kallistei

A small note before leaving the pages on the bedside table.

A last kiss, and he said goodbye.

~ • ~

Hermione caresses a couple of strings with the bow. Her arm, clad in a see-through and form-fitting black fabric, moves slowly, her left hand pressing on the neck of the violin to create a distorted vibrato. A never-ending second is enough for Draco's thoughts to definitively and helplessly blank out.

When he composed that melody, Draco was thinking of her, of Hermione poorly playing a miraculous piano in a square in Rome: he put that image into music. But he had no idea that hearing it played back to him by her would make the flashback crash into him with such fury. His lungs are gasping for air, his fingers trembling uncontrollably.

Hermione is joined by Sirius at the piano shortly after. His tune blends with the violin in a light-hearted and carefree melody, every now and then surprising the listener with sudden spikes of high notes that feel like a breath of fresh air. The violin dictates the rhythm―the bow moving as flawlessly as those held by orchestra directors―and the piano follows, sometimes anticipating, sometimes trailing behind, until the two instruments find the perfect synchrony in their game of catch, and the key changes.

The melody becomes deeper and more intense, captivating the audience with a restless pace. Sirius' hands run from the lower section of the piano to the higher, pressing and tapping and jumping from one key to the other in a precise and effortless cadence.

But the real act is Hermione.

Eyes closed and braids swinging down her back, she moves through the music narrating its story―their story. As the melody builds up, she shapes it, both in the audience's ears with her faultless touches on the strings and in their eyes with the movements of her body. She brings it to life, swaying on the stage, light and steady at the same time, channeling her memories and feelings into it, heightening the highs and deepening the lows, tiring her fingers with scales and variations that Draco doesn't remember but that he's too mesmerised to reflect upon right now. His breath is short in his throat, his heart gallops when she hints at the climax that never seems to arrive.

When the combination of piano and violin finally explodes, it's with a sound that is exceptionally full and vivid, and a collective gasp rises from the audience. The music feels like a stake in the heart, like a dagger in the guts, deeply painful―and yet strikingly comforting. A small death, that opens the gates of a blissful unknown, that could be moulded in a thousand different ways: the beauty of an unplanned future. The piano doesn't leave enough time to bask in that happiness, though. With startling deep notes that tarnish the pinnacle of their dance, everyone is reminded that cheer is not complete joy, not yet; every low sound evokes doubt, fear, and weakness. Slowly, the deep tones eat their way through the harmony, swallowing every trace of light-heartedness.

The melody fades into a soft and dramatic tune―a soothing lullaby trying to hide the inner fragility of the delicate balance between the two instruments, but doomed to fail.

The finale is nothing but a confirmation of that uncertainty, of that vulnerability, unveiled at last; it was already there when no one was aware of it, haunting the piece since the very beginning. It has enveloped the enthralled crowd, whispering in their ears a lost song about a missed chance, about an encounter that turned the world upside down, eventually slipping beyond a lover's reaches. Hermione plays out the last note for a long time, stretching it out as much as the violin allows; then, suddenly, she covers the strings with her hand, blocking the sound.

The piece is over. The door is closed.

No one speaks. No one dares to move.

Draco wipes away the wetness of teardrops from his cheeks.

It's Harry who stands up abruptly―the first one to break out of the trance that seems to hold the audience captive, and he knocks his chair over in his rapid movement to cheer for his best friend. When the rest of the attendees follow, the standing ovation is unanimous, the applause overwhelming in its roar.

Hermione and Sirius hug in a brief but tender embrace. She then places the violin on the piano and welcomes the acclaim with a beautiful smile.

Draco finds himself standing and clapping, too, his mouth open in shock and awe and other millions of emotions. He vaguely registers Harry saying something, but he can't bring himself to care. He sees Hermione's eyes scan the crowd for a moment and…

She finds him.

His body feels it before his brain can catch up. Their gazes lock. Her smile broadens. His heartbeat falters. Hermione keeps smiling as she turns to Sirius, who's voicing congratulations and praises into the microphone before mentioning something about the scholarship. She thanks him and the guests, says a few more words about the beautiful work the Foundation has been doing for twenty years, and finally leaves the stage to the other musicians for a concert, disappearing as quickly and gracefully as a nymph in the woods.

Draco doesn't know what to do. He helplessly follows her with his eyes until she vanishes down the staircase, his heart giving a painful thud in his chest. Then he turns to Harry. Harry, who is looking at him with an unabashed grin, his two companions sniggering behind him. Draco opens and closes his mouth a few times before uttering the only words his brain can form.

"You knew?"

"Surprise!"

He bloody hates surprises.

He wants to run after Hermione, but he's paralysed by irrational doubt. Maybe she's busy. Sirius left with her―maybe there is bureaucratic paperwork they have to go through. They could do it after the concert, though. Or maybe not. She saw him anyway; she could have come to him. She didn't. Why didn't she?

Why did she play his piece? She's a composer and an excellent one at that―he knows it, he heard it―so why not play one of her own? After leaving Rome, Draco wasn't even sure she had gotten the piece in the first place. Now that he thinks about it, he imagined that maybe she hadn't seen it and the flat owners had found it and forgot to tell her, or maybe she had seen it but was too sleepy to realise what it was so she'd put it in the boys' stack without a second glance.

