A Niche For a Heart
"He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place— well then, game over." Road Music, Richard Siken
_
As she walked down the MRC’s corridors, Hermione vibrated with apprehension. She’d spent the morning locked inside her bedroom pouring over the group’s assignments and doing her best to avoid any interaction with Harry.
Her plan to spend the day buried under a thick stack of parchments had come undone when the Ministry owl pecked at her window, carrying an official looking letter. Cartwell’s words had been vague, simply requesting Hermione’s presence at a meeting that afternoon. The letter’s somber tone had sent Hermione’s mind into overdrive, and she became useless for the rest of the morning, too busy coming up with improbable scenarios.
She was still anxious when she arrived at Cartwell’s office. Hermione rubbed her sweaty palms against her jeans, stealing a couple of seconds to compose herself. She forcibly brushed away her treacherous thoughts, then knocked on the door twice.
Cartwell bellowed a “Come on in,” and Hermione pushed the door open. She immediately spotted the healer sitting stiffly behind her desk, her elbows resting on the table and hands crossed. Across from her, Hughman sat in a deep black leather chair, wearing his usual over-the-top smile.
“Hello,” greeted Hermione, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.
“Miss Granger, hello.” Hughman’s loud voice reverberated and broke through the stifling silence of the room. “It’s been a while since we last talked.”
“Yes,” said Hermione, nodding hesitantly. The alarming differences in her superiors’ expressions were twisting her mind up in confusion: she didn’t know whether to worry or to relax.
“Please sit,” commanded Hughman, He stood up quickly and pulled out the second chair for Hermione, who gingerly stepped forward and sat in the chair. He patted her on the shoulder, and she forced a smile of gratitude. She gave a sidelong glance towards Cartwell, who was still looking bleak.
“Hi, Hermione,” said Cartwell finally. “I apologize for asking you to come here with such short notice--”
“Miss Granger doesn’t mind, of course,” interrupted Hughman, still smiling. Cartwell’s eyes briefly darkened with frustration, but she pushed it away quickly. Hermione didn’t think Hughman would’ve noticed either way.
“I don’t,” said Hermione. “But I’m curious. I know this is probably about Rookwood.”
“Yes,” said Cartwell, exhaling a sharp breath. “Hermione--”
“We can talk about that in a bit,” said Hughman. He didn’t look in the healer’s direction as he waved his hand in a dismissive motion, still leaning towards Hermione. “Miss Granger, I haven't gotten the chance to talk to you since St. Mungo’s anniversary ball. I spied you on the dance floor, too busy wooing the crowd to notice little old me. You did an excellent job, of course, as I knew you would.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed and she shifted in the chair in discomfort. She turned towards Cartwell, who was watching them with a blank expression -- only her slightly clenched jaw betrayed her true emotions.
“Thank you, I didn't do much, really,” said Hermione. “I know Cartwell wants to--”
“Now, don’t be humble,” said Hughman, chuckling as he wagged his index finger at Hermione, like she had just told the world’s funniest joke. “Of course you exceeded all expectations. I’m sure Edina here told you about the donation we received.”
“I did--” started Cartwell, but Hughman continued talking over her.
“We don’t receive fifty-thousand-galleon donations every day, you know,” he said with a wink. “You must’ve made quite the impression.”
Hermione almost grimaced, not fully absorbing his words. When they finally sank in, she gasped.
“Fifty thousand galleons?” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “That’s insane.”
“For an initiative that a war hero supports? Our donor doesn’t think so, of course,” said Hughman. “You didn’t tell her about this, Edina?”
“I didn’t disclose the full amount, no,” said Cartwell, her voice uncharacteristically low. “I didn’t think Hermione would be interested in the full details of the donation.”
“Well, I don’t--” started Hermione.
“It’s important that Miss Granger knows how much she’s appreciated here, of course.” interrupted Hughman. He gave her a conspiratorial grin.
Not appreciated enough to be able to finish a sentence, thought Hermione, her face contorted into a scowl. From the way Hughman continued to beam at her, she was certain that it didn’t register.
“She is,” said Cartwell. “Which is why I think we should discuss the matter at hand, Director? There’s no need to keep Hermione waiting.”
“Of course, of course, I think that’d be wise,” said Hughman. He paused and glanced at both women, then continued, as if he had just thought of it. “Then we shall begin, Edina, let’s not keep Miss Granger waiting, of course.” He furrowed his brow and pressed his forefingers together as if deep in thought.
Hermione almost rolled her eyes.
“Right,” muttered Cartwell. She turned towards Hermione. “Like I told you, Hermione, I talked to the Director about our predicament with Rookwood. We had to determine the appropriate channel to report the incident, as a situation like that has never happened in the program before--”
“Of course, the Ministry was completely prepared to handle the situation,” said Hughman. “I contacted one of our liaisons at the DMLE and reported the incident just as Edina here informed me. I must say that I’m very sorry that something like that happened to you, Miss Granger.”
“That’s okay,” said Hermione. “What did the DMLE say?”
