Chapter 8: Leur vie future (Their Future Life)

'Can't sleep?'

'No.'

He wore a green jumper and silver trousers; no, it was a Quidditch jersey. It was rather thick with a silver band around the collar. On the back was the words 'MALFOY 07'. The air was rather cool, maybe around 20 or so degrees. He was sitting brusquely beside the tree. She slowly walked over to him. With the ambient moonlight shining on his face, he was like a shimmering diamond. The candle in the dark. He then patted the spot next to him. As she sat down, she could see his eyes; they were red. The two leaned against the tree, absorbing the halcyon light of Lyon.

As she took in the nocturnal streets of Lyon, lights lighting the path for none but ghosts, the darkness faded into her dream. Her torturer of a mind didn't waste any time incorporating the dinner into the scenarios. Of course that night played out exactly as had happened barring three changes: 1) the figure was Bellatrix, 2) they were alone, and 3) she managed to curse her. Hermione did not know if she screamed or not, but she hoped not for Narcissa's sake. Her heart still hammered in her chest like a bomb less than five seconds from explosion.

'There's an old tree back in the Manor, sort of like this one. I used to go out there at night after the Marking. It allowed me to breathe, to calm down, before going back in.'

His sudden speech took Hermione out of her concentration. Was she intruding on a personal moment? Should she intrude?

She asked, 'How… How was it, being marked?'

He grimaced. 'Terrible. Imagine having your skin split open before someone poured acidic lava on the wound.' Hermione almost threw up. 'The entire thing was probably two minutes, but the pain lingered for six days. It was seared into my mind. Afterwards it didn't ache, but if he summoned you…'

'Was that what you felt last night?'

He nodded. 'Usually it ramps up so you know when it's coming.'

His bloodshot eyes turned to his left forearm; skinfolds were hanging off of his eyes like dead men on the gallows. Hermione reached out but stopped herself just millimetres from his scarred skin. Her eyes locked with his and he nodded. She touched the red Mark. Instead of a mark of honour, it was more like a brand for cattle. She traced the alchemical circle carved above, cutting through the hills and making new ranges on top of his blemished skin. The circle enveloped the mark, and there were nested polygons with symbols etched in the spaces.

'Still not as painful as your punch in Third Year, though.'

Her lips tried so much not to inch upwards, but when he broke, she broke as well. The two laughed, temporarily forgetting the cool breeze eroding their body heat. She never noticed how toxically fulfilling his laughter was, how contagious it was. His smirk disgusted her, but his laugh calmed her. Their laughs slowly stopped and their eyes turned to the city again. From the corner of her eyes, Draco was shaking his head.

'No, I mean… No. I'd rather not jump from a marriage of political advantage to a marriage of mutual benefit. I want…' He leaned his head back and sighed. 'I want to experience love.'

She grimaced. Love? Surely someone like Draco sodding Malfoy would have experienced love once in his life, no?

She turned to him. 'You… You've never experienced love? I find that hard to believe. I thought you and Pansy—'

'No, no.' He licked his lips. 'Pansy and I, it wasn't about love, it was lust. We've had sex, yes, but it was just sex for me.' A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. 'Theo told me that falling in love was like suddenly having everything you have suddenly reorientated to her. Your eyes would always seek her face first and you couldn't resist yourself to turn. Whenever she was around, your tongue would mysteriously fail to work. One off-hand comment from her would either raise your spirits to the skies or lower them to the depths. When she laughed, you'd always want to be there to laugh with her. You could do the most boring thing ever but if she were with you it'd be the best moment of your life.'

Hermione's heart ached at his words. Every sentence reminded her of Ron and his antics. It was how her eyes looked over to him whenever he and Harry entered the Great Hall, how every word from him made her stutter or blush, how one off-hand insult—which he didn't see as one—made her question if she were truly beautiful or not, how brewing a potion seemed so exciting with him. Hell, even correcting his essays was exciting because they were together.

