Chapter 17
The next day, Malfoy looked the worst Hermione had ever seen him. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes alternated between staring blankly and darting wildly around the room. He slumped forward in class, head in hands, and when called upon he could only croak that he didn’t know. There was a grass stain on his right elbow. Even his hair had lost its signature shine.
Hermione tried in vain to catch his eye. It’s ok, you dumbarse. I fancy you, too! Just talk to me. She stared at him so hard during dinner, trying to will her thoughts into his head, that Daphne had to poke her with a fork under the table to get her attention.
“Oi, what’s with the deathglaring Malfoy?”
“I’m not!”
“You’re staring daggers at him, Granger. What did he do?”
“Nothing. It’s… I’ll explain later.”
“Fine. But stop staring, you’re drawing attention.”
Oh. She hadn’t noticed. Daphne was good at that – noticing the things she didn’t.
“Honestly, do you pay attention to anything besides blondie?”
Hermione felt a familiar sinking in her gut at this. But this time, she would learn from her mistakes. Communication was key.
“Daphne, I’ve already explained to you why I can’t pick up on social cues. I don’t appreciate-”
“Oh! Fuck… sorry, sorry,” Daphne said quickly, looking quite sheepish. “I forgot about that. What does that mean by the way? Like, what is a social cue and what’s just a cue?”
Hermione had never even thought about it before. If she was honest with herself, she’d been avoiding digging too deep out of shame and embarrassment. There was no room for that with Daphne.
She was blissfully distracted until eight o’clock approached and she saw Malfoy stalk out of the Great Hall, looking like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. After a split second’s hesitation, she grabbed two small bowls of apple crumble. She knew he liked it.
Her trip to the room of requirement was fraught with nerves. What was she supposed to- no, she knew what she was supposed to say to him, but how? Her face burnt at the thought of saying the words out loud. She’d only barely found the strength to let them into her head, and now they had to come all the way out of her mouth? Without what she’d seen, what she’d felt, it would have been impossible.
Still, she practiced.
I fancy you, too.
I fancy you, too.
I fancy you, too.
She vowed she would make herself understood this time. There was no point in either of them stewing in this any longer.
A sliver of panic wormed its way into her heart when she reached the corridor and found it devoid of Malfoy. He’d never been late before. In fact, he’d never even arrived after her.
She stood awkwardly in front of the blank stretch of wall, holding her two bowls of dessert, and waited. And waited. And waited.
As the time wore on, Hermione’s stomach sank further into her knees. Was their deal over? Surely he wouldn’t just abandon her like that. And if he did it before she’d even had a chance to explain… no, he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair.
But what happened last night had only made her more aware that maybe he would. Malfoy was used to running, hiding, keeping himself safe. Maybe the fear of her reaction really would be too much. Maybe seeing her wasn’t worth the visceral sense of dread, the unsteady heart, the world spinning before his eyes. Maybe he just didn’t want to break down in front of her. Could she blame him?
Yes. She could absolutely blame him. She’d walked into all her extraction sessions with her head held… if not high, then at least upright. She’d handled her fear. And once upon a time, when she’d thought less of him, she would have let him off. She would have sniffed with derision at his cowardice, been indignant that he’d wasted her time.
She knew better now. Not only did she understand that his fear was something much deeper and more insidious than she felt herself, but she knew that he’d survived so much worse than rejection from her. Didn’t he realise that he was capable of this? Maybe not. There were lots of things that Hermione hadn’t realised until recently, too.
Like the fact that she could have this.
So she picked up her two bowls of cold apple crumble and marched herself up to Ravenclaw tower. The common room was more crowded than she felt comfortable with, knowing what she was about to do, but she walked to the entrance to the boys’ dormitory with her head held high anyway, focused entirely on her goal.
She passed a confused looking third year on the stairs but paid him no mind. Eventually she made it to the door. She had done the easy part. Now the came the real work.
Hermione transferred both bowls – rather precariously – to her left hand and knocked. When there was no reply she knocked again. Nothing. Fine.
She turned the handle and it gave way easily. Heart beating in her throat, she made her way into a dormitory that looked almost identical to her own.
To her equal parts relief and disappointment, it looked empty.
“Malfoy?” she called out.
There was a thump from behind one of the beds and Malfoy shot up like a groundhog. He looked as bad as he had all day. Worse actually, now that he was facing her and she could see the anxious dart of his eyes, the line of ink in his hair where his fingers must have carded through it.