“They sent it over to the Wizengamot. Of course, I indicated that they should give this case top priority,” said Hughman, voice trailing off as he gave Hermione an expectant look.
Hermione looked briefly at Cartwell, who was staring at her hands. “And then?” she urged.
“Well, of course they gave it priority, which is why we got a response so quickly,” he said proudly. “Augustus Rookwood will be fined two thousand galleons for disruptive behavior. He already received a letter notifying him of the adjudication and punishment, so don’t worry, you won’t have to break the news.”
Hermione’s breath faltered as she felt the information sink in. Her lips parted in disbelief. Her eyes flickered between Hughman and Cartwell repeatedly as she waited for them to continue.
When they didn’t say anything, she turned to Hughman, “Sir?”
“Yes, Miss Granger?”
“What else did they say?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” frowned Hughman. “They expressed regret at the incident, of course, but that goes without saying. I speak for the entire Ministry when I say that we cannot condone that type of behavior.”
“But his punishment is a fine? That’s barely a slap on the wrist,” said Hermione, her voice rising an octave. “Rookwood is the heir to a large fortune, it’s not like two thousand galleons is going to empty his pocket. And even if it did--”
“Miss Granger,” said Hughman, sounding appalled. “It’s not about the amount, but the significance of the punishment.”
“What significance?” asked Hermione. “The only message this sends is that he can pay his way out of threatening a Ministry employee. I honestly don’t think this is the right decision.”
“Oh, no, you’re taking it the wrong way,” said Hughman in a patronizing tone. He looked in Cartwell’s direction for support, but she immediately forced a blank expression on her face. “Monetary compensation is a completely appropriate punishment to show those criminals the consequences of their actions. Don’t you have that sort of thing in the Muggle world?”
“Yes, for civil liability, but not when someone commits a crime--”
“Of course, then you understand,” said Hughman. “The Wizengamot acts in our best interests, Miss Granger, as does the Ministry as a whole. You shouldn’t worry too much about it, I’m sure that now everything will settle.”
“Director Hughman--”
Hermione’s words got cut off by Hughman standing up from his chair. She was too baffled to react -- she watched with wide eyes as he looked from her to Cartwell, lips curled into a smile that exuded condescension.
“If that’s all, I must go,” he started, tugging at his tie. “It was good catching up with you, as always, Miss Granger. Edina, we will surely talk later.”
“Director--”
“Keep up the good work,” he exclaimed, pumping up a fist. Before Hermione could try to get his attention, he swiftly made his escape.
Hermione stared at the closed door for several seconds, turning around only when Cartwell cleared her throat.
“What was that?”
“I wish I knew,” sighed Cartwell, rubbing her temples with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m really sorry, Hermione. I was in shock when I first read their letter, and Hughman insisted on asking to meet with you right away. He thought you’d be happy with the news.”
“That’s insane,” said Hermione, grabbing each arm of the chair and squeezing the leather between her fingers. “It’s ridiculous, and it makes no sense as a probationary measure. I wasn’t expecting them to throw him out of the program permanently, but they could’ve at least given him a suspension, or added extra time to his sentence. Honestly, I could come up with a huge list of options that would make more sense than this.”
“I know,” said Cartwell. “But that’s how the system works, Hermione. I don’t like it either, and I’ll be the first to fight this with you, if you truly want to, but--”
“You don’t think it’s worth it,” said Hermione flatly.
“Of course it’s worth it,” said Cartwell, giving her a look. “But I think that in this case we’ve already found the best approach available. Keep working with Rookwood in the meetings, Hermione, that’s what we have the power to do.”
“I wonder what Hughman even told them,” said Hermione. “Do you have access to a copy of the report he sent them?”
“I don’t. I told you there wasn’t any defined protocol, so I took the situation to him, and then he decided the best way to handle it. I offered to contact the DMLE myself, but he was firmly against it.”
“This situation is just so odd,” said Hermione, squeezing the chair tightly enough to leave dents. Her nostrils flared. “And he just ran out of the door.”
“I’m sorry, Hermione.”
“It’s not your fault.” They looked at each other for a second, wearing twin expressions of dismay. Hermione’s stomach turned at the idea of letting the matter go, but as she registered the exhaustion radiating from Cartwell, she couldn’t bring herself to push. “Do you think it’d be helpful if I went to the DMLE myself? I could request a Wizengamot hearing.”
“You could,” said Cartwell. She tried to sound neutral, but Hermione caught a hint of skepticism in her voice. “But it might be counterproductive. A situation like this would be leaked to media outlets in a heartbeat, and I’d imagine we’d have to press pause on the program while they sort out a hearing. If you truly feel like it’s the best approach, I’ll support you, but I’d give it more thought before taking any step.”
“I see,” said Hermione, feeling impotent. “I’m just frustrated, I’m sorry. I must sound insane right now.”
“You don’t, you’re feeling powerless, and that’s completely natural.” Cartwell paused, seeming to consider something. “Do you want me to take over the meetings for a while? It’s understandable if you’re not comfortable being in the same room as him.”
Hermione shook her head. “I can handle him. I guess I just thought there would be more to it.”