'What do you think they're doing now, your friends?'

Hermione snapped out of her memories. She whispered, 'I… I don't know.'

He scoffed and sat straighter. 'Come on, you don't think about them?' Hermione shook her head. He leaned in closer. 'At all?'

'No. It… It hurts to think. It hurts to build up the courage. It hurts to do anything.' She glared at him. 'You think about your friends all the time?'

He smirked like usual. 'Of course. If I close my eyes I can see them right in front of me. Theo and Daphne would be glued at the hips as usual, Tracey and Millie would play with Teddy—Millie's cat, way nicer than yours by the way—' Hermione rolled her eyes, 'Blaise being surrounded by his fanclub, Pansy sitting by my side, and of course Emma whose ambition knows no bounds. You know Emma, right?'

Hermione smiled. 'Emma Vane, probably one of the few Slytherins that I actually liked. She used to study with me sometimes and ask about how Romilda was doing.'

Draco chuckled. 'The only one in the Vane family to be sorted in Slytherin. Looking back, I feel bad teasing her in third-year when her sister got sorted into Gryffindor.'

Hermione's smile faltered. She twiddled her thumbs before asking, 'Do… Do you miss them, all of them?'

His face darkened. 'Yes. They were there for me in Sixth Year. Theo and Emma would pass me notes for classes I've missed, Pansy would be there for—you know—release, Blaise would tell us about his exploits and the funny stories he had, Tracey and Millie would shove Teddy at me, Daphne would stay up looking out…'

'They knew? All of it?'

Draco shook his head. 'They knew I was given a task but not what the task was. To them, it was better that they didn't know. Less culpability, you see.'

Hermione snorted. 'That's some friends you've got there.'

'"There are no friends in Slytherin House," as Montague said, "only allies." Of course, how accurate that statement is, I can't comment.'

They chuckled together and the air between them resettled into familiar silence. Without noise, Hermione's emotions from the dream appeared again. Hatred. Pain. Disgust. Anger. Her mind wandered to the silver-haired man standing off to the side. He was as white as marble—and like marble—he was immovable. Resolute. Unchanging. That same man sat next to her, now rough? Certainly not marble-like. While she thought of him, her hand wandered from his forearm to hers, tracing the edges of bandages.

Hermione huffed. 'She's been dead for three months and still she haunts me.'

Silence. The wind ruffled her short locks as the sky started to light up.

'She haunts me too.' Hermione turned to him. His eyes were downcast and hidden away, like a boy who just did something wrong. He leaned back, his head smacking the trunk of the tree. He took a deep breath before saying, 'We're all fucked up, aren't we?'

She whispered, 'Yes, yes we are.' She saddled up next to him, the aroma of sandalwood now dominating the winds. Her eyes dropped to his forearm, and traced the circle with her eyes. Her mind swirled to a conversation last night.

To extend your life by one year requires the lives of eight to ten men.

Nicolas Flamel died in the 1990s, so he had lived for, what, 650 years? Had that meant that he'd taken the lives of over six thousand people? What were those lives for? What was taken, their life force or something more metaphysical?

'What are you thinking about?'

Hermione didn't look away, just kept tracing the lines. How much should she tell him? How much had he known?

'What… What do you know of our, erm, adventures during First Year?'

'What, with Quirrell?' She nodded. 'Well, Potter did something to kill Snake Eyes who was possessing Quirrell. Why?'

'Erm… Do you know about the Philosopher's Stone?'

He paused. Through the scar, his muscles tensed. It was almost fascinating, seeing the strands flex, tighten, then weaken. 'That's legendary stuff, right?' She looked up and met his gaze. 'No… It's real?' She nodded. 'That was what he was after, wasn't it, the Stone?'

