Dreamweavers

3

She’d looked so peaceful, sleeping there. Her wild curls were sprawled out on a throw pillow and over the arm of the sofa. It hadn’t felt right to wake her, so he sat and waited, tracing the delicate slope of her nose with his eyes from across the room while his long fingers fiddled anxiously with the newest coffee table note. Since when was he an anxious person? To be fair, since when would I have signed myself up to be a test subject?

Eventually, she stirred, and he sat up straight, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle in his grey button-up shirt and checking that his carefully mussed hair-styling charm was holding up. He was ready for some answers.

Waiting for Hermione to rub the sleep out of her eyes, Draco willed her to say something, anything. His dream had been so perplexing and he wanted to know if hers had been the same. He couldn’t make heads nor tails of the reasoning behind it and it did nothing to help him understand this Dreamweaver situation.

“So you got one, too?” he asked, already knowing too well that she had. He could read, after all.

She nodded tiredly with a slow blink, and he channelled his nerves into a shield of soft sarcasm. “Wonderful. Care to share?”

He watched her twitch slightly as he got up to cross the room. His stomach dropped. Is she afraid of me? Surely not. Everything was fine last night before I ran away from dinner like a complete prat. Maybe she thinks I’m weird. I couldn’t honestly blame her after that. Maybe I smell? He subtly dipped his head down and sniffed his shirt. No. Fresh as a very masculine daisy. Satisfied with his findings, he placed himself on the opposite end of the sofa, facing Hermione expectantly.

She fidgeted nervously on her cushion, looking every bit the picture of someone who was about to hand him a termination letter or a failing mark on an exam. “Well, Malfoy... Erm, Draco, that is, the dream started at Hogwarts, and I w-was in the halls, or we all were, and-” she looked as though she was going to start gasping for air soon and he hated it.

“Hermione,” he interrupted, “I should be honest and tell you now that I’m a Legilimens. If you’d like, I can watch the memory instead of forcing you to explain it. To…to save you the trouble.” He held out his hand to her as if to shake it and Hermione’s brow furrowed. She looked like she was arguing with her own thoughts, and Draco couldn’t have possibly known that she was comparing her dream to this moment in real time. He kept his hand out, waiting patiently. “I would never look into your mind without your consent. I know we just met, but I’d really like for you to believe that of me.”

And so they sat, Draco carefully keeping his expression blank as if it would make him more trustworthy. Finally, she looked up. Whatever war she was waging in her mind, it seemed as though the Gryffindor in her had won, as she reached out and cautiously placed her hand in his. She adjusted slightly closer to him for an easier reach. Her palm was smaller than his and her skin was soft. Not that Draco noticed, because he absolutely did not. It wasn’t relevant to the situation at hands. Hand. The situation at hand.

“Alright. You might feel a slight pressure in your forehead. I’d like you to focus on the memory you dreamed last night so that it’s brought forward and you can know that I’m not viewing anything else,” he explained. With firsthand knowledge of how intrusive Legilimency could be, he needed her to be prepared. Making eye contact with her and holding it, he waited for her response.

She stayed silent, her gaze focusing on him the only sign of acknowledgement that she’d understood. Draco hadn’t consciously realised how warm brown eyes could be until that very moment. Her irises were melted chocolate with flecks of honey and for a flitting moment he felt like he was drowning in them. Clenching his stomach muscles, he centred his mind. This was not the time for metaphors. Those could be pondered later over tea.

With his left hand, Draco pulled his wand from his pants pocket and pointed it gently at Hermione’s temple. “Legilimens.” He stretched towards her using his mind, slipping into her stream of thought.

What an unpleasant feeling. This wasn’t mentioned in Magic of the Mind. Should’ve known that it would end up being light reading rather than useful knowledge. His hand’s quite warm. Oh, gods. Can he hear this?

“Hermione, the memory,” he uttered without moving his lips, too close to a smirk that would interrupt the spell. He didn’t want to prod on his own, lest he see something she’d rather not share.

Merlin, he CAN hear this. Right, Hermione. Show him the dream.

Rippling around them were the halls of Hogwarts, stairs extending up from the Black Lake as the brand new first year students disembarked from their boats. Draco remembered this day, or at least, pieces of it. He’d been so overwrought with emotions. Going to Hogwarts was an exciting thing, and he’d been thrilled. That sense of adventure had twisted into uneasiness on Platform 9 and ¾ when his father had promptly stamped it out of him, advising that he stop acting foolish, hold his own, and do the Malfoy family name proud. There was never any debate about what house he’d end up in, at least. It had been made very clear to him, even at eleven years of age. He’d be sorted into Slytherin or he wouldn’t make the return train home. I was a child. I deserved to laugh, chase chocolate frogs on the train, and make new friends. He surprised himself with the thought, as he didn’t reflect on his childhood too often. Mother had always said that dwelling on the past was unbecoming of a Malfoy and would cause early wrinkles.

