You Swallow My Heart, I Want It Back
"We're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth. You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back. Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn't want to see it this way, everything eating everything in the end. We know how the light works, we know where the sound is coming from. Verse. Chorus. Verse. I'm sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious." Dirty Valentine, Richard Siken
-
“This is a shite-fest!” bellowed Ginny as she stomped down the stairs. Her profanities grew bolder when she stepped into the Burrow’s small living room, bumping against the huddled shelves, couches and armchairs.
She stopped in front of Hermione, who was sitting on the floor, head bent over the coffee table. She waved her wand in practiced motions, her fingers cramping and her mouth dry from muttering the same charms over and over again, coaxing tiny wooden owls to float. Ginny had insisted that the place card holders hover above each assigned seat, with the guest’s name printed on a small card dangling from its beak.
“What happened?” said Hermione, looking up to find Ginny staring angrily at her. If she was this agitated about an engagement party, Hermione couldn’t imagine how strung up she’d be before to the actual wedding ceremony.
“I don’t have anything to wear, Hermione,” she barked. “I somehow gained twenty bloody pounds overnight, because I swear to Morgana that I tried on that dress yesterday and it fit like a glove. Now it isn’t even sliding past my thighs!”
“I don’t think that’s physiologically possible,” muttered Hermione. Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Can’t you wear another dress?”
“No, I cannot,” spat Ginny. “Because I don’t have another dress, Hermione. Everything in my wardrobe I’ve already worn before, and this is my engagement party! How ridiculous would it look if I showed up in something that everybody’s already seen?”
I don’t know that anyone would notice, thought Hermione, biting her lip to keep herself from saying it out loud. She knew better than to try to reason with Ginny when she was upset.
“Alright,” she said, scanning her brain for a quick solution. “You know what? I think I can fix it.”
She stood up, placing the wooden owl on top of the coffee table before wrapping a hand around Ginny’s elbow and pulling her up the stairs, ignoring her loud protests.
In Ginny’s bedroom, Hermione snatched the dress up from where it lay in a heap on the floor. “Put it on,” she ordered, handing it to Ginny, who took it with reluctance.
“Didn’t you hear when I said that it literally doesn’t fit?”
Hermione sighed, trying to summon patience. “I heard, but I know how to fix it,” she said. “The boys and I lost a lot of weight when we lived in the tents. So I developed a spell to refit our clothes.”
Ginny arched a brow, looking intrigued. “Can you enlarge the dress without ruining the fabric?”
“I think I can,” she said, rubbing her temple. “Put it on and I’ll see what I can do.”
Without hesitation, Ginny shed her clothes off and pulled the dress over her head. It slid easily past her breasts and stomach, but stretched uncomfortably around the hips and thighs. It does fit, thought Hermione, who had correctly assumed that her friend was exaggerating, but it probably wouldn’t be comfortable to spend an entire evening in.
“Okay,” she muttered. She thought through the spellwork, trying to figure out the best way to tweak it to what she needed. “Let me know if this feels uncomfortable,” she said, pointing her wand at Ginny and mumbling a quiet incantation under her breath. “Dilata in vestimentum.”
She watched as the fabric began to expand around Ginny’s body, tracing her curves with a bit more give. The waistline ended up slightly looser than it was supposed to be. Hermione held out a hand to silence Ginny before she could complain, then muttered, “foverentur vestimenta.”
She smiled in pride when the dress readjusted perfectly, the ivory satin hugging Ginny’s waist. Ginny pounced on Hermione, squeezing her in her arms. “You’re bloody brilliant, Hermione,” she squealed. “Merlin bless your huge brain.”
Hermione chuckled. “Alright, that wasn’t much,” she said, relieved when Ginny loosened her hold and she could breathe again. “It looks perfect on you.”
“I know,” gushed Ginny, turning to inspect herself in the large mirror. The dress was ruched up the sides with an asymmetrical heline that fell just above her knees, its v-neck highlighting the golden pendant that shone between her breasts. “If you ever give up on whatever it is that you do, you could invest in a future in fashion.”
“Not likely,” snickered Hermione. “This spell is about practicality, not style.”
“Take the compliment,” exclaimed Ginny, still apprainsing her reflection. She gave herself one last satisfied grin, then turned to face Hermione. “Alright, the party is starting in under an hour, so you should get ready.”