She nodded. 'Dumbledore destroyed it after Nicolas Flamel died. Anyway, last night, I was talking with de Bouclier when he mentioned the Stone. Did you know the Stone takes human lives as its power?' His forearm tightened. 'He said that to extend your life by one year requires eight to ten lives. Dumbledore, he had befriended this man. Corresponded with him. Talked with him. Discussed things with him.'

'D-Dumbledore was almost 150 years old, right? What if…'

'No…' She looked away. Did the headmaster whom she idolised seem so evil? Was he not above using human souls to ensure his goals succeed? 'That can't be, Draco, no. I… I refuse to believe that.'

Thoughts buzzed around Hermione's head. Everything seemed so uncertain. The cold was getting to her, but her legs failed her. Everything seemed so cold; except him. She fell on his shoulders and looped her arm around his. She looked down to her fingers. They travelled from his mark, to his wrist, and then at the gaps of his fingers. They seemed uncertain, huddling up to close the gaps. Her heart hammered inside. Then, in one breath, they opened and Hermione pushed through. It was so warm. The tips of her fingers explored the back of his hand.

He untwined their hands before grabbing hers. He feld each and every finger as if it could shatter into a million pieces. He then started running his fingers over hers. Slowly and fully. With every swipe, her breath calmed. She let her head lean on his shoulder. The birds faded, their melodies dissipating into the cool morning air. Her breaths steadied, flowing in and out. The lights slowly dimmed. Sandalwood receded. Calm. Warm. She closed her eyes. She breathed. Before she fell into the tempest of her mind, a ghost of a whisper floated through the air.

'... cute.'

/ / / / /

Hermione woke up with the sun on her face. As she blinked away the rest of her peaceful slumber, her lumbering mind flashed images of the early morning. Scar. Circle. Words. Silver. Hand. She sat up, taking in the guest room of Wreath House. The clock by the door said 10:05. She grabbed her wand and slowly made her way down.

Draco sat by the sofa, reading a newspaper. He had long ditched his jersey for At her footsteps, he lowered it and looked up to her. 'Bonjour, la Belle au bois dormant, tu vas bien? (Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, how are you?)'

'Very well, thank you very much', she said as she looked around to see only him in the house. 'Where's Narcissa?'

He shrugged. 'Morning tea with someone from the gala.'

'What?' She walked over and sat next to him. She swore his cheeks were reddening as she sat. 'That was quick.'

'Mother's charisma knows no bounds.' He chuckled. He closed the paper and handed it to her. 'By the way, we're famous.'

She took the paper to see a picture of the two Malfoys in their resplendent clothes at the gala. Both of them were smiling ear-to-ear as if the war that they had fought were mere dreams. Of course, the headline reflected that.

EXILED OR FREED? THE MALFOY FAMILY ENJOYS THE SOLEMNITY GALA WITH SMILES!

She skimmed the body of text detailing events during the gala like the music, the guests, the programs, etcetera, but they never mentioned the attack; in fact, the attack was a mere footnote in the grand play of the French wizarding society. She did another skim to see that none of the images had her face plastered on it.

Hermione said, 'The attack was only mentioned in two sentences.'

'It is. They're probably trying to keep it from blowing up.'

'Yes but more on Fudge's inaction and less on Shacklebolt.' He crossed his legs and rested his chin on his knuckles. Silence rested between them before Draco asked, 'How was the Countess? What did you glean from her?'

She quirked an eyebrow. 'What about the Countess?'

'You talked to the Countess, didn't you? She's one of the Sixty, I thought...'

Hermione's heart dropped through the ground.

'I… I forgot.'

Draco's jaws dropped like they weighed ten tonnes. 'You forgot? You? Really? Bugger me, I thought your studiousness would've made you a goddess of this mess.'

She lowered her head, focusing on the marble tiles of Wreath House. 'It's one thing to learn about the sixty seats of the Estate-General and the hundreds of nobles configured in this semi-feudal government; it's another to actually talk with them. I've not even talked to the Castellan of Mérignac. I doubt he even knows of me.'