Draco moved up the stairs, wading through memories of chattering students, straining to see a smaller Hermione. This was her memory, after all. Ah, there. A small girl with a mass of bushy hair stuck out from the corner of his eye, slightly hidden behind the shoulders of Weasley and Potter. With a start, he noticed a much smaller, spindly Draco approaching them, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like a strange, unintimidating squadron. He realised with a sick feeling that he remembered this moment. He couldn’t recall her being there though, seeing this. He thought he would have remembered those brown eyes peeking over Weaselbee’s shoulder, seeing him.

He could barely bring himself to watch this. He’d made peace with the fact that as a child he was an absolute twat, but knowing that Hermione was viewing this as well made him physically ill. Especially knowing that this was a memory. He rather thought that the first impression he’d made on her yesterday had been okay, but sod it all, this was bound to be the downhill spiral of that new friendship.

As the tiny blonde venomously spewed hatred towards Ron, tearing into his hair, his robes and his entire existence, Draco felt himself retreating to a far corner of his mind, numb. He was acutely aware of what was happening - his senses were shutting down. He had visceral memories of panic attacks in his past, although the gaps in his memories left him without reasons as to why, or even an idea of what triggered them. And now, inside of Hermione’s mind with no control over what he saw, he was closing himself off. Bugger.

Listening to himself saying “You’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there,” was like listening to his father speaking through him. Wrong, ill-fitting. As the memory drew to a close and he retreated from Hermione’s mind, he snatched his shaking hand from hers and stared at a speck of fluff on the blanket around her, unable to meet her gaze.

He was bad, he was wrong, he was bad, he was- “Draco?” Hermione gently interrupted his dissociation. “I know it wasn’t the most… pleasant… memory to watch. Are you alright?”

Broken out of catastrophizing, his eyes snapped up to hers. “Am I alright? You’ve just watched me be a massive, snobby muppet to your best friends, twice. Are you okay?” Still, his stomach twisted itself into knots and his shoulders had slumped as if he was trying to fold in on himself and disappear.

Hermione folded her hands in her lap, looking lost in her thoughts. “Well… I had more time earlier to think on my first viewing, obviously. And you were being a bit of a toff, but you were, what, eleven? So… it’s been awhile, and you clearly don’t act like that now, based on our few interactions, and I just… I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself over it.”

Draco chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to shake off his discomfort and slow his heartbeat. “I’m sorry anyhow,” he started, “that I acted like that to people you care about. And even more that I completely ignored you standing there.”

“To be fair,” Hermione smiled softly, and he thought it was delightful, “I had just met those two, so I didn’t care much for them yet. And maybe worse, I don’t think I’d have particularly enjoyed being noticed by you during that interaction.”

He snorted, finally feeling some semblance of himself return to him. “I concede. I think it would’ve been horribly awkward to say the least, watching us meet in that scenario while we’re sitting next to each other.”

Hermione seemed completely able to read his nervous energy, as if his thoughts were laid bare before her. Draco didn’t know if he liked it, but he also didn’t want to occlude and shut her out two days into the experiment. She pushed herself up briskly from the couch, collecting her notebook. “Shall we make some breakfast before we delve into your mind? I think a cup of tea sounds really lovely right about now.”

Taking the escape she’d silently offered him, he nodded and stood to join her. In companionable silence, they made their way to the kitchen where Draco watched as Hermione pulled out ingredients.

“This is an uncooked egg,” Hermione held one up for him to see.

He bristled, feeling himself immediately revert back to an older version of the Draco they’d just seen in her memory. “Just because you’ve now observed that I come from a background of elitism and money doesn’t mean that I’ve never seen an egg-” he sneered and started to rant as she seemed to stifle a giggle. He cut off, confused.

“Draco Malfoy. I know we’ve just met… well, just become reacquainted, but I w-was-” she choked, trying not to laugh harder, “I was making a joke, Draco. I know you know what an egg is.”

He narrowed his grey eyes at her, trying to process how he felt about that. Gods damn. I can’t catch a break. When did I become so reactive?

The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smirk and he shook his head at her. “I’m letting you get away with this one, Granger. Consider this a warning.” His eyes flashed with a glint of promise, a dangerous smile finally taking over his face. Hermione’s eyes widened by a fraction and he thought that a rosy blush might have bloomed high up on her cheekbones before she quickly turned her body away from his, suddenly finding the cardboard carton of eggs fascinating.

