DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING BUT THIS SO-CALLED PLOT.
Art for this chapter is on AO3!
I'm (somewhat) sorry (ish) for tormenting all of you with this endless UST, but I refuse to let you (and Hermione) off the hook with a simple, "and they talked for hours," or "They had been dancing around each other for weeks." You must experience it all in real time.
PS - Have faithe, be merrie!
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She levitated her cassette player, a mug of cocoa, and a plate of assorted biscuits, dry fruit, and chocolate roses to the bedroom that morning. She'd had a lovely run in the bitter cold, and she was now showered, buttery warm, with an empty weekend ahead of her after so very long. It was hazy outside, with a light drizzle. Starthistle Hill hadn't any yellow left. It was a big, lumpen tangle of bramble. Hermione opened her balcony doors and cast a shield charm to keep the cold out and let the pitter-patter in. She wished she had tapes of classical piano, so she could pretend Draco was in the room with her, but she went with Enya in the absence of those.
Watermark had released on her ninth birthday. She remembered dad insisting on stopping by a record shop on their way to Warwick castle, and they'd listened to it over and over again during the drive to and back.
A large parcel from her parents sat on her bed and she beamed at it, feeling an onslaught of emotions that music and nostalgia stirred up.
Their letter rambled on a bit; dad was heartily amused by Theo's foray in cooking, mum had decided that it was high time Hermione caught up with contemporary literature, and had sent her the booker prize winners from the last five years. Together, they lamented at length about how much they missed travelling, only to reveal that they were going to Corfu to celebrate mum's forty-fifth birthday.
By the way, would it be a terrible imposition if your old mum and dad stop by your place for Christmas?
She fell back into bed with a pleased squeal. Music melded with rain, warmth seeped through her veins, and everything was wonderful. She rolled to her side and considered the books she'd been sent, zoning in on the two women among the pile. One of those was a story that was set around the first World War, so without question she picked up the other.
She prepared the scene for the rest of the day – lit a scented candle, gathered a blanket around her, placed the mug and plate with a stabilising charm on the bed next to her, fluffed up the second pillow for Stella – and dived into The God of Small Things .
Only ever moving to use the loo, to flip the tape, or to refresh her mug (be it with more cocoa, or tea, or that one time she was so distracted that she sipped plain boiled water,) Hermione stayed in bed for the entirety of the day.
By seven in the evening, the player had been silent for some time. The rain had stopped and her magical shield had turned misty.
Hermione didn't know if she felt repulsed or elevated. She was stuck somewhere between the two, just like she was stuck between the sickening turn of events and the beautiful prose. She had been reading so much slower than she was used to, for she felt that she had forgotten how to savour literature. Right from the moment –
' In the country that she came from, poised forever between the terror of war and the horror of peace, Worse Things kept happening,'
– pinned her down, all the way till –
' He folded his fear into a perfect rose. He held it out in the palm of his hand. She took it from him and put it in her hair,'
– left her gasping, Hermione felt fear, grief, and pain like only children ever felt. What made her not a child anymore, anyway?
"You look cosy."
" Eep! "
She scrambled into a seated position, staring, completely terrified, at the intruder at her bedroom door.
"You could've given me a heart attack! I preferred it when you announced your presence by banging pots and pans!"
Theo's smile was more of a wince. "Sorry," he muttered, "And I'm sorry for what I'm about to ask of you."
"Oh no," she sighed reflexively.
"I need you to leave this snug little cocoon you've made for yourself."
"Oh. No ."
"Hermione, please ."
She marked her page and put down the book, so that she could properly cross her arms and pout.
"What for?" she huffed.
"You're my best friend. I love you to pieces. You know I would do anything for you, right?"
"This... this is bad, isn't it?"
He rubbed the patchy scruff on his jaw, looking very wounded and tormented – and she could tell that it was somehow both genuine and a bit of a show.
"I need you to come with me to Finnigan's."
She scowled, "Is Luna going to be there or something?"
"No." Theo was looking intently out of the balcony doors, at the blackness outside.
" Then?! Why must I come?"
"Draco's asked me to meet him there," he grumbled.
"Oh – uh – kay... and? Have you had another silly fight?"
He spared her a nervous glance, then looked away again. He sighed, and leaned against the doorjamb, continuously stroking his pseudo-beard.
"We haven't fought," he drew out slowly, "Draco's on a date and he wants me to meet the girl he's seeing."
Bile shot up her throat. Her head spun and she... she needed Theo to go away. He had to leave.
Her chest rippled with pain.
"What's that got to do with me?" she asked in a voice that gave far too much away.
Theo pressed his lips together and looked at her with open pity. "I really don't want to be the third wheel, sitting like a twat with a spanking new, loved up couple."
She was going to throw up all the junk she had consumed through the day. "So, ask George–"
"He's having dinner with Angeli–"
"Drag Seamus away from the bar! Or, I'm sure Dean will be loitering about? You're chummy with Oliver Wood too, now, aren't you? Or, how about–"
"Hermione, please. " He said for the second time.
"What's the bloody big deal anyway?" she exclaimed. There were tears bubbling up behind her eyes and he needed to go, he needed to go, he needed to go. "Yes, she bores you, but you've put up with her before!"
"That was years and years ago... we were all little kids then. What if she's even more irritating and bothersome now?"
"Huh?"
"What?"
"Who..." she breathed, "Who is the girl he's seeing?"
"Astoria."
" Who? "
"Astoria Greengrass."
Hermione felt electrocuted.
"Daphne's younger sister," Theo added.
"I... Oh."
"Who did you think I was talking about?"
"Fiona," she murmured.
"Who's that?"
"Vince-and-Greg bint."
Theo wrinkled his nose. Right. He had to get out. But first...
"How long has this been going on?"
"I don't know!"
The words exploded out of him and he pitched ahead, marching towards the balcony doors and attempting to pull them shut. Her shield charm blocked him, he growled, and stomped towards the armchair and thew himself onto it, uncaring about the pile of neatly folded clothes under him.
