willow

At the dawn of the fifth day, Draco Malfoy woke up around four in the morning; the cold had crept under the covers, and the meager blanket was not enough to protect him. Potter had shown him that in the mahogany wardrobe in the corridor he could find comforters, so Draco forced himself to get up and, after picking up a sweater from the floor, descended the stairs.

He noticed that, despite the cold, his stomach demanded food, so he bypassed the wardrobe and headed to the kitchen. Hermione had not let him eat cereal for days; every time Draco tried to grab the box, even just for a snack, she told him he could very well eat something else. By now, he was having buttered bread or jam for breakfast, the same that she ate; packs of butter and jam occupied a large part of the refrigerator and didn't seem to be a problem.

Draco opened the cupboard quietly and pulled out the colorful box, poured some cereal into a bowl, and added milk. He took a spoon, the bowl, and headed to the living room. He could sit on the couch and watch some TV.

He settled—or at least he thought so, given that the  couch could never let out a scream. The person lying on it had done that.

"Damn it, Malfoy! That's my bottom!"

Draco jumped up. "Granger! Don't be outraged, your backside is as comfortable as the couch, you know..."

"Jerk."

"We had already established that. For goodness' sake, what the hell are you doing on my couch?" he asked, fumbling for the light switch. He placed the bowl on the low table and continued to feel the wall.

"It becomes yours when you buy it..." muttered the other. At that moment, the light illuminated the room, allowing Draco to see the girl lying on the couch, covering her face with a plaid blanket.

"Well?" he pressed on, a few seconds later.

"It's cold upstairs"  she murmured, removing the blanket from her face and pointing sleepy, swollen eyes at the figure of the boy.

Draco smirked. "I'll take care of warming up the place with some spells" he repeated the words Hermione had spoken a few days earlier.

She huffed and covered her head again.  "Now let me sleep, it's still early."

The boy didn't need to be told twice and, grabbing his bowl of cereal, returned to his room.

§

"Malfoy, why has all my stuff been moved to your room while I was away?"

"Because, despite being the brightest witch of our year, you can't conjure a spell to warm up the place. By the way, I don't think such spells even exist."

"But..."

"No buts, your backside isn't really as comfortable as I told you."

§

After a week, an owl tapped on Draco Malfoy's window. It was undoubtedly a Ministry owl; such a small and irritating bird could only belong to it. The absolute proof of this became evident when, after feeding the bird, Draco realized that the letter was not meant for him but for Hermione Granger.

"Stupid bird" he muttered.

He took the letter and placed it on the table, where it would have remained if he hadn't noticed that it bore the Minister's seal; therefore, the letter came directly from him.

He picked it up and, after thinking for a few minutes, decided to open it.

It was a rather long letter updating her on Harry Potter and Ron Weasley—apparently, they were unable to contact her—and on her office. He completely skipped that part and read the last lines.

In a completely confidential tone, I ask you: how are you? Are you comfortable there? I know the decision to send you to Muggle London was made so hastily that you barely had time to object, but now I have some Aurors available. They're not the same ones Draco Malfoy had before, but they can always replace you if you need it.
Let me know as soon as possible!

Draco clenched his fingers around the paper and cursed mentally.

Hermione wasn't supposed to leave. He had just found her again! He had spent years chasing that stupid fantasy where maybe one day she would see him. How you see a person, how you see them for who they really are. Six years spent walking on a field of nails, where even the slightest mistake had to be repaid with his own blood.

Then, at the end of the sixth year, the decline. The feeling of being an accomplice, the fear of death, the terror of not being able to live peacefully even in your own home. He had been sure he would never see her again, that he had lost every chance, lost her. Instead, on one of those gray days—all the same, all characterized by the same underlying fear—she had appeared with Potter and Weasley at the Manor; for a moment, he had been happy: he had seen her; even a single glance at her pale, gaunt figure had lifted his spirits.

A few minutes later, Draco had only wished to die: her screams had echoed throughout the house, and as if they had permeated the walls, every time Draco walked through those corridors, he could still hear the echo.