'Even if he didn't know, he will now. Everyone I talked to seemed to be curious about you which brings attention to Mother and me because we seem familiar.' He sipped his coffee. 'Also, where's your owlery or the place your owls go to?'

She quirked an eyebrow. 'Erm, the garage; why?'

Draco merely nodded, the corners of his lips slightly upturned. 'You may receive parcels of flowers sent to you from various bachelors in France…'

'Flowers, what—' Realisation slowly dawned on her and Draco noticed it. He smirked as he nodded his head. 'You mean, the flowers that the girls wear, that's to signify they're, what, being courted?'

'Mmhm. I'd suggest not wearing any flowers in your hair in future events, especially high society ones.'

'High society ones? Was the gala not "high society"?'

Draco scoffed. 'Not at all. The gala dinner last night was a Ministry-event; it's semi-formal at best. The ones I'm referring to would be the private balls and dinners of various pure-blood families. You can get by with the more liberal families like the Rosiers and Beauforts but not with the de Chartres or Coussillons. They will eat you alive and have time for desert.'

'Are you saying that there's something even worse than that event yesterday? I'll have to brush up on my etiquette lessons; God, it's like summers with Grandmother again.'

'That's good, I'll teach you.'

Draco and Hermione turned back to see Narcissa walking down the hall from the Reception Room. Her heels clang with every step she took; a neat little accent on top of the flowy silver gown she'd worn to this 'morning tea'. Draco and Hermione stood up.

Narcissa said, 'Don't worry, Hermione, we'll make a lady out of you.'

'Erm, I have books on etiquette…?'

Narcissa shook her head. 'On 20th century etiquette, yes; what the wizarding community does is a mix of 18th century etiquette in addition to norms unique in pure-blood society which are far stricter than normal society.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'I suppose it's something worse than, "no touching the opposite gender without gloves" because I knew that.'

Narcissa smirked—probably the first time Hermione saw her doing that. 'Oh no, it's much worse. No touching the opposite gender full stop; anything more and you might be seen in an unsavoury light.'

At Hermione's look of confused horror, she went over to her son's place and stood in position. Hands in front, fingers clasped, elbows restrained. Draco did the same but in reverse; hands in the back, left hand holding his right fist, elbows restrained. Narcissa continued.

'For an unmarried woman such as yourself, Hermione, this is your stance; hands in front. Your eyes naturally follow the hands; by putting them in front, you are putting attention to your clothes and of course your assets.'

Draco pursed his lips trying not to laugh.

'The man, meanwhile, has the opposite; he puts ahead his chest and torso, so the first thing one sees is his stature and physique. Left hand is always hidden behind like a sin ashamed to be displayed.'

It was Hermione's time to purse her lips in an attempt to not laugh. Narcissa then put her fingers around Draco's upper arm. Her touch was so light; enough to leave a smudge but not a dent. 'To place your fingers on your chaperone's arm means a romantic entanglement;' she then hooked her arm around Draco's, 'to put your arm through means a happy marriage.'

Hermione asked, 'You said chaperone. Is that required?'

Narcissa shook her head. 'No, but it will keep the attention away from you. You don't wear la fleur de la séduction, the courtship flower, and you are unguarded. Men will flock for your attention.'

Draco chuckled. 'I'm sure she'll understand that sooner or later given how enraptured the room was to the Baroness.'

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked away. As she was about to leave, her stomach rumbled; Draco's stomach rumbled as well. Seeing an opportunity to explore Lyon proper, she asked if Draco and her could go out to non-magical Lyon. Draco's face exploded in anger but receded when Narcissa agreed. In an instant, she apparated with Draco to central Lyon.

They sat in a cafe somewhere in Lyon, surrounded by crowds of people in the streets. Draco's face was pulled into a grimace and his eyes moved from one person to another, waiting for something.

He said, 'There are so many people here.'

