A/N: Sorry it's been so long everyone, forgive me? What if I throw in a Hermione/Draco sponge bath scene? Yeah… I thought that would do the trick.
Disclaimer: If a sponge bath scene between Hermione and Draco appears in Deathly Hallows, I own it. If not, well then, I don't. I, also, don't own any of Maslow's ideas on self-actualization or peak experiences.
Connected
"We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." - Oscar Wilde
She'd never thought much of harmony, in part because it wasn't one of her strengths. She couldn't carry a decent tune for the life of her. You might say that the trio had harmonized once upon a time, but those moments were few and far between. There had always tended to be a dominant person, the melody per se, and it was most frequently she. She didn't do well with taking direction. She didn't fit into the molds, and if life were a great coloring sheet, she would probably get an F for coloring outside the lines. But lines were restricting, and she made it a habit to break them. Or more accurately, for creating new boundaries, ones she found more appropriate, respectable, and justifiable. Wizarding society was filled with lines—lines of blood, of loyalty, of light, of dark. But lines are straight and unforgiving, whereas curves allow for exploration and learning and change.
Change.
Again, she had never thought much of harmony—well, before anyway. Now, it was the only word she could use to describe the buoyant feeling radiating throughout her limbs. Harmony with what, though, she wasn't sure.
Herself? Nature? God? Something? Someone?
She wasn't actually sure, but she could feel it. It was elusive and indescribable, but now that she'd felt it, it was as recognizable as her own heartbeat or the freckles on the back of her hand. You could call it a realization of sorts, but she called it heavenly. It was an innate sense of security and unity that felt like a return to a childhood home long after the blithe years of youth. She laughed then. It was like coming home. Only it was a place she'd never been.
She recalled a Muggle psychologist named Maslow, who described sensations similar to what she was feeling now. He called them "peak experiences." And she agreed with the term wholeheartedly. She was at the highest point she'd ever been. But she should've known that the trouble with peaks is that they are always followed by a valley. But in that moment, she wasn't looking down or worrying about what would follow. This was simply about now and now and now.
She was living simply in the moment. She prided herself on being driven by reason, yet still being spontaneous and creative. She felt the innate need to analyze problems and solve them. She felt a strong sense of morality, devoid of prejudice. She was continually striving to be greater, to be at one with the world around her. And now, finally, in this moment, she felt connected. Those qualities were basically the dictionary definition of what that Muggle psychologist called being self-actualized.
Self-actualized people were also accepting of reality. And she may not have known it at the time, but the minute she had come back here, back to him, she had accepted the realities of her situation. Now the repercussions were rippling through her, leaving a surprising pleasantness in their wake.
A surprising connectivity.
She was completely and undeniably connected. And it wasn't just about the convergence of his back with her chest, or the feel of her chin resting gently on his shoulder. It wasn't only a penetrating awareness of the unity between herself and something too altogether large to comprehend. It wasn't simply the contentment coursing through her veins, or that tangible confidence that brightened even her dark situation. It wasn't just any one of those things. It was all of them. It was about familiarity with herself, other people, the world. It was about being a part of the bigger picture, a piece of the puzzle. No one can know or see the rest of the puzzle, but you can feel it and know it's there. Hermione could feel it, and just knowing that she was a vital part of something so much bigger than herself was invigorating.
She tried to think of another word to describe the state she was currently in, but she always came back to that word.
Connected.
So what did this mean for her? Was there a significance in that she was having this peak experience, not in the presence of Harry or Ron or another close friend, but while wrapped in an embrace with the infamous Draco Malfoy?
For once in her life, she avoided trying to find some reasoning behind it. Because although she was feeling that odd awareness of everything around her, this wasn't something she wanted to understand. Because understanding their connection was bizarre and world-shattering and downright terrifying. So for this once, she would cloak herself in naivete and allow her questions to remain unanswered. But she wasn't stupid; she knew that a moment like this was rare and beautiful, something to cling to and cherish. There might never be another moment in her life like this, but she could hold on to this one and relive it as often as she dared.
