Come Find Me, Hermione

Saturday

If someone had told Draco this morning that he would end up snuggling on a couch with Hermione Granger by supper time, he would have laughed in their face and perhaps hexed them for their stupidity. And yet—here he lay. Granger tucked up under his chin, her small hands clutching his jumper above his startled heart. His eyes blinked wide into the dark.

Ten hours earlier—Draco was fretting about normal things. Such as the tragic inconvenience of his life.

There was clearly no place suitable to study French dark magic with Hermione. Draco wasn’t folding himself into Granger’s sitting room ever again—no matter how many interesting things she had crammed into that flat. And he wasn’t bringing her home to meet Aunt Andromeda and explain to his nosey aunt that, why yes, I am taking a girl into my potions lab—Definitely not.

He doubted she would ever condescend to use his lab at Malfoy Manner. Why, Hermione, why ever wouldn’t you want to come with me, the boy who called you mudblood—the former Death Eater—to study beneath the same roof that dear Aunt Bella tortured you under for hours? Will my parents be there? Oh, well yes, actually, both of them! Including dear father, who still thinks of you as a diseased Muggle. She was just sure to exude enthusiasm and—But, how charming it will be. Right before she hexed him with a Bat-Bogey.

They couldn’t very well bring a demon summoning half sentient text to the local wizarding library. Little witches and wizards would be present having not even been to Hogwarts yet.

This called for the aid of an overly wealthy friend with a neutral living space that they could blow up with very little by the way of consequences. And besides, hadn’t Hermione mentioned being chummy with Theo already?

Having decided, Draco penned a request to Granger that they meet that morning at Theo’s residence. He used his best stationery (a gift from Mother with magnificence Antipodean Opaleye dragons crouched in the corners of the paper) and his glossiest black ink.

He neglected to bother informing Theo of this arrangement until he arrived via Floo. Draco stalked to the nearest drawing room rather put out by the lack of hospitality.

Theo startled up from what looked to be a very deep nap. He was surrounded by scrolls, and empty vessels: tea cups, martini glasses, water cups, and champagne flutes.

“What are you doing here? I forgot you’re still at large. I hope you didn’t terrify my house-elf. I’ve only just gotten her comfortable with my own eccentricities. Seems a bit much to expose her to yours.”

“You mustn’t have read my letter,” Draco flopped into a chair crossing his ankles.

“What letter? You never sent me a letter?”

“Didn’t I?” Draco frowned at his former friend puzzled. Then patted down his pockets, found a half used napkin with the request scribbled down.

“Ah, here it is.” He slapped the napkin down by Theo’s drink, which needed a coaster anyway. Only sadists and animals left cups out to accrue rings on antique wooden surfaces—of which, Theo was both.

Theo scowled lifting the napkin to the light. He had to squint, trying to make out the handwriting, and complained, “This says, coming by around 10, please provide those jammy biscuits with tea.” Theo pursed his mouth in deep contemplation. “I didn’t know you liked a jammy biscuit. I thought you were partial to the ginger snaps.”

“They have a nice crumble.”

“They do, don’t they? But I’m afraid Hermione finished the last batch yesterday.”

Draco startled. Just how often was Hermione over? Not that it was any of his business of course. Despite all the rumors, he’d never seriously considered Theo and Hermione as a pair. If they were dating, he’d have expected Theo would be chastised into something more . . . distinguished wasn’t the right word (Theo oozed a lazy, old blooded sort of distinguishment), but productive reformation, Draco supposed. That he hadn’t changed at all as far as Draco could determine, meant either Hermione wasn’t all that interested in Theo or vice versa—in which case, how had they been together this long? They couldn’t actually be friends, could they? Not even Draco felt like he was truly Theo’s friend. They talked of absolutely nothing when they talked at all—which had been not at all for almost a year.

Theo continued on oblivious to Draco’s puzzlement. “I’m sure we can whip something up,” Theo sighed testily.

(And by we he meant his House-elves, of course, Draco thought.)

“Well, we shall certainly need something with tea. I’m famished, and anything that keeps Granger occupied will be a bonus. I don’t suppose you have a sticky caramel. Something from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes that might glue her teeth shut?”

Theo raised a single eyebrow. “Sure, if you want to be hexed into the next year.”

The Floo activated, and the chipper voice of a house-elf reached them as Granger marched into the lounge. Draco scowled. The House-elf hadn’t greeted him upon arrival.

