Paperweight
Will, Draco’s, living quarters were made up of a tiny bedroom with a single bed, sunken mattress and old iron bed frame, a small, open stove with a few small kitchen cabinets, and a sink.
“The, erm, bathroom is down the hall,” he said, ears pinking. “Though I dyed it here the first time. Thought it would be easier to clean up.”
It was even smaller than the shop below, even smaller than she expected. She could probably stand at the other side of the room and still hear his heart beat.
“What colour did you originally choose,” she asked, opening the box and removing the insides.
“Don’t know. Dark brown? I got overwhelmed,” he said with a self-conscious laugh.
“That’s fair,” she agreed. “There were so many.”
“I think there was a man on the box,” he added, both of them looking at the woman with a bright glossy smile on the front of the one Hermione had brought. “Don’t suppose it’s any different?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
She hadn’t engineered it to be intimate, but it was. Draco wet his hair under the sink in the kitchen area, trying his best to squeeze out the moisture before it flicked all over her, using an old dish towel. They both cast around for something to drape on his shoulders as Hermione tried and failed to think of a dye-repelling charm. In the end he just took his top off.
Hermione tried very hard not to look at the network of thin scars bisecting his chest, the smudged Dark Mark on his forearm.
“Let me cover -”
“Just leave it,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “It’s fine.”
It was a good reminder of everything that separated them, it was an intriguing thing to be so close to. To see the already blurring and fading depiction of his cruelty.
She squeezed the dye into a small bowl, put the plastic gloves on. She had also, because she didn’t want to do it badly, purchased a small brush which she used to apply the dye onto his roots. Belatedly, she realised there was probably a better, magical way to do it, but she didn’t know any.
“I never wanted it,” he said, as she was focusing on the back of his head. His voice was low, confessional. She stayed quiet. “I mean, not really. It was - I didn’t think about any of it. What it truly meant. I just thought what I was told and went along with it and I hate that I did.”
Hermione carefully sifted through the back of his hair, letting her fingers run through his strands, pressing against his skull. He leaned into her touch.
“I don’t know how to atone for it,” he continued. “I’m not asking you for ideas or anything. I just - I want you to know that I've been thinking. A lot.”
“Didn’t have time for much of that before,” she asked caustically, before remembering their strange truce.
“I was lazy,” he said, not defensive, just honest. “I was lazy and it was easier to be evil than anything else.”
She didn’t have anything to say to that, not as she was moving around to the front of his head. Soon she’d be stood between his knees. Would his head be level with her stomach? Her breasts? She wasn’t sure how to categorise her desire and her anger at him. This could have been easy, and yet nothing about it was.
“I’m sorry,” he said, when she was looking him in the eye, dabbing dye onto his eyebrows with her finger. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”
She paused.
“I know.”
She couldn’t forgive him yet. She still wanted him.
They were silent as she moved around his hairline. The rest of it was standing on its ends, the dye at his roots making it stick outwards. He looked vaguely ridiculous, and she snorted.
“What’s funny?”
“You look almost like Harry.”
He laughed.
“My hair must be longer now.”
“It is,” she admitted. “Maybe fourth year Harry.”
“Godrick, I was such a prick,” he said, closing his eyes as she moved closer to ensure she had every strand of silver. “Why are you even here?”
“I -” she didn’t know. “I suppose I like being with Will,” she said, as truthfully as she could. He was quiet again.
“I like being Will,” he said after a while, as she was moving the rest of the dye through the hair. She hummed in agreement.
“Do you think you would have liked Will?” He asked, as they both settled in to wait for the dye to do its job. “If you had met him, first?”
She thought about this, looking everywhere but him. Given the place was so small, she had to return to meet his gaze eventually.
“Yeah,” she admitted with a small smile. “I think I would have really fancied him.”
His eyes widened in surprise, and then he grinned, a little bashful.
“Really?”
“Uh huh. Brunettes are more my type.”
