Are They Lovers?
Hermione had a proclivity for a good story. After all, she was famously recognized as the brightest witch of her age, which meant she had done her fair share of reading. Though it was more than that. She could recognize an extraordinary story from the first sentence. Be it written, recorded, acted out, or simply told.
Now that’s not to say she didn’t always agree with the story at large. For example; she found it difficult not to correct the inaccuracies should they happen, or ask clarifying questions if necessary. Which, if one could imagine, oftentimes ruined the anecdote the story was aiming for. But it didn’t matter, because a good story, one worth retelling or re-reading, could always stand up against her inquisitive impulses and her need to relay the correct information.
So though the sentence “Hermione, you remember Draco, yeah?” might not necessarily capture one’s astute attention (except for possibly out of fright), Hermione knew instantly that whatever story might follow was going to be a good one.
Only…. Harry sucked at telling stories.
Really, he was abysmal at it.
It wasn’t entirely his fault— he just wasn’t a very energetic person, or a creative one for that matter. His favorite spell was Expelliarmus for Christ’s sake.
Did it work? Sure. Did it lack any amount of imagination? Yes. Yes it did. Did she still love him despite that? Of course she did. That would never change.
Though, a better explanation other than “Draco lives here now” would have been greatly appreciated.
Hell, she would have settled for a shorter version of the story, or one that might have explained how and when Malfoy had gone from… well… Malfoy, to Draco. Or even when the renovations of 12 Grimmauld Place had taken place.
Better yet, she was dying to know who had influenced which changes, because there was enough of each of them in the changes that made her question so many things. The why was obvious of course.
Malfoy (or should she also call him Draco? She wasn’t sure.) What she was sure about, however, was the fact that the new look was one hundred percent because of him. Harry had never taken the initiative to “spruce” up the place before. Not when he first moved in right after the war. Not when Ron and Hermione had followed, or when they had left, and not when Ginny had moved in a year later.
So now she was sitting on a ridiculously posh, and just a tad gaudy, settee waiting for one of them to say something– anything really. Apparently Draco (Malfoy?) wasn’t much of a storyteller either. In fact, the only things he had said since she arrived was ‘Granger’ and ‘Don’t worry, I’m under strict instructions to be on my best behavior.’ She had raised a brow at that, not sure if she should be offended he thought he needed to voice that, or that apparently the arse-hat was even issued such an instruction.
She had enquired then, with Harry, if she was also supposed to be on her best behavior, because she could not remember him issuing the same instructions to her before bombarda-ing her with Draco freaking Malfoy. There had been a joke about how she wouldn’t listen even if he had made such a request, which was true, and the subject was then dropped in favor of asking about her tan.
“You look great, really Hermione. All sun-kissed and glowing. Australia did you some good.”
“It was lovely, it always is.” She thanked Malfoy (Draco? Lord it was confusing) when he handed her a cup of tea (which was weird as fuck if she was being honest). He gave a sharp nod and a smirk? The whole thing made her feel off kilter but Harry had pushed on, bringing about some normalcy to the evening and redirecting her attention away from the possible smirk Mal-Draco had given.
“Did you actually go to the beach this time then? This nice glow isn’t from working in the garden or reading on some patio somewhere?” Both he and Ron had teased her relentlessly last year when she took her annual trip to see her parents, about her ‘farmers tan’ which really was atrocious.
“It just so happens, Harry Potter,” she tried to give him her best scolding voice, not at all happy about him trying to tease her in front of Dra-Malfoy, but knowing it fell a bit flat, “that I found a nude beach a few clicks away from my hotel, and it was lovely.” No tan lines for her, not this year. Well, except for the small white (more like soft peach) spot around her pelvic bone.
It was a muggle thing– putting a sticker on your skin when tanning. Typically it was the playboy bunny, or a sticker in the shape of a dick or something else provocative. Of course there were butterflies or flowers. In her case it was a dragon. She wasn’t sure why she had picked it. Maybe because she still wanted to keep some of the magical world with her while on a very muggle holiday. Maybe it was because the sticker was cute and it was unique. Or, less common than a bunny or something else ostentatious.
Not that she was going to tell Harry any of that. Or Malfoy-Draco. Not when Draco-Malfoy was already choking on his tea over the fact she had been at a nude beach. She hadn’t even confessed to being nude.
“Such delicate sensibilities, mate.” Harry teased. At least she wasn’t the only one he was teasing.
“Not your mate.” Malf-Draco sputtered between coughs.
It was weird… very weird. The awkwardness only grew when Harry excused himself to check on dinner (which wasn’t needed considering she knew it was Kreacher cooking) and left Hermione and Malfoy (she was pretty sure she was going to settle on calling him Malfoy) alone together.
“You can ask your questions now, Granger.” He sighed after about five minutes of utter silence.
“Pardon?”
“Your questions. I’m sure you have a million of them swimming in that overly large brain of yours.” He sounded tired. He looked it too, like he was operating on buckets of tea (of which he was currently refilling his cup with), a tinge of anger, and something else that Hermione couldn’t place. Sadness perhaps.
Harry had mentioned he was engaged once. Ginny was supposedly friends with his fiancé, though Hermione couldn’t remember what her name was. She was younger than them, she knew that much, but that was about it. Either way, there was no ring on his finger indicating he was married now. She didn’t need to be a genius to know something had happened there.
