A/N: I own nothing but this so-called plot.
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Since the late 1700's, many instances of mysterious disappearances had been reported from a particular spot in Blackheath. They spoke of people "stumbling over air" and "falling into nothingness," only to reappear the next day, dazed and disoriented.
It got to the point that, in 1904, the Blackheath Cricket Club grew so exasperated with losing balls which had gone for sixes, that they cleared off the heath for good.
Animals were known to instinctively stay away.
But if you knew better, as Hermione did, you'd realise that the innocuous looking patch of shrubbery and small trees was really a gateway to a Wizarding area.
Starthistle Hill was thus called because it lay at the foot of a hill covered in, yes indeed, starthistle shrubs. The spindly, thorny plant teemed thickly, making the hill near impossible to climb, but, from a distance, it looked pretty enough, dotted with tiny yellow flowers.
The neighbourhood was small, with one road between rows of shops and trees, leading to three identical, grey stone buildings.
Hermione and Dankworth marched down that road on a hot morning.
"Owlery," said Dankworth, pointing to the left. "Baker's, Greengrocer's," he added pointing to the right. "Down that alley, there's a potioneer's shop. And down there, you have a couple of restaurants."
It lacked the bustle and vibrancy of Diagon, but, between the stone buildings, starthistle, and gorse, it had an appeal of its own.
Dankworth took her to the middle block, (Tower 2,) and 'after you'd her into a creaky old lift. They disembarked on the sixth floor, onto a landing with three doors on each side. Flat number thirty-three was at the end of the landing, and that's the door Dankworth unlocked.
It opened to a narrow hall, with a coatrack and hooks by the door.
Dankworth said, "This way to the living room, Ms. Granger."
It was about a quarter the size of Harry's drawing room, with an arched fireplace and two windows that overlooked the path between tower one and two. There was a lengthy side board, a round coffee table and cream sofa, and a door on the far wall ("To the kitchen," he said.)
Just beside the door, there was a little nook with a table and four chairs, which made sense when she saw the size of the kitchen. It was square and tiny, with a stove, a cupboard, and a sink packed in it.
There were two bedrooms, equal in size; one had a chest of drawers, the other a wardrobe and large mirror. Both had a double bed each, made of white painted iron, with a curling pattern on the high head and foot boards. The first one also had a little balcony with a green, criss-crossed railing like the one in Manet's painting. Beyond it was the yellow-spotted hill.
The bathroom was at the end of the hall: Beige tiles, white bathtub, basin, and commode, brass fixtures.
Hermione took two rounds, peering into corners, running the taps and shower, poking the walls, listening for rodents, revelio-ing the hell out of the place.
Then she joined Dankworth in the living room, and they stood, on opposite sides of the coffee table, and looked at one another.
Hermione had suppressed wretched hope some time ago, but seeing that flat had awoken it again. Now, she feared, it was time for Dankworth to say –
"It's a bit outside your budget."
Precisely. She had to close her hands into fists because they were itching to delve into her hair and fucking yank.
"By a hundred galleon? Four hundred galleon?" she blustered.
"No," he smiled, "By twenty-five galleons."
She exhaled, her hands uncurled, and she felt such profound hatred towards that slimy man.
"Mr. Dankworth," she asked as evenly as she could, "Were you in Slytherin?"
"Surely you, Ms. Granger, won't hold that against me," he replied with a fulsome titter.
She turned her back to him and went to stand by a window, running her finger along the frame.
"May I cast a colour changing charm on the walls?"
"Yes, of course," he crooned, "As long as you undo it before you leave."
She turned and looked down her nose at him.
"When can I move in?"
Over the following few days, Dankworth earned his keep.
The owner of the flat was a sickly old witch who had moved to Lisbon for the climate, so signing of the agreement and attestation of documents required travel and portkeys, all of which he took care of. He accompanied Hermione to Gringotts, and got her to pay the deposit and first month's rent. He wrote an application to the Ministry to reopen the flat's floo connection. He had every inch of the flat thoroughly scoured.
And while that was going on, Hermione began making preparations of her own.
XXX
She met Theo at Diagon for lunch, after which they went to the lane full of workshops, stopping at the framer's. Hermione left a pile of photographs and art prints with them.
Just adjacent to the workshops, there was a fairly enormous furniture depot. Theo left her there, and she stood unsurely by a bronze torchiere that she imagined would look lovely in her study. The price tag said, "Not happening."
"Good afternoon," called a pleasant voice.
She spun around to face a man scarcely an inch taller than her, with a thick black moustache, gold-framed glasses, and a warm, wholesome smile.
"Hello," she began, "I'm looking for–"
"You are Hermione Granger, aren't you?" The man erupted with ardour, "Oh welcome, most welcome! How can Enrico help you?"
Enrico, Hermione decided, was the anti-Dankworth.
When she explained that she had much to buy and limited funds, he took her straight to the second-hand section of the depot, that was also, currently, going at a discount.
Meandering through the stock, she picked out a set of four cream tufted armchairs, a footstool, a desk chair, a bureau with an inbuilt burner for potion brewing, a narrow cabinet, a nightstand, two table lamps, and finally, a standard lamp with a stained-glass shade... a nod to the Hogwarts library.
A floating quill and parchment followed them around, making note of all her selections.
Upon seeing the final list, she felt sheer panic that almost sent her running out of the shop screaming. How could she possibly justify spending so much of her parents' money? She muttered, "Excuse me," to Enrico and walked, sort of blindly, across the shop.
It would be very easy to make do with the furniture already in the flat. It was mad, all of it. She didn't even have a job, and if the Ministry didn't want her, she'd be buggered.
She had only just stepped into the alley when Theo appeared, grabbed her around the elbow, and dragged her back in.
"Who gets cold feet over buying bits of wood, Hermione, for Salazar's sake."
"Wha–"
"Robert was right to warn me."
"My dad? When–"
"Last week. In his letter."
"My dad writes to you?"
"Yes, and I write back. Oh hullo. Sorry about my friend here, she's an odd one."
And that was how Hermione ended up giving her new address to Enrico, asking for the stuff to be delivered on Saturday, and making the scary payment.
"Ms. Granger," Enrico said afterwards, "Un momento, per favore."
He led her behind a behemoth of a wardrobe to a space where curtains, drapes, and blinds were hanging from the ceiling, stopping before a set of pretty, sheer curtains.
"You see these?" he said, gently running them through his hand, "Light as gauze, so delicate. But while you can see right through them and they let beautiful sunlight in... come this side, if you will... see?"
From the back they appeared to be made of thick cardstock.
"Nobody will be able to look in through your windows. And, of course, a simple opaco will block out the light, for when you require a little siesta"
He waited, obviously expecting her to say she'd take them.
"Thank you, but I really can't spend anymore."