“There’s about ten place card holders that I need to finish.”
“Don’t worry, the number I told you included a couple extras. I’ve already received all the RSVPs, and you’ve made plenty. Thank you, by the way!”
Hermione smiled, then reached to pull her own dress out of her purse. She had struggled finding something to wear, but she knew this dress was the perfect choice as soon as she laid eyes on it. Its top layer was made of bare cream-colored lace, interwoven with pink, yellow, and blue flowers, with a short slip covering her torso. The sleeves fanned out into a bell shape at her elbows, mirroring the flare of its hemline. Its light fabric contrasted with her brown complexion; it made her feel like she was glowing.
“You look different, Hermione. Lighter,” said Ginny, smiling. Hermione finished smoothing out the wrinkles in the dress and looked up at her. She was sitting at the edge of the bed, sticking pins into her long hair, scrutinizing Hermione. “Are you seeing someone?”
Hermione inhaled sharply. “Wh-what?” she stuttered. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I’m in love, Hermione,” said Ginny, as if she were pointing out the obvious. “I have a sixth sense for that sort of thing.”
“I’m not in love,” she protested, quickly turning to the mirror. She examined her reflection, her brows creasing in confusion as she struggled to spot a noticeable difference. Ginny scoffed and stood up, leaning against the dresser, her eyes fixed on Hermione, who fidged uncomfortably at the attention.
“But you are seeing someone?”
Hermione pursued her lips.
She realized that part of her wanted to lay it out in the open. To share her tangled feelings with her friend, to confide in her about how she found herself in a relationship that was progressively becoming so much more intense than she thought it would be.
She wanted to pretend like they were back at Hogwarts, sharing chocolate frogs and giggling over a first kiss. She wanted to be happy, and anxious, but in a good way, like butterflies in her stomach, and she wanted to tell Ginny all about it.
But they were no longer at Hogwarts and she was no longer fourteen. She knew that opening up to Ginny would set in motion a chain of events that would unquestionably make life harder for the both of them. Draco was a secret she hated to keep, but she had to nonetheless. And that thought made her ache with loneliness.
Hermione sighed, then gave herself a bit of a reprieve. “I am,” she muttered uncertainly.
“You are?” gasped Ginny. “Are you serious? Who is he? Or she? I don’t know.”
“It’s kind of private,” said Hermione. Her words made Ginny’s eyebrows lift in curiosity. “I can’t tell you, Ginny, so don’t try to make me.”
“Ah, come on,” she pressed. “Does Harry know? And he didn’t tell me?”
“Harry doesn’t know anything,” snapped Hermione, pointing her index finger at Ginny. “And you’re not going to tell him, Ginevra. I swear to Merlin, I’ll obliviate you right this second, and I won’t feel guilty about it.”
Ginny threw her hands up. “Alright, alright," she conceded. “I can keep your secret, but you’re making it sound more dramatic than it probably is. I’m making some wild assumptions right now.”
And it probably doesn’t come close to the actual truth. “It’s not that big a deal,” she lied. “I just want to keep it to myself for now, alright? The media sniffs everything out and suddenly my business is everyone’s business, and the boys aren’t any better.”
“That’s Harry and Ron,” nodded Ginny. “Ron’s going to be gutted, by the way. Aren’t you going as his date tonight?”
“We’re going as friends,” said Hermione. “And it’s none of his business whether I’m dating somebody or not. I’m not going to stop living my life because he refuses to listen to me.”
“Of course, Hermione,” she said. “My brother is a fully grown bloke, he needs to learn how to deal with rejection. It builds character.”
Hermione chuckled. “You’ve never been rejected in your life.”
“Excuse me?” Ginny shook her head. “I spent my entire childhood waiting for Harry Potter to pay attention to me, I know very well how it feels to be rejected.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can I tell you something?”
“By all means.”
“The way I’m feeling about this person,” she sighed. “It’s too much, sometimes, and I don’t know how to deal with it.”
Ginny’s eyes went soft, and she reached to squeeze Hermione’s hand. “I’m happy for you, Hermione, and you should just enjoy this,” she murmured. She looked up at her. “But I have to warn you, if you’re really expecting my brother to think of tonight as anything other than a date, then you’ve forgotten how much of a thick-headed git he can be.”