She has never mentioned a word about it until now. Has she known this whole time? Did she know when she texted him to ask if the plane was on time? When he sent her a photo of McGonagall's cat? All those other times they talked? And all those times they didn't?

She made some changes to it―when did that happen? Was it in between rehearsals with Bonamore? Before? After? Maybe she did see the draft right away in the morning but forgot about it until recently (and they haven't talked recently). Or maybe she's been going back to it every day for ten months until she deemed it perfect. Was it in her notebook while she shared a bed with someone else? Was she playing it in the afternoons while he shared a bed with someone else?

Millions of different questions storm into Draco's brain at once, and before he can even realise it, the concert ends, guests are milling around, and he's still standing there, motionless like a statue. Eventually, he shakes his head and excuses himself from Harry and the others before walking decidedly towards the stage. Maybe she came back and is now among the other musicians, his mind too hazy to notice…

He navigates through them and the horde of people approaching to congratulate the performance, but Hermione is nowhere to be found. When a hand presses on his shoulder, he startles and swirls around…

To meet his mother's eyes.

"Darling, something came up with your father's job, we need to be home earlier than anticipated." Because of course it has to be a race against time. "The car will be here shortly. Is that okay?"

Draco shakes his head. It's fine. He can do this. Two minutes, two hours, it doesn't matter―everything is suddenly clear. He's been gifted a second chance and he's not going to waste it. He has to do this. He needs to do this like he needs air to breathe.

"Yeah, fine," he says, avoiding Narcissa's enquiring look and stretching his neck to look over to the buffet tables. People are serving themselves champagne and all kinds of hors d'oeuvres.

"Are you okay? Are you looking for someone?"

"Yes―I mean, no―I just…"

There.

Throwing her head back laughing at some surely idiotic joke that Potter made. Turning left and right to shake hands and grin bashfully when people tell her she's the greatest violinist who has ever lived. Glowing in her black suit, standing out among the crowd even though most of them are dressed like her. The brightest of stars.

"Sorry, mum, it's fine. I uh… There's something I need to do." His mouth is dry as Draco gently pushes his mother aside, eyes fixed on Hermione. Narcissa follows his gaze to find who he's looking at. When she turns back to him, Draco swallows whatever dumb thing his brain is thinking. It's not what you think. Can we go now? Please, tell me what to do.

She cocks her head to the side and asks, "You know the violinist?"

"She, uh… she's…"

Mother and son look at each other for a moment before Narcissa smiles and brings her hand up to adjust a strand of hair on his forehead, humming gently. Her thumb traces his cheek, and Draco has to blink back the sting in his eyes.

"Go. I'll tell you when it's time."

He tries to say something, but he can't, so he nods and heads towards Hermione. Two kids run into his legs, almost making him stumble; a lady avoids spilling her drink on his shirt just by the skin of her teeth; he's forced to clear his throat multiple times when a gentleman stops in his way and doesn't seem to notice that he's blocking the flow of people. Finally, after dozens of ridiculous obstacles (the irony is not lost on him), he reaches her, stopping behind her.

"Granger."

An interminable second later, Hermione turns around. From over her shoulder, Neville grins and gives him a thumb up before frantically pushing Ron and Harry away and leaving her and Draco alone.

She bites her bottom lip. Tragically, it occurs to him that he had forgotten the precise way her front teeth stand out.

"Would you look at that." Her eyes move all over his figure, from his blond hair to his black shirt, down to his shoes and back to his tie. Something glitters in her chestnut gaze when she finds his silver eyes. "Draco Malfoy. Long time no see."

Her fringe must have gotten long because there are no stray locks adorning her cheeks. Her round face is gleaming in the afternoon sun, less tanned than it was almost a year ago, still as beautiful. More beautiful, if that's even possible.

And it is. His memory and the photographs he found himself looking at during his darkest nights didn't do justice to the real-life Venus standing in front of him. Hermione's outer beauties and peculiarities are made of everything that's truly her―her inner doubts, insecurities, and strengths, her fragility and fortitude. It's the old concept of kalokagathia: the idea that the outside perfection mirrors the inner virtue―except that, when it comes to Hermione, Draco knows it's so much more than simple virtue and stale perfection. She is so much more than that.

"I had no idea you'd be here."

She smiles, "I did."

He just wants to take her in his arms and hold her and apologise and scream that he's been the biggest idiot and wipe away the past months with a kiss because, honestly, right now all that time seems irrelevant―and then he wants to love her for as long as he has breath in his lungs. But he also feels like he's walking on a Tibetan bridge and a simple misstep would be his downfall.

"You did?"

~ • ~

Hermione was looking at the sea in the distance, red wine swirling in her glass. She could hear the chatter from the dining table in the background.

"Thoughtful?"

She smiled, turning to find Sirius placing a chair next to hers. She held her glass up. "This French?"

"We're in France," he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Hermione made a face. "I prefer Italian wine." Sirius chuckled. "Thank you, by the way," she told him, putting her hand on his shoulder, "for the party. Mum really loved it."