"You misunderstand, Ms. Granger. I want you to have these. From me. How many would you need?"
"Oh!" she gasped, stunned, "No, thank you... but no. I couldn't."
"I insist!"
"I really can't accept that."
He took her hand in both of his and squeezed.
"I am muggleborn. I, my wife, and my ten-year-old daughter think the world of you. Please, signorina. Let me."
She breathed out slowly and asked, "Is there actually a discount on all that stuff?"
He smiled with twinkling eyes.
XXX
That evening, Harry returned from his first appointment with Healer Asher. There was an unsteady quality to the way he walked, a faraway look in his eyes. It was like he had dived into a pensive and was moving through a memory.
He'd brought two boxes full of vials which he set on the table before falling into the sofa with a deep sigh. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
Hermione and Ron shared a trepidatious look. He appeared as unsure as she felt.
Eight minutes passed.
Harry cracked open one tired eye.
"Stop staring at me."
"Sorry," they both mumbled.
He lifted his head with another sigh, and stared down at the boxes of vials.
"Those are supposed to help with cravings and withdrawal. Have to take one every night for a month. He said I should mix in a finger of whiskey for the first week, one every alternate day the second week, and then just the potion for the final two weeks. And that second lot is," he grimaced, "Dreamless sleep."
"Did you tell him what it does to you?" Hermione asked.
"Yeah," he replied glumly, "But he says it's a very precise dose. Effects shouldn't linger beyond seven hours."
"Oh... that's good?" Hermione ventured.
Harry shrugged.
"I have to see him every Wednesday, at six, and Saturday, at four. He says I should be around people in the evening. Recommended that I have dinner at the Burrow. Is that okay?" he asked Ron, "Will your mum mind?"
Ron snorted, "Of course, it isn't okay. Having people over and feeding them? Mum hates that, doesn't she?"
That finally coerced a smile out of Harry.
"Although," Ron continued in a whisper and leaned forward conspiratorially, "Kreacher will be right furious, won't he?"
He was, when Harry informed him over a heap of roasted chicken. His nose wrinkled and his ears wilted... but what could he do but accept? What else could he ever do?
Harry and Ron played chess after dinner, as Harry gingerly sipped his spiked potion. A frown remained fixed on his face.
Hermione couldn't imagine how difficult every minute of his existence was going to be for the next... oh who could say how long.
When they got up for bed, she hugged him tightly. She held on for quite some time, but he didn't try to pull away.
XXX
Hermione was featured in the papers the next day. The picture captured her terrified escape from the depot, seconds before Theo dragged her back in. Her eyes had the look of a frightened animal.
"...rumoured to be house-hunting. Is all not golden with the trio?"
XXX
During the Medieval period, the city of Exeter was an important religious centre. At that time, an elaborate system of vaulted underground tunnels had been constructed, to bring fresh spring water into the walled city. They were put completely out of use in 1901, and left forgotten for nearly a century.
They had been reopened only a few years ago, as a tourist attraction.
But that wasn't to say the entire network was accessible. There was one secreted tunnel in particular, that had been magically expanded and turned into a popular shopping area for witches and wizards.
Mrs. Weasley took Hermione to Cavern Lane Market on Wednesday afternoon, and she stood rooted at the entrance, awestruck.
In terms of variety, it was like the entire Camden market had been crammed into one long passage. In terms of ambience, it had the intriguing allure of a souk.
"Come along, dear," Mrs. Weasley urged, quite unaware of Hermione's amazement.
Sadly, it didn't take long for the mundanity of shopping to supersede everything. The prices were mind-blowing; less than what she'd have ended up paying in Diagon, or even Tesco's.
She bought linen sets in white, blue, and lilac for her bed. She bought a thick woollen blanket. She bought bath mats, table mats and a table cloth, hand towels and kitchen rags. She bought some very basic kitchenware, utensils, and cutlery.
Her favourite find was a porcelain tea set designed to look like blue China. For a few seconds, if felt like a dream had come true.
She bought six plain glasses and four wine glasses.
She bought a large round wall clock, and an urn full of floo powder. She bought a tin box full of assorted tea bags.
When they returned to the burrow, Mrs. Weasley sped into the kitchen to make Shepherd's pie and treacle tart especially for Harry, while Hermione contended with the surprise of seeing Bill, Fleur, Andromeda, and little blue-haired Teddy in the sitting room.
Bill and Fleur were on the sofa, and the latter, with Teddy on her lap, was cooing and singing to him in French. Andromeda's eyes were trained on her grandson. She was as composed as ever; a serene, gentler imprint of Bellatrix... but she looked like she had never slept a day in her life.
"Hello," Hermione said, perching on an armchair.
They greeted her back in one voice, and then lapsed into the silence that befalls those who have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Hermione actually hadn't ever exchanged two words with Andromeda.
The only way out was to bring up the weather... but that proved to be unnecessary, when they had a giggling, gurgling child to look at.
By and by, Mrs. Weasley joined them, bringing a box of old stuffed animals, and time flew as they watched Teddy hurl them across the room.
Finally, Harry, Ron, Mr. Weasley, and Percy arrived, and they all settled around the table to eat. One seat was transfigured into a highchair for Teddy, but he was most adamant about sitting on Harry's lap. He wouldn't let him eat in peace, reaching out to grab his fork, his nose, his glasses... and Harry seemed to enjoy every minute of it.
"How are things at the orphanage, Andromeda?" Mr. Weasley asked.
"Well," she replied with a half-smile, "We have sixty-three children under our care now, and we're preparing the first lot for school."
"That's wonderful," Mrs. Weasley said.
"Your Ministry's being awfully slow about getting sufficient Wolfsbane to Hogwarts, though," she added with a sharp look between Mr. Weasley and Percy, "I'm not fond of rapping at Kingsley's door for everything that lags, but as it as, nearly everything lags."
"It's going to take time and money," Percy bristled officiously, "The Creature Department has already allocated–"
Andromeda scoffed. "We've had more and more donations coming in this past month. We have enough to pay a private potion manufacturer to get the job done–"
Teddy babbled and smashed his tiny hand into Harry's plate, and they all laughed as he proceeded to smear food all over his own face.
"I'm glad more people are donating," Harry said to Andromeda, while attempting to convince Teddy that napkins should not be feared, "You'd sounded worried, before..."
She nodded. "Things were bleak in June. I was afraid I would bleed Draco dry, and my dear sister would think it was an act of vengeance."
Hermione froze... Then she slowly continued to eat.
Mrs. Weasley asked Andromeda if she'd like to go through some of the old toys in their attic, for Teddy, and the topic of conversation shifted completely.
Hermione lost interest. The treacle tart was nice.
At ten AM, on a glorious Saturday morning, she met Dankworth outside 33, Tower 2, Starthistle Hill. He handed her the keys to the flat, she gave him a bag of money, and the happy moment of their parting finally came about.