The rest of breakfast passed without incident - Hermione showed Draco how to turn on a muggle cooker, which he thought was odd, but not horrible or stupid. He set out to use the electric kettle by himself, trying to recall exactly how she’d shown him the day before. When he stuck the cable into the wall (into the sockey? pocket?) a beeping noise and a small light turned on - Draco beamed with pride. He may have been top of his class at Hogwarts, but he’d elected not to take Muggle Studies and he was rather enjoying the learning journey here.

By the time he’d poured the hot water into teacups and begun the steeping process, Hermione was placing two steaming plates of cheesy eggs and toast onto the small kitchen table.

They sat and chattered, sticking to safe subjects while they ate. He learned that Hermione loved Sugar Quills, and he admitted to having the biggest sweet tooth of anyone he knew. They discussed favourite colours (green for Draco, burgundy for Hermione, shockingly) and favourite subjects while they’d been in school (Potions for Draco, “All of them” for Hermione, swot.) Conversation slowed down as plates and teacups emptied. He politely dabbed the corner of his mouth with a cloth serviette.

Fidgeting in her wooden chair, Hermione pushed her plate to the side. “Can I see your memory now? Maybe I’ll be the villain in that one.” She laughed lightly, this time eagerly offering her hand. He could tell that she desperately wanted access to another piece of their puzzle.

“The thing is, I don’t think it’s going to be very… enlightening, for you. It certainly wasn’t helpful for me. It’s not even necessarily important that we watch it.” Draco shrugged. He genuinely didn’t see a need for her to view it, honestly. Nothing to do with it possibly being a bit off-putting, he mused.

She looked put out at the thought. “Please, Malfoy. Draco. I really don’t think we should keep anything from each other while we figure out what’s going on here.” And for some reason, one which had absolutely nothing to do with the sound of his first name coming from her lips, he took her proffered hand and met her eyes once again.

“Right then. This time, it might feel more intrusive, because I’m showing one of my memories to you, not just going into yours.” She nodded quickly, barely able to hide her impatience.

Pulling his wand from his trouser pocket, he cast again. “Legilimens.” Sorting through his thoughts like a filing cabinet, he brought up the dream that had filled a small gap in his timeline earlier that morning.

He could feel the moment they left the kitchen table, transported to a bustling Great Hall. It was the same day as Hermione’s memory, just after every first year had been sorted into their Hogwarts houses. He was sitting at the Slytherin table, surrounded by familiar faces - Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, his current best friends. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode. The usual lot. All around him the others were eating and already nattering on about other students. Most of the Slytherins had grown up around each other and were decidedly grouped together as friends, led by their family ties.

Draco was quiet at the feast, at least at the time of this memory. He ate small bites of dinner as he stared off, unfocused, into the distance. He could see now-Hermione crouching to put her head next to young Draco’s, following his eyeline. He wished she wouldn’t have, because young Draco was surveying eleven-year-old Hermione, who was animatedly waving a forked potato around and talking to her peers. The memory continued on as Draco continued to eat and stare while Hermione continued not to notice. Eventually he could hear a whiny voice repeating his name. “Draco. Dracooo. There you are. Come back to me.” Pansy simpered at him and his stomach turned while he poked at his roast. “How was your summer holiday?” she asked, shifting on the bench across from him and effectively cutting off his ability to gaze at the Gryffindor table.

And with that, Hermione and Draco found themselves back in the wooden chairs in their temporary house in an undisclosed location.

Hermione was the one to break the contact of their hands this time, cradling her chin and seeming quite lost in thought.

“Your entire memory was of you eating your dinner and looking at me?” she finally asked, seeming unable to come up with a satisfactory answer on her own.

“Like I said, it was an odd dream. I don’t really know what to make of it,” he replied.

“Did you feel any specific emotion in it? I know it was your memory so in theory you’d be able to feel what you felt then,” Hermione wheedled at him.

He hesitated, feeling a bit vulnerable. “Bothered, I suppose? Irked? And since I can’t remember any other context about knowing you before that dinner, I couldn’t begin to guess why. Those emotions aren’t particularly helpful in any situation here.”

“...No, I suppose not,” Hermione mused, “Though I’ll still write everything down in case it becomes relevant later on. I’ll need you to read over my notes to verify that I’ve recorded it correctly as well as adding any details you think are necessary.” She flipped open her notes and began writing immediately, wanting to record everything while it was fresh.

Watching the nib of her quill scratch at the page, Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, letting his shoulders drop. He ran both his hands through his hair, styling charm be damned.