*Disclaimer: There are quotes from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and The Secret Garden in this chapter.*
Hermione was comfortable. Far, far too comfortable.
The first thing she noticed was that Bellatrix hadn't come to torment her in her sleep.
The sunlight wasn't blasting itself in her face, either. As a matter of fact, the barest hint of light permeated through her closed lids.
A bizarre weight was settled on her waist, encasing her in a warmth that rose and fell along the length of her back.
Her hair had been pushed to the side. Soft, pleasant breaths felt like a tranquil caress on the back of her neck.
More importantly, a large reminder that she wasn't alone was pressing against her arse.
She screwed her eyes tightly shut and refused to open them. Merlin giver her strength.
Morning wood was nothing new. She'd been hanging around boys for the better part of her life and shared a tent with them for nearly a year. She just wished she remembered how she wound up sharing a bed with Draco. She was still fully clothed, so they must have just passed out after they left Aberforth's last night...
"Mi, go back to sleep. I can practically hear you thinking," Draco groaned.
Hermione's eyes flew wide open.
Draco's arm tightened around her middle, trapping her against his chest as he settled with the tip of his nose ghosting across her skin. The heat of his breath, lips less than an inch from the flesh of her neck, sent chills down her spine.
Furthermore... Mi?
Butterflies rioted in her stomach. Draco's manhood pressing firmly against her was getting increasingly difficult to ignore. It was officially time to get out of bed—preferably before she did something they might both regret later.
"Draco, you're still drunk," she breathed. Hermione reached untangle herself from his grasp, earning her a pitiful whine. "No, stay. Be a swot later." Merlin help her, the man nuzzled his face into her neck. Did he not realize what he was doing?
Draco's silken lips brushed against her blazing hot skin, causing thunder to pound in her blood. The walls of her core literally fluttered with the contact. She didn't even know it could do that! Hermione's eyes mimicked the action, her mouth falling open in a silent O.
This was it. She was going to combust and die on the spot, but gods it was certainly a beautiful way to go. This man had no idea the power he wielded over her. She was sure of it.
In that same drowsy voice, he said, "We're sleeping."
Draco had no right to use that deep, throaty morning tone on her. No one should sound so... Hermione pressed her thighs firmly together defiantly. This should be a crime.
Her theory about firewhiskey creating her feelings was officially and indisputably out. All the same, she found early morning Draco ridiculously adorable. Impossible to ignore, but this sweet side of him, childlike in its tenderness, was enough to ensnare the coldest of hearts. Even if he did tug reactions out of her that he had no right to. Nor was she sure he meant to.
Not that she could tell him what he did to her. The embarrassment that would stem from that was not worth it in the slightest. He would tease her mercilessly over it and probably move back into the castle. No, she could keep her mouth shut and save them both the mortification.
Hermione almost laughed out loud at the mental image of how horrified he was sure to be later. Knowing him, he'd grumble, brood, mope, and probably blame it all on the alcohol under that tough guy act he hides under when he feels insecure.
Hermione decided to put the poor man out of his misery.
She turned in his arms, snorting when his arms stiffened, locking her in place. When she finally managed to get nose-to-nose with him, her chest lit up in a sea of bluebell flames.
His alabaster hair was messy and disheveled in a wild mess around a face that she'd never seen look more peaceful. Those features that normally carried a hint of stress under his calm exterior remained relaxed on the pillow. The little "v" that often etched itself between his brows was nowhere to be found; his frown smoothed into a loose o while he slept. Hermione's mouth softly curved upward as she watched him for a moment more. Draco's lower lip slightly poked out further than his top, as though he were still pouting about something, even in his dreams.
In a moment of weakness, she reached over and brushed a few stray locks out of his face. Her heart lurched with the contact. They really were as soft as they looked, like clouds on her fingertips. "Draco," Hermione cooed. "Draco, wake up. You have to be at the castle soon."
Draco inched one eye open, and just like she thought, he did not seem pleased. "Five more minutes."
Where was the shock? The denial?
"No, now," Hermione laughed.
She honestly could not believe what was happening.
Predictably, Draco ground loudly. "Hermione!"
"Draco," the amused brunette echoed, taking advantage of the chance to untangle herself from a certain ferret who was too endearing for his own good. Once her feet touched the floor and she could put a safe distance between them, she found her bearings. "Get out of bed and get dressed while I go fetch you a Sobering Draught and a Pepper Up potion for us both." Hermione took a quick glance at her watch; thankful she'd left it on. "I'll start a pot of coffee as well. Your first class is in an hour."