"Christmas hols haven't started yet. I didn't know she was back from France, let alone... Bah! But apparently, she is back, and they ran into each other at the Portkey Office, and... and... This is like the Bowtruckle all over again!"
"He has a habit of keeping his love life a secret from you, is it?"
She had gone cold all of a sudden. It was strange. Acid gurgled in her throat, nausea swirled in her stomach, but it was all encased in ice. Theo had to leave so she could melt, ooze, and bleed.
"Apparently, I meddle !" Theo fell back with his arm pressed theatrically against his forehead, "And mess up his life. All because of that stupid incident in fourth year with Pansy... which turned out just fine in the end anyway! I don't mess things up! I make things better , always!"
He was up on his feet again, pacing across her bedroom. Hermione had ice and acid in her heart now. If he would just wrap up his rant and leave...
"Honestly, he was being so smug and sly that for a moment I thought he'd finally – but no. Babbling little Tori. And of course, I expressed my utter lack of interest in catching up with her, but he said she's already expecting me, and he said please fucking show up . Snuck a please in there knowing full well that nobody in the world would ever contradict a please from Draco Bloody Malfoy. Pfff. Astoria Greengrass. She used to drink out of the pond. What is he thinking?"
"She's not at Hogwarts then?"
"She was, for her first and second year." (Stella leapt off the bed and began pacing behind Theo.) "But then Voldy sprang up again, so her parents shipped her off to Beauxbatons. They meant to send Daphne as well, but she refused because Blaise is the love of her life."
"Wasn't she going to marry Pucey?"
"Yeah, well, Blaise doesn't love her. Blaise loves Blaise." He stopped abruptly, and Stella crashed against the back of his shoe. "Sorry, Ducky," he said, scooping her up.
She thought she knew what it felt like, to have the object of your desire wrapped up in someone else. But she didn't; not at all. What she had felt was an intimation, easily faded by time. The searing, corrosive pain she felt right then, was not one that could be forgotten. If she let it, it would consume her from within.
And she would let it, once Theo left.
He didn't make any sort of move to leave. He let his words sit like a heavy canopy over them, watching her with desperation. What a picture she must've made; surrounded by books and titbits, in baggy clothes, with long, wild hair – a little sendup of a bookish homebody with a crumpled heart.
Silence hung in the air like secret loss.
Theo had to know. If he hadn't before, he must've guessed by now. And she would silently thank him for not saying it out loud.
But he needed to leave.
"So... you'll come?"
"No."
"Hermione–"
"No. I – I haven't had a day to relax and read in so long. I deserve a break."
"You do. But... Please?"
"No."
"If I was a manipulative bastard, I would remind you that I went with you to Australia, which is much further off than Diagon."
She gaped at him, which brought the moisture on the rim of her eyes dangerously close to spilling out.
"You absolutely are a manipulative bastard. I didn't realise that was conditional!"
"It wasn't. I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm just... I don't know. I'm so sorry."
He dragged a hand down his face.
They were all so wrecked, weren't they? All of them. What was the point of her cocoon – a facsimile of wholesome indulgence? She was better off going to Finnigan's and facing heartbreak head-on; looking it in the eye and letting it demolish her, all the while wearing a smile. She was wrecked, Theo was wrecked.
Might as well embrace it.
"Fine," she said, "Give me a minute to get changed."
Theo's shoulders straightened and he gently set Stella on the bed.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
She tried to smile. It was good practice.
And when he left the room, she pulled herself out of bed, and let the tears that had already gathered fall. She would not let any fresh ones form.
(Some did, but she wiped them away before they could escape her lower lash line.)
She wore a frock, (maroon, knee length, long sleeved,) like she had someone to impress. Someone who was already impressed by another; a Greengrass who was most likely genetically impressive.
Her hair had suffered a great deal from being left to its own devises while she lolled in bed. That, she could do nothing about. It was only when she looked herself over in the mirror, that she saw exactly how flayed open her face was. Pale – almost blanched. Mouth pinched. She forced herself to smile and there was nothing in her eyes. The face of a woman painted by Modigliani.
She decided that she would approach the evening like an execution. She would place her heart on the chopping block and let Draco deliver the coup de grâce. Then she would return to her cocoon, flip the tape and start over.
Out in the hall, Theo unnecessarily helped her put on her coat and scarf. He mumbled another small sorry, when they were in the lift, so she forced another smile – a gesture of wrecked solidarity.
The night was cold, but it was young. Diagon was beginning to light up for the holidays, and it was teeming with shoppers, bar hoppers, and show stoppers. Hermione and Theo walked side by side, and they both knew to pause at the menagerie window to look at baby nifflers in elf-hats, playing with shiny Christmas ornaments.
Then they entered Finnigan's, removed their coats, and headed to the bar. Cutting through the moderate crowd, Hermione hoped that the other two hadn't arrived yet, so she would have a little alcohol in her before she faced the axe; but no such luck. They were already there.
Draco was leaning, (of course, he was,) smirking at a young woman in a long white sheath dress. She had dark hair falling in soft waves, dancing around a slightly rounded face – besides those she looked remarkably like Daphne. Beautiful features, perfect posture.
She turned as they approached and her face broke into a broad smile.
"Theodore Nott. At last."
She wrapped her arms around his waist.
"Er, hello," he said, patting her back and staring down at his hands as he did so.
Hermione snuck a glance at Draco, and found him smirking at her now , an oddly significant look, like they were sharing a joke. The only joke she was in on, was herself.
Theo and Astoria parted, and Hermione found herself being pushed forward.
"Astoria, this is Hermione."
"Oh, of course!" Astoria said, offering Hermione her hand. She had a high but melodious voice, with a very, very slight French accent. "I'd heard that this rogue had managed to befriend you, and at first, I didn't believe it. Then I remembered, it's Theodore Nott , and had no trouble believing it at all."
Hermione forced a response out of her throat. "Yes, I've come to realise that it's Theodore Nott can explain away a lot of strange things."
