GOOD AS NEW – CHAPTER 7
After a significant amount of arguing and pouting, they had managed to find their way into wizarding Australia.
"Congrats, Malfoy, now if you'll excuse me I have shopping to take care of, I'm assuming you don't want me sticking around," she stared intently at him. "Especially since I'm an, 'Insufferable, nagging know-it-all'."
Malfoy had been facing away from her, but when she finished her plummy imitation of him, he slowly turned toward her with a look on his face that she was trying hard to not laugh at.
"Granger, don't be difficult." Normally his voice would have probably been much more sneering, but now he was smirking playfully. "If I remember correctly you called me a, 'Rude, pompous asshole'." Hermione would never admit it, but Malfoy's Hermione voice was much better than Hermione's Malfoy voice.
Hermione laughed and moved to the curb, having spotted a pub that reminded her of the Hog's Head. She was practically praying for Butterbeer.
As Malfoy stepped up beside her, she grasped his hand in hers as a reflex from her time spent with Ron and Harry. From the busy streets of Diagon alley or Muggle London, and especially those dying, frozen forests that they haunted while hunting for Horcruxes. It had become a habit for Hermione to hold their hand so they wouldn't get separated.
Hermione let out a strangled squeak and snatched her hand back. She didn't wait for his reaction, and instead sped off through the crowded streets, her cheeks blazing red.
It was one thing for Hermione to be spending time with Malfoy and… enjoying his company, it was another thing entirely for her to be slipping up like they were old friends.
She could be so empty-headed sometimes.
For the most part Hermione could handle the razor's edge they were traipsing around on, but when old habits started wheedling their way into her… acquaintanceship with Malfoy she got icky feelings.
He had apologised, but it had been the result of an argument. It had come across as heartfelt, but Hermione wasn't exactly in a place where she was comfortable blindly believing what Malfoy said.
As she hurried through the door of the pub she truly did wish it didn't have to be like this. She wished she could just trust whoever she wanted and believe whatever she heard, but her life and her experiences showed that that wasn't exactly the most intelligent or realistic option.
Hermione was safe in the pub, it was dark and sticky with the heat from outside even though someone had placed what felt like perfectly conjured cooling charms, and everyone was happily minding their own business.
By the time she had pulled her list out of her back pocket and made various decisions about which items were more important, Malfoy had found her cozy spot at the end of the bar.
She, of course, had known he would, all she had wanted was a few moments respite to collect her thoughts and get over the searing embarrassment she was currently nursing.
She wondered if he was going to bring up the fact that she had subjected him to inter-blood handholding.
She sincerely hoped not.
Watching him as he made a pit stop to speak to the bartender, she chastised herself when she realised she was trying to decide how nice his bum was.
Today was already taking a turn for the worse. Maybe her hormones were out of whack. That was a thing that happened sometimes, right?
"You've got that look on your face, Granger."
"What look?" Hermione tried to wipe any evidence of internal emotion from her face, but she really just wasn't as good at it as Malfoy.
Before sitting down, he set a mug of Butterbeer in front of her.
"The face you make when you're working out some problem in your head."
"And what does that face look like, Malfoy?"
He smirked, "If I told you, you'd be thinking about it every time you started to make it, and what's the fun in that?"
Preferring to stay quiet instead of letting Malfoy outsmart her again, Hermione started sipping her drink. After a few moments of quiet she realised that he had remembered how much she had been wanting Butterbeer… and he had bought her a glass. She smiled.
…
…
As much as Draco wanted to be facing Granger so he could watch all of her miniscule facial expressions, each meaning something entirely different… he couldn't, because that would be just as inappropriate as Granger's accidental hand-holding. This, however, didn't mean that Draco wanted to do it any less, which he found ever-so-unsettling.
Regardless of his mixed feelings, Draco watched her from the corner of his eye, concocting something to say that would spark a conversation. That way he would have an excuse to look at her.
"You know, Malfoy, I'm not as oblivious as you think I am," from his peripheral, he saw a quiet, unassuming smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Shit. "And what makes you say that?"
"You've been watching me since you sat down." She took a sip at her Butterbeer – one of many – and he couldn't help but smile when she swiped a delicate finger across her lip. She was obviously deliberating whether to wipe her finger on the napkin or lick it off. A blush bloomed across her cheeks when she caught his eye, and to compensate, she popped her finger in her mouth, making it clear she didn't care if he was watching or not.
She was such a faker.