'Of course there are. I've heard many things about la Place des Terreaux and it lives up to the expectations, honestly.'

'Why are we here, in this… place? Avec les Moldus (With the Muggles).'

'Je pensais qu'on disait pas Moldu, Draco (I thought we shouldn't say Muggle, Draco). Vocem obscuro is active.'

'It's a bit silly, isn't it? The term "Muggle" was so that no non-magicals knew of whom we were speaking; any frog can tell what non-Magique means.'

'I don't make the rules, Draco. Maybe in future you can—'

A scream disrupted their conversation. Both immediately half-stood, eyes bulged to the source. A woman, probably a few years older than them, had her hands on her mouth. Everyone else's attention, though, was to the curly-haired man currently on his knees with a velvet box on his hands. The woman said yes and they hugged to the cheers of the patrons.

Hermione snapped away, suddenly finding the coffee she was nursing to be one million percent more interesting than three tables away from her. With her mood rather dampened, they apparated back to Wreath House. They sat in silence for a while before an owl flew in, carrying a letter for Draco from Mr. de Bouclier. She took the letter and opened it. They read the letter together.

Monsieur Draco Malfoy,

Good morning, I pray your family and the Mademoiselle are in exceptional health. I'm not a man of many words, so I'll keep this brief. There are certain things that I've found to be interesting regarding the Dark Mark, and if my findings are correct, I may be able to craft a temporary solution should any malevolent forces appear near Mr. Malfoy's presence. However, I would need to do further inspections. Could we discuss this in person soon, preferably between the 21st and 25th? In addition, I've raised the issue of continuing your education here at Beauxbatons; hopefully a response will be present later. Please reply within the day.

Meilleures salutations,

Apollon Henri Gérard de Bouclier

Professeur Supérieur de l'Alchimie à l'Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons

Hermione said, 'We've not talked about it, you going to Beauxbatons. Are you serious?'

'I've said that I want to be a potioneer. To do so requires examination scores which I don't have. Father isn't here and he will not be here so I want to have some semblance of normal life in the five years I am here.'

From the corner of her eyes, Hermione saw Narcissa's eyes look away when Draco said Lucius wouldn't be in France. For all the things you could fault Lucius, he was a great husband to her.

He asked, 'Anyway, I'm going to ask him to meet on the 21st next week. Will you be coming?'

She nodded. 'Yeah, I'll tell Emmanuelle that I'll be gone on Friday.'

'Alright.' He walked away and grabbed a letter in which he penned his response. Essentially, he agreed to meet with him in Wreath House on Friday afternoon, just before tea. He put the letter on the owl's talons, gave him a treat, and the owl flew away. After that breakfast, they went their separate ways as Hermione flooed back to the Château de la Fierté.

/ / / / /

Days had gone past, and it was Friday morning, 21st of August 1998. A reply had been sent a few days ago, confirming the time of 13:00. During that time, two things had happened: first, Emmanuelle had agreed to shift her days off from Thursday to Friday, thus giving both of them a three-day weekend (why she didn't just ask for Friday-Sunday off baffled Hermione to this day but she didn't pry); second, flowers had appeared in the corner of her garage. Hermione had already counted two letters each accompanied by a bouquet.

In total, there were eleven letters, each with a courtship bouquet; three pure-blood, seven mixed-blood, and one non-magical-born. She wanted to burn them but she figured they were owed a reply. She had just finished writing all eleven letters when she looked at the time. 12:07. She quickly got ready and flooed over to Wreath House. After preparing some tea with the help of Cappy—the Malfoys' remaining house elf—Mr. de Bouclier arrived.

His clothes were utterly normal; dark grey blazer, grey chinos, and a white T-shirt. She had to remind herself that this was a Professeur Supérieur, a true master of his craft. Draco and Hermione greeted him and they sat around a table by the windowsill. Due to the conversation's topic, Narcissa had agreed to stay out. With a swish of his wand, several sheets of paper and a pen appeared on the table.

