Hermione had always hated Divination.
Stars and fate and reading tea leaves at the bottom of a cup instead of words on a page—none of it had ever made any sense to her. It short-circuited her brain and forced her to think in a way that was so contrary to her usual way of thinking, which was rational, logical, and grounded in empirical evidence. In other words, everything that Divination was not. She had always found it rather silly.
That is, until after the war.
She remembered laying on the cold, hard floor of Malfoy Manor, staring at the crooked letters that the oldest Black sister had carved into her arm, and thinking: if she could have divined her future, if she could have predicted that she would one day be laying in a small pool of her own blood, the word ‘Mudblood’ forever ingrained in her skin, in the middle of a war that they were close to losing, would she have done anything differently?
If she could have seen the path that she was on, that would lead her to that very moment, would she have stepped off it?
After the war, when the trials had ended and the dead were buried and the Golden Trio had received their commendations from the Wizengamot (First Class Order of Merlin, Outstanding Bravery and Heroic Acts of Self-Sacrifice in the Face of Mortal Danger), Hermione had nothing to do but ponder.
The war was won, the wizarding world was saved. She should have relaxed. Instead, she fretted and became obsessed with the future and that which she did not know, could not prepare herself for. She bought tarot cards and tea leaves and spent hours peering into the murky depths of a crystal ball. She couldn’t divine anything outside of mundane predictions (the weather, an oncoming head cold) but it gave her comfort, nonetheless. She would never be caught unaware again…at least where seasonal ailments were concerned.
That’s how she found herself sitting in the stuffy Divination classroom at the beginning of Eighth Year, listening to Professor Trelawney’s welcome speech—grim predictions delivered to a handful of students, picked at random, told in her usual mystical, wavering voice. Hermione scrunched her nose at the dramatics employed by the Professor; she may have gotten over her dislike for Divination, but she still thought that Trelawney was an old fraud.
A line of sweat dripped down her neck. Did the old hag have to keep the fireplace going, even in June?
The door of the classroom banged open, startling both the students and Trelawney, whose beaded necklaces and bracelets jingled as she jumped.
A slightly out of breath Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway of the classroom, clutching a brand-new Divination textbook, looking wildly uncomfortable and slightly pink from the steep climb to the top of the North Tower.
Hermione appraised Malfoy as Trelawney led the Slytherin to a little table and pouff in the corner of the classroom, right next to the one Hermione shared with Dean. Their eyes collided in passing, and a shiver went down Hermione’s spine.
She quickly looked away, her body feeling even hotter than before.
What was he doing here?
She tried to focus for the remainder of the lesson, but the stuffy classroom air made it almost impossible and she was having trouble concentrating on her crystal ball. It’s just the incense, she thought to herself. It was making it hard to think.
Hermione hadn’t spoken to Malfoy since before the war ended, save for the quick interaction on their first day of Eighth Year, about a week ago.
~
Hermione had been coming out of the Great Hall after the Remembrance Dinner, a sombre occasion that had replaced their usual Welcome Feast at the beginning of the year, organised in honour of all those fallen during the war. She had stayed behind after the dinner to corner Professor McGonagall and ask her about her timetable for the term. Hermione was keen to get back into her studies, if only to keep the memories of the last year at bay.
With her eyes on the sandstone tiles in front of her and her mind on all the extra subjects that she was planning on taking, she ran into something, or rather, someone, solid.
“Shit, sorry!” she gasped. She drew her eyes up and froze. If the collision didn’t draw the air out of her lungs, then Draco Malfoy’s cold, hard stare certainly did.
She found herself unable to move—a deer caught in headlights.
Suddenly, without thinking, she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.
“Thank you.”
Malfoy, body already half turned and angled to leave, froze. He whipped his head around and pierced her with a confused stare, his eyes narrowed.
“Your mother,” she explained, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “She lied to Voldemort to save Harry. She probably already told you—”, she fiddled around with her satchel, adjusting its strap over her shoulder. “Anyway, I don’t think we ever thanked you. Either of you.” She looked up at him. Had he always been so tall?