"An hour? Granger, are you trying to kill me?"
Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, eyeing her roommate with renewed humor. The frumpy, utterly outraged face was back, only it was much more comical with his hair sticking out in all directions. "Malfoy," she teased, "the entire castle knows that you take extra time to primp in the morning."
"I do not primp."
"Do so," she shot back, trying desperately not to laugh at his boyish frown. "Besides, it would be entirely unbecoming of a Malfoy to walk into class looking and smelling like he just stumbled out of a bar."
Draco's shock slowly turned into a predatory grin—and Hermione knew she was in trouble. He leisurely reached for his wand, but before Hermione could ask what on earth he was doing, two potion bottles flew past her head and straight into the wizard's waiting hands. He leisurely rose from the bed, taking deliberate steps across the room like a beast about to capture its prey.
Hermione was unimpressed. She crossed her arms over her chest and straightened her spine, watching her friend with evident boredom. Draco was harmless once you got to know him. A playful man who not only showed her a wonderful time the night before but exposed the most precious side of himself mere minutes before couldn't possibly intimidate her. Not after seeing what he could be like when he let his guard down.
She maintained her demeanor even as Draco closed the space between them. Her gaze didn't waver from his when they came chest to chest. She watched him knock back one of the potions like a shot of whiskey. Must he be a perpetual brat? Who did he think he was fooling?
"Really, Draco?" Hermione deadpanned. She balled her hands into fists, determined to keep her arms crossed tightly, lest she lose her composure. She barely noticed it when Draco's fingers pried one of her fists open and wrapped her hand around the other, full bottle.
The Slytherin offered her a devilish smirk that she wasn't sure if she loved or hated at this point. "I guess it's a good thing that Winky stopped in and unpacked my things last night." It wasn't until Draco disappeared into the bathroom that Hermione understood the underlying meaning. He'd done something with her bag.
"MALFOY!" Hermione shrieked, ignoring the sharp pain that throbbed in her head. Fuming at her current situation, she popped open the potion and chugged it. She hardly tasted it as it went down. "Irritating ferret," the aggravated brunette grumbled, opting to head downstairs. She would simply have to go to the coffee shop in what she was wearing and pray she didn't smell too much like alcohol.
The minute that foul, loathsome, evil little git got out of that bathroom, she was going to demand he return her belongings, and she wasn't going to let him leave until he did. Alright, maybe she couldn't exactly stop him, but she would certainly try.
Hermione's internal ramblings were cut short the second her feet touched the stairs. "What...?"
She had expected to spend the entirety of the day cleaning.
She expected the place to be in shambles; possibly even having to clean up blood.
Not this. She never expected this.
The walls were every bit as white as they were in her youth; not a speck of dust to be found anywhere. Wood floors shone in the morning light. Now that Hermione was paying attention, so did the railing of the stairs. Her eyes shot down, noting with shock and pleasure that the carpet beneath her feet was spotless. She bolted down, ignoring the sudden burn in her lungs, curious as to what else Winky might have done in the night.
The red bricking of the fireplace looked like new, a fire already crackling merrily within. There was no blood to be found anywhere. Where were the horrors that Draco described?
Hermione's head whipped around to see the furniture. Sure enough, her dad's favorite brown recliner was just as he left it; her mum's prized sectional sofa looked like it did the day it was bought—right down to the quirky throw pillows she loved. The glass insert in the coffee table shone. Even the bookcases on either side of the fireplace looked brand new! Hermione carefully stepped across the room with wide eyes and a shaky breath. Her fingertips lovingly, delicately trailed over the spines. All of Mum's favorites were still there, and dust-free. Dad's box tele that he loved still sat in its proper place. He never could part with it, even when they started getting a bit outdated.
The frazzled woman bolted into the kitchen. What else had happened here? Hadn't the place been ransacked?
Why it surprised her that the room sparkled like new, she had no idea, given what she just saw, but it didn't stop the tears that blurred her vision. She could practically see her mum chopping onions at the center island, muttering under her breath about hating the way it made her eyes water. Every time, her dad would stop what he was doing at the stove just to give her shoulders a reassuring squeeze and a kiss on her cheek. Mum would shake her head with a smile every time.
Dad kept a radio on the counter because Mum loved to listen to her favorite music while she cooked. The first sounds Hermione used to hear in the morning were that of her mum humming downstairs. Her bottom lip trembled when she saw it sitting right where she left it. Right next to the coffee maker.