"I don't think you're oblivious," he stated somewhat redundantly.
Swiveling on the barstool to face him, Granger stared intently until Draco faced her. Then, she spoke.
"Really, I think I'm pretty oblivious."
"You do not, Granger."
"I might."
"But you don't."
"But I could."
They were both smiling, which was something that was happening a lot more often than Draco had ever expected.
Draco's stomach did a stupid little flip.
"Well, Granger, I really just came here with you for Butterbeer and Firewhiskey and more money – I'm sure you have all sorts of important errands to run."
"Is that your way of asking if you're invited?"
She didn't wait for him to answer, she just stood up and headed toward the exit.
Quickly tossing a few galleons onto the counter, Draco hurried after her.
…
…
They went to the owlery, various shops, and four different bookstores, and Malfoy didn't complain once.
Hermione was equal parts pleased and surprised. She felt the same way about Malfoy's steadfast vigilance in not bringing up the hand-holding incident… that is until it happened for a second time.
They were walking back toward their Apparition point, and the street they were on seemed to be preparing for some sort of party, maybe a wedding reception.
Bright streamers were hung high above their heads, and paper lanterns of varying sizes were floating gaily up and down the street, although they had yet to be lit. Tables and tables of drinks were being unfolded and covered with worn tablecloths. Slowly but surely music gradually began playing in the streets, slowly enough that it didn't make a noticeable difference, and neither did the crowd of people that seemed to have suddenly all appeared at the same place at the same time.
Hermione and Malfoy were deeply engrossed in a debate over who was better at Potions, and Hermione was so enjoyably invested in the conversation that she stopped paying much attention to her surroundings, which if she was pointing out things that were out of character, would be at the top of the bloody list.
When a firework went off only a meters away from them, it sounded far too much like a curse missing its target and hitting a tree or wall. Everything got foggy around the edges and Hermione could smell smoke and the heady scent of burning flesh and blood. All rational thinking gone, Hermione drew her wand and gripped his hand in hers, absolutely prepared to fight.
The adrenaline and sheer mortification brought hot tears springing to her eyes almost immediately as she shamefully pocketed her wand. She was torn between her fear and her awareness of the actual situation. What she really wanted to do was keep hanging on to Malfoy until she could see and think clearly again.
"I-I'm so sorry," she was already pulling herself away and she could barely get her apology out because of the panic attack that was bubbling up in her throat like some sort of post-traumatic bile.
There were so many people around her, they weren't physically close, but she felt like she was suffocating nonetheless.
She couldn't think straight as memories started muddling her vision. Her sensible and reasonable side was busy reassuring her that what she was seeing were hallucinations, but the images of the plumes of black smoke and mangled bodies were too vivid for her to listen to it.
Stumbling forward, toward what truly looked just like the entrance to the Great Hall after the final battle of the Second Wizarding War, Hermione desperately gulped and gasped for air.
"Granger?" the voice was so far away, but the hand touching her upper arm was so tantalizingly, refreshingly close – and real. She felt his hand grasp hers.
"We're going to Disapparate, alright?"
Hermione closed her eyes, sucked in three shaky but deep breaths, and gave a jerky nod.
The claustrophobic squeeze of Apparition was a welcome reminder that she was okay.
She kept her eyes closed, doing everything she could to focus on her breathing. She was acutely aware of the fact that she was presiding right on the edge of hyperventilating.
"Granger."
"Go away."
The sound of the waves and the birds were a small comfort, but fear was still coiling around in her stomach. Collapsing to the spot she had landed, she winced when Malfoy didn't release her hand, letting her arm jerk into the air as he held on.
"No."
"Malfoy, I'm fine. Go away."
"You're having a panic attack."
"I know that."
"Let me help."
"No, thank you."
The hot, overbearing sun beat against her eyelids, but still, Hermione didn't want to open her eyes. She kept her face raised to the sky.
Everything seemed a lot easier when her eyes were closed.
"Do you think I don't know what it's like?" his voice was closer. She hadn't heard him get down onto the sand with her.
"Making me angry, or getting me to argue isn't going to make this stop," she motioned toward herself with shaking hands.
Malfoy chuckled, "I'm not trying to upset you Granger. I'm trying to make you feel better."
The thought of Draco Malfoy doing anything to try to comfort her was so laughable that Hermione cracked her eyes open just enough to squint at Malfoy.
He waved.
With a half-hearted laugh Hermione threw her arms in the air and said, "Alright, Malfoy."
