Back Into the Street Again
"I want to tell you this story without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something, that he chased after me and threw me into the gravel. And he knew it wasn't going to be okay, and he told me it wasn't going to be okay (...) he covered my body with his body and held me down until I promised not to run back out into the street again." The Torn-Up Road, Richard Siken
_
Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain -
Hermione was finishing tying the laces of her oxford shoes when she heard incessant tapping on her window. She stood up and walked towards the regal-looking silver owl sitting on her window sill. The bird flew away as soon as she grabbed the package from its beak, not waiting for the treat she was about to grab.
She turned the package in her hands, stopping for a second to admire the beautiful white paper it was wrapped in. It was tied with a large chartreuse bow, the ribbon feeling like smooth silk when she rubbed it between her fingers.
Hermione sat on the edge of her bed and carefully unwrapped the package. She revealed a copy of “Flying High: The Global History of Broom Racing. ” On its cover, a drawing of a young-looking wizard flying a broom raced across the night sky, stars sparkling against the navy blue background.
Hermione took out the piece of parchment that slipped between the first couple of pages.
Granger,
It was about time someone taught you to appreciate the art of flying. I figured you wouldn’t appreciate the usual how-to manual, but a book on broom history might strike your fancy.
DM
p.s. I hope you admired the beautiful condition of my owl. Did you notice how he didn’t appear to be at risk of toppling over? Aren’t you glad that I sent a hardier specimen than the abused thing you sent me?
To her astonishment, Hermione’s chest bubbled up laughter. She pressed a fist to her mouth, but it wasn’t enough to contain the hysterical giggles that burst out of her. Her chest shook with the force of it. She bent in two, taking deep breaths, trying to contain her laughter. She wasn’t surprised when her eyes watered up instead. Bloody wednesday, she thought tiredly, blinking away the tears, and then, bloody Malfoy.
Hermione looked up from the book when she heard a soft knock on the door. She placed the gift on her nightstand, then stood up, rushing to the bathroom to check herself on the mirror before answering the door. Her face was flushed -- she turned the tap on, wetting her palms and dabbing her cheeks, hoping the cool water would help her look less rattled.
When she opened the door, Harry was waiting for her, a somber expression on his face. They didn’t say anything to each other, but she grabbed his hand when he held it out, squeezing his fingers as they walked towards the living room.
“I’m going to go first,” Harry’s voice was almost a whisper, as if talking too loud would disrupt an unspoken agreement between them. “Do you want me to wait for you?”
Hermione shook her head.
“No, you should probably check up on Ginny right away,” she said, letting go of his hand.
Harry held her stare for a few seconds. Hermione lifted her chin, trying to appear somber yet strong. Today is not about me, she reminded herself, and it isn’t about Harry, either.
“I’m going to wait for you,” said Harry in a final tone of voice. Hermione braced herself for an argument, but Harry apparated before she could open her mouth.
There was a lump forming in her throat, and she felt a growing desire to run back to her room. But Harry was waiting for her, and he would notice if she took too long. The last thing Hermione wanted was for him to feel like he needed to look after her, too.
Hermione squared her shoulders and apparated, feeling off-balanced when she landed in the Burrow’s front yard. Before she could fall, Harry shot out a hand to steady her. She smiled at him gratefully. The two of them walked towards the front door in silence. Harry pushed open the door and led them down the hall, following the noise into the kitchen.
Most of the Weasleys were there, Molly was mixing something in a bowl, splashes of flour covering her purple blouse. Fleur was beside her, waving her wand over a cutting board. Ron had his elbows on the table, frowning in concentration as he played a match of chess against Bill. Arthur stood over them, his hip digging onto a chair as he rested his weight against it.
They made a normal picture, at first, but on a second glance it didn’t take much to notice that the group looked ragged, shoulders sagged and faces exhausted from lack of sleep.
“Oh, hello, my dears,” said Molly, looking up from the bowl to offer them a weak smile. “We were just waiting for you. Harry, will you call Ginevra down, please?”
“Yes, of course,” said Harry. He pressed a quick kiss on Molly’s cheek and clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, who didn’t react outwardly, before disappearing up the stairs.