The Black-Lupin-Potter's had insisted that Mrs Granger celebrated her 50th birthday at their beach house in the South of France. Sirius had been determined to throw a party because his mother used to hate―and consequently ruin―parties her whole life, so now that all her properties had passed onto him, the least he could do was finding every day new ways to piss her off in the afterlife.

"My absolute pleasure," he said, covering Hermione's hand with his.

She gave him a grateful smile, then rested her head on the back of the chair. The late spring breeze was tickling her hair, even messier than usual in the salt air.

"There's something I would like to talk to you about," Sirius said after a minute. Hermione straightened at the serious tone and put down her glass, giving him her full attention. "Well, two things, actually," he added, taking off his sunglasses. "First of all, how is the TV show thing going?"

"We should sign the deal any day now. I'm supposed to meet with Silente and Bonamore in Milan next week." She was beaming. "I'm really excited."

"As you should be," Sirius smiled back. Then continued: "Look, you can say no, but… I know it sounds crazy, but you, Harry and the others are turning twenty-six this year, the same age James and Lily were when…" He trailed off, clearing his throat. Years had gone by, but the pain never lessened. "So, um… Remus and I thought it would be nice to choose a twenty-six-year-old as the recipient for the Stag Foundation scholarship this year. And we would love to give it to you."

Hermione's jaw went slack. "What?"

"Yours is a rare talent, Hermione. Natural. In both performing and composing. And now, with this new incredible project kicking off, this acknowledgment would be the crowning of your journey as a musician."

Hermione kept blinking at Sirius for a few moments, incredulous and speechless. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Say yes," he smiled.

She laughed, shaking her head. "No, but… I have a job on my way, and I'm relatively steady on my feet. I'm sure there are countless other young musicians that need it more than I do."

"Ah, Remus told me you'd say this. You're not wrong," Sirius conceded, "that's why you can decline. But, from one artist to another, very few of the other musicians we've taken into consideration are as deserving as you. Besides, I can't deny that if you accepted, it would make us very happy… you know, given the peculiar circumstances." Hermione turned back to look at the sea, at a loss for words. She took a sip of wine. "You can think about it, of course. The ceremony will be around mid-June. Which brings me to my second point.

"I have a… project, let's say. In mind." Hermione glanced at him at the change of tone and frowned. She'd known Harry long enough to know that there was always something going on with his family. "I'll go straight to the point: Harry told me about this supposedly incredible talent of a pianist you kids met in Rome last year."

Just like that, something crumbled inside Hermione. The carefully constructed wall around her heart vanished.

She had made it her day-to-day self-imposed assignment to not think of Draco―and there Sirius went, casually dragging him back into her life. She really didn't want to stop and think about how badly their relationship had ended. If it had ever been a relationship at all.

Looking into Sirius' scrutinising gaze, Hermione felt her heart hammering in her chest but tried to scold her features in a neutral expression.

Unaware of the earthquake of emotions he'd just caused, he continued. "Turns out, his mother is my cousin. That's a very long story," Sirius waved a hand at Hermione's shocked expression, "but when Harry mentioned this lad, Remus convinced me to bury the axe and reach out, for the sake of the younger generation. I'm still not completely sure it was a good idea or if things will ever be okay between the two of us again, but… Narcissa seems decent enough. That's why I was planning on inviting them to our event in June."

Hermione was carefully trying to keep her thoughts at bay, lest she think about all the nights she'd spent staring at her mobile screen with her hands clasped together, channelling all her willpower into not reaching out to Draco. He was moving on with his life, she had seen it from pictures, from the videos on his pianist account, and she'd heard it from sporadic comments by her friends who somehow were still in contact with him and his mates. (Not that she didn't text Theo on a weekly basis; but there was an unspoken agreement not to discuss certain topics.) Besides, she was moving on, too, and it was going great. She felt like a ship with wind in her sails. But that was career-wise. She had never really moved on from… well, everything else.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"My godson can't shut up for the life of him," was Sirius's simple explanation, to which Hermione averted her eyes. Her chest ached. "Like I said, I want to invite them for family reasons, but mostly to surprise Harry. You should see him rambling about this guy every time one of his videos goes viral." Sirius rolled his eyes, but the affection for his godson was unmistakable, and a hint of a chuckle escaped Hermione. "But I know there was something between the two of you and that it didn't end nicely, so I won't invite him if you're not comfortable with him being there. If you decide to come, that is."

To call it something was a euphemism. To say it didn't end nicely was a massive understatement. Hermione kept her gaze on the waves in the distance, brushed by the wind. The sun was glistening on the surface.

Every day, she missed Draco so much that even thinking about it made her want to scream and cry and break something. Every day, she would daydream about him magically showing up at her doorstep, and every day she'd wonder what her reaction would be. She'd probably slap him. And then she would kiss him like her own salvation depended on it.

He left without a word. He left with a whispered goodbye in the dark. The only visible trace he was ever there was half a dozen written pages.

At first, she'd thought it was for the best. A clean cut. She'd been mad, but she understood―she'd made herself understand. She'd acted like it was for the best, with easy smiles and texts and calls; deep down, though, something was withering inside her chest, day by day.