_
Hermione’s feet were aching. She cursed herself for ever thinking she could handle an entire evening running around in three inch heels, and yearned for her sensible flats.
As she sagged against a pillar, crossing her arms, she took in the scene unfolding in front of her.
The room was absolutely beautiful. Ginny and Harry had decided to host their engagement party in the ballroom of a luxury Wizarding London hotel. The large golden room was strung with fairy lights, interwoven with lily petals and making every inch of the space shimmer. Approximately two hundred guests sat at several long tables piled high with food and crystal plates, guided to their seats by the floating wooden owls. Twin bars, stocked with copious liquor, were set on either side of the room. The floor buzzed with scores of caterers and house elves, all wearing golden velvet suits and carrying oversized trays of champagne.
Hermione had worried that the open bar was a recipe for disaster -- she had daunting memories of tables set ablaze by a misplaced wand, and Ron nearly breaking an ankle after losing his balance on a floating table.
Against all odds, the evening had gone off without a hitch. Everyone behaved appropriately during the three course dinner, likely afraid of Molly’s wrath. After dessert was served, she’d lingered around for just an hour before leaving Arthur to supervise the younger crowd filtering into the dance floor.
Once she had departed, Harry ordered the music turned up, and the beat of a pop song soared way beyond the hotel’s permitted decibel limit. A tipsy Ginny chanted Silencing Charms into a microphone, then the guests were set loose, finally allowed to do what they’d been waiting for the entire evening.
Now, Hermione watched Dean and Seamus trade shot for shot at the bar, then a heavily pregnant Hannah Abbot twirl around the dance floor while Neville stared at her with devotion. A group of high-ranking Ministry officials circled Harry like vultures, but Ginny didn’t seem to care -- she was laughing out loud, her arms thrown around Fleur’s shoulders as they danced without rhythm, a Daily Prophet photographer clicking his camera incessantly in their direction.
And Hermione, well, she was standing with aching feet, feeling lifted by her friends’ joy as she waited for Ron to come back with her drink, inwardly hoping he’d gotten distracted by Luna on the way.
Ron had been glued to her side from the moment they left the Burrow, seemingly terrified that she’d disappear if he looked away for half an second. He had demanded her attention even while helping Ginny sort out the evening’s timetable and check the room for faulty decorations, interrupting their conversation with a funny Quidditch anecdote or unsolicited opinion. When Hermione exhaled a little too loudly, Ginny gave her a knowing look.
They had spent less than twenty minutes apart all evening, and at this point she was tempted to curse him with a Confundus charm so she could get some breathing room.
“Oi, I finally found you,” he hollered, handing her the gin and tonic she’d requested. “Why are you all the way back here?”
“My feet hurt,” she said, at a normal volume. “And I might be avoiding Padma. She’s been trying to interview me all night. She waited in front of my stall when I went to the loo.”
“She did the same thing to me!”
“She did?” she laughed, watching as he waved his hands excitedly.
“She didn’t actually enter the loo, but she was lurking in the hallway. I came this close to accidently hexing her,” said Ron, moving his thumb and index finger about a inch apart. “Then Robards showed up and she forgot I was there.”
“Is he still here?” asked Hermione.
She’d debated engaging him in conversation. From the way Harry had talked about him, Robards was still involved with the Ministry, and he might know more about their intentions for the MRC. But every time she’d gotten a glimpse of him, he was surrounded by a crowd of admirers.
“I saw him leave a couple of minutes ago,” he grimaced. “Why do you care? I thought you didn’t want a job in the DMLE.”
“Why would I talk to Robards if I wanted a job? He resigned.”
“He’s still there all the time, though,” said Ron. “He and Harry spend hours locked in the office whenever he drops by. It’s like he never left. Except now I’m actually getting missions that are above the level of a bloody toddler. Have I told you that I went to Romania a couple of weeks ago?”
“You did,” said Hermione, overwhelmed by the words rapidly leaving his mouth. She blinked a couple of times, trying to clear her head. “Wait, Robards and Harry have been meeting?”
“Why do you care, Hermione?” he repeated, looking annoyed. “Do you fancy him or something?”
“And what if I did?” she snapped. “It wouldn’t be any of your business.”
“That’s disgusting,” he hissed, face reddening. “He was my boss.”