He didn’t say anything, but for a split second his eyes thawed. She would have missed it if she blinked. Then he nodded and turned away, walking towards the dungeons where the Slytherin Common Room was located.
Hermione stayed where she was, watching his retreating back and wondering whether the shadows underneath his eyes had always been so dark.
~
She hadn’t spoken a word to him since then, but she’d catch his eye sometimes, across the Great Hall at mealtimes, or in the hallways between classes.
And now here, in the Divination classroom.
Hermione glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked even worse than he had during their short interaction. His skin had a greyish tinge to it, as if he had not seen the sun in a while. His eyes, too, were dark, ringed with the same purple, bruise-like shadows that he had sported the week before.
He sat with his head down. No longer was he surrounded by the air of arrogance that he had worn like a cloak since First Year. The pointed chin, the sneer, the narrow eyes looking down on nearly everyone and everything—all of it was gone, erased by his family’s fall from grace. His aristocratic upbringing still peeked through in his pristine uniform and the straight set of his shoulders. However, all signs of his arrogance had been stripped from his body. He now looked uncomfortable, unsure of how to carry himself.
Hermione looked away before she accidentally caught his eye and tried to bury herself in her crystal ball, willing herself to see something, anything, in the murky fog.
Before she knew it, the bell had rung. She stuffed her homework into her bag, hastily said goodbye to Dean, and scurried out of the class before anyone else had even gotten out of their seat.
~
“Miss Granger, I would like you to partner up with Mr Malfoy, please.”
Hermione snapped to attention, eyes widened at Professor Trelawney.
“You’ll need to do the following activity with a partner, and Mr Thomas is quite ill,” Trelawney explained, her beaded bracelets clinking as she clasped her hands solemnly. Hermione had the sudden urge to ask her why she seemed so upset, when surely, she could have foreseen that happening.
Hermione held her breath as Malfoy relocated and sat down on the pouff opposite her. The room was hot, much too hot. She watched as he folded his long, lean frame onto the little purple cushion.
Malfoy’s cologne—sharp, fresh, with a hint of citrus—hit her like a wave. The scent made for a welcome change from the cloying, sickly-sweet scent produced by Trelawney’s candles and incense, and Hermione found herself leaning into it.
She was so distracted by trying to figure out the citrus notes of his cologne—bergamot or grapefruit?—that she didn’t hear Trelawney’s instructions.
“Give me your hand,” Malfoy said quietly.
“What?” Hermione was rudely awakened to the present, all thoughts of base and top notes forgotten.
“Partners sitting on the right have to have their palm read first,” he explained, his face a mask.
“Oh, um, okay,” she stammered, hesitantly giving out her palm to Malfoy.
She expected him to flinch, to grimace as he gingerly took her hand by his fingertips. She expected him to touch her as if she was unclean, as if her skin was contagious. She expected him to get the palm reading over as quickly as possible, and then wipe his hands on Trelawney’s lace tablecloth as soon as it was done.
What she didn’t expect was this - him gently taking her hand in his, his icy fingers welcome on her feverish skin. She didn’t expect him to trace the rivulets and tributaries made in the valley of her palm, following the lines so carefully that his touch could have been a ghost’s. She didn’t expect him to take the task so seriously, so studiously, his nose an inch away from her hand and The Art of Divination textbook propped open by a teacup next to him.
No, this was not what she expected at all.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re divining, or not,” she snapped after a few minutes, suddenly unable to take it any longer. She hadn’t meant to be so curt, but heat of the room, the smell of him, the feel of his hand against hers—it all sent her into sensory overload, and she wasn’t sure how much more of it she could take. She didn’t know how to act like a normal human being. This would be weird with Dean, let alone Draco Malfoy.
His eyes snapped up from her palm, their crystal-clear depths suddenly trained on her. She felt like someone had just splashed her with a bucket of ice-cold water.
“You have the characteristics of an air hand,” he began, after clearing his throat. “You have a short head line, meaning that you’re impulsive in your decisions making, yet…” he squinted between her palm and the book “… are prone to overthinking things.” Malfoy paused then flipped a few pages of the textbook. “Your heart line curves up towards your middle finger, suggesting that you’re a passionate person who’s focused on your desires, who goes after what they want, when they want it. In a partner, you’re most attracted to ambition, determination, and…cunning.”
Hermione snatched her now slightly clammy hand out of his grasp, her heart racing.
“That sounds like utter bollocks.” She stood up. “I think you should work on your divining skills, Malfoy.” She swung her satchel over her shoulder and left the room without another word before the bell even rang.
~
That night, she was visited by her usual nightmare—curly black hair; a stained, leering smile; blood, hers, dripping from the letters carved into her arm, pooling on the marble floor. She was torn from sleep in the same way she always was: by her own screaming.
As her pulse slowed and her breathing calmed, she remembered a detail from her dream, one that she had never dreamt of before: off to the side of the room, a slight blonde boy who was looking away, a grey, claw-like hand resting on his stooped shoulder.
~
Dean, as it turned out, had developed a rather serious case of Dragon Pox, and was to be hospitalised at St Mungo’s, meaning that Hermione’s Divination partner for the next semester would be none other than Draco Lucius Malfoy.
If Hermione had to look at the situation objectively, she’d be forced to admit that post-war Malfoy was far from the worst class partner that someone could have. He was quiet and attentive in class, studiously taking notes and keeping his head down. Post-war Malfoy called her “Granger” and not “Mud-blood”, and carefully kept his distance after her outburst. They didn’t speak to each other unless it was about coursework and, luckily, didn’t have to do any more palm readings.
He didn’t touch her again.
When Hermione mentioned Malfoy’s rather drastic change to Harry and Ron, Ron simply laughed.
“Of course he’s keeping his head down and concentrating in class,” he said, smirking over his runny eggs at breakfast. “He doesn’t have a choice. The Malfoy name is stained and the Ministry seized all of their assets. He won’t see a dime of that fortune he was so fond of telling us about if he doesn’t stick to his parole agreement.”
“Parole agreement?” Hermione asked, sipping her iced pumpkin juice.
“Dad tells me he’s essentially on a good behaviour order. One toe out of line and boom—he’s joining mummy and daddy in Azkaban.”
Hermione’s stomach seized. “That’s awful, Ron,” she said as she pushed away her bowl of porridge, no longer hungry.
“It’s deserved, 'Mione. Anyway, all I was saying was, I can see why he's keeping his head down now. Anyway, I have to go.” He gave Hermione a quick peck on the lips and then headed off to class, leaving her to ruminate over her half-eaten breakfast.
His family's predicament might have explained Malfoy’s change in attitude but Hermione remembered, suddenly, that he’d always been studious. She recalled that platinum blonde head of his bent over his work in class even in the days before the war. She almost said this to Ron, but then realised that most people would only remember the moments in between his studiousness—the loud, snarky comments, the obnoxious attitude, the way he seized every opportunity to let everyone know exactly who he was.
Anyway, if she had said anything of the sort, she would have been questioned as to why she had paid so much attention to Malfoy in the first place—a question to which she had no answer.
~
After a few weeks, the awkward, tense air of the first few Divination lessons dissolved, leaving between them a silence between that, if not comfortable, was at the very least not awkward.
Much to Hermione’s surprise, it was quite easy to get along with this new Malfoy. Unlike almost everyone else at the school, he didn’t ask her any questions about the war and she in turn didn’t question the bags underneath his eyes. She was sure that hers must be similar. When they had to work on a partner project, they did so quickly and efficiently, avoiding any talk of anything personal.
It took Hermione a while to admit that she enjoyed Malfoy’s stoic silence to the chatter and questions that most people bombarded her with, during and outside of lessons. Where Ron enjoyed retelling the story of their Seventh Year and basking in the glory of being part of the Golden Trio, she despised any mention of it. Harry, like her, hated any reminders of the war but bore the questions and praise from fellow students and teachers with a quiet dignity that Hermione simply could not muster.
