Oh! Here it is!
Last chapter of the summer! I sincerely hope it has been a good one for you all! For my part, it's been very productive so far, with only 14 chapters left to write for Basorexie, the story will soon be finished!
I'm publishing this chapter to say goodbye to the holidays (at least for those of you who are on holiday!) and to let you know that the regular pace of chapters will resume! I'll be posting a chapter every 10 days, starting on 04 September! I can't wait to hear your feedback on the chapters to come, as we're entering a lighter, fluffier phase!
Happy reading, and thanks for continuing to follow my work!


Draco stared at Hermione in disbelief. His heart was pounding, overwhelmed by emotions. He couldn't believe she was offering him her grandfather's clothes.

She watched him closely, waiting for his reaction, but he simply couldn't give her one. It was too much all at once. His mind was divided between the discovery of this new room and the step Hermione was taking towards him. He was overwhelmed.

He stared at her thinking she might act for him, wondering if he could allow her to carry him. Yet she remained motionless, waiting for an answer that wasn't forthcoming. Part of him would have liked her to tell him what to do.

But would she? He knew she wouldn't. She wasn't them. Hermione treated him as an equal, strange as it may seem. She didn't look at him with the same pity so evidently haunting the others. She didn't interact with him as if he were about to split in two the moment she laid eyes on him. She seemed to be doing what she could, not what she should have done for Draco's sake. She was just herself, doing the best she could.

Hermione seemed just as lost as he was. And that was reassuring.

These clothes were sentimental to her, and yet, she was offering them to him. When was the last time someone offered him something so human, so simple, so thoughtful?

Of course, his friends had rescued him from Azkaban and put him back on his feet. They had clothed him for months, written to him and shared all their adventures with him.

But as he looked into Hermione's eyes, Draco knew deep down that this was different. This proposal had a special flavour, one of renewal, of change.

In offering her grandfather's clothes, she was giving him a piece of her past, she was demonstrating… her trust. Yes, her trust. He had the feeling that this was a first, that no-one else had ever been here before.

His heart jolted at the very thought. This moment was unique. Draco felt that he was, too, in a way.

What had changed in seven years? What had changed for her to offer him this trust that he never thought he deserved?

He thought back to the very beginning of their schooling when he first met her eyes. When innocence surrounded their souls and fear of the unknown made their hearts beat faster. He remembered her smiling when he had kindly let her board the train before him in first year. The only time during their school years when she had extended such a kindness. Then, she felt no resentment towards him. They were just two strangers to each other.

Now it was the second time. Her eyes sparkled with an emotion he didn't really understand. Fear, he thought. Fear that he would refuse.

And that was enough to move him, enough to make him tremble. She was there, he wasn't alone. Not anymore. She was there to catch him if he fell, because she trusted him. Now he trusted her too. He felt himself grow wings at the mere thought of her presence. It was simple, it was natural. It was human.

He prevented himself from thinking any longer. Ignoring the tremble in his fingers, he placed his foot down on the first step of the stairs. His eyes left Hermione's only to check that he was putting his toes in the right place.

A lump of anxiety was slowly building in his stomach as he realised what he was doing. He'd never seen this room, never thought for a second about the dangers it might conceal. He hadn't thought about how to get in, he hadn't analysed it. He hadn't counted the steps, the number of boxes or the cobwebs that seemed to have accumulated everywhere.

Why bother with all that, when everything was so simple, so natural with her?

A few steps separated them now. Draco clung to Hermione's gaze as if it were the only thing that would keep him on his feet, keep him going. He found comfort and support in it, although she said nothing and didn't move.

Time passed slowly, but he eventually stopped in front of her. He'd managed to cross the basement with ease. She looked away and he thought he would faint. His anchor was gone. He concentrated on her voice as she opened her mouth.

"I haven't opened these boxes for years," she said quietly.

It echoed in Draco's chest as he fixed his thoughts on it so as not to flinch or run away.

"I remember a few old jumpers that belonged to my grandfather, but I didn't open them all. I mostly emptied my grandmother's, so there should be plenty there, at least for the end of winter."

He nodded in reply, too confused to say a word. His heart was pounding in his chest like he'd just climbed Mount Everest.

Hermione bent down to open the first box and, with his newly discovered trust in her, he followed her with his eyes, letting himself be guided. He followed her without further question, convinced that he was doing the right thing. He trusted her.

The first box contained many thick, plain shirts, which looked as if they had been carefully folded and ironed before being stored. There were several different colours, ranging from blue to grey to brown and green. He'd never worn so many colours, even in Blaise's clothes.

Hermione grabbed a navy blue one and unfolded it to check the size. Then she looked up at him and it seemed to him that she was comparing his body to the garment.