“So what? He wasn’t my boss,” said Hermione. “And you’re being daft. I was just curious, didn’t you hear the rumors that he’s going to run for Minister?”
Ron huffed, giving her a skeptical look. “Who’s saying that?”
“The Serpent Wire,” said Hermione, sipping her drink, “The Quibbler, Witch Weekly. You know, it’s actually quite interesting that The Daily Prophet has been silent on the subject. I mean, they’ve gotten the scoop on literally every major Ministry announcement the past few years, and they aren’t covering this?” she said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Maybe you’ve heard something about it at the DMLE? I mean, they were the ones to announce Harry’s engagement as well. Did he tell you anything?”
Ron exhaled. “Hermione...”
“I don’t know, Ron,” she said, her mind whirling with the velocity of her thoughts. “They’ve basically monopolized media coverage these days. I’m so curious why no one’s talking about it. It’s kind of obvious they’ve struck some sort of deal with the Ministry--”
“Do you want to dance?” he interrupted. He looked dazed; Hermione wondered how he saw her. She pictured him pointing a remote in her direction, jamming the button to change channels.
She smiled bitterly. “Right now?”
“I mean, it’s a party,” he shrugged, looking at her over the rim of his glass. “Don’t you like this song? It’s been playing all over the radio these days.”
I rarely listen to anything other than Muggle music, she thought. She sighed. Ron had the unmatched ability of making her feel fourteen again -- uninteresting and out-of-place.
“I need to use the loo,” said Hermione, pushing her glass into his chest. He took it, giving her a confused look, but Hermione didn’t give him a chance to speak. “I’ll find you later.”
Before he could protest, she walked away, struggling to ignore the sharp pain of the heels digging into her toes.
_
Hermione was sitting on a stool in front of the bar, finally able to rest her feet as she nursed her second alcoholic cocktail of the night. The luminous grey cocktail burst into bright silver sparkles everytime she took a sip through her straw. Ron was thankfully distracted by Neville and Hannah, who were most likely on their fifteenth retell of their pregnancy story, so she finally had some time to herself.
Her feet tapped to the beat bouncing off the walls, and she let the vivacious energy of the room seep into her. Slowly, her earlier irritation ebbed completely, and Hermione finally felt ready to find her friends on the dance floor.
“Hello there, gorgeous.” Ah for Merlin’s sake, she huffed inwardly, turning to find the smug face of Cormac McLaggen. She arched a brow as he dragged a stool closer to hers, sitting down in front of her with a slimy grin. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“This is an open bar, Cormac,” she said flatly. “It’s all paid for.”
He didn’t seem fazed by her disinterest, smirking as he said, “It’s the thought that counts, right? I could buy you a drink some other time, too.”
It’d be a cold day in hell, thought Hermione, staring into her cocktail. That newfound peace hadn’t lasted too long. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”
“I’ll change your mind eventually, you know?” he said, the smile still glued to his lips. Hermione felt the overwhelming urge to rip it off. “You won’t always be able to keep up this hard-to-get act.”
Hermione’s nostrils flared. She twisted her face into a sardonic smile. “You’ve gotten even more arrogant, Cormac,” she said through her teeth. “And my hand’s gotten looser. For some reason, it just seems to slip out of my control when I’m around someone I really can’t stand. Would you care to see it in action?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe you should get that checked.”
“Maybe you should leave me alone,” she snapped, waving her hand to shoo him. “You can go now.”
“I’ve always been a catch, Hermione, you’re going to regret snubbing me sooner rather than later,” he said, standing up and resting his elbow on top of the bar. He brazenly ran his eyes up and down her body, making her stomach turn. “I’m going places, you know?”
“Can one of those places be out of my sight?”
He ignored her. “I’m going to be a Wizengamot judge,” he bragged. “One of the most powerful positions in the Wizarding world, able to decide what the future will look like. It would do you some good to--”
“You’re going to be a Wizengamot judge?” asked Hermione, unable to control her curiosity. "Aren't you too young for that?"
“Ah, now I seem to have gotten your attention,” he winked. Hermione’s hand tightened around her glass. “And yes, I will. Age doesn't matter.”
“Will there be an election for that alongside the one for Minister?”
“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. He surreptitiously moved an inch closer to her. “Wizengamot chairs are inherited.”
“ So you just can’t be a judge if you’re not born into the right family? That’s so archaic.”