Hermione had brought Harry with her, and together they went from room to room changing the walls to the light duck-egg blue that had been stuck in her head for weeks.
Well... she did the charm work. He followed behind, munching on a chocolate frog.
An hour later, Ron arrived, carrying a potted, shimmering flutterby bush.
"From mum," he said as she beamed with delight and went to put it in the bedroom balcony.
Back in the living room, she got out the stuff she'd bought at Exeter; a box labelled 'kitchen', and one labelled 'linen', as well as all the boxes she'd brought from her parents' place.
"Okay," she said, clapping her hands together. "Clothes and linen go to the bedroom, books and potions supplies go in the study. And – Oh my god, Ron, be careful! There's a shelf full of books in there! Keep it straight!"
She ignored the way they grinned at each other as they levitated the cartons and left the room. She picked up the carton full of folders and scrolls and followed.
Of course, she attended to the study – the balcony-less bedroom – first.
Her parents had let her take the entire bookshelf off the wall of her room in Melbourne, but owing to the difference in size between the two rooms, she had to cast a neat severing charm and split the shelf into two, putting them along two walls.
Just when she had moved the chest of drawers into the bedroom, there was a knock at the door: The furniture had arrived.
More cartons full of shrunken goods piled up in the living room.
Gradually, the study came together. While Ron put potions-related paraphernalia into the bureau, and Harry put her scrolls and folders in the cabinet, Hermione transfigured the bed into a functional desk. One of the armchairs, the footstool, one table lamp, and the standard lamp were brought in. She hung curtains on the window behind the desk.
"Nice," Ron remarked when they stood back and looked at the finished product. "Very you."
It was, and she loved it. She couldn't reign in her insanely happy grin. Standing around the desk, they ate mince pies that Mrs. Weasley had sent.
Then they returned to the cartons.
Ron was peering into one, when a long, thick, battering ram like object came flying out of the fireplace, and landed with a wham on the floor.
"HOLY SHIT!" Ron roared and stumbled back with his arms windmilling and his eyes wide with terror.
A few seconds later, Theo and Draco popped out of the fire.
"Hello," Theo said jovially. He was carrying a big bag of takeaway. "Ayup, Hermione. I've brought your dinner."
She smiled, "Thank you, I –"
"What the buggering, bloody fuck, Nott?!" Ron thundered.
"What's your problem?" Theo sneered.
"What is that?" Ron pointed at the cylinder.
"Oh, that," Theo replied lightly, "It's a gift for Hermione."
"Really?" Hermione beamed.
She started towards it, but Theo blocked her way.
"No, no," he chided, "In the end."
Ron was choleric.
"You can't just hurl things through the floo like that!" he raged, "You almost brained me."
"What brain?"
"You ruddy dick."
"Did it hit you?"
"No. But it came damn close–"
"Oh, Merlin."
Theo left the room. Ron charged after him, leaving Hermione alone with Harry and Draco. The atmosphere was immediately a hundred times more tense.
She looked between Draco, (standing by a window, peering at the lane below,) and Harry (apparently attempting to muster the pluck to speak.)
"I regret my behaviour from the other evening."
Draco gave him a fleeting, even glance. "I'm sure you do."
"I wasn't myself."
"Well, it's too late to call off the hitman now."
"Huh?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Let it go, Potter. It's fine."
Then he turned back to the window and Harry turned to her. She pulled in a deep breath and forced herself back into business mode.
"Let's sort out the bedroom, Harry?" He nodded and left. "Draco, could you put that carton in the kitchen, please? It's the door right behind you."
She ran before he could tell her to fuck off.
It had gone well. Very smoothly, as far as she was concerned. Afterall, she had experienced true agony while trying (and failing) to apologise to Draco, last year.
Theo and Ron were in the bedroom, still bickering.
"...If anything, Weasley, you owe me. I saved you from the temper of your ex-girlfriend the other day–"
"You locked me in the cellar!"
"Do you have any idea how angry Verity is? What did you do?"
"That's none of your fucking business."
Hermione went and stood between them, shoving bedsheets and the blanket into Theo's hands and curtains into Ron's.
She put the chest of drawers next to the mirror, thinking it could serve as storage and a dressing table. With practiced ease, she went about filling the drawers and wardrobe, while Harry engorged and arranged the second armchair, the nightstand, and table lamp.
She hung photographs on the wall.
With the bedroom all done, Harry and Ron took their leave. One had his standing appointment with Healer Asher, and the other just looked painfully irate, so she thanked and hugged them both.
She returned to the living room, after setting her toiletries in the bathroom, and saw that – unsurprisingly – the kitchen carton was at the same spot on the floor.
But it was open. And Draco was still by the window, holding one of her new teacups, with the tag of one of her new tea bags trailing over the side.
She made a noise of indignation and disbelief, and he looked over at her with an arched brow. Then he took a delicate sip of tea.
"I brought you here to help!" Theo rebuked from the door.
Draco curled his lip, and with a casual, uncaring air, wandered out the room and into the hallway.
Thereupon, Theo and Hermione tackled the kitchen. It was so small and the items so few, that it took under half an hour to arrange everything in the cupboard.
All that was left was the living room.
The remaining armchairs were given their place in the middle. She put her two bottles of wine and four wine glasses in the sideboard: she had decided that it would be her cellarette. The tablecloth went on the dining table, curtains on the windows, the clock was hung over the fireplace, and framed art prints were hung on the only free wall.
Finally, Theo permitted her to open his present, which was, quite obviously, going to be a rug.
Once unfurled, she found it to be made of deep ultramarine wool, and covered with an intricate diamond pattern in white thread.
"Dug this out of the Nott vaults," he said, "It's a Moroccan Kilim, I believe. Hand woven. And before you start stammering and blushing, let me tell you, I'd much rather it be with someone who appreciates it, than having it sit rolled up in a dark vault. Will you appreciate it?"
"Yes. Everyday. It's gorgeous."
"Good."
"Thank you so much, Theo."
"Pff."
Hermione levitated the furniture and Theo spread the rug across the middle of the room.
And that was it. The final stroke. Her home was ready. She swayed on her feet, for a moment completely overwhelmed, and Theo put his arm around her.
"Let's celebrate," Hermione beamed, "Would you care for some wine?"
"Sounds splendid. Can't stay long, though... I have a dinner date with ma belle. And excuse me, I must go inaugurate your facilities."
Once he had gone, she remembered that there was a stray Draco somewhere in her flat. She peeped into the study, and... sure enough.
He was sitting on her armchair, with his feet on her footstool, reading one of her books under the light of her lamp. The empty teacup was on the corner of her desk.
"You know," she called out loudly, "You may just be the worst person I know."
