Chapter 5: Chaste
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
A Measured Courtship
A study of Prince Draco's romances prior to Hermione Granger's arrival at Hogwarts University would be an interesting portfolio indeed, counting among them a number of stunningly beautiful young women. Perhaps a result of having such a volume of interested parties, the Prince's track record throughout his pre-Hermione years is best categorized as a series of ephemeral flings, though none particularly sordid. Outwardly, Prince Draco maintains an obvious preference for measured cordiality towards his partners that suggests a resistance to any form of affection or intimacy; in fact, even now, little evidence exists to show the Prince clasping hands in public, or embracing.
While some might interpret Prince Draco's demeanor as cold, those possessing close familiarity with the Prince know it is in fact far more indicative of his more reserved nature. By all accounts, Draco's relationship with Hermione began with a mutual perimeter of practicality. She first appeared in the public eye as an unobtrusive (though hardly unremarkable) face among the Prince's intimate circle of friends, listed without a name while attending a gala celebrating the anniversary of King Abraxas' reign. The earliest pictures of Hermione in Prince Draco's presence show a quiet, thoughtful distance between the two, their relationship obviously then-confined to their shared academic pursuits and her respectful support for his family. Clearly, any physical flame between them took hold slowly, gradually, and with a beatific patience; truly, a love that grew from chaste and humble roots.
I'll tell you one thing: if Rita Skeeter had any motherfracking clue about literally anything, she wouldn't be quite so quick to paint Draco as some sort of adorably celibate monk. Obviously, though, this is part of the deal when it comes to Draco; what's on the surface is hardly anything to go on at all. Take the picture Rita mentioned, for example, which was a shot of me entering the gala for King Abraxas a few weeks after Prince Lucius collapsed at Theo's house. I was with all the usual suspects that day, hidden in plain sight and dressed to blend to my surroundings after being explicitly told (not very politely, and by Pansy, as you might have guessed) not to make eye contact with any cameras. Draco and I intentionally did not touch. We didn't speak. We didn't even look at each other.
But if you look closely, you can see something Rita Skeeter missed; a little code between Draco and me, a game we played with each other, which started with that very picture. If you look at his hands, you can see he has his signet ring on his left pinky instead of his right, and it means this: I want you. Right. Now.
And if you look even closer, you can see my response.
But why reveal it now, when I haven't even gotten to the good part?
October 23, 2010
Nott Manor
"I really don't think it was necessary for you to come," Hermione told Pansy for the third or fourth time, watching her knee jiggle impatiently beneath the table. "Apparently it was just, I don't know. Palpitations."
This being, of course, an attitude Hermione could only take now, having already been assured by Draco via text about an hour ago that his father was going to be fine—which was probably also why Pansy had transitioned from helpfully barking instructions at Theo's household staff to merely casting moody glances at Hermione and Daphne, much to both girls' displeasure. Pansy in panic mode was far preferable to You've Mucked Everything Up Tremendously Pansy, which was a new and unpleasant take on Disapproving Noblewoman Pansy.
"Repeat everything you said to him," Pansy said tightly, "verbatim."
"Pansy," Daphne began exasperatedly, but Pansy held up a hand.
"Nothing from you," she sniffed, and then added snidely, "Miss Enabler."
"Miss Enabler?" Daphne echoed, scoffing. "First of all, not your best work. Secondly—"
"You should have stopped her," Pansy cut in sharply, and Hermione frowned, about to intercede when Pansy launched into something of a rant, beginning to rapidly pace the floor. "She's totally unpolished in every conceivable way, and you let her verbally assault the Prince of Wales!"
"Pansy," Daphne attempted gruffly, looking a bit bruised by the accusation, but clearly, Pansy wasn't finished.
"And worse, do you realize that while you've both been playing this silly game of make-believe, you've filled her head with the concept that she can simply be herself and everything will be fine?" Pansy demanded, and then rounded on Hermione, thrusting a hand out in reference. "She bites her nails, Daphne!"
"Well, hold on," Hermione said, only to be rapidly interrupted.
"You know the rules," Pansy was continuing to Daphne, jabbing a finger in her direction and, for some reason, ignoring Hermione altogether. "You know how to dress, don't you? How to behave? You're Lady Daphne Greengrass, and yet here you are, acting like you're in some sort of foolish romantic comedy wherein every bumbling idiot who wanders into a castle is going to traipse back out of it with a prince!"
"Pansy," Hermione warned. "You're being ridiculous."
"Actually," Daphne said, and winced. "She has a point." She turned slowly, facing Hermione with a strange look of apology on her face. "I do know better, Hermione," she murmured, and when Hermione's eyes went wide with betrayal, she hurried to reassure her. "No, no, I meant—you do bite your nails," she said, gesturing to Hermione's hands. "When you're thinking. From time to time."
"Everyone does," Hermione argued, but Pansy lifted her hands, wordlessly thrusting them in front of Hermione's face.
Perfect, Hermione noted glumly. Pansy's nails were unpolished, but obviously buffed to shine. Short, but not too short. The little white crescent that was uneven at best on Hermione's nails were present in perfect harmony across each of Pansy's. Her nail beds were flawless, her skin lightly moisturized, her jewelry minimal. She wore only one ring, with her family crest, on the ring finger of her right hand.
"When I was a child I used to chew on my cuticles," Pansy explained flatly, as Daphne raised her own hands guiltily, offering them for Hermione's scrutiny. Her nails were just as uniformly unblemished, but were painted a pale, barely noticeable pink. "When I was six years old," Pansy continued, "my mother lathered my hands in lemon juice. Vinegar. Sometimes she rubbed hot peppers on them. To this day, if my fingers ever linger near my mouth, my entire tongue burns with the taste of it, and I'd be willing to bet the same thing happened with Daphne and Astoria." Pansy removed her hand from Hermione's grip and turned sharply to Daphne, who grimaced. "Didn't it?"
"It did," Daphne admitted slowly, with a sheepish glance at Hermione.
"But why should it matter what my nails look like?" Hermione demanded, and Pansy sighed irritably, typing something into her phone and then brusquely holding it out for her to see.
On the screen was an image from an article about Draco's mother, dated a year or two after his birth. In it, Narcissa was extending a hand to some sort of foreign diplomat, and there was a close-up on her bitten fingernails, along with a little blurb about how all wasn't well for the Princess of Wales: Trouble at home? the caption said, with a nearly-audible cluck of disapproval. Seems there's trouble in paradise for the Prince and Princess of Wales, and rumour has it it's a real nail-biter.
Despite the smile on Narcissa's face—the perfection of her hair and makeup and the exquisite beauty of her gown—the article had located her one flaw and used it against her. Hermione looked up slowly, catching the expressions looking back at her (ruthlessly determined on Pansy, faintly saddened on Daphne) and pausing.
"But," she said. "This… it doesn't matter. Does it?"
"It shouldn't," Pansy confirmed flatly. "Not for you, because you have no future with Draco. I know you don't, which is why I've done nothing to prepare you. But Daphne, on the other hand," she said, glaring briefly at Daphne, "seems to think this is all a delightful fairy tale, and therefore, she's done you a disservice. Because if you want him," she pressed, fixing her dark gaze on Hermione again, "if you really want Draco, you're going to have to change a lot of things. Including but not limited to your appearance," she sniffed, "and more importantly, how you speak to the Prince of Wales."