“It’s not completely like that,” he replied, reaching a hand to grab the back of her stool. Hermione’s lips curled in distaste. “Most of the seats are voted on by the Wizengamot. Only the oldest wizarding families have permanent chairs. My family is one of them. We’re very affluent, don’t you know?”
“Fascinating,” she said sarcastically. “So once your family decides you’re qualified, that’s it, you just become a judge?”
“That’s right,” he said with a cocky smile. “Hey, do you want to dance?”
“Sure,” said Hermione. His smile grew. She stood up from her stool, pushed her glass into his chest, and shouldered her way past him. “You can keep that drink. It was free,” she said, ignoring the shock on his face.
Before he could formulate a retort, Hermione walked into the crowded dance floor, letting it engulf her.
Before she could look for Ginny, she felt arms thrown over her shoulders. Ginny spun her around, yelling in her ear, “I’m having so much fun!”
“I noticed,” she giggled. Ginny was stumbling on her own feet, threatening to topple to the floor. She was bright-eyed and alert, though, so Hermione judged she probably wasn’t in any danger. “May I get you some water, my dear?” said Hermione.
“Water is for the weak! I want vodka!” she squealed, awkwardly moving her hips to the music. “I saw you talking to Cormac. Is he your new bloke?”
“Only if I were imperiused,” said Hermione, her nose scrunching up with disgust.
“He’s kind of fit,” said Ginny, leaning heavily into Hermione. They were both locked in an out-of-rhythm dance, neither of them quite able to find the beat. “You know who is even more fit, though? My fiancé!”
“He sure is,” snickered Hermione. She bit back a smile when she saw that fiancé approach them from behind Ginny’s back, putting a finger to his lips to warn her to stay quiet. “Why don’t you tell him that?”
“I will!” yelled Ginny, bobbing her head excitedly. Harry was just a few inches away. "I’ll find and tell him right now.”
“I’m the one who’s found you,” said Harry, wrapping his hands around her waist. She squealed, turning around in his arms and pulling him into a kiss.
For a moment, Hermione stood and observed them, heart aching with longing. She turned around, thinking of Draco’s sardonic smirks and his stoical sense of humor. If he was there, he’d spend the entire night poking fun at her friends, twirling her around the room and finding outlandish ways to make her laugh.
Will we ever be able to do that? she asked herself. She quickly shook the thought away, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer.
“There you are!”
Hermione’s head jerked up, her eyes falling on Ron. He grabbed her hands and pulled her closer. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing!” he said, rotating his hips in the most ridiculous move Hermione had ever seen. She let out an incredulous laugh, and he pulled her arms up and down, his fingers squeezing hers. “Dance with me, Hermione.”
“I don’t know if that could be considered dancing,” she laughed. Ron shrugged, seemingly oblivious to how ridiculous he looked.
Hermione let her insides warm with joy and affection, for being with her best friend, for being at their best friend’s engagement party. Ron let go of her hands and waved his arms in the air. She giggled, spinning around further into the crowd.
She kept spinning, letting herself be overtaken by the music and the moment. Her feet were light on the ground and she threw her head back with abandon, eyes pinned to the lights ricocheting around the room and forming exquisite shapes on the high ceiling, painting the dance floor in neon hues. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting her mind empty and the music pulse inside of her -- unaware of the people surrounding her, unfazed by any look she might be getting.
When the song came to an end and was followed by a slower tune, she slowly unwound herself from the magic circle she’d created. Her body came to a rest, her chest heaving and lashes fluttering. Ron’s hand reached for hers, but she pulled her arm away before he could touch her.
When she looked at him, his eyes were wide like moons, staring at her with a mixture of emotions that Hermione was too afraid to describe -- she had seen that look on his face before, but in that moment it hit her like a tidal wave. She couldn’t pretend, not even to herself, that she wanted to return it.
She wondered if Ron knew that.
“You’re my friend,” she said, sounding far away. He shook his head. She knew he had felt it. “I’m ready to go home now, please.”
“What a beautiful couple!” exclaimed Padma, appearing like a nightmare come to life. Hermione flinched, blinded by the rapid flashe of the camera. “Ready to give me that interview, Hermione?”