Malfoy shifted onto his side in her embrace, wrapped his arms around her middle, and rested his head against the sternum that separated her wildly beating heart from the smooth skin of his cheek. Before, he had been casually leaning against her, with one of her legs on each side of him. Now, she felt as though they were wrapped around each other in an intimate arrangement, and she found herself circling her arms around his resting form. She inhaled deeply, taking in the scent, the feel, the warmth, all of it. She could feel the beat of his heart, beating not in time with, but opposite her own, creating an original and vibrant melody.
She held him without regard to pretenses or his status as her patient. She rested her head atop his despite her pride and their past. And another piece of understanding overwhelmed her. What mattered in this situation (and life in general) was not everything that was and could go wrong, but everything that was right despite the wrong. So, she ignored the wrong and concentrated on the right.
And in her arms, he felt so very right.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
"Ron? You around mate?"
"Kitchen!" came the answer.
Harry entered the kitchen at the Burrow, the closest to smiling he'd been in days.
"I should have known to check all the places with food first."
"You should." Ron replied. "You're a little off your game."
Harry tensed then. Because he was. Everything was off, in fact. Everything was so incredibly wrong. Work, Hermione, Lucius, himself.
Ron, realizing the awkwardness of the situation, did the only thing he could think of to do.
"Pumpkin pasty?"
Harry tried to smile, but it appeared more like a grimace. "No thanks, mate."
"I'm glad you're here, Harry. I've got some important news."
Harry's head shot up, his eyes wide, "Is it about Hermione?"
Ron faltered for the moment, shooting Harry an odd glance before replying slowly, "Uh, no. This is about me. Well, Luna and me."
Harry's face fell slightly, but he motioned for Ron to continue.
"I'm having a kid." Ron beamed proudly.
Harry did smile then, and for a moment it was as if the last few weeks hadn't happened. He moved forward and clapped a friendly hand on Ron's shoulder.
"I hate to break it to you, mate, but your hips are not nearly wide enough to pop out a baby."
Ron laughed and pulled Harry into a hug.. Without letting go, Ron stumbled for the words.
"I'm going to risk sounding like a complete poof for a moment, but you'll have to forgive me." He pulled back, his hands still firmly on Harry's shoulders. "I love you like a brother, Harry, and I owe you more than I can ever say. There was a time when I'd given up on ever having a family of my own. And it's only thanks to you that I'm getting this chance now. And I—uh—oh" He struggled with what to say next, but Harry took that step for him, "I understand."
They stood motionless, emotions that couldn't be expressed with words passing between them. Their grip on each other was fierce, almost as though they were trying to freeze time in this very moment. Because, fuck, life can suck so badly, but that doesn't matter in moments like this.
"Congratulations." Harry whispered, not trusting himself to say anything more.
He felt a twinge of jealousy at how Ron's life was unfolding so nicely, when his own was in ruins. But more powerful than the jealousy was the gratifying realization that he had made this possible. As much as he didn't like to think about the war, it felt good to know that there was at least one more happy family because of him. And he was damned glad that it got to be Ron.
Harry covered his mouth and gave a strange cough that sounded oddly like "Love you too, mate."
Silence settled between the two of them, and while Ron's grin remained, the weight of the world came crashing back down onto Harry, and his somber mood settled over him again. Because a moment is what it is, just a moment. And a moment passes.
"Why was it that you came again?" Ron asked.
"Oh, well, I actually came to see if you'd spoken to Hermione at all."
"No, no, I haven't," Ron replied. "Something wrong?"
"Everything." Harry collapsed into a seat at the table.
"Did you ever get a chance to talk to Hermione after that… um… date?"
"Not really. She sent me an Owl, but I haven't seen her since. I think I might have gone a little overboard in pursuing her."
"Bollocks. She knows you mean well, Harry." Ron did his best to provide comfort.
"I don't know, mate. I just… things are so messed up. And sometimes I feel like I'm fucking insane, you know? I just…damn, I want a normal life. But the more I try to make my life normal, the more screwed up it becomes."
"Don't worry. Things will get better; they have to. When a person puts good out into the world—and you've done so much good, Harry—it will eventually find its way back to him."
Harry allowed the words to wash over him before saying, "Have you been reading fortune cookies again?"