"I—" Hermione swallowed. "I was angry. He was yelling at Draco, and—"
"Ask Daphne how she felt while listening to the same thing you were," Pansy said instantly. "Go on. Ask her."
Hermione grimaced, and Daphne flinched.
"Pansy, she gets the point," Daphne said quietly, but Pansy merely arched a brow.
"Do you think Daphne cares less about Draco than you do?" Pansy demanded from Hermione, who hesitated.
"No, but—"
"Do you think that any of us," Pansy snapped, "care less about him when we've known him years longer than you have? For our entire lives, even? When we have much more intimate knowledge about him and his relationship with his father than you could possibly possess?"
"Pansy, I just—"
"If it were up to me," Pansy said, taking a threatening step in Hermione's direction, "I would have strangled the Prince of Darkness myself. I'd have poisoned his tea and strung him up by his ears. But the fact of the matter is that Lucius isn't going anywhere," she hissed, "so straining Draco's relationship with him only causes more problems in the long run, especially if—"
She paused, mouth tightening.
"If you plan to be here for the long run," she finished with a dangerous voice of quiet, and Hermione inhaled sharply.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I really don't."
To that, Pansy looked consummately unimpressed.
"Are you willing to give up your life for him?" she asked simply. "He can't leave England. He's the sole heir and future king of this country. There is simply no compromise to be made, and that's the distant future. What about now? Are you willing to transfer to Hogwarts? To move here?"
Hermione blinked. "I really don't think—"
"And what if it lasts beyond that?" Pansy asked without missing a beat, in a tone far too dark to be as leisurely as she pretended. "Did you have plans for a job after university? A career of your own? Smart girl like you, you have goals, don't you?"
"I—yes, but—"
"Are you ready to have a man who was born in 1935 tell you how you should behave?" Pansy asked, folding her arms over her chest. "When King Abraxas tells you how you can dress, who you can see, what you can do, what you can say—are you going to give him heart palpitations, too? Are you ready to murder the King of England, Hermione Granger? Are you prepared to have that on your conscience?"
Daphne made a sound like a hiccup, and Hermione glanced at her. "Uh—"
"What's next?" Pansy demanded. "The Duke of York is a known misogynist, and a horrifying xenophobe, to boot. Are you planning to give him a stroke?" she asked, absurdly stone-faced. "Are you going to verbally smite him, too, Hermione, or is that sort of antagonism only reserved for Draco's direct paternal line?"
"I—" Hermione bit her lip, recognizing that once again, Daphne was shaking with laughter. "Pansy, I'm hardly out here assassinating people—"
To that, Daphne let out a sound like a strangled yelp, and Pansy flashed her an impatient glance.
"This is ridiculous," Pansy said, as Hermione collapsed in the seat beside Daphne, reaching for her with a renewed bout of hugely inappropriate laughter. "Neither of you are taking this seriously."
"Look," Hermione said, wiping her eyes and taking a deep breath, "I get it, okay? I'm unsuitable, fine. I swear, Pansy, I'll leave in December and it won't be anything. I won't have to murder anyone. Nobody has t-" she paused, stifling another laugh as Daphne giggled shrilly into the sleeve of her t-shirt. "To die, okay?"
"I hope you mean that," Pansy sniffed, and then paused, pursing her lips and sighing. "But fine," she conceded eventually, rolling her eyes as Daphne and Hermione attempted (unsuccessfully) to contain themselves. "What did you say to him? The only thing Draco told me in his text was that there'd been an emergency and I should call you straight away."
"Oh, you know," Hermione said, struggling to straighten. "That I was a grubby commoner, the usual. The same things you say, actually, only he was also telling Draco he couldn't see his mother, so—"
"Oh." Pansy's mouth tightened. "Well."
With a loud sigh, she flung herself down between Hermione and Daphne, brusquely shoving them aside.
"You both know I would never speak ill of Draco's family," Pansy informed them threateningly, "but in this instance, I'm glad somebody said something. Especially if that somebody promises not to get into any more trouble," she warned, and Hermione sighed.
"I was just frustrated—"
"Well, rightfully," Pansy agreed, looking as though the concession pained her. "My mother hasn't seen Princess Narcissa in quite some time, either."
Hermione and Daphne exchanged a glance behind Pansy's back before sitting up slowly.
"Why not?" Daphne asked, thankfully sparing Hermione any undue accusations of prying, and Pansy hesitated, but opened her mouth.
"Well," Pansy said slowly, "the truth is, Narcissa is—"
She stopped as the door swung open, revealing Theo and Draco in the frame.
"Oh good, you came," Draco said wearily, striding forward as Pansy instantly leapt to her feet, gathering him into her arms. "Thanks, Pans," he murmured to her, tightening his fingers in her buttery Emilia Wickstead blazer for a moment before composing himself, pulling away to nod. "I just wasn't sure how serious it was going to be."
"Unfortunately, not nearly serious enough," Theo supplied, kicking idly at the floor. He glanced briefly at Daphne, whose cheeks turned the slightest, most inconsequentially iridescent shade of pink. "You okay, Daph?"
"Yes, how are you two?" Draco asked, glancing between Hermione and Daphne. He let his gaze linger on Hermione's for a moment, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. "I'd hoped it wouldn't take so long, but—"
"We're fine," Daphne assured them. "Luckily we've had Lady Parkinson to alternately entertain and berate us for the last twelve hours."
Draco glanced sharply at Pansy, who shrugged.
"My blood sugar is low," she said drily, and at his skeptical glance, she bristled. "What?"
"Nothing I shouldn't have expected," Draco assured her, shaking his head before turning his attention back to Theo. "Well, I suppose we might as well stay the rest of the weekend, right? Lucius is being brought to his usual doctor in London," he added to the others with a sly undertone of suggestion, "but since he doesn't want anything to appear abnormal, he's asked me not to come along."
"So it was really nothing?" Hermione asked anxiously.
"Just some shortness of breath and stress-related palpitations," Draco assured her.
"Happens, you know," Theo chimed in, "when one is an ageless demon sent from the depths of the underworld."
"That's Hades," Daphne admonished him. "You're mixing myths again."
"Again?" Theo demanded, indignant. "First of all, no. Secondly, I'm simply providing an artful amalgamation between cultures. You know, like fusion cuisines, which everyone knows are all the rage among sophisticated palettes—"
"Theodore, honestly—"
"Hey," Draco said, sidling up to Hermione as Theo and Daphne continued to bicker. "Do you think I could borrow you for a moment?"
Hermione glanced at Pansy, whose mouth grimly permitted the slightest motion of, Well, if you must, but don't forget what we discussed.
"Sure," Hermione said tentatively, looking back at Draco. "Just to talk, right?" she added, as Pansy turned away, somewhere between disapproving and disinterested.
"Of course," Draco assured her. "I just wanted to talk about what happened. I wanted to make sure you were okay," he added, brow furrowing with sincerity. "I haven't forgotten my father was being extraordinarily cruel to you before… all of this," he finished, looking remorseful.
"Oh," Hermione realized, blinking. Of course he wanted to talk. She'd listened in on quite a lot, hadn't she? "Yes, right. Of course. I mean, I'm fine, but—"
"But still," Draco said. "I'd feel better if we could discuss it."