That made Astoria laugh. How perfectly lovely. And she really did seem perfectly lovely, too. Draco came up, putting a hand on Astoria's back, and Hermione pulled out her smile , as practiced. They collected drinks from the bar, (cinnamon buttered rum in giant tankards was being pushed, so cinnamon buttered rum in giant tankards they accepted,) and moved to the table near a window, where Hermione and Draco had once talked about potions and Kafka. She ended up sitting across from Astoria, with Theo and Draco on either side, and she angled her chair so she faced the space between Theo and Astoria. That kept most of Draco – barring his arm on the table – out of the field of her vision.
"Well, Theodore Nott," Astoria said, smiling prettily, "You have grown obnoxiously tall and your scruffiness would make my mother weep. Explain yourself."
Astoria was indeed talkative, but there was no trace of irritation in Theo's demeanour. He had no need for a human shield.
Hermione slowly but assiduously sipped her drink and zoned out while they caught up. Her being there was so stupid. She shouldn't have fucking agreed. Why did she think she needed confirmation of the fact that Draco was out of her reach? It wasn't some recondite law of nature that required scientific proof. It was already pre-established.
When she tuned in again, Theo was asking Astoria, "How did you manage to get away from school so early? Was it like the time you tried climbing out of a second story window by making a rope out of your mother's best brassieres?"
"Merlin, Theodore!" she chastised, and lightly hit his shoulder. She shot Hermione a scandalised look, "Please don't judge my character on that, I was five . Anyway," she glared at Theo, "I did not escape. I was asked to come home because my poor sister is inconsolable since her fiancé was thrown into Azkaban."
"I'm sure she's devastated," Theo scoffed.
"She's certainly playing the part. And I'm playing the part of the caring, doting sister." She turned to Hermione once again, grinning. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm the good one."
Yes, she was that. No wonder Draco had pounced on her.
"And when I arrived at the British Ministry, lo and behold, the first face I see is this handsome one."
She reached out and placed her hand on Draco's forearm. Hermione looked away and took a long pull from her tankard.
She was addressed again, so she turned to Astoria with a smile .
"Your name's been in the paper a lot, lately. I believe you helped put that scab Millward in prison?"
"I was part of the legal team," Hermione replied, all Friendly with a capital F, "And I must say, we are tremendously grateful for your mother's last minute about-turn."
Astoria laughed. "Oh, my father was furious when he learned that she had agreed to testify on his behalf... but only after the Quibbler exposé, mind you."
Hermione also laughed, ignoring the way Draco's fingers were tapping the surface of the table.
"So, you're saying he didn't always have a feeling ? He didn't make sure you and your sister were in the far west wing every time Millward came by?"
"Is that what mother said?" Astoria shook her head. "Merlin. My family. Lunatics, the lot of them."
Draco and Theo made twin grunts of agreement.
"That's why I'm a Granger now," Theo quipped, throwing Hermione a wink.
Astoria's eyes darted speculatively between the two them. Hermione smiled.
"Where on earth is Pansy, by the way? Daphne hates her again."
Hermione didn't care a hoot. She zoned out once more, thinking about Christmas with her parents, about the silver thread that pulls you out of darkness, and about
The God of Loss.
The God of Small Things.
The God of Goosebumps and Sudden Smiles.
The scrape of a chair jolted her back into reality. Theo stood, swiping up his empty tankard.
"I'm going for a refill. Anyone else?"
Hermione said no, Draco said no, but Astoria hopped up and said, "I'll come with you," leaving her decidedly un empty tankard on the table.
Was that really necessary? Hermione watched them go, chattering all the way. She twisted as she followed them to the bar, and found herself turned towards Draco. Oh, hell. She smiled.
"I wasn't expecting you to turn up," he said, peering at her searchingly.
Bracing herself and maintaining the smile , she replied, "I didn't want to intrude upon your evening, but I was given no choice."
She looked over his shoulder at Theo and Astoria laughing at the bar, then down at her tankard.
"You always manage to wrangle your way into things."
A jest masked as a jibe, or a jibe masked as a jest? She sighed, she smiled , etcetera. Light from the stained-glass window turned her sleeves from maroon to swampy brown, and it stirred up the recollection that she did actually have something important to say to him.
"We have a problem."
"Do we?"
She sustained his amusement with single-minded focus. "Barros has figured out that Kenny didn't write the Crisis Aid Bill."
"I'd have had serious doubts about her proficiency if she hadn't."
Even the way he sipped his drink was glib. Behind him, Theo was waving wildly to grab Vassilios' attention while Astoria laughed uproariously.
"She knows !" Hermione pressed.
"Is she going to take it up with the ICW? Try to get the law repealed?"
"I doubt that. But Safi–"
"Won't care anymore." He pulled his chair closer and immobilised her with his stare. "Does she know that you had a hand in it?"
"Yes."
"And what about the sensational Quibbler exposé? Does she know you had a hand in that?"
"Yes."
"Have you been suspended again?"
"No."
"Then it's the opposite of a problem." He sat back, hand and drink dragging across the table. "If nobody else, at least your boss should know what you're capable of."
Behind him, Astoria stepped into Theo's personal space and slipped her hand into his back pocket. Theo reared back in panic.
Hermione gasped, causing Draco to whirl around to look over his shoulder.
"Ha! Astoria doesn't faff about!"
Hermione sputtered incoherently.
They both watched as Theo looked towards them with huge, terrified eyes, then at Astoria, who threw back her head and laughed.
"Poor bugger's out of practice," Draco turned back around, "Never looked so terrified of being goosed by a girl before."
"But... But – you – she's–" Hermione reeled.
"Why are you raving?"
"He told me that she's with you !" she cried, "You are seeing Astoria!"
" What ?!" A broad, beautiful, crooked grin broke across his face. "He thinks... Oh, Salazar. This is fucking gold."
He turned back quickly to watch as Theo floundered, gaping from Astoria to Draco, head moving from side to side like a tennis umpire, even as Astoria kept pressing into him. Draco shook with laughter, and raised his tankard to the two of them.