…
…
Malfoy was genuinely good at this. Good at being comforting.
Maybe comforting wasn't the right word. Malfoy was about as warm and welcoming as a Hippogriff that had just gotten its arse slapped.
Maybe a better way of putting it was that he was good at calming her down. She'd really expected him to tell her to suck it up and stop being so infantile.
He was cooking now, a grilled cheese because it was now his self-proclaimed specialty and she was sitting at his kitchen table, wrapped in her own cozy blanket.
The walk to his house was spent with her arguing that she would much prefer to be in her own house, but he'd insisted a change of scenery would be a good idea. He'd also offered to cook, so that was just plain impossible to turn down. The idea of facing her kitchen seemed a bit daunting.
Once they'd gotten to his house, Malfoy led her inside and immediately refused to give her a tour, instead he shuttled her into the kitchen, pulled out a chair for her, and sat down at the other end of the table.
She wouldn't talk at first, she couldn't talk about the War, or at least, she'd never talked about it before. Instead, she listened.
First, he told her about the panic attacks he had as a child, the worst of which happened when his dad would leave for meetings with Voldemort.
"By the time they started meeting at the Manor, Mum had taught me how to calm down and keep my emotions hidden. That was a necessity." He had explained. "I was still only twelve or thirteen, but Father would insist that Mum and I be polite and make the rounds."
"Then once the War had really started and the Death Eaters started bringing – prisoners… Well, the Malfoys have always had a taste for dungeons and cages, so our home seemed the natural place to keep them." He had paused, staring stoically at his hands. "I still have nightmares with the… screams. I couldn't stay there after that."
Hermione almost immediately realised Malfoy was talking about the night the Snatchers had caught them.
Tucking her arms under the table, Hermione made sure her Disillusionment Charm was still strong.
After divulging what Hermione could only assume were secrets of Malfoy's, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Tell me a story from your childhood."
"My childhood."
He nodded, and so she talked about her grandparents and how she, her grandma, and mom would make ten batches of cookies every year for Christmas.
She talked, in detail, about the recipe and all of the funny stories, like when she and her grandma got flour all over the kitchen… and themselves.
As much as she hated to admit it, more out of stubbornness than pride, she felt better.
He encouraged her to talk about the memories that gave her anxiety, because it would help make the attacks less severe, and then he asked if she was hungry.
Now, as she sat watching his shoulder blades move under his cream linen shirt – something she'd suggested he buy – Hermione marveled at how much he had helped.
"I'm ready to talk to about it." She had said it so quietly she almost hoped he hadn't heard her, that way she could pretend that she'd never said it.
Of course, Malfoy did the things she least expected – and sometimes wanted the least – and so he spun around, pan in hand, with a genuine look of interest and concern. It was really a nice combination of the two, and she wondered where he'd been hiding the expressive part of his face.
He retrieved a plate, some crisps and ice water from the fridge, and set them neatly in front of her.
"What about you?" she asked, feeling a bit strange about being the only one eating.
He flapped his hands dismissively and took a seat closer to her this time, something she found odd enough that she forced herself to file it away for later contemplation.
"I've never liked thunderstorms or wind… but when Harry, Ron and I were out searching for the Horcruxes… Did you know about that? We never really knew how much the other side knew about what the Resistance was doing."
"The Snatchers caught the three of you by chance. Every now and then Greyback or the dispensable Death Eaters that were sent out to search for you found traces and hints, but for the most part we weren't exactly sure what you were doing. I'd heard from the older Death Eaters that he used to make vague references to how he had become immortal, but that he stopped altogether one day."
"They were Horcruxes… although I'm sure you knew that, there's no point explaining it," she tried to shrug dismissively, but it came out with a heavy sigh that made the whole movement rather pitiful.
Hermione fidgeted anxiously in her seat, adjusting and readjusting her blanket. Malfoy, of course, noticed.
"We don't have to t—."
Hermione interrupted, "I do, I think I need to talk about some of it."
She was doing her best to reconcile all of her conflicting feelings. On one side, discussing her experiences with Malfoy felt like the worst possible idea, for all the obvious reasons. On the other, he was someone she knew she could speak frankly with about this, because he wasn't Ron or Harry, who for the most part avoided all conversation about the War with her.
"I was the only one who knew how to properly structure the wards, so at least once a day, usually twice, I was outside of the tent. It was so cold… and the number of thunderstorms seemed so unusual."