'Put your left forearm facing up, Mr. Malfoy.' Draco did, showing the Dark Mark and the alchemical circle scarred on top. 'I will have to etch a containment field before I can cancel the stasis circle.'

He pulled out his wand and prepared to etch. As the tip of de Bouclier's wand burrowed into Draco's skin, his other hand grabbed Hermione's under the table. Hermione wanted to retract but she held him back. Meanwhile, de Bouclier was tracing an even larger circle with more polygons inside. Putting aside the fact the man was etching this to skin, it was beautiful in a complex manner.

de Bouclier said, 'I will begin inspection; it will be painful. Are you ready?'

Hermione whispered to Draco, 'I'm here.'

Draco nodded and Hermione did as well. de Bouclier healed the alchemical circle surrounding the Mark. Draco's hand squeezed Hermione's hand. At the same time, de Bouclier was busy observing and inspecting the Mark itself. Draco didn't make a sound though the slight cloudiness of his eyes told her how hard it was.

She pulled his arm and whispered, 'Don't occlude.' His eyes snapped to her. 'You told me it's addictive. Don't.'

In an instant, the cloud dissipated, leaving silver embers around the ring of his eyes. He squeezed harder. Still, she did not let go; she couldn't. Even then, she kept eye contact with him. The cloud threatened to return, but Hermione kept her grit. The corners of his eyes turned glassy and then wet.

'I've finished.'

In an instant, the pressure crushing her hand vanished; it had become almost numb from the pressure. He closed his eyes, and a tear fled from the corner. Draco took several deep breaths before opening them.

Draco asked, 'So… What have you discovered?'

'A complex array of transmutational alchemy, Dark Arts, Jinxes, Charms, and one individual malediction. They're interconnected in a way that you can't disarm only one; you have to take the entire thing off.'

'So, there's no way to take this Mark off of my arm?'

He shook his head. 'Repaying the cost of a malediction is difficult enough, let alone one mixed and connected to a whole host of dark spells.'

Draco and Hermione looked at each other. Draco nodded. Hermione realised her left hand was still holding his, and he reluctantly let go.

Hermione said, 'What about this?'

Hermione unfolded her bandages and placed her arm on the table. de Bouclier's eyes widened as he walked over. He asked permission to inspect it and Hermione agreed. He gasped as he read the word. After a few diagnostics, he sat back down.

'A familial malediction, that's rather rare. Who cursed you?'

'The late Bellatrix Lestrange, using a cursed Malfoy blade so it's the Malfoy familial malediction. It bleeds whenever I have a nightmare or feel intense emotions.' He nodded as his eyes glanced between both of them. 'If my blood can cure him, can his blood do the same to me?'

He looked up and scratched his chin. Without looking he said, 'It could but it's not as simple as a blood exchange. I'd have to consult with my colleagues and fellow professors.' He peered down and smiled. 'Which brings me to our next topic: Beauxbatons. Madame Maxime and the Board of Governors have agreed to your entrance, Monsieur Malfoy; you too if you wish it, Mademoiselle de Bonnegrâce. You both have the right of education.'

That surprised both of them. Hermione asked, 'If we were to pursue Beauxbatons, in what year would we be? Seventh? Will we be with the others?'

de Bouclier nodded. 'You will be with the other pupils in Seventh Year, yes. Now, in Beauxbatons, education lasts for eight years and the last two are specialised as we take our first examination, le BUSE, on our sixth instead of your fifth year. Fortunately, we could translate your scores from Hogwarts, but you would have to do our Placement Test so we know in which classes to put you for the next two years.'

Draco asked, 'When is that?'

de Bouclier shrugged. 'Term starts on the first Monday of September which should be the 7th. You could probably take the test on the 1st which gives you 10 days to prepare. It's not that difficult.' He swished his wand and a piece of paper appeared by his head. He handed the note over to them which contained a list of seven books. 'Study these books, I'm sure you could do it.'