It had not been for the best.

"Hermione?" Sirius' voice brough her back to the present. "It's fine, love, forget I asked. I'll organise a dinner with the Malfoys."

Hermione wiped away the wetness from her cheeks and turned to him, her mind reeling with doubts and possibilities. She had wanted a second chance for so long. Maybe she could finally have it. Maybe a little bit of godparent-like help was all she needed to set things straight. To mend her broken heart.

"No, it's okay." She took a deep breath, if a bit shaky. It felt like the first real breath in a very long time. Cautiously hopeful. "Invite him. Don't say anything about me." The gentle breeze seemed to swell up in that moment, ruffling her curls; as she pushed them behind her ears, Hermione started to grasp pieces of an idea that was taking shape in her mind. "I'll be there, scholarship or not. And I…

"I have a piece."

~ • ~

"Harry is obnoxiously chatty," Hermione says, affectionately rolling her eyes. "Sirius found out a thing or two, and well. He told me you were coming."

Draco files the information of the Cupid-like behaviour away in his brain, leaving it for later examination. To think that he didn't even know about Sirius' existence less than three hours ago is mind-blowing.

"How…" He clears his throat. "How are you?"

"I'm great, thank you!" Hermione exclaims, tucking a rebellious curl behind her ear. "How are you?"

"I'm…" About to die. If someone checked his vital parameters right now, they'd probably call an ambulance. "I'm fine." He squeezes his eyes, shaking his head. When he opens them, Hermione is still there. It's not a dream. "I didn't even know you were in London."

Another smile. "Surprise."

He really, really, really fucking hates surprises.

"I hate surprises."

She shrugs, a grin permanently tugging up her lips. "Okay."

He tries to give her some semblance of a smile too. Draco has no idea what's happening or what he's going to do.

"I thought you were still touring."

"Are you keeping tabs on me, Malfoy?"

He scoffs, or smiles, or sighs―he just makes a weird noise that he hopes is not as embarrassing in real life as it sounds in his head.

"Well, I… I follow you on Instagram." And I saw all your posts and stories and I listened to every song you matched them with and I read every poem you quoted and I tried to stop because I knew I was just making things worse for myself but I couldn't. "You know that."

Hermione beams at him, and Draco can sense his blood running faster through his veins. He'd thought it was the Italian sun burning him up from the inside, all those times he got lost in the way her cheeks lifted with the curve of a grin. But London's sun isn't as strong, and yet here he is, set alight by her presence alone.

It was foolishness, really, to think he could manage to keep on surviving without her. He'd almost got used to it―to the contentment that was doomed to never become true happiness. I wish you were the kind of person who settles for enough. Why settle for enough when he could have it all. When he could have her.

Can he have her?

"I was touring, but then Zeno offered me a deal with a TV company. I'm about to start working on that project, so I left the group."

"You left it?"

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Just you?"

Hermione bites the inside of her mouth. "Yes, Draco. Just me."

Just her.

Which means alone. Which means no other friend who flies out from Paris with her. Or from any other European city.

Just me.

Maybe he can have her.

Pause. Rewind. Zeno. As in Bonamore. As in Luna. As in Zabini. As in, the bastard of his best friend probably knew something, if not everything; the very same arsehole who―Draco now remembers with a tick in his jaw―loudly and quickly would change the topic of the conversation every time Draco asked Luna about her father for work-related things. As in, he's going to have a conversation with Blaise fucking Zabini.

Draco shakes the thought from his mind momentarily to focus back on the woman in front of him. "So, uh… a TV company?"

"Yep, an English-Italian production is producing a period drama and I'll be working on the soundtrack. I'm really excited," she tells him with a wide smile after grabbing a glass from the nearby table. She is distractingly beautiful.

"That's amazing," he says earnestly as Hermione sips from her drink. A beat of silence hangs between them before, "You said English-Italian?"

"Hm-hm," she nods. "It's the other reason why I'm in London, besides..." she gestures around them to indicate the ceremony. "The main recording studio is here, and we'll move to Italy when needed. It's a pretty huge project because Albus Silente is involved, too, so… you know. Big money moving around."

It's hilariously weird. Draco can see the loading bar of his brain before his eyes.

"So, you're… here?"

Another smirk behind her wine glass. "For the time being."

She is staying. She is going to live in London for the foreseeable future. The same city he lives in. Not that Draco wouldn't be ready to drop everything and follow her to the top of Mount Everest if she asked. He made a mistake once. This time, he's going to make it right. He hopes he'll get the chance to make it right.

Hermione must see the discombobulation in his gaze but waits for him to say something. Which is honestly just cruel of her―Draco feels this close from breaking out singing or declaring sonnets. He's desperately clinging to one single ounce of control; he has to keep his psyche intact somehow, to try and make sense of what is going on. The fact that he's pretty much failing is another matter altogether.

"Are you," going to let me kiss you is how he'd like to end the sentence, but what comes out is, "staying for long?"