The whole place looked as though her parents never left. It may have been silly, but she almost expected Mum and Dad to walk in through the front door any minute. She could hardly breathe. Why? Why would he do this? How did he know to do this?
He didn't owe her anything. Yet he gave her everything it was possible to give.
The sound of dragonhide shoes on the floor made Hermione spin on the spot. Draco—the pristine Professor Malfoy once more—stood a bit awkwardly by the bottom of the stairs. With his hands shoved in his pockets, as always, he didn't quite look at her. Rather, he seemed a bit focused on the front door.
"You..." Hermione said, her voice faltering on the word. "Why?"
Her uncomfortable friend and roommate stubbornly looked everywhere else but at her.
"Draco," Hermione said, louder this time to get his attention. Only then did he finally look her in the eye. "Thank you." In true Draco fashion, he didn't say a word. Rather, he gave her a single, brief nod instead. That was alright. His actions spoke volumes.
"Didn't exactly want to stay in a pigsty," he muttered.
Of course not, Draco. Heaven forbid you should take credit for something good.
"Umm—"
"It's not a big deal, alright?" Draco snapped. "Merlin, stop using that big brain of yours to overthink every little detail like it means something!"
Hermione smirked. "Draco, do you see that stool over there, in front of the kitchen island?"
Silence.
"The big counter-looking thing in the center of the kitchen."
"I know what it is! How thick do you think I am?"
"Go sit down. Now."
A pair of pale eyebrows arched at her.
Hermione ignored the slight upward twitch in Draco's mouth when she planted a hand on her hip and pointed toward the kitchen. "Now, Draco. If I know you, and I do, when you asked your mother's house elf to clean the place, you asked her to stock the kitchen."
"And how would you know that?"
Checkmate.
Hermione wordlessly sauntered into the kitchen, right towards the glaringly obvious evidence of Draco's thoughtfulness. In the exact spot where her mum's cutting board once sat, was a basket filled with the man's one weakness: green apples. She grabbed the top one and tossed it to him with raised eyebrows of her own. "I've seen you eat one every day at breakfast for years without fail. It's unsurprising that the morning ritual would follow you here."
"You watch me eat? Granger, you might want to go see someone about those stalking tendencies. It's not healthy."
Hermione felt the blood pounding in her ears, glowering at his stupid, self-satisfied face as he took an obnoxiously pointed bite out of the apple.
"Like you haven't been—"
"If you had a crush on me, you should have just said so."
She wanted nothing more than to gag him with that piece of fruit.
"You—"
"Are incredibly handsome? Irresistible? Devilishly charming?" Draco said, his eyes positively glittering at her. The prick.
"Are without a doubt the most loathsome, irritating man I have ever had the displeasure of trying to have breakfast with." Hermione hated the way he could still wind her up with just a few words. Nobody had the right to get under her skin so easily, but he did. Every. Single. Time.
She turned on the spot, needing something other than Draco's smirking face to focus on for the time being. Irritated fingers fumbled with the coffee maker, making much more noise than necessary for such a simple task.
"Having trouble, Granger?"
"No, Malfoy," Hermione growled.
One step.
Two steps.
Three.
Hermione would never be able to mistake Draco's presence for anyone else's, as long as she lived. Her stomach twisted in knots. Her heart rate spiked. Her nerves stood on end. She finally recognized this feeling for what it was. Electricity. It hummed in her veins, heated her blood, viciously struck her very bones.
She hated it. She loved it. She stifled a sigh. With Draco Malfoy, it would always be both. More than anything, she loathed that she would be forced to wrestle feelings that should have never been while watching him go on about his life. She'd be back on Calming and Peace Draughts at this rate...
No, Hermione. You're done with that. It's behind you now.
Time to put on your big girl knickers and woman up.
It's not like you have a ton of time at your disposal, anyway.
Thunder struck when his hand covered hers. "Move," he whispered.
"I've got it," she retorted, working desperately to hold onto her resolve to be angry with him.
"You know," Draco grinned against her ear, "you didn't think I was so bad yesterday."
Hermione focused on her breathing. And staying mad at him. She knew it would always be both.
"Shut it, Draco," Hermione grumbled, hating how the words lacked the venom they should have.
"I'm going to go on and head to the castle," he muttered quietly.
Hermione swallowed. "Take another apple with you." A deep breath. "You've already missed breakfast, and your irritable moods are maddening."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you cared, Granger."