“I fancy you, too!” The words came out without her permission. Maybe because it was all she’d managed to prepare in her hour of purgatory. Maybe because she just wanted this damn problem solved as quickly as possible so it would stop eating at him like this.
Hermione shifted the bowls awkwardly onto someone’s empty bedside table and shut the door quietly behind her, cursing herself for not thinking of that earlier. Really, she just didn’t want to look at Malfoy’s face. She didn’t know what to make of his expression. Was it shock? Confusion? Anger? Curiosity? Disgust?
“You what?” Hermione winced, hearing the derision in his tone. But she noticed that he did, too. Grimacing, he repeated, “You what?” Softer now. She used to think he was incapable of that. That he was just jagged shards of ice masquerading as a person. Now she knew what that cold demeanour really was. Maybe she could thaw it.
Gathering her courage, Hermione took a few steps towards him, ignoring how he curled in on himself at the approach.
“I fancy you, too,” she said.
“No, you don’t,” Malfoy snapped, seeming to draw back from his own words.
Hermione looked him straight in the eyes, no longer shying away from the feeling. With most people, most of the time, it felt like an invasion. She would feel immediately naked in front of them. But Malfoy had invaded so many parts of her already, and he had never laughed, never hurt her. She had done the same to him, now. She had to show him that she wouldn’t laugh, either. She had to make him understand that they could trust each other.
But it was Malfoy who dropped his gaze to the floor this time.
“I do. I have for a while, I think,” she said.
“You think?”
“I’m not… great at processing my emotions, okay? I might be almost as bad as you.”
Malfoy let out a hysterical sort of huff at this.
“Malfoy… Draco, why would I be saying this if it wasn’t true?”
He had turned his face away from her at the use of his given name. “To humiliate me. You’re… we’re different. People like you don’t fancy people like me. You can’t stand people like me.”
Hermione walked around the bed to stand only a few feet from him, arms nervously folded across her stomach, eyes still trained on his.
“And people like you don’t fancy people like me, do they?”
“I don’t,” he snapped.
“Draco,” she said, flatly, watching him deflate under his failed attempt at escape.
“I brought you apple crumble.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Giving up on politeness, Hermione let her frustration propel her forwards. She grabbed his face with both hands, tilted it down and kissed him straight on the mouth.
Something tight and tense in her unravelled and she almost fell against him as she finally, finally let her body have what it wanted. He responded immediately, desperately, carding his fingers through her hair and pulling her closer. She let him, completely pliant as she let the movement of his lips and hands drive her into oblivion. But something was wrong. She knew it in the part of her that knew him now. He was kissing her out of fear. Like she’d run away straight after. Like this would be the only and the last time.
Gently, she pushed his face away. The way his eyes stayed glued to her lips like a drowning man’s to a lifeboat in a storm confirmed her theory.
“What do I have to do to make you believe me?” she said firmly, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. “Why don’t you understand? You’ve been in my head long enough.”
His eyes darkened. “Yes, and I’ve never seen any eviden-”
“Is it so hard to admit that I might be better at occlumency than you?”
This must have sparked something in Malfoy. Some old rivalry. He smirked as he said, “I doubt that.”
“You wanna bet? You’ll see everything tomorrow. Everything you want.” Hermione shivered – in fear, in anticipation – as she realised just how true those words were. There would be no more barriers between them.
“Everything I want?” Malfoy said, eyes glazing over as they moved back to her lips.
Hermione nodded, breathless.
When he pressed his mouth to hers again, no tension left her. In fact, the sensations of his hands on her face, her back, her waist all culminated to build something torturous inside her. She pulled at the fabric of his shirt, wanting to be closer. At this, Malfoy’s breath hitched and he pushed at the small of her back, pressing her whole body flush against his. It wasn’t enough. Hermione continued to paw at Malfoy, almost panicked.
Then he drew away, and zaps of embarrassment ran down her spine, weighing down her shoulders and lowering her eyes. But he took her face gently in both hands, placing one more chaste kiss on her lips.
“So… that apple crumble…”
Hermione laughed, relieved that he wasn’t rejecting her. That she hadn’t been too much. It had felt like too much for her. But not enough at the same time.
“It’ll be cold by now.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “In case you weren’t aware, Hermione, we both have magical powers.”