"I think it'll fit," she said, lowering her hands. "But you– you should try it on, just to be sure."

Her suggestion made Draco blush, without him really understanding why. He could feel his face heating up under Hermione's innocent gaze. Didn't she see anything wrong with that? Was it normal for her to offer him clothes like that?

He didn't really understand why he was reacting like this. Was it because of her presence? Or because it was a stranger's clothes?

She handed him the shirt and he took it. Her fingers brushed his, as she passed and he looked up at her, surprised. Her face had turned pink too and she looked away. Draco thought they must look so silly, blushing like teenagers. Still, it seemed normal if not appropriate. He couldn't imagine acting with confidence, as he would have done when he was younger. It was ironic. Shouldn't one gain confidence with age?

"I'll give you space so you can try," she mumbled, already moving towards the cellar exit. "You can look at the other boxes, there are trousers and shoes, you–"

"No!" he exclaimed, following her with his eyes.

He was sure that hideous wrinkles had appeared on his forehead, frowning with worry.

"Stay," he murmured when she turned to him in confusion. "I–"

He cleared his throat and looked away in embarrassment.

"I don't want to be here alone."

Merlin, he thought. He was such a foolish coward. He'd been alone in the most appalling prison cell for seven years, but he couldn't do it in the bright, warm—and cobwebbed—basement of Hermione Granger? Idiot. He was an utter idiot.

She seemed surprised to hear him say this, but didn't say a word. She just nodded and stood there, staring into his eyes.

Suddenly, Draco felt sick. Was she going to stare at him while he changed? After all, that was more or less what he'd asked her to do…

But before he could express the slightest embarrassment, she turned her back on him and pulled at the sleeves of the jumper she was wearing. He waited a few seconds to check that she wasn't planning to leave, then finally decided to put on the shirt she had handed him. In a way, he was reassured.

The fabric was nowhere near as soft or luxurious as his own clothes, purchased with his mother in the best magic shops in Paris during the holidays before his sixth year. It was one of the only times he had ever been able to leave their house. He had wonderful memories of it, remembering her words the night before they left.

"I want to see you smile, see you happy at least once this summer."

This blue shirt was nowhere near as good in quality as the silk of l'Aiguille Ensorcelée. But, that didn't stop him from putting it on, and he didn't find it any less beautiful. He was simply happy to be able to hold a gift from Granger in his hands. Because that was how he saw this garment, these clothes. She was entrusting them to him, offering them to him.

The rough fabric slid down his arms, then his back. It fit perfectly. He didn't float in it like he did in Blaise's shirts despite being magically tailored. Nor did he feel as cramped as in his own shirts, which had been made for him when he was sixteen and had the lean body of a boy tortured by his fears. Now that he was getting stronger, thanks to all the food he was cooking, he was happy to have one that fit. Several, in fact.

As he fastened the buttons, he looked down at his bare chest. His heart raced in his chest as he noticed the marks still clearly visible on his body. It was so rare that he allowed himself to contemplate them.

He swallowed when he thought of Hermione's reaction if she were to see him like that. Then he realised that she already had when she had nursed him nine months before. She had seen him half naked and had healed his deepest wounds to save him. He wondered how long he would have survived the farewell present made for him by the Azkaban wardens without her care.

He closed his eyes with pain. He shouldn't have let his mind wander to those memories. It was too… too hard. He remembered sitting in the centre of their quarters, his head down and his knees pressed together. He remembered the pain of every impact, of…

"Draco? Are you done?"

Hermione's voice snapped him out of his dark thoughts and he clung to it like a lifeline. She had just saved him from a panic attack. He took a deep breath, as if coming out of a long apnoea.

"Yes," he replied in a shaky voice.

He dropped his arms to either side of his body, his shirt buttoned up to the top of his neck. Hermione turned to him and a smile stretched her lips. She didn't realise what had been going through Draco's mind just a few seconds before. He swallowed.

"It's perfect," she announced as she approached him.

He didn't move back. He had found her eyes again and was using them as an anchor to reality.

"It might be necessary to sew on a button or two, they seem rather damaged," she continued, raising her hands to his collar to put it back in place.

He froze and his muscles tensed. Suddenly, she was so close to him. She kept talking, suggesting a few adjustments, while he stared at her, unable to breathe. His lungs were blocked. He was afraid that the slightest movement on his part might disrupt this moment. Everything seemed to hang in the air as she smoothed the folds of his collar, then his sleeves.

He blinked several times as he watched her face and lips move before him. She was much shorter than him, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders. She was focused and didn't even seem to realise what she was doing, busy rolling up the hems of his sleeves.

Abruptly, she pulled her hands away and looked at him with wide eyes. She'd realised what she was doing and her face contorted with guilt, cheeks flushed with shame.