Hermione exhaled, nodding slowly. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I think we should talk."
"I said talk," Hermione gasped, reaching behind her for the post of his bed just as they stumbled into it, nearly tripping past it directly onto the floor. "This," she reminded him as he kicked off his shoes, hurriedly taking her back into his arms, "is very much"—a pause to let his tongue dance across hers as he told her, under no uncertain terms, I don't care—"not talking, Draco—"
The instant the door had closed behind them, talking had become something of a secondary impulse. The conversation had gone something like so, about my dad, and yes, true, about him, directly into other types of communication. Largely, picking up where they'd left off that morning, in something of a thank you for listening combined with let's see what happens if I touch you here, or here, or here, let's do it for science and yes, fine, let's do it, it's a service for mankind, which had of course brought them to… this moment.
To his left hand, specifically, which was under her shirt. He'd slipped it under her bra, in fact, clever little prince that he was, and sighed his particular sensation of approval into her mouth, curving his palm around her and delivering her to a furious shiver of delight.
To his right hand, too, which had traveled to the button of her jeans, flicking them open with a motion so quick and effortless she had to assume it had been written into some sort of fancy royal prep school manual. His fingers danced under the fabric, toying with the lace of her Victoria's Secret five-for-$25 underwear she desperately wished was La Perla, and his thumb swirled down lower, pressing dangerously close to lose-her-mind territory as Hermione leaned her head back, gradually giving in.
Then there was his mouth, which was resting against the hem of her v-neck. No, she thought, not resting. It was pulsing, prodding, exploring, traveling lower as his left hand, already inconveniently persuasive on her breasts, shifted from beneath her t-shirt to slide the whole ensemble lower, permitting his mouth to run over the places his fastidious hands had already been.
There were other things, too. Things she should be too ladylike to mention (except spoiler: she wasn't), like the outline of Draco's trousers, which were only too happy to announce to Hermione just what might come next if she let it. In response, she slid a hand up his thigh, testing. Just trying things out. An academic study. His ass? Perfect. Sculpted. A magnificent backside. She dug her fingers in, curious, and stifled a groan at his response. He had those little indentations at the base of his back; she could feel them under her fingers. What were they called? Oh, right. Dimples of Venus. Similarly, she could feel the little cuts above his hips. The little grooves that shouted HEY, LOOK WHAT'S DOWN HERE!—Apollo's belt. What was he, a prince or a myth? She slid her hands lower.
Oh god.
Oh god.
He groaned as she slid her hand over his totally unsubtle erection. His dick. His penis. His Royal Cock, which was deeply and distressingly promising. Jesus Christ, she thought, imagine how well he'd fit her. Or would he? She bit her lip, thinking about it as his fingers danced over her, slipping under the lace of her underwear and back again. Would he want it fast? Probably not. He was a diligent sort of person. She thought now of the way he took notes, reading and re-reading sections, annotating as he went. She'd seen him study often enough to know he rarely rushed his work. And sure, this felt dirty enough, but if this were some sort of work of smutty fiction with some other less scrupulous guy, then surely he'd have thrown her on the bed by now. Fucked her up against the wall. Wouldn't he? She thought about the time she'd opened up one of her mother's books at thirteen (Bridges of Madison County, in fact) and slammed it shut again, breathing hard. This was desperation like that, wasn't it? But it wasn't, because good lord, Draco knew how to take his time.
"Hey," he murmured, glancing down. "Are you, um. Planning to do something with that?"
Oh. Oh. She'd just been leisurely holding onto his penis, like she was using it for balance or something. Possibly trying to memorize the shape of it to recreate for herself later. Which she almost certainly would. In the shower. Which, at this rate, would need to be a very long, very cold shower.
"Um," she said, swallowing.
She was a modern woman. She'd had sex. Casually, even, so she could certainly have sex now with His Royal Hotness, Prince of Dicks, couldn't she? He was a nice boy. Her mother wouldn't fault her. Her sex ed teacher would probably give her the all-clear. Her gynecologist? Highly in favor, if she had to guess. Really, the Pope himself couldn't fault her. She'd just have to explain that it was Draco—that he had all the holy markings from all the classics which yes, she'd studied at length—and listen, if she told him no, then she'd be denying a man who'd very recently been afraid his father would die, and that wasn't exactly the Christian thing to do, was it?—and he'd say yes, my child, go forth and conjugate in peace. Amen.
"Hermione," Draco said, kissing her. She still hadn't released him and he shifted lightly against her hand, chuckling under his breath as she inhaled sharply. "You're killing me a little bit. And it really wouldn't be fair to almost kill two princes in one day."
With a clang, she suddenly remembered everything Pansy had said. She remembered, too, that if they had sex right now, she'd have to walk downstairs in her sex haze (a real thing, which her traitorous hair would almost certainly give away) and face Lady Pansy Parkinson-Six names, which would almost certainly be a very real nightmare.
Hermione looked down at her bitten nails and swallowed hard, releasing him.
"Oh," he said, frowning. "I just meant—"
"Listen," Hermione began, and Draco grimaced, obviously catching telltale signs the other shoe was about to drop. "Draco, I like you. I like you so much, and even if I didn't like you for your personality—"
She blinked, realizing she was still staring at the bulge in his pants before she cleared her throat, looking up to find him stifling laughter.
"Right," she determined, clearing her throat. "So, look. I like you. I really do. I really, really do."
"So far, so promising," he said. "I like you, too, which I believe I've mentioned—"
"Yes," she agreed, trying to regain some sense of decorum. "So listen. This is… we shouldn't do this. Because if we had sex, we couldn't… un-have sex."
He frowned. "Are you saying you don't want to?"
She looked down, catching his waning attention (more specifically, realizing her right breast was almost entirely exposed before tucking it hastily back into her bra) and taking a firm step back.
"No, I'm just saying we can't do this," she told him. "Look, I still have two months left, right? I don't want to chance making things awkward." Briefly, Daphne's reasoning for not sleeping with Theo flashed in her head; relationships are complicated, and worse, non-relationships are more complicated.
"The truth is that I can't date you, Draco," Hermione exhaled miserably, and he flinched slightly, proving the internal theory she'd been trying to ignore, which was that despite his optimism, he knew it just as well as she did. "Even if I weren't leaving, I'm still a huge problem for you. I'm American. I'm certainly not nobility. I'm Catholic, for god's sake!" she said, and he arched a brow. "Okay, so I'm not devout, per se, but still. The point stands—and I almost killed your father today," she reminded him, and to that, he permitted a sigh.
"But," he began, and paused.
She waited, comfortably certain he wasn't going to be able to come up with anything.
"But you're killing me," he eventually informed her, and she threw herself on the bed, stifling a wail.
"I know," she said, and he lay himself carefully beside her, turning his head to hers as she looked at him. "I know. I hate this. I wish it were easier. But still, this isn't something that can happen, and you know it. You know we can't be together," she told him grimly, which she was grateful he didn't bother trying to deny, "and to be honest, I think it would hurt too much to try."
She reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead.
"If I can't be with you, Prince Draco," she said sadly, "then I can't chance ruining our friendship. No matter how badly I want to. And I do," she clarified, watching his mouth twist with difficulty. "But am I willing to lose Draco, my friend, just so I can have Draco, Prince of Dicks? No." She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, but I'm just not."