Hermione watched the exchange with a tight chest. After offering quick hellos to everyone in the room, she sat down in the chair to Ron’s left. In greeting, he bumped his shoulder against hers, his attention still on the game.
Hermione learned forward in her chair so she wouldn’t be overheard, then whispered, “Percy and Charlie haven’t arrived yet?”
“Charlie owled this morning, there was an emergency with trafficked dragon eggs, and Percy…” said Arthur, shaking his head, “Audrey just had the baby, and he thought it was best they spent the day as a family.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley,” said Hermione, chewing on her bottom lip. Arthur looked pale and underfed, his clothes in disarray. He looked exactly how Hermione had come to expect in the past year, but it was always startling, as if a light had gone off in him.
“It is what it is,” said Arthur, offering her a grimace. He turned to his wife. “I have a bit of a headache, Molly, dear, would you mind if I lie down for a bit before dinner?”
Molly looked up from what she was doing, lips tightly pursed. “Of course not, dear, but it won’t be long. I’ll send one of the boys to call you once we’re ready. There’s a fresh pain-relief potion on your nightstand.”
Once Arthur left the room, Hermione turned to Ron and Bill. “ I shouldn’t have asked,” she said, feeling guilty.
“It wasn’t you,” said Bill, moving a piece on the board. “He’s been like that since yesterday, he came down to say hello when Fleur and I got here and then went back to sleep. If mum let him, he wouldn’t have left his room.”
“Ginny is like that too,” said Ron. “I thought she was over at Harry’s, but she’s been locked in her room for the past two days. I only noticed it when I bumped into her in the corridor late last night.”
“I tried to talk to her,” added Bill, voice low. “Fleur too, but she slammed the door in my face.”
“It only makes her angrier, I thought she’d bite my head off for asking if she was okay,” said Ron, scowling when Bill ended the game with a checkmate. “Bloody hell,” he grumbled.
“Ronald!” snapped Molly.
“Sorry, mum,” murmured Ron, chastised. He pushed the board away and lowered his head to rest on his arms. Bill didn’t say anything, just stored the pieces and board back in their box, then stood up to help Fleur with the food.
Hermione felt like an intruder in a family moment -- they were all walking on eggshells, hesitant and exhausted. If she moved too abruptly, she’d disturb the claustrophobic peace they reached. Not being there would be much worse, but watching it all while with her hands tied was excruciating.
“I’m going to help your mother,” she said to Ron, standing up. She needed to do something, anything to feel more of use and less of a nuisance.
Molly tried to decline her offer, but when Hermione insisted, she directed her to a huge bowl of potatoes and told her to peel. Hermione approached the task like it was her calling in life.
When she was done, she set the bowl close to Molly and Fleur and started doing the dishes by hand, ignoring Ron’s grumbles that she could do it quicker with magic. By the time they had finished cooking the meal, Hermione had cleaned the cabinets and reorganized Molly’s spices by color.
“Ron, go get your father, will you?” said Molly, sounding reasonably tired.
For the first time, Hermione managed to steal a proper look at her without being noticed. Molly’s hands were shaking, and she kept fiddling with the objects closest to her, like talismans. Her eyes were swollen, and her forehead shimmered with sweat.
Hermione had never felt as useless as she did in that moment -- watching one of the strongest women she knew looking like the floor was about to open under her feet.
There was a growing feeling of despair taking shape inside of Hermione, like a monster crawling from her chest up to her throat. She rubbed a hand on her face to urge her tears back.
At last, it was time to eat. Hermione sat on the chair she had previously occupied, waiting as everyone took their respective seats. Arthur was at the head of the table, his expression bleaker than earlier. After she finished levitating all the plates and bowls to the table, Molly sat by his side, leaning over to whisper something in his ear. Ron’s knee brushed against Hermione when he leaned forward to grab a piece of bread; he munched on it as they waited for Harry and Ginny.
Harry appeared first, giving Hermione a meaningful look as he dragged an reluctant Ginny behind him -- she was bare faced, hair on a high ponytail, wearing an oversized sweater with holes on the sleeves. She didn’t greet anyone, but pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek before sitting in the chair across from Hermione.