She seemed to blame herself for invading his vital space, for touching him without asking. Draco didn't. He had thought it almost normal, natural. At first he'd been surprised, then he'd become comfortable with it. Welcomed it. Because it was pleasant.

When he realised she was about to apologise, he spoke to prevent her from doing so. "How are we going to replace the buttons?" he asked, pretending not to have sensed the previous tension.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. He saw her frowning, like when they were still at Hogwarts and she worked for hours in the library. His heart skipped a beat at the memory. Draco decided to put it out of his mind, reluctant to let others invade.

"I found some sewing books in the library," he resumed with a burst of confidence, seeing that she couldn't speak. "Perhaps I could… erm… try to do it myself?"

She widened her eyes at this suggestion and Draco was immediately tempted to withdraw it. After all, it was perhaps too presumptuous of him to think that she would agree to such a thing. Perhaps it was inappropriate to suggest that he alter her grandfather's clothes himself. He felt bad. He had gone too far. She was bound to refuse.

"Okay," she whispered as he was about to speak again.

She surprised him for the third time in a row and he swallowed, nodding. He wouldn't push it any further or lose the chance she was giving him.

"You should try on some trousers too," she suggested, her cheeks flushed, as she bent down towards another box.

She opened several before finding one that contained something other than tops. The third she tore open was full of pairs of socks and trousers, most of which appeared to be made of velvet.

She took out the first pair and handed them to him, her gaze deliberately turned elsewhere. Draco's heart missed another beat as their fingers made contact for the second time.

Hermione turned her back to him again and he was able to take off his trousers and put on the ones she had given him. Unfortunately, they didn't fit as well as the shirt. The bottoms fell to his heels and the waistband was too large. He had to hold it so it didn't fall further down his thighs. His hips were too slim and he was too thin. Despite himself, this left a bitter taste in his mouth.

When Hermione turned round, she winced as she noticed it. He felt his heart clench in his chest.

"It'll take more than just buttons," she admitted, not daring to approach him.

She seemed almost angry at herself for having done it earlier and Draco didn't know how to explain that he hadn't seen anything wrong with it. It had almost been nice to see her so attentive, if he was honest.

"I'll learn," he merely replied with a shrug and half a smile.

She stared at him for a few seconds and it seemed to Draco that she was struggling inside to know what to say.

Once again, he took the lead. Because it was simple, because it was natural.

"Do you have sewing materials?" he asked as he picked up his shirt and trousers, abandoned on the floor.

"In the laundry room," she agreed, tugging at the sleeves of her jumper.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen her do this. He was used to it, he knew what it meant.

"Come," she said promptly.

Draco didn't wait long, not keen on the idea of being left alone in the basement, and went back up to the garage, following her closely. He was still holding his trousers in one hand and felt himself blush as he realised that it wouldn't take much for him to find himself half naked. He tightened his grip on them.

He took one last look at the new room he had discovered and promised himself he would go back. Alone.

Hermione switched on the light in the laundry room and he faced the large square white objects he had seen on his few visits there. He would go back here from time to time, just to make sure he was able to.

"My grandmother usually kept her complete sewing kit in here," Hermione muttered as she crouched in front of a filing cabinet and opened its lowest drawer.

She pulled out a wooden box covered in hand-painted flowers. He counted three.

When she opened it in front of him, Draco saw several spools of thread of different sizes and colours, needles and a sort of small metal cylinder full of hollows no bigger than his thumb. He went over to her and took it out of the box for a closer look.

"This is a thimble," she told him, looking up at him. "It's used to protect your fingers from the needle when you're sewing."

He nodded thoughtfully and slipped it over his index finger. Hermione giggled and he looked down at her, raising an eyebrow. Had he done something stupid?

"We usually put it on the middle finger," she explained. "But I rarely saw my grandmother use it. She sometimes pricked her fingers, but she never put one on."

"Why not? That's what it's for, isn't it?"

She shrugged and he knew he wouldn't get an answer. Hermione's gaze wandered for a few seconds and he regretted having asked to sew. Perhaps it brought back bad memories? Perhaps–

"I'm going to wash the clothes in the boxes," she announced, shoving one in his hand. "You can choose the clothes you like best when they're clean. I'm not sure it's wise to wear them now as they've been there for years!"

She didn't let him answer and left the laundry room in a hurry. He stood in the middle of the laundry room, a complete sewing kit in one hand and his oversized new trousers in the other.

He chuckled. She continued to surprise him every day. He looked forward to the moment when they would no longer be embarrassed in each other's presence, the moment when naturalness would be replaced by need, by everyday life, by… friendship, perhaps. Yes, friendship. That was good.