Hermione sat next to Ron at dinner one night, listening to him tell a rapt crowd of First and Second Years about how he retrieved the Sword of Gryffindor from the pool in the Forest of Dean. His audience ooh’d and ahh’d at all the right places while Hermione stayed silent, pushing her dinner around her plate. Occasionally, their awe-struck eyes would land on her, when Ron’s story inevitably featured a cameo from herself. She was both annoyed that his version of events redacted most of her contribution to the tale, and grateful for it; she wasn’t sure if she could have taken much more attention from the younger students.
She looked up from her cottage pie and spotted a pair of pale blue eyes watching her from across the Great Hall.
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as their eyes locked. He was sitting by himself and, for just a second, she wondered what it would be like to sit with him, in silence, and not be surrounded by Ron’s exaggerated storytelling and attention that she had never asked for.
~
“Hey.”
Malfoy startled, his head snapping up to Hermione as she settled down on her side of the table. It was a warranted reaction—they had never shared greetings at the start of a Divination lesson before. He nodded, acknowledging her, then went back to his textbook.
He looked the same as always, except the shadows around his eyes were, impossibly, even darker than the last time she had seen him.
“Your task today,” Trelawney began once everyone was seated, “is to unfurl the future, unravel that which is yet to occur from the very tendrils of the earth herself…” Her voice trailed away for dramatic effect, leaving a classroom full of students staring in confused silence.
“I think we’re doing tea leaf reading today,” Malfoy whispered. Hermione snorted, then attempted to cover it with a cough when Trelawney snapped out of her trance to level a glare at her.
It was there for less than a second, but Hermione could have sworn that she saw the corner of Malfoy’s mouth quirk up.
Ten minutes later, Hermione and Malfoy were seated in front of steaming hot cups of tea, waiting for the amber liquid to cool enough to drink.
“Do you have trouble sleeping too?” Malfoy asked, looking down at his cup.
“I-yes. How did you know?”
“You have bags underneath your eyes.”
Hermione nodded. He’d noticed them too, then.
“I’ve always had insomnia,” she said, fiddling with the delicate handle of her hideous paisley patterned cup. “Even before, I could never drift off easily, or get to sleep at a reasonable time. Studying helped, though. I think that’s why I’m always so ahead in class—it’s because I study when I can’t sleep…” She drifted off, afraid that she’d just overshared. He didn’t say anything, so after a little while she continued, to fill the silence that now rang out awkwardly between them.
“It’s been worse since…you know. I either can’t drift off to sleep or have nightmares when I do.” She laughed bitterly. Your aunt, she added in her head. I have nightmares about your aunt.
Malfoy looked at Hermione from underneath his long, pale eyelashes, and her bitterness faded away, leaving something else in its place; something akin to sadness.
Malfoy didn’t choose his family.
He broke eye contact and looked down, long pointer finger spinning the teacup by its handle. Hermione watched, her eyes glued to the cup.
“I get nightmares too.” He met Hermione’s eyes, then looked down again. “I always dream about the same thing. I’m about to drift off, and then I feel it…their cold, dead hands…reaching out for me.”
Somehow, Hermione knew exactly what he was talking about.
“You won’t get put in Azkaban,” she reassured him. “You were a minor when all of that happened.”
“Sure. But all it would take for me to get taken there now is one step out of line. The wizarding world isn’t forgiving to ex-Death Eaters, Granger.”
“…You won’t get taken away,” she said, shaking her head. It was false confidence. She was too pragmatic to ignore the truth of his words, and too smart not to realise that the very things that gave him an edge before—his name, his family, his ties—were now the things that would be his downfall, if he was not careful.
“Thanks, Granger,” he said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
His stupidly blue eyes…
She stared despite herself, and Malfoy held her gaze, partly in challenge and partly in question. The chatter of their fellow students died down in her ears and the room closed in around them as they stared at each other, neither one letting go.
“Your tea should now be sufficiently cooled!”
Both of them jumped at the sound of Trelawney’s voice.