Good. This she could do. A bit of familiar banter and they could get back to normal.
"Sod off, Draco," she said, rolling her eyes. Hermione turned, opting to lean against the counter in an effort to create a little space between them. "I'll see you tonight?"
Finally. Finally, a bit of the man she was beginning to know shone through. "I just paid a fortune for a small measure of freedom, Granger. You don't think I'm going to willingly stay in that blasted castle any longer than I have to, do you?"
Okay, Draco. Let's pretend this has anything to do wealth you won't even miss.
"Just making sure. I mean, who knows? You might decide you quite like not having to deal with Hogwarts' biggest swot and decide you're not coming home."
Draco's head gave just the slightest tilt to the side. "Are you kicking me out?"
Focus, Hermione. Do not get caught in those impossibly astonishing eyes.
You will not think about how good his hair looks without that gel until he leaves. Got it?
You are not getting staring at that smirk. You. Are. Not.
It's not fair how even Professor's robes look good on him...
Stop it, Hermione! What are you, a Third Year?
"I don't know, a lack of a ferret infestation might work for me."
When a broad, excruciatingly heart wrenching smile spread across his face, she knew without a doubt they were okay. So, when Draco dangled her bag in the air by the string, all she could do was roll her eyes. "Give me the bag, Draco."
"Nope. This is called leverage, Granger."
Hermione, in a stroke of inspiration, shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess that means I get to raid your closet, then..." The unsuspecting brunette's eyebrows shot up to her hairline at Draco's wicked smile. "Suit yourself."
No. This is not how that was supposed to go.
That man is absolutely obsessed with his appearance.
He was supposed to just return the bag and keep her out of his clothes. He wouldn't want her anywhere near them. Yet he just said...
Oh. He thinks he's calling her bluff. That makes sense. Joke's on him, though. If he doesn't return her bag right this instant...!
Suddenly, she felt like a bucket of iced water got dumped on her.
"No..." Hermione gasped. "NO!"
If he had her bag, he probably had her bucket list.
And if he had her bucket list...
Draco wouldn't let that one die for months—if ever.
With the tell-tale crack of apparition, her thieving roommate disappeared, leaving Hermione to uselessly scream, "I'LL USE YOUR SOAP, TOO, YOU THIEVING, LOATHSOME FERRET!"
The sentiment didn't quite feel the same with no one around to hear it.
It also left her entirely too much time to think.
Lately, her thoughts were enough to alarm her.
Why did Draco suddenly become so appealing to her?
One look around her parent's house left her shaking her head. Alright, the better question is when. That was a question she couldn't properly answer.
The better question: how does one shut off emotions they know couldn't possibly be returned... and even if they could, the end result would only be disaster?
Hermione snorted. Her and Draco. Right. Maybe in another world, another lifetime.
The cold, hard truth was even if Draco, by some miracle, thought of her in that way, she was dying. Binding her core only bought her a little more time. Even if that weren't the case, she was the wizarding world's most famous mudblood. She couldn't be just any muggle born girl, no. she was the mudblood. One who would forever wear the slur as a brand on her arm for all the world to see.
Draco, on the other hand, was the world's most prominent pureblood, the equivalent of wizarding royalty. The Malfoy name, at least before the war, opened doors, turned heads and got him anything he wanted. Hermione also knew that if they played their cards right, one day it would again. It was the way of things.
Their situation was the thing she went to war over, and yet, at the end of the day, she wasn't entirely sure it did much good.
There were his friends, all pureblooded social elites. Most of them still believed that they were Merlin's gift to wizardkind. There were also her friends, who openly opposed, and rightfully so, the likes of witches and wizards such as those. Those ruddy Slytherins made all their lives hell, the head of them being the "Slytherin Prince"—Draco himself. The prat he was then should have been made their king.
Neither side would understand the change in him.
Neither side would understand the change in her, either.
The fact that the dominos started tipping before Voldemort went up in a cloud of ash didn't fit the popular narrative.
Not a single living soul would believe her if she told them the truth about what Draco, the face of Slytherin, did in Malfoy Manor. While Harry and Ron were frantically trying to get out of the cellar, Hermione made a lifechanging discovery that annihilated the hatred she once felt for him. Furthermore, he could have gotten an even shorter sentence, if not pardoned completely. However, she made a promise to him that she intended to keep. Who would believe that a Death Eater inadvertently saved her life, anyway? She could hardly believe it when it happened, and she was there.