"Well, the first trip to Italy is next week, so it's not clear at the moment. And, you know, since I'm part of the Italian team, London won't see me permanently." She's not staying then? "Not yet at least." Not yet.What does it mean? Is she implying something? He's missing something here. "But that's enough about me. What have you been up to?"

"I…" The orchestra. McGonagall. Social media presence. Viral videos. Rose. "The usual." Rose. Does Hermione know about Rose? Does she care? Does it matter?

She scoffs. "That's very generic."

"Yeah, well." His mouth makes a wheezy half-chuckle sound that's so embarrassing he'd like for the ground to open and swallow him whole. He'd also like to stop himself from driving the conversation back to her living situation, but his tongue seems to conspire against him. "I'm sorry―are you… so you're leaving soon?"

"You can tell me about your life, Malfoy, I asked you."

"Do you really want to hear about it, though?" Draco would be more surprised by his words if they weren't true.

Maybe she's just being polite. Maybe she hates him. She'd have every right to, given how he left and did everything in his power to disappear from her life. He even went as far as avoiding Potter and his band's concerts; he always bailed on them when Blaise and Luna popped by his flat with tickets.

Her small laugh, Draco realises when he hears it, is the one sound he's been obsessively looking for in every song and every melody and every blow of the wind and every rustling of leaves.

"Would that be so hard to imagine?" Hermione's eyes are as soft as ever, as welcoming as they were the night they sat on a Roman square and ate gelato.

He hides his nervousness in a shrug. "It's been quite a while." And several stains on other people's bed sheets. "Maybe your interests have changed."

"My interests haven't changed, Malfoy."

A shiver runs down his spine. And if his voice is rougher when he speaks, he couldn't have done anything to prevent it. "Good to know."

"Have yours?"

He swallows a lump of emotions. They haven't. Draco tried. So hard. But no, his interests haven't changed. They never could. Probably never will.

"You, uh…" Just say something. Something clever, possibly. "You haven't answered." Which is not that.

"You neither." Hermione exhales heavily when he stays silent. "Yes, Draco, I'm leaving soon. I'm not coming back permanently, I told you." Her tone doesn't betray anything, but her eyes seem to search his gaze for… something. And he's pretty sure his eyes say it all, but he also lost control over his mouth the moment he saw her.

"I can't blame you. Italy is beautiful, I'd go back in the blink of an eye." Yeah, maybe if he had more control over his words, he would say things with a little sense. But Hermione smiles, in that peculiar way that makes her nose scrunch a bit. Draco sniffs, or maybe he clears his throat or squeezes his eyes―he doesn't really feel his own body at this point. "So, um… will you be busy?"

"Oh," she exclaims, "yes, I have a rather packed schedule for the upcoming days. I need to help my mum with some medical things, for starters. I have some meetings with people who will be working from here while we're in Italy." She looks around for the plates stack. "There's the visit to the studio and several other technical things to do." She grabs a plate and starts filling it with food. "Sirius was also mentioning a lunch somewhere with―oh, I don't remember who..."

Sensing a headache coming, Draco doesn't bother following Hermione's words anymore; he's okay with just watching her. More than okay.

"Plus, I have to catch up with some friends. Harry said something about an audition for a musical contest, too." He's lost her, solely focused on finding the right moment to ask her to go out with him. Or, alternatively, to spend the rest of her life with him. "And I just remembered my dad wanted to look at trips for Australia―God knows why he wants to do it now, but apparently it can't wait." Hermione devours a canapé and Draco is about to tell her he can't wait either, when her voice changes, "And then, if I'm still on time, there's meeting someone I haven't seen in ten months to tell them I love them."

The words on the tip of his tongue die in his mouth.

Hermione takes another bite and keeps chewing, an amused expression painted all over her features. Draco tries to shape his scattered breathing into words, but he finds it's impossible. His lips open and close several times, but no sound comes out.

She leans in slightly, her smile turning hesitant. "If I get the chance to do it, that is."

He swallows down on nothing, blinking at her. "Sure." What. The gracious. Fuck? She hums. His next words come out gruff: "Lucky person."

"Very lucky indeed. Bit too lucky, maybe." Touché. She makes a little gasping sound, but Draco can't really be sure; he knows her smile is beautiful, though, because he misses it instantly when she turns around to grab her glass. "How about you? Any plans?"

Plans. Right. Plans. Draco knows plans. He has a plan. His whole life, he's had a plan. He loves plans. He's the master of plans. He hates surprises because he lives by plans.

His tight schedule is full of appointments and errands, too, all timed to the second, none of which he can miss. However, Draco can't seem to remember any of them now. It's stupid. It's exhilarating. It's the best fucking feeling in the entire world.

"I…" he begins, but his words anticipate his brain once again. "That was a beautiful piece."

Something flickers in Hermione's gaze, and it goes right to his gut. "Modesty is not your thing, is it?"

"You never told me you'd found it."

"You thought I'd lost it?"

"Maybe."

"You never mentioned it either. Actually, you disappeared after leaving it on my bedside table while I was sleeping." A note of hurt seeps through the light-hearted tone of her voice, and Draco's insides twist up in guilt and regret.