“Please proceed to drink it, making sure to not consume any of the leaves,” Trelawney instructed.
Hermione threw down the still much too hot tea down her throat, scalding her oesophagus, and spent the next 5 minutes flicking through her Divination textbook in an attempt to avoid Malfoy and his stupidly blue eyes and absurdly handsome face.
The rest of the lesson went by without either of them saying much aside from what the brown sludge at the bottom of their teacups could possibly predict about their future—hers, an unlucky encounter; his, a fortunate discovery.
Hermione was attempting to stuff the Divination tome into her already stuffed satchel at the end of the lesson when she noticed Malfoy lingering over his already packed bag.
“What?” she asked, cautiously. Another thing she liked about him—the way that she could say whatever she wanted, speak however she wanted, without feeling the need to be polite or courteous.
“Are you dating Weasley?” He asked quickly, his mouth curling at the name. He may be quieter now, but the old Malfoy—direct, unreserved, haughty—occasionally made an appearance.
“Yes… Well, no… Well…it’s complicated,” she finished lamely. “Why? What’s it to you anyway?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering. Good day, Granger.” He swung his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the classroom, leaving Hermione to wonder what the hell that was about.
~
Hermione had once again been handed front-row tickets to The Ron Weasley Show, featuring a detailed retelling of how they retrieved the basilisk fangs from the Chamber of Secrets during the Battle of Hogwarts, delivered to an attentive audience of mixed-year Gryffindors. Hermione once again pushed her dinner around her plate, hoping that Ron would notice how uncomfortable she was.
As if on cue, Ron grabbed her face and planted a big, sloppy kiss on her lips, as a demonstration of their post-Chamber moment. Their private moment. His audience rose up in cheers. She wrenched free from his grasp and levelled a glare at him. He simply shrugged his shoulders. “They love it, ‘Mione.”
She exploded.
“Well, I don’t love it, Ron!” She found herself on her feet. She wasn’t even aware that she’d stood up. “In fact, I really, really hate it!”
Ron’s awestruck face looked up at her, mouth gaping open in that way she couldn’t stand.
“What’s going on, ‘Mione?”
“It’s not '‘Mione', you troll. It’s ‘Hermione’.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you didn’t like that nickname,” he said, raising his hands, trying to calm her down.
“It’s not just that. It’s everything. It’s the way you keep talking about the war, telling everyone about what we went through like it was some fucking great adventure and not the single most traumatic experience of our lives. Like some of our closest friends, like your brother, didn’t die. It’s the way you treat me like a prop, like something to slobber over for everyone else to see, instead of an actual human being. And while we’re on this topic: you’ve never once asked me what I like, what turns me on; you just grab and squeeze, only thinking of yourself. I’m sick of it, Ron! Also, we have nothing, absolutely nothing, in common, and every time you talk my head off about the Chudley fucking Canons, after interrupting me about whatever I was talking about, I want to scream!”
She finished her tirade, chest heaving. His audience of Gryffindors stared at her, mouths open. Not only that, but the entire Great Hall had gone silent. Oh, god. In the middle of the audience sat Ron, his face more heartbroken than she had ever seen it. She felt a pang in her chest, suddenly aware that there was no way to take back the words that she had just yelled at him.
Hermione, still breathing as if she just ran a 100m sprint, glanced sideways, towards the sea of green at the far end of the Hall. Her eyes landed on Malfoy, her eyes drawn to his pale frame like a moth to a flame.
Like everyone else, he sat staring, his fork suspended midway between plate and mouth.
Shit, shit, shit.
Hermione snapped her attention back to her own table. “I’m sorry,” she muttered underneath her breath. “I’m so, so sorry, Ron.” She hoped he could tell that she meant it. She grabbed her bag and left, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the Great Hall.
~
That night, Hermione tossed and turned, sleep evading her more skilfully than usual. Try as she might, she could not get her brain to quieten. Even ‘Study of Ancient Runes and Magical Theory’, a book that even she considered to be so boring as to be borderline unreadable, could not tame the storm that was raging in her mind. Ron’s heartbroken face kept materialising behind her eyelids every time she closed her eyes.
