A/N: Chapter Forty-Eight.
Small note - It's a little disconcerting to me, the sheer number of people who are victim-blaming Hermione in the review section, for something she had no control over? Like, what the heck. Not cool. I understand people are fans of Draco and want Hermione to end up with him, but this is a story about her,not them. It's fine to ship and all that, but let's not gloss over the fact that he did something wrong. If anyone's to blame, it's him.
Just because she didn't want to have sex with him one night, doesn't mean she's not interested in him, nor does it mean she's leading him on, as some people were quick to assume.
Ladies, gentlemen, it's okay to spend the night with your partner, without having sex with him/her.
I know it's quite a heavy subject but I felt it necessary to include something like this, as most relationships enter this grey area at one point or another, and this is a story about relationships.
Anyway, it kind of made me a little nauseated to read some of those reviews, so I felt I had to say something.
I hope you enjoy this chapter, and to anyone wondering, what happened will be handled accordingly in a future chapter.
I moved from the bedroom, though the corridor and into the loo, from where there was steam swirling above and below the shower curtain. It was fairly late into the morning, which prompted me to believe Draco had gone home to reflect on what happened, on what he had done, leaving me to my own devices, as he had years ago, when we were young and stupid.
But he had not left.
He was there.
In the shower.
Moments later, I left a trail of clothes from the door to the shower, hand hovering over the curtain, wondering whether this was the right decision. It took another three or four seconds to decide, and when I did, I carefully moved past the curtain and climbed in, with him there, naked, standing underneath the shower head; eyes closed and a pained look on his face. I realized then that the water was scalding hot, and without a moment of hesitation, I brushed past him and lowered the temperature.
He turned then, matching the look in my eyes with the one in his.
I absorbed that look, and allowed my eyes to drop from his, down his body, where his skin was coloured under the reddish hue of his mistakes.
Neither of us uttered so much as a word.
Seconds turned into minutes, and the water turned cold.
I stood across from him, waiting, shivering, shaking, chills crawling the length of my spine and back again, until he moved forward and held me, as though he didn't know what else to do.
It happened all at once.
I felt the same tremors that had coursed through his body the previous night, course through him then, coaxing me out of my numbed state of mind and into the moment, where water cascaded down our bodies, mixed with his hard, angry, guilt-ridden tears. It wasn't my duty to comfort him or to tell him he had done wrong but that I believed in him. I couldn't find those words, because I didn't have them. I had only the cold, hard facts, which were infused with the sounds and the images and the ache between my legs…as well as the ache that ran a little deeper.
Draco separated from me then, feeling me shake against him, crying, not because I was sad or scared — but confused, deeply confused.
"I — I'll leave," he said to me, as though it were the solution I had craved, as though I didn't want him near me, as though the mere sight of him brought me back to that same full-bodied shock. "I'll leave you alone. I — I never to meant to — I — I don't — I'm sorry."
I watched on, blinking, breathing, taking note of the dark circles under his eyes and the redness that had yet to leave his skin, as he moved from the shower to the floor. In response, something pounded against my ribcage. It hit me hard; the slow, but steady realization that this was not the solution. I made motion to reach out for him, tripping over the side of the tub and into his arms, as he turned and caught me.
Our bodies slapped together, cold and damp and bare.
He said nothing, choosing only to look at me, whilst providing a through line into his own thoughts and fears, passage through the fog. I didn't know what to think, nor what to do. All I knew was there was a Port Key to Yellowknife with my name on it, and I had no intention of leaving without telling him goodbye.
One Hour Later
It was around three in the morning MDT (mountain daylight time) that I arrived in the Northwest Territories. There was snow over every surface, more snow than I had ever seen in a residential area. I stepped out from the abandoned bakery, where the Port Key had been located and found a tall, cloaked gentleman waiting for me outside. It took a moment for me to recognize him without his usual uniform and embellishments.
Miguel turned, smiling with his eyes and then jogging over to help me. I didn't bring much — some clothes and necessities in a ruck sack — but I assumed he was too much of a gentleman to let me tow even the smallest thing without offering his aid.