She didn’t wait for Cartwell to respond before standing up, yearning to be alone with her thoughts.
“Okay, but if you change your mind, at any given time, just let me know. I mean it,” said Cartwell.
Hermione gave her a weak smile. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“I’ll see you soon, Hermione.”
She gathered her belongings and they exchanged goodbyes.
Hermione made her way towards the fireplaces with half a mind to march straight into Hughman’s office, but Cartwell’s words were echoing in her ears.
If their relationship wasn’t in such a limbo, she would Floo to Harry’s office and talk the problem out with him -- she’d get a better understanding of the Ministry and how she could work the situation in her favor.
As it stood, Hermione dragged herself home, feeling like she was stepping into a maze with no idea how to find her way out.
_
Hermione only noticed the envelope when she returned to the living room after her bath. She had spent over half an hour soaking in warm water, her muscles slowly unwinding, turning loose and relaxed by the time she got up to get dressed. Her name was scribbled across the envelope in Ginny’s familiar handwriting. Hermione picked it up and quickly read the note.
She pondered the invitation as she went about her day. Having dinner with Ginny could be fun, but their relationship felt uncertain: she hadn’t seen Ginny since the anniversary of George’s death. Harry’s words still rang in her ears, and Hermione wondered if meeting Ginny by herself would make things more even awkward. But she wouldn’t have invited you if she was cross , thought Hermione.
On top of that, Hermione was still preoccupied with work, stuck in a thought loop of trying to come up with just one infallible solution that Hughman wouldn’t be able to deny, then feeling frustrated when no alternative seemed to fit the bill.
Hermione forced herself to finish reading the last of the group’s assignments, then cleaned Crookshanks’ litter box and wiped down the bathroom counters -- foolish attempts at silencing her mind for more than a couple of minutes.
When Hermione truly let herself want -- when she stopped censoring her feelings and let her mind run unfiltered -- she felt herself yearning to spend the day distracting herself in Malfoy’s company. Laughing, talking, simply being.
The thought filled her with the sort of giddy feeling that she remembered in muffled giggles and almost inaudible whispers shared late at night in the Gryffindor dorms, when all they needed to worry about was if the person they liked, liked them back.
She felt fifteen again, or younger. She closed her eyes and let the feeling bubble up in her chest, picturing his face in her head. Blonde hair, flat grey eyes, tapered chin. He smirked at her, beckoning with his finger. Don’t you wish I liked you back?
The alarming veracity of her longing was enough to make her rush to the fireplace and stick her head in, ready to accept Ginny’s invitation.
_
It was half past nine when Hermione walked into the pub. It was buzzing with more activity than she would’ve expected on a Thursday night.
Groups of friends reunited in every corner, shouting to be heard over the music being played. The bar was packed, full of people jostling each other to get the bartender’s attention. As she scanned the crowd, Hermione narrowly dodged a levitated glass of firewhiskey, grimacing when the liquid ended up splashed all over the floor and her shoes.
Hermione muttered a cleaning charm under her breath and stepped further into the room, careful to not bump into any tables. She sighed in relief when she finally spotted red hair. Ginny was sitting in a corner booth, nursing a half-empty pint of butterbeer.
“Hi,” said Hermione, sliding into the opposite booth. “I’m not late, am I?”
“No, no,” answered Ginny, cleaning her mouth with the back of her hand. “I just got here, but it’s kind of cold out, so I ordered a butterbeer to warm me up. Do you want one?”
Hermione chuckled as she inclined her head towards the chaos around the room. “I’m kind of scared that I’ll get drenched in alcohol. People are especially rowdy tonight.”
Ginny’s eyes widened in realization, “Oh, I forgot you don’t keep up with Quidditch. There was a Falmouth Falcons versus Chudley Cannons match earlier this evening. Ron was sulking around the house afterwards, it was pathetic.”
The mention of Ron was enough to get Hermione to slide out of the booth, “Oh, everything makes sense now. I’m going to get a butterbeer then. I’m guessing this place doesn’t have an extensive menu, but do you want me to get us something to eat?”
“Yeah, yeah,” nodded Ginny. “Get us some fish and chips, it’s not like they can screw that up.”
“Alright,” said Hermione. She opened her purse and grabbed a handful of sickles. “It might take me awhile, though.”
“Use your war hero clout, Hermione, it’ll get you served in no time.”
Hermione only rolled her eyes in response, then turned to walk towards the bar. She elbowed her way through the clusters of people, noticing for the first time that many were wearing team jerseys. Quidditch , she muttered to herself.
At the bar, Hermione stood patiently behind a group of men, standing on her tiptoes so she could look over their shoulders and catch a glimpse of the bartender. When she only managed to get a view of the patrons standing in front of them, she figured she was in for a long wait. She could only hope that Ginny would be patient.
“What do we have here?”
Hermione turned her head to find the tall figure of Theo Nott. As usual, he looked like he couldn’t be arsed to put on an effort -- his clothes were wrinkled and strands of his brown hair spiked out everywhere. He was grinning at her, a glint of playfulness in his eyes.
She felt a headache coming.