The world spun off its axis. She had spent the entirety of the evening looking through fogged-up spectacles that had suddenly been wiped clean. Relief had a welcome weight to it, providing a soothing pressure on her nerves.
She took a gulp of rum as Draco turned back to her, utterly radiant.
"How did such an enormous misunderstanding take place?" she mumbled. When she smiled, she felt it in her eyes.
"All I said was that I'd run into Astoria, and that she was dying to meet him. Theo made his assumptions."
Hermione breathed out slowly . "Looks like she's interested in a lot more than just meeting him."
"She's been infatuated for years," Draco chuckled, "Hopefully she'll put an end to his maddening moaning and moping."
"Don't you think it's too soon?" she asked, looking over at the two once more. They were throwing back shots and giving no indication that they intended to return to the table.
"It's been well over a month."
"That's hardly–"
"She doesn't want to marry him. She wants to shag him."
Hermione shut up and reached again for her drink while Draco turned to watch the two.
He continued – "He needs this more than I ever imagined, if he sought to turn this into a double-date and the best he could find was you ."
The words smacked into her with the force of a bombarda to the chest. She froze with her tankard halfway up to her mouth, staring at the rim. Her lips sort of... moved around... words she didn't have.
That fucking hurt . She knew hurt well, and by god, that hurt.
Worse than the face he'd made when Harry accused him of pursuing her. Worse than boring, prissy swot with no figure to speak of. Worse than Neville's right – you are a girl!
She could not muster any fortitude; nary a retort nor an angry barb. No quid pro quo of any sort. She shakily brought the tankard up to her lips and drained it.
"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant... he calls you his little-big sister, and that's not someone you bring on a date."
She could still summon her well-practiced smile , so she did. She aimed it at him as he frowned at her.
"I don't believe he's ever called me that." There you go. Words.
"He has." Draco's frown deepened.
"Oh? When?"
"Granger, I really wasn't implying – that is to say, I didn't... I didn't mean that–"
"It's all right, Draco," she interjected hastily, "I'm already well aware of how horrible you think I am. Now, tell me. When did Theo call me his little-big sister?"
She begged. She smiled.
She stared down at her hand, tapping her index finger against her thumb, tracking her pulse.
"You... obviously aren't horrible."
Hermione stood up.
"Where are you going?"
She glanced at the floor, her empty tankard, her bag, the hem of her dress, the back of her chair – everywhere but him.
"Getting another drink. Would you like one as well?"
"No."
She walked away. Mechanical steps carried burning eyes to the bar, to the point furthest away from Theo and Astoria. There, she stood, clasped her hands and... nothing.
She thought she knew what it felt like, to have the object of your desire let slip how unappealing – Fuck. He was going to leave her in shreds. Him. The same him whom she had vowed would never, ever hold any power over her, when she was twelve years old and faced with a blood-epithet for the first time in her life.
The danger of crying was real and more imminent than before.
Vassilios set a fresh drink before her, and she considered it. Chugging and fleeing felt like a solid plan. The coup de grâce had been delivered. She could go home now.
Yet a small sip was all she could manage. How brutal, how mean, to be given a warm little spark of hope in the cup of her hand, only to have it thoroughly extinguished by a cold reality check.
To hell with chugging. Abandon and flee.
"Oh, Hermione...!" sang Theo.
Why? Why, why why why.
"Hmm?" She smiled.
"What are you doing here? Sick of Draco already?" He was flat-out beaming, and had one arm around Astoria's shoulders.
"Just getting another drink." She lifted her tankard.
Astoria had both arms around his waist. "Theo says you might have some insight into a career in international law? I've been weighing my options, you see..."
"I didn't say might ," Theo chided, "Hermione has insight into everything."
So, she found herself walking back to the table. Keeping her eyes downcast, she was able to evade Draco's face. His rum was all gone, but he didn't move to fetch more.
She settled on the same chair, and it was easier to angle away from him this time, because Astoria plonked down on Theo's lap. For the following twenty minutes, she catered to Astoria's many, many law-related queries. Alcohol and a genuine interest had filled her with great excitability, and Hermione hadn't the heart to half-arse her answers.
Maybe because she hadn't a heart at all, anymore.
The topic of conversation drifted back to shared childhood exploits. Hermione had very little to offer there. Surprisingly, Draco said even less than her. By then, Theo and Astoria were paying attention to very little but each other.
Just a little before closing time, Seamus appeared, claiming he was conducting research for his big Christmas Bash, and he had them sample shot-glasses full of something red, white, and sparkling, called Yule Get Hammered. It tasted of sugar, peppermint, and vodka, and it bubbled down her throat.
Thereupon, sufficiently light-headed, they stepped out of the pub, into the first snowfall of the season. It was light; a sprinkle. The tiniest pinch of salt, or the gentlest shake of a snow globe.
Hermione pulled her coat tightly around her frame and walked out into the middle of the now mostly empty alley. She tipped her face up towards the dense sky and breathed in cold air... breathed out warm mist.
"Come on, buddy," Theo called sloppily.
She watched him and Astoria, hand in hand, stagger down the cobbled street. He mumbled something and she let out a peel of laughter. She honestly laughed a bit too much.
Draco stayed outside the pub, frowning at Hermione expectantly.
She had intended to apparate away as soon as possible. Yet, seeing him standing there – cloak like a long smudge of navy, face pale and pink and so serious, hair soft and bright and better than fresh snow – gave her such an agonising pang.
He had slain her, now he could walk her to hell. Her very own Virgil, damned by birth.
She walked towards him, and past him. Six strides later, she heard him follow. He caught up with her in no time at all, but then matched his pace to hers. She kept her hands wrapped around her waist and her head bowed. He kept his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slightly hunched. Neither spoke. The sound of Theo and Astoria's laughter kept carrying over. Their trailing shadows revealed how they were frolicking.
Draco definitely regretted what he'd said. Perhaps he was kicking himself for his carelessness and wishing he'd held his tongue. Maybe he was surprised at her taking it badly when they'd become so comfortable poking fun at one another. Whichever it was, his contrition was plainly evident.