It happened, that a couple months after my visit to New York, Miguel had resigned from his slot as Senior Auror of the MCUSA and chose instead to do freelance work all over the continent, and sometimes in Europe. I met him a couple times in London and introduced him to Harry, as well as Sinead and the others. On the spot, Harry offered him a position with the British Ministry, but Miguel politely declined. I didn't ask questions and neither did Harry, but we both had the sneaking suspicion that Miguel, like me, had gone through a drastic life change and wanted nothing more than to travel and do what he loved in peace.
I wished that I had that luxury, but the people with whom I worked were more than co-workers. They were friends — family, really.
Though, that didn't stop me from wondering.
I followed Miguel across the street and into a truck, surprised that we were taking Muggle transportation, and a little excited as well. It had been ages since the last time I'd been on a road trip, and even though our drive wouldn't last more than a couple hours, it was still an adventure. I entered the passenger seat and buckled my seatbelt, nervous and excited and nervous.
Did I mention I was nervous?
It turned out Miguel was also Muggle-born, which made sense, as he knew how to drive a vehicle, as well as park one without ramming it into a tree. (cough Ron).
About one or two minutes passed, until the inside was warm and toasty, after which he pulled away from the curb and out, onto the street. There were no other cars on the road, which didn't surprise me, as it was quite late and the overall population of Yellowknife was less than twenty thousand. It was the capital, but it was still quite removed. I glanced up and marvelled at the gorgeous view from above — the stars, the constellations, the swirls of distant energy that escaped me back in London.
"Nice, isn't it?" said Miguel, taking note of the child-at-Christmas look on my face.
I nodded, rapidly.
He laughed, for the first time since I had known him. It was a peaceful drive; peaceful and relaxing. I switched the radio on, tuning through the static until we landed on something familiar.
This time, I laughed. "Nothing like some Def Leppard to get the mood right…"
Miguel shared my reaction, humming the tune of 'Photograph' under his breath, as I sang with Joe Elliott; shamelessly.
From there, the mood in the car escalated with the song and he eventually joined me in my rendition, knowing an impressive amount of the lyrics for someone whose parents hadn't met at an early Def Leppard concert, before the band were signed.
"…hope all the night owls out there are enjoying the tunes…" the radio disc jockey continued in a smooth (slightly creepy) night-line voice, as the song faded out. "…next up we have a request from Mindy near Bear Lake, to play another classic from Def Leppard's 1983 album Pyromania…"
I listened, slipping off my cloak and tying my hair into a top knot, as the air in the truck had gone from frosty to humid.
Miguel noticed through his peripheral vision and turned the heat down, looking a little hot around the collar himself. Though, he kept his cloak on.
The next song to come on was 'Rock of Ages' and after that, something slower and yet, equally familiar. It was 'How Soon is Now?' by The Smiths. Until then, I had almost forgotten my purpose in the Northwest Territories.
"Looks like the Canadians are on a British kick," Miguel commented, failing to sense the change in my demeanour, as his eyes were on the road.
I forced a smile and nodded to him, though I didn't say anything. I waited until the song transitioned to another. I waited for Morrissey to stop drowning me in his voice and the lyrics and the constant, steady reminder that the time was now. It was a lot to handle, and until then, it hadn't occurred to me that perhaps I wasn't ready, that perhaps I should have waited.
But there was no time to wait.
If I waited any longer…
"You good?" Miguel asked, eyes flicking to me, as I hurriedly changed the station.
I looked to him, cheeks hot with embarrassment and the sudden urge to hurl myself from the window and into the snow, where at least I could sulk without being seen. But this wasn't about me. It was about someone else, someone whose eyes haunted me day and night — no matter what, no matter where, no matter who was with me or beside me or around me.
It was around that time, that the truck turned onto an unmarked dirt road. This proved to me we were close, and that time was running out. I fixed my attention to the sky and did what I could to distract myself from the gnawing and scratching of my insides.
"How are Harry and his wife?" the driver knew to ask, sensing that I was nervous.
I did what I could to restrain the tension that tugged at my chest muscles. "They're doing well. Their son James turned two a few weeks ago, and they've another one on the way."
" — and how are you?" he then asked, casual, though knowing.
"Sunshine and rainbows," I winked.
"That bad?"
I shrugged. "Could be worse. I could still be a teenager, on the run from evil Death Eaters."
Miguel nodded. " — or you could be working for an asshole, like I used to."
"Or that," I agreed.