She sighed and got up out of her four-poster, slipping on a thin jumper over her pyjamas and tucking her feet into her everyday loafers.
A quarter of an hour later she was walking along the shore of the Lake, kicking pebbles with every step. The water was still as glass, the full moon perfectly reflected on its surface. The cool night air felt wonderful on her skin, especially in contrast to the stifling heat of her room. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes, her mind finally slowing.
Plonk.
She snapped her eyes open just in time to see ripples expanding on the surface of the lake, not 50 metres away from where she stood. She glanced around, straining her eyes in the dark, and finally spotted a figure in the treeline next to the shore.
She made her way to the figure as quietly as possible, finally getting close enough to discern its identity.
He sat with his knees-up drawn up, in nothing but a thin white T-shirt and sweatpants. A thermos and a mug rested unevenly on the stones beside him.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, staring ahead at the lake and throwing another stone onto its still-rippling surface.
She didn’t ask how he knew that it was her; she just sat down next to him.
“Is this tea?” She picked up the thermos.
He nodded at the cup. “Have some.”
She took a sip then immediately spat it out.
“What the fuck, Malfoy?”
“What, you’ve never heard of Firewhisky and chamomile tea?” He smirked at her out of the corner of his eye. His eyes weren’t so difficult to look at in the darkness.
“I don’t think that’s a legitimate combination, I think you just wanted an excuse to drink.”
“You don’t seem to be complaining.” He smirked again as she took another sip, this time keeping the foul concoction in her mouth.
“Piss off, Malfoy,” she said, grimacing as the whisky burned its way through her throat and settled in a warm pool in her stomach. If she had to admit, it was a genius combination for an insomniac.
She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, the darkness, or the something else entirely, but she found it to be the easiest thing in the world to admit:
“Ron and I broke up.”
“No shit, Granger. Everyone at school knows. I think even the cockroaches down in the dungeons heard your little speech.”
She buried her face in her hands and groaned.
“Anyway, is it a breakup if you aren’t even dating in the first place?” he asked, his tone lilting in that way that let her know he was taking the piss. She could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
She groaned even louder.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. When Hermione eventually came out of hiding, she could see that he was deep in thought, staring at the lake, all signs of humour erased from his face.
“You know,” she began, “I…feel fine. I feel good actually, like a burden’s been lifted from my shoulders. I just hate hurting him, that’s the thing that really sucks.” She attributed her oversharing, once again, to the darkness. And the tea. She took another swig of the stuff and was surprised to find that it burned less going down this time.
“That’s why I stayed so long, to avoid hurting him. I guess it did more harm than good, though. What’s that one song, ‘wishing you were kind enough to be cruel about it’? Yeah…I should have just been cruel about it.” She glanced over at him. “Why do you care, though?” she asked again, determined to get an answer out of him this time.
Malfoy shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest. I just didn’t think you made sense together, especially after…you know…” he trailed off.
“The war,” she finished for him.
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. The war was still too raw for her to talk about. In fact, Hermione wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready to talk about it.
“Who would make sense, then? In your opinion?” she asked, then immediately regretted it.
“Hmm, dunno. Maybe someone a little more…ambitious? Cunning?” His mouth quirked up as he recalled the palm reading. Then his smile faded and he said, “I’m sorry, by the way, if I made you uncomfortable. It’s stupid, anyway. What can the lines on our palms tell us about what any of us want?”
Hermione bit her lip, thinking. “It’s okay,” she said eventually. “I do think your reading was right, actually.” She grabbed a stone and lobbed it at the lake. “It’s hard reconciling something like that. I always thought I would end up with Ron, and he’s not exactly either of those things.”
“I wouldn’t discredit him, Granger. He aimed for you, didn’t he? I would certainly call that ambitious.”
Hermione laughed, a true belly laugh, and Malfoy joined in. Hermione stared, unused to seeing this side of him. His teeth glowed white in the moonlight as he laughed, matching the pale glow of his hair. She noticed that one of his canines was crooked and felt something inside of her crumble.