“You can all dig in, what are you waiting for?” urged Molly, grabbing the gravy and passing it to Fleur, who mumbled thank you.
“How is your work at the DMLE, Harry?” asked Bill.
Harry smiled at him. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s definitely stressful, but I enjoy it.”
“He has a huge office now,” Ron piped up, his mouth open as he chewed. “It’s a good hiding spot from that crazy bird on the third floor. She’s always dropping love notes on my desk, I swear.”
“How come you never complained to Robards about her before?” said Harry in a teasing voice. “I think you like to be fawned over.”
“Shut up, Harry,” hissed Ron, glancing at Hermione from the corner of his eye, who looked down at her plate as if she hadn’t noticed. “You’re the one with all the fans.”
“But you’re the one who likes to be flattered, mate,” said Harry.
Ron rolled his eyes. “You’re not lacking attention yourself.”
“Can we eat in peace?” snapped Ginny. Her voice sounded rough and scratchy. “No one cares about your fans, Ron.”
“You don’t need to come at me,” spat Ron, dropping his fork onto the ceramic plate with a loud clink. “It’s not my fault this day is so shite, Ginny. What are you getting by snapping at everyone?”
“I just want to eat in bloody silence for once, is that so hard to ask?”
“Children--” started Molly.
“Of course you do, you’ve been wallowing in silence in your bloody room for the past two days and it’s not bloody helping--”
“You refusing to shut the hell up isn’t helping either, Ron, no one bloody cares about--”
“You will both stop right now--” tried Molly.
“No, I’m sick of him making snide comments about my life. Why is me being in my bedroom bothering him so much? I’m barely at home as it is.”
“We all know what happened with the last person we let waste his life away inside of a room-”
“Ron,” hissed Bill, giving him a sharp look. “That’s enough.”
“No, it’s bloody not,” said Ron. He sighed, then looked at his mother. “Why aren’t we talking about this? Are we going to pretend we’re not here today for a reason?”
Hermione's hands started shaking, so she put them on her lap, wringing them together. It was like witnessing a car crash in progress. Ron’s face was flushed red and a vein throbbed in his neck. Hermione had seen him like this before, and she knew what was coming next.
“Are we not going to talk about the fact that George’s dead?” he continued, voice just above a whisper. “This is bloody daft, this entire thing is bloody daft. What’s the point of having dinner on the anniversary of his bloody death if we’re not going to talk about it?”
“Mate--” tried Harry.
“No, shut up, I’m talking,” said Ron. “I know everyone is upset, fuck, George is dead because he was bloody upset all the time, but I don’t want to remember him like that. He was the opposite of that, before Fred. Do any of you remember? Because I bloody do.”
“Ron, I think it’s best if you stop, right now,” said Ginny, her voice sharp but her eyes wet with tears. She clenched her fork tight in her fist. “Please, stop.”
“Fine,” said Ron. He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back until it hit the wall behind him.
The sound of his feet stomping up the stairs echoed loudly off the walls. Hermione waited to see if anyone would follow him, but no one did. Molly was opening and closing her mouth as if she was trying to force herself to say something. When a wail escaped, she quickly clamped a hand against her lips, stood up, and left the room in the opposite direction of Ron.
Without a word, Arthur followed her, walking slowly, as if the weight on his shoulders were dragging him down.
Hermione looked at the remaining people in the room. Fleur had her chin on Bill’s shoulder, hugging him tight against her. Ginny was rubbing her eyes while Harry stroked her forehead.
Hermione shut her eyes closed for a second, leaning back in her chair as she tried to quiet the noise inside her head. Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain, she thought, this is not about you, she reminded herself. Shut up, don’t cry, this is not about you.
But it didn’t help. There were tears threatening to surface, and she felt sorrow take over her body like waves crashing on a shore. Her stomach felt queasy. She wanted to disappear from that room immediately, but she was pinned to her seat, afraid to make a scene.
“So, dinner is over, then,” said Fleur, her accented English cutting through the oppressive silence in the room. “Maybe we should go.”
“Yes, we should,” said Bill. He looked up. “Harry, can you tell my mother later, please?”
“Of course,” Harry nodded, his hands still on Ginny’s forehead.