He nodded, shutting his eyes, and exhaled deeply.
"Friends, then," he said. His misery was, per usual, skillfully restrained. "I don't want to lose my friend Hermione, either."
He slid his hand down, brushing it against her knuckles, and she closed her eyes, wishing things had been different. That even one thing had been different.
For a few minutes, she was pretty sure he was thinking the same thing, and they lay there in silence, contemplating their mutual lamentations; the farewells to what could have been.
"Did you," Draco began, breaking the silence, and then he frowned. "Did you call me the Prince of… Dicks?"
Hermione blinked.
"Doesn't sound like me," she told him, and he chuckled.
"Also, you didn't 'almost kill' my father," he assured her. "It was just, I don't know. Bad timing."
"Yeah, well. He's still going to hate me forever," she said grimly, "so it's probably best we don't date, don't you think?"
"Well, maybe he will," Draco sighed, turning his head to look at her again. "But either way, I really appreciate it, even if I can't technically approve." He squeezed her hand lightly. "It's nice to know I have someone on my side."
"You always have me," Hermione promised him. "I'm always on your side."
His mouth quirked into a smile, broadening slowly.
"We made a good choice," he said. "Now we can be friends for a lifetime instead of just two people who had sex in Theo's house."
"See?" Hermione said. "Responsible of us. We're so impressive."
"I'm impressed with us," Draco agreed, and when she sat up, he followed suit. "Shall we head back down, then?"
"Need me to talk about Theo's dad's bollocks first?" she prompted.
"No," Draco said, wincing. "In fact, please don't."
Hermione smiled. "So. Are you coming back to school then, friend?" she asked him. "I could really use my study partner back. Got a big paper due this week."
This time, his smile was more than tentative. She felt far braver, as it turned out, for having offered to be something for him she knew he couldn't find anywhere else. Sex was easy, she reminded herself. Being someone he could turn to for the rarity of normalcy—someone he could trust—was hard.
(Though, it was still too fresh to think about hardness. Not until the shower she definitely wasn't going to take. And the memory she definitely hadn't burned into her brain.)
"I genuinely cannot wait," Draco replied, and Hermione smiled back, certain she'd done the right thing.
Unfortunately for both of them (seeing as they'd been banking on a quiet, unexceptional week in order to test out the latest evolution of their friendship, which was probably best summarized as 'friends firmly without benefits') the week Draco returned to Hogwarts was rather not quiet at all.
"So," Blaise began, dropping his palms flat on the table and startling all of them (no one less than Theo, who clipped Pansy in the shoulder as he jumped) with the sudden motion before sliding a flyer out for their perusal. It was a Tuesday afternoon with nothing remarkable outside of Draco's quiet presence beside Hermione, idly scratching out errors in one of his essays for an art history class, and Blaise's apparent announcement. "What do we think?"
"Is this for a Halloween party?" Daphne asked, trying to read it upside down from where she sat with Theo, and Pansy pursed her lips.
"I believe it says Halloqueen," she corrected, and promptly made a face. "If this is some sort of liberal nonsense, Blaise, you should know that while I am more than happy to chip away at heteronormativity in all its contemptible forms, I'm hardly willing to watch you struggle with petticoats."
"Minus five points for the unfounded assumption I would struggle," Blaise retorted, jabbing an accusatory finger at her, "but plus two for the progressive agenda."
Pansy rolled her eyes but nodded, folding her arms over her chest in apparent concession as Hermione slid the flyer over, eyeing it.
"Looks like the Hog's Head is having a costume party," she noted, and Daphne came around to the other side of the table, eyeing it as Draco pretended not to look up from his essay. "Is this something they do every year?"
"Yes," Daphne confirmed. "Last year was a Monster Mash. Dreadfully overdone, in my opinion."
"It's pretty fun, actually," Theo contributed, looking up. "Greengrass made a very beguiling witch. Pansy, meanwhile," he remarked, blatantly hiding a mischievous smirk, "must have opted not to come in costume."
From Pansy, without looking up: "I'm sorry Theodore, do you want to die today?"
From Theo: "I can't today, I'm very busy. Please consult with my people tomorrow."
From Draco: "Well, in fairness to Pansy, never put off tomorrow what could be done today."
Pansy, licking a finger and turning the page of her book: "Draco's got it."
From Hermione, surprised: "Wait, what are you doing today, Theo? I thought you wanted me to look over your Slughorn essay."
A slightly flustered Theo: "Oh, well, yes. That's what I'm doing today."
"So, hold on a minute," Daphne interrupted, holding up the flyer. "Are we in agreement, then? We're doing the Hog's Head again this year? Because if so, we need to discuss costumes."
"Yes," Blaise approved quickly, snatching the flyer from her. "Twenty points to Greengrass for keeping us apprised of the important things. We should discuss this now, as I will not accept anything less than total group cohesion. Do not, under any circumstances, embarrass me as you did two years ago."
From Hermione, bemused: "What happened two years ago?"
From the group, in unison: "DO. NOT. ASK—"
"I'll tell you," Blaise interrupted grandly, nudging Draco over and half-seating himself on his chair. "Picture this: it's the year of Our Lord 2008, and it's Halloween week. Halloweek, if you will—"
From Pansy: "We won't."
From Theo: "Well, hold on. May I have a second to decide?"
From Blaise: "Shut up immediately. Anyway, it's Halloweek, and we've just met Daphne. And Tracey Davis, who is unimportant to the story outside of the fact that we also know her."
From Hermione, bemused: "I thought you guys liked Tracey."
From Theo: "We do, sort of. In the same way we like houseplants. Great in theory, optically pleasing, but a nuisance from day-to-day."
From Draco: "Get back to the story, Blaise. I don't think I've heard this one."
Hermione, surprised: "You haven't?"
Draco, clearing his throat: "Well, no. I mean, I can't exactly go to things like this, so. No, I don't know the story."
Hermione, blinking with hastily disguised pity: "Oh. Right, of course."
Theo, loudly: "Just tell the story, Blaise."
Blaise: "Don't tell me what to do, Theodore. Only Pansy can do that."
From Pansy: a wordless half-smile.
Blaise: "So, we had all agreed we would go to this party—which had a theme, like it does every year. That year, the theme was Cowboys and Indians."
Hermione: "Oof. Yikes."
From Theo: "In fairness to us, are we even English if we're not terribly misappropriating some other culture? Or stealing it for the benefit of putting it in a museum."
From Draco: a brief chuckle of agreement, hurriedly sobered.
Blaise: "SO, AS I WAS SAYING—"
Pansy, brusquely: "So, much to Blaise's dismay, our costumes were somewhat without a cohesive narrative. And that's it, that's the entire story."
Hermione: "Wait, why? What was everyone dressed as?"
Daphne: "Well, I went as a Bollywood dancer."
From Theo: "And I was a space cowboy."
Daphne, turning to him: "I think technically it was a child's Buzz Lightyear costume, wasn't it? Just with a cowboy hat? I recall it being several sizes too small."
Blaise, looking outrageously filled with mischief: "Well, you would know, wouldn't you, Daph?"
Hermione blinked. "What does that mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Daphne assured her, glancing hastily away. Hermione noticed her cheeks (always a dead giveaway) were positively flaming, and across the table, Theo was conspicuously silent. "It was—well, like they said, we'd really just met, and—"
From Hermione, in the midst of a revelation: "Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my GOD, did you two—"
From Pansy, stiffly: "Yes, yes, Daphne and Theodore had an indiscretion. Did you honestly think that bet was born from nothing?"
