It was Boxing Day, and on Boxing Day Hermione held the tradition of curating her bookshelf. Sure, she could magically extend her bookshelf, or shrink the books, or, well, quit ordering her own copy of books she liked from the library "just in case" she'd want it again at a time she'd find it unavailable.
It was a calming and peaceful tradition. She held each book and reflected on what she took from it, how it shaped how she saw the world, how it helped her grow academically, or how it would help her in life after Hogwarts. She'd find a sense of clarity in her effort of organizing the books into piles, thoughtfully considering how to categorize each book and how she'd organize her shelf for the next year.
Sure, her "to be donated" pile was modest compared to the other shelves, but the act of consciously discarding a few books made her feel like a new person. The bookshelf wasn't the only thing that she was curating. She was curating herself.
What did she want to focus on this year? What did she want to learn? Who did she want to become?
She pondered this question for a time and was struck by the uncertainty she felt. Usually, this was a very easy question to answer. In first year, she'd wanted to learn as much as she could about Hogwarts, the history of magic, and basic spells and charms. In second, it was the Chamber of Secrets and advanced potions. For third year, she was so outstretched, that she couldn't possibly have managed one moment of personal learning time. Fourth was spent trying to keep Harry alive, and, well, fifth was spent doing much of the same, this time with 36 students in the DA to teach, too.
It had been so easy in the past years to come up with her focus. It had always been obvious. But now? Hermione wasn't sure what kind of books she wanted to add to her shelf.
She added her new books to her shelf and pondered them. Beauty Magic, Dueling Strategy, Astronomical Theory, and the Chudley Cannons Quidditch Team.
On second thought, Hermione plucked Ron's gift off of the shelf and added it to her donation box.
She doubted she would even make it through the first chapter, so, why not save herself the hassle of staring at it with guilt all year long until next Boxing Day, when she could simply donate it now?
With a wave of her wand, she sealed the box and marked it for the elves to take.
The wave of peace that usually followed this ritual felt watered down this year. Her eyes hovered over the book from Malfoy, and she accepted the undeniable fact that it was a beautiful book. Soft gray-blue leather with silver stitching.
She almost scoffed at the coincidence but stopped herself. Her eyes caught the sight of the card he'd sent with it, and despite her best judgment, she picked it up, turning it over in her fingers.
Hermione thought about opening it and finding out what was inside. She thought about burning it. She thought about sending it to Ginny and asking her to read it first.
Finally, she set it aside in the open space on her bookshelf and decided she needed to get out of her head. She decided she needed to move on, to get back to her old self, to stop letting him interfere with her mind.
What would her old self do if she had two weeks of uninterrupted alone time in the castle, without Harry or Ron, and without a timetable, and if she didn't have a betrayal and a breakup to mourn?
Oh, it was obvious now.
She'd go to the library. And she'd probably start studying for her NEWTs.
It was Boxing Day, and Draco had to admit he felt a great deal more relaxed than he had felt in weeks.
For example, he didn't flee to the nearest bathroom this time when he walked into the library and saw her sitting there, her curls pulled half back and cascading down her left shoulder.
After the small moment they shared in the Great Hall yesterday morning, a slight shift had occurred between them. He still knew that they weren't quite on speaking terms yet, but they had acknowledged each other for the first time, so it was progress nonetheless.
She looked up at him as his shoes clacked against the stone floors of the quiet library, probably disrupting her focus. He let himself look at her, really look at her, without backing down like he'd done so many times since Slughorn's party.
He offered the smallest traces of a smile and nodded in her direction. He thought he saw a spark flash in her eyes at the gesture, but he couldn't be sure from a distance. Oh, how he longed to see her up close…
She broke away, returning her focus to the book in front of her, and turned the page.
Draco, encouraged by her lack of panic, and tempted by that potential spark he probably only imagined, set down his books at a table just two rows away from her. If she had any objection, she didn't let on.
Another encouraging sign.
He shook the thoughts of Hermione from his head, as difficult as that was to actually do, and pulled out his parchment and quill to begin writing.
After leaving Dumbledore's office the afternoon before, Draco spent the first hour flying around the quidditch pitch faster than he should have been. Then, the next two hours consisted of downing some firewhiskey and brooding in his dormitory, staring, once again, at that bloody vile of dark potion. At some point, he'd imagined drinking the damn potion himself and knew that he probably needed to get some air.
From his dorm, Draco went to the kitchens where he spent the next hour pondering his options over camomile tea as Dobby the elf babbled on about socks and Harry Bloody Potter.
He couldn't make sense of his conversation with the headmaster no matter how many times he relived the conversation in his mind. The old man was confusing, and his insistence that Draco continue trying to kill him simply didn't make sense.
Why on earth would Dumbledore recommend that? Was he mental, or did he really have a plan? If he had a plan, why couldn't he tell Draco flat out?
"Your greatest strength lies with your ability to keep a secret," Dumbledore had said. What did he mean by that? Who did he need to keep a secret from? Draco thought, "Wasn't the whole point of meeting with Dumbledore so that I didn't have to keep this a secret anymore?"
When Draco felt that he simply could not consume any more tea, he bid a polite farewell to Dobby and took his broom out to the Quidditch pitch, where he continued to overthink things for another 40 minutes.
Hadn't he made it clear that he wanted out of this situation? Wasn't it obvious that he wanted help? Didn't he explain that he wanted to switch sides in this war? Hadn't he plainly asked, "What do I do?"
Oh, how he wished Hermione was there to help him make sense of Dumbledore's nonsense. Maybe the old headmaster had been frustratingly vague and misleading with Potter in the past and she would be able to comfort him. Maybe she would have a better plan or be able to provide her with logical insight about what Dumbledore's words meant and how to move forward.
He thought of her again and ran his hand over his wind-kissed face. He'd bloody told the headmaster that he was in love with Hermione Granger, and somehow, that part of the conversation was met with much more encouragement from the old man.
Draco slowed his broom to a stop, dismounting with a crunch of frosted grass underneath his feet.
That's when Draco had the brilliant idea that ultimately landed him here in the library.
Sure Draco couldn't have Hermione to discuss these things with, but maybe he could think like her. He certainly knew her well enough. He felt like he had a decent understanding of how her mind worked.
Draco first went to his dorm, where it took him about 25 minutes to write down every single word of his conversation with Dumbledore. Then another 75 minutes were spent analyzing everything on the page.
He tried using some plagiarism-catching spells to see if anything Dumbledore said had appeared first in other texts; maybe he was referencing something that would be more helpful, but that did not yield any leads.
Then he tried using a thesaurus on many of the words to see if there was a hidden meaning, another layer of what Dumbledore could have intended hidden beneath the more obvious surface of his words, but that was unhelpful, too.
Hermione would have been proud, he thought, of his detailed notes, organized margin comments (color-coded, he might add), and thorough analysis.
In the end, Draco felt he had a much more confident understanding of Dumbledore's recommendations and even a few ideas of how to move forward.
Which was why he came to the library.
After all, that would be the next thing Hermione Granger would have done.
He chanced a look in her direction. Her books were spread out more haphazardly than they had been when he first walked in, but she looked peaceful, so comfortably in her element.
Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun now, his favorite look, and a few curls had escaped and were framing her face. She used her wand twice, trying to twirl a few back and tuck them back into her elastic, but they would always return to their place, brushing down her cheeks.
Draco ached to run his thumb along her face, helping her fasten those loose curls like he had dozens of times before. But that would be a goal for another day.
Winning Hermione back was definitely on the action plan he'd developed, but there were more pressing things that needed to come first.
Just as Dumbledore had suggested, Draco was continuing with his task for the Dark Lord.
The night before, after all of his time of contemplation, he had moved forward with the plan that Snape had proposed and organized. The tiny vial of Snape's poisonous potion was poured into a new bottle of Madam Rosemerta's finest mead, which was then magically resealed and delivered to a Confunded Professor Slughorn, who now planned to give the drink to the headmaster. Clearly, many elements could go wrong. He was counting on that, actually. It was not a fail-proof plan, but that's what Dumbledore wanted, wasn't it?
"If you continued down the path of half-hearted, poorly thought-out murder attempts, I wouldn't be unsupportive," he had said.
Draco just hoped that no one else would get hurt in the process this time. Katie Bell… Well, she still hadn't returned from St Mungos from her curse, and Draco felt utterly gutted about that.
But this time would be different, Draco believed. While the plan was not fail-proof, he had still been incredibly more intentional with his choice of messenger. The way Draco figured it, in the worst-case scenario, Slughorn would drink the mead himself before gifting it; surely, the brilliant potions master would know how to save himself.
Dumbledore, as well, for that matter.
But again, the goal wasn't for Dumbledore to die with this effort. No. The goal was simply to appear as if Draco was making strategic attempts on the headmaster's life. Something good enough to appease the Dark Lord, at least to buy himself more time.
Of course… that was the daunting part. The part where he had to be careful, secretive, perfect.
He'd decided that later this evening, he'd labor over the precise wording for the report he'd send back to Malfoy Manor, putting that task off until the last possible moment.
So with that set aside in his brain, Draco came to the library with the intention of tripling his research on the cabinet.
He pulled dozens of books, some on household spellwork, some on potions. He was lucky to find an ancient book on furniture repairs, but he hadn't found a section that might discuss vanishing cabinets. He took a few books off the shelves in the travel section to study other methods of magical transportation, thinking that the Ministry's elevators or the floo network might have some similarities that he could try. On an impulse, he even decided to grab a book he found on astrology just in case it might have some applied information on moon cycles.
The books covered his whole table and the contents quickly consumed his mind. He started making a new list of ideas, things to try, things to avoid. He made a list of materials he needed and page numbers he may need to revisit.
He let thoughts of the vanishing cabinet consume him for hours, missing lunch, but he didn't mind.
He kept himself focused for the most part, allowing himself to steal glances at Hermione here and there (for a resurgence of motivation, he told himself) and once he thought he caught her looking at him, too.
He noticed that she hadn't left for lunch either, so he took it upon himself to commission Dobby to bring them sandwiches and tea.
Draco couldn't hear the conversation between the elf and his Gryffindor girl, but the silent look she gave him from her table across the room made his heart race faster than flying.
For a moment, he thought he might have caught a glimpse of her sparkling eyes, those brown orbs burning briefly as she smiled softly, a whispered "thanks, Draco" on her lips.
He ached to kiss her then, thinking back to moments of the past when he could have, when the fire in her eyes consumed him.
But of course, he had to refrain. He had to be realistic. He had to be patient. He had to start slow. Daydreaming about the past wouldn't help him move forward.
With a small raise of his warm mug, Draco acknowledged the beautiful girl, self-control schooling his expression into an appropriately polite smile.
Another step in the right direction.
Their little library cohabitation routine continued exactly like that for another four days.
They sat at separate tables. They worked on their own projects. They skipped most meals. They shared a pot of Dobby's finest tea, requested repeatedly by Draco, and acknowledged each other's presence with mouthed words of gratitude and other simple pleasantries.
They hardly spoke to one another or even looked in one another's direction for very long, but their little routine was something both of them secretly found comfort in.
Though Hermione didn't want to admit it, being near Draco, interacting in that small, insubstantial way, made her feel a growing sense of peace. The sense of peace she had expected to get from her bookshelf-curating ritual.
She didn't think it was peace about their separation, or the mark on his arm, or even about the feelings she still had for him. Hermione wasn't actually sure at all why she felt calmer when he was around (okay maybe she had an idea).
When Draco was around, she didn't just feel calm. She felt safe. She tried to avoid that word, fearing its truth, but she couldn't.
Even after everything she knew. Even after knowing what he was. Draco made her feel safe, like the world could fall apart and he'd still be there at the end of it all, helping her put it all back together with tape and glue, and probably drying her tears while doing it. When they were together, he'd quieted her inner insecurities and protected her from the most terrifying parts of her own mind.
Draco may have been sitting tables away from her, and maybe they weren't talking, and she quite possibly should hate him, but she couldn't. Because in their time together, he'd become her safe place, the warm blanket she wanted to wrap tightly around her shoulders, carrying it through life everywhere she went like an armor.
She shouldn't feel this way around him. Not anymore. But she did. She was thankful for the distance that separated them, Draco continuing to take up a table two rows away from her favorite spot in the library. She was thankful that their interaction was limited to a brief conversation about tea, and she was truly beginning to enjoy their little exchanges.
On the second day, he'd asked her if she had an extra inkpot he could use because his had gone empty. Her chest tightened as he approached her table, and the hair on her arms prickled at his request. He was far too close to her, and his voice was thick with determination.
She hadn't responded, not verbally at least. She probably wouldn't have managed to speak English if she'd tried. But she did hand over an extra inkpot, watching the exchange between their fingers so nervously, her breath had stilled.
He thanked her warmly, with a smile that sent electricity pulsing through her veins.
On the third day, Draco rushed over to help her when the towering stack of books she was attempting to carry to the reshelving cart began to topple. Ever the Seeker, He caught three of the books, and swatted another heavy tome away from falling into her face, protecting her from a potentially embarrassing library-related injury.
She thanked him breathlessly, before making a mindless, self-effacing joke about how she knew books would kill her one day, but he didn't laugh. He seemed to freeze for a moment, his jaw sharpening. His eyes met hers intensely for the first time in what she realized was too damn long.
She almost didn't hear his cool, "Not if I can help it."
On the fourth day, after Dobby had brought up her second pot of tea, she'd worked up the courage to ask the elf if he could bring up some apple tarts, Draco's favorite treat. She took one for herself before carrying the plate across the aisle to his table, offering them up to share.
He took one gladly, thanking her with a smile that set her soul on fire.
Afterward, she managed to color code her transfiguration notes, finish making her NEWTs revision schedule, and create a set of flashcards that would surely help her memorize every sixth-year potion recipe and ingredient list.
He'd eaten every last one of those apple tarts before leaving the library for dinner.
Which is why, she suspected, she felt an extreme sense of discomfort on the fifth day when Draco did not turn up at the library at all.
When lunchtime rolled around with still no sign of him, Hermione decided to take a break from her studying. (She wasn't getting much done anyway). She left her books behind, still splayed out on the table, and went down to the Great Hall for lunch in hopes that she would find him there.
She nibbled on the edge of the sandwich that she picked off the serving plate for 20 minutes before she decided that she was being ridiculous and that he probably wasn't going to show up to lunch either.
Not that she cared.
She was just curious, really.
She pushed the barely-eaten sandwich away from her and walked (okay: stomped) her way back up to the library, cursing herself for being so stupid about a boy. Again.
She didn't care where he had gone.
Hermione slumped back into her chair hastily, pulling her dismal notes from that morning toward her, hastily scribbling out an incorrect annotation before deciding to scratch the whole page entirely.
She felt so stupid for getting so worked up over Draco once again. She was angry at herself because this time, she had absolutely no reason to be keeping track of Draco's whereabouts! They weren't together. They weren't even really friends.
Sure, he'd sent for tea a few times, but that's hardly a truce, not in the slightest. Being a Death Eater is hardly forgivable over a few cups of Earl Gray.
From some of the titles she'd seen when she had snuck a look at him over the past few days, it looked like he was still working on the vanishing cabinet. He was probably there now, in the Room of Requirement. She shook her head, trying to force the disappointment and frustration from clouding her mind.
She pulled out fresh parchment and reinked her quill.
"Stupid. Pointless. Ridiculous," she thought to herself as she titled her paper in perfect script: Analysis of Regulatory Potions.
A loud pop sounded beside her. The noise sent her quill streaking across her page, causing a tear. She scowled.
The unmistakable squeak of Dobby's voice filled her ears as he poured her tea, sent from Draco, despite his absence.
Hermione didn't get a single word written on her paper for the rest of the day.
A/N: Happy Friday!
More than anything here, I need to properly thank the handful of generous people who have donated their time as an alpha or beta reader on this. This and the next several chapters have had many hands involved as I battle my way out of writer's insecurity, so this chapter wouldn't exist without their support. Endless thanks to the_shitshow_must_go_on and Cle026. I dearly appreciate you!
I also want to thank (guest) Emma for writing such a kind review on EVERY CHAPTER. Like... what?! So amazing. Also, tellyourcatisaidpspsps and Margaret7188 for their kindness in reviewing. When people review, it tells the author that you're still with them, and to me, each review means the world.
Subtlety is the heart of this chapter, but I promise, a lot is coming. Did you catch Hermione donating Ron's book? What do you think is next? I bet you won't guess it.
Disclaimer: All publically recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling.
Love and Hugs, OxfordElise