“Hello, Nott.” Hermione turned to face forward again.
“I think my brain is in serious danger of combusting. I was sure you only existed within the limits of the MRC, like one of the Hogwarts ghosts. Seeing you outside is seriously blowing my mind,” said Nott in a loud voice. Hermione nervously looked around the room to see if they were attracting attention. “Seriously, it’s like I ran into McGonagall at Florean Fortescue’s, or holding hands with Snape, or something equally disturbing.”
“Good to know that living my life is somehow disturbing to you, Nott,” snapped Hermione. “Don’t you have anything better to do than embarrass me in public?”
“On the contrary,” he said, just as loudly. He winked at her. “Since when do you like quidditch, Granger?”
“I don’t,” answered Hermione, almost sighing in relief when the line moved and she managed to walk up to the bar. She didn’t spare Nott a glance, but she could hear him following beside her.
“Then why are you here?”
“I can go anywhere I want, Nott,” said Hermione, giving him a scowl.
“No need to get defensive,” said Nott, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just asking. When I think about how you spend your Thursday evenings, I usually picture you with your nose buried in a stack of obscure books while plotting the annihilation of evil wizarding corporations.”
Hermione frowned, unsure if she should be flattered or insulted. “You might spend just too much time thinking about me, Nott.”
“I can’t help it,” he shrugged. Hermione gave him a long stare, but didn’t detect any malice in his voice. He’s an odd duck , she thought. “Oh, look, it’s your turn.”
Hermione turned back to the bar, smiling in greeting when the bartender finally walked up to her. She quickly put on her order and paid, then rested her elbows on top of the bar to wait.
“Are you here on a date?”
“Nott, I don’t know where you got the impression that you are privy to information about my personal life, but to clear up any confusion, you are most certainly not .”
“I thought we bonded ,” squeaked Theo, putting on an expression of offense. “We talked about Dark Magic. I begged a random muggleborn to have a drink with me, just for you.”
“That must have been such a sacrifice,” said Hermione, nodding gratefully at the bartender, who had just returned with her drinks and food. “Have a good evening, Nott.”
Hermione lifted her wand to levitate all the items to the booth, taking extra care to raise them high above everyone’s heads.
She had only taken a couple of steps when Nott yelled after her.
“Draco will love knowing you’re here!”
She faltered -- it was only her tight hold on her wand that kept the items from tumbling into the floor. Hermione shot him a look over her shoulder, scowling she saw him cackle. He winked at her and turned around to put on his order. She still looked ruffled when she finally reached the booth.
“What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. I just spilled a bit of the drinks,” said Hermione. She handed Ginny one of the pints of butterbeer and took a big sip of her own, then pushed the tray of food so it was evenly placed between them. “So, congratulations on the engagement.”
“Thank you so much,” said Ginny, a wide smile lighting up her face. Hermione couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m so excited.”
“How did he propose?” asked Hermione, dipping one of her chips in sauce before tossing it into her mouth. She let her gaze wander as Ginny rambled, but she didn’t spot Malfoy’s platinum-blond hair anywhere. “That’s so exciting.”
“Wait, didn’t Harry tell you any of this?” frowned Ginny. Hermione hesitated.
“We haven’t had the opportunity to talk about it yet,” said Hermione, forcing a neutral tone. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You live together,” said Ginny, “and our engagement is a very big deal. That makes no sense.”
“We’ve both been pretty busy.”
She must have seen something in her eyes, because pity was the best word for Ginny’s expression. Hermione felt a jolt of bitterness when Ginny patted her hand.
“I’m sure he’s going to talk to you about it eventually.”
Hermione nodded and lifted her glass to her mouth, hiding her face behind the large mug of butterbeer. She took a large gulp before setting the mug back on the table.
“So, was your mother ecstatic?” asked Hermione, urgent to change the subject.
“She was over the moon, it was exactly the news she needed after--” Ginny cleared her throat. “You know what.”
“I’m really happy for you guys, Ginny.”
And she was , despite the vivid memory of the conversation she’d had with Harry about it. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder when Harry had come to terms with letting the Ministry dictate his life.
“I know,” said Ginny, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s why I didn’t want to wait to ask you.”
“Ask me what?” said Hermione with confusion.
“Would you be my maid of honor?”
With her eyebrows raised in surprise, Hermione watched Ginny beam at her, hands squeezed together while she bounced up and down in her seat. Hermione’s first instinct was to ask her why , but she bit her tongue before the question could roll out of her mouth. I’m not going to be good at this , thought Hermione, and with the way things are with Harry--
But Ginny was looking at her expectantly, vibrating with joy -- it softened her features and brightened her face. Hermione was certain that anyone who looked at her right then would be affected by the happiness shining out of her.
“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione breathed out, “of course, I mean, I’d be honored to.”
“Yay!” she squealed, then stood up, leaning over the table to pull Hermione into a hug. “It’ll be the best, you’ll see. It’s going to be the wedding of the ages.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Hermione, voice muffled as she tried to talk past a mouthful of Ginny’s hair. She rubbed her back softly.