Now she was there, with him, and he would do anything not to lose her again.

He had to make that letter disappear, immediately. Hermione must not read it. If the Minister sent another letter in the near future asking about the previous one, she would say she hadn't received it. A likely scenario, given that the owl had delivered the letter to him; it could very well have been delivered to someone else, right?

§

On the morning of the eighth day, Draco found Hermione in the kitchen; she was scribbling on a sheet of paper, and a concentrated frown made her look overly serious. When the girl deemed herself satisfied, she straightened her shoulders and tucked some strands behind her ear. She took the sheet and, with a piece of magical tape, attached it to the wall.

Draco approached to see what she had written; the first word that caught his attention was: Diet.

"Granger?"

"Yes?" the clatter of dishes accompanied her response.

"What's this thing?"

"Oh, my diet!"

"Huh?" was all he could come up with in reply.

"I would like to lose some weight, Malfoy. "

"Huh?"

Hermione didn't answer him and laid out the breakfast essentials on the table. Draco noticed a dark jar and picked it up in his hands, turned it between his fair fingers, and then decided to ask:

"And this?"

She turned around and noticed the jar he was holding. "Sugar-free jam" she replied.

Draco had the decency not to comment, raised an eyebrow, and suppressed the doubts that had arisen in his throat.

He had promised himself that he would make it work, that he would find a way to make her stay. Contesting her decisions wouldn't help.

He spread butter on the sliced bread and poured himself some coffee; they finished breakfast in absolute silence, but neither of them dared to get up. Usually, after taking the last sip of coffee, Hermione was already on her feet, ready to go shopping and run some errands. That day, however, she hesitated.

"So, today?" Draco asked.

Hermione started to open her mouth but hesitated. She thoughtfully bit her lip, caressing the table's wood with the tips of her fingertips.

"I think I'll... stay at home" she finally replied.

"Okay" was the first response that came to his mind.

Another minute of silence. Hermione's eyes surveyed the room, as if it were the first time she had seen that dwelling. Her gaze lingered on the refrigerator, then returned to the table, and finally stared intently at the clock on the wall. The girl clenched the handle of the cup in her hands; she pressed on the dark shard, her knuckles almost white from the effort. For a moment, she lowered her gaze to Draco—a gaze crossed by a flash of guilt that illuminated, just like a real light, the boy's thoughts—then returned to the clock.

"Are we waiting for something?" he asked.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.

"... Someone?" he tried again.

"Not exactly" she murmured. She looked at the clock, then at Draco.

Draco understood that Hermione was trying to look at the clock to avoid something else; after all, he had seen his mother do the exact same thing. Narcissa never told him anything, protected him as if he were still eleven, and when the time finally came to leave him, the only thing she had managed to say to him was, "Behave well." Even after a sentence that had condemned her, even after the end of the war, even after the decline of his father – her husband – she maintained her austere demeanor, the same one that had allowed her never to collapse, not even once.

Draco got up, placed the cup in the sink, and dragged himself to the couch. She wouldn't last long; from what he had gathered about her, he knew well that idleness drove her crazy. Hermione had to do something, never stand idly by.

He sprawled on the leather couch and waited.

The television was on, but the boy wasn't really listening. He could barely hear the noises of Hermione in the kitchen, arranging dishes and closing the cupboard doors.

A few minutes later, the girl appeared in the living room and sat down next to him. Upright, with tense shoulders, she stared at the images the television presented. She tapped the tip of her foot on the light parquet floor while opening and closing her right hand.

"Okay, that's enough" she exhaled five minutes later. "I can't take it for much longer. Sitting here doing nothing is killing me, but, on the other hand, I can't go out."

Draco focused on the screen. He hated that Muggle thing, useless and also inconvenient.

"Why?"

"I'm waiting for a letter."

His body stiffened. "From whom?" he whispered.

"From the Ministry, which is not even a problem; I knew they would contact me sooner or later. Actually, the letter is not the problem" she finally said.

"Granger, are you going mad, by any chance?" he turned to her, a painted grimace on his face.