Fleur and Bill stood up from the table, smiling faintly at Hermione as they made their way to the fireplace. When she heard the sound of the floo being activated, Hermione rose from her chair and started picking up the plates.
Ignoring her thudding heartbeat, she waved her wand to start cleaning the dishes, then set on the task of taking the food off of the pans and bowls and putting them on plastic tupperwares. Once she had stored all the food properly inside of the fridge, she turned towards the sink and washed the remaining dishes by hand.
The cutlery kept slipping from her fingers, her shaking hands making the task even harder. It took all of her attention to focus on it, especially when she heard the sound of the chairs scratching against the floor and Ginny and Harry’s retreating footsteps.
When she was sure she was alone, Hermione turned off the tap and started drying everything. She put the dishes away in the cabinets, barely paying attention to what she was doing -- she knew that Molly would find everything in the wrong place the next morning, but she couldn’t make herself stop working.
Hermione bit her bottom lip, struggling to control the anger steadily building inside of her. I can’t believe Harry left me alone, she thought. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt guilt overtake her -- what was he supposed to do? Leave his grieving girlfriend, George’s actual sister, to console someone who doesn’t even belong here? Shame mixed with her feelings of sorrow and impotence until Hermione couldn’t remember what she was angry about to begin with.
She grabbed the edges of the sink, her head bent over the rim as she forced herself to inhale and exhale, urging her heart to a normal pace. She murmured her poem over and over until the words blurred together, and pressed her eyelids until all she saw was red.
When she felt a fraction of composure, she smoothed down the wrinkles on her skirt and turned on her heel, walking to the staircase. As she walked up the stairs, Hermione kept her fists balled, purposely quieting her own mind until all she heard was white noise. A bout of nausea hit her stomach when she approached Ron’s bedroom, but she ignored it.
She knocked on the door twice, then lowered her arm and waited. It wasn’t long before she heard his footsteps approaching, and soon Ron opened the door a crack, only half of his face visible.
“Hermione,” he said, sounding unsurprised. “This isn’t a good time.”
“I came to ask if you wanted to talk--” she started, but paused when he huffed in annoyance. “What?”
“Now you want to talk?”
“What is that supposed to mean, Ron? Of course I do. I’m here for you--”
“But you’re really not,” said Ron sharply. “You’re not here, Hermione. You never are, and honestly, now is really not the time for you to try to make amends.”
“Amends?” she whispered. “Ron, this is about your brother, not about you and me.”
“Fine,” he said, then opened the rest of the door. “How embarrassing is this, Hermione, really? You bloody ignore me the rest of the time, and now you want to talk? I don’t want your attention just because you finally feel sorry for me. ”
“Ronald, I don’t feel sorry for you,” said Hermione, digging her nails into her palms. “I love you. You’re my friend and you’re hurting--”
“I don’t want to be your bloody friend, how many ways can I show it?” he said, then closed his eyes, as if the words had slipped out without his permission. When he opened his eyes again, he looked resigned. “I didn’t mean that. I just-- you’re just making things harder, please, just fucking leave.”
Hermione didn’t stop him when he closed the door.
For a moment, she stood there outside his room. Is that it? she thought. Should I try again? She would’ve, but she was about to break, and she refused to do it in front of him.
If she looked back, Hermione didn’t think she’d be able to point out when she decided to do it. It didn’t take much conscious effort to return downstairs. Her movements were deliberate as she scanned a shelf in the Burrow’s living room for a piece of parchment and a quill. When she found it, she scrabbled a quick note and attached it to Errol’s beak.
When the owl flew away, Hermione left through the Burrow’s front door and apparated to her flat.
_
Hermione had just enough time to boil water for tea and begin to regret her decision before a familiar regal owl tapped on the kitchen window. She turned off the stove before grabbing the envelope from the owl’s beak and opening the seal.
Granger,
I will refrain from commenting on the dreadful excuse of an owl that dropped your note. You didn’t mention a place you’d like to meet, so I will leave my place’s Floo open for you. Make sure to say “Draco’s Residence” clearly unless you’d prefer to chat with my mother at the Manor.
I’ll be waiting.
DM
Hermione hesitated.
