Chapter 18
Ginny wasn’t speaking to her. Which was fine. Hermione really had been avoiding her anyway, and this just made her job easier.
That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Hermione felt the pointed silence seep into her bones and grow heavier with each day that passed. She knew this feeling. She’d lost a friendship, again.
It had happened more often in primary school. She’d think she’d finally found somewhere to belong – someone to belong with – and then she’d do something wrong, say something wrong, and was suddenly horrible and selfish and rude. It always happened so quickly.
She’d been lucky at Hogwarts. She’d gotten used to the easy security Harry and Ron provided. No matter how much they argued, all was forgiven in the end. Maybe it would be like that with Ginny. But something told her this time was different. There were (hopefully) no near-death experiences in the future to force the issue out of the picture and snap the friendship back into place. And if Hermione was being honest, she was too… not angry really, but she felt too betrayed by Ginny to even consider being the one to try to bridge the gap between them. She knew Ginny meant well, but ‘there’s no need to worry, no one would think you’re disabled or anything’ just wouldn’t stop playing in her head whenever she thought about her. And every time it did, that cold, alone, far-away feeling made its way back into her chest. How could she even explain that?
She still had Daphne, though. And Sue and Padma, who had thankfully taken well to Hermione occasionally sitting with Draco at mealtimes, asking no questions.
Hermione and Draco had carefully choreographed their little dance. They would sit together no more than twice a week, talk almost exclusively about schoolwork, and keep their hands well away from each other. Draco had fought tooth and nail for such stringent terms. Hermione, sense of justice burning a hole right through her, had refused to leave him to face this alone.
To her satisfaction but not surprise, her plan was working. The ‘MALFOY STINKS’ badges had slowly disappeared and even if Draco was the subject of the occasional glare or jeer, no hexes were thrown.
But of course, there were consequences. The rumours started almost immediately and made their way back to Hermione through the Hogwarts rumour mill i.e. Theo Nott.
“Ok, so do you want a full report or a summary?” he whispered into her ear after sneaking up behind her in Defence.
After jumping out of her skin and stabbing him with her elbow, she accepted her fate. “Summary, please.”
“Well the most popular theory is that you’ve been put up to it by McGonagall. Promoting unity and all that blah blah blah.”
“That’s… not bad.”
“Another camp is convinced he’s paying you.”
“Ugh…”
“Some reckon you’re using this as an opportunity to get in his good books because he’s better at potions and everyone knows you have a neurotic obsession with grades.”
“Pfft.”
“Anyway, I’m pleased to report that only a minority of people think you’re secretly sleeping with him. AND Potter. Which is why Ginny’s no longer speaking to you.”
“Oh, honestly!”
“C’mon, I thought you’d be used to the Potter thing by now.”
“That hasn’t come up since fourth year!”
Theo stared at her in disbelief. “Do you even have ears, Granger? How do you not notice these things?”
Hermione’s face reddened as she examined her loosening right shoelace. “I assume Daphne’s already told you about the autism.”
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realise… Oh. So it makes it hard to hear things?” Hermione cringed at his slower, louder speech.
“No,” she said pointedly, “I just don’t pick up on subtext and social cues as easily as you.”
“Oh, riiight.”
She didn’t even question how he knew about their relationship. She knew neither Draco nor Daphne would have told. But Theo had his own ways of finding things out.
As Valentine’s day approached, Hermione waited for the topic to be inevitably brought up. She waited for the late-night whispers between the other girls – always only the other girls – about which boy was fit and who they hoped would ask them to Hogsmeade. It never came. Daphne, perhaps, was too pragmatic, and maybe Padma too quiet, but Sue was always surrounded by boys from Quidditch and Charms Club and Astronomy Club and whatever else she did with the hundreds of hours that seemed to be in her days. What came instead was Sue storming in from one very cold Quidditch practice still in her team robes and wrist guards.
“McConnel, again! I’m so sick of this! UGH!” She flopped dramatically onto Padma’s bed, where the other girl was reading under the covers, a cup of tea steaming on the bedside table.
“There there… just keep telling him you’re busy,” she replied, warm and smooth as always.
“I did! But he asked me out for Valentine’s day and then he was all like ‘oh so who’s this other bloke then’” – Sue deepened her voice in what must have been a terrible impression of McConnel – “’I’ve been nice to you for years and you won’t even go out with me. What does a guy have to fucken do?’. UGH!”
Padma and Daphne’s faces both twisted with disgust.
“Eww,” Daphne said. “Is that Owen McConnel?”
“The very same…” Sue groaned into Padma’s blanket while Padma patted her shoulder.
“Noted. I’ll stay far away from him in future.”
“And the worst part,” said Sue, shooting up with rage, “is that now he’s gonna be all pissy and fuck over the team, which I am captain of but of course that doesn’t matter because I’m a frigid bitch now.”
“Jesus Christ…” Hermione said.
“Boot him off,” said Padma. All eyes turned to her.
“Huh?” Sue said, eyes wide.
“Boot him off. You’re captain. If he causes any problems, you have every right to.”