He was, after all, filthy rich. Like, he could quite possibly buy over half of wizarding London and not even bat an eye while doing it type of rich. Yet here he was, living with Harry? No, something life changing had to happen for that to have manifested. And Ginny hated Malfoy.
Not in a ‘you were a Death Eater’ or ‘you were the biggest fucking prat and a bully’ type of way either. She genuinely loathed him, and Hermione wasn’t entirely sure why. She didn’t hold the same animosity for Theo (who Hermione worked with and talked about from time to time) or even Pansy (whom Neville talked about constantly). Which meant one of three things had transpired in the time she was gone.
One, Ginny had finally gotten over it and allowed him to live there because of whatever life altering event had happened to him. Two, Harry had finally put his foot down to Ginny always bossing him around and informed her that Dra—Malfoy was moving in and that was the end of it. Or three (which was most likely), Ginny and Harry were no longer together.
Judging by the lack of anything feminine in the recent renovations and redecorating, it was option three.
But Harry would tell her when he was ready and not a moment before, and again, she didn’t need to be an intellectual to know Malfoy was not going to talk about his personal life either. Not with her at least. No matter how curious she was and how the mystery of it all was eating away at her.
So instead she settled on a rather easy question. “I saw a small rubbery steak by the front door, that I’m assuming squeaks if squeezed.” Okay, it wasn’t exactly a question, but Malfoy was clever enough to know where she was going with it.
“It does.” Of course, he was still a prat and obviously wasn’t going to actually tell her anything unless directly asked.
“I’m assuming it’s yours?”
“If you are asking if I howl at the moon and run around the house barking and playing with silly squeaking toys Potter insists on buying, then I’m sorry to disappoint but no. No, the toy is not mine.”
“But it is your dog's, is it not?”
Finally, he nodded and actually confirmed what she was asking. “His name is Atlas.”
“Does he not do well with strangers?” it was probably some posh, well groomed, ridiculously thin, thoroughbred of a dog that likely whizzed itself if spoken to in a stern voice. She also imagined it would shake. Like a chihuahua or a maraca, because somehow that seemed fitting. Of course, such an assumption was highly rude and a bit prejudiced of her. But it was also very Malfoy of him to own such a dog.
Actually, if she was being honest with herself, Malfoy owning any sort of pet aside from an albino peacock or perhaps a Cuckoo bird (which was just as ridiculous as he was) seemed out of character for him. Then again… she didn’t really know the man before her. Not anymore at least.
“Atlas is,” Draco paused, pouring himself another cup of tea. Honestly, at this point Hermione was wondering if his obsessive tea drinking was because of him being tired or rather a clever excuse to need the loo so he could remove himself from the most awkward conversation of the century. “Well, he’s rather large and a bit energetic.”
That was not at all what she expected him to say.
“He can also be rather frightening, and has a tendency to chew hats, left shoes, and pillow cases.” He sighed, taking a drink before adding “So at present, he’s in my room, probably sleeping.”
“Or destroying your pillowcase.”
His lips quirked up a bit at her comment and his eyes locked onto her. “Or that.”
“Well, I did ride on the back of a dragon, so I highly doubt whatever type of dog you have would startle me. Unless it’s a hellhound.” She took a drink of her own tea, which was starting to go cold now. But then she choked a bit and her eyes shot back up to Malfoy’s. “It’s not, is it? A hellhound?”
“Merlin Granger.” He chuckled, he actually chuckled, his eyes twinkling a bit as he shook his head. “I’m sure you know this, being the advocate of all magical creatures and all, but it’s highly illegal to have a hellhound. And I doubt Potter would allow such a thing in his house, you know, with him being Head Auror and all.”
“You might be surprised with the things Harry would and would not allow in his home.”
“Oh, are we talking about Ménage à trois again? Draco, you cad.” It was Hermione’s turn to choke on her tea (though Malfoy had as well) her eyes darting back and forth between the two men, wondering when the hell they had had that conversation and if she even wanted to know.
“Merlin’s beard Potter.” Malfoy wheezed out. “I told you, I’m not interested in Ménage à trois.” This statement did little to answer the swirl of questions on rotation in her brain.
Questions like, what!? And, when?! Or, WHY? Maybe even, how?!
Of course she knew how . What she didn’t know was HOW!
Or maybe that wasn’t the right question.
The right question was most likely something similar to “What the actual fuck is going on between you two?” Which she did not say as the two started bickering.
Or, Malfoy started bickering, Harry was laughing. Quite loudly and unguardedly as Malfoy spewed some nonsense about being possessive.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Whatever had transpired, however large or life altering as it might have been, the two were clearly each other's life support at present. And as weird, and strange, and perhaps a million other things as that was, it was clear they needed each other. It was also clear that neither of them were fully accepting this fact. Or maybe it was because they were both hurting too much to fully admit it. Which meant they would need some help.
It also meant, she wasn’t getting her story from either of them anytime soon. Which was fine really. She was creative and imaginative enough to come up with her own story. She almost snorted into her tea as she imagined the two of them confessing their deeply hidden feelings for one another.
Oh what a wonderful story that would make.
She smiled to herself at the thought, her eyes flicking between the two of them as she wondered if it was at all possible. It was definitely a story she would listen to. One worth writing down and shared with the world. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Two star crossed lovers. How Romeo and Juliet of them, only, hopefully in this story neither one of them died.
She hid a larger smile behind her tea cup as she realized Draco would most certainly be Juliet in this scenario.