Chapter 10
Draco's fingers were still entwined in hers when Hermione's chest finally felt the weight of the words she had just heard.
No.
No , he wasn't sure he wanted her to leave. It wasn't the same as wanting her to be there, but it was more than Hermione had ever expected to hear. At that moment, for the first time, she let go of her loneliness to face his. How terrified he had to be to prefer the company of someone who meant nothing to him to his own. How cruel could that curse be, for him to find comfort in Hermione's trembling hand? Who would have thought that one day the hand that had been branded on Draco's face would emanate warmth again, this time in a kinder way?
Hermione swallowed against the unfamiliar lump in her throat. She should say something. Or maybe she shouldn't. Maybe this moment was delicate enough that anything she said could break it.
So she decided not to risk ruining it.
The next few minutes passed like a museum. Slow, lingering, unhurried and with nowhere to go. The last time Hermione had ventured through the corridors of a museum had been a long time ago. But sitting there, with nothing to do but watch Draco's chest rise and fall slowly, she remembered the feeling that pulsed inside her whenever she came across works of art.
Draco Malfoy was worth looking at.
As much as it pained her to admit it, he seemed to have been sculpted by the gods themselves. As if they wanted to offer a part of the heavens to the earth. Every feature had been thought out in detail, an enviable symmetry, unattainable even by ruler and square. His hair fell unassumingly across her forehead. For a split second, Hermione wanted to touch it, to see if it was as cool as the colors it had been dyed with. It was such a light blonde, almost white, that she lost herself in it like when she tried to look at the sun.
Except Draco was closer.
So close that she could feel her insides burning. If he were a painting, Hermione knew it would be one of those that disturbed and comforted her at the same time. A work of art that can't be unveiled at a glance, that needs several encounters to understand each layer, each brushstroke, each intention of the hand that created it.
But what hand could eternalize Draco Malfoy?
He wasn't like the calm sky above the waves of the sea. There was a brutality embedded in the delicacy of which he was made. Draco Malfoy was like a foggy day, where the sun's rays lazily try to peek through.
Not just anyone could capture the complex essence that characterized him.
From Cézanne to Munch, as well as other emblematic names like Klimt and Van Gogh, none of them seemed to be the right choice. Hermione held them in high esteem, but something seemed to be missing. Her memory had already taken over, not letting her recall other possibilities.
Soon she came to the conclusion that there was no artist, living or dead, worthy of painting Draco Malfoy. A hand blessed enough was yet to be born. Perhaps it would never even be born. Hermione found herself lamenting such an injustice. It saddened her to think that thousands queued to see the Mona Lisa, while his face remained anonymous, hidden from the world. Draco Malfoy belonged in a museum, although Hermione doubted that any eye would be sharp enough to decipher him.
The thought of other eyes beholding his beauty, save her own, stirred a bittersweet ache within her. Fortuitously, Malfoy shifted, a low grunt escaping him, sparing her from the chance to fully grasp the wave of emotion that had just swept over her. His eyes opened slowly, their gray colliding with the brown of hers.
Draco’s gaze was unfocused, still hazy with remnants of sleep. However, Hermione could sense there was something else beneath it, something raw and unguarded that made her breath catch. He didn’t move, nor did he pull his fingers away from hers. If anything, the weight of his hand became heavier, as if testing whether she was real or just another fleeting dream.
Hermione didn't dare move either.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his lips parting slightly before closing again, as if whatever words had formed in his mind had decided against being spoken. His hesitation felt like an invitation, one Hermione hadn’t the courage to accept. If a conversation was about to take place between them, she wouldn't be the one to start it. She didn't trust her tongue to weave the right words. But still, she did something she never thought she would.
She squeezed his hand.
Just once, just briefly. A reassurance.
Draco stiffened — she could feel it in his fingertips, in the way his breathing hitched — but he didn't pull away. Instead, his gaze softened, almost imperceptible, but enough for her to see it.