“But-”
“You’re the captain, Sue. And you don’t need to make everyone happy all the time.”
And then they were having one of their best-friend moments, where they stared into each other’s eyes and communicated something that Hermione couldn’t read. Or maybe no one could. Sue looked down eventually, biting at the small smile that had graced her lips, and nodded.
“You’re right. The team comes first.”
“You come first actually. The team can come second. He’s been harassing you for ages and honestly that’s enough reason to kick him off.”
“I know, I know. But he’s our best chaser, and next match is with Gryffindor and I just can’t do that to us…”
“Sue,” Padma said, voice weighed down with new gravity, “promise me you’ll at least prioritise your own safety, if not your wellbeing. He’s quite a bit bigger than you.”
“Everyone’s bigger than me. But not faster,” Sue grinned. Padma was not impressed. “Fine. I promise. Honestly, it would be nice to see the look on his face…”
“If it happens, take a picture. I’m invested now,” Daphne piped up.
And there was no more talk of February fourteenth.
Not even from Draco.
“Will you please just tell me where we’re going?” she asked for the hundredth time, packing up after their Friday Muggle Studies session.
“Absolutely not. This is an exercise in trust, Hermione.”
“Trust requires communication, y’know.”
“All in good time.”
“Draco…” Hermione whined, rather childishly. In her defence, she definitely didn’t stamp her foot despite how much she wanted to. She’d been hoping to get something out of him during their extractions this week, but they were simply too traumatic for her to focus on anything other than getting through them. Similarly, Draco’s mind never wondered far from her welfare.
He lazily waved his wand, pushing in the chairs, and walked over to cup her face in his hands. “How distressed are you on a scale of one to ten?”
“Huh?”
“Are you genuinely upset? It’s hard for me to tell sometimes. I just want to make sure I’m not ignoring you when you’re trying to tell me something.” His eyes bore into hers without a trace of pretence. She loved it when he was like this. She could do the banter, and the teasing, but he knew it wasn’t her native language. He was willing to learn her in a way that no one had ever tried to before. It felt so good and clean and easy to just slip into simple, direct honesty sometimes.
So she took a deep breath, furrowed her brow and considered.
“I don’t… think I’m upset. Or angry or anything. I’m not losing sleep over it. It’s just a bit frustrating not knowing what’s going on. Daphne asked me the other day what I was going to wear and I don’t even know how cold it’s going to be where we’re going so I can’t plan and it’s annoying.”
“You’re adorable. You’ve forgotten about warming charms again, haven’t you?”
Hermione’s face heated as she spluttered uselessly, and Draco pressed his lips to her forehead. “It might be cold, and possibly windy, so maybe bring a hair tie. Oh, and sensible shoes.”
Hermione perked up. Clues. “We’ll be outdoors, then?”
“No comment.”
#####
He silenced her half-defeated whine with a kiss. She’d gotten used to this, now. So used to this she felt she could do it all day. She pressed her whole body against him as he pulled lightly at the roots of her hair, turning her face up to meet his. Soon, a hand made its way down to the small of her back, pressing her even closer. A small gasp escaped Hermione’s lips as Draco’s teeth brushed against them. This only encouraged the bastard, who bit down fully on her lower lip. Hermione reacted by pushing him against the desk and grinding into him with her hips. The growling tension in her abdomen was getting louder, and louder. It was desperate – she was desperate – to be closer. Why were there all these clothes in the way?
She felt a now familiar, but no less thrilling, hardness against her thigh. She glowed with pride as she fumbled with Draco’s tie. She had done that.
“Hermione… what are-”
“Shh,” she said against his lips. He was always so careful with her. He’d want to make sure she wanted this. It was sweet, but she didn’t want to talk right now. She’d show him in other ways.
Draco’s shirt buttons took much too long, and by the time Hermione was done she was starved of contact. She ran her hands up Draco’s bare chest and pressed herself against him again. His breaths were coming faster now, desperate. She felt a warm hand clumsily tugging at the back of her shirt and one word dominated her entire psyche. Yes yes yes. She didn’t have the power of speech right now, so she moaned desperately into Draco’s mouth instead, hoping he’d understand.
He did, pulling himself away to pick up his wand and undo her buttons in one swift motion. “You forgot about this as well, didn’t you?” he grinned. Open and honest and devoid of any real questioning of her talents as a witch. You’re adorable, still rang loudly in her head.
Still, he hesitated, looking into her eyes and asking for the answer. They’d never gotten this far before. She’d said no before. Not out loud, but he’d seen the way she avoided his eyes, he’d seen the small thread of panic, the way she hunched into her herself almost imperceptibly. Not this time.
When she nodded, he kissed her deep and slow. One hand stayed on her cheek while the other pushed her shirt off her left shoulder. His hand trailed over her bare skin, warm and calloused and intoxicating. She wanted more.
Lips not leaving Draco’s, she shrugged her shirt off and threw it to the floor like it had offended her. Draco snorted out a laugh and pulled back, but his eyes widened and his mouth formed a reddened ‘o’ as his gaze drifted down.
Hermione, suddenly self-conscious, froze. Was she still bloated from dinