Chapter 2
It is lucky that Draco is used to not getting enough rest, because the scene from the library plays out in his mind so vividly and so repeatedly all night that he’s amazed he falls asleep at all.
Nice to meet you, Draco.
Draco has sometimes thought about what it might be like to be forgiven. To be absolved, wiped clean of his wrongdoings, allowed to walk in the light again. He knows he doesn’t deserve it. It’s not that he’s evil—Draco has seen true evil, and he’s not that. Almost everything bad he’s ever done has been out of indoctrination or fear or both. He’d become a Death Eater as a stupid boy trying to make his parents proud, and he’d stayed a Death Eater to keep them alive.
But some things are so bad that it doesn’t matter why you did them.
His Azkaban sentence had been testament to that. His nightmares—ongoing, frequent—are another. The ones where he watches his younger self let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts over and over again. The ones where he watches the Muggles Studies professor die above where he and his family used to eat dinner.
No, Draco doesn’t deserve forgiveness.
And so he is definitely not deserving of whatever this is, this fantasy he’s stumbled into of a world in which he’s never hurt anyone at all, in which he can come across Hermione Granger and she can think it’s nice to meet him.
It doesn’t take a Mind Healer to know why Draco wants to keep living in this reality.
He wants it so badly it hurts, so badly that he can overlook, at least for now, the part of his brain screaming at him to tell the Ministry, to tell Potter and Weasel, to tell anybody that he’s found Hermione.
Because if two years of trauma serving the Dark Lord and another two years of trauma in Azkaban have taught Draco anything, it’s how to avoid thinking about certain things in order to stay alive. And this little spark in his chest—the one that burns when he thinks about trying to see Hermione again—feels a lot more like being alive than anything else has in a long time.
—
Draco goes into the next day with a plan. He doesn’t want much, just two things: to be near her for a bit, and maybe to have a short, friendly conversation with her.
To this end, after much strategizing, Draco surmises that the best course of action is to ask her for another book recommendation and then sit in the library to read it for a few hours. Preferably in a spot where he can look up every once in a while and see her.
He doesn’t want to do anything to disrupt her life, harbors no fantasies about becoming her friend. She seems happy. It would be enough just to be near, to indulge in the sorts of polite, well-meaning conversation that strangers or distant acquaintances share with each other. The sorts of conversation Draco never has in the wizarding world, where everyone knows who he is for the wrong reasons.
Hermione is wearing a soft-looking brown jumper today.
“Good morning,” Draco says, stepping forward to the counter.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He rests them briefly on the counter but then Hermione’s eyes flick down to them so he slips them into his pockets, self-conscious.
“Hi,” she says, looking up at him with a little smile. “Draco.”
His stomach flips.
“Yes. You remembered.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“And do you remember my name?”
“Of course I do. Hermione.”
This earns him a smile.
“How can I help you?”
Draco has a little script ready.
“I enjoyed Pride & Prejudice,” he says. Then adds: “That was the book you recommended to me a few days ago.”
“I remember.”
“Right. Well, I was hoping I could get another recommendation. If you have time.”
“What did you like about the last one? So I can tailor my recommendation accordingly.”
Draco pauses to think. If he’s being honest, he liked but did not love Pride & Prejudice. But he tries to remember what he did enjoy about it so that he can share something honest with Hermione.
“I liked that it was light-hearted.”
“Interesting. What did you think of the social stuff? Like around marriage and gossip and so on.”
“Funny,” Draco says honestly. “But not my favorite part.”
Hermione nods and turns to peer at her screen. Draco leans over a little so he can see what’s on it. It appears to be a catalog of some kind. The little plastic thing Hermione is sliding around with her hand on the counter lets her navigate the contents of the catalog.
“It’s pretty neat, right?” she asks, seeing him looking at the plastic thing in her hand. “This mouse is a lot more ergonomic than most others. I brought it from home since the ones they give us to use are ancient.”
“Mouse?”
“Yes,” Hermione says, picking up the plastic thing. Draco looks carefully. Is this what the muggles think mice are? “I know it looks a little different. It works pretty much the same, just keeps my hand in a better position.”
Draco nods, logging this information carefully. He wants to be able to talk to Hermione with as little friction, as little lost in translation, as possible. He will remember the muggle names for as many things as he can.
She’s returned to looking at the screen and Draco waits patiently.
“I think I have a good one for you,” she says after a bit, getting to her feet. “Follow me.”
Draco has never thought of Hermione as being much shorter than him. She’s always had an outsized presence to him, after all—first as one of Potter’s best friends, then as the only student in their year with higher marks than Draco, then as the Golden Girl. But, as she sweeps past him, Draco realizes she comes up only to his shoulder.
“It’s just over here,” she says, leading him to some nearby shelves. “There’s two by the same author I think you might like.”
He follows her through the aisle. They are the only two there—the library is mostly empty at the moment.
“This one is fantasy,” she says, pulling a paperback off the shelf and handing it to him. “And this other one here is sort of more science fiction. Both are pretty cheerful.”
Draco looks between the two, tries to focus on their titles and covers but Hermione is standing very close to him. She smells good.
“Um,” he says. “I’m—having a hard time deciding. I’ll try reading the first chapter of both before I pick one to check out.”
Hermione seems to approve of this very much.
“How methodical! I can’t wait to hear which you go with. Just find me when you’re ready.”
She shows him to some tables (Draco is happy to see that they’re within eyesight of the front counter) before heading back to her post.
Draco watches her go before taking a seat and cracking open the first book.
—
Three hours later, Draco decides to check out both titles. He knew within a few minutes that he'd get both—the author has a dry, clever sense of humor he likes that manages not to be bleak—but has lingered in the library due to the peaceful, occasionally stomach-flipping enjoyment of sharing space with Hermione. He steals glances. She even catches him looking once, and he has to turn quickly back to his book, cheeks heating, hoping she thinks nothing of it.
When Draco brings up both books to the front counter, Hermione makes a happy little noise of approval.
“A bookworm like me,” she says, smiling.
She helps him scan the two paperbacks under the red light but then pauses before handing them back. Draco meets her eyes curiously.
“I was wondering,” she says. “Are you new in town?”
He freezes.
“Why?”
Even he can hear the fearful suspicion in his own voice, and Hermione looks taken aback by his odd reaction.
“I just haven’t seen you around before. That’s all. I thought maybe… um…”
Every atom in Draco’s body is telling him to flee the interaction. But Hermione looks nervous—maybe even embarrassed—so he stays. He has just enough social sense to know that there is a chance he will hurt her feelings if he departs abruptly now. And that he cannot do.
“I thought maybe we could get a cup of tea sometime,” she says finally, blushing. “I’m new to town and I just thought, if you were too—”
If she says more words they are lost to him.
Draco’s heartbeat thunders in his ears. A moment ago he felt chilled to the bone and now suddenly it is far too warm in here, his shirt feels suffocating and his collar too tight. Hermione wants to get a cup of tea with him. Hermione Granger is asking him—looking hopeful and nervous—if he will spend time with her in a friendly capacity, a more friendly capacity than just in the library, and he will need so much time to process this later, alone in his flat, and—
“Yes. Yes let’s—yes let’s do that. Yes.”
Hermione’s smile lights up the whole room.
“Great,” she says, and he can tell that she is truly relieved. He wonders, dazed, if she was possibly worried that he would say no. “I think it would be nice.”
“Yes,” he says for the fifth time, because he is an idiot. “Thank you for asking. I also think it would be—amazing.”
This makes her laugh and Draco wills his cheeks to not turn pink.
“So,” she says, still smiling. “Maybe we should, um, exchange numbers? And you can just text me when you’re free?”