But gone were the days when him regretting being nasty to her might've been enough. She was not the Goddess of Small Mercies, satisfied by a bit of self-flagellation. In the murkiest corner of her mind, she was Salome; she would behead him for a kiss.
They turned into the path between the boys' residence and Diagon, and it was suddenly pitch black . The lamps weren't lit, oddly enough.
"Argh! Ouch! You wicked witch!" Theo's cries shot out, followed by Astoria's giggles.
They were louder in the dark.
And Draco's presence swelled. She imagined he had melted and merged with the shadows that wrapped around her. With a twirl of her wrist, she conjured four, bright bluebell flames to light their way, and to keep her sane. She heard him sigh.
He stopped outside the tall grey building and so did she. She turned to him as he watched Theo and Astoria disappear into the lobby. Streetlight delineated his profile, like someone had dipped their finger in phosphorescence and traced it.
"Well," she croaked, then softly cleared her throat.
"I refuse to get into a lift with them," he grumbled.
"Heh. Understandable."
"Look," he began, and peered down at her with the frown he still hadn't shed, "I honestly did not intend that as a slight towards you. I did not ."
"Okay," she whispered, "I believe you."
She decided she really was going to believe him, for the time being. The God of Irrelevancies could work out if it was for her own sake, or because she knew what sincerity looked like on Draco Malfoy's face.
His frown didn't budge as he turned back to the building.
"Do you know what's going to happen next, Granger?"
"Um... no?"
"Theo is going to take her to the sitting room, and pour her a glass of my wine. He will light up a fire, and make her sit on my sofa, where he will do his best to grope every inch of her. Then, since it is her first time in the flat, he will give her a tour and grope her in every room . He will take her out on the terrace and impress her with his impeccable warming charm, like it isn't one of the most rudimentary of spells. He will bring her back in under the pretence of more wine, but instead he will make his move right in the hall. No telling whether they'll make it to his bedroom or not. The more comfortable he got with Luna, the less likely it became."
"He has truly traumatised you."
"I'm going to sit in the bloody freezing park and give them some time to get... settled."
He turned to her with less severity in his frown. There was a strange delicacy to the way he asked, "Will you join me?"
She said, "All right," even before the two syllables registered as words in her head.
Faintest snow kept falling as they sauntered down a path. Laburnum trees were bare and shrubs were sparsely spotted with white. It was quiet enough for their footsteps to echo, and for the tiny flames in the lamps to crackle audibly. Draco was moving with a faraway look in his eyes.
Hermione spotted a bench and broke away from the path, and by the time Draco realised, she had made good use of scouring and repelling charms and settled on one end of it. She looked up as his shadow fell on her, quirking up one side of her mouth. There was a lamp a few feet away and its light fell along the side of his face, diffused, like he had been caressed by a palm coated in gold.
He sat on the other end of the bench and crossed his ankle over his knee. His exhale was a golden cloud.
"So, Astoria's been infatuated for years?" Hermione broached.
He smirked. "When we met, she asked about him before the customary how are you ."
"Did you tell her about Luna?"
"No. Why would I?"
"Well..." Hermione said slowly, "You say she's infatuated, and Theo is in no position to return her infatuation."
"I told you," he rolled his eyes, "She doesn't want to–"
"Marry him, she wants to shag him. Yes."
He chuckled and gave her a gleaming stare. "Why are you always looking for problems where there aren't any?"
"There is a problem here, Draco."
"Oh really , Hermione?"
(Jesus.) "Yes. If she's been pining after him for years, then even one night may give her hope that something more could happen!"
"Maybe it could."
"You know it couldn't!"
"She'll be fine," Draco huffed dismissively, waving his hand, "And in any case, it's between them. It's bad enough that I can't be in my own flat because of those two, I don't want to sit and speculate about their relationship."
"Or lack there off!" she countered, "I'm just saying that you could have warned her–"
"Not my fucking responsibility. She asked me to organise a meeting, I did so. I'm not her guardian, or his keeper."
"You're beastly."
"You're priggish."
He leaned back comfortably and stretched his legs out, causing lamplight to spread like a hand had rubbed powdered copper against the grain of his fine, dark grey trousers.
"What happened at the hearing?" he asked.
"Didn't you read about it in the papers?"
"Of course, I did, but–"
"Not Skeeter's disingenuous dung, I hope?" she injected, "There was a reasonably measured piece in today morning's paper."
"I read both," he replied haughtily, "But I thought that hearing it again, straight from the Granger's mouth, might be a superior, edifying experience."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "If that's supposed to be a joke, it's the sort of joke I'd be tempted to take seriously."
"My life's goal is to be taken seriously by you," he drawled, "Tell me what happened at the bloody hearing."
She told him while distractedly fiddling with the ends of her scarf. He had most likely asked as a form of penitence or appeasement, but it felt so wonderful to be able to blather on about the case, to let her pent-up excitement purge through her words, and to supplement each happening with her opinions. And he listened. He asked questions. His mouth quirked every time she said Eggman. It was extremely, stupidly easy to believe that she was not being patronised. That he wanted to hear every word.
"Tell me about the settlements at Kafiristan," she urged almost immediately after concluding her account.
At which, he began his account. And what an account it was! He had a way with words; she had known that for years, even when it was from experiencing the range of insults he hurled at all and sundry. That talent came into its own when he spoke about his journey. He was tart when needed, and absurd in perfect doses. Above all, he paid tribute to historical significance and respected cultural contexts in a way that only one who had really decided to be understanding towards differences could be. One who had learned it the hard way perhaps.
His manner of describing people, animals, food, and scenery was vivid and enthralling.
She wanted to tell him to chuck everything and become a travel writer. He could write novels set in far off places. He could pen a fictionalised version of the war. He could become Ernest Hemmingway.
When a lull fell, she looked up at the sky again. A snowflake landed right between her eyes. She felt herself smile as her eyes squeezed shut, savouring the tiny, reviving nip of cold. On wiping it away, she realised that her nose and cheeks were like ice. But blimey, she was not cold at all.