"Okay, then, the letter doesn't matter much. According to you, if the Ministry were to send an Auror to this area to meet someone, well, um, then on the same day, they sent a letter to someone living in this neighborhood—not the same person the Auror was supposed to meet—how likely is it that the Auror would deliver the letter to that person? The Ministry would be more certain of the delivery, right? In short, killing two birds with one stone!"

"Killing two birds with one stone? Granger, you're delirious, damn it."

"It's a Muggle expression, Malfoy" she dismissed him. "Well, most likely, this letter will be delivered to me by the Auror, so I can't leave the house. I have to stay here and wait for his arrival. Don't you think so too?"

Crazy people should be indulged, his mother had told him once.

"Do as you please."

He returned his gaze to the television, aware that this was the only moment to ask that question.

"Trouble in paradise between you and Weasel?"

She flinched and focused her wide-eyed gaze on him. "Wh-What?"

"Oh, well, you know, Granger. After the little scene the other day, it seems obvious that the Auror you're talking about is him"

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows for a few seconds, shifted her gaze to the other side of the room, then returned to him.

"You're right, it's Ron" she admitted finally. "The Minister told me that I would receive a letter from him by today, and, well, you know the rest of the story."

By today, I would receive the letter. Draco didn't flinch after hearing those words; only the vein on his neck pulsated, not from the excitement of being discovered, but more from the anger he felt at that moment.

"So... " he strained not to growl. "Don't you want to meet Weasel?"

She shook her head.

"Can I ask you why?"

"Well, let's say we didn't part on the best terms... well, he broke up with me, and I made a crazy scene, which I will be ashamed of for the next ten years or so" she clicked her tongue in disapproval. "I behaved pathetically and I'm continuing to do so."

When she finished speaking, she turned to him, as if asking for his opinion.

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"If it's not too much effort for your vocal cords" she teased him.

"Why did he broke up with you?" he asked instead.

Hermione pierced him with a meaningful expression; Draco, looking at her face, understood that she had the look veiled with repressed anguish, the one that is vented alone, when you're in bed and no one can see or hear. In that moment, Hermione's eyes conveyed a resigned sadness. Draco could almost taste the bittersweet flavor of the feeling.

"He said he was convinced he was in love, but then he realized that the affection he felt for me was something fraternal. You know, all that war stuff... The best excuse to dump a girl: tell her that what you shared has turned your love into friendship."

"Well, the scene wasn't very reasonable" Draco observed, smirking.

"I made a scene because the next day I saw him kissing Patil!"

"Which one?"

"I have no idea, and I don't care."

"Well, Granger, if you think about it, the scene was inappropriate anyway. He told you he wasn't in love, so he was free to kiss anyone."

"And my feelings?"

"A guy can't always think about the feelings of his ex, Granger."

"Malfoy," she called him back. "Are you really siding with Ron Weasley?"

Draco froze, the hand playing with the remote stopped halfway.

"He really deserved that scene." he said a few seconds later.

§

Three days were left.

Three days and she would be gone.

Since the conversation about Weasley, they hadn't talked about her or what had happened to her after the war. To be honest, they hadn't talked much at all. She, agitated because the letter hadn't arrived – something akin to guilt had pricked Draco, but he had silenced it – had written to the Minister, but he hadn't responded yet.

She had agonized for days, even thinking that the Minister was too busy to find the time to reply to her.

That day, they finished shopping and then returned home, choosing to walk through the Gardens. The wind carried leaves to the ground, creating a pleasant background noise, not the usual fierce whistle.

Bags filled with groceries occupied both of their hands. Hermione hadn't explicitly said it, but Draco was pretty sure that she had done all that shopping in anticipation of her departure, knowing that he would return to his usual cereal with a splash of milk.

"Let's sit for a moment" she exhaled.

They sat on a bench, perhaps the same one where Draco had lain many days before, as they could see the statue of Peter Pan from there.

Hermione tried to move the hair that had fallen on her face due to the wind, but it was futile: the curls kept bothering her.