“We’re in the middle of a dance floor!” she snapped, turning to walk away from Padma and the photographer. She sidestepped Ron, who looked stunned. “I’ll see you later, Ron,” she said over her shoulder.
Padma trailed behind her, jabbering at her back. “We can go to the balcony for the interview.”
“I’m not giving you an interview,” spat Hermione, finally stepping out of the dance floor. She power-walked to the entrance hall. “Leave me alone, Padma.”
“We used to be friends, Hermione!”
At reception, she asked, “can you please get my coat?” the concierge nodded and disappeared through a door. Hermione spun around to face Padma, who was digging inside of her purse. “You are awful to me in that column of yours, friend.”
Padma shrugged and pulled out a Muggle tape recorder. “That’s what sells, Hermione.”
“I’m not telling you anything. And you don’t have permission to record me,” she said, jabbing her finger at the recorder. “You were invited as a personal guest, you know? How would Harry feel--”
“Harry gave the Prophet exclusive rights to cover this party, Hermione,” sighed Padma, tossing the recorder back into her purse. “But fine, if you want to be like that, I’ve got some nice shots of you and Ron dancing and whispering in each other’s ears. I’ll just run with those.”
“Please don’t,” muttered Hermione. “Ron and I are just friends, I’ve told you that plenty of times. If you imply that we’re dating it’ll be a blatant lie.”
“Everyone is rooting for you both,” said Padma, as if Hermione was failing to grasp the full picture. “You’re one of the Wizarding World’s most beloved couples.”
“Except we’re not a couple,” said Hermione angrily. She gave the concierge a grateful smile when he handed her the coat. “Don’t test me, Padma. I’ll sue you for defamation.”
“We have an entire department to deal with that,” she shrugged. “Well, nice chat, but I might be missing some interesting stuff. Let’s catch up some other time.”
“Padma--” said Hermione, watching as the reporter flipped her hair and strutted out of the room, not sparing her another glance.
Hermione exhaled a frustrated breath. Maybe I should’ve drank more.
_
She was exhausted.
Her first day at the MRC in her new position had been a mixture of utter boredom and intense anger and resentment, to the point where she had to stop herself from marching to Hughman’s office and giving him a piece of her mind.
Even if Cartwell’s reports momentarily piqued Hermione’s interest, her mind kept going back to her work with the Slytherins and what she could be doing to help them, instead. She’d spent most of the afternoon sorting through the large stack of files that had been thrown in her office, trying to arrange them into some semblance of order while fighting the urge to burn them to a crisp.
The office was small: the definition of a shoe-box, with brown walls and an old oak desk that seemed on the verge of giving in. Her chair was uncomfortable and sent a sharp pain through Hermione’s spine every time she shifted, which was often.
The only thing keeping her from succumbing to despair was that, at the end of the end, she’d finally see Draco.
They had spent the past couple of days in virtual radio silence. Hermione was scared that Harry would find a letter delivered when she wasn’t home, or worse, Draco Malfoy standing on the rug in their living room. She couldn’t go looking for him; even if Draco had connected the Manor to the Floo network, the thought of going anywhere near that place made her shudder.
Hermione had been kept busy by Ginny’s engagement party, but now she was almost embarrassingly eager to finally get him in touching range. Her stomach fluttered as she thought about it. The day dragged along, her impatience making the time pass even slower.
When the clock finally struck six, Hermione set down the report she was reading, shoved it in the file cabinet, grabbed her purse and haphazardly threw up a locking charm on the office door. Less than five minutes later, she was in front of the fireplaces, waiting for the crowds of stressed-looking MRC staff to dissipate somewhat before murmuring, “Draco’s Residence.”
When she stepped into the flat, she set her purse down on the hallway table, which remained empty except for the Wiggentree she had made Draco buy. She sighed happily, feeling a deep sense of relief.
“Draco?” she called, frowning when she didn’t get a response. They had agreed to meet there at that exact time.
Stepping further into the room, Hermione waved her wand at the curtains to let light filter into the room, then headed for the dining area, where she found Draco sitting at the table, his back to her, bending down to read something.
She smiled automatically, and she felt her heart begin to beat faster. She tiptoed her way towards him, holding her breath so he wouldn’t hear.
When she got close enough, she pressed a sloppy kiss on the side of his neck. “Hello,” she whispered.