Her heart swelled. She raised an eyebrow, but the, “Hermione?” came out more shyly than she’d meant for it to.
Malfoy’s cheeks actually turned pink. It was surreal to see him so raw.
“Is it okay if I call you that?”
“Of course, Draco,” she said, beaming despite her nerves. “Can I…?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. Something bright bubbled up in her chest and her fingers started tapping on his chest of their own accord. She stopped as soon as she realised, but he’d noticed. He brought her right hand to his lips and kissed it.
“You don’t have to hide it – or anything – you know. Not with me.”
She smiled weakly. She didn’t know if she’d ever get past the reflex to push her stimming down and look normal, but if there was anyone she felt safe to try with – and the irony was not lost on her here – it was Malfoy. Draco. God, that would take some getting used to.
They ate their desserts sitting side by side on Malfoy’s- Draco’s bed, chatting inanely with Hermione acutely aware of their thighs occasionally brushing together. She barely tasted anything. She was too preoccupied by thoughts of how she’d never seen him smile this much, and plans to make it happen as often as possible for as long as she could.
***
Hermione had never really let herself imagine what dating Draco Malfoy would be like. It turned out to involve hours of him questioning her about her favourite foods, favourite novels, favourite places et cetera. Malfoy was as meticulous in his affection as he was in everything else. He wanted to know everything.
It was like the floodgates had opened. Now that they weren’t spending half their time hiding themselves from each other they were able to really, truly talk. It turned out Malfoy liked potions because if you dug deep enough, everything complex was built on the web between a few basic principles. He spoke French (which he loved) and Latin (which he hated). He’d wanted to be a seeker because ‘Potter’ was one, and he’d wanted to beat him at his own game. Hermione had rolled her eyes violently at this and called him a child.
“Well spotted, Granger. I seem to recall being twelve at the time.”
“I’ve been demoted to Granger already?” Hermione said, sat on his lap in their room one very unproductive Tuesday while he played with one of her curls.
“Sorry. Old habits die hard.”
She knew exactly what he meant. It had been a month and she was still mentally correcting herself whenever she thought of him as Malfoy. It was getting easier, though. The more she learnt about Draco, the further he slipped away from the concept of ‘Malfoy’ – the ancient pureblood dynasty, the schoolyard bully, the death eater.
The extractions had gotten both easier and harder. It was a relief not to have to worry about hiding her feelings from him anymore, but the parts of her life they’d gotten to were particularly hard to relive. She hadn’t realised just how much of the last few years she’d been unable to process because it was just never the time. There was always more danger ahead. She’d always had to stay strong, stay rational, not think too deeply about any of it. About Cedric’s glassy, unseeing eyes and how the whole world had rearranged itself into something dark and sinister at Harry’s screams of, “He’s back!” About fearing for her life in the Department of Mysteries. About starving in that godforsaken tent for a year.
The extractions left her shaken, but Malfoy- Draco was there for her every step of the way. He could always spot the moment when Hermione forgot it was just a memory and slipped back into the feelings of terror and helplessness. He could always find a way to bring her back.
Often, she came back to the present just to spend the next hour or so sobbing her guts out. Draco was there through it all, holding her tight and stroking her hair, or just sitting on the sofa next to her when she couldn’t bare to be touched.
They’d talked about that as well. They’d had to as their relationship became more… physical. It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t like being touched. It was just… overwhelming. Sometimes she was fine, other times Malfoy would take her hand in his and she’d be so viscerally aware of its weight, of the feeling of his skin on hers. She could feel the muscles and tendons moving with the slightest twitch and sometimes she just had to pull her hand away. The first few times she’d felt like this, she’d powered through, thinking surely she would get used to it soon. Draco had noticed.
He'd cornered her during an extraction, trying to distract her from the rising panic she’d felt in the lead up to O.W.L’s.
Are you touch-averse?
Huh?
I read about it. Some autistic people just don’t like being touched. It sounds like it causes pain or makes them feel sick. Is that why you don’t like holding hands?
Her embarrassment and shame had rolled out of her and saturated the mental space that Draco was occupying. He couldn’t have missed it.
There’s nothing wrong with it, you know, he’d said, and to her surprise she could feel he was telling the truth. He wasn’t angry with her. Wasn’t disappointed. Just curious. As he seemed to be about every aspect of her.