He snorted, fiddling with the edge of the chair. He was still slight, in the way that showed off his muscles. She wondered if he was eating properly.
“Fair.”
“What about Will,” she asked, emboldened by the proximity. “Would Will have…have fancied me?”
He looked at her.
“Yeah. I did. I mean - yeah. Hermione. I would have really fancied you.”
She wasn’t sure if that made it better. His eyes dipped to her arm.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Go for it.”
She was in it, in his space. In close quarters. It was quiet. She wanted him to keep talking.
“Is it still there?”
It took her a moment to realise what he was asking. Then she brought up her sleeve.
“No,” she said, displaying a clear stretch of forearm. “All gone.”
He nodded, evidently relieved. “Good.” He reached for her arm, pressing a kiss to the expanse of skin. She shivered. “Good.”
They made small talk, safe small talk, until he had to wash it out. Hermione massaged his head, tilted backwards over the sink, until the cold water ran clear. Draco kept his eyes closed the whole time, one hand on her waist to steady himself. Or to touch her. She wasn't sure. Since he had kissed the smooth skin of her arm he hadn’t let go of her, and she had found she didn’t mind.
She blew hot air at him from her wand until he was dry, his hair standing up again all over the place. He looked into the tiny cracked mirror and laughed with electrocuted energy, still holding her hand.
She ended up kissing him again. Slower, exploratory. Peaceful. She luxuriated in the feel of his still-bare chest, he shivered as her hands ran over him, lightly at first, then more wanting as the kissing went on. They were breathless, and tentative and eager all at once. She wound up lying against him on his bed, which he tried, and failed to extend. They were giggling about it, one of his thighs in between her legs, his weight half-on her. He didn’t look at her as though she was anything less than special.
“When do you go back - Monday?”
“Mmm,” she said, pressing a kiss to the clear, unscarred skin above his heart. “Monday.”
He captured her lips again, pressing soft, pleading kisses to them.
“Are you actually going to write to me?”
She considered it as he pressed more kisses. Ones that felt threatened by the rest of the world and were all the sweeter because of it.
“On one condition,” she eventually replied, as his hand snuck under her shirt, thumb moving back and forth over her rib as the rest of his fingers curled round her.
“What’s that?”
“I’m writing to Draco.”
He paused at that, pulling back to look her in the eye.
“Only if you accept my present,” he said eventually.
“Present?” She tried and failed to pretend to not be interested in what he had purchased for her.
He grinned at her enthusiasm, reached for his wand on the bedside. A small thing came
zooming out from underneath the bed.
He had wrapped it in some of the tissue paper they used in the shop, and he moved to support her, nestling her against him as her fingers unravelled the heavy circular object.
“Why did you get me a present,” she asked, before she could see what it was.
“Because,” he said, his fingers tracing over hers as she held it. She pulled away the tissue.
It was a paperweight. Clear, heavy glass that looked like water. And inside -
“An otter!”
The otter had been bewitched to swim within the glassy depths. It made eye contact with her and twinkled.
“I thought, if you ever run out of paperclips.” His attempt at a shrug was hindered by her weight on top of him. “You might want something to stop your notes from flying away.”
“I accept your present,” she said, leaning into him, surprised at how thoughtful it was.
“Then I will look forward to your letters.”
She left the next morning, pocket weighed down with the paperweight, lighter, as she always was, when she had spent time with him. And when she got home, she wrote him a thank you note.
Dear Draco,
Ottilie (I have named the otter) is a bit resentful at being packed in a trunk. I have told her it is not for long, but as she cannot hear me she is not reassured.
Thank you for the gift. Thank you for letting me write to you. I will inform you of all the goings on - who is teaching DADA, who Slughorn has earmarked for his Club, how the reconstruction goes.
I will also let you know my new stationery goes down, though if anyone asks I might not tell them where I got it from. Imagine if I came to restock my supplies and couldn’t have private tours of the workshop because you had to do your job?
Let me know how things are. If you ever want to visit, I know of a few secret passageways.
Yours,
Hermione x