When she had owled Malfoy asking to meet up, she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She’d been upset with Ron and wanted a distraction from the chaos in her head and heaviness on her chest. Somehow, she’d decided she needed to be around Malfoy. Now, just a few moments later, she wasn’t so sure.
You can stay here and wait for Harry to show up , she thought. But she was terrified of being alone when she was feeling so raw. He could've ignored you, she rationalized, but he didn’t.
He said he would leave his Floo open.
He said he was waiting for you.
She swallowed down her apprehension and walked to the fireplace, making sure to enunciate his first name as she threw down the Floo powder.
_
When Hermione stepped into a strange living room, she furrowed her brow in confusion.
The loft was one large open space, with exposed brick walls and dark wooden floors that shone under her feet. There were no curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling industrial windows, allowing moonlight to filter into the room, scarcely illuminating it. Looking up, Hermione saw wooden beams making up the high ceiling and dark steel railings outlining the loft’s second level. By far, the most remarkable thing about Malfoy's loft was the fact that it was utterly bare -- there wasn’t any furniture in the entire space.
“Granger.”
Hermione turned when she heard his voice. Malfoy was standing with his back against the marble countertops of the kitchen area, his arms crossed and eyebrow arched. Hermione fidged where she stood, feeling unsure.
“Where are we exactly?”
“You can see that it’s my house. I bought it last year, but I obviously don’t live here,” said Malfoy, stepping away from the kitchen to walk in her direction. “What is this about, Granger? You said you wanted to meet up. Immediately , I might add. I would’ve suggested a pub, but--”
“Merlin, no,” sighed Hermione. “The last thing I need is to end up on The Daily Prophet’s front page on George’s death day. And with you to make matters worse.”
“What on earth did you want with me today, of all days, then?”
Hermione turned and walked up to one of the large windows. There was no reasonable explanation she could give him. And any answer she came up with would only make things more confusing.
“This is a really gorgeous place, Malfoy. Why buy it and leave it empty?” asked Hermione. He studied her with an indecipherable expression. She waited for him to call her out -- to point out the strangeness of her request, the peculiar way she was acting.
But he didn’t. Hermione didn’t know what he saw in her face, but she saw his eyes glimmer in realization, stirring something deep inside of her in response. Instead of saying anything, he walked over to her, standing so close their sides pressed against each other. She felt her stomach flip.
“Investing in real-estate is a smart business decision,” he finally answered. Hermione snorted. “What?”
“You’re not renting it out, and it would have some furniture to showcase the space if you were planning to sell it, so I call bullshit.”
“I didn’t come here to be interrogated, Granger,” said Malfoy.
“You could’ve easily ignored my owl. Why did you come?” asked Hermione. Malfoy held her stare, his eyes darkening. Hermione swallowed, regretting her question. She didn’t think either of them were ready to hear his answer.
“Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrogate you, it is a gorgeous place, you know?” she said. “Even if it seems a little big for one person.”
“This flat could easily fit inside the Manor’s main library, it’s really not that big,” said Malfoy, shrugging.
Hermione scoffed. “Such a rich boy thing to say.”
“It is what it is,” said Malfoy, smirking. He turned around, then raised his wand to turn on one of the ceiling lamps, allowing more light to illuminate the room.
“That’s better, I didn’t notice it was so dark in here.”
“Are you well, Granger?” asked Malfoy, eyes still glued to the ceiling.
Hermione stepped forward, letting her shoes slide along the wooden floor as she twirled around the room. It was a large space, but a couple of couches would do wonders to fill it up. The brick walls would be perfect for large iron shelves; there was enough space that the books wouldn’t be cramped against one another.
“Granger?”
If she were Malfoy, she’d throw in a plush rug -- he had enough money to buy one of those fluffy large ones that Hermione always eyed on Muggle stores but felt too flimsy about spending money on.
“Granger?” he insisted, sounding annoyed.
Hermione turned to face him, startled to see that he was standing so close that the tip of her shoes bumped against his.
“What?” she said, feeling her eyes filling up with tears. She closed them. “What do you think?”
“Open your eyes,” said Malfoy in a firm voice. Hermione did so, but kept her eyes on his chest. She hadn’t even realized he was wearing a casual shirt rather than the button-ups she always saw him in. He’d probably been relaxing in his room when he received her owl. “Come with me.”