It had taken Hermione a while to figure out how to explain it to him. She’d barely even let herself think about it. It was just another part of her that was odd, that she could fix with enough grit and determination. But now she had all the facts, now that she knew these parts of herself weren’t going to magically disappear, she’d begun learning a new way.
Draco was infallible, and much more useful than her and her persistent avoidance. He’d done the research and together they’d figured out that though she hated light touch, deep pressure was fine. They also figured out that if she was overstimulated, she was overstimulated. Hermione felt terrible about it, but in that state she could barely stand to hear him breathing next to her, much less feel him touching her. He insisted that it was ok, and due to their regular mind-linking she knew it was. She fought hard to push down her suspicions that he was using some sort of trick to hide his real feelings from her. All the evidence pointed to him not being able to, skilled legilimens or not. It was just so strange to be so wholly accepted.
Overall, Hermione was happy. Frequently nervous and very much out of her depth, but happy. Except for one thing.
Almost every night of the month they’d been together, they’d carefully choregraphed their return to Ravenclaw tower from the Room of Requirement. They would walk separately, take different paths, leave gaps of ten minutes in between. Two war veterans who slipped easily back into strategy and secrecy. They would sit as far apart in class as they’d always done. Would ignore each other in the halls as was expected.
Hermione hated it.
Which made her feel like a complete hypocrite, since she was the one who’d insisted on it. Still, Draco had never overtly done anything but agree with her about not wanting to share this budding thing they had with the world just yet. As happy as she was, what she had with Draco still felt so new and fragile. She didn’t want to deal with the inevitable whispers and stares and – God forbid – gossip magazines just yet. She imagined he didn’t either.
But the press soon found a way to get to them anyway. Or at least, get to Draco.
That morning at breakfast, Daphne had plonked into her chair rather roughly before wordlessly passing Hermione the Daily Prophet.
‘Malfoy Estate to be Liquidated, Funding the Rebuilding Effort’, read the front page. The words slashed through an image of Malfoy Manor taking up most of the page, looking dark and imposing in the low light.
Hermione’s gaze immediately jumped to Draco, sitting at the edge of the hall with Theo and Blaise. She realised quickly that she wasn’t the only one looking, and that he knew it. Necks craned and whispers scuttered across the hall. Hermione refused to make it worse, and lowered her gaze to devour the article.
She could barely focus over the tempest raging inside her. Why hadn’t he told her? Surely he can’t have just found out with the rest of the world. Did he not trust her? Did he think she’d think he deserved this? Did he deserve this? How did she even feel about it? Would it change anything?
According to the article, there had been negotiations. Hermione pursed her lips and glared at the word. Negotiations. So he had deliberately kept this from her. For how long?
The day passed in agonising slowness. Almost no one bothered to hide their interest in the situation. Some simply stared, whispered, pointed. Others downright laughed or booed as Draco passed them in the hallway. This was a great day for the downtrodden. A bigoted pureblood’s power was being stripped away before their very eyes. A dynasty was ending, quietly and with its head bowed.
A few years ago, Hermione might have felt pleased. Or maybe even then, something about seeing Draco this way might have felt wrong to her. He kept his mask as solid as always, his posture impeccable and his hair neatly combed, but it was different. It was no longer Malfoy, effortlessly confident in who he was and where he stood. It was Draco, armoured up and letting the arrows clink off of him, hoping none would make it through to pierce his skin.
This time, Hermione was the first to their room. This happened so rarely that Hermione panicked. She understood he had a lot on his plate but if the little ferret didn’t at least talk to her about it…
Hermione huffed as she began to pace along the blank stretch of wall. I need somewhere I can talk to Draco, she thought, forgetting all about their Muggle Studies session today. I need somewhere he can’t hide from me. And I could use something for this headache too.
The door appeared just as Draco rounded the corner, face in the same icy blank arrangement he’d been wearing all day. She pulled the door open and held it as he walked through, trying not to glare at him as he raised an eyebrow.
When Hermione turned to face the room after shutting the door behind her, her heart nearly stopped.
It was tiny. Dimly lit. With a massive four poster bed taking up most of the space.
Draco’s mask finally slipped as he surveyed his surroundings, laughter bursting out of his mouth.
“Merlin, Hermione! I didn’t know you wanted to take me to bed so badly,” he finally managed to get out, face sporting a cocky grin that she wanted to slap right off it. Her own face was burning hot.
