Chapter 7

It was late in the evening and Hermione was settling onto the couch in her new flat. It had been exceptionally painful to walk away from the cozy little home she'd set up with Ron, but she had quickly determined that she was not going to take anything away from there unless she absolutely needed it. Ron could have it all.

That meant that she'd taken all of her books (and Crookshanks, of course), but little else. She had more than enough funds to replace anything that needed replacing, and after the first day or two of sitting depressively in the middle of an empty room, she took Ginny on a whirlwind shopping tour. (Ginny had brought Jamie along so there had been plenty of stops to show off the adorably chubby baby, and Hermione found herself purchasing almost as many baby items as household items.)

Though her flat wasn't quite finished yet, she was becoming more and more satisfied that it truly reflected her taste and her new direction in life.

Ron had been a bit embarrassed by her love of books, so she'd tried to keep her bookshelves out of the way. But here she placed them prominently on display on some truly magnificent mahogany shelves that stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling. She even had one of those fun little ladders that you could push along the rails to reach the books on the uppermost shelf. Obviously, magic made it much easier to bring the books down, but sometimes you just wanted to climb up and browse, tracing your fingers along the spines until you found one you wanted.

The pictures on the wall were a combination of Muggle and Wizard photographs (not a quidditch poster to be seen). She felt the beauty of the unmoving Muggle shots was that they encapsulated a single moment in time and made it profound. Her favorite was of a sunrise, the first rays hitting the top of a mountain. Sometimes she felt like she'd been in darkness for so long that the rays of the sun were just beginning to hit her.

Her relationship with Ron had always been difficult. Their years at Hogwarts, obviously filled with adventure and danger, were also defined by their budding romance. Ron was a bit reluctant to acknowledge it at first, but when they finally came together, she had been sure that it would be happily ever after. As children she knew Ron was not very mature, but even as they grew into adults, Ron, to her dismay, often seemed the same boy she knew at 16.

He frequently chided her for being boring and drab. He never wanted to have long conversations, preferring to be out playing quidditch, or even sitting in front of the telly that she had magicked to work in their home. (He was somehow fascinated by all the moving people, despite the fact that Magical paintings were much the same. Better, even.)

It was some time after they had moved in together that she began to wonder if he truly loved her or if she was just a convenient habit for him. Was she just the grown-up version of having a mother to make dinner and do the laundry (tasks which she could never do as good as his mum, but for which he regularly forgave her)?

When they would fight it was always she who had been expecting too much, or pushing too hard. And so it was always she who had to make the apologies and right the wrongs. Ron would come around afterwards, sometimes even offering her a token apology. Then he would take her out to dinner, or buy her jewelry, as if those things could somehow repair a relationship that was slowly decaying.

She didn't like to go out that often, so when she started insisting that she'd much rather stay at home, Ron began to go out by himself. Sometimes he'd be out with Harry and the rest of the guys, but sometimes he'd just leave in a huff, annoyed that Hermione didn't want to go off to a party somewhere.

She suspected it was then that he started to see other girls. There was never any evidence that she could see. And when the uneasy feeling came over her that maybe she didn't have Ron's full attention anymore, she ignored it, unwilling to believe such a vile thing about him without some kind of valid reason.

One night he stayed out all night and she wondered if he would even come home. She thought about owling Harry to see if he had crashed on his couch, but wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

In the early morning light, she was sitting at the window in her nightgown when she had heard him stumble in through the Floo. He saw her there, waiting for him, and looked at her with that sheepish smile that never failed to melt her heart.

"Sorry, love, were you worried?" he'd asked. And she hadn't answered, unsure about the feelings swirling around in her chest. He'd taken her silence as an affirmative and slowly made his way over to sit by her.

"I got you something, yeah?" She knew it was more jewelry, but didn't say anything.

Only this time, it wasn't just jewelry; Ron pulled out a box and opened it to reveal an engagement ring. "It's about time, don't you think? A girl shouldn't be waiting up without at least a ring to keep her warm."

And that was how she became engaged to Ron Weasley. She had been happy, elated even, to finally have the evidence of his commitment to her. They were going to share their lives together, and things were going to get better, she hoped.

She recognized now how foolish it was to build more layers on top of a faulty foundation. But at the time, she had been desperately trying to hold together all the pieces of her dreams.

It had all come crumbling down on her that night at the Ministry, seeing Lavender held so familiarly in Ron's arms. She never did find out how long that had been going on. It didn't really matter.

She felt like a failure. She wasn't interesting enough or pretty enough or adventurous enough or spontaneous enough to keep the attention of Ron Weasley. She had failed her marriage before it had even started. She had failed Ginny and Harry who were counting on her to keep Ron in line. But mostly, and she was just now truly beginning to understand this, she had failed herself. She had lied to herself, she had willingly deceived herself, and she even blamed herself.

She didn't recognize herself anymore.

Decorating her new flat had given her the chance to get to know herself again. If she wanted something she purchased it, and didn't wonder if Ron was going to accept it in the home. She moved furniture around, sometimes magically, sometimes the Muggle way, until she found a set up that she liked best and that suited her needs. It meant that instead of facing a telly or a table with a set of wizard's chess, her chaise lounge sofa faced the enormous bay window that let in late afternoon sunlight.

Like now, she was sitting in it, facing the beautiful colors of the setting sun, letting herself just sit and breathe, trying to feel independent and strong and not just lonely and broken. A book lay unopened in her lap. She'd meant to start reading it but had gotten distracted by her thoughts.