They talked for some time afterwards but it was normal questions about Beauxbatons and Hogwarts. After de Bouclier departed, Draco and Hermione sat there in silence. Nothing was said; nothing had to be said. They shared a look. Draco's right hand took Hermione's left.

All he said was, 'Don't let go.'

She didn't. She continued holding his hand. She continued watching tears fall from his eyes. She continued sitting next to him. She continued to do nothing, to say nothing, to comment nothing. Because she had done the most important thing.

She stayed by his side.

She heard a low murmur.

'I regret not knowing you all these years.'

/ / / / /

Swirls of black. Dull flashes of grey. Her back was cold. Where was she? It seemed familiar but—

'Hello, little Mudblood.'

She turned. Bellatrix Lestrange stood over her.

'No… You're dead.'

'Oh? You thought I was dead? Maybe you thought of that, but I am still alive.' She walked up closer, the smell of rotten teeth intensifying. 'We will be here. Together.'

'Please stop.'

'Crucio!'

Pain exploded all over her being. Every strand of muscle was being ripped apart. Every joint was being dislocated. Every square centimetre of skin was being doused in hot lava. She couldn't even scream; her vocal folds had been long gone. In the pain, she saw a blond boy. His knuckles were white. His face was hidden away. This boy was the one who identified her. This boy helped Bellatrix. This boy tormented her.

The boy turned. He screamed, 'Hermione!'

His lips moved but that voice wasn't his. It was too kind. Too caring.

'Hermione! Wake up!'

The world exploded in a flash of silver. She fell through the floor. She thrashed but her limbs would not move. The world darkened. She opened her eyes and met silver.

'Hey, hey! It's Draco!'

Her sprinting heart wanted to run but Draco held her down.

She screamed, 'Let go of me! Stop!'

He moved behind her and wrapped his legs around her body while his arms locked hers. 'Listen to me, listen to me. What do you see?'

'Wha—'

'Tell me five things you see in this room.'

She scanned the room, jumping at every shadow and noise. She said, 'B-Bookshelves; lots of them. Lights. Red book. D-Door. You.'

The shadows retreated; nothing was there. There was nothing; no pain in her muscles and joints, no rotten smell, no silver walls.

'Tell me four things you feel right now. Anything.'

'Your arms. Wood. Cold air. Light head.'

The walls of Malfoy Manor continued to fade with every word. A new place appeared in its stead.

'Tell me three things you smell now.'

'Y-You; sandalwood. Old books. Citrus.'

The walls of Château de la Fierté became clear. They were in the library. Second floor, east wing.

'Tell me two things you hear.'

'Your deep voice and… music. Classical music.'

Everything clicked into place. The windows were dark; it was night. They were in normal clothes, not robes. They had been studying. Draco had moved in. It was a few days away from the test. Her hammering heart calmed down. She took deep breaths. She let her head fall on Draco's chest. The grip he had on her loosened. His legs fell limp next to hers, and his arms were embracing her. She could feel the dig of his stubble on her head.

'You were having a nightmare.'

'It's nothing.'

He scoffed. 'Didn't sound like nothing.'

'Why are you being kind to me? You bullied me. You let me get tortured.'

'Did we make a mistake drafting that letter?'

'It wouldn't be right, letting this go.'

'Listen, you need to get ahold of this, or—'

'I know, but I can't just forget about you!' She released herself from him and whirled around. 'Because of you, I had to go into hiding for the better part of a year! Every time I hear the door creak, a branch crack, or some random noise, my hand twitches to my wand!' She jabbed her finger at his chest. 'All because of what you did! Because of what you believed in!'

'I-I didn't have a choice!'