He looked up slowly. His forehead furrowed as he returned to reality. Then his gaze locked on her.
"What are you reading?" she asked.
He closed the book and held it up. Goethe's Faust.
"The dark side of the Razor's Edge, isn't it?"
He shrugged indolently. "It's like Greek Mythology all over again."
"I've read what Faustus wrote about alchemy, potion-brewing, and astronomy, but there wasn't any book about him in the Hogwarts library."
She shifted, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame, and Draco nodded.
"Probably because Hogwarts – Dumbledore – had decided that ambition is a dirty word." He looked at the cover of the book and ran a finger along the edge, "Although, in this case..."
"Yes?"
"Well, Mephistopheles was human, obviously. An astronomer and alchemist much like Faustus. They decided that Manticores sing profound, universal truths while devouring their prey. They attempted to make a deal with one – said they'd bring it a fat, juicy man to eat, if it'll let them listen to its song. That did not end well for Faustus. Mephisto survived... but ran off somewhere and was never heard from again."
"That," Hermione pointed at the book, "Is packed with much more complexity and philosophy than such an anecdote deserves."
"Yes."
He smirked then, as though he hadn't been reading about the torment of being and doing. He was stretched out, ankles crossed, like he hadn't a single care in the world.
His grimace from the awful evening at the pub was back in her mind's eye.
"Why are you here," she asked edgily, "If you had no intention of helping?"
Her tone didn't faze him at all.
"Have you ever successfully said 'no' to Theo when he's flapping around, yapping incessantly, and physically dragging you someplace?"
Theo arrived next to her at that moment and declared tartly, "You're a useless pain in the arse."
"No, that's you, actually."
Theo sniffed. "Well, go away now."
"Gladly."
Draco stood, picked up the teacup and the book, and stalked past the two of them.
"Excuse me," Hermione hissed and chased after him, "Where are you taking that?"
"To the kitchen, obviously" he replied.
"I mean the book, obviously." she growled.
"I'm borrowing it."
"Who said you could?!"
He grinned over his shoulder. "Oh, now you don't want to lend me your books?"
She stopped short, glaring at his back as he entered the kitchen. She made a sharp turn towards the sideboard and took out the bottle of riesling and two glasses.
"I thought you were leaving," Theo barked.
She looked back and saw Draco settled comfortably in an armchair again.
"I'll stay for a glass of wine."
"No," Theo retorted, "Wine is only for those who contributed."
"I contribute just by existing," Draco said haughtily, "By being striking and eye-catching."
She was going to kill him with a corkscrew.
But she did end up pouring out three glasses of wine.
XXX
"This place is cute and charming just like you are."
Hermione smiled, and it widened at the light, fruity taste of the wine.
"Pity you don't have an automated sink," Theo added.
"Don't need it," Hermione replied, "But I wish I had a talking door. I would call it Theo-door."
Theo groaned, not at all impressed. Draco chuckled... and shook his head like he wished he hadn't.
That laugh was Draco's lone attempt at participation. While Hermione and Theo sat on the sofa and talked, he went back to reading, completely unbothered, occasionally sipping from the glass that floated in the air next to him.
After just one serving, Theo got up and stretched.
"Have a lovely first night, buddy," he said to Hermione. To Draco, he said, "Twat. Stay at Andromeda's tonight."
"You don't have to tell me twice."
She must have looked puzzled, because after Theo had leapt into the fireplace, Draco deemed it necessary to explain.
"He's meeting Luna after a week. It's going to be... obscene."
"Ah. Bletch."
"Truly."
She swallowed the last sip from her glass. His was already empty. Should she... offer a refill? He would definitely prefer to leave.
"It's all your fault," he accused.
She sighed. "What now?"
The resignation in her tone made him grin. "Your fault I've seen and heard things that have scarred me for life. You brought those two together."
Hermione squared her shoulders, very eager to set him straight.
"They met outside the music room. Luna was crouched by the door with an extendable ear, listening to you play. Theo came around looking for you. You brought them together."
He was quiet for a bit, digesting that information.
"Well, fuck," he muttered, "And now I'm being punished for it. Granger, could we stage this conversation in front of Theo sometime? Remind him that I'm the reason he isn't a lonely old bastard, wanking into his hand."
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "He isn't going to give you credit for it." Before he could speak, she jumped up. "More wine?"
He took another moment to consider, and the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
"Sure."
She could hear him moving... doing things... as she emptied the last of the bottle into the two glasses. When she turned, he was standing in front of her salon wall, with her book tucked possessively under his arm.
"Would you like a tour?" she asked as she approached, and handed him his glass.
He smirked in a way that suggested he had a smartarse quip at the ready. But ultimately, all he said was, "Go on."
She didn't care that it was Draco Malfoy. She had been itching to do this since she'd first envisioned this wall.
"This one's by Edgar Degas. I saw it during my first trip to the National Gallery. I was learning ballet at the time, and just... fell in love with this painting."
"Granger the ballerina."
She shot him a look, and, as she had suspected, he was suppressing a laugh.
"Well, I wasn't very good, so I quit." she muttered quickly, "This one's also from the National Gallery. I got it after our first year. It reminded me of the Hogwarts Express."
"I can see why."
He moved closer and peered at Turner's Rain, Steam, and Speed for no little time, and she hung back quietly. When he leaned back, she continued.
"This one's a woodblock print depicting Mount Fuji, by Hiroshi Yoshida. My mum gave it to me. She went to Japan one summer for a conference, and came back absolutely obsessed with Japanese art."
Again, he looked closer for some time.
"What on earth is going on here?" he asked, when they'd moved to the next frame.
"Ah, Leonora Carrington. It's like you've been dropped in the middle of a fantastical story, isn't it? Like you're interrupting something amazing. Look at how the one with the cow's head stares. Even the title has the same feel... it's called And Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur."
"Is that a crystal ball reading going on?"
"Looks like."
"What is that strange petal-faced creature? And the dogs? Is that you dancing the ballet at the back?"
She snorted delicately. "Very funny. It's surrealism, Draco. You're meant to immerse yourself in it, not intellectualise it."
"And you like that?" he asked doubtfully, "You like not intellectualising something?"
"It's a bit like how I felt when I suddenly found myself in the world of magic."
"You intellectualise the fuck out of magic."
She laughed. "Yes, well. After a point, I can't help myself."
They moved to the next one; a dark, dramatic etching.
"It's a scene from Dante's Divine Comedy; an epic poem about the afterlife," she said, "You really should read it. The first part, Inferno, is about a journey through hell. This is an illustration from there, by Gustave Doré, of Dante and Virgil leaving the dark wood. It's so evocative. I saw it in a volume at the library, and got it photocopied at once. Er, that's a machine that works like a doubling charm."