She twisted, leaning against the arm of the bench, for she'd had enough of facing away from him. He was lost in thought, staring at the tip of his boot. For twenty seconds she waited for him to resurface, to no avail.
"Draco."
"Yeah?"
Oops, she hadn't thought that far. But her floundering won her his eyes. She thought she would never miss the moon.
"Do you really dislike Astronomy?" she asked.
"I don't dislike it," he replied perplexedly, "I don't have any sort of strong feeling towards it."
"Oh."
"Don't say oh ," he chided, "Tell me what you're getting at."
She chuckled. "I was thinking of lending you The Little Prince. It's about a stranded pilot who met a young boy in the middle of the desert." She looked at him with her head tilted and continued, "A young boy with flaxen hair who had come from a distant asteroid. He had travelled far, stopped at many planets, met a wonderful, beguiling assortment of characters. It's about sadness, loneliness, the loss of childlike wonder..."
And he was in love with a rose, Draco .
"Is an inclination for astronomy a prerequisite to read this book?"
"Not necessarily.."
"I'm just asking because you tend to put strange conditions on–"
"I don't put conditions– "
"May I borrow it anyway?"
"Yes."
He grinned. She blushed.
Wind had picked up a bit, gentle but shiver-inducing like someone blowing on your bare shoulder. It made the scant snowflakes flutter in swirls and they twinkled as they fell around him. She had to inhale deeply to pull reckless words back down her throat.
"How does one acquire a spaceship?" he asked.
She started. "You can't."
"I read an essay on muggle space travel by... by Charity Burbage. I've wondered since. I've seen shops that sell cars, but never any that sell spaceships."
"Because there aren't any!" she said incredulously, "You can't just blast off into space!"
"Why not?"
"It requires years of training!"
"Took me less than a day to get a hang of flying on a broom. How much harder can it be?"
Hermione laughed. Hard. A lot.
" What ?" Draco grouched.
"You're right," she gasped, "How much harder can it be? It's only rocket science."
She dissolved into laughter once again. And he was not pleased, with a scowl deeply etched onto his face. She wanted to shuffle closer and smoothen it away with her fingers.
"Sorry," she breathed, pulling herself together, "It's just... not remotely the same as flying a broom."
"Yeah. Got it."
"It's easier to get a private pilot license. Would you like to fly an aircraft, Draco?"
Nothing.
"If you'd like to go to space, there's a planetarium not too far from here. My mum told me a few years back that they have a 3D Journey Through Space show."
He didn't respond. He was sulking.
"There's also the Royal Observatory in Greenwich–"
"There's an observatory at the Manor," he clipped, "Not royal , I suppose, but it's nice enough."
"Of course, you had your own observatory."
"Had to spend hours – entire nights – up there during Astronomy lessons with a gargantuan tosser named Osbert Fairclough."
"This was before Hogwarts?"
Scowl. "Yeah."
Another spell of silence followed.
The whisper of breeze through shrubs. The crackling of lamps.
"I had one of my biggest instances of accidental magic up there. With him."
She leaned towards him, resting her elbow on the back of the bench. "What happened?"
"It was late at night, especially so for a seven-year-old. Osbert was yapping on and on about planetary migration." The corners of his mouth quivered. "We were on the roof, where all the telescopes are. I'd had enough. It was cold. I wanted to go home and told him as much multiple times. He did not listen. The next thing I knew, his legs sank through the floor, right up to his waist. He was completely stuck, hands plastered against his body, unable to access his wand. And screaming bloody murder of course. I told him I'd get help."
"My god, the poor man!" Hermione exclaimed, "Then what happened?"
Draco shrugged. "I went to bed."
"You did not! You told him you'd get help!"
"I didn't say immediately."
"You were the most awful, despicable child! I hope you told your parents first thing in the morning?"
"Well, about that..."
"You monster! "
His mouth quivered into a grin. "I honestly forgot."
"You did not forget."
"I did. I was seven. Mornings were for flying and piano lessons. Oddball Osbert was the last thing on my mind."
"You. Did not. Forget." Hermione's horror knew no bounds. But the charm of his grin knew no bounds either. So really, she was in quite a quandary. "How did nobody hear him screaming?"
"The observatory is near the edge of the property. The grounds are large."
"How long was he stuck there?" she asked fearfully.
"Another night." He paid no heed to her gasp. "By the way, the House-Elves who went there to clean also didn't say anything."
"Well of course they didn't, they were terri–"
"My mother, who is genuinely fond of astronomy, went to the observatory the next evening, to consult some charts. Imagine her surprise when she saw a pair of legs hanging from the ceiling."
"Unbelievable."
"He'd wet himself," Draco sniggered.
"Well obviously! I hope you were punished."
"I was sent to bed half an hour earlier that evening."
Hermione set her chin and turned away, glaring at fluttering snowflakes.
"Come now, Hermione. Are you telling me a powerful and forcible witch like yourself never experienced any bouts of accidental magic?"
"I did, but they were never so sadistic!"
"Hmm. I don't believe that."
He was doing that thing with his voice again; that calm down kitten , Your face is fairly symmetrical, Thanks Rosy thing. Damn it, she flushed.
"W–Well," she stuttered, "There was one time..."
"Go on," he urged, looking gleeful.
"There was a girl at school who was very mean to me. Called me all sorts of names, stole my things, put paint in my hair, craft glue in my food, that sort of thing. Sometimes, after she did those things, she would inexplicably trip, or drop what she was holding."
"I'd say she deserved much worse. What's craft glue?"
"It's a white paste, used to stick things together. We used it for art projects. But um... I wasn't finished. The teasing and bullying got worse in year three. Then the bloody morning assembly incident happened and it came to a head. She had two of her friends hold me down while she attempted to pour an entire bottle of glue over me. Well... the bottle flew out of her hand and upended over her own head instead. And immediately solidified."
"Fantastic." He was delighted.