Their laughter quietened, and in the comfortable silence that ensued she looked at him, really looked at him. She traced his features with her eyes: his aristocratic profile; his straight nose and the hollow beneath his high cheekbones; the ghost of the smile that still lingered on his full lips. Her heart started beating faster in her chest as the alcohol finally entered her bloodstream.
“Hey, Granger?” he leaned in a little, his voice low, as if telling her a secret.
“Yeah?” she breathed, her body mirroring his.
“I think you’re a little sloshed.”
She immediately leaned back, offended, but before she could get too far away, he grabbed her wrist.
“Lucky for you, I am too.”
Before she knew what was happening, how they get there or who initiated, their mouths collided.
He tasted like tea and whisky and something sweet, and Hermione sank into the kiss with an effortlessness that she had never experienced with Ron. Malfoy’s hand went to her cheek, gently cupping it as he kissed her, deep and slow. It was an unhurried kiss, a whisky-drunk and careless kiss, both of them safe in the knowledge that their only spectator was the moon.
He nudged her mouth open and she let out a soft gasp when his tongue curled around hers. He groaned in response, his free hand reaching to wrap around her waist, bringing her torso flush with his. Her own arms wrapped around his neck, and she brought herself even closer to him, feeling the contours of his chest against hers. Even through his T-shirt she could feel the hard planes of his body, the muscles earned through years of playing Quidditch and rigorous training.
The whisky swirled deliciously with the feeling of need low in her stomach—a dangerous and intoxicating cocktail—and she wanted more.
She leaned backwards, pulling him with her, and they collapsed onto the stones. He settled in between her thighs and she wrapped her legs around him. He groaned softly into her mouth and she tightened her grip around him in reflex. She could feel the hard length of him pressed against her and was suddenly glad for the weight of his body on top of hers and the friction that it created in just the right spot.
He ground his hips against hers and she was suddenly all too aware of only the handful of layers between them and the fact that she was in her pyjama shorts.
The kiss intensified, now scored by an undercurrent of need that had steadily been rising in them both. Hermione could feel it in the way that Malfoy’s hand gripped her waist, in the way that his breathing grew ragged, matching hers.
The hand that wasn’t gripping her waist moved from her cheek to the base of her skull. He slid his fingers in her hair, tugging her head forward, deepening the kiss.
In tandem, they broke for air. He rested his forehead against hers, his hand still supporting her head, softly gasping in the same desperate, disbelieving way that she was.
Hermione thought that this moment, the one right in the middle, after the initial kiss but before anything else, might be one of her favourite things. The way the other person’s chest beats against yours, their heart hammering as if they’ve just run a race, matching beat for beat the thudding in your own veins. The way that both of you go between staring at the other’s eyes and looking down at their mouth, infinitesimally leaning in and pulling back. The restraint it takes to not give in and devour the other person…
She realised, with a pang, that she had never shared this type of moment with Ron.
“Are you okay?” Malfoy asked tenderly, the hand in her hair sliding down to the back of her neck. She shivered. His mouth moved on hers as he spoke, his lips ghosting over her own in a way that made Hermione lean in again, burning lungs be damned.
Malfoy groaned when she kissed him. If there was any hesitation in their kiss before, it was gone now, replaced entirely by a need so hot that it burned its way through Hermione’s body in a way that she had never, ever, felt with anyone else.
Malfoy pulled away and Hermione almost whined in response, until she heard him say:
“Would you like to see the Slytherin common room, Granger? The lake looks even nicer when you’re underneath it.”
~
That night, she lay on Draco’s bed, his green silk sheets sticking to her skin. She stared at the canopy of his four-poster, listening to his quiet breathing as he slept peacefully beside her. She thought of Divination again and realised: even if she could have divined the future, predicted with complete accuracy where the path she walked would eventually lead her—to war, to loss, to grief; to laying on the floor of Malfoy Manor and then the bed of a Malfoy heir—she wouldn’t have changed a thing.