"I didn't…" She's looking at him with her wide chocolate-brown eyes when she wets her lips. It's a reflex, more than anything else, and yet it draws out in time for what feels like a century. "Are you mad at me?"

"I was."

Fair.

"Are you mad at me now?"

"Maybe." Also fair. "I have to think about that," she says, tilting her head to the side. "After all, I haven't heard from you in a very long time."

He doesn't bite his tongue quickly enough. "You haven't thought of me either?"

"Modesty is definitely not your thing."

Draco wants to tell her that he's been thinking of her constantly, even when he was actively not thinking of her, but Hermione waves a hand around and he holds that thought for another time―because he is going to get a second chance, let it be the last thing he ever does.

"You should compose more, by the way. Sirius couldn't stop talking about this piece when I first played it for him. I think Hozier would love it," she adds with a wink.

Draco feels like laughing hysterically. Or maybe disappearing from the face of the Earth. Or possibly spending the rest of his life just looking at Hermione, carving into his mind the way the sunlight plays with the shades of brown in her eyes.

He could stare at her for centuries. He wants to.

"I did write a few pieces, as a matter of fact," he manages to say. Maybe what he really feels like doing is punching himself.

Hermione laughs, and if it isn't the sound that puts all music to shame.

A sudden touch on his shoulder makes him jump, startled.

"Sorry, sweetheart, we should get going." Narcissa stands quietly next to him and rubs his back while Draco blinks at her. His eyes dart from her to Hermione and back to his mother. "Or, well, you can get a taxi…"

"No, it's fine, just give me a minute," he says before clearing his throat and glancing at Hermione. "Um, mum?" Narcissa's smile doesn't need any words: it says everything Draco would have never dreamed of asking. "This is Hermione."

Ten.

And the smile Hermione gives him is everything his dreams are made of.

"What an incredible performance, my dear. You really are impossibly talented."

"Oh, thank you, you're too kind." Hermione blushes adorably at the genuine praise. "It's truly a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Malfoy."

Draco is going to burst.

His mother turns to him. "I'll head downstairs, then. But…"

"I'll be there," he assures her. "I have to come back to Marlborough anyway. My, uh…" It's incredible, really, the way his brain can focus solely on Hermione's figure peeping in the corner of his peripheral vision. "My car is there. So, I really have to."

"That's why I mentioned the taxi."

Hermione makes a poor job of covering up her snort with a cough.

"Right. Yeah, but―it's a long road. A pointless expense. Don't worry, just… I'll be right behind you."

"As you wish," Narcissa says, sharing a look with the woman behind him. Then, "It was a pleasure, Hermione."

"Likewise, Mrs Malfoy."

She is just so effortlessly gracious. The same girl who shoves a maritozzo con panna down her throat every morning, smearing whipped cream all over her chin as though she was still five years old.

Narcissa leaves and Draco follows her with his gaze, terrified to face Hermione. He has no idea how to wrap this up, how to do what he wants to do and how to say what he wants to say.

"You know, I had a dream once." She reins in a laugh when his neck cracks from how quickly he turns his head. "That you called me Hermione when you said goodbye in Rome."

"That's impossible."

"Why?" she pouts.

It's unfair.

"I never call you Hermione." Oh. "Hermione." Oh.

Her face lights up in the prettiest smile, leaving him breathless. It softens after a moment. "I guess you have to go."

"I guess so." Neither moves. "I'll see you around, then." A beat. "Meet me tomorrow for breakfast."

"Aren't you supposed to go back to… Marlborough, was it? I thought you were a city person, by the way."

"I am. My parents like to stay in the countryside for the summer, and I went there for my birthday." Inwardly, Draco grimaces. His brain-mouth filter is permanently gone.

"I didn't know it was your birthday! When was it?"

"Oh, a couple of days ago," he runs a hand to the back of his head bashfully.

"Well, then, happy belated birthday."

Her hand twitches, almost reaching for his arm, but Draco doesn't notice, too focused on her joyful eyes. If he could find the way to curl up in her smile and soak in the warmth that Hermione spreads with that simple action, he would crack the riddle to live a full and peaceful life.

"Thank you." If this isn't the best present of his entire existence. They are quiet for a moment, voices of the guests around them just a distant background noise. "Anyway, I'm coming back to London tonight. Or tomorrow. I'm coming back."

Hermione nods, smiling. "Okay."

"Okay."

"London, then?"

"Yes."

"It's a pretty big city, you know."

"Yeah." Let his idiocy be the reason why her laugh is so crystalline, this day and every day for the rest of his life.

"Alright," she says, pulling out her mobile from her purse, "you can write down the―oh, it's dead." She suggests he text her, but Draco has already grabbed a pen from a passing waiter's suit jacket, grabbed her left arm, and gently pulled up the sleeve.

Hermione blinks at him, eyes wide in surprise, before huffing out a laugh. She bites her lip as he scribbles an address on her forearm, just like she did to him many months ago, in a sun-drenched afternoon in a timeless Italian city. She doesn't know it yet, but it's not a café's address he's giving her. It's the address of his place.

They both contemplate it quietly for a moment, before Draco leans in. "Don't bring a friend."