Granger looked . . . flushed. Draco frowned eyeing her up and down. Her hair was in a sort of nest—wand sticking out of it. Her Muggle denims rolled up past her ankles, and her boxy red jumper stuffed in the right front hip of her denims as though she often stuck her hand in that pocket and the sweater got stuck that way.

The book chest floated behind her on a spelled tether, bumping into the back of her head as she came to a quick halt glowering at Draco.

“Welcome, welcome, tea Tassel?” Theo lay back down on the couch.

Tassel muttered in French peppered by “Oui” and left with a put out CRACK!

Theo blinked after his departed House-elf. “Must have interrupted her knitting hour. I do hope you two can scrounge up some complementary words for tea no matter what you’re served because I don’t much fancy a dinner of canned fish and crackers if you offend her so much she leaves me in a lurch.”

“I’m sure we can muster some appreciation.” Hermione huffed and blew hair from her eyes to glower at Draco—as if he were the one who offended the little elf. “If we must do this, let's get it done quickly,” she declared.

Draco took a seat opposite the couch, summoning the book chest so he could unlock the protective spells he’d cast over it. The fiendish text had been at its mischief again. This time placing some truly mean jinxes in the locking mechanism meant to crinkle the opener’s fingers.

Draco chuckled as he got to work breaking each jinx down, and Hermione turned to Theo with a judgmental sweeping stare. Then she sat at the edge of the couch, and, whipped out her planners, and began scribbling.

Not unattractive to begin with, there was a covert lie about Granger. Some days (like this one) she appeared so understated and formal. It occurred to him now that she must be hiding something truly interesting—like the witch who wore that tarty little pale green number to work last Monday. Especially if she didn’t even blush at naming her boring puzzle night PLEASURE. Was it possibly an orgy after all? Draco hummed distractedly.

The possibilities he had skipped over.

The loss of such interesting encounters he knew had occurred within Hogwarts library. (Not with Granger, obviously, but there were surely others . . . ) Perhaps there was a reason Granger used scouring charms so frequently. Had she used one on the tabletop before sitting down just now?

Not that scouring a table necessarily implied anything more than general good hygiene. Draco himself did so automatically. A force of habit from extensive potions making.

Draco had become accustomed to regret. It had become a painfully present companion these past few years. But he was wholly unprepared for the vast array of missed opportunities spiraling through his mind as he studied Granger, biting at that stupid quill tip in thought, scribbling away with such determined focus. He wondered if she showed equal exactness and curiosity in every field of study.

Draco froze at this thought. Occluding it away with no small amount of mortification. These would be very unwelcome thoughts to Granger, if she were aware of them and rather unpleasant to Draco himself.

The quicker they finished with the book the better.

“Oui!” Tassel appeared at Draco’s elbow, peering over his arm at the book he held.

Tea spread out over the coffee table, with little finger sandwiches.

“How did you come by such a book?” The house-elf looked reprovingly at Draco.

“I didn’t come by it,” Draco scowled replying in French, surprised to be so accosted. He was used to Aunt Andromeda’s far more doting, homey house-elf.

“How do you know of it?” Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Every House-elf knows of this book,” Tassel scolded in quick French and propped her hands on her hips. “You should put it away and not take it out again!”

“I would, but a very bad wizard gave it as a gift to entrap Miss Granger, and if I don’t help her translate it, she’d be sure to keep it around and die in some horrible manner,” Draco complained.

Theo snorted, smiling lazily. “I’m certain she’d survive.”

Hermione was biting her lip, scowling furiously at Tassel as she tried to keep up with her rapid French.

“This is the guest you have to tea, jeune monsieur?”

“Oui!” Theo toasted his house-elf with his teacup cheerfully.

Hermione nibbled at her third cucumber sandwich, eyes darting back and forth. Draco turned to her.

“Theo’s house-elf—“

“Tassel.” Hermione nodded.

“Tassel, knows about this book. And she thinks we ought to lock it away someplace dark, dank, and with other dangerous items that should never see the light of day. Isn’t that right, Tassel?” Draco turned back to the elf.

“Oui, oui!” Tassel nodded urgently.

“But why?” Hermione leaned forward eagerly. “What makes this text so dangerous?”

Tassle wrung the little towel stuffed into her chef apron pocket. Her brow pinched fretfully, she shook her head in distress.