"It got into her ears," Hermione whispered, "And for some reason, it wouldn't wash off. They had to shave her hair and eyebrows. A few weeks later, her parents shifted her to another school, and nobody else bothered me after that."
As his chuckles subsided, he asked, "What was the morning assembly incident?"
"Nothing," she said at once.
"It clearly was–"
"It was nothing."
"Hermione..."
She could see his chin lowering, his brow puckering. She pointed warningly at his face and said, " No . Do not deploy the Mien of Persuasion."
He laughed. "The what ?!"
"I may have been, and I quote, stupid enough to cave last time, but it's not going to work anymore."
"You'll notice I haven't told anyone your secret, Her-meow-ne."
And he deployed it anyway. The diabolical Mien of Persuasion.
"But you have brought it up again."
He smiled so warmly. "You're going to tell me eventually."
"Shan't."
"We'll see."
She bit back a grin, helpless and frightened because his eyes were going to kill her. She could never tell him about that incident, when she was supposed to be reciting a poem before the entire school, only to be struck by the most awful bout of stage fright, after which she had gone ahead and spewed sick all over the headmaster's shoes. She didn't want to think of the moniker he would come up with to match that.
A slightly stronger breeze swept past. Draco tipped back his head and closed his eyes as it hit his face.
"What other lessons did you have, before Hogwarts?" Hermione asked.
He replied without moving or opening his eyes.
"Arithmetic and Numerology, History and – ( a sigh ) –Magical ancestry, Geography, Theory of Magic, Latin, and... Reading and Grammar with Aleta Tatton." He cracked open one eye and smirked. "The first woman I ever fancied."
"Oh." Must've been a cow, surely.
Staring off into the distance with a fond look, he said, "Beautiful, slim, long brown hair, perfect enunciation. I plucked a dozen giant collarette dahlias from the garden to give to her on Valentine's Day. My mother was furious."
"Were you punished?" she asked dryly.
"My broom was locked away for a week."
"How was your punishment for this so much harsher than when you left a man for dead?"
"What a gross exaggeration. Besides, astronomy instructors are ten for a knut, unlike mother's prized dahlias. And, as it turned out, it was all for naught. The lovely Aleta Tatton didn't care about dragons or quidditch, and had no sense of humour."
Hermione gasped, hand to her heart. "What a dullard."
"Indeed. She bored me terribly."
"Pitiful end to a doomed love story."
A decided gust of wind smacked them with a dose of robust cold, the sort that even the hottest, passion-warmed blood couldn't ignore. They came to an unspoken conclusion – it was time to venture indoors.
Hermione stood up and held in her sigh. Her lungs prickled in protest.
There was yet another shuddering gale. Draco's cloak rustled. They both took a few steps away from the bench, and it was then that Hermione realised that Draco's cloak was not the source of the rustling. It was coming from a shrub behind them.
"What's that?" she murmured.
"What?"
She moved closer, and the rustling intensified.
"There's something..."
The leaves and twigs near the bottom were trembling.
"Get away from there!" Draco called.
And the bush rustled more and more.
"It could be a bloody snake!"
"Unlikely."
She moved closer still, bending slightly, and reached for her wand.
"Granger!" Draco growled.
"Would you relax–"
"Get the fuck away–"
"I just want to see–"
"–like the centaurs all over again–"
"Do you really think there's a centaur hiding in this little bush?"
"–could be anything – For fuck's sake! "
Lumos. Light fell on the shrub, the rustling got slightly feral, and out leapt –
(Hermione squeaked and jumped back)
A dinky little froggy.
Her hand flew to her mouth as she let out a slightly hysterical giggle. Nox. The frog hopped around in a vacant circle.
"Why on earth are you out and about in such frightful weather, Mr. Frog?" she asked it.
From behind her, came a dry, disgruntled query: "Curiosity satisfied?"
She spun around to see Draco looking most unimpressed as he turned to leave.
"Yes!" She chirped, and grinned brightly at him.
Draco stopped. Half-turned, one heel lifted, torso twisted. He stopped.
She froze, smile faltering, wondering if she had something on her face and fighting the urge to paw at it. She waited with baited breath for him to speak. But he didn't say a word. Just looked at her.
She asked, "What's the matter?" just as he began to say, "Granger, you're–"
They both stopped. And stared.
She reinforced her grin and shook her head. "Sorry. Go on."
But he didn't... not immediately. He just looked at her a little longer, punishing her for interrupting, for breathing, for ever existing and daring to come to this point where she was pathetically wrapped around his finger.
"You're covered in snow," he muttered finally, "Your hair."
"Oh."
She looked down at the tresses spilling down her shoulders and they were, in fact, dotted with white. She caught hold of one flake with her thumb and index finger, dragging it down the length of a strand till it melted, leaving hair and fingers cold and damp.
When she looked back up, Draco was already walking away.
The wind moved against them, pushing them back. Draco's cloak kept catching on the shrubbery, pulling him back. Nature itself was telling them to stay a while longer.
Once again outside the building, they reprised their poses from before.
"Wish me luck," Draco said, eyeing the doorway unhappily.
"I sincerely hope they are properly sequestered in Theo's bedroom," she rejoined.
He smiled crookedly down at her, and again she thought he had something to say, but again, he said nothing.
She voiced a hesitant, "Goodnight?"
He took a step back and raised his chin, as if to say, go on then. She took a few more seconds to feast her eyes on him, as lamplight drizzled all over his hair like silver-coated fingers had gently tousled it. Then she disapparated.
XXX
The bedroom was exactly as she'd left it. The candle that she'd forgotten to dout was burning away merrily; the scent of vanilla and magnolia was almost cloyingly strong. Next to it, Stella slept. Hermione's cocoon was still perfectly intact, ready for her to crawl back into.
It was made to her exact specifications, moulded to her form... and she was sure she wouldn't fit in it anymore.
She was lighter. She was larger.
She undressed and lay back in bed – bare legs on warm sheets, damp brown hair on a pale pink pillowcase – and thought that feelings like the one she was suffused with could be life sustaining.