She giggles and he smiles, freeing her arm. Every inch of his skin is burning up, every part of his body suddenly feels boneless. His fingertips are already screaming to touch her again.

"Eight o'clock then," she says, nodding resolutely. "Apologies sound better in the morning."

Right, apologies. He should apologise. He has to. She, too, should―no. No, she shouldn't. He's the one who messed up. Twice.

"Whenever you want," Draco agrees.

"You won't be sleeping that early in the morning?"

"It's fine."

She peers down at the address, traces it with violin string scarred fingers; then rolls down the sleeve. "Okay, then. See you tomorrow. Eight AM."

He nods. Watches her smile softly, and nods again. Draco takes three steps back, slowly, before reluctantly turning around.

I hope you'll get the right message out of it.

He starts walking.

I guess it tells us how minor details can have the most unexpected of outcomes.

Hermione looks at Draco's retreating back, and it seems like she's about to follow him…

She doesn't. Instead, she puts down the plate and the wine glass, the ceramic and the glass clicking together and against the table.

As he reaches the exit on the staircase, Draco looks up from the tip of his oxfords to see plenty of people around him chatting easily. It's madness, he thinks, how calm and relaxed they are. If this was a Romantic painting, they would all be reflecting his inner havoc, laying on the ground gripping on their hair and beating their chests.

He climbs down the stairs slowly, dazed mind and unable to focus, his body thrumming with pent-up energy. He's been waiting for the moment he'd finally see Hermione again for so long that now their encounter feels like an illusion, a cruel hallucination. Maybe it didn't even happen. Maybe it was just the umpteenth dream―God only knows how many times he dreamed of her. It's too many coincidences at once to be true.

Or maybe Hermione is going to text him tomorrow at 7.58 AM to inform him she's at his front door. Maybe she's going to have breakfast with him and complain that it's not a maritozzo and make him fall in love with her all over again.

The thing is, he doesn't want to wait until tomorrow. He wants her here and now, on this terrace just like he wanted her on that other, more ancient terrace, in this city just like he wanted her in that other, more ancient city.

And then, if I'm still on time, there's meeting someone I haven't seen in ten months to tell them I love them.

Draco stops, one foot dangling over the lower step. He should turn around. He didn't do it the first time, and she told him she was mad for it. Did she also hate him? Did she forgive him? Does she know why he didn't turn around? Does he know why he didn't? Yes. Because he wasn't strong enough to admit that he was in love with her and that he would have given up everything to stay with her. He wasn't strong enough to make it real. And turning around would have made it real. But now he has a second chance. Now he has to turn around.

The sound of fingers snapping close to his face startles him, shaking Draco from his thoughts. It takes him a few seconds to focus and recognise Sirius in front of him.

"Everything all right, son?"

That's when it hits him, looking at the first piece of domino that created the series of events that brought him here: it's not a dream.

Draco grabs the man by the shoulders, a wild glint in his eyes that earns him a funny look. "Can you give me a lift to Marlborough tonight?"

"Sure, we can manage something."

"Great, thank you. Can you tell my mother I have something to do here? She's downstairs."

Sirius smiles knowingly then, and the visible pride in his gaze makes Draco's heart swell with emotions. "Go."

Draco runs back upstairs. He emerges in a crowd that somehow looks like it's triplicated. He elbows his way through it, searching for Hermione, but she's nowhere to be found. He apologises countless times to a ridiculous number of people; he scans groups of musicians in black suits; he runs to the stage where Harry, Ron and Neville are getting ready to play, but they shake their heads when asked if they've seen Hermione. The redhead makes a stupid joke, but Draco can't be bothered. He dives back into the wave of guests looking for her, avoiding long dresses and glasses full of champagne, a frantic string of "pardon" and "excuse me" on his tongue, but Hermione seems to have disappeared.

Maybe it was a vivid hallucination.

At the hundredth black suit he scans, Draco is ready to face the fact that he's just delusional enough to have made the whole thing up and he's probably going to wake up soon, when…

Hermione emerges from the staircase, frowning. Her hair looks frizzier, tousled, like she ran and ruined her hairdo. Draco immediately pinches himself.

It bloody hurts.

He quickly covers the distance between them, shouting from distress and relief at once. "Where have you been?!"

"Where have you been?"

"I was looking for you!"

"Well, I was looking for you!"

He stares at her. He stares, and stares, and stares, and she's the most beautiful piece of art ever created. They're so close, he can see his reflection in her wide eyes; he can see his true self in them, because she knows him. Hermione got to know him deeply in such a short amount of time, and he wants her to keep knowing him and discovering new things about him―completely, thoroughly―for the rest of her days.

She cocks an eyebrow when a full minute passes with no words between them. "So?"

Draco feels his mouth stretch in a smile too big for his face, his cheeks almost aching. "You were looking for me, Granger?"

She rolls her eyes, a smirk draping across her face. "You're making this harder than it should be."

"That's one elegant double entendre."

"I didn't recall you being such a teenager, Malfoy."

He chuckles, shaking his head. Then, slowly, timidly, he brings his hand up to her face, tucking an insubordinate curl behind her ear. Hermione's eyes flicker shut at the contact, sighing as though she's been waiting for that. For his touch. He draws her closer by her hand, circling her waist with the other one as she falls into his arms.