Hermione cleared her throat, but Ginny continued rocking them from side to side, squeezing Hermione tightly and making it impossible for her to move away. Ginny was squealing excited words that she didn’t quite catch.
Her breath faltered when she finally spotted Malfoy across the room. When they made eye contact, Malfoy raised an eyebrow and offered her a smirk.
“Ginny, it’s getting hard to breathe here.”
“Okay, I’m letting you go,” she said. She pulled away and sagged into the booth. Hermione sat down more slowly, her heart beating frantically inside her chest. “What are you looking at?” asked Ginny, turning around to follow Hermione’s gaze.
“Nothing,” said Hermione, but Ginny had already noticed Malfoy.
“Ugh,” she grunted, turning to Hermione with a scowl. “That Death Eater scum is everywhere these days. I can’t stand seeing him walking around like it’s perfectly okay for him to do so.”
The words slipped out of Hermione’s mouth before she was fully aware of them. “But it kind of is. I mean, he wasn’t sentenced to Azkaban. He’s not in house arrest, so it is perfectly okay for him to be anywhere he pleases.”
“What?” she gaped. “Are you seriously defending him?”
“I’m not,” said Hermione, shaking her head. She cursed herself for opening her mouth, but once she started, she couldn’t help but continue. “I’m just saying. Besides, he was seventeen when everything happened, a lot has happened since then. Maybe he’s changed, who knows?”
Do I really believe that? she asked herself, searching for Malfoy again. He wasn’t looking at her any more. Instead, he bent his head down so Pansy could whisper something in his ear. Hermione felt a stab of discomfort hit her as she watched them. She gripped the edge of the table tightly, unable to tear her eyes away from them.
As if sensing her gaze, Malfoy looked in her direction again. It didn’t take him long to take in her expression, and he quickly moved until there was a bigger amount of space between him and Pansy. He smirked at Hermione with satisfaction, and she both wanted to throttle him and kiss the smugness off his face.
She finally teared her eyes away, both startled by her jealousy and the giddy state he left her in -- it was the strangest realization to have, when the distance between them was overflowing with history infinitely larger than them.
Hermione didn’t think she’d feel that way, knowing what she knew about him, if she didn’t believe there was something more beneath all the gruff and anger he presented the world.
“Whatever,” said Ginny, eager to return to the more interesting subject. “Let me tell you what I’m thinking. The wedding will take place next winter, and there’s just so much to plan. I don’t even know where to begin. But I do want a garden full of lilies.”
_
“I’m going to get better tickets for the next match,” said Theo, twisting the charmed dart between his fingers before flicking it at the dartboard. The dart looped in the air, shooting out red sparks. They all held their breath as it got closer and closer, and exhaled sharply when the dart exploded into red smoke just an inch before it reached the target. Theo groaned. “Ah, fuck, I hate this game.”
“It’s all about luck,” said Draco, crossing his arms and leaning back into the wall. Daphne jutted her chin at Theo in challenge and stepped up to take her turn. “And why do you want better tickets? You don’t even like quidditch,” he asked Theo.
“It’s about the experience, not the game.”
“Except it’s actually not,” huffed Draco. He chuckled when Daphne’s dart hit just the edge of the outer bullseye, shooting out green confetti. The score above the dartboard ringed as it added points under Daphne and Draco’s name, and Theo sputtered furiously.
“You both cursed this game, I bloody know it,” he said accusingly.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” said Daphne, returning to her seat with a proud smile. Pansy rolled her eyes and stood up, digging a sharp elbow in Theo’s ribs.
“Why are you attacking me?” he exclaimed.
“Because you’re making us lose,” hissed Pansy. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully threw the dart. The dart didn’t even loop before bursting into red smoke, speckles of the powder falling all over her face and clothes. “For Salazar’s sake,” she said, digging her hands into her hips.
“You see it now?” said Theo, trying to sound indignant but laughing instead. “You look like a monster.”
“I’m going to hurt you, Theodore,” snapped Pansy, raising her wand to clean the dust away.
“What? You should be hurting Draco and Daphne, they’re the ones who did something to the damn game.”
“We did nothing,” said Draco, stepping forward to take his turn. “Go complain to the bar manager if you’re so bothered.”
He rubbed the dart between his fingers and shifted where he stood, moving his hand forward but not actually throwing. He repeated the motion a couple of times, smirking when Pansy and Theo started to protest loudly. Daphne’s laugh echoed behind them.
Just as Draco was about to throw the dart, he saw from the corner of his eye a familiar figure rush past him. The dart flew from his fingers the second he turned his head to watch her disappear in the direction of the loo.
“Are you kidding me?” exclaimed Theo. “He wasn’t even looking. That’s it. I’m going to find the manager, this game is bloody cursed.”
“Aw, come on, Theo--” Daphne protested.
Draco barely turned to look at them when he said, “I’m going to the loo.”
“What?” asked Daphne. “We’re winning, go later!”
“You’re not winning--” started Pansy.
Draco turned on his heel, ignoring Daphne yelling his name as he stepped towards the back of the pub. The hallway Granger had turned down was thankfully empty. Draco figured someone must’ve cast a Silencing Charm, since the noise of the thick of the pub immediately faded away.