"Was it that obvious?" Ron laughed. "There's this great new Chinese place in Diagon Alley."
"I figured as much," Harry replied. "Well, I should be going. I still have a lot to do at work."
Ron nodded.
"But if you see Hermione, tell her…tell her that I'm sorry and I'd love to see her."
Ron smiled, "Will do, mate." Ron considered giving Harry another hug, because he looked like he needed it. But his masculine side took over, and he only clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Congratulations again, Ron. I'm so happy for you."
Then the Boy Who Lived disappeared from the room, leaving his oldest friend wracked with worry.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Draco felt warm. So incredibly warm. And it was the kind of warm that makes you want never to move, like snuggling beneath a cozy blanket in front of a fire on a cold winter night. Like soaking in a steaming bath, after a long day's work. Like being wrapped in the arms of someone you love or would like to.
Draco hadn't had many moments like this. And the ones he'd had were more of the wrapped-in-a-warm-blanket variety, not so much the arms-of-another-person sort. He liked to compare these moments to sunlight. They couldn't be held or contained or captured, but rather, they came to you when they chose. Moments like this kept one going, even through the dead of winter or a bleak and dreary night. Hope of sunshine drove one forward. Sunshine was a rare and cherished thing for him, just like this moment.
He could just barely feel the curve of another body behind his and he knew without a doubt whose it was. He had hoped she would return. He hadn't known what he'd do if she hadn't come back. All scheming and selfish plotting aside, he realized that he needed her. And something buried layers beneath the surface whispered that he needed her for more than escaping St. Mungo's. But that whisper was all too easily overpowered. Regardless, somewhere deep down, he had known that she wouldn't leave him. Because she was a good person, unlike him, and good people didn't leave defenseless people to fight their battles alone, regardless of how big a prick that defenseless person might be.
He was barely conscious, but his thoughts were wildly active. So he became immediately aware when those thoughts were impeded by something.
The spell.
New thoughts started running through his mind, thoughts that weren't his own.
I'm disappointed in you, Draco. Are you listening to me? Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me why I wasted my life on you. Tell me why I killed my own mentor for a worthless sack of shit like you. Gods, you're pathetic. Albus died so that what? So you could run like the coward you are? You make me sick!
Draco tried to argue, but his mind felt so clouded, so heavy. He wanted to say that he was sorry. And that he'd tried to be everything for Severus. But the words wouldn't come. The spell was certainly weaker than it used to be, but in his fragile state, it dominated him still.
Have you missed me, Draco? It's me, Pansy. Not Parkinson anymore, I'm afraid. It's Zabini now. I know it isn't what I always planned, but at least he was there, unlike you. I blame you, you know. I blame you for leaving. I blame you for our side losing the war. If you had been here, maybe Crabbe wouldn't have died. Or Millicent. Or your mother. You left us, Draco. You failed us all.
Draco wanted to sob, then. To do anything to relieve the ache in his chest. But it wasn't up to him. His body remained still, with a slight beading of sweat across his brow being the only inclination of the war raging inside him.
A glistening of light refracted off the moisture on his forehead and caught Hermione's attention. She used the sleeve of her robe to wipe away the moisture. She lowered her head and blew a cool stream of air in an attempt to cool him off.
You're despicable, Malfoy.
He knew Hermione's voice as soon as he heard it, but the malice in her voice was something he hadn't heard in days. And it hurt. It hurt him worse than it should have.
You called me filthy? Look at you. You're a poor excuse for a wizard, not even worthy to clean the shoes of a Squib. What have you contributed to the world? Nothing! In fact, people have already forgotten your name. You're no one. You don't mean anything. Not to your father. Not to your friends. Not to your enemies. And certainly not to me. You're not even worth saving.
Hermione noticed that he was biting his lip. As gently as she could, she pulled his lip from between his teeth, soothing the swollen redness with the gentle caress of her thumb. She was struck with the intimacy of such a gesture, but she continued on and didn't stop until the redness was gone.