“I imagine she can’t say.” Draco watched the elf. For the first time interested in just what this spell book might contain that a house-elf would concern themselves with it. In general house-elf and wizard magic were different things.

Hermione was on her sixth sandwich. Had she always been such a hearty eater? Draco recalled her as a nibbler at Hogwarts.

“What, like an oath?” Hermione met his eyes thoughtfully.

“It’s not from my library.” Theo yawned into his tea, his biscuit over-soaked and splashing into his cup.

“How long ago was it that you knew about this book?” Hermione asked the house-elf, her hair already starting to float with excitement.

Tassel shook her head vehemently. “Non, non, non. I shall make jammy biscuits now.” She CRACK’ed away.

“Well, now we’ll have a time finding out,” Draco grumbled.

“I didn’t see you asking any useful questions!” Hermione protested.

“I suppose you’ll just have to translate the book to find out then,” Theo discarded his tea and rolled over on the couch. “Keep it down, I’m trying to nap.”

“Alright, but you’ll have to order your house-elf to leave the book alone.”

Hermione gaped, outrage marching its way from her ears down towards her mouth in what was sure to be a magnificent speech about prejudice and false accusations.

“Unless you’d like for the book to disappear by elf magic—and she’ll probably hide it somewhere she can’t retrieve it even if Theo orders her to?”

“Are you calling her a thief?”

“If you’re implying just because she’s a house-elf she must be a thief, no. I’m implying that Theo’s house-elf has a habit of getting her way. And it wouldn’t be the first time something went missing for our own good.” Draco sent Theo a significant look.

“Too true!” Theo toasted carelessly.

“I do not abide with house-elf slander.” Hermione shifted her knees sitting stiff.

“Noted,” Draco dismissed the issue. He cast several tracking spells, slipping obvious ones on the book’s chest hinges and then the book’s spine, and subtler ones on the ink and central pages—just in case Tassel made off with the tomb.

Next, he set up a containment circle, levitated the book open before them so no one need touch its sin-riddled pages, and sat down, crowding Hermione over into Theo’s space to begin reading.

Hermione grudgingly moved over, sitting on Theo’s hip.

Theo whimpered about invasions and stalked out of the room. Hopefully, Draco thought, to order up something more edible than tea sandwiches. Nothing so horrid as high tea when one was really hungry. And Granger looked starved enough to eat the upholstery.

After Hermione sent several annoying glances from the sandwich platter to Draco, he nudged the tray her way. Granger soon polished off the platter while Draco worked—he’d never been fond of cucumbers.

Once fed, Granger popped her beaded bag into her lap and began digging.

That bloody bag was going to end up in a museum someday. Probably with an accompanying display of all the oddities that witch had ever carried around with her. Draco snorted to himself imagining tents and cook pots, banned books, and perhaps a corpse or three.

To absolutely no one's surprise, she produced five tombs from her ridiculously small beaded bag. (Library books, all—of course.) They were practical rune books, Draco admitted to himself grudgingly.

The day passed in a slog of translations. Granger arguing with him over French—Draco having the gratification of being correct more often.

Theo never did return with food.

But the light grew heavy and bright with evening, the room drenched in warmth and gold. Draco took a break, sprawling behind Hermione on the couch with a tricky bit of rune work on his notepad. He only closed his eyes for a moment, puzzling it over. Though he was fairly certain an advanced balding curse wasn’t the spell Granger was meant to have found—not that he believed she was meant to find anything at all. The book was a gift to kill or maim her horribly. It was just Draco’s misfortune to have been the only wizard about to sensible enough to keep the witch from killing herself.

Hermione was slumped back against his legs, her head dropping and nodding over a heavy tomb when Draco slipped into pleasant unconsciousness.

Only to wake in the dark, warm and comfortable, his arms cradling someone smaller but soft. His fingers stroked across a smooth shoulder blade, his other hand trapped beneath a soft cheek. He sighed into a head full of curls. Eyes about to drift closed once more when the horrible question brushed lightly across his consciousness—gentle as a drifting leaf.

Whose curls?

His girlfriends had all had silky, straight hair.

His nephew had short spider-silk fine hair.

A feminine chest swelled against his stomach, a warm breath sighed into his collar.

The room was black.

He was warm.

She fit perfectly against him.

Perhaps he could just, pretend he’d never woken, and she could wake up and deal with this travesty herself. Why should he have to fix everything?