She was just throwing words at him, likely boring him. As usual, it was hard to actually gauge his expression.
"The illustrations in that book are also nice," she said smiling forcefully up at him, "The one you've nobbled."
He raised his brow and held Faust out to her.
"Granger, I'm not actually going to take it if you expressly forbid it."
"Shut up," she said, and pushed it back towards him.
The final picture was abstract: The dark background was barely visible, covered in streaks of red, pink, white, and orange.
"I got this one last month, from Sydney. It's by an aboriginal artist, Emily Kame Kngwarreye."
"What is it?"
"It's about the Dreaming... about their ancestors and cosmology. I – I'm sorry."
She looked up at him and shrugged ruefully.
"I don't think I can explain it all that well."
"What's it called?"
"Yam Story."
"Why?"
"The bush yam holds a very significant place in their lives. And, you know, even if I can't fully understand this painting, I really like it. It's so compelling and–"
Eye-catching.
She walked back to the sofa, plopping down and savouring her wine, while he stayed there, continuing to look at the pictures. The scene could've been a work of art, too – a tall, straight-backed young man with dark clothes and light hair, clutching a book and gazing at a cluster of eclectic art. Then he turned around, and it got even better.
He returned to his chair, after placing the book on the coffee table, and sat back. That was another image just waiting to be painted – beige upholstery, charcoal clothing. Pale colouring on a dark horse. Light yellow wine and light grey eyes.
"I met a woman during my travels," Hermione said, "From the First Nation, and... she looked at me like she could tell I was a witch."
She was talking, so of course, he would look at her. But it was damn difficult to look at him while he was doing that.
"She told me all these stories – 'Dreamtime' stories – about the powers their ancestors had... about nature and animals..."
"Magic has been around for a very long time, Granger."
"I know," she said, swilling the wine around in her glass as she deliberated, "But it got me thinking about the language of magic–"
"Are you going to intellectualise magic now?"
She bit back a smile. "Yes."
"Go on," he said again.
She didn't care that it was Draco Malfoy. She needed to have this conversation with someone other than herself.
"Incantations are so arbitrary, aren't they? We've chosen Latin for our spells but they aren't what magic reacts to, right? Magic responds to intent. So, when I say accio, an object will come flying towards me because I have summoned it, not because I said that particular word."
"You summoned it using that word. It's a device, like your wand."
"I can do wandless and non-verbal magic. The appellation of the spell is basically an accoutrement."
"What do you think when you're summoning something non-verbally? What do you say in your head?"
She had a sip of wine and sighed.
"Accio."
"Summon the book."
"What?"
Suddenly, she was pulled completely out of the moment... A tent surrounded by snow. Harry. The History of Magic...
"Summon it," he said, gesturing towards Faust with his chin, "And don't say... er, think accio. Let the power of your intent work its magic."
Scowling at his smirk, she set her glass on the table and sat up straight, crossed her legs, and clasped her hands around her knee. She fixed her gaze on the book and took in a deep, centring breath, sharpening her focus just like she had when she'd first attempted wandless magic in her dorm. She'd felt like Matilda Wormwood back then; and Matilda never had any fancy hocus-pocus invocations. It was just... tip over... Tip over...
Come, she urged the book, come.
Nothing happened.
Come here, she pleaded, picturing her magic as a glowing tendril, reaching out and grabbing the book.
Come here come here come come comecomecomecomecome
She tried for-fucking-ever. He stayed patiently quiet.
"Sod it," she hissed and slumped back into the sofa. She looked at her wine glass and thought accio, and it zoomed into her hand.
Draco was unnecessarily self-satisfied.
"Why does your broom spring up when you say up?"
"It's never as easy as that."
"Yes, it is, you – OH."
She flushed wildly and looked away from his ludic grin. She couldn't believe he'd brought... it... up again and good god, Hermione. Phrasing. Spates of warmth rushed through her as she wondered what exactly it would take to make it happen, then. What if she went to him and trailed a hand up his thigh...
"Immature prat," she muttered.
She heard him chuckle softly.
She could sit on his lap and drag her fingers down his torso, and up again... along the sides of his neck...
It took the rest of her wine to alleviate her parched mouth.
"It's something like a pheonix-or-the-flame question," Draco said.
"Hm?"
Her heartrate was all over the place. He was looking at her expectantly, and she had no idea what he was talking about.
"Surely I don't need to give you a history lesson," he went on, "You can trace magic in this region back to Polada and Stonehenge and all that... and you can trace the etymology of our current roster of spells back to the druids, the ancient Celts, and the Romans. We were only able to properly wield magic once we had incantations. The language of magic is much stronger, but similar to the language of speech. It has been established that accio will summon things... so it does. Just like we've decided that bumptious means bumptious, and bint means bint."
She was back to herself, after that.
"It's not like the phoenix-or-the-flame, because obviously magic came first. It's like – Oh." In her excitement she slid forward, nearly falling off the sofa. "It's like in Faust, when he changed the Gospel of Saint John. In the beginning was the Act. The act of performing magic far precedes verbally invoking it. That's how children have uncontrolled bouts of magic, isn't it? Intent and emotion. And," she pressed, raising her hand as he made to interject, "Talking about words and their meanings; I can offer you a variety of words to convey a single intent. Prat, arse, berk, prick, etcetera."
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his thigh, and took a firm sip of wine like some sort of film star.
"There's a big difference between saying or doing something, and performing magic. Magic isn't just any old action... it's a force inside you. It's physiological. You learn to harness it, but, at the same time, your body regulates and keeps it in control, as it does with your blood, organs, hormones, what have you. It keeps a fucking tight hold on it. Yes, children are susceptible to uncontrolled magic, but children also piss and shit themselves."
"So, an adult with a weak or volatile constitution could also fall victim to uncontrolled magic?" she asked.
"Happens all the time," he quipped, "Spells give your magic purpose and a direction. The strength of your intent is just a... what was it... an accoutrement. And incidentally, the incantation matters very much. Haven't you ever tried an unknown spell? It'll do what it's meant to do, even without the aid of your glorious intent."
He looked well pleased, but... did he still have scars from that awful unknown curse?
"It's hard to get my head around that, you know. That a word or phrase dictates the magic. There are thousands of cultures across the world; some 7000 different languages and dialects. Each must have their own version for all spells. If I were to learn the, umm, Mandarin, or the Tagalog version of accio, I'll be able to use them to summon things?"
"You should. It's the same with potion-making, as well."
"What do you–"
"It's magic, Granger. You've been around it long enough. You're meant to immerse yourself in it, not intellectualise it."
She huffed a laugh, feeling her shoulders drop. He downed the last of his wine and looked towards the fireplace, shifting as though he was standing up...
"Would you like something to eat?" she blurted out.
He looked at her blankly.