The words—her words—and her hate-filled voice burned a painful path to his heart, a heart that he'd almost begun to believe no longer existed. It shouldn't have mattered. She was an old enemy after all. But it did matter and it did hurt, because he agreed. For all the years he'd looked down on her and despised her, he'd truly believed that he wasn't worth her time. So he gave in. He gave in to the voices and just let them speak. He just let them parade his mistakes and his inadequacies. For the first time in a while, he shut himself off, allowing the voices free reign, because all of a sudden it was entirely too hard to fight it. He retreated back into his mind. He could handle hearing Potter or Severus or even Pansy. But not her.
The intense look of determination left his face. He looked so lifeless that Hermione checked for a pulse to make sure he was still okay. She was relieved to find the steady, reassuring pound of his pulse beneath her fingers. Her wristwatch beeped, signifying that another hour had come and gone. And she had done nothing in the passing hours but hold him. Blushing, she remembered her supervisor's suggestion that she bathe him. She decided that now was a better time than any. If she was going to have to deal with a naked Malfoy, it was better to have him unconscious. At least then he wouldn't be able to see the blush painted across her cheeks.
Resigned to her fate, she stealthily slipped out of their embrace and quickly conjured a tub filled with warm water. With another swish of her wand, a bucket appeared containing a sponge, soap, and some other toiletries. She finished situating the bathing area, trying to stifle her out-of-control nerves. Finally, when there was nothing else left to do and no other possible way to stall, she turned to look at Malfoy.
She turned her eyes upward and sighed, "Merlin, what did I ever do to you?"
Almost as if Merlin were sending her a reply, a small spasm rocked Draco's body, and she rushed to soothe him. A simple press of her hand to his shoulder calmed him.
She could have questioned his trust of her, whether he was unconscious or under the spell or just normal. She could have, but she didn't. Instead she took a steadying breath and reached for his shirt. Gently, as though undressing a baby, she pulled the shirt up until it rested high on his chest. Next, she went to move his arm above his head, but not before taking a brief detour to run her hands up his sides. Just to… check that he didn't have any bumps or bruises.
With his arms now stretched above his head, she pushed the shirt farther up, feeling it stretch slightly over the swell of his chest and shoulders. She paused, the shirt covering his head and his arms, leaving his torso completely bare. With his striking hair and edgy features hidden, it was slightly easier to lose herself in the inspection of his body. What you can't see can't hurt you, and all that. She allowed her hand to hover over his midsection, with a barely identifiable gap between his skin and hers. She moved it gently upwards, rising and falling with the curves of his abdominal muscles, but never quite touching his skin. Even without the actual contact, she could feel his heat, its energy rushing at her hand and sending shockwaves throughout the rest of her body.
A voice in the back of her mind was screaming for her to be rational, to think about what she was doing. She closed her eyes, continuing to enjoy the sensation of being so near to him, and hoping that not staring made her less guilty. It had suddenly become intensely hot and the voice in her head had reaching an inescapable volume. She had been on the verge of stopping or screaming or something. And in her preoccupation with chastising herself, she hadn't been careful to move with the curves of his body, unaware of the fact that her hand was coming ever nearer to the slopes of his chest.
Touch.
She gasped and fiercely shut her eyes even more tightly.
Sweet, blissful touch.
How had she, or anyone for that matter, ever doubted the existence of magic? The spells, the potions, the enchantments. If none of it had been enough to convince her, this would have. This mind-numbingly simple touch could have convinced her of anything. If it always felt like this, if he always felt like this, she would never refuse this man. She would do anything he wanted. Truly frightened by that realization, she pulled away sharply and forced her eyes open, forced herself to accept the truth of her actions.
Adopting a stiffly professional manner, she finished pulling the shirt over his head, perhaps a little more forcefully than she should have. She looked at him then, studying him, picking out every flaw that should have turned her away. She focused on the ugly slashes across his chest. She knew exactly where he'd gotten those scars.
She'd spent days trying to get Harry to tell her about that day in the lavatory, but he had refused all discussion. She tried to draw a connection between those hideous scars and his even more hideous past. Those scars were supposed to represent everything she knew she should hate about him. Years ago, she would have been inclined to invoke similar damage, but now…now, she wanted to run her hands across them. Her hands, her tongue, all of her, on him anywhere, everywhere. A vivid mental picture of her doing just that flashed through her mind and sent her crashing back to reality with a newly acquired blush adorning her cheeks.