Daphne, insistent: "It wasn't an indiscretion—we just kissed! Once!"
From Theo, drawling: "Yes, and then she learned the intricacies of my personality and wisely backed away."
From Blaise, sulkily: "I hope all of you are aware you have each lost points for completely derailing my story—which, as a reminder, was about your woeful costume choices, and not remotely your apocalyptic approximations of romance."
Draco, doubtfully: "Yes, Blaise, this is imperialism to the highest degree."
Hermione, meanwhile, rounded on Draco. "Did you know about this?"
"Oh, everyone knew about it," Pansy assured her, cutting Daphne off as she opened her mouth. "Didn't you two have breakfast together in the morning?" she asked Daphne. "I distinctly remember breakfast."
"No," Daphne insisted. "Of course not. We just—"
"They stayed out all night," Blaise supplied with a cheeky grin, and as Hermione felt her eyes grow noticeably wide, Daphne looked as if she were about to burst with discomfort.
"It was nothing," Theo cut in sharply, giving each of them a glance of warning. "Greengrass and I had a very minor, very intoxicated kiss, and the rest of the night was…" He cleared his throat carefully. "Unremarkable. As one might expect from someone of my truly abysmal sexual caliber, I mucked it up entirely," he clarified with a grave half-smile, "and because Greengrass was too drunk to defenestrate herself away from my intolerable wit, the rest of the night consisted exclusively of pseudo-intellectual conversation between two platonic non-idiots. One non-idiot, that is," he corrected himself with a glance at Daphne, "and, of course, me. But either way, we've been friends ever since."
"Friends?" Hermione echoed, half-squeaking it. "But—"
"So," Draco interrupted with a pointed glance at Blaise. "What are you thinking for your costumes this year, then?"
"Beheaded monarchs," Pansy scoffed a day later, when she, Daphne, and Hermione had ventured out to a costume shop in one of the nearby towns after class. "Honestly, Blaise is the one who should be guillotined for something so absurdly tasteless."
"I don't see why you're upset," Daphne admonished her. "Marie Antoinette is the perfect costume for you."
"Still. That doesn't mean I'm pleased about the theme," Pansy sniffed, wandering away to look at powdered wigs while Daphne ran her fingers over a velvet gown.
"This counts for Anne Boleyn, don't you think?" she asked Hermione. "I mean, it's at least within the right time peri-"
"But what did Theo do?" Hermione demanded for the fourteenth time that day. "I still can't believe you never told me!"
"Well, it's ancient history," Daphne said, pointedly holding the dress up for Hermione's perusal, "so it's hardly worth discussing. So we kissed once," she said, shrugging. "You've kissed Draco and you're friends now, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah," Hermione said, deflating slightly. She and her mother had a very long talk about this over Skype upon Hermione's return from Nott Manor in a conversation that ended with Helen's unpractical insistence Hermione follow her heart… or some equally unusable advice. Helen Granger was a romantic where Hermione was unquestionably a pragmatist; Hermione's rose-colored glasses had been shattered a few too many times for Helen's unwavering belief that love conquered all. "But you and Theo are different, Daph. Just tell me what happened," Hermione begged, reaching out for Daphne's arm, and Daphne sighed.
"We kissed," she said curtly. "Then he said something, and it was—" She broke off. "He just said something stupid, that's all. You know how uniquely skilled Theo is at ruining the mood."
That was certainly likely, Hermione thought. "But still—"
"It's nothing, okay? And—oh my god," Daphne said, inhaling sharply as she removed a costume that was mostly thinly-woven, delicate metallic gold chains from the rack. "Are you seeing this? Hermione. Hermione." She shoved it into Hermione's arms. "You absolutely must wear this one."
"Are you joking? I can't wear this," Hermione protested, glancing down at it. "This dress would barely cover anything!"
"Yes, but it would be so perfect for you," Daphne crowed, delighted. "Come on, you only get one Halloqueen with us! You have to wear this one."
"Daphne, be serious. Why don't you wear it, if you like it so much?"
"Because I have a dress," she said, pointedly lofting up the Tudor-style gown, "and you don't. Come on, just think about it—"
"Alright," Pansy said, breezing back in with an elaborate white wig she seemed to have personally embellished with a complex arrangement of flowers and butterflies, "I'm going to have to find an appropriate shade of blush for this, but I think if I—" She broke off, frowning. "Whose is that?" she asked, pointing to the dress in Daphne's hands, and Daphne grinned broadly.
"Hermione's," she said. "Don't you think it's perfect for her?"
"No," Hermione cut in instantly. "No, no, it isn't—"
"I saw the most perfect thing for that," Pansy said, surprising both Daphne and Hermione with her enthusiasm. "What? I like costumes," Pansy sniffed, turning over her shoulder and disappearing as Hermione rounded on Daphne with a growl.
"I can't wear it, Daphne, it's ridiculous. I'm not remotely this ostentatious. And anyway, about you and Theo—"
"There's no me and Theo to speak of," Daphne reminded her, "and you have to. Give Draco some fun for his evening alone," she faux-pleaded with a wink, and Hermione felt her face heat with discomfort.
"First of all, stop, and secondly—"
"Here," Pansy said breathlessly, materializing with a narrow gold ring. It was a delicately-carved snake, coiled up in a tiny golden circle, which she slipped onto Hermione's hand and shoved rather brusquely down her finger. "See? Perfect."
"I—" Hermione paused, looking down at the ring and then up again at the dress, grimacing. It was a very appealing costume. Shiny, certainly, and nothing like she would have chosen for herself (possibly in a good way) but still. "She wasn't beheaded!"
Daphne and Pansy exchanged a glance.
"Screw Blaise's theme," Pansy determined eventually, taking the dress from Daphne's hands and holding it up to Hermione's frame. "You have to get it."
"Lady Parkinson has spoken," Daphne informed Hermione, who sighed heavily.
"Fine," she grumbled in concession, snatching the dress from Pansy's hands. "Cleopatra it is. Though, as a reminder, this costume is definitely not in any way culturally or historically accur-"
"Oh, just hush," Pansy commanded sharply.
"Yes, hush," Daphne agreed, "and hurry up, too, because I have to get back for a meeting tonight for class. Have you got everything you need?" she asked Pansy, who began explaining the intricacies of what seemed to be some sort of stocking situation as Hermione turned her head, noticing something on the wall beside her.
"—be fine, it'll look perfect, and—Hermione, are you coming?"
Hermione blinked, snatching up the item and tucking it under the dress in her hands.
"Yes," she confirmed. "Yes. Let's go."
"Wow," Draco said, eyeing her in the doorway. "Wow," he repeated, and swallowed with a ludicrously pointed gulp. "Is this some sort of cruel and unusual punishment? We invented the constitutional provision against that, you know. Look it up. Completely founded on English jurisprudence."
"Shut up," Hermione said, trying not to blink too aggressively beneath the fake eyelashes Daphne had insisted she put on. "I brought you something."
She held out her purchase, expectant, and Draco's lips curled up slowly.
"You're joking," he said, taking the Batman mask from her hand, and Hermione vehemently shook her head.
