Fresh Eyes

“Yes,” Draco says. “Of course. Whatever you like.”

Quieter sounds perfectly good to him, especially if Hermione’s ears are hurting.

He is surprised when she suggests they go back to her flat. It worries him, a little—he wonders if she has a headache from the loud party and he makes sure to keep a steadying palm on the small of her back as they leave.

Her flat is just down the hall. 

It’s quieter even just a few meters down from the party, which Malfoy is grateful for. He’s still worried about Hermione’s ears, though she doesn’t seem to be in pain. Though after she opens her front door, her heel catches on the threshold and she stumbles getting into her flat. Draco catches her waist, concerned.

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Did he make her last drink too strong?

But she just gives him an embarrassed smile.

“Yeah, thanks,” Hermione says. “These shoes are new. Kind of hard to walk in…”

Still holding his arm for balance, she lifts a foot to show him.

Draco obediently examines the shoe. It looks lovely, though he doesn’t know much about women’s footwear. A lot of little pink straps.

“Very pretty,” he says, smiling at her, since she seems to be waiting for his assessment. “Hurt your feet?”

She giggles and, hanging onto his arm for balance, reaches her free hand down to undo the straps, nodding. 

“Yeah, a bit,” she admits. “But I wanted to… um. Well, I thought you might like them.”

“I do.”

Hermione lets go of him, still fiddling with her shoe, so he takes a seat in the chair by the door to remove his own shoes. 

Her flat is warmer than outside, and it smells like her. Malfoy can see in the dim light of the entry lamp that there are soft rugs everywhere, that her slippers by the door are white and fuzzy. She likes things soft and clean. 

He’s just finished unlacing the second shoe when Hermione stands up and steps in front of him.

“Can you help?” she asks. “It’s hard to do it by myself.”

He leans back, not sure what she means, but then Hermione lifts her little heeled foot and perches it on his knee.

His heart stops and he looks up at her face at once, needing to see her expression.

Her cheeks are a little pinker than normal but otherwise she looks the same as usual—a slight, embarrassed smile curving her lips.

He is usually much taller than her—but he’s seated now and she’s standing, so she’s slightly above him. Her little dress is looking very little indeed, from this angle. Her leg is sweetly curved, her skin golden in the low light. The pale pink of her shoe is starkly, intensely feminine against the crisp, heavy fabric of his dark trousers, and the sight of it is quite a lot for Draco.

“Just—the buckle,” Hermione says, when he doesn’t move for a moment. “That one.”

Draco looks down at her shoe, hoping she can’t see the flush on his cheeks.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, clearing his throat. “Right.”

He can be useful. He can be good.

Malfoy feels for the buckle—his fingers shake a bit. It’s tiny— barely more than a tiny loop of metal—how is this practical for footwear? His fingers feel over-large as he fumbles with it, but he finally gets it undone. He is reminded viscerally of his first time attempting to undo a bra.

“Done,” he says. “Let me get the other…”

He leads Hermione’s foot to the ground, placing her shoe carefully to the side, and she brings her other heeled foot to his knee once more. 

This one is easier, now that he has a general idea of where the straps are.

With her heels off now, Hermione looks smaller. She's terribly cute. She gives him a glowing smile then bends to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks for helping,” she says, padding away to the kitchen. “Shall I get us drinks?”

Malfoy touches the part of his cheek that she kissed.

“Yes,” he manages to say, feeling his skin burn. He stands up. “Um—yes. Sure—can I help?”

It is taking everything in him to play it cool. He doesn't want her to think he's a freak, to think that he's so unused to casual shows of friendly affection that he'll fall apart at a peck on the cheek. Is this what it’s like to be friends with Hermione Granger? Draco feels a fresh surge of jealousy for Potter and Weasley, who presumably were the recipients of many such little displays of affection. Quick kisses on the cheek, her heeled foot on their knees, perhaps after the Yule Ball…

“Draco? Did you hear me?”

“S-sorry,” he stammers, blinking these thoughts away. He rests his hands on the counter, ready to be useful. “What did you say?”

Hermione giggles.

“I have red wine or white. Or—maybe a cocktail? I think I have some vodka and juice…”

“Whatever you’re having,” Draco says. "Should I help make them?"

"No, no, please. Go sit down. Enjoy my new couch, I just got it secondhand from one of the other librarians..."

Draco takes the few steps to the living room, looking around at her flat as he does. It’s so precious. Soft and warm and more home-like than his flat back in London, even though there are many signs she’s only recently moved in.

Some boxes by the back wall, partially unpacked. A distinct lack of cookware near the stove, only a single pan, the shelves above it nearly empty but for a few little tins of spices that look new.

He closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn’t want to bring it up, doesn’t want to let reality intrude on what is already—sadly—one of the best nights of his life, but he can’t ignore his concern.