Hermione followed Malfoy towards the kitchen area. He didn’t say anything as he opened a cabinet to reveal a large bottle of expensive rum.
“You don’t have a single piece of furniture, but you keep alcohol in here?” asked Hermione, letting out an incredulous laugh.
“I thought you might need it,” he shrugged. He glanced at the bottle. “Fuck, I forgot to bring glasses.”
“I’m not really a drinker,” said Hermione.
“I’m not either, but frankly, we both could use a drink.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, then took the bottle from his hand. She slid down to the ground and sat with her legs crossed and her back against the cabinets. She sat the bottle down in the space between her thighs, then she patted the spot beside her, looking up to see his sneer.
“Come sit,” said Hermione.
“I’m not sitting on the bloody floor, Granger. Who do you think I am?” said Malfoy with his nose in the air. “I haven’t been in this place in ages, so it definitely hasn’t been cleaned in a while, honestly, just get up--”
“I already know you’re posh, Malfoy, don’t worry about it,” she snickered. “I’ve seen you sitting on the floor of even dirtier places, or have you forgotten?”
“Your attempt at being cheeky isn’t cute, Granger.”
“Come and bloody sit, I’m not asking,” snapped Hermione. Malfoy raised a brow at her demanding tone
She was about to get up to tell him how serious she was, when he finally sat down beside her, stretching out his long legs.
“You don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped. Hermione almost laughed at his tone, but decided to open the bottle instead. She struggled with the cap, slapping his hand away when he tried to take it from her. “You’re so fucking insufferable.”
“I’m opening it!”
“You’re taking ages.”
“You’re much more tolerable when you’re quiet.”
“For Salazar’s sake. Just give me the damn bottle, what the fuck--” He yanked it from her hands. He shot her a look when she tried to grab it again, then made quick work of opening the cap. “Done, was that so bloody hard?”
Hermione accepted the bottle when he handed it to her. She cleaned its mouth with her sleeve, then lifted it to her lips, coughing when the first sip hit her throat.
“This is warm,” she grunted. “It’s really gross.”
“Do you see a fridge here somewhere?”
“Are you a wizard, Malfoy?” said Hermione in a mocking tone. She grabbed her wand and muttered a cooling charm, then tried to drink the rum again. “Much better.”
Malfoy shook his head when she offered him the bottle. “I told you I don’t drink.”
“Do you expect me to drink this entire bottle by myself?”
“You’re the one who looks like you need it, and you don’t have to drink it all,” he said. Hermione looked back at the bottle, cheeks warming with embarrassment. “I have plenty of reasons to judge you, Granger, I’m not going to do it because you’re having some rum.”
Hermione lifted the bottle to take another sip. The taste of the liquid wasn’t pleasant, but she liked the way it sat low in her belly.
“I got your book,” said Hermione. “I’m going to read it because it’s the polite thing to do, but I’ll let you know in advance that it’s not going to change my mind.”
“Talk to me again when you finish it,” said Malfoy, watching her. “Did you get a good look at my owl?”
“Of course I saw it, you’re so obvious,” she grunted. “It’s a beautiful animal, Malfoy, what do you want me to say? I told you before that the one I sent was a public owl.”
“How about the horrendous creature that sent me your note asking to meet? Do you pick the saddest looking owls on purpose?”
“That was Errol, it’s the Weasley’s family owl,” said Hermione, then frowned. “Okay, I will admit that he’s pretty old. I think he’s half blind, and he used to just drop unconscious when he delivered Ron’s post back at Hogwarts. I don’t know why they still use the poor thing.”
“I’m not surprised,” snickered Malfoy. “But the Weasel has some money now, and isn’t She-Weasel a professional Quidditch player or something? Surely they can afford a new owl.”
“I don’t know,” said Hermione, taking another sip of the alcohol. “It’s weird, now that I think about it.”
“Are you saying that I’m right?” asked Malfoy, eyebrows raised in shock.
“No,” snorted Hermione. “I’m saying no such thing, are you mad? I just said I think it’s weird too, but I’m guessing they probably haven’t even thought about it as extensively as you have.”