"I'm not," she assured him. "Come on," she added, batting her incredibly too-long lashes in what should surely be an Olympic sport of weighted coquetry. "I know you want to go, Draco. You looked so despondent when we were all talking about it, and Harry's here," she pointed out, as she'd seen him wander over to Blaise and Theo in the common room just minutes before she'd decided on this extremely ambitious plot to coax Draco out in public. "You don't really want to miss the party, do you?"
Draco hesitated, glancing down at the mask. "I don't know, Hermione. My dad's still not happy with me, and—"
"It's just one night," Hermione reminded him. "Nobody will be able to see your face. Or your hair. And we'll cover for you," she assured him, as he grimaced, obviously torn. "Come on. You haven't gotten to do anything fun in ages, have you? This is your chance."
"Blaise will take away all my points for failing to meet the theme," Draco pointed out, holding the mask up. "This is definitely not Halloqueen."
"Who cares? You can have some of my points if you want them so badly."
"What? Miss Granger, I don't know what kind of barbaric civilization you come from, but that's just not at all how things work around here—"
"Draco," she sighed, stepping forward to take hold of his wrist. "Come on. Come with us. Please," she added, with yet another gratuitous motion from her expertly Daphne-painted lips. "I want you to come with us."
It was a last-ditch effort that seemed to pay off.
"Fine," he said, and as she smiled with triumph, he caught her hand, eyeing the snake ring coiled around her finger. "This is very interesting," he noted. "You do know there's a snake in my family crest, don't you?"
He held up his signet ring for evidence. She'd noticed it on his right hand before, sitting idly on his pinky, but had never bothered to scrutinize it.
"Sounds symbolically inadvisable," Hermione informed him, and he laughed briefly before sobering, glancing over his shoulder at what looked to be the book he'd been planning to read for the evening.
In response, Hermione gave him one more pleading glance, and Draco sighed.
"Let's just go, then," he groaned. "Before I change my mind."
He pulled the mask over his head, staring comically down at her with nothing but his eyes and mouth visible.
"How do I look?" he asked, voice muffled beneath the fabric.
"Terrible," she assured him. "It's the worst you've ever looked."
She was pretty sure he was smiling back at her.
"Well, excellent," he sighed, giving in as she gave his arm a final tug. "Happy Halloqueen, I suppose."
"What are you supposed to be?" asked the bouncer-of-sorts. The party was big enough that the Hog's Head had hired additional security, and from what they could see of the inside, Hermione could tell the small bar was already packed.
"Are you serious?" Harry asked. "I'm clearly Prince Harry."
Harry was, of course, not wearing a costume. He seemed not even remotely shameful about it, and the bouncer shrugged, permitting him inside as a number of people took out their phones, indiscreetly snapping pictures of him. He threw an arm around Daphne, posing for one of the nearby girls, and Daphne rolled her eyes, giving him a yank inside as they followed Theo and Blaise towards the bar.
"Whoa, whoa, hold on, and what are you?" the bouncer asked, holding a hand out to keep Draco at arm's length from the door.
"I'm Batman," Draco informed him. "Seems fairly obvious, doesn't it?"
"Certainly seems obvious to me," Hermione agreed.
"You're not royalty," the bouncer noted, obviously displeased, and Hermione hid a laugh at the irony. "There was a theme, you know."
"I'm sorry, do you have some opposition to money?" Pansy cut in sharply, straightening her wig and glaring at him beneath what was the most flawless Halloween costume Hermione had ever seen. "Last I checked, you'd have more to gain by letting in the patrons who possess intent to consume alcohol, wouldn't you?"
"Hey, Marie Antoinette," the bouncer noted, chuckling at her. "Let them eat cake, right?"
"That quote is wildly misattributed," Pansy snapped, taking hold of Draco and Hermione's arms and dragging them inside behind her. "Honestly, some people—"
"You might want to rethink commenting on the hopeless commoners while dressed as a guillotined French queen," Hermione advised, turning to Draco to see his response, but he was clearly more interested in the rest of the party, making a beeline straight to where Theo and Blaise were downing shots.
"Have one," he shouted, holding a glass out for Hermione, who arched a brow.
"Better take it slow, Bruce Wayne," she advised, and he grinned.
"Bruce," he said emphatically, "does this every night. Bruce is a champion."
"Draco isn't," she reminded him, half-shouting it. "Draco gets tipsy off very little, as I recall."
"Well, Draco isn't here," he proclaimed jubilantly, thrusting the shot into her hand. "So, Cleopatra. Will you have this drink?"
"The Bad Lads insist," Theo added, looking just as pleased from where he held a drink in each hand, standing beside Harry. Theo had also broken Blaise's rules and come extravagantly costumed with an enormous fake mustache as Tsar Nicholas II (a monarch who was shot, not beheaded, though Hermione was beginning to think her fixation on accuracy was perhaps a touch too morbid), while Blaise himself was an opulently trousered and heavily ruffed Mary, Queen of Scots. "Have one, would you?"
Hermione feigned a sigh, accepting it. "Okay. Just one, though, right?"
"Yes, of course," Blaise sniffed. "What do you think we are, hooligans? Though, unrelated, everyone gets five points per shot."
With that, of course, there was a flurry of hands reaching as Daphne (who'd done a marvelous job of looking like a beautiful vampire queen in a particularly gruesome adaptation of Henry VIII's second wife) shoved another shot into Hermione's hand.
"Come on," Daphne said, making a face as she tipped the glass back against her lips, shuddering as it went down. "You're wearing the dress. You lured out the prince. Celebrate, would you? It's Halloqueen!"
"Halloqueen!" the others cheered in unison, and Hermione took the shot of what happened to be extremely cheap tequila, letting the alcohol slide down her throat.
In the same moment, she caught Draco's laughing grey gaze from beneath his mask, lingering from the sheen of alcohol on her lips to the very, very scandalous gold dress she was wearing, sliding over the curves of her waist and then slowly dragging back up.
She swallowed hard, letting the alcohol burn its way into her esophagus, and let herself stare back.
Looking back on it, she probably shouldn't have been surprised what happened next.
"Hey," she said as the door opened behind her, looking up and blinking vacantly into the bathroom mirror as she paused from checking her makeup. She'd stepped away from a very crowded and very sweaty dance floor to adjust what she was positive was an episode of leaky mascara, which she'd since come to learn was also a limited series featuring smudged lipstick and an avalanche of glitter that had once passed for eye shadow earlier in the night. "Everything okay? I thought you said you were going to get another dr-"
Draco cut her off with the kiss they'd so far been narrowly avoiding on the dance floor, dragging her backwards only far enough in the tiny single-stall bathroom to clumsily lock the door with one hand before abruptly switching directions, yanking her against him and lifting her up onto the sink in a confusing, haphazard series of motions. Out in the bar, Draco's hands had been distractingly present, holding tightly to her waist, and they were no different now, his mouth blissfully hot and spiced with some sort of cinnamon whisky as she hastily peeled the mask over his head to taste more of him, running her fingers through the sweat-dampened roots of his hair.