He leaned against the wall facing the ladies’ restroom, tapping his fingers against the cold concrete as he waited for her to appear. He had no idea what he’d say to Granger. Fuck, you’re a mess , he cursed under his breath.
He was buzzing with nervous energy, too restless to remain still. He stepped away from the wall and started to walk down the corridor, only to retreat and approach the restroom again.
When he had paced up and down the corridor for the third time, Draco decided he was going to go back to his friends.
“Malfoy?” she asked.
Draco stopped in his tracks, feeling pathetic when he didn’t even hesitate to turn in her direction. She was watching him -- her expression a mixture of confusion and amusement. And it wasn’t normal, he didn’t think -- there was something completely wrong with the way his breath faltered and his heart started to race.
“Yes?”
Granger shifted nervously, then said, “What are you doing here?”
“This is a pub, Granger. It’s open to everyone.”
“I know that .” She rolled her eyes. “Why are you always so defensive? I meant what are you doing here , in front of the loo?”
“I was going to use it.”
“The men’s restroom is on the other side of the pub,” she said. Granger laughed when he struggled to come up with a retort. “Okay then, if you’re not going to say anything I’m just going to go. Ginny’s waiting for me.”
“It’s just you and the Weaselette?” he said, ignoring her words and stepping closer.
“She has a name, you know,” sighed Granger. “I literally just said it.”
“I really don’t give a shite,” muttered Draco. He was close enough that it would take barely any effort to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her against his body, to press his lips against hers. The only thing stopping him was the thought that someone could walk in at any moment. It wouldn’t be too long before Theo or Pansy noticed he had been gone too long. “Listen, Granger. What are you doing later?”
“Why?” she asked. Draco scoffed and took a step back. Of course she would make him say it just for the hell of it. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m going to ditch this place in an hour, then I’m going to my flat. I will leave the Floo open for you,” he said quickly, voice barely discernible.
“You want to hang out with me?”
“Are you fishing for compliments, Granger?”
“I don’t need you to flatter me, Malfoy,” she shrugged. “I’m just asking you a question.”
Draco contemplated turning around and leaving her staring at his back. What he really wanted was to kiss her until she forgot what she was doing, and he regained the upper hand. But he could let her have it, for once.
“I want to hang out with you, Granger,” he finally mumbled. Her triumphant grin warmed him up from the inside out.
She didn’t let the smile linger, smoothing her expression. “Well, I’m not sure if I will be able to go.”
“Granger--”
“I’m very busy, you know. And I’m with a friend.”
“For the rest of the night?”
“We’re having a good time,” she said with a smirk.
“Well, so are we,” he retorted. She snickered.
“Have fun with your friends,” she said, brushing past him. Draco threw out a hand to stop her, but Granger swiftly dodged him, strutting down the corridor and disappearing back into the bar. Draco almost groaned out loud.
When he returned to his friends, he searched the pub for Granger, but the booth they had been in was now occupied by a group of four random witches.
Draco swallowed his disappointment and braced himself for an hour of pretending he didn’t want to be somewhere else.
_
Draco could recount, with terrifying precision, all the moments in which he had felt like a fool.
The memories brought the same feeling in his chest whenever he thought about them -- his father, face burning red in fury, yelling at him to step up, be better, be smarter, more of a man ; Snape's rough voice repeating commands over and over again, wand shaking in his hold as he tried to anger Draco into learning skills that didn’t come naturally to him; Voldemort’s cool, final words: kill Albus Dumbledore .
He could recount every single one of these moments.
But he had never felt as foolish as he did then, his elbows digging into the kitchen cupboards, heart beating out of his chest, staring at the fireplace as if he could conjure Granger by will.
But when Granger finally stepped out of the fireplace and into his flat, looking exactly like everything he wanted, then--
Draco realized he’d often feel like a fool, from then on.
Strangely, he didn’t quite mind the idea.
_
Malfoy was watching her.
Hermione brushed her hair away from her face. She stepped towards him, feeling self-conscious. He didn’t even bother to pretend he wasn’t tracking her every move. Hermione wondered if this was how a rabbit felt when it tumbled out of a magician’s hat -- anxious, expectant, and keenly aware of being in the spotlight.
“I see your place remains unfurnished,” said Hermione, pretending she didn’t feel the tension in the air. Malfoy’s eyes drifted all over her body, and heat pooled low in her belly.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to come,” he murmured.
“I said I wasn’t sure if I could,” she said in a low voice. “I had some things to take care of.”
“Then why are you here now?” he asked, voice barely a whisper, watching her step closer and closer to him.
Hermione stopped when there was barely six inches of space between their bodies. Malfoy clenched and unclenched his fists, as if trying to hold himself back.
“Who knows?” said Hermione, failing to infuse nonchalance into her voice. Instead, it came out as a raspy whimper.
“Are you messing with me, Granger?” asked Malfoy, narrowing his eyes. Hermione licked her lips and shrugged. “You are messing with me.”
“What are you going to do about it?” challenged Hermione.