'We all have a choice, Malfoy! You knew me for six years. Six years! All I ever know of you is that bully who saw me as a pest!' Everything in her collapsed. She laid her head on Draco's shoulder. He hadn't moved. He was silent. Into the nook of his neck, she asked, 'Do you know what I hate the most, though?'

Five seconds of silence was all he could take. 'What?' He stammered.

'Beyond the mask you put on, underneath all that… You could become a decent human being, you know that? And that infuriates me.'

She lifted her stiff head and looked Draco in the eyes.

'All of my life, I've only ever known one Draco Malfoy: the racist and spoiled snob who wanted to murder me and my kind. Sixth Year gave me a glimpse of what you truly are: a scared yet determined boy. Ever since you were exiled, that scared boy is the one coming out. How am I supposed to reconcile that? The things you did to me, Draco, those are things that cannot be solved by mere apologies, yet it's the fact that you even apologised that surprised me. The fact that you rarely antagonised me ever since; that broke me. Never in my life would I imagine the great Draco Malfoy stooping down so low to apologise to a Mudblood—'

'Don't use that word—'

'Oh, but it is who I am, isn't it? That's what you've called me since Second Year. It leapt out of your mouth like any other noun and with enough vitriol to know you recognise fully what it meant. You knew how hurtful it was and still you used it. Now, you tell me to not use it?'

'People change.'

She scoffed. 'People change but that doesn't mean you can disregard the smouldering ruins you've left behind. You, the real you, it's been present since the beginning; you've just decided to not care about appearances anymore. What I see is someone who cares. Someone that is so uncharacteristically Malfoy. Thing is, I would have loved to be friends with the real Draco Malfoy. The Draco Malfoy who cares. The Draco Malfoy who ponders. I think… I think I would've liked him.'

Their eyes were tied together. Their breaths lingered between each other. Hermione went first, running her hand up his neck. His hair was soft, easy for her to card through. His hands climbed up her back, landing on the back of her nape. Normally she would feel fingers tangling in the forest of her curls, but with her cropped locks, even the slightest movement made her explode in arousal. She plunged her fingers into his head to keep calm. With every millimetre of distance closing in, the world around them faded. The cool air enveloped them. The room disappeared. Her nightmare? A mere footnote. There were only their hands and their ever-nearing lips. When their lips touched, their souls jumped in unison. He was ever gentle, moving his lips on hers slowly, as if asking, 'Is this okay?'

She pushed into him. Yes it is, she replied. She opened her secrets to him. He opened his in turn; the dragon had revealed his treasure. Their tongues danced with each other, almost as if it were another of their duels. Draco took the initiative and Hermione replied by pulling him closer. That broke his defences and she swept in. The sun had broken through the horizon, but they didn't notice it; for all they care, they were in another universe entirely. Everything seemed so distant, so unfocused. What was clear were the citrusness of his lips, the softness of his hair, and the pull of his arms. Their tongues danced in the intersection of their lips. Their minds were long gone; passion drove them.

Neither wanted to let go but they must breathe. Hermione released first and she looked down to his eyes. She was close but never this close. There were specks of green in his silver hues; a true Slytherin. His eyes filled with wonder like hers when she first discovered magic.

She whispered, 'I should hate you.'

He whispered, 'I should hate this.'

'... But I don't hate you.'

'... But I don't hate this.'

Their hands fell to their sides. They looked at one another, hearts hammering and souls searching for the other. The two smiled, probably the largest smile they had worn ever since the war. She collapsed on his shoulder like an anchor dropping to the seabed.

She asked, 'Tell me about myself, please. The things you liked.'

He pulled her in closer before saying, 'You're incredibly tenacious and hardworking when you have a goal in mind. I admire that. Sometimes you want your goals realised so much you'd do things I would consider befitting a Slytherin like…'

She continued listening to him gush over her. Her body became weightless as she snuggled up to him, feeling the baritone voice vibrating through her head. Before the world faded, one final line made in.

'Now that I can see you… You look so incredibly adorable.'