"Well, Theo brought a lot of food," she mammered, "It's not like you can eat at home, what with all the obscenity... and... and it's already way past dinnertime."
He was scathingly entertained. "First night in your flat and you're already panicking at the thought of being alone?"
"No," she rushed, "I want to know what you meant about potion-making."
"I see."
"I have another bottle of wine."
He pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, considering. Then...
"All right." He stood up. "I'm going to pop into the lav."
"Okay."
The second he left the room, she jumped and bolted into the kitchen. She wasn't bothered by the idea of finishing both her bottles of wine in one night; she didn't care the she was now setting a table for her and Draco... Malfoy...
Pressing her lips together as delirious laughter threaten to burst forth – She didn't care as long as it meant that the evening wouldn't end yet.
She put two plates and the six sandwiches that Theo had thought she'd need on the table and then went back to the sideboard. He re-entered the room while she was uncorking the bottle of Pinot Noir, and even though she stayed fixed on her task, it felt like she was watching his every move. She saw him pause at the door. She could hear him breathe. She could hear him blink.
He came and stood by her, and she could smell him; that mild, refined scent that made her want to breathe in so deeply. And she could sense him as well. She could feel individual air molecules as they brushed against him before reaching her, crackling and sizzling over her skin like bubbles bursting on the surface of a fizzy drink.
She pushed his glass across the sideboard and towards him, keeping her eyes trained down. His fingers closed delicately around the stem.
"Thanks," he said, and moved away.
She closed her eyes and pulled in a stabilising gulp of air... followed by a stabilising gulp of rich, dry wine.
He sat on the chair she would have chosen, facing the room with his back to the wall. She sat opposite him, and... well, saw another potential painting. A portrait of a young man against a smooth, pale blue background that brought out the blue undertones in his astonishing eyes.
They picked up a sandwich each.
"So," she rasped, cleared her throat, and continued, "What did you mean it's the same with potion making?"
There he was... eating. Again. She had to just sit, watching him elegantly chew.
Once his mouth had cleared, he said, "Different cultures have their own recipes for potions, too."
"Right," Hermione nodded, "Like Chinese medicine, Ayurveda, Nvwoti..."
"No. I'm not talking about esoteric systems. I'm talking about there being about ten different ways to brew a shrinking solution. At least fourteen for Veritaserum. It can range from substituting a few ingredients... to all; to following an entirely different method."
"Depending on what ingredients are readily available?"
He was chewing again. She took a distracted bite of her own sandwich and waited.
"Yeah. And... the... well, context, you could say? Necessity is the mother of invention. It's interesting when you compare the properties of every chosen ingredient across cultures. So even if it seems implausible, completely different combinations can give you two near-identical potions. Everyone needs a cure for the common cold. Use what you can, fix it how you know. Call it Pepper-up or Baridi Iondoke."
She looked at him inquisitively. He had a sip of wine.
"Swahili," he clarified with a shrug, "I have a book on this... it's fucking massive."
"So, Snape was hard and exacting just to be unpleasant? He never even hinted at–"
Draco waved that aside. "Do you really think it would have been wise to encourage experimentation in a class with Longbottom? Weasley? Finnigan?"
"Oh, like your friends were all competent."
"Snape was the one who gave me that book."
Draco reached out for another sandwich. Hermione sat back in her chair. They stayed quiet for some time, and she slowly sipped her wine, watching it shimmer like a garnet under lamplight.
"Draco?" she ventured with some caution, as he picked up the second half of his sandwich.
"Yeah?"
"What is the pureblood stance towards other cultures, especially the more idiosyncratic ones?"
His mouth turned down before he asked, "What do you mean?"
Hermione pursed her lips to the side, dithering for perhaps a bit too long. She fully put together her question in her head before speaking.
"What?" he pressed.
"You... already know that there are parallels between pureblood supremacy and muggle elitism. Racism, sexism," she gave him a sharp look, "Classism. Do they also share a parochial outlook? I mean... rigid, narrow-minded disdain towards other cultures, deeming them inferior, uncivilised, or savage...?"
He wiped his fingers on a napkin and, like her, sat back. He didn't look as nettled as before, but he had a strange sort of frown on his face. She imagined this must be something he'd never given any thought to before. It was like he, too, was carefully constructing his sentences before verbalising them.
He asked slowly – "I'm sure you aren't asking about basic patriotism that requires you to say England will kick everybody's arse in Quidditch?"
"Obviously not."
He bit his lip and looked off into the distance.
"The supposed root of pureblood ideology is upholding strong and, well, pure magic. There are so many cultures far older than our own... with roots and practices that have shaped magic as we know it. The Sacred Twenty-Eight are fucking obsessed with collecting totems and artifacts. They'll put them on pedestals, parade them around... having someone even remotely different for dinner, however, is... unpalatable."
There was an awful, bitter taste in Hermione's throat. She downed the last of her wine. The way he had said unpalatable made her skin crawl.
"I thought as much," she said shortly. "Are you done?" she asked, gesturing towards the food.
"Yes."
She took their plates and the remaining sandwiches into the kitchen. There, she rinsed them by hand, to lengthen the time. She dried and stacked them in the cupboard, and put a preserving charm on the leftovers.
When she returned to the other room, he was once again sitting in the armchair, reading. She collected their empty glasses from the table and carried them to the sideboard, and on turning back, found him looking at her.
"I'll be back in a second," she mumbled, and dashed to the loo.
She splashed cold water on her face after washing her hands. Strange water, from a strange tap, in a strange bathroom, in a strange flat. Strange supper with a... knock-me-out-with-a-feather... strange companion. Did he find dining with her unpalatable?
It was too much strangeness for one night, for one girl.
She wiped her face using her strange new towel.
Unpalatable.
Once back in the living room, she poured them both fresh glasses, and floated them – and the bottle – onto the coffee table. She then decided to sit on the lovely rug. She ran her hands over the elaborate pattern, leaned back against the sofa seat, and tried to calm down.
Draco closed the book and regarded her warily.
"Would you ever sign away your soul for a moment of absolute, perfect fulfilment?" she asked, watching as his knuckles tightened around the book.
Wariness gave way to spite.
"Would you?" he snapped.
She shook her head. "Not after reading that cautionary tale."
"Well, my life is a cautionary tale."
"Man errs as long as he will strive, right?" she added.
He turned his face away, glaring into the fireplace. She thought he might spontaneously dive.
"I'll amend my question," she said placidly, "Would you willingly make a pact like that?"
"Not after reading that cautionary tale," he parroted in a mocking, nasal voice.
Hermione took a sip and stared down at the diamond pattern by her leg. Then she heard him sigh, deeply, and heavily. They looked at one-another again; his aspect was, somehow, simultaneously defeated and resolved. His eyebrows were pulled down and straight as arrows, his jaw was clenched. He ran his fingers through his hair.