“Still here, Granger?" His voice was rough, but there was something calmer underneath. Something that almost sounded like relief.
“I said I would be,” she murmured.
His brows furrowed slightly, as if the idea perplexed him. As if the concept of someone keeping their word, of staying for no other reason than simply wanting to, was foreign to him.
Hermione cleared her throat, suddenly aware of how warm the room felt, of how close they were. She needed to put some space between them before she lost herself in whatever fragile thing was unfolding here.
“I’ll be on the floor if you need anything,” she said softly, shifting to stand.
Malfoy didn't even give her time to turn around. His fingers tightened. Not much. Just enough to make her pause. And then—without a word—he shifted. It was a small movement, slow and unassuming, but it left enough space beside him. An unspoken invitation.
Hermione froze, her heart hammering in her chest.
“It’s just a bed, Granger.” He said, without looking her in the eye.
In fact, it really was just a bed. But it was also more than that. Much more than that. Of course, he would never understand. That would require him to be born again and to fear one thing more than death. She took a look at him, trying to focus on his words and the state he was in. Malfoy was too weak to be considered a threat. After a hesitation that felt like an eternity, she exhaled and, cautiously, carefully, laid down beside him.
A good couple of centimeters separated their bodies, Hermione had made sure of that. Even so, they were close enough to feel each other's warmth. It unsettled her.
They both looked up at the ceiling, hiding from each other's gaze. At that distance it was too dangerous. Too risky. Hermione was nervous at the thought of what she might find in his eyes, being so close.
Draco breathed out quietly, his voice scarcely more than a murmur.
“Thank you.”
“What?”
The words filled the room with more surprise than Hermione would have liked. It was the first time she had heard him utter such words, but what perplexed her was that they were directed at her. Perhaps she was being a little unfair, except she had never seen him thank anyone for anything. For 23 years, Hermione believed that good manners was a language too complicated for Malfoy to learn. And now there he was, casually proving her wrong.
Draco exhaled slowly, as if regretting having said anything at all.
“Bet you’re not believing I just thanked you for something,” he muttered, voice low and dry.
Hermione huffed softly, shaking her head. “If you want me to be honest…Not really, no.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
A silence settled between them, softer than before. Then, after a pause, his voice grew quieter, more hesitant. “I guess that’s because no one’s ever taken care of me before.”
Hermione turned her head slightly, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, as if forcing down the weight of his own confession.
“You had house elves,” she pointed out, though there was no sharpness in her tone, only curiosity.
Draco huffed a humorless breath. “It’s not the same.”
No, it wasn’t. She understood that. Having people around to serve you wasn’t the same as having someone who stayed.
“I get it,” she whispered, her voice a soft exhale.
He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You, Granger? You've always had others."
Hermione felt something inside her shrivel up. He wasn't wrong. In fact, she had always been surrounded by people—Harry, Ron, the Weasleys, the rest of her friends. But being surrounded wasn't the same as being seen.
She turned her gaze to the ceiling.
“No,” she simply said. “I haven’t.”
For what seemed like an eternity, the sound of the fireplace crackling took over the whole house. Without an answer from Malfoy, who was still letting what Hermione had said settle, she decided to continue, even though she felt strangely exposed.
“They cared about me.” she corrected herself “I know they do. But sometimes... sometimes I feel that they demand more than I can give. That instead of seeing me, they see the version they've created in their heads. It's tiring being the pillar of a house that forgets that a pillar can also break.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
She let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “It is.”
Draco shifted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. “You should let it fall, then.”
She turned her head, frowning. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, his expression unreadable. “The pillar. If it’s too much, let it fall. Let them figure out how to hold themselves up for once.”
Hermione stared at the ceiling again, sighing, trying in vain to relieve the discomfort she felt roaring inside her. “I already did that. I’m a coward, remember?”
He had called her that once, accusing her of running away from everything and everyone.
“You're no more of a coward than I am.” Realizing that Hermione wasn't going to answer, he continued. “I’m a coward too, remember?”
She had called him that once too.
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“You meant it at the time.”
Hermione hesitated. “Maybe. Sorry.”
He gave a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ve been called worse things by better people, Granger.”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, but it makes it easier.” He exhaled through his nose. “Doesn’t matter. I deserved it.”
She frowned. “You think you deserved that?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t I?”
Hermione didn't know how to respond. Because she had said it in anger, in frustration, and perhaps at the time she had believed it. But the reality was that, looking back, in recent days she had always been the one to run away from the most complicated conversations, to avoid him for fear of what might happen. And now, with Malfoy a stone's throw away, lying on her bed, she couldn't answer.
"Either way, it doesn't matter. We’re both too far gone to fix anything now."
Several question marks flooded Hermione's head. She stared at the ceiling with a determined look, as if trying to absorb what she had just heard.
The silence of the night led the rest of the conversation. But, strangely enough, lying next to Malfoy in deep silence wasn't strange. It seemed that her solitude was comfortable next to his.
Finally, it was Hermione who broke the stillness, her voice soft but firm. "Maybe we’re not too far gone. Maybe we just don't know how to stop being who we've always been."
“And who are those people?”
“C’mon, Malfoy. We've known each other since first year.”
“No, Granger. We don’t.” He paused, placing his free hand behind the back of his head. “It’s just like you said before. I created a version of you in my head. You did the same with me.”
That caught her off guard. Hermione had never put things in that perspective. Of course, she and Draco weren't close friends who knew everything about each other's lives. But, after so many years of living together, at no time had she stopped to think that perhaps there were other sides to Draco than the one that was evident when she was around. That all those defects didn't prevent the qualities from taking their place.
Hermione swallowed. “I suppose I did.”
A wry smirk ghosted across his lips. “And what was I, in your version?”
She was hesitant and he realized it.
“No worries, Granger. I'm not expecting the description of a saint.”
“Cruel. Arrogant.” The words felt sharp on her tongue, carrying the weight of old days. “Someone who would rather destroy than be destroyed.”
Draco let out a quiet scoff, but there was no amusement behind it. “Not far off.”
Hermione's curiosity made her turn her head towards him, although his attention remained on the ceiling. “And what was I, in yours?”
“Self-righteous. Naïve. A martyr.” He let the words settle between them before adding, “Someone who would rather burn herself to keep others warm.”
Hermione let out a soft breath. “Not far off.”
Silence stretched between them again, this time heavier, as if the weight of their confessions had sunk deep into the bed beneath them.
“Isn’t it funny?” he asked, voice quieter now. “How we only ever saw the worst in each other?”
Malfoy's head moved towards hers. When his eyes finally said hello to hers, Hermione's fear became real. This close, she could read his soul in his eyes, feel the emotional charge that that grayness contained. It was too much.
But it was as if she was hypnotized.
“I think it’s because that’s what we brought out in each other.”
His face became serious, his Adam's apple rising and falling. He also seemed to find in Hermione's eyes a greater weight than he could bear.
“Maybe. Or maybe that’s all we were ever allowed to see.” Malfoy finally said.
Draco’s gaze flicked down—just for a second. A quick, fleeting movement. But she caught it. The way his eyes darted to her mouth before pulling away just as fast.
Her breath hitched.
“You’re staring, Malfoy.”
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first. He exhaled, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, lower than before.
“So are you.”
She didn’t deny it.
His body was so close now that she could feel the warmth radiating off of him. He was still watching her, gaze impossibly intense, like he was trying to figure out something neither of them could name.
“I don’t think I ever saw your eyes properly before,” Draco murmured, almost like the thought had slipped out without permission.
The words shouldn’t have affected her. They were simple. But the way he said them—soft, low, like it was a confession—made heat curl in her stomach.
She tilted her chin slightly, voice steady despite the way her pulse had begun to race. “And?”
Draco didn’t answer her question immediately. His eyes were locked on hers, unblinking, as if he was trying to decipher something deep in her gaze, something he had missed before. His pupils were dilated, the gray of his irises darker now, as if they held more than just the faint glow of the bedroom. It was as if her eyes were pulling him in, one moment at a time.
She felt his thumb caress her hand, reminding her of the physical contact between them. “And I regret only doing it now.”
“Regret?” she repeated, the word hanging in the air between them like smoke, impossible to ignore. “You regret seeing me now? Seeing me how?”
Her voice was steady— too steady —but her mind raced with the sudden realization that he wasn’t looking at her as if she were just Hermione Granger . No, this look, this intensity in his eyes, was different. She could feel it, pulsing through her with a force that both terrified and intrigued her.
He exhaled, and the tension between them thickened, his gaze never leaving hers. “No,” Draco said softly, his tone so raw that it almost startled her. “I regret not seeing you sooner.”
Hermione hoped with all her might that Malfoy hadn't heard the beat her heart had just missed. But she wouldn't have been surprised if he had noticed. They were both too aware of each other's presence.
Her mind raced, trying to regain control, to lock away whatever spark his words had ignited. “Am I really on your list of regrets?” she asked, her voice coming out steadier than she felt. She let the words hang in the air between them, a challenge, a dare, even though part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer.
Draco didn’t back away, didn’t flinch. He stood there, his gaze fixed on her like a force she couldn’t ignore. “You are,” he said softly, the weight of his words sinking deeper than any sarcasm or biting remark could. “But not for the reasons you might think.”
Her breathing became uneven, but she masked it quickly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Then what reason could there possibly be?”
The gray of his eyes plunged back into the brown of hers and stayed there for a while. Neither of them dared to break contact, no matter how much Hermione's heart pounded in her ears. She didn't understand her own body, she didn't know why she was reacting the way she was. Why on earth was he messing with her so much?
Hermione's stomach churned when she saw Malfoy's lips open. The anticipation of the answer was killing her. But he quickly closed his lips in a sideways smile, letting go of her hand and turning away.
"Sleep well, Granger. Just pretend I’m not here and this bed is yours.”
She could hear the humor in his voice, which made her smile shyly, before wishing him a good night's sleep too. Now that Hermione was free of Draco's intense gaze, she felt she could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Just pretend I’m not here.
As if that were possible.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her pulse still racing. She wanted to believe the space between them was enough to keep the tension at bay. She wanted to believe that pretending would be easy. But every thought, every breath, every shift of the blankets felt as though they were connected—by some invisible thread only the two of them could feel.
It wasn’t just the proximity that made her heart race. It was the way his words lingered in the air, like a challenge, a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. And the worst part? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to.
The silence in the room stretched, and though they were both still, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to break.
Her eyes flicked over to his silhouette in the dark, just barely visible in the soft moonlight. He was still, his back to her, but she couldn’t deny how acutely aware of him she was. She closed her eyes, desperate to find some semblance of peace, but his words, his presence, his everything had completely invaded her thoughts.
And then, just as she thought she could slip into some semblance of sleep, she heard it—a barely audible sound. The slight shift of the mattress. A soft exhale.
Her heart skipped. He was awake.
She wasn’t imagining it. She felt the weight of his presence, heavier now, pressing into the stillness. As if he, too, was waiting for something. Could it be that the interaction between them wasn't letting him sleep either? Could it be that her gaze couldn't get out of his head, just as his own seemed to have poisoned her thoughts? Was he as aware that they were lying side by side as she was?
Her thoughts raced. She wanted to say something, anything to break the silence. To push past the tension, the discomfort. But instead, all she could manage was a shallow breath and the faintest shift in her position.
Hermione realized with startling clarity that pretending he wasn't there was no longer an option.
The question wasn't whether she could pretend. The question was whether she could survive whatever the hell was starting to happen between them.