“I… I just-” she spluttered in the face of Draco and his stupid bloody assumptions. “I told it I had a headache!”
A tinge of concern fluttered across Draco’s brow before he hastily replaced it with bravado.
“Well then, I guess you’d better lie down,” he said, eyebrows raised suggestively.
Hermione crossed her arms and stood her ground. “Why didn’t you tell me anything about the Ministry’s decision?”
That wiped the damn smirk off his face. Draco lowered himself gingerly to sit on the bed, avoiding her scathing gaze.
“You’ve had a lot on your plate lately. I didn’t want to cause you needless stress.”
Hermione had thought he would say that. So she got straight to the heart of it. “If you didn’t tell me about that, what else aren’t you telling me to avoid causing ‘needless stress’?”
If he had managed to hide something as huge as this from her during their extractions, what else was he managing to hide? Was he actually bothered by her physical… issues after all? Did he think she was a terrible kisser? Was he somehow faking his feelings for her in some convoluted plot to draw her in and then-
“Nothing. In fact I didn’t actively hide anything from you. You just didn’t ask.”
That gave Hermione pause.
“Look, I know this whole-” he gestured between the two of them, “-thing has been more of an adjustment for you than it has for me. And I know it’s been difficult for you reliving the war. It just didn’t seem like the best time to be like, ‘Hey, the Ministry is trying to take away my unlimited wealth and give it to widows and orphans, poor me.’”
“Wait… so you aren’t upset about what they’re doing?”
“Of course I’m upset. I’m having to re-evaluate my whole identity again and plan for a future that’s going to be much harder than I expected it to be growing up. But thanks to the amount of reading up on socialism you and Miller have made me do, I can’t pretend a part of me doesn’t agree it’s for the best. Redistribution of wealth, proper reparations etc. etc. Of course the way they’ve framed it is terrible for our public image, but no matter what the papers say, Mother and I went quietly. I know that, she knows that, and now you know that. I can’t think of anyone else who’s opinion really matters to me.”
Hermione’s heart softened. She felt ashamed of the old and familiar direction her brain had gone down when everything Malfoy had done this year had only added more evidence for his genuine willingness to change. He had tried so hard. He had achieved so much. And still he kept surprising her.
“Wow, look at me. A Gryffindor out selfless-ed by a slimy, conniving Slytherin,” said Hermione, sinking down next to him.
Malfoy huffed out a laugh. “Told you you lot couldn’t handle anything more nuanced than a punch to the face.”
“Yeah… and something about a misguided sense of moral superiority.”
Draco turned to face her. “Look, I didn’t mean-”
“No, no. You were right. Here I was getting all angry and stupid when I hadn’t even asked you anything about it. If I’m being honest, I’d forgotten about it altogether what with the extractions and… y’know…” She gestured awkwardly between them.
Draco brushed his hand over hers and she tensed initially, but flipped her hand around to hold onto his, squeezing it tight and relaxing into the warmth and weight of it. It was dry from his neurotic hand-washing, as always, with calluses leftover from years of quidditch. Slowly but surely, it was starting to feel like home.
“I’m sorry I’m like this,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I’m sorry I can’t just be normal about this sort of thing. Like the touching and the relationshipping.”
“Hermione, I don’t know what I need to do to prove to you that it really is fine. I fancy the bollocks out of you. All of you. If I wanted easy I could be lying on a velvet chaise lounge somewhere while Pansy attacks me and I try to ignore how much I hate her damn perfume. I don’t want easy. I want you with your weird, brilliant brain exactly how it is.”
Hermione couldn’t stop the smile that blossomed on her face.
“Do you really have a headache?”
She nodded, and Draco stretched across the bed to rummage through the bedside table, letting out a little noise of triumph when he located a pain relief potion. She downed it just as Malfoy decided to take off his shoes and get under the covers.
“Come on, I hear rest is great for headaches,” he said, patting the generous stretch of mattress beside him.
Blood rushed to Hermione’s face but Draco simply rolled his eyes and yawned. “Relax. I’m not going to pounce on you, I promise.”