This was all well and even a bit comfortable. If she’d been any other girl, Draco would have drifted back to sleep on the scent of her flowery shampoo.

But this was Granger.

She wouldn’t—couldn’t—be happy to wake in Draco’s arms. She’d likely jinx him—hadn’t Weasley bragged that she’d turned a reporter into a bug or something? Kept her in a jar like a hag with a living ingredient?

Draco didn’t fancy being kept like a cockroach in a jar.

But how was he to escape without waking the slumbering menace in his arms? Especially when his body was so very content to simply stay put.

The horrid book saved him.

He became aware of a frightful whispering. At first, his heart froze over thinking Granger had woken and was already working up a proper jinx. But then his sleepy mind noted the impeccable French.

Throwing Granger off like he might a blanket—she squawked and rolled half under the coffee table—Draco leaped up on the couch.

The evil book was conjuring an endless sleep spell.

He could just imagine the healers at St. Mungo eyeing Draco and Hermione entwined on a couch, clutching one another come morning. He loathed this book. It belonged in a crate full of nails.

Draco lit the room, squinting at the containment circle he’d drawn up that morning. It was eroding in one corner. As though the book had found a crack in his spell and wedged it open.

“What’s happened?” Granger’s curly head popped up. Her fist scrubbed at her cheek where it had been pressed to his chest.

“This bloody book is going to kill us Granger,” Draco sighed, scrubbing at his hair.

Granger met his gaze grimly. “But why, Malfoy?”

“Because someone still hates Muggle-born witches? Because you’ve angered a mean old blooded family—I don’t know Hermione! Who haven’t you taken a piss at during the war? Your work at the Ministry? It could be anyone.”

“Anyone with access to an ancient French book of jinxes.”

“Or maybe they wanted you to find it and give it to Potter to lock away.” Draco wished that were the case.

“I thought you said it was a stalker?” Hermione climbed to her feet, legs wobbly with sleep.

“Yes, one who apparently doesn’t mind if you kill yourself during their courtship.”

She had the decency to pale.

“Leave the book with me, Hermione. Please?” Draco asked already expecting her to refuse.

“Alright.” She replied quiet and thoughtful.

“Right then.” He blinked rapidly.

“Goodnight then, Draco.” Hermione was flushed as she gathered up her library tombs and scurried from the room.

Draco stared at nothing for a long time.

Had she woken soon enough to notice the way they’d been arranged?

It wasn’t his fault. He’d fallen asleep first.

She’d been the one who got all cuddly.

He felt jinxed and uncertain.

Hermione Granger had agreed with him—taken him seriously. Worse, he didn’t think he’d ever forget the feel of her. Her hair was so much softer than it looked. She was softer than she looked. The phantom press of her breathing echoed back in his mind.

No.

No, she hadn’t noticed.

Merlin, he hoped she hadn’t noticed.

Wednesday(s)

Puzzlers, Logic Enthusiasts, and Amateurs,

Solving Unique Riddles and Enigmas.

“Thank you for coming Professor.” Hermione smiled wanly at her former Head of House.

“A PLEASURE as always Hermione, dear. And you can call me Minerva now.” Light hands patted Hermione’s as Minerva looked about urgently for the beverage table.

Theo was the main provider of wine, on the steep condition that he be invited into the secret society of puzzlers—despite having no interest in Muggle picture puzzles and a great deal too much interest in refilling Luna’s glass several times over before he was brave enough to venture into conversation—by which time, the only conversation to be had was a polite good night, see you next Wednesday.

“Hello, Hermione!” Luna’s voice chimed from behind.

Hermione turned to find the white-haired witch covered in bright green felt balls all over her jumper. Her hair was swept into a thick fishtail braid, and she had a hair band also covered in round felt balls.

“How did your scavenger hunt go?” Luna asked pleasantly.

“Oh! Did Theo not tell you? It led to a French rune book.”

“Do you know who set the hunt up for you?”

“No, but it turns out to be a rather dangerous book. And Harry wants Malfoy to help translate it with me. To be honest, he has been rather helpful.” Hermione grimaced.

“Draco is very smart when it comes to the things he cares about.” Luna smiled fondly. “You know, I don’t think he was ever very happy. He’s much warmer these days. Perhaps he just needed more hugs.” Luna squeezed herself, smiling.

Hermione felt ill.

Conversations with Luna were fraught with casually concussive vulnerabilities. Tonight, Hermione felt as though her internal life had just been dumped out of a paper bag at her own feet. Spoken aloud for anyone and everyone to hear.