Hermione's scalp was on fire. Bellatrix tossed her to the unforgiving, marble floor with enough force to break bones. An awful, putrid stench swam around in her nostrils, forcing her to gag; that was a mistake she learned quickly not to make again.
The madwoman rammed her wand into her throat, the misshapen walnut wood nearly breaking skin. "I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?"
That was the first time she heard it.
I don't know how you did it. I don't want to know, but don't tell her anything.
Hermione forced herself to focus on the crazed face with rotten teeth above her. If it was what she thought it was, she couldn't give anything away.
Smart girl. Don't, or we're both dead.
Malfoy?
"We found it! We found it!" Hermione's cried. Her next words were for both aunt and nephew. "PLEASE!"
You've got to help me, Malfoy! Please! We're all dead if you don't!
"You're lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it!" Bellatrix raged. "You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!"
I was dead the moment I had to take the Mark.
Malf—
Hermione saw wild, insane images flickering through her head. One after the other.
Narcissa Malfoy being held at wand point.
Lucius pleading for his wife to be spared. "NO! I'll take her place. Crucio me, instead, My Lord."
Voldemort's maniacal laughter.
Voldemort, at the head of the Malfoy table, threatening to "clean out" useless things... unless someone proved him wrong. Made up for it.
Draco's skin literally burning as the blank ink appeared. A magical branding.
A mother's tortured cries.
Don't. Fucking. Say. A Word.
"What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"
Why are you showing me this?
Damn it, Granger! Just fucking listen to me! Whatever you do—and I can't believe I'm saying this—make sure Potter doesn't royally fuck up and die. You lot have got to win this war. Do you hear me?
"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"
Pain like nothing Hermione had ever felt before took of her and wouldn't let go. Agony sliced through her. She was being totally ripped apart, cell by cell and limb from limb, piece by piece.
JUST FUCKING KILL ME! PLEASE!
That was right before she was transported to a meadow.
I can't take away the pain, but I can do this. Don't get us killed, Granger.
Hermione saw a beautiful garden identical to the one from her story book as a child. She almost felt the cool autumn breeze that carried cherry blossom petals into the distance.
For a moment, all seemed right in the world, even as she screamed. Even as she burned.
She could have ruined it all the moment she heard children's voices from days she tried, and failed, to forget. The grass was nearly tangible beneath her; she could have sworn she felt it tickling her knees. Malfoy's tiny elbows next to hers were practically corporeal as their arms brushed one another. Their child selves laid side by side on the lawn, basking in the sun underneath an ocean blue sky.
"Sometimes since I've been in the garden I've looked up through the trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something was pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast. Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. Everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us. In this garden - in all the places."
"That's got to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever read. You mean muggles actually read this st— ow!"
What are you doing, Malfoy? This doesn't—
Dredging up the only thing I know for sure about you. You love books, and I'm not subjecting myself to the fucking Hogwarts library. You're welcome.
Hermione's mind instantly went blank.
Don't let Potter fuck this up, Granger.
I won't. I promise.
That day was a frequent source of her nightmares, but every now and then, when Hermione expected it the least, she thought about the immense risk Draco took that day. He was trying to save his family, but he, by extension, helped to save the world. For him to claim that she saved his life, they actually saved each other. As the hot water from the shower coursed down over her aching, sore muscles, Hermione had an epiphany.
The O's.
His concern over her letters.
Getting her to St. Mungo's.
Floating the bill for her educational program.
Moving in with her, and then getting it cleaned.
Taking her out for drinks. Sleeping beside her in her bed.
That dance.
His odd behavior this morning.
Even after they buried the hatchet, Draco was still trying to make amends for their school days.
With the weight of that knowledge sitting on her chest, Hermione's head hung under the torrent of water, letting her waterlogged locks hang around her. She lifted her arms, placing her palms in front of her on the shower wall.
Hermione forced air into her lungs while she screwed her eyes shut against the onslaught of both the water and her fractured heart. How could she have been so stupid, to truly allow anyone into her heart like that, much less someone like Draco? She knew better! Would she always be so foolish as to fall for any male who showed her even an iota of affection? It was Ron all over again! Allowing romantic feelings for someone who was upfront about wanting friendship! Stupid, stupid, stupid!
She sighed. It wasn't his fault. He was simply raised to be a gentleman, and she wasn't used to that. Naturally, it meant more when the majority of her experience with males was rather... lacking.