"Maybe it was all the unregulated magic, especially the Dark Magic," Malfoy suggested.
She rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully, "I'd totally forgotten about that being a thing."
He motioned for her to go on.
"Right, so, I think my uneasiness with thunderstorms comes from this base fear of isolation. I don't mind being alone, but I prefer to be alone by choice, you know?" Malfoy nodded. "After we'd infiltrated the Ministry and stolen Slytherin's locket – which Voldemort had made into a Horcrux, by the way – anyway, we stole it from Umbridge, and while we were out in the forests we took turns wearing it."
"And because of the Dark Magic imbued in the locket, I can only imagine the side effects."
Hermione nodded, and she felt oddly comforted by his knowledge of the nature of Dark Magic. "It was the worst for Ron…" she trailed off. There were certain things she didn't want to talk about, and she knew she was getting close to confiding more than she'd like, so she bit her lip and held her tongue.
She watched Malfoy's face melt into an expression she'd never seen on him before. Maybe it wasn't so much an expression as it was a layer being removed. He looked… gentler, softer… it suited him. She couldn't quite put her finger on what had changed, because his face was still all sharp angles and straight lines.
Blinking away her momentary lapse into studying all the geometric puzzle pieces that made up Draco Malfoy's face, Hermione took a couple moments to recollect her thoughts and remember what she had been talking about in the first place.
"Uh, anyway, the locket gave me bad thoughts. There was this voice in the back of my head that told me all of my biggest fears and insecurities were real. The longer I wore it the more I believed it… I… trusted it."
"It changed how you saw things."
She nodded. Her throat was dry, but she felt strange about asking Malfoy for something to drink. She stared at her empty glass. He was already listening to her ramble about her inane fear of thunderstorms, plus there was the little business of him making her a grilled cheese. None of this had ever bothered her before, except of course that she was being the most honest and open that she had been in months… with Malfoy.
Hermione really just needed to get over it.
"Like I said, there were a lot of thunderstorms, and now the thunderstorms bring those bad thoughts back. It only gets as far as the anxious feeling in my chest and stomach, but the thunderstorms remind me of the war and that bloody awful locket."
She felt like she hadn't actually explained anything.
"Want anything to drink?"
"Huh?" she grunted with surprise. Strange, possible telepathic things were going on here, and Hermione wasn't exactly sure how she felt about it.
She did know she was thirsty, however.
"Water is good, thanks."
"My water isn't as good as yours."
"It's the same water, Malfoy," Hermione smiled.
"We'll see."
…
…
After finishing her glass of water, which tasted just weird enough that Hermione was close to believing Malfoy's conspiracy, Hermione's anxiety had abated enough to allow room for her curiosity to take charge.
"You know, Malfoy, I've never seen any other room in this house… this grand, opulent house," she finished with an overly dramatic sweeping of her hands.
Malfoy, who had been in some room adjacent to the kitchen, popped his head into the kitchen, "You could dial back the enthusiasm a bit, Granger."
"You could fit… a lot of my houses into this one."
"It's a little overwhelming," he admitted as he disappeared again.
Feeling a bit miffed, but equal parts amused, by Malfoy's avoidance of her attempt at getting a tour, Hermione did what made the most sense to her - she got up from her nice, warm seat and shuffled after him.
"You didn't think that maybe I didn't want you following after me?"
Hermione scoffed, "No, actually, I didn't."
Barely managing to restrain herself, she held in a gasp.
There was nothing.
No sofas, lamps, rugs… nothing.
Just the walls, a rather modern looking fireplace, and one large window.
"Malfoy…" she felt obligated to say something, but there were just no words that made sense. She was torn between feeling bad for being so rude to him in the beginning and feeling completely justified in her behaviours. Hermione was not a fan of cognitive dissonance, but being around Malfoy brought plenty enough of it.
This is how he had been living? He'd been here longer than Hermione, and if her quick mental calculations were right, she was almost to three and half months.
No food in the cupboards, barely any furniture. Just Draco Malfoy, alone in this absurdly big house.
Her chest squeezed and Hermione felt ridiculous because of it.
In her defense, she knew him better now, he wasn't just Draco Malfoy - Spawn of Satan. He was Draco Malfoy, the man trying to be a better person… still the Spawn of Satan, but most days Hermione was willing to overlook that.
"I don't want your pity, Granger," he hissed, his voice cutting through the silence with that cold edge she hadn't heard from him in a while.