“You said you moved here recently,” he forces himself to say. “Has that been—tough?”

He scans the room again, this time searching for signs that Hermione might be unhappy. Signs that he should leave right now and go tell the Ministry to come and fetch her.

“I moved in maybe a month ago,” she says. She’s bustling with cups; Draco sees her pour some lemonade into two glasses. “But it’s not been bad, no. Time is so weird this year, isn’t it? I feel like everything just passes by so quickly…”

“Yeah,” he says, staring at her. She looks up and he clears his throat, smiles. “You said earlier you were lonely. I was just worried you might be… sad.”

She gives him a surprised, gentle look.

“That’s really sweet,” she says finally. "You're—such a sweet man."

"I don't think so."

She laughs, even though he didn't really mean it as a joke. 

"Can I be honest with you?" Hermione asks.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, sitting on the couch. “Please.”

Hermione’s eyes meet his over the tops of the cocktails she's still making. Her nose is scrunched a little, something between thoughtful and playful.

“I’m not sad,” she says. "I'm actually—loving it?"

She’s whispering—with a huge smile on her face—like she’s sharing a giddy secret with him. 

“What do you mean?” Draco asks. He is surprised.

“I know this sounds crazy,” Hermione says. “But… do you ever have a sense that—maybe the world works in ways you don’t understand?”

“Sometimes. Yes."

She steps out from behind the counter, two cocktails in hand, and hands him one. Their fingers brush and then she drops down to sit on the couch near him. There are two other free cushions but she has opted to sit right next to him, and their legs are touching. When she turns to look up at him they feel far closer than normal. Draco takes a long drink, trying to recalibrate to this new circumstance.

“Well, that’s how I feel a lot, recently," Hermione says. "Like the world works in ways I don't understand. But also that... I don't mind. And that I'm enjoying going along for the ride."

She looks beautiful. Her hair is curly and soft-looking, and a strand of it has come to rest against his arm. He wants to touch it, wants to coil it lightly around his finger. He fights the urge.

“That’s great,” he says quietly. “I’m glad.”

“What about you?” she asks. They are both speaking very softly now, are so close together. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Draco says without thinking.

Her eyes look like stars. Her freckles are a constellation he would sail an ocean to follow. The question is easy to answer, in this moment.

His answer must come out sort of dazed-sounding, because Hermione laughs. He blinks and gives her an embarrassed smile. 

“I mean—you know," he says. "As happy as one can be? In my position.”

“What position is that?” she asks curiously

Draco realizes that he can’t exactly explain the Ministry, or the trials, or the black cloud that is the Malfoy name.

“Um. Just that... I don’t have many friends. And I'm figuring things out as I go, too."

“I’ll be your friend, Draco."

His heart threatens to burst.

Her small hand lifts to rest on his jaw then, and before Draco knows what is happening Hermione Granger is kissing him.

His shocked, stammering little exhale is lost between their lips. 

Hermione Granger is kissing him. Sweet, lovely Hermione—he doesn't know what to do; this is more than he bargained for—

“Oh my god,” he breathes against her mouth, and now her other hand is on his chest, the hand on his cheek slipping behind his head to tangle in his hair. 

"You taste good," she whispers.

That is the last straw. Before Draco can stop himself he is leaning forward to kiss her back in earnest. He suddenly needs her, needs to touch her, needs her to touch him, needs to be so close with her.

She is like toffee in his hands, warm and sweet and melting against him. 

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "You're perfect. I want to make you feel good—"

She kisses him harder by way of answer, pulling lightly on his hair, biting on his bottom lip. Draco is going to pass out.

It has been a very long time since he's been physically intimate with anybody. This brief bit of snogging is already threatening to send Draco's brain into overdrive, he is breathing heavily and making involuntary little noises as Hermione touches his neck. But he clings to sanity, tries to gather the brain cells to make this good for her, because he very badly needs to make her happy. He needs to show her with his touch and his lips and his breaths that he thinks she is perfect, that he wants to do only good things for her, that he’s sorry—

This final thought snaps him flying back to reality.

He yanks himself away, breathing hard, and Hermione makes a sound of disappointment and tries to close the distance again. But Draco stands, runs his hands through his hair in a panic.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I—I should go—”

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asks, standing too. She looks concerned. “Draco? Did I do something?”

“No,” Draco says at once. “No, you’re perfect. I have to go. I have to—”

He takes a step away from her and she catches his hand, and somehow his phone drops from his coat pocket onto the floor between them. 

Hermione goes to pick it up before he can.

He sees the moment her eyes go to the glowing, unlocked screen, sees the moment her expression goes from dazed confusion to something different.

She freezes, staring at the screen.

“Draco,” she says quietly. “Why am I the only contact in your phone?”