"Alright, Granger," he spat, "I'll submit to your shitty attempt at subtle obtrusion. But let me warn you again – it's not my problem if you don't like what you hear. I'm not going to make excuses, entertain your presumptuous questions, or let you fucking analyse me like I'm a character from a book. I'll tell you what happened and you'll bloody well have to sit with it."
She set her jaw and replied, "Quite a pile of caveats."
"When you're involved, they're necessary."
"Fine."
Draco drank deeply. He was as pale as he had been during the final battle. There was a part of her that felt awful for pushing him into that position... but it was much smaller than the part that wanted him to talk.
He fixed his eyes on one of the legs of the coffee table, and began talking at a carefully measured pace.
"I got marked on the twenty-eighth of July, ten at night. My mother sat on a chair in the sodding wreckage of the drawing room she'd spent so long decorating... The Dark Lord and I stood in front of the fireplace. He told me I'll be restoring the honour of my family name, that he'll be freeing my father from prison as soon as I complete my task.
"Aren't you proud, Draco? He asked. Isn't it a privilege? While his foul fucking snake coiled around my mother's chair, hissing. The damn hissing, I tell you. I think I'll hear it forever. And Merlin, getting branded hurt. I didn't know it then, but it was almost as bad as the cruciatus curse, or whatever the fuck Potter did to slice me open."
His right arm jerked towards his left, involuntarily. Then he remembered he was holding a glass and drank from it instead.
"Initially, I thought I could do it. Kill that sanctimonious old man, curry favour, and when nobody was looking, get the hell out of the country with my parents. I had a plan. Just had to put blinkers on and get it done, but... Fuck." He spat, "Nothing went right. I couldn't fix the bloody cabinet."
He sucked in a breath and began talking very fast –
"I hated everyone. I was... drowning in misanthropy. I hated The Dark Lord. I hated Snape for being everywhere all the bloody time. I positively abhorred Dumbledore. I hated Borgin, I hated all the sodding Professors who thought detention fucking mattered to me. I hated my evil aunt, I hated Dolohov and Rastaban and Yaxley and Greyback. I hated my father and sometimes my mother; I hated Pansy, I hated Blaise. Crabbe and Goyle were detestable. I hated Potter. And you... oh, I hated you. The way you'd wrapped Theo around your finger... I hated. Hated it.
"But I didn't hate Theo. I didn't hate mother even when I did hate her... if that makes any sense. I didn't hate Bach, or Chopin, or Ravel, or Schumann. I didn't hate Herr Dietrich, my miserable old piano instructor, for secretly corrupting me with Muggle music. Over the course of the year, I learned that I didn't hate Dostoevsky, or Wodehouse, or–"
He stopped and looked at her with hollow resentment.
"Why did you send me those books?"
"It made Theo happy," she whispered hoarsely, "Why did you accept them?"
"Because I knew I was going to die."
She wished she hadn't asked that. He sneered, and turned back to the table leg. Once again, his tone was slow and measured.
"Over the Christmas hols, the Dark Lord made sure I knew how displeased he was by my lack of progress. He made mother watch. After that, I..."
He stopped for a couple of breaths.
"The first time I went to Dumbledore, he didn't let me past his door. He summoned Snape... and I was convinced he was trying to get me killed, hoping Snape would report back to the Dark Lord. So, I went back to the cabinet. Made a fucking mess of things with the poisoned mead.
"Then I got a letter telling me mother had been tortured for hours. A little while later, I was bleeding on a bathroom floor. After the initial period of blistering agony... it ended up being the first moment of relief in such a long time. I was out for three whole days.
"That was the second time I went to Dumbledore. Say nothing, Draco. It's for your own good. And he just stalked off. Felt like he was goading me into doing him in on the spot.
"So," he shrugged, "I poured my soul into fixing the cabinet. It worked. I did it. We've already had a lovely chat about the night on the tower, haven't we? No need to reprise that." He pointed at the wine bottle. "Is there any more in there?"
"Er... Some," Hermione mumbled, "Go ahead."
He emptied the bottle into his glass.
"Snape and I hid in his cellar for a week. When I got back ho – to the Manor, The Dark Lord was waiting for me. Since I had managed to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he didn't kill me... but I'd still failed. Grand old night that was. Two days later, father broke out of Azkaban, and came and told me everything was going to be fine. He promised. That was when I realised, I trusted your word – that you'd keep Theo safe – more than I had trusted father in years. Fucking piece of shit, isn't he?"
Draco's laugh was like broken glass. The scorn on his face was jagged.
"We had plenty of guests that summer. Some ministry workers who were tortured and turned, or Imperiused and sent back out. But mostly, they were muggleborns who'd dared to step out of line. They were brought in, slapped into the cellar for a bit, beaten, tortured, fed to the snake. Over and over again. They all ended up in the snake."
His eyes closed. His hand shook as he brought the glass to his lips. If she had thought he looked pale before...
"Ollivander got snatched, tortured... interrogated... tortured, again. One day, they captured Charity Burbage, for writing a damned article. Into the snake she went, too. Over the next week, I tracked down and read everything she'd ever written. Three days later, they brought in Madeline Hext. She was... she looked like someone's barmy grandmother. She had fucking daisies on her robes. Apparently, they'd found out she had been hiding muggleborns in her attic and helping them jump the border. And she was half-blood herself.
"After about a dozen rounds of crucio, they threw her in the cellar. Hah. She made fast friends with Ollivander. They larked about like they were on holiday... interrupted by a bit of torture. She told me she really loved ginger biscuits; lived for them. So, I brought her some. And... Wormtail... he... caught her... with them."
He slapped a palm over his eyes and kept it there as he spoke.
"They... tore that old woman open. They... cut her up. That's what a thief deserves."
He dragged his hand down his face, revealing eyes that were made of pure devastation. They were brimming over with guilt and regret and horribleness.
"That evening, I apparated to Aunt Andromeda's. Didn't expect to burst upon a wedding, but–" He shrugged and threw down his wine, "Do you need to hear more, Granger?"
"No," she gasped at once, "No, I... No."
It was quiet. Hermione's insides were smarting and twisting in the most awful way... like television static and snakes. He hadn't stopped glaring at the table leg, but his pallor had turned into a dull flush. He looked embarrassed and ashamed.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled.
He glanced up and laughed mirthlessly.
"An apology from you and Potter? Is it my birthday?"
She still had wine in her glass, and she downed it.
"I wasn't apologising. Would you like some water?" she asked.
He was taken aback. "Yes. Er, please."
She shuffled into the kitchen and, as she filled two glasses, she did a few breathing exercises. She stood by the sink and counted till four hundred. He'd probably appreciate a few minutes to collect himself, as well; and she fully expected him to take his leave now.