"Oh, thank god," he exhaled into her mouth. It was a shiver-inducing reminder of how his breath had skated across the back of her neck when he'd pulled her close, lips brushing the bare skin of her shoulder while she ground shamelessly against him (to the Jeremih song Down On Me, which would forever register in her memory as totally unhelpful enablement). "Was starting to be difficult to breathe under there—"
"Hold on," she gasped, head spinning slightly as his hand reached under her dress. "Are you—is this—Draco, I thought we decided—"
"Bruce," he corrected her firmly, which was certainly the only explanation for the aforementioned public grinding. "Tonight, I'm Bruce."
"Well okay, that sounds right," she permitted hazily, permitting him to kiss her again before realizing this was not, in fact, right, and perhaps she should not be listening to the tequila-influenced insistence of her more primal urges (and, evidently, his). "No, wait, hold on a minute—"
"I can't do it," he said, pulling back for a moment to look at her. "This, be near you, feel nothing, I can't. I really can't. I know why you don't want to be with me," he assured her, pained. "I understand, but please, if I could just—if you could just let me try—"
"Try," she echoed, swallowing hard. The faucet was progressively jamming further into her lower back but she was helplessly distracted, both by the placement of his hips between her legs and, more pressingly, by the things he was saying. "Try… what?"
"I don't just want you. I want to be with you," he mumbled, shaking his head. "I don't want once, Hermione, I want—" He broke off, dragging his hand through his hair and scraping it back with frustration. "What if we kept it secret?" he managed to ask raggedly, and grimaced as she blinked. "I know, no woman wants that, it's hardly a romantic proposition—but if the only way I can be with you is to keep it from everyone else—"
He was so handsome when he was uncomfortable, she realized abruptly. He was handsome all the time, really, but he looked like something else when he was being earnest. When he was out of his comfort zone, he looked like… like something unfamiliar. Something he never was with anyone else.
When he was telling her how he felt about her, he looked like hers.
She cut him off, yanking his mouth to hers as he let out something of a muted yelp, digging his fingers into her thighs as her teeth scraped clumsily against his.
"God, I want—" He struggled with her dress, shoving it unsuccessfully up her legs.
"Just rip it," she gasped, trying to pull him even closer, which was probably physically impossible. She felt the faucet jab her spine again and ignored it, grazing her nails over the indentations of his abs beneath his shirt. "It's not like I'm ever wearing it again."
"Don't say that," he groaned, though he obediently tore up the side of her skirt, ripping the fabric into something of a high slit. "I swear, I'm going to be thinking about how you look in this dress until I die—"
He fumbled with her underwear (this one was a seamless Calvin Klein thong which had come in a far more exclusive set of two, practically a splurge) and Hermione slid her hand up the back of his neck, considering everything. Did she want to do this here? No. Yes. Absolutely. Absolutely not, this was madness. God, she wanted him. Part of her was certain someone would bang down the door and stop it from happening. The pope? Possibly. More likely his father. She felt Draco's fingers dart inside her and she moaned in his ear, finding herself rewarded by the way his head fell back, luxuriously wrapped up in her. She moved her hips against his hand and helped him, translated her need for him; told him I want you, holy hell, I want you so badly in all the languages her hands and lips and tongue knew how to speak, and by the time she was panting—when she heard the words, "I want more, I need more, please," fall in anguish from between her own lips—she stopped asking herself questions, realizing she'd made up her mind already.
She was going to have sex with the Prince of England.
She was going to have sex with the Prince of England in the bathroom of a bar.
More than that, though, she was finally going to have sex with the boy she'd had a semi-debilitating crush on for weeks.
She was going to have sex with Draco.
"Draco," she murmured after the telltale sound of package-ripping, pulling him close and taking his face in both hands, kissing him slowly, sweetly. "Do you know how much I like you? I like you so, so much," she said, half-delirious with the overwhelming need to confess it, to let the words drip from her tongue. "This means something to me, I can't pretend it doesn't—"
He kissed her back, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
"Someday I'm going to take you home," he told her, and sure, they were drunk, but in a moment of uncharacteristic optimism, Hermione permitted a strand of hope, believing he might have meant it. "My home, I mean. I'm going to show you everything. My life. All of me. Someday I want you to see it, see everything. I'm going to kiss you on the nicest sheets in England and tell you how beautiful you are, how much I want you, how lucky I am to have met you. I'm going to, I swear—"
"Later," she gasped, letting his lips slide down the side of her neck. "Bruce, if you don't put your royal dick inside me right now, I—"
She broke off as he laughed, shifting one of his arms securely under her thigh and pulling her hips towards him. She could feel him pressing into her; could feel herself pulsing in anticipation; could feel time come to a complete stop as she looked at him.
"Draco," she whispered.
"Hermione," he said back, his voice heavy with longing.
He slid inside her.
She closed her eyes.
And it was fucking bliss.
"Tell me absolutely everything," Daphne said, eyes wide. They'd cleaned off their makeup by then and were huddled in Hermione's bed, not quite sober enough to regrow the conversational filters which ruled out words like 'Daphne, I just had sex,' (and a related sidebar featuring the heretofore rarely-used 'outstanding girth') and leaving them with no choice but to continue talking. "What was it like? Was he any good?"
"He was way too good," Hermione lamented, grimacing. "Part of me hoped he would like, fumble a little? But no," she sighed. "The boy really knows how to use his penis."
That, and his hands. And his mouth. He understood clitoral anatomy, that was for sure. Studies in rhythmic friction? A-star. Top marks in Geography of the G-Spot 101. She hadn't even been with a guy who knew how to find it before, much less how to angle himself against it while standing in a bathroom and half-carrying her over a sink. Only two people she'd ever been with could have even lifted her up successfully enough, and the other one had been too selfish to consider her needs even remotely.
Prince Draco of Wales ought to be sainted, Hermione thought grimly, and his biceps ought to have royal residences of their own.
"Maybe he's just talented," Daphne suggested. "A natural ability?"
"Doubtful," Hermione lamented. "He seems fairly practiced."
"Well, who cares," Daphne said, waving a hand and stumbling slightly to her feet. She crossed the room, reaching for a water bottle, and accidentally knocked over something on her desk. "He obviously genuinely likes you, so—"
"Daphne," Hermione said, blinking at what looked to be a series of sketches that had spilled onto the floor. "What are those?"
"Hm?" she said, and glanced down. "Oh. Oh my god. Nothing. Noth-"
"Lady Daphne Greengrass!" Hermione gasped, launching to her feet to pick them up before Daphne could kick them under the bed and out of sight. "Oh my god, is this—"
It was.
It unquestionably was.
"It's not what you think," Daphne said in a near-whimper, but Hermione couldn't take her eyes off the drawings.
"Daphne," she said, sorting through them. "This… you've been drawing… Theo?"
She was holding at least a dozen intensely detailed sketches of a very, very naked Theodore Nott, which was a fact that was clearly driving Daphne directly to insanity. She shifted from foot to foot, not meeting Hermione's eye.
"I just told you absurdly private details about Draco's penis," Hermione demanded, aghast, "and you were going to conveniently leave out that Theo has been posing nude for you?!"
"It's for class," Daphne protested, cheeks flaming scarlet. "I told you, I'm taking anatomical drawing. I needed a better model. A better angle, more accurately," she babbled anxiously, "because my class right before is across the castle and I swear, the staircases are conspiring to keep me from arriving in time to get a good seat—"
"Daphne," Hermione said, "stop talking. These are amazing."