“Granger,” he said dryly. Hermione frowned and pulled away, moving to sitting on the edge of the table. She surreptitiously glanced at the paper he was holding, but he moved it away before she could get a glimpse.
Draco’s face was stoic, the usual warmth missing from his eyes. Hermione felt her stomach drop. “Did something happen?” she said. “You look strange.”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “Do I?”
“Alright,” said Hermione, feeling bewildered. “Do you want to talk about it?”
The thing about Draco, thought Hermione, was that he didn’t have to make an effort to look unapproachable. She didn’t know if he had taught himself to do it during the war, when he’d spent so much time struggling to protect himself, or if it was one of those naturally intrinsic traits that someone was born with. In that moment, she hated it.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “I came because you don’t like me to send you owls. Otherwise I’d let you know beforehand that I’m not available this evening.”
“We’ve talked about the owls,” said Hermione. “You know that Harry could stumble on one of your notes and get suspicious.”
“Yes, it’s a shame we can’t find a magical way to avoid that, right?” he said sarcastically. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“Okay, I don't know what's gotten into you,” she said firmly, “but I still haven’t learned how to read minds, so you can either tell me what is bothering you so much or we’ll have to table this conversation.”
“Then I guess we’ll talk some other time,” he spat. Hermione watched him stand up from the chair with wide eyes.
“Oh, come on, Draco,” she said, moving to follow him. He was still expressionless, and she desperately wanted him to react. “I don’t know what’s going on here. Did something happen at home?”
She stepped closer to him, but he kept his gaze pinned to a point behind her head. His jaw clenched. “Did you have fun at your party?”
“Excuse me?” she frowned. "What are you on about? You knew I was going to help Ginny out."
“Yeah, sure,” his voice was infused with false casualness. “I didn’t know you were going to spend the entire night with Weasley, though,” he said, meeting her eyes for the first time.
Hermione arched a brow as she studied him, searching for any hint of what was going through his mind. “That might be a slight exaggeration, I didn’t spend the entire night with him.”
“Was that really the case?” he said, reaching the table in a quick stride. He snatched the paper and held it up for her. Hermione almost rolled her eyes when she saw Padma’s article. She had read it that the morning and filed it away as a bothersome occurrence wholly out of her control.
“That’s what you’re so upset about?” asked Hermione, taking the paper and setting it back down. She didn’t need to see it again. “Frankly, Draco, do I really have to explain to you how silly this is? It’s the bloody Daily Prophet.”
“I don’t give a shite about an article, Granger,” he hissed. “I’m just wondering why the bloody hell you didn’t think to tell me about it first, because I remember you getting pissed when I didn’t say anything about Daphne, remember? When you and I had kissed one fucking time.”
Hermione wanted to reach for him, but he was completely closed off, like he’d flinch away if she tried. “That was a completely different situation,” she said defensively. “Since you didn’t even tell me about Daphne--”
“Oh, did you tell me you were going on a bloody date with the Weasel?” he said flippantly. “I must’ve missed that conversation.”
“It wasn’t a date,” said Hermione, her voice raising a pitch. “What are you even upset about, Draco? Are you jealous that I went with him? Because that’s one issue,” she waved her hand. “Or it’s because of the article? Because that’s another thing altogether. And believe me, I don’t like to see my business plastered every damn where either.”
“Oh, I’m not upset, Granger,” he spat. “What I’m wondering is why you didn’t tell me about it when you know damn well that Weasel doesn’t want to be your friend, and that I might be uncomfortable if I saw a picture of you two together. So why the fuck does it matter how I found out? You still didn’t say anything.”
His words sounded like an accusation. “So bloody what, Draco?” she said in a high voice. “I’m not responsible for his feelings.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he said neutrally. Hermione flinched; she knew how angry he was, but only the crimson tint of his face betrayed the intensity of his feelings. His control intensified her frustration. She hated that she couldn’t get rid of the shakiness in her voice.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying but failing to tamp down her anger. “Did you come here intending to fight with me, Draco?” she said, opening her eyes. “To be frank with you, I didn’t even think to tell you about this. Maybe because it’s not actually a big deal.”
He threw his hands up, a mirthless laugh escaping his lips. “Alright, I’ll remember that the next time I even think about--” He stopped himself.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “About what?”