Stiffly, Hermione removed her shoes and climbed under the covers. Draco radiated heat from only a few inches away. Too nervous to push herself much further, she avoided his eyes and tapped her fingers anxiously against her arms. Rather boldly – or maybe not, maybe this was something people did in relationships – Malfoy reached over and tucked the covers under her, cocooning her in warmth. When she expected him to retreat, he didn’t, instead pressing his form against hers and draping one arm over her and the other below her pillow. Hermione liked it. The warmth was a bit suffocating and Draco’s elbows a bit pointy, but she felt very safe and warm.
Still, her innate awkwardness pushed her quickly out of the realm of bodies and back into the realm of thought.
“Daphne’s been pestering me about Valentine’s day,” she said.
“That’s the Sunday after next, right?”
“Yeah,” she said, willing him to do the hard thing instead of her. To ask the question.
“Do you want to do anything?”
“Do you want to do anything?” she asked, burying her slowly reddening face further into the pillow.
Draco responded by pulling her somehow closer and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I do if you do.”
“I… I sort of do… but what exactly are we going to do? We’re not going public yet, are we?”
Draco deflated at that. “Fair point. It’s terrible timing right now, anyway.”
Something in Hermione clicked into place then.
“Is it?”
“Huh?”
Hermione shot up.
“Isn’t it brilliant timing? People think you were coerced into liquidating your estate. They don’t- no one sees how hard you’ve worked to undo all that pureblood nonsense. If you were publicly dating me-”
Draco cut her off by grabbing her face and pressing his mouth to hers desperately. Hermione responded eagerly after the initial shock. His hunger only intensified hers, and she let herself fall into him until he eventually pulled away.
“Hermione,” he whispered, fingers carding through her hair, “no.”
“What?”
“I’m not letting you do that for me. One, it’s going to make you the centre of attention you really don’t want. Two, I fancy you way too much to use you as some sort of publicity stunt. I want to do this right. I don’t want to rush anything with you. I want to enjoy every minute of every stage. This… what we have is none of anyone’s business until you’re one hundred per cent ready for it to be.”
Hermione couldn’t look into his eyes. “But you’re ready.”
“I have nothing to lose. You have nothing to gain.”
“I have some things to gain…” she said, tracing her fingers over his hand, imagining how it would feel to hold it in the hallways, at dinner, in the common room. How would it feel to be rid of that part of her that was so terrified of what people thought, and just let all the pieces of herself fall where they may, as messy and broken as they were? If only it were that easy. But after a lifetime of training to keep herself as bound up and tightly controlled as possible, every time she let go felt like a dangerous freefall. She never had any idea how hard the ground was underneath her, but Draco always gave her the softest landings.
“No, Hermione. Not yet.”
She nodded, deflating, but couldn’t deny the relief that accompanied the disappointment.
“Fine. But Valentine’s day?”
“Let me surprise you?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, don’t you trust me?”
Hermione pulled back and looked up at him with suspicious eyes. One stupid blonde eyebrow was raised again.
“More than I trust anyone else, but…”
“C’mon, please. I promise there’ll be escape routes if you hate it.”
Hermione sighed, too warm and comfortable to really argue. “Fine, but we’re staying well away from Madame Puddifoot’s.”
“Oh no, you’ve foiled my plans already…”
Hermione laughed, and they bickered about décor and tea until the conversation turned to other topics. The styles of architecture they both liked. Draco’s patronus “trauma”. His upcoming Muggle Studies O.W.L. Bit by bit, the ball of stress in Hermione’s stomach unwound.
***
A week passed, the weather warmed, and Draco’s situation had only gotten worse. The booing had escalated into his books being vanished before his eyes one Tuesday Charms class, and a shoddy imitation of a dark mark being charmed onto the back of his robes. Someone had even made and distributed little red ‘MALFOY STINKS’ badges. Draco took it all with his head held high, refusing to lose his temper.
Hermione did not.
“It’s ridiculous. It’s bullying. Even Harry wouldn’t think the badges are funny. That was years ago,” Hermione ranted to Daphne as she stabbed at her salad.
Nothing had been said about the complaint that had been made about Nettle, but they had at least stopped their thinly veiled accusations of evil in favour of ignoring Draco entirely. Daphne was not surprised.
“People have long memories, Hermione. Especially people who’ve been wronged. Do you expect them to feel sorry for him?”
“No, I expect them to mind their own damn business.”
Draco chose that moment to enter the Great Hall, and she immediately knew something was wrong. His face was disturbingly blank, and Theo – trailing behind him – looked positively livid.