Malfoy’s eyes shined with mischief. He stepped back, retreating until his back hit the cupboard and the distance between them was almost suffocating. Hermione was choking with want -- to get closer to him, to crawl up his body and kiss him until she couldn’t think anymore.
But she quite liked the way he was looking at her just then, his body relaxed but his eyes running over her body despite him trying not to, unable to stop drinking her in.
“Oh, no, love,” muttered Malfoy, slowly shaking his head once.
“No?”
“No,” he repeated, offering her a half-smile. Hermione’s heart was thundering. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and took a step forward. “What are you going to do about it?”
Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, Hermione had closed the distance between them and placed her hands in both sides of his face, drawing him towards her and pressing their lips together.
Malfoy sighed into her mouth, wrapping his arm around her waist. She sucked gently on his lower lip, her nails scratching the faint stubble in his jaw, then down the curve of his neck. His groan came from somewhere deep in his chest, and he pulled her tightly against him.
Her mind went completely blank -- the only thing she could feel was the warmth from his mouth and body, his fingers in her hair, and the shivers of pleasure running down her spine.
Hermione wanted to be closer, but her body was already pressed against his. Malfoy slipped one leg between hers, and she pressed herself down hard against his thigh. The sound that escaped her lips echoed around the room. He groaned and dug his nails into the small of her back.
Malfoy ripped his lips away from hers. He exhaled sharply, and Hermione kept her eyes closed, her lashes fluttering as he dragged the tip of his nose down the side of her face. “Can I touch you, Granger?”
Where, she wanted to ask. Everywhere, she wanted to say.
But the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. Hermione swallowed and nodded, but Malfoy didn’t move, still rubbing his nose against her cheek with a tenderness that was stark opposite to the simmering heat threatening to set them ablaze.
“I need to hear you say it,” he muttered, his mouth barely a inch away from hers. “I want to hear you say it.”
Hermione opened her eyes to find him staring at her, the longing in his gaze stealing her breath away. She was scared -- not of his touch, exactly, but of how much she wanted him. How she wouldn’t be able to stop wanting him, if they kept going like this.
It was too soon. She was still wrapping her mind around the craziness that was wanting him like this, struggling to make peace with how being with him would change it all. She needed a little more time to feel him out, to get herself together.
She raised onto her tiptoes and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “Let’s just kiss, yeah? Can we just kiss?”
And she knew he wanted so much more, the evidence of it was nudging against her thigh, and Malfoy ran his hands up and down her back, twisting the fabric of her shirt between his fingers as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
But he didn’t hesitate. He smiled, planting a soft kiss on her lips. Without a hint of resentment in his voice, he said, “Of course we can just kiss, Granger.”
_
Hermione dabbed her cheeks and neck with cold water. Malfoy’s bathroom had a huge mirror that started above the sink and stretched high up the wall. Her reflection still beamed at her as she washed her hands and turned the tap off -- her face was still flushed, and there was a mark threatening to appear in the spot where her neck met her chin. She’d have to steal some of Harry’s love bite remover once she got home.
She walked out of the bathroom and into the main room to find Malfoy standing in front of its tall windows. He’d ditched his jacket and was sporting a white dress shirt that highlighted his strong arms. He raised his head to look at her when she stepped closer to him, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
“I’m not kissing you if you have a smoke breath,” said Hermione, stopping beside him, their legs touching.
“If I remember correctly, you’re no stranger to cigarettes,” said Malfoy. Even as he said it, he moved to place the cigarette back in its pack and inside of his pocket.
“You’re never going to let that go, will you?”
Malfoy snickered. “It was just too good, Granger, there’s no chance I’m ever forgetting it,” he said, then his voice grew lower, sounding less certain. “I thought you’d want to go home.”
“Do you want me to go home?” asked Hermione.
His words filled her with anxiety. She had stopped them before things got out of her control, and she didn’t want to consider the possibility of Malfoy having asked her there just to sleep with her.
Hermione looked up at him, and the look in his eyes softened. Malfoy scoffed, then bent his head to place a lingering kiss on her temple. Hermione closed her eyes, the anxiety seeping out of her with each second that passed. Malfoy was generous with his touch, like he craved the contact between their bodies, even when it was like this -- tender.
Hermione took his hand and pulled him down to the floor with her. As always, he seemed reluctant, but she didn’t let go of his fingers until he relented.
“Why do you insist on always sitting on the floor, Granger?” he said, scowling.
“It’s going to keep happening until you finally buy a couch.”
Malfoy mumbled something under his breath, too low for Hermione to catch it. She leaned towards him to ask him to repeat, but he cut her off with a peck on her lips. “Come closer, Granger,” he muttered.
“I’m already close,” she said, her heart doing somersaults. Looking into his face, it was hard to remember that this Malfoy had been the one she remembered from her youth.
“You can get closer,” said Malfoy, reaching out a hand to drag her towards him until she was practically sitting on his lap. “I brought you something.”
“You? The guy who didn’t want to buy me a cup of coffee?”
He rolled his eyes. “When are you letting that go?”