She had been quite pleased with herself the last few days. After the Ministry dinner she had redoubled her efforts to move on past the farce that was her relationship with Ron Weasley. She would not be treated as a victim. She would not bemoan her situation. She had gotten herself into the mess, and she was going to celebrate the fact that (however it had happened) she had gotten out of it.

Just as she was wondering about what Malfoy had thought of the slice of cake she'd left him—and she was smiling at the thought of her note—she saw an owl flying up to tap on her window. It was a beautiful snowy white owl with black markings on its legs and face, and so she was unsurprised to discover that such a magnificent specimen of owlhood belonged to Malfoy, based on the scroll that she detached from its leg.

She handed it a little owl treat in thanks, which it regally accepted, making her feel as if she should thank it for the privilege of feeding it. She chuckled a little, charmed by its stiff politeness.

After it flew away, she closed the window, and sat back down in her chaise. By the size of the scroll it seemed to be quite a lengthy letter, and she was immensely curious to see what Malfoy could possibly need to say to her.

She unrolled it, perplexed to see that there was nothing on it. When the scroll was finally all the way open she saw a single line written on the top. It said: "Thank you for the cake." Confused as to why he would need that much scroll to say something so simple, it was still open when another line magically appeared underneath it. "And my incredible, unmatched, magnificent hair is platinum."

She laughed aloud, wondering if the whole scroll was charmed with words that would appear in time.

After a few moments, another line appeared. "And the sprinkles were really quite festive."

She smiled, a warm feeling rising in her that he had enjoyed the silly slice of cake she'd left him. When she'd first begun speaking to him, she'd had to remind herself repeatedly that in a post-Voldemort world they were all supposed to be equals. While she had first steeled herself to receive some unpleasant insults, she was almost shocked to realize that Draco Malfoy could carry on a civilized conversation.

She knew he was unpopular among the Aurors (and with reason), and she often wondered why he even bothered to pursue a profession that put him in contact with so many people who didn't like him. Still, over time she grew to enjoy the brief conversations they had. He was intelligent, witty, and though he had a penchant for snarky comments, she rather thought he would have made a good addition to their little group of friends.

Not for the first time she wondered if things would have been different if they had accepted Draco's friendship that very first year. Different for them, certainly, and probably very, very different for Draco.

She was still holding the scroll open, waiting to see when the next line would appear when the words "Are you there?" were scrawled across in the same graceful calligraphy.

In her surprise, she dropped the scroll to the ground, feeling absurdly like she'd been caught by a teacher with the Marauder's Map. It rolled around on the wood floors, coming to a stop against the leg of her dining table, where she stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment.

Then she bolted off the chaise, snatched it up, and sitting at the table, she read the words again. Merlin, he must be there on the other end right at that same moment. She laughed to herself. Why, he was doing the Wizarding equivalent of texting her!

The thought occurred to her that she needed a quill, just as she realized he'd been waiting for her to answer for a few moments now.

She quickly called a beautiful, feathered, self-inking quill to her with a wandless Accio, but then sat there, the tip poised above the parchment, wondering what she ought to say.

Deciding not to second-guess herself (this wasn't an essay after all), she wrote out, "I think so. Are you?"

Sure enough, the answer arrived immediately. "What a ridiculous answer. If you don't know if you're there or not, I certainly can't help you. But I know for a fact that I am here." She smiled, that warm feeling still fluttering in her stomach.

"Did you eat all the cake?"

"Every last bite, despite its rather sinister appearance. Good thing you left the note, or I would have assumed someone was out to poison me."

"I rather thought the black would make you feel all cozy and fuzzy inside."

"You are under a misapprehension that black is my favorite color."

"You wear it all the time."

"Because it makes me look good, Granger. I'd look terrible in my favorite color."

"Oh, what is it?"

"Brown."

"Brown?! Like wood? Like dead leaves? Like dirt? Like teddy bears?"

"I am scowling right now. No."

"Then like what?"

There was a pause, and Hermione wondered if he was going to answer. Then the words slowly appeared. "Like chocolate: rich and dark and creamy. Like the scent of freshly baked bread: sweet and warm and enticing. Like cinnamon: sometimes spicy hot, sometimes sickly sweet, always tantalizing."

She didn't know what it meant, the hot streaks at the back of her neck. But there was something about his words, almost poetic, that made her feel awkward and shy. She didn't know to respond to it. So she simply said, "My favorite color is green."

She could almost see him smirking when he responded with, "Like trees? Like leaves? Like grass? Like apples?"

And she said, "No, like life."

There was no response for quite a while. She was debating whether or not she should add something to her words when he wrote, "When I think of green, I usually think of death."

And she remembered that the Avada Kadavra spell was green. She didn't know how she could have forgotten, when sometimes those green lights woke her up from nightmares. But she never thought of that as her green. She suddenly felt terrible for inadvertently sending the conversation into morbid territory.

"It's better to think of life," she told him.

"I think that I will, then," was his answer.

She didn't know what else to say after that, so she stated the obvious. "The parchment is almost filled."

"I guess this is goodnight, then, Granger."

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

She didn't know why she kept staring at the parchment for long moments afterwards. She knew he wasn't going to be writing anymore. There wasn't any more room, and they'd already said goodnight. But she continued looking at it, rereading their words, long after the sun had finished setting.

A/N: I'm loving all your reviews! I'm so glad so many of you seem them like I do, and are enjoying the story. This story is about half-written right now, and is eventually looking to be not quite 30 chapters long. The first 15 or so are mostly done, and are going through the process of being betaed by swirlsofblack, and I have the rest of the chapters outlined. So I do actually know how this story ends. Hopefully I can keep writing regularly so the updates come regularly, but after Chapter 15, there may be some delay in the latter half since I don't know when they will be finished.