Draco groaned out loud. “Nothing, fucking nothing. The issue here--”
“Oh no, not so easy,” she said. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”
They stared at each other in silence. Hermione held her gaze, unwilling to let him look away.
“Why does it fucking matter?” he said at last. “You don’t tell me shite, so I’m not obliged to tell you shite either.”
“What do I keep from you, Draco?” said Hermione, exasperated and confused, feeling like he’d dug into her ribs. “Because you know plenty about my friendship with Ron. I didn’t think I needed to explain it to you any further. Or did you forget all the times that I’ve trusted you with my problems?” she said. “What are you hiding from me?”
He swallowed, and something like clarity washed over his face. “You know what? Forget I said anything, Hermione,” he sighed, the fight seeming to leak out of his body.
Hermione shook her head incredulously. “You’re such a hypocrite, Draco,” she whispered. “You’re going off on me for not telling you about Ron when you never open up to me about what happens in your life. Or are you going to withhold information whenever I do something that pisses you off?”
“Oh, for Salazar’s sake,” he scoffed. “You’re doing an amazing job of turning things around. Congratulations, Granger. You deserve a pat on the back. You earned it.”
“It’s not my fault you can’t hold your own in a damn argument,” she snapped. Suddenly, the tension tainted the air between them again, and she saw a vein in his neck throb.
“Maybe I’m not putting an effort because this is a waste of my bloody time.”
“What is?” asked Hermione breathlessly. “This stupid fight? Or whatever this thing between us is? Or me?”
“Maybe all of it!” he exclaimed. Hermione felt her eyes begin to sting. “Fuck, I didn’t meant that. Listen, Granger--”
“How convenient for you that it becomes a waste of your time when you have to explain yourself, isn’t it?” she whispered. “It doesn’t feel good to be backed into a corner? You can’t admit when you’re bloody wrong?”
Hermione saw the second that he shut down, like a concrete wall had been built around him in the blink of an eye. She felt desperate to knock it down, and the urgency of that feeling sent fear straight into her gut -- is this it, now? This again?
It shook her to the core -- the thought that this was the point where she let herself fall into the same damn traps. The ones she knew were of her own making; where she buried her own hurts for the sake of someone else’s .
In the back of her head, she heard a voice begging for her to run, before it got even worse.
“I didn’t actually come here to argue with you, alright?” His voice sounded like buzzing in her ears.
“You know what? I’m going home,” murmured Hermione, brushing past him into the hall.
“Are you serious?” he said. “You don’t need to go, Hermione. I didn’t mean it when I said it was a waste of my time. And I was just saying--”
“No,” she cut him off. “I’m not staying to hear you spew your bullshit--”
“It’s not bullshit,” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “I can explain--”
Hermione didn’t look at him as she grabbed her purse from the hall table. “Now you want to explain? Why the sudden change of mind?”
“Maybe I didn’t realize you’d flee at the first fucking opportunity,” he snapped. “I was mad, alright, but what’s the bloody point of this if you’re going to leave before I have the chance to say my piece?”
She didn't have the energy to tell him that she couldn’t, that the need to leave had wrapped around her body like a straightjacket.
“You know, Hermione,” he said in an icy voice. “Why don’t you admit you’re always one foot out of the fucking door?” He ran his hand through a chunk of hair. “You’re really not going to listen to me?”
She didn’t answer.
Draco rubbed his hands over his face. “Hermione, let’s talk about this.”
Finally, she paused. “No,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t want to talk to you, Draco.”
“I didn’t mean what I said,” he muttered, sounding far away.
“But you meant other things,” said Hermione. “I’m going to leave before you say things that you can’t take back--” Her voice was barely audible, like something different would come out if she spoke too loud. Something more similar to I’m going to leave before I give you the chance to break my heart.
“Granger.”
“Stop it,” she begged. “I know you’re going to feel like a fool in the morning when you realize that you tried to hurt me over a bruised ego. I’m going to leave so we actually have a chance to come back from this. But you better listen to me when I say--” Her voice cracked. “This is the first and the last time I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
She waited for him to say something -- anything to make her want to stay. But the feeling inside of her was growing more insistent, like the ground was about to open under her feet.
She heard his footsteps behind her. Her stomach clenched, and before she fully knew what she was doing, she grabbed the floo powder and stepped into the fireplace.
She heard him call her name before the flames completely engulfed her.