She bristled immediately.
"I don't pity you, Malfoy. You're a grown man who's perfectly capable of furniture shopping."
"Yeah, but what's the point." He was facing away from her, running his hand over the smooth mantle of the fireplace.
"The point of having furniture?"
"Putting in an effort. No one knows I'm here - other than you and Mum - and you two aren't visiting. It's just me, and I only need a bed and a bathroom… and books, I have a room with books, so no, all hope hasn't been lost."
"You have to have a home. Someplace you feel safe and comfortable."
"I'm a strong wizard, I'm safe."
"But do you feel safe."
He turned around and she knew it was to show he wasn't going to back down from the conversation despite how close she was getting to that territory they weren't supposed to talk about. Running a hand through his hair, he stared at a spot on the wall, presumably to avoid eye contact. He wasn't willing to let Hermione know she was right, but was clearly uncomfortable with how the conversation was going. It was an unfortunately enlightening moment when Hermione started taking notice of the things she and Malfoy had in common. She filed all of them away for later.
"Just because we talked about your feelings, doesn't mean we need to talk about mine," Malfoy narrowed his eyes as he spoke, as if there was something else he wanted to say. Hermione assumed it was something he knew she would react poorly to.
"I wasn't… I don't…" Hermione wasn't a fan of moments where she couldn't come up with what she wanted to say. The ever-pristine Draco Malfoy was living in an empty house, and for what reason? He was depressed? He didn't think he deserved it? Hermione's thoughts were reeling as they tried to fill in the spots that Malfoy refused to fill for her, and she didn't have enough reaction time to contemplate both that and what she was supposed to be saying in response to his attempts to stave off a deep conversation.
Something about this seemed awfully familiar.
"Granger, I don't want your pity," he repeated with the careful articulation of a person speaking to a toddler.
A burst of pride-driven aggravation crashed over Hermione as she stared down Malfoy with all the intensity she could muster. He must have decided to do away with being considerate of whether or not he was insulting her. She grew even more indignant.
"I don't feel bad for you," she lied.
As much as Hermione wanted to shrink back to that time when she was happily ignoring Malfoy and all of his problems, she couldn't. She knew him better now, and he had helped her today. A lot.
A few weeks ago Hermione would have gladly taken off back to her little house and acted like he didn't exist for the better part of a week, but that wasn't enough any more. He was a daily part of her life, and as much as she hated to admit it, she enjoyed his company.
Hermione was, for better or for worse, a fixer. She enjoyed making things better for other people, sometimes at her own expense. Draco Malfoy needed help, and all she needed to do was figure out how to get him to take her hand and stop being so fucking stubborn and prideful.
The most difficult part for Hermione was that she was having a hard time seeing him as a project. He was so clearly a living, breathing person with sharp edges that cut and such a tantalizingly complex mind and personality that Hermione had a hard time focusing sometimes when they were talking. He was so imperfectly human it was staggering, because all of those jaded flaws that made him such an arse fell so well together.
It was a simpler time when Hermione wasn't concerned about whether or not Malfoy was eating or if he actually had a bed hiding somewhere in this big, empty house.
The decision to lie wasn't as much of a decision as it was a split-second reaction to her fear that Malfoy would use her concern to push her away.
"Don't push me away," she blurted, and she clasped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words were out. You are the biggest idiot, Hermione Granger.
Now was the opportune time to run back to her bungalow, pack her bags, and never see Malfoy again.
Hermione was too busy being mortified by her inability to keep her mouth shut to notice the look of surprise that had come over his face.
"Granger… what are you talking about?"
She snapped back to the current situation, not the one where she was daydreaming about how easy it was to get tipsy on a plane, and released a rather inelegant, "What?"
Mouth gaping, Malfoy quickly reorganised his expression. "Why aren't we just honest with each other?" he asked calmly, but Hermione picked up on the way he'd shoved his hands into his pockets. He knew she wasn't going to accept such an offer without expecting reciprocation. Besides, hadn't she just discussed her big, old fear of thunderstorms with him for the better part of an hour?
"It's not as good of an idea as you think." She wished there was a chair she could fall into - these roundabout conversations with Malfoy always took a lot out of her.
"But you're Hermione Granger."
"And what exactly does that have to do with anything?" she asked bitingly, leaning against the wall.
The sun was setting, and Hermione wondered how dark the room had to get before he went back to the kitchen.