“Were you at the Weasleys when you sent me the note, then?” asked Malfoy. Hermione grabbed the neck of the bottle and took a long swallow. “Woah, maybe slow down a second?”
Hermione coughed, then pressed a hand to her mouth. Malfoy was looking at her like he was starting to regret being there, and that -- that just wouldn’t do. Hermione handed him the bottle.
“You were the one saying I needed to drink,” said Hermione, not sure whether to be embarrassed or not.
“So you could relax, not slip into a coma,” said Malfoy, stretching his arm so he could place the bottle on the countertop above them.
“Fine, forgive me,” said Hermione sarcastically. “Molly Weasley decided that the best way to spend the anniversary of another one of her children’s death was to invite everyone over for dinner. I think it’s safe to say it didn’t go well.”
“What happened?”
“What was expected, I suppose,” said Hermione. The alcohol had warmed her enough that the words were easily slipping off her tongue. “It hit all of them in different ways, I think. With Fred, it was shocking and unbearably painful, but the reason behind his death was clear. Everyone knew who to get angry at. And with George, well, I guess at some point we’ve all felt like it could’ve been prevented.”
“So they’re angry at themselves,” stated Malfoy, simply, tone flat. Hermione nodded, because it was the simplest way to describe the entire mess. “And how do you fit in all of this? I fail to see it.”
Hermione laughed bitterly. She’d been forcing down her tears the entire day, but it was getting harder with every question he asked.
“I don’t know, Malfoy, and I think that’s been the problem for a while now. God,” she murmured, then pressed her fingers to her eyelids. “What the hell am I doing here? Why am I telling you all of this?”
“To be honest with you, I have absolutely no idea, Granger.” said Malfoy, exhaling a loud sigh. Hermione wouldn’t blame him if he got up to leave, Instead, he slid closer to her on the floor, raising a hand to pat her softly on the knee. “You’re madder than I initially thought, if you believe I’m fit to handle all of your drama.”
“I have been the shittiest friend lately,” said Hermione. “Unbeliveably shite, like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” chuckled Malfoy. “You’re all about loyalty and all that jest.”
“That doesn’t really do any good when I can’t seem to put anyone else above my own problems, you know?” groaned Hermione. Her head was lighter, buzzing slightly, but she still felt like there were marble rocks sitting in her stomach, dragging her down. “Harry and I can’t talk without me letting my own issues get in the way, and we keep misunderstanding each other. And with Ron, it’s like he wants so much out of me and I can’t give him a fraction of it.”
“That doesn’t make you a bad friend,” shrugged Malfoy. “Not that I would know much about it, but that’s essentially the problem with your lot. You think being self-sacrificial gives you a moral high-ground, that it makes you a better person. Granger, my friends don’t expect anything from me other than what I’m willing to give them.”
“Malfoy,” said Hermione in warning.
“You shouldn’t have come to me if you didn’t want to hear it, Granger,” he said. “Maybe you haven’t been the perfect model of a friend you made up in your head, so what? Get over it. They probably haven’t been good friends to you, either.”
Hermione tried to bite down a sob, but it slipped out of her anyway. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep herself silent, but there was no controlling the fat teardrops leaking out of her eyes. Her chest heaved with the effort of keeping it in.
“Fuck,” hissed Malfoy. He gingerly put a hand on her shoulder and patted it lightly. “I didn’t mean to make you bloody cry, Granger.”
“I’m not crying because of you, Malfoy,” said Hermione, her vision fogged as the tears pooled in her eyelids and down her lashes. “Not everything is about you. How conceited can you get?”
“Finding the time to insult me even when you’re in hysterics,” he snickered. Malfoy spoke in a patient tone that Hermione never would’ve expected from him, his fingers now running up and down her back in a soothing motion. “You don’t look pretty when you cry.”
That made Hermione laugh. “You’re such a git, Draco Malfoy,” said Hermione, not really meaning it.
“It’s the truth,” said Malfoy, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement, as if her laugh was the exact reaction he’d been looking for. “You’re all snot-nosed.”
“I’m sorry my sobbing isn’t up to your standards. Are you not going to offer me your handkerchief?”