Gah, there was always such a dichotomy of feelings when he was concerned. The agony in his face left her aching to touch him... but something told her that touching him would be catastrophic... for her. For the buzzing in her nerves.
When she returned with water, he was standing in front of the paintings again; in front of the daughter of the minotaur.
"There's a crushed rose in here, too," he murmured, "I hadn't noticed."
"Yes," she said, "And clouds and stars on top. They look like they're sweeping across the painting."
If she could take his hand and jump into any one of those pictures, she would. Would he dance with her, like Mary Poppins and Bert did? He shuffled to the side and stared blankly at Mount Fuji. She held her tongue for a solid chunk of time... until she couldn't anymore.
"Can I ask you something?"
"For Salazar's sake," he grumbled.
He marched back to the armchair and drained the entire glass of water.
"You can say no," Hermione told him, settling back on the carpet.
"That's the slimiest part about asking if you can ask a question. You know I'll bloody well wonder about it. Specially after..." he threw up a hand and scowled.
"So, I may ask?"
"Fuck you, Granger. Ask."
"Why were you so... adamant... on getting me to thank you?"
He definitely flushed at that. He most certainly looked embarrassed.
"Ugh," he groaned, "I was... panicking. There is really no need to discuss this. But isn't it just polite to thank someone when they save your life?"
Hermione was having none of that.
"Panicking? What are you on about?"
He huffed and stared at the ceiling – his eyes were most beautifully round when he looked up.
"I needed you to remember that I had saved your life, in case you decided to tell Theo he can't have anything more to do with me."
"What?!" she spluttered, "Are you mad?"
"He listens to you, alright? You could have easily poisoned him against–"
"You are mad! Raving. Theo? You thought Theo Nott would just... chuck you?! He calls you his brother!"
"Yeah, well..."
God, he was so red, she wanted to laugh. It was absolutely darling.
"Draco," she floundered, "You – I mean – what?"
"Just shut the fuck up, will you? I wasn't sure about anything at that point. And you and your weird hold over him made it all worse. Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to shove you off the highest cliff I could find... but restrained myself because Theo wouldn't like that...? I've had to recite that to myself so many times over the past year. And not too long ago, it used to be the Dark Lord wouldn't like that. Can you see how tragic that is?"
Mr. Ranger isn't gonna like this, Yogi.
"My version of that was for Theo's sake," she said. Then she bit her lip because she was so close to laughter.
One of his slow grins unfurled across his face, finally giving her permission to chuckle.
"He'd like yours much more."
"It's telling isn't it, that you turned him into a monster and I deified him. Obviously, I'm more deserving of his friendship."
"Or it's just habit. I'm used to fearing monsters and you're used to serving the right cause."
"I fear monsters, too, Draco."
"Good for you."
"And you did serve the right cause."
"I know."
"Penitents, behold elated... The redeeming face."
He cocked his brow questioningly. (Questioning-her-sanity-ingly.)
"I'm afraid I may have spoiled the end of Faust for you," she shrugged.
He smirked lightly. "What does the face of redemption look like, Granger?"
Well, wasn't that just about the most involuted question anyone had ever asked her? How was she supposed to answer that? She could more easily stare into his eyes, pick out their exact shade of grey, and change the colour of her walls.
"I think it's different for everyone," she hedged, "For me... it's my mother's face at sunset, on a riverbank... while she tells me she's forgiven me."
He appeared thoughtful for a few minutes, tapping his long fingers against his knee.
"I wish I'd had the chance to do what you did."
Her smile felt twisted. "Easier said than done."
"Most things are, Granger."
"Oh, apologies for being trite."
"Second apology of the day. My, my."
She scowled at him, before returning to her original point –
"Easier said than done, BUT I don't regret doing it. Lupin told me there was an attack planned on their neighbourhood."
"Yeah."
"How did Theo tell you about him and Luna?"
Draco reared back, blinking; a look that said, where the hell did that come from?
"I wondered about it," she told him breezily, "But Theo wasn't very forthcoming."
That earned her another slow grin. She followed its motion closely and carefully.
"When I woke up healed from Potter's curse, I did not see my weeping mother, nor a prim hag of a matron."
"Madam Pomfrey is not a hag!"
"There was a girl with vegetable earrings staring at me, and the first thing I hear is that I ought to carry gnome saliva around for my safety. Would I like some of hers?"
"Luna just does not ease you into her quirks, does she?"
"Not at all. So, I asked, pardon me, but who the fuck are you? Before she could reply, Theo came in, very flustered, called Pomfrey, there was a whole load of diagnostic shit to be done... but anyway. After all that, Luna tells me my aura is beautiful like an egg yolk, and kind of just... wanders off like a ghost. So, I ask Theo... why the buggering hell was that nutter at my bedside? And he turns purple and says, she's my girlfriend. I thought he's having me on at first, but then..."
"You laughed," Hermione grinned, "A lot. I heard that bit."
Just then, in that moment, she felt awash with gentle contentment. It hit her like a soft, early morning ocean breeze. He was still immersed in his memory, smirking slightly, looking perfectly comfortable in the cushy beige armchair. She smiled at him, at the armchair, at their empty glasses on the table... at the beautiful rug... at her walls... at the wispy curtains adorning her window, assuming just a hint of a grey-sepia gradient, as–
"Draco," she breathed with wide eyes, "It's morning."
Shock rippled across his face, and he froze, flummoxed... then he whipped around to stare at the window, and stayed frozen like that. She pressed her lips together, waiting for him to turn back.
He turned with a soft, unsettled frown, blinking in slow motion. His lips were slightly parted and his eyes were unfocused. He was the enigma of dawn.
And when he stood up, he bestowed a sedate nod of his head and a pawky, softly muttered, "Well, goodbye," upon her. She rose to her feet as well, and watched his back move towards the fireplace; his backlit silhouette against the arch.
The clock above read twenty past five.
"Have a nice day," she called.
He glanced back, over his shoulder, to shoot her a wry look... like the sun peeking over the horizon. Then he was gone, and she stood alone in silence.
She wafted into her bedroom, where the curtains skimming over the glass balcony door were drenched in the same grey-sepia gradient. The edge of every surface in the room was lined with diffused mauve light. She stepped out into the balcony, shivering at the sudden chill of early morning air. The starthistle at the very top of the hill was golden.
Leaving the door open, she re-entered her bedroom and stopped in front of the mirror. Her complexion was roseate and her eyes were bright; she did not look at all like she had suffered a sleepless night.
She sat on her new bed, watching her new curtains flutter as the new day broke.
Arranging the flat had felt like preparing a set for a play.
Hermione Granger's Adult Life: Traversing Through Imponderable Realms.
Act 1. Scene 1:
A protracted evening with Draco.
So completely bizarre. So, so exhilarating.