Hermione didn’t bother even trying to talk herself out of it. It wasn’t fair. She immediately jumped out of her seat and tugged a baffled Daphne over to where the boys were sitting.
“No no no Hermione what are you-” Daphne whispered-shouted into her ear.
“Hello, Malfoy! How’s your transfiguration essay going? I was wondering if you wanted to compare notes,” Hermione said loudly.
A flicker of something passed over his face before he composed himself. One beat. Two. And then-
“That would be helpful, actually. I’m not sure I’ve explained the conjuration mechanics well enough.”
Hermione smiled, knowing full-well that he had. He was going to play along.
“Have you even started yet, Theo?” Daphne piped in.
Theo, whose face was gleaming at being the centre of ‘drama’, responded with a cool, “started what?”
“The transfiguration essay.”
“What transfiguration essay?”
As Daphne and Theo sparred with each other, Hermione found her gaze drifting back to Draco. He was looking at her with eyes that she’d come to understand meant ‘I’m trying to tell you something.’ As always, she had no idea what the ‘something’ was, and stared blankly back. Draco sighed, evidently seeing the problem.
“Hermione,” he whispered, “what are you doing? Everyone’s staring.”
Oh, she hadn’t noticed. She fidgeted in her seat and chose a bread roll to pick at. She was uncomfortably aware of the need to keep her posture, her expressions, her movements in check. But she couldn’t deny the feeling of satisfaction that rooted itself somewhere in her abdomen. Let them look. He was hers.
“What hap-” Hermione was cut off by a sudden, raging tempest of red hair slamming her bag down on the seat next to her.
“What are you playing at, Malfoy?” Ginny asked, low and dangerous.
Draco took a slow, exaggerated look down at his sandwich. “I believe it’s called eating, Weasley.”
“You know what I mean, ferret face. Why are you bothering my friend?”
“I wasn’t aware I was bothering anyone,” Draco drawled, and Hermione was transported back years. Back to when he’d used that cold, dismissive tone with her. Calling her ‘mudblood’ and ‘know-it-all’ and ‘insufferable’. She couldn’t help but shrink a little in her seat.
“Hermione, let’s go. You don’t have to put up with him.” Ginny’s voice came as if from underwater, and all she could look at was Malfoy’s eyes, carefully wiped of emotion and turned towards Ginny.
She pushed that scared, shrunken feeling down. She’d had enough practice with memory to know the difference between now and then.
“I’m not putting up with him, I’m sitting with him.”
Draco’s eyes flickered to her once before turning back to Ginny. Hermione focused on the lint on his collar as she felt Ginny’s stare painting her with disbelief.
“You’re sitting with him?”
Hermione nodded, not having the strength to look at what she knew she’d find. What Ginny had been so scared of when she’d been resorted. Disbelief, betrayal, shame. It was ironic, really.
“On purpose?”
Another nod. Another step in her descent to stranger.
“You’re not telling me you’re friends with Malfoy now?”
The derision in Ginny’s tone was enough to pull Hermione’s eyes to the redhead’s face. Indignance bubbled up and out with, “So what if I am?”
Their gazes met. Fire on fire. They’d been Gryffindors after all. Brave. Unyielding. War-heroes.
“He’s Draco Malfoy,” Ginny shot with a whisper.
“I’m well aware.”
“What is wrong with you? You’ve been avoiding me since we got back from break and now you’re suddenly friends with him?”
Hermione didn’t know what to say to that. Of course she’d been avoiding Ginny. Since her response to Hermione’s diagnosis even the thought of her almost-surrogate-sister left her feeling heavy and wrong. And she couldn’t even put words to it. It wasn’t even that bad. Except it was.
Ginny’s jaw clenched at her lack of response. She picked up her bag and left with a clipped, “Fine.”
Even through the wave of guilt, the tension left Hermione’s shoulders. She felt a foot nudge hers from under the table and looked back up at Draco. She could read his eyes this time. A much simpler message: are you okay?
She smiled. Small and meek but there. Yes, I’ll survive.
Daphne and Theo started up the conversation again while Hermione tried to get a handle on the clutter in her mind. Wordlessly, Draco filled her empty glass with hot earl grey, quietly stirring in the milk and sugar. She turned the ring on her bracelet, sound becoming distant and muffled, and took a sip. It warmed her from the inside out.