“Woman,” he said in an indulgent tone, “I apparated here as soon as I got your bloody message, do you think I had the time to grab a handkerchief?”
Hermione giggled again, her sobs finally subsiding. Her chest ached in exhaustion after crying so hard -- her shoulders sagged, and she let her body slump against Malfoy.
One of Malfoy’s hands was in her hair, and the other was patting her knee softly. Hermione wanted to lay her head down his lap and sleep until she forgot what day it was.
“I must make a sad sight, right now.”
“Pretty much,” he agreed.
Hermione sighed, leaning into his hand in her hair. For a moment, they sat in silence. If Hermione had looked up, she’d find a neutral expression on his face, as if he’d closed himself off so she wouldn’t see too much, too soon. That boat has sailed, she thought.
"You know what the sad thing is?" asked Hermione, straightening her body so she could look at him.
Malfoy’s hand fell from her hair, but he kept the other one on her knee."Frankly, there are many sad things about this situation.”
"Yeah, yeah. But the saddest? The saddest thing of it all?"
"Do tell me."
"I feel like they killed me," said Hermione in a flat tone.
"What,” asked Malfoy, frowning. “Who’s they?”
"Voldemort, his followers. Ron and Harry and their expectations, later on, and not being able to heal my parents, who knows? All of them, all of it,” she shrugged. “When I think about it, truly, it's like they took a knife right through my gut. I bled out. Drip, drip,” she said, dragging her hands down to mimic rain.
"What the fuck are you talking about,” said Malfoy, with a mixture of concern and confusion.
"They killed me, Malfoy. That’s what I’m saying.” The words coming out of her mouth were almost like a growl, angry, like they were unearthed from deep inside her chest. “I'm still here, but not really. I think there was a point where I used to be something fantastic. I'd get excited about things, I loved everything. And I know I didn't get the worst out of it, okay? I look at Molly Weasley and all I see is empty. I think of Teddy Lupin, and I want to rip all of my limbs off. And bloody George killing himself, I just--”
Her hands shook.
“I'm fine, alright? I know I am, but I can't help but think I died with them, in the graveyard we all made of Hogwarts, and now all that’s left are sad attempts at making life more than it is. The war killed me and I'm so fucking mad I still have to deal with it."
Hermione was looking at him as she said it all. She thought she’d feel relief, but there was still fear inside of her -- that she’d been wrong about him. That he would revert to the boy she once knew, and mock her, or tell her she deserved it. That he wouldn’t understand her.
Malfoy let his palm travel up her tight until it covered one of her hands. His skin was cold as he squeezed so tight she felt a shiver run up her spine.
"That is sad," he said, quite simply. Hermione felt herself take a breath for the first time that day. And then, “You’re very dramatic when you’re drunk, Hermione.”
And she laughed, like it was the easiest thing in the entire world.
Malfoy chuckled too, in a more subdued manner. And Hermione didn’t hesitate a second, didn’t even stop to reconsider it -- she brought her face close to his, grabbing his chin to drag his face down. They were still laughing as she pressed her lips to his.
And how simple it was -- to laugh against his mouth, to have him laugh back, to press her lips against his once, twice, then a third time, until their laughter cut out and her mind went blank and the only thing she could do was push herself closer to him. Malfoy’s other hand travelled up her back until he pressed his fingers on the pressure point of her neck.
Hermione slightly parted her lips, making it easy -- so easy , for him to slip the tip of his tongue inside. He kissed her thoroughly, surely, like he had thought of doing it before. He kissed her until she could no longer breathe, until she thought that she didn’t need to.
And when they stopped, his nose rubbing against hers as his warm breath brushed her mouth, Hermione was sure she’d feel the reality crashing on her like ice cold water. She kept her eyes closed, paralyzed by her fear of what she’d find when she opened them.
“Open your eyes, Granger,” said Malfoy, voice unfamiliarly rough.
Hermione shook her head.
“Granger, open your eyes,” said Malfoy again, taking his hand from her neck so he could touch the one she had pressed against his face. He lowered both of their hands, then intertwined their fingers. “Please?”
The word sounded so strange coming from him that she found herself nodding. Hermione licked her lips, then slowly opened her eyes.
Oh, she thought, when her gaze met his.