And they were. Hermione could see each painstakingly drawn line of Theo's muscle, tracing elegantly down his thighs. Every aspect of him was angular, long, languid, the opposite of Baroque contortion; everything was smoothly relaxed, from the carved out portion of his abs to the elongated expanse of each of his limbs, down to the high arches of his narrow feet. He was bare and exposed, and strangely ethereal, too. There was a slight trail of hair down his stomach, just a shadow of it, which Daphne had captured with a perfectly light touch. The tension in his shoulders was drawn accurately enough that Hermione could practically see Theo sitting across from her now, afternoon light draping over his chest and stomach with a puzzled little frown on his lips: Greengrass, do you want me like this, or…?
"Oh my god," Hermione said, eyeing the quintessentially stubborn line of Theo's chin. Daphne had captured the precise shape of his mouth, the way his lips were full and slightly crooked. More specifically, Daphne had managed to draw the exact image of Theo Nott while looking at Daphne Greengrass, a version of him which seemed to always bear something of an artfully restrained half-smile. Altogether, the portraits were some of the most intimate works of art Hermione had ever seen. "Daphne, these are… these are beautiful—"
"You can't tell anyone," Daphne said instantly, snatching the drawings from her hand and shoving them back into the portfolio they'd fallen from. "It's nothing, okay? He agreed to do it as a friend. We're friends."
But Hermione was pretty sure that level of meticulous detail couldn't have been achieved by someone who'd simply looked at a model for a few hours. It bore the mark of an artist who had looked long and hard, memorizing every spare detail and conscientiously committing it to the page.
"Daphne—"
"Stop," Daphne said, hugging the portfolio to her chest. "Don't. Please."
Hermione swallowed hard, nodding slowly.
"Just—" She sighed. "I'll never say another word, I promise. Just tell me what he said. Please."
Daphne looked up at her, wincing. "You swear you'll never tell anyone?"
"I swear," Hermione said, reaching a hand out. "You'd never tell anyone what I said about Draco, right?"
Daphne exhaled. "No, I wouldn't." She took Hermione's proffered pinky, looping hers around it. "Okay. Swear nothing we say this night is ever repeated, ever? Even to each other?" Hermione nodded solemnly. "And after I tell you, you can't say anything," Daphne warned. "I've never told anyone. Anyone. Specifically because I don't want to be pelted with questions. Got it?"
Hermione nodded again.
"Okay. Okay." Daphne shakily steadied herself, releasing Hermione's hand and giving her a nudge. "Turn around. I don't want to see your face when I tell you."
Hermione groaned, turning to face the far wall. "Fine. Will you just—"
"I'd only met him that week," Daphne supplied hurriedly as Hermione glanced at the picture she'd tacked up above her desk of her parents, pointedly pretending not to listen. "We hadn't really even spoken. But we had a little too much to drink that night, so when he kissed me, I kissed back. He was a good kisser and, I don't know, it was fun. I thought he was funny, and kind of charming. You know how he is. But then he pulled away, and he looked at me, and he said—"
She swallowed, pausing, and Hermione waited.
"He said I was the girl he was going to marry," Daphne finally confessed.
Hermione went rigid, biting her tongue to keep from asking questions.
"It was weird, okay?" Daphne continued, her voice now accompanied by the sound of her pacing footsteps. "It was positively mad, and he sounded so certain. He didn't even blink. It was unnerving, and I don't know, I got—"
Scared, Hermione thought.
"Uncomfortable," Daphne determined firmly, "so I told him I thought we should just be friends. And as you know, we are."
"Daphne," Hermione sighed, about to turn around, but Daphne grunted her displeasure.
"No, don't look at me. Just go to bed, would you?" Daphne insisted. "There's nothing left to talk about."
Hermione grimaced, but she was pretty sure Daphne wasn't going to budge.
"Fine," she said. "Let's go to bed."
She heard the lights shut off behind her, followed by the sound of Daphne climbing wordlessly under her duvet. But before Hermione got into bed herself, she picked up her phone, finding one message waiting for her.
I can't wait to do that again. And again, and again, and again…
She smiled to herself.
Perv, she wrote back.
Oh, absolutely, the perviest. Library tomorrow? I swear I'll keep my hands to myself, no matter how hot and bothered Slughorn's reading list gets me.
Helplessly, Hermione smiled to herself.
She paused for a moment before responding, thinking about Daphne and Theo. Maybe her mother wasn't too far off on some things simply being what the heart wants, she thought, even if the more rational bits weren't quite equipped to handle it. Pansy's warning definitely echoed in Hermione's head, too, but for the moment, she thought maybe she could stand to disregard it.
Maybe we should have a code, Hermione wrote. For when it's okay to have the dirty thoughts.
She watched the text bubble pulse.
Hm, Draco replied. How about you just wear that costume? No, wait—too subtle, I know.
She smothered a laugh in her hand.
How about something small? she asked. Just the ring, maybe. And you can swap your ring, she suggested, from right hand to left. Like a secret code.
Works for me. Hey, ask me where my ring is.
She rolled her eyes, though she caught the sound of a little sniffle from the other bed.
"Hey, Daph," Hermione called across the room. "You okay?"
"I am positively dreadful," Daphne told her, voice muffled into her pillow, and Hermione glanced down at the phone.
Go to bed, she told Draco. I'll see you tomorrow, Bruce.
Really, that's it? Cruel and unusual, Hermione. Cruel and unusual.
"I'm coming," she said, putting her phone aside, and crossed the room to nudge Daphne over, climbing into bed with her. "Want to talk?"
"Absolutely not," Daphne said instantly, rolling onto her back, and then paused, swiping at her eyes. "Actually, yes. Distract me."
Hermione paused, thinking.
"I think I came three times in like, ten minutes," she eventually said. "What is that, some sort of record?"
Daphne giggled softly and turned on her side, facing Hermione.
"You're the best. You know that, don't you?" she asked.
Hermione shrugged. "Happy Halloqueen," she said, and Daphne smiled radiantly before continuing her shameless prying, not even missing a beat.
So, yes, by now I assume you've figured it out. The little gold snake ring on my finger that Pansy picked out for me (ironically, in what she probably considers a horrendous miscalculation on her part) is my answer to Draco's signet ring swap. It was our constant code in those early years, which is mostly a fun fact in that Rita Skeeter never did manage to uncover it, and fooling Rita Skeeter is always fun. You can definitely see I'm wearing the ring in the picture if you look closely enough, but luckily, people weren't in the business of looking at me closely. Not at the time, anyway.
Which is good, really, because if they had been, they might have seen a lot more than they bargained for—especially at that particular party. Amazing how a picture really can be worth a thousand words, even if those words happen to be 'you don't even know the half of what's really going on.' Of course, it's hard not to look at this picture and not feel a mix of happiness and frustration. Happiness, firstly, because I was definitely in the throes of a new romance—you know, the early days with all those helpless butterflies, which I admittedly still feel from time to time when I think about Draco—but definitely also frustration, because poor past Hermione had no idea what would come next. She was thoroughly convinced that if she just kept to the code and followed the rules, she'd never have a problem.
But oh, how wrong she was.
a/n: As always, happy to be here today. Thank you guys for continuing to follow along! Also, if you read (and hopefully also enjoyed) How to Win Friends and Influence People, keep an eye on Amortentia. There will be a follow-up one shot to the pairing in the epilogue going in there soon, if all goes according to plan.