Hermione’s smile grew stilted. It had been six and a half days (Sunday, two Mondays, Two Tuesdays, and a Wednesday and a half) since she’d woken in the dark, snuggling into Malfoy’s chest like a worm toward an apple core seeking heat and comfort.

Six and a half long days in which she relived the soft scrape of his thumb across her shoulder blade. The possessive curl of his fingers in her hair. The deep, contented sigh that traveled through his entire, lean, warm body—as if holding her were the best feeling in the world.

It had been the best feeling in her world.

She wanted to die.

She half wished he’d let the book murder them.

She couldn’t be thinking of Draco Malfoy like this. She hated Malfoy. Obviously. He wasn’t supposed to smell nice. His shirt smelled of freshly laundered fabric and expensive French aftershave.

“Maybe you should invite him,” Luna continued the bombardment. “Your book seems like it would make an excellent puzzle to work on during PLEASURE nights. Do you think Draco would come if you asked him? I’d like to get his thoughts about my Mooncalf theories.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to think of Malfoy invading her little sitting room ever again.

“How did your Mooncalf survey go? Was Theo any help?” Hermione threw out desperately.

“Oh yes, we got a lot of data on the way moonlight reflects from their eyes. I think there is a special magic to it, but I’ll have to check again on the next full moon. Though, I’m afraid we frightened off several house-elves.”

“There were house-elves out with the Mooncalfs?” Hermione perked up curiously.

“Oh yes. They must have been doing their own studies. I wish they hadn’t been so shy. It would have been pleasant to share our findings.”

Hermione was pleased to think of house-elves gathering together to research. Unless they were sent there by some lazy wizard to conduct studies. Which—she had to admit—was rather more likely.

Hermione led Luna in Minerva’s footsteps towards the drink table and helped herself to a large bowl (which everyone was kindly referring to as a mere glass—though Hermione was fairly certain she’d had soup bowls with less volume) of mulled wine. (Being in Hermione and Ginny’s apartment, with only two real wine glasses, meant bowls, mugs, and even some plates, had to be transfigured to the cause of wine.)

Luna helped herself to a much smaller glass, and Hermione smiled as Theo came up to pour a splash for Luna and half the bottle into Hermione’s.

Theo was eyeing Luna’s sweater, as though the felt balls held a mystical purpose. Knowing Luna, there probably was.

“Hello, Theodore.”

“Luna,” Theo muttered flushed.

“Cheers!” Hermione left them to their horrendous flirting and squeezed onto the couch opposite Minerva over a puzzle of a thousand cats. Settling in, she gulped her wine unable to drive Malfoy from her thoughts even as she picked up a puzzle piece.

She had to admit, he had been a more than tolerable partner. His painfully thorough translation process had seen them through only the first page of runes. He’d cast spells of binding and had scolded the text like it were a sadistic and senile great aunt that was left to his family. Hermione was disappointed to find the first spell was nothing more than a balding hex, which she was half-certain the book had shuffled forward in its pages just to mess with them.

Malfoy set her to researching the runes while he handled the book itself. And no amount of persuasions called Tassel back to be questioned. Not even when Hermione painfully admitted she was hungry and the tea sandwiches were gone. More sandwiches arrived—but no house-elf.

Theo took their occupation of his favorite lounge in good spirits. Passing by the doorway to mouth ‘Do you need rescuing?’ every half hour. He’d eyed Malfoy almost as closely as Hermione had. And the contemplative look he’d cast her way since Saturday night was wholly unwelcome.

She had to wonder if he’d seen.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. Much less crawling up onto the couch with Malfoy to cuddle.

Hermione drank to each painful memory.

P.L.E.A.S.U.R.E. night was supposed to be Hermione’s mid-week brain rest. The idea of Malfoy joining this peaceful setting made her want to wail into a pillow.

There were some Ravenclaws present, arguing over sphinx riddles and poetry. But the majority of the party drank wine and had some biscuits or crisps for nibbles.

Minerva’s chatter required almost no response other than the obligatory nod. She was a surprisingly restful presence, her sharp mind honed almost entirely upon the puzzle itself. She sipped her wine and talked absently with Hermione of promising first years and troublemakers—avoiding the bank incident entirely.

For Hermione’s part, she found two puzzle pieces, and the bottom of her wine bowl glass before she bid her guest goodnight.