From there, our conversation faded into silence, as he pulled up next to the old Inn where we'd be spending the night. The Port Key back to London wasn't scheduled for another couple days. It was the only slot available from Yellowknife to London. That in mind, I followed Miguel inside.
There was no one at the desk, as it was late.
It was a quaint Inn, one that I was surprised had any business at all, until my fellow Auror took the time to explain that it was owned by a witch, and that it was connected to the Floo Network, which meant it was the only way in and out of the wizarding settlement about ten kilometres north of there.
Similar to The Leaky Cauldron.
I quietly tiptoed to Room 15, where I'd be spending the next couple nights, and marvelled at the vintage look about the Inn, knowing it probably wasn't on purpose and that the rooms probably hadn't been renovated in decades. Nonetheless, it was clean and the bed looked comfy, which was all I could have wanted.
With that, I changed out of my clothes and into a fresh pair, consisting of a simple, navy blue jumper and some fitted jeans, then realizing that I should maybe have packed something a little less…usual.
"I'll — uh — I'll wait for you in the lobby," Miguel said, from outside the door.
I opened my mouth to respond, but his footsteps echoed down the corridor before I could so much as shape my lips to the first word.
Twenty Minutes Later
It was difficult to walk down those stairs without the floorboards creaking, but I did what I could, and managed to make it halfway down before alerting the entire Inn that Hermione Granger was in the building — as no one apart from me could possibly be as graceless and clumsy. I ignored the nervousness in my stomach and made my way to the bottom of the stairs and into the lobby, having utilized the tiny owlery on the topmost floor to deliver my letters home.
"Ready?" Miguel asked.
I forced down the rush of reluctance that rose the length of my throat, and nodded, watching as he stepped into the fireplace, calling out the name of the wizarding settlement, before I followed his lead.
In a matter of seconds, I was propelled through the Floo Network and into another fireplace, losing balance and slamming to the soot covered floor. It was a hard fall, one that would surely bruise my arse come morning, but I couldn't sulk about that. I brushed the soot from my clothes as best I could, before stepping out of the fireplace and into the darkened area, which appeared to be the back room of some sort of pub. There were boxes everywhere and a fair collection of cobwebs. I used my wand for light and eventually found a door on the other side of the room, one that led me to the main area of the pub.
As it was late, there weren't many people. About five customers and one bartender, all of whom eyed me, as though they had been there for most of the night, had no plans to leave and rarely, if ever, had female company.
I ignored the looks and made my way to the door, thankful for the cold as it rushed up on me.
Miguel was there, waiting, having arrived in one of the neighbouring shops. "Hard fall?" he teased, noting the soot in my clothes and hair.
I hugged my cloak tighter and rolled my eyes at him, smiling nonetheless, as he led me through the village. It was nice and quaint, and reminded me of Hogsmeade, in that it was a distinctly wintery village and carried with it, the allure of something greater.
From there, we continued through the village and walked about two more minutes, in the snow, to the point that my jeans were soaked to the knees, before stopping in front of an old, cabin-style shop with gold lettering. It was an apothecary, and the moment I realized this, was the moment all that anxiety and nervousness and inner doubt snaked around my heart and squeezed.
"I'll wait outside," Miguel told me, shoving his hands in his pockets in an effort to keep warm. "Take your time in there."
I choked, literally, unable to take another step. "Maybe — Maybe this was a bad idea."
The Auror arched his eyebrow at me. "Come on," he reasoned. "What happened to the badass witch who took down Jonathan Young in one move?"
I swallowed hard. "Honestly — I — I don't think I can —"
"Here," he interjected, reaching into his cloak and handing me what looked like a flask. "Some liquid courage never hurt anyone."
This time, I arched my eyebrow at him, though not before taking hold of that flask and chugging more than half its contents. Around seven seconds later, I breathed in and then out, wiping the moisture from my lips and tossing the near-empty flask to him.
Miguel gaped at me, eyes and mouth wide open, with a mixture of amusement and alarm tugging at his face muscles.
It was then, somewhere between stupidly courageous and stupidly buzzed, that I moved past him and towards the door, lifting the charms and locks, with one wave of my wand, and then watching, carefully, as the doorknob clicked open, sending shockwaves through me, the moment I stepped inside.
A/N: Thoughts?
Cheers
xo.