"Hermione Granger isn't supposed to lie, she's the hero."
She laughed, but there was bitter edge lurking under it, "I'm the hero's smart best friend, I'm allowed to lie."
Eyebrows raised, Malfoy smirked, "Saint Potter doesn't lie?"
Giggling, Hermione replied, "No, Saint Potter, doesn't lie. Except when he's talking about the War," she admitted earnestly.
He'd accused her of not being honest enough. She could only assume by the mild expression of discomfort that had overtaken his well-schooled face that he hadn't fully understood what he was getting himself into.
Hermione slid down the wall to the floor, and once she was a pile of Gryffindor pride and curls, she rested her forehead against her knees.
…
…
Draco sighed just quietly enough that he knew she wouldn't be able to hear it.
Even with all of those missing opinions and secrets that the two of them were keeping in, he had noticed how easily their emotions and moods moved together through this conversation. Even a week ago, one of them would have been yelling and their signals would have been violently crashing together, but now they just rolled harmoniously from beginning to end, and now this end was seeming headache-inducingly familiar.
Without even considering whether he actually wanted to or not, a laugh escaped him. An honest to goodness laugh, the type of laugh he knew had Granger's ears perking up and a rosy pink blush blooming across her freckled nose and cheeks.
"What?" she wailed. It was different than the previous one that popped out without her permission in a low grunt, this one was long and drawn out, pitching high in her voice. The many tones of Hermione Granger.
"You have this way of making it impossible for me to ignore my personality flaws, you know, those things that you really mean to work on, but they're just so hard to kick." He took four long strides and sat down beside her, tilting his head back so it rested against the wall.
"You don't say," she grumbled from underneath her mane of riotous curls. The sun was almost gone, but what was left of it was streaking her hair with honey and gold.
"For example, I'm doing it right now," he paused waiting for her reaction. She slowly turned her head so her temple was resting against her knees so she could see him. With one of her small, thin hands she flipped her hair over so she could actually see him. "I'm careful about what personal information I tell someone, and when you start asking those probing questions I close up, because I'm uncomfortable with the idea of being so open with someone."
"That doesn't necessarily sound like a problem," she grumbled rather darkly. He smirked when he realised she had assumed he was referencing her specifically.
"I'm trying with you, Granger. Merlin, don't get so uptight with all of your assumptions."
Her brow furrowed and she rolled her eyes. "You're exasperating."
"I know," he replied with a smile that he made sure she saw.
She smiled back.
All was well.
It was officially dark in the empty room, but neither of them moved. They just sat side by side, their shoulders maybe five centimeters apart.
Draco contemplated his "problem". It was certainly something to work on, and Granger was certainly the type of person he could rely on to keep him on track, but he still felt entirely bewildered by how easily they had acclimated to each other's company.
They still bickered and fussed with each other, obviously, and she was still as bloody insufferable as ever, but she was also enjoyable company.
He closed his eyes, tired of trying to find shapes in the darkness when he knew damn well there was nothing other than the witch next to him.
Draco thought about his heart beating beneath his shirt, under his skin and bones… and he thought about Granger's too. He thought about the freckles on her face and the freckles on her shoulders that he saw only sometimes, but that were memorable enough that he'd only had to see them once to remember them.
Those little micro-expressions of hers were starting to take up more space in his mind than he'd prefer. The furrowing of a brow, which meant something different if one was slightly raised. Confusion, irritation, amused disbelief.
Draco thought about all of the things that had happened today. The hand-holding… her panic attack… his… issues.
Just when their proximity in the dark, empty room was getting too intimate for Draco's comfort, Granger yawned, breaking the long silence that had grown around them.
He kept his eyes closed as she stretched. He knew she was stretching because of all the sharp popping and cracking noises he knew were coming from her spine and shoulders, and maybe even her hips, depending on how she was stretching.
"Aren't you hungry?" she asked, her voice holding a slight rasp. Maybe she'd nodded off for a couple of minutes.
He stood in one fluid motion. "I could eat."
"Come on, I'll make you something at my place, I have all sorts of good stuff in the kitchen."
He cast a dim Lumos as she clambered to her feet and he watched as she teetered unsteadily once she was standing.
"Don't forget your blanket."
...
/
Hi everyone! I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has reviewed, I really love the input and opinions! This story is on my mind far too much, which is actually probably a good thing, because I'm driven to keep working on it. I know it's slow going getting chapters from me, but thanks for sticking around!
- Lindsey