Faux Love

The library was quiet, but then again, it was a Saturday night.

Usually, the doors shut at 8, but on Saturday, they stayed open until 9:30 pm. Perfect to get any studying done before Monday. Hermione loved Saturday nights at the library; she preferred spending time here most nights than with the boys.

She liked them well enough; they always were there for her, but Hermione's true love was books. Was reading in sun seats, with dreary red candles lit for light, having to squint a little to make out the words. Ironically, Hermione always stayed up late on Saturdays, but not because she liked to drink cheap booze in the common rooms. Hermione likes school, but she never seemed able to read as much as she wanted to during class.

Right now, she was making her way down an aisle, dressed in jeans and a striped jumper. If it wasn't for the low chattering of the books and a dry whisper in the air, Hermione could almost pretend she was a normal Muggle, studying before going home.

Something twinged in her chest, but she brushed it aside.

Hermione had already borrowed enough until she returned her ten books, but maybe she would find something to borrow next time. There was always new books to find, and sometimes the books themselves changed after a little while. It was dark, in this part of the library, but she knew her way around well enough. She dragged her fingers against raised edges of brittle spines, felt the pores in its skin. She mouthed the titles, some so familiar that the leather on her fingertips felt like a favored blanket.

Sometimes Hermione wished Harry and Ron liked to read as much as she did, if only so she could share the warm feeling she had in her chest right now.

They could come here late and have a book club thing. Hermione could give them recommendations, and the boys might have better grades from reading, plus the added concentration. She might be able to talk to the boys during class without the teacher always frowning at them. Hermione could finally feel like she could talk about something that interests her and still be found interesting.

The aisle comes to an end.

She doesn't end up finding anything all that eye-catching, but she grabs a book at random and holds it to her chest like a shield. Malfoy sits at the window, that Hermione likes to sit at. He is dozing, a hand balled up beneath his chin but slipping, eyes falling shut before snapping open. A book rests on his leg, opened to a page near the beginning. It's strange because Hermione doesn't really cross paths with Malfoy much anymore, or any Slytherins, in fact. Tensions have grown over the years, and none other than children are better at noticing.

Hermione shies away, a small frown painting her face. She likes that spot because the air in the library is warm, and the pane of glass cold. The window itself looked out onto the forest, and in the distance, little towers of smoke rise high above the reaching trees. Hermione could read her book, and be it fiction or reality, she always felt like she could stretch out her hands and reach it, from the spot in the window.

Sitting down in a chair at a table lost that effect, and the library always seemed louder because of it. The words on the page in front of her became less scenes, and more letters. She preferred the seat, and Malfoy stealing it away ruffled her. Her frown deepened. She inched anxiously closer, but when his head lolled a little, and the pages moved in his lap, she froze.

If he's going to sleep there, why bother? Why not just go back to his common room? She watches him, a deep sigh exhaled from her nose. Her hair moved around her like a cloud as she moved the book under her arm and checked her watch. 8:48. If Hermione wanted to get some semblance of enjoyment out of tonight and not be annoyed for the rest of the week because of it, she had to either find another part of the library to read in or go back to read in her dorm.

Draco makes no move when Hermione moves to sit at the wide oak table close to him, and neither does she, for she is still like a rabbit, sitting in the armchair with her back rod straight.

She opens the book to some random page and begins to (pretend) read. Malfoy's breathing is repetitious and slow. She can count his inhales and exhales on her fingers, in a pattern. At first, she is scared, for what would happen if he snapped awake and saw her? Would he call her a Mudblood, or would he sneer like she was trash? She then falls into rhythm and turns the book to the first page, reading the words now that are written there.

The book is still boring, and she still can't really concentrate, but it's still interesting. She studies the way her body matches his, in the breath that catches when his falls. She finds it… not exciting, really, but strange. Something she wants to play with, a strange beetle before she kills it out of disgust or fear.

And the time passes like that.

Soon it's calming, and she leans back in the chair, and counts in her head as she reads page after page. The words don't really stick, but that's okay. She wonders if maybe she would mind this again, next weekend. Of course, she would, and she would come early to get her spot. But if she saw Malfoy there after, would she mind?

A chime sounds, though there is no wind in the library. The librarian's voice calls. The spell is broken. Hermione sits up and looks around. For the half-hour or so she had sat in, she hadn't dared look at the Malfoy heir, but now her eyes darted to his face, and she flinched when she saw him looking right back at her. They were a meter apart, and surprisingly, she saw a softness in his gaze. His eyes were a bit unfocused, and he had a little bit of spit at the corner of his mouth.

His eyes, they were grey, Hermione noticed. But not just grey, and deep blue circled the iris, with a fleck of green and gold when the light hit. Or not, she didn't know, only thought maybe when she handled the memory again and again over the years, playing with it this way and that. Hermione, upon seeing Malfoy awake and staring at her, had left the book on the table and ran. Her breath was caught in her throat, and her face red. She had been filled with great shame.

She doesn't have that same shame now, but the fear is still there. She wishes she could run, turn around and fade into darkness and be gone from Draco Malfoy's bespoken gaze. Instead, she stills herself and looks up at him with what she hopes are soft eyes and a charming smile.

He looks at her, for a second, and something flutters across his eyes. He had just remembered something, but she didn't

know what. She wondered if his bird was the same breed as hers.

The air hangs between them, and their breath sync up. He doesn't exactly smile down at her, but she knows that it's been a long time, and sometimes people change. She has, and when Draco opens the door wider, Hermione knows he has too. She blushes, and this time he lets himself a small, shielded smile.

‘Come in if you like. I have tea.’ Maybe this won't be so bad after all.