“Maybe when you forget I told you about the one time I sort of smoked.”
“Not happening,” chuckled Malfoy. He wrapped a finger around one of Hermione’s curls, twirling it mindlessly, his eyes fixed on her. Hermione felt her mind finally slowing down from the chaotic pace of her day, and she relaxed against him.
“Then I guess you’ll have to deal with it,” said Hermione. “What’s it?”
“I don’t know if I want to give it to you now, since you so unkindly questioned my generosity.”
“Gifts shouldn’t have strings attached.”
“That’s not how Malfoys do things,” he said, reaching inside his pocket for his wand. “But I will make an exception for you, Granger, it’s not like I have any illusion of talking to you and not getting insulted.”
Hermione watched as he pointed his wand towards the kitchen and mumbled accio. A box flew from one of the cabinets and landed in his hand outstretched. Malfoy hid it from her point of view before she could catch more than a fleeting glance.
Stubbornly fighting her curiosity, Hermione tried to keep a blank face.
“Do you want it?” he asked in a teasing voice. He shook whatever he was holding, and the box made a sound she couldn’t decipher.
“Is this when I have to do something ridiculous to get it? Because, unfortunately for you, I’m not that curious,” she said. Malfoy snickered.
“Maybe if I was fourteen,” he retorted. “But since I’m not, a kiss will do.”
Hermione paused a second and pretended to consider it, “I don’t think so. It will set a precedent I’m not willing to live with. I guess you’ll have to do without.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to live without knowing what it is,” said Malfoy.
They stared at each other for a beat, neither willing to give in. Hermione’s gaze fell to his lips and she leaned forward, watching with sharp eyes as Malfoy’s expression faltered. She paused when their mouths were just an inch apart. “What is it?” she whispered.
Malfoy breathed out a shaky laugh and leaned away from her. “You’re cute, Granger.”
“Just tell me what it is.”
“I don’t know why you torture yourself,” he said. “Kiss me and I will give it to you.”
“You know I’ll kiss you later. You only want to get your way,” grumbled Hermione.
“If you kiss me, we will both get our way.”
Hermione planted a quick and hard kiss on his lips. Malfoy smiled victoriously. Hermione almost rolled her eyes -- she could almost see his ego inflating.
“The way you’re smiling right now, you’d think you just grabbed the Quaffle, or whatever you do in Quidditch.”
“Getting you to cave is probably statistically harder than catching the snitch,” retorted Malfoy, finally handing her the box. She huffed and carefully unwrapped the package. “They’re truffles filled with liquor,” he said..
“Why are you always giving me alcohol?” asked Hermione, popping one in her mouth. She sighed appreciatively when the chocolate hit her tongue.
“You can’t get drunk from a few truffles, Granger,” said Malfoy. “Even with your pitiful alcohol tolerance. If you can even say that you have tolerance at all.”
“Did you get these from Honeydukes?” asked Hermione, ignoring his jab.
“Honeydukes is for plebes and teenagers,” said Malfoy. Hermione laughed, making his face twist into a scowl. “Minzy made them.”
“Guess she’s not a plebe or a teenager,” said Hermione, unwrapping her second truffle. “This is really good.”
“She’s a house elf,” said Malfoy. “You’re not going to go on a rant about the liberation of the house elves, are you?” he looked at her with suspicion. Hermione closed the box of truffles and placed it on the floor beside them before she was tempted to eat the whole thing in one sitting.
“This might surprise you,” said Hermione, “but I know that most elves don’t want to be freed. I acknowledge it, even if I don’t understand it. I still believe they should be paid for their services and given dignified living conditions, which most Wizarding families don’t provide and is completely barbaric. Did you know that seventy-five percent of house elves--”
“I unleashed a monster,” sighed Malfoy, digging his chin into her shoulder. “I assure you, Granger, my elf lives in perfectly dignified conditions. Minzy is a very happy and healthy creature.”
“I’m not thanking you for doing the bare minimum.”
“Like I would expect you to,” said Malfoy. He started laughing. “Will I get a proper kiss now, for the gift?”
“I already kissed you,” mumbled Hermione.
“That thing? I’m not thanking you for doing the bare minimum,” he mocked.
She should be annoyed at his arrogant voice and unfiltered swagger, at how he teased and poked at her soft spots to flirt or get her ruffled.
It should grate on her nerves.
But Hermione was, against her best efforts, charmed.
So she allowed him to softly take her chin and lock their lips together. The angle was awkward, making it impossible for her to kiss him as deeply as she wanted to, so in an unspoken agreement, they moved their bodies until they laid fully on the floor.
Malfoy was on his back, Hermione half on top of him -- they traded the sort of soft and unhurried kisses that made her limbs lazy and her eyes heavy, tingles of pleasure travelling down her spine as she ran her fingers through his hair.
He had one hand under her shirt, his fingers skimming back and forth over her lower back. Hermione’s mind was the quietest she ever remembered it being.
It was the easiest, most comfortable thing in the world to fall asleep just like that -- her head on his chest, his arms around her -- engulfed in a safeness that didn’t leave room for anything but sweet and soothing dreams.