If she closed her eyes, she saw his face. His voice was lodged in her ears and his scent in her nose. The charge and the rush of sharing space and stories would not leave her blood.
Prize-winning books were still scattered on the other side of the bed. The God of Small Things abandoned for a wing'd hour, dropped from above.
And in the vein of books from mum...
She was thirteen when she had first been introduced to Marx. Mum's driving force was perhaps the guilt of leaving behind the staunchest of her political convictions, and of living in a plush house that her grandfather had shown great foresight in purchasing. Needless to say, a year that began with bolstering epithets about having nothing to lose but her chains, and ended with her unshackling an innocent man was a whole lot for a young mind to take.
She was fourteen when she read the bit about history always repeating itself, first as a tragedy, then as a farce. And right then, with her eyes closed and Draco's image blooming from the dark, Hermione could think of at least one instance where the opposite was true.
Being in love at sixteen was a farce; even with the tragedy of war, the horror of death, and terror of trauma. The unattainability of it, at sixteen, was also a farce. She knew Ron wanted her, and Ron knew she wanted him. The distance between them – of their own making – was so facile and pointless. Their connection, while strong and true, was a thread with few colours and no dimension.
What was that compared to a connection that felt like it had dug down to the marrow in her bones? And with it came actual, crippling unattainability. Though life's rhythms may have been fairly even; but emotions, like fiendfyre, were decimating her.
And while both instances saw her alone in bed, agonisingly wistful, she hadn't found it so dead impossible to compartmentalise the first time. Draco had completely scrambled the tidy coils of her mind. There were no two ways about it: Being in love at twenty was a tragedy.
Hermione did not currently possess the temperament to gracefully endure the commotion of a typical evening with the Weasleys... but she had promised. She did a little hopping dance of dismay in front of the fireplace, before letting out a reluctant, "The Burrow."
The moment she stepped into their kitchen, she was greeted by a, (would you believe it,) commotion.
A row was underway. Fleur sat at the table, her feet on Bill's lap, yelling angrily. Mrs. Weasley was levitating food onto the table, her wand swinging in erratic arcs, also yelling angrily. She was completely ignoring her husband, who was trying to calm her. Many statues decorated the room: Angelina holding a basket of rolls, George behind her with his hands on her shoulders, Percy hiding behind a newspaper, and Ron with a vial of sea-green liquid.
Nobody noticed Hermione's arrival. She could easily escape back to the sanity of her flat.
Oh.
No.
Somebody had noticed.
Harry was shuffling towards the door, and he widened his eyes meaningfully. Mimicking his motions, Hermione saw herself out to the back garden, and shiver-sighed as the cold hit. She conjured warm cloaks for the both of them, and they strolled up and down the lawn as voices from inside continued to resound.
"Do I want to know?"
Harry blew out a long breath. "Fleur wants to go to France for the remainder of her pregnancy. There's a healer there – Healer Fournier – who has seen the birth of every Delacour for the past billion or so years."
"And I suppose Mrs. Weasley doesn't want her to go."
"Healer Seward at Mungo's has seen the birth of every Weasley for the past billion or so years."
"Oh, for god's sake," Hermione huffed, "I came with an appetite."
It wasn't snowing that evening.
It may as well have been. Because Hermione was, all but physically, still sitting on a park bench.
Harry conveyed his congratulations over the Millward affair, going on to say, "I knew the moment I heard about the article in the Quibbler that it was your doing."
They paced and watched the shadows of people gesticulating in the kitchen window's square of light.
"Shall I tell you a secret, Harry?"
"Go on."
"That new Crisis Aid bill...? That was sort of my doing as well."
"Really? How come?"
Meanderingly, she explained as they meandered. He had a rather lot of questions about why Draco had come to her , and rather few (i.e., none,) about the actual bill and work that she put in.
"Shall I tell you a secret, too?" he asked afterwards.
"The rules of friendship dictate that you must."
"I got completely wankered on Friday."
Hermione tottered, but was quick to quash down the impulse to throw out an Oh Harry, how could you; for when had that ever gone down well with him? Instead, she just used his own words.
"How come?"
"Ron was out with Edith. I was alone... and it just bloody well pissed me off that I'd painted myself into this corner where I couldn't have a drink at the end of the week. So, I had one, and honestly, I could've easily stopped after that. It wasn't a relief, or a big undoing like I'd thought it would be. But I had another anyway, and another after that. Passed out on the floor... where Ron found me the next morning."
See? Wrecked. All of them.
"Did you tell Asher?" she asked timidly.
"Yeah. Had a session with him on Saturday anyway."
"And?"
"He wasn't bothered. Said it's normal, and that I'd shown more self-control than most. He asked if I want to get drunk again... and I don't. Not really. I just hate not having a choice in the matter."
Mrs. Weasley's voice burst out – "...EXCELLENT HEALER WHO I TRUST, AND THAT'S MY GRANDSON..."
"Harry, do you think you'll–"
"Ginny's coming home for Christmas," He cut her off very, very firmly.
"I know," she sighed.
"I'm taking her to the Lake District for New Year's. Taken a week off and booked a holiday cottage at Grizedale."
"That sounds really wonderful."
Heavens, it did. Imagine having a gorgeous view and a row of empty days and nights to sit on benches and converse?
The door opened and Ron, George, and Angelina spilled out, looking like they'd escaped a haunted house by the skin of their teeth.
"Doesn't seem like that's going to resolve itself anytime soon," Ron carped, "We won't be eating for a good long while."
"I knew their new found comradery was too good to last," George remarked cheerfully, "It was only a matter of time..."
"I said that months ago," Angelina added.
"Here, Harry. Have a toffee."
Harry looked uninterested and very sceptical.
"Come on, mate. If it was really dangerous, you know I'd offer it to Ron."
One cry of protest, one proffered sweet, and one chary acceptance later, Harry's nose hair had grown down to his chin.
Hermione looked over at her hillock and sighed. It had been less than twenty-four hours, and she was already crumbling from the loss of that life-sustaining feeling.
