There is something sobering about the first Quidditch match of the year, like a cold shower while you’ve still got your robes on. Draco wants to be optimistic, wants to feel the pride that surges through some of the students. They swirl down the halls, scarves and banners twirling, laughter bubbling from mouths. But to him, it all feels too much like every year before. To much, and not at all.
They are changed, irrevocably by the war, every single one of them. Leaves fallen from branches now scattered about the ground. They cannot attach themselves back to the tree, cannot even dream of it. For now, they must content themselves with the dirt and with the slow crinkles of time.
But Hermione rustles his shoulder gently, and as he opens his eyes, he sees the light catch her hair, and perhaps fall can be managed today.
“They’ll have your arse in a goblet if you’re late,” she whispers, lips brushing his. Draco has a strong desire to grab her wrist and fling her onto the sheets next to him. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders in a wave.
“They can’t have my arse. It’s ‘Property of Granger’.” Draco rubs sleep from his eyes.
“Malfoy,” she chides, biting her lip to contain a smile.
“Honest,” he says back, crossing his heart with a lazy finger. “It’s marked and everything. You should check.”
Now Hermione huffs, delight edging her tone, a twinkle in her eye. She has damn beautiful eyes, Draco thinks.
That Hermione is in his common-room at all is one thing that keeps this year distinct from all the others. The sharp sting of something hollow still echoes in his chest, and the students still flitter from class to class, determined to make this year, this particular year, meaningful. But Hermione’s presence in his days is as unexpected and welcome as the sun in winter.
Draco dresses quickly after Hermione slips out the door. He finds her in the Great Hall, amid a throng of students. Her hair is pulled back by a scarlet and gold scarf, and as much as he wishes it was green, the color brings warmth to her cheeks. Her legs cross and uncross lazily, and then she sees him and stands, a bright smile on her face.
He can’t stand it, really, and decides that he shouldn’t have to. Draco abandons his broom with a teammate and pulls her into a corridor, lips meeting hers before she can even admonish him. Hermione knots her fingers in his hair and sighs against him.
“Green would look better on you,” Draco manages between breathless kisses. He can’t help reaching down to skim her leg, letting his fingers drift up under her skirt and—
“Draco!” Hermione swats his hand away and tries to dip out of his grasp. But the tone of her voice is nervous, and when he finds her eyes, the embarrassment there makes him lock his arms around her waist tighter.
“Granger?”
“People might see, for goodness sakes.”
But it isn’t that, and he knows it as her cheeks burn red. Quickly, clamping her tight to his chest, he reaches a hand down to flip her skirt up.
“No!” She squeals, wriggling in his arms, a laugh bubbling up behind her words, but Draco sees them already. Soft, emerald green knickers, hugging the curve of her like they were poured on. The smile on his lips is instant, and her face flushes even deeper, somehow.
“Draco—”
“You turncoat. What will they think?”
“Oh, you horrible git, it’s not even what you think it is!”
But Draco is already laughing, a clearer and brighter sound than he’s made in months. He twirls her around while she tries, in vain, to convince him that her choice of undergarments is merely a fluke. In response, he tosses her over his shoulder and carries her down the hall.
“Malfoy, put me down!”
“Granger, did you wear these for me to wish me good luck?”
“Well now I just hope you lose horribly!” She thrashes against him. He pinches the back of her thigh. “Malfoy I can’t stand you.” But this time it comes out as a laugh.
The Quidditch match takes up the afternoon. Students scream from the stands, players are rushed to the hospital wing, and the sun brushes Draco’s hair. And he decides that perhaps going back to where you started is not the same as never having left.