Draco observed her profile: the small nose, the slightly hollowed cheeks, the eyes squinted to prevent the blowing wind from making them tear. He didn't want to venture too much, but compared to the gaunt figure he had found in front of the apartment door a few days earlier, this was another person; she seemed more relaxed, serene... comfortable with her surroundings.

Perhaps it was the return to the Muggle world.

But still, she would be gone.

Three days.

She squinted her eyes and exhaled sharply. Who was she kidding? Draco had convinced himself that making that letter disappear would be enough to make her stay, and yet there she was, ready to leave as soon as possible.

She wouldn't stay for him, of course: Hermione had her life, more important than any task or job.

She didn't have a real reason to stay, and certainly, he couldn't provide one.

Hermione turned, then murmured:

"Malfoy..." Maybe she wanted to tell him something important, or perhaps something so futile that it would be pointless even to think about it, but Draco didn't have the time – the will - to hear it.

In half a second, he annulled the distance between him and her, placed his lips on Hermione's, soft and cold. He pressed gently, but with a hint of insistence; Hermione's lips were still slightly parted, reminiscent of those unspoken words. Draco felt the urge to raise a hand and caress that smooth cheek, but he restrained himself: he understood how much destruction – on himself – that kiss would bring; another gesture, even of lesser importance, wouldn't improve things.

Suddenly, he moved away from her face, just in time to receive her slap in the face.

"Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?" she shouted. She was upset, her mouth half-open in astonishment, her cheeks reddened with shame, and her eyes moist from the wind.

She was beautiful.

That thought hit him like the pain of that slap.

Her eyes stared at him frantically, searching for an explanation that he didn't provide. Draco lowered his head, the thin blond hair hiding his agitated gaze – agitated because that brief contact had stirred something inside him, as if all his organs had changed places.

He rose from the bench, moved away from her with a snap, turned his back to her, and walked as far away as possible from that bench – and from that kiss.

§

He had cursed himself more than once in this life..

He had cursed himself because he had chosen evil.

He had cursed himself because he had chosen prejudice.

He had cursed himself because he was born into wealth but had always shown himself to deserve only mud.

He had cursed himself because he had kissed Hermione Granger without explaining the reason for that impulsive gesture. He should have told her that he had never forgotten her, that he had never hated her for her blood, but because she had proven to be better than him in a world that had been given to her and only imparted to him.

The three remaining days were spent pretending that the other didn't exist; Hermione didn't ask questions – she surely knew that Draco wouldn't find the answers – and limited herself to running errands without him.

When, at dawn on the last day, an owl appeared at the girl's window, Draco was undecided whether to curse himself again or curse any existing deity. 

The owl delivered a letter from the Minister of Magic, asking her if she could stay for another week – at most ten days – with Draco Malfoy, as all the Aurors had been called on a mission of the utmost importance.

Hermione Granger folded the sheet with absolute calm, slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans, and sat on the bed.

A curse burst from her lips, loudly, perhaps without realizing it, as Draco also heard it. Intrigued, he showed up at the girl's door and didn't need to ask her why she had exclaimed like that.

"I'll stay here for a few more days."

Draco's vision blurred, then returned to normal. Evidently, it was destiny: he deserved that news. He had been reckless in kissing her like that, without a single word hinting at his intentions: now he was paying the consequences.

He looked at Hermione, who returned the gaze, clenched his fists, and scratched his palms with his nails, trying to contain the anger building up inside him. If he had seen that scene from the outside, as a spectator, he would have laughed heartily; the truth was that the situation was surreal: he had kissed her, giving her a memory she would never have had if he had waited. Learning that his efforts to make her angry were useless because she would stay even longer – days between Hell and Purgatory – infuriated him.

Hermione noticed his nervousness and misunderstood: "Don't worry, I'll ask the Minister to replace me; he'll find someone else."

"As usual, you haven't understood anything" he muttered under his breath.

The girl raised her eyebrows: "Excuse me?"

"After all, you've never understood anything, damn it!"

"I told you I'm leaving; stop insulting me!"

Draco closed his eyelids and huffed impatiently. 

"Why do you think I kissed you?" he murmured, but Hermione heard it clearly.

She blushed and gripped the fabric of her jeans. "I don't know."

"Usually, why do people kiss, Granger?"

This time she faltered, but quickly recovered.

"Malfoy, what are you trying to tell me?"

"I don't want you to leave."

§

In the very moment Hermione Granger walked out of that apartment door, Draco Malfoy felt a sense of abandonment so strong that instinctively, he placed a hand over his heart and gripped the fabric covering his skin. Fortunately, that pain quickly subsided, leaving only its echo: a low hum in his ears.

He entered the kitchen, caressed the aluminum countertop until his fingertips found the edge of the book Hermione had bought. After opening it, without really reading it, he threw it with force to the other side of the room.

Draco barely heard the thud it made as it landed against the wall. The buzzing in his ears – still pain – was deafening.

§

She couldn't do anything anymore without thinking of him. At night, when she lay down waiting for sleep to detach her for a few hours from her thoughts, she wondered what would have happened if she had stayed. In the end, she had left because he had kissed her and for no other reason: she had never intended, before that gesture, to leave him.

She turned onto her side. The blankets were damned cold.

"I don't want you to go."

"Neither did I."

When a church in the distance rang its bells for Sunday morning mass, Hermione was already up, dressed, and with her wand in hand, ready to dematerialize.

§

Returning to the usual routine was pleasant, in some ways. His stomach protested against the cereal, now accustomed to meat and fish; Draco was relieved not to have to wake up at seven anymore and to be able to relax in his apartment, resting and channel surfing.

The Aurors assigned to him were less sharp than the previous ones, but they were more inclined to let him do what he wanted: perhaps the Ministry had realized that his life was barely worth a knut.

He retrieved the Potions book, the seventh-year one, and flipped through it listlessly, trying to memorize something, with little success. With a flick of his wrist, he closed the tome and stood up, grabbing the jacket lying on a chair and closing the door behind him.

With hands buried in his pants pockets, he walked along the street and passed through the gate that opened onto Kensington Gardens. There was no wind, and strangely enough, the sun was shining with a clear blue sky. He passed a school group and turned right, heading to his bench; unfortunately, however, he found it occupied and had to settle for the one in front of it.

He knew very well that Hermione had left because she was afraid. Not of him, but of what could happen by continuing to stay close; more than once, he had tried to dream of a future that involved her, but he couldn't give it substance until he saw that Hermione, indeed, felt comfortable in that apartment and was relaxed despite the task she had to perform.

After a week, Draco wondered if it was still possible to see her one last time. He had been wondering for days now.

The wind blew forcefully, oblivious to the thoughts accumulating in the boy's mind: many maybes, just as many ifs.

Perhaps he should have been surprised to see her coat and her slender figure approaching a few minutes later. Or perhaps he didn't even believe what he saw.

When she finally stood in front of him, he made a faint smile.

"Are you back, Granger?"

She didn't answer, lowered the scarf covering her mouth and nose, and swallowed.

"Can I take that as a yes?"

"I don't know if I'll stay, Malfoy." Draco knew she wasn't referring to her assignment, the time she had to spend with him for work. No, she was referring to something else.

This time his smile was genuine. "Underestimating yourself?"

"Not enough, given that I came back."

Draco stood up and took a step forward, shortening the distance between them.

"And will you stay?" Hermione asked.

You'll learn, Granger, that it's a place that's hard to leave.

"I'm a Malfoy, I never underestimate myself."

She smiled and looked around them. "The Aurors must be wondering why I'm here."

Draco positioned his hands around her face, pushed her curly hair away from her face, and approached so closely that the tips of their noses met.

"Then we'll have to give them an answer," he replied.

And he kissed her, aware that she wouldn't pull away, that she would stay.

"The more that you say
The less I know
Wherever you stray
I follow
I'm begging for you to take my hand
Wreck my plans
That's my man"

willow - Taylor Swift