Their lips meet halfway, and the whole world finds its colours and its meaning again.

She locks her arms around his neck, and Draco secures his grip around her waist before lifting her up, spinning her around one, two, three times. Hermione squeals in surprise and joy, and her laughter is enough to make up for all his mistakes, all his regrets, all the months of missing her.

As he gently puts her down, the weight of her body pressing against him after so long, Draco takes her in. Wild curls, chest heaving, eyes glistening. An irrepressible wave of happiness washes over him―just pure, unthinkable, unimaginable happiness.

The taste of her lips is better than any dream, better than he remembered, and the force of her smile against his mouth is the one thing that will ever keep him sane.

Tamed for far too long, the fire blazes in his heart, free of constraints and self-imposed limits, and he knows Hermione can feel it, too. He knows it from the way she leans into him, from her fingers tangling in his hair, from the blinding light in her eyes.

It's the same spark that brought the universe to life.

His hand cups the nape of her neck, tenderly, thumb brushing her jaw, and she whines when he breaks the contact between their lips. Foreheads pressed together, Draco kisses her pout away.

"I have plans, too," he says, a whisper that feels like the spring breeze.

"Do you, now?"

He hums. "But I had to change them last minute. There was an unforeseen turn of events."

"Oh no. Can you fix it?"

"Yeah, it's easy enough." He leaves a peck the tip of her nose. "Maybe you can help me. There's this violinist I need to talk to―short, curly brown hair, plays like a Muse. Have you seen her?"

"Doesn't sound familiar. But maybe I'll bump into her and can pass a message."

"Sounds good. If you do, please tell her I said that I missed her and I love her. Today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and every other day forward." Draco pushes through the hoarseness of his voice. "Can you do that for me?"

Hermione beams, and the sun is crying somewhere in the sky, for a human stole its role. Her next words are a bit wobbled, a wet sniffle in between them. "Miss and love. Sure. Noted."

"Good." Draco forces back the sting at the corner of his eyes. "Thank you, Granger. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I know," she says before capturing his mouth again.

This kiss is soft, passionate, and full of promises for the future.

Their future.

Pulling back, Hermione takes his face in her hands, eyes boring into his, thumbs resting delicately on his cheekbones. Her callous pads stroke his skin as though she's caressing blown glass.

"I love you, Draco."

Such simple words. Most people use and abuse them. But that's not the case when they come from Hermione. There's nothing simple or ordinary about them. Not when she directs them at him and him only. Not when they are meant for this moment and every other moment where she almost said it. Not when they are meant for every moment where he almost said it. Not when they sound like the immediate forgiveness Eurydice gave Orpheus when he lost her forever.

Except that Draco isn't losing Hermione. Not now, and if he can help it, not ever. Because he's in love with her and she's in love with him.

A kind of love that is not original, nor a once-in-history affair, but it's ardent, fierce, and powerful anyway. A leap of faith that doesn't have to be original, doesn't have to be one for the history books, to drive two lovers insane with immeasurable happiness and unadulterated joy, to make their hearts pound double-time in their chests.

A love that soothes the gnawing sensation in the stomach Draco had become used to living with. A love that makes him feel light and plan-less and free for the first time in his life.

Because, sometimes, love isn't enough, he'd told Pansy and, fuck, was he wrong. Well, not wrong per se, but delusional. There is nothing that matters more, nothing that could have more value―who cares about the rest of the world when he gets to be loved by Hermione Granger. Let it perish, let it flourish, let it disappear. He can't bring himself to care.

Hermione's smile is ecstatic, audacious, and life-altering. It's a laugh and it's a yell, it's the first ray of the morning sun and it's a toddler touching the sea for the first time, it's the constellations taking shapes and names in the night sky and it's pages and pages of poetry. It's the finish line of a race and it's the climbing of the highest mountain, it's the fresh music of a river in the forest. It's the happily ever after and it's the entire road it took to get there. It's anarchy and chaos, it's the plan for the rest of his life and it's no plan at all, it's the highs and it's the lows, it's music―it's all the music in the world.

It's noise, it's dissonance, it's melody, it's harmony, it's scales and notes, it's a song and it's silence, it's a beat and it's pauses, it's a thousand different instruments. It's orchestras and solo acts, it's a whole pianoforte keyboard but flipped around, because it's 88 keys and if you flip two eights you get two infinites and that's what Hermione holds inside of her and in her smile―infinites and so much more.

It's a smile full of hope.

"I'm in love with you, Hermione Granger."

Love.

That intense, utterly terrifying and yet inexplicably comforting connection with someone who can take the unabashed and daring hopefulness that lies within your soul and make it theirs.

The reason we could walk straight to the Underworld or touch Heaven with a finger―all because we know there is someone beside us who can quiet our fears and anguish, making us happy to wake up every morning.

After all, that's what it is all about. Isn't it?

---

A/N

"Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here!"

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

Thank you for reading this work! We love it dearly and we hope it brought you even just a little bit of joy. Until next time,

Sara & Vale