Steeling her resolve again, she continued with his shoes, closely followed by his plain white socks. She stalled then, trying to find another piece of clothing to remove, anything but his trousers.
Unable to avoid it, finally, she anxiously reached for the drawstring on his hospital-issue trousers. Something wonderful and terrible rushed through her as she neared, and she wanted nothing more than to explore his smooth skin. The feeling inside her grew to an uncontrollable degree and her hand seemed to lurch forward of its own accord. Terrified, she pulled it back and used her other hand to hold it sternly in place. She couldn't trust her body, which seemed to defy all rational behavior. Instead she opted to Vanish his trousers, hiding her eyes from the result. After one small peek, then two, she was relieved to find him still covered by a pair of boxers.
Her relief was only momentary, because like peeling away the wrapping on a gift, each new layer was an obstacle. She blushed at the idea of Malfoy's boxers being the wrapping on a gift. 'An intriguing gift, indeed,' she thought.
In a brief moment of moral clarity, she decided to place Draco in the bath first, and then Vanish his boxers after he was already under water. Maybe then she could retain some respect for herself. As she Levitated him into the bath, she thought about how truly surreal this day had been. It seemed like ages ago that he had told her everything about his activity during the war, but in reality it had been barely over twenty-four hours. In the hours between then and now, she had run away, received some bizarre and infuriating letters from Harry, returned to Draco after he had injured himself, taken care of him, had one of the most indescribably wonderful moments of her life, stripped her former enemy down to his unmentionables, and was currently lowering him into a steaming tub of water. Talk about one hell of a day.
Once his body was submerged in the water, he tensed, but with the gentle caress of her hand across his brow, his anxiety subsided. She fixed her eyes on his face, refusing to look anywhere else, and with a wave of her wand, vanished the last bit of clothing on his person. She stayed for a moment, staring only at the peaceful, sleep-like expression on his face, unsure of what to do next. This was decided for her as he began to slowly slide down into the bath. Rushing to catch him before he was completely submerged, she looped her arms underneath his and pulled hard sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub. She was holding his body close, the sleeves and much of the torso of her robes soaked through. She tugged him upwards until he was sitting upright again.
His head lolled against her shoulder, his smooth hair tickling her face. She could feel the slow thudding of his heartbeat beneath her hands, and was immediately reminded of the earlier melody their combined heartbeats had formed
Remembering his current state of undress, she immediately settled him back against the edge of the tub. She decided to wash his hair first, as his head was farthest away from… well, other things. She took her time, shampooing his hair carefully, reveling in the feel of his silky locks, wishing her own hair was like his. Tilting his head back, she used a small cup to rinse away the soap. She washed his hair twice because it had been so long since his last shampoo, marveling at how clean and fresh his body still seemed despite his lack of regular bathing.
Tenderly, she cleaned his face with a damp cloth, feeling the high arch of his cheek bones beneath her fingers. She paid particular attention to his jaw. It was sharp and strong and the epitome of masculinity. She abandoned the cloth, then, and ran the pad of her pointer finger across his jaw. There was a light sprinkling of stubble, but his skin still felt like velvet. She knew that the nurses used a spell to magic away facial hair since razors were not allowed in the wards, but she decided not to use it. She liked him the way he was. It gave him a masculine quality that separated him further from the cruel boy he'd been those many years ago.
Using a quick spell, she trimmed his hair a bit, but not too much. She liked it a little long. When she could do no more with his hair, she moved down to his shoulders. Standing behind him, she drew the sponge up the slope of one and down the other, watching in fascination as the water trailed down his chest until it disappeared into the rest of the tub. She discarded the sponge, grabbed the soap, and worked up a rich foamy lather between her hands. Slowly she spread the soap over the taut muscles of his shoulders, allowing her hands to dance briefly over his neck. She began kneading the muscles, wanting to feel them underneath her hands. She closed her eyes and relished the feeling of his hard, but pliant body.