She couldn't allow him to keep feeling so guilty. She forgave him. They became friends. Just his company and friendship was more than enough for her. He didn't need to keep doing more. He couldn't live the rest of his life with guilt weighing him down. After everything he's done for her this year, she should do something for him. She needed to set his conscience free, and she would, if it was the last thing she ever did.
But what does one do for the guy who has everything? What could she give?
Hermione had no concept of how long she'd been in there until the water turned cold. It was also just her luck. That would be the moment an idea finally occurred to her. His Mark! That was the one thing that bothered him more than anything else. The one thing he'd do anything to be rid of.
They didn't call her the Brightest Witch of their Age for no reason. It just so happens that researching is what she does best—and she is quite adept at potions.
Hermione practically scrambled out of the shower, eager to get started on her new project. She hurriedly dried off, scampering into the bedroom and all but dove into the closet.
"Suit... suit... suit... dress shirt...More of those... Oh! So, he does own a tee shirt! Holy... Five of them? Now, that's surprising."
Hermione's eyes widened when she found the holy grail of all clothing articles.
Draco's old quidditch jersey.
She'd been quite fond of how comfortable Harry's was. It was the best shirt he owned, honestly. Hermione's lips quirked up a bit, thinking of how Harry often joked about his sister and his girlfriend making sure he'd never get to wear his own jersey again.
Could she do it? Should she do it?
"Oh, stop overthinking this, Hermione," she scoffed. Draco put her in this position! If he didn't want his jersey touched, then he shouldn't have run off with her bag. She could be plundering through her own clothes by now. Speaking of clothes...
Hermione darted across the hall, into her childhood bedroom. Could they still be here?
Excited fingers pulled open the bottom drawer of her old dresser. She lit up brighter than a Christmas tree when she found them.
Yes!
She knew she didn't pack her denim shorts when they set off for the Horcrux hunt, and afterwards, she just bought new ones. She didn't feel comfortable coming back here.
She didn't realize she was doing a small victory dance until she was back in front of her parent's closet. It looked like she wouldn't be subjected to awkwardly walking around in Draco's slacks or yesterday's dirty jeans after all.
Take that, Malfoy!
Before she could second guess and overthink herself into standing there in just a towel until Draco came back home, she swiped the green jersey. If he had a problem with it, he could just give her the bag back.
Hermione could never have guessed how different it would feel to wear Draco's jersey. It fit just the same—baggy fit, soft, silky fabric—but she instinctively felt like she was crossing a boundary. She didn't feel like the playful, thieving sister. This felt more like a...
Hermione screwed her eyes shut before she could let herself go there.
It's just because it's a Slytherin shirt. That's what it was. It has nothing to do with the smell of sandalwood that was distinctly Draco. It has nothing to do with the fact that she could now identify the apple scent that clings to all his things—now that her hair smells like it, too.
He's a Slytherin and she's a Gryffindor. That's why it's different. Nothing more. Ron would go as far as to say she was fraternizing with the enemy again. Yes. That's exactly it.
"Right." Hermione took a few more deep, cleansing breaths, ignoring the urge to smell the shirt she wore. Just as she was about to leave the room again, she spotted it. On her bedside table sat a pristine hardback book that nearly made her literally squeal in delight.
"Why would you leave this lying around?" Hermione gasped in awe. She bolted to the nightstand. Even in her excitement, she picked the book up with careful fingers. She nearly had a stroke when she realized it was a first edition. She couldn't believe her eyes; it was like Merlin himself wanted to help her with her task.
Her knowledge-hungry mind wouldn't let her get her nose out of Draco's copy of An Alchemists' Advanced Guide to Healing Magics and Potions for the entirety of the day. Not when she decided to check her old desk drawer for a pen and a notebook to take notes. Not when she fixed herself some lunch. Not when she had to put her hair up to start preparing dinner. Not even while she was chopping up a beef cut and various vegetables. She merely propped the text against the apple basket and glanced up every so often so that she didn't lose her spot. Her eyes barely left the pages as she got everything going in the slow cooker.
She balanced the text in one hand while she stepped out on the back porch and got a fire going in the pit. She made short work of gathering a quilt, her notebook, and her pen to take it outside with her. Her mind was working furiously now; dozens of ideas and theories spinning around in her head. Hermione hadn't felt this much like herself in ages.
She was so absorbed in her research that she never noticed it when Draco came home and realized she was wearing his jersey.