She didn't notice the stiffening of Draco's neck or his eyes opening suddenly. If she had, she would have seen immediately that his eyes held none of the raging passion she associated with the Slytherin, but were dull and lifeless. She continued her exploration of his shoulders and traced down his arms. She slowed as she went over his biceps, taking in the bulge of his muscles.
She remembered how it felt to be wrapped in his arms, pressed chest to chest. The funny thing about memory is it's never enough. It's never enough to remember how something felt, because it's never the same. It's easy to remember the emotions you felt during an event, but actually remembering the physical feeling of someone's body against your own is something entirely different.
Her hands wandered across his chest, slowly dragging the soap along the curve of his pectoral muscles. She sighed and silently berated herself for enjoying this so much, too much. But it didn't stop her, it couldn't. She was too far gone. Her fingers were inching slowly down his torso when she felt a vice-like grip on both her hands.
Her eyes flew open to take in his long pale hands covering hers. She was behind him, with an arm on each side of his head. The position was incredibly intimate, especially considering that her hands were trapped between his rock-hard body and his equally firm hands.
She waited for the scathing comment or the raised eyebrow or the cocky smirk, but they never came. She couldn't see his face from her position, and she was beginning to wonder if he was even awake. Perhaps he had grabbed her in his sleep?
"Draco?" she whispered.
Immediately, as though in reaction to her voice, his grip tightened. Confused, she tried again. "Draco?"
His hands tightened sharply, crushing her fingers painfully and causing her to cry out.
"Draco? You're hurting me!" She tried to pull her hands back or nudge him with her elbows, but his grip was like iron. She could feel his nails beginning to leave indentions on her hand.
"Ow, stop it! Let me go. Draco? Are you awake?" She writhed trying to break from his grasp, but to no avail. She tried to push her elbows into his chest, tried to hurt him, anything to get free, but it didn't even faze him.
"This isn't funny. I'm sorry about the bath if that's why you're angry, but it's my job, Draco." He squeezed tighter, and there was a stinging sensation in her hands.
"I'm sorry. Please stop! Draco! Stop! Stop!" She was crying now, from stress and pain and confusion. Finally, she managed to stand and maneuver an arm over his head so that she was facing him, but at an odd angle. She noticed then that his eyes were hazed over and realized that Draco wasn't doing this. It was the spell. She briefly questioned the change in the spell; it seemed more hostile now, towards her anyway. But those thoughts were gone, as his grip tightened.
She used all her strength to try and to pull her arms free. Her feet slid against the floor as she pulled away, unable to find purchase on the slick tile. Her eyes were squeezed shut with the pain which was almost too much to bear, when his grip abruptly disappeared, sending her flying backwards. The breath was knocked from her as she landed harshly. Barely lifting her head, her vision locked on lively, questioning, grey eyes.
Draco had shut himself off from his mind, but had immediately known when the spell had receded. When he came around, he saw Hermione sprawled on the ground. He took in the tears in her eyes and the way she was cradling her arms in her lap. He was torn away from his inspection by a small shiver. He was rather cold. It was then that he looked down and realized that he was in a tub of water… naked.
For once, he was at a loss for words. He looked at himself, then back at Granger. She was looking at him with an odd expression that was almost fear, but not quite. It reminded him of how she looked at him in school, defiant, but wary.
They stared at each other for one second. Two seconds. Three. Four. Five.
Draco wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, but his hands were busy covering a vital part of his anatomy. It had to be a dream. This was like one of those naked dreams that he'd always heard about, but never experienced. Resolved, he turned towards the door and stared.
"What are you looking for?" she questioned.
"I'm waiting for Weasley to walk through that door in a tutu because I must be dreaming."
She gave a small, but cautious laugh. "You're not dreaming."
"Well in that case," he scoffed, "I have only three words that fit this situation." He paused momentarily.
"What the fuck?"
A/N: Ugh… I know it's taken an incredibly long time, but I had a bit of trouble with this chapter. Thank you all for sticking with me. Oh, and if you haven't already, check out my Valentine's Day one-shot, "Cupid Cards: Trapped."
I'd love for you guys to review and tell me how you liked the chapter. If you do, I might just let Draco stay naked a little bit longer. Wink
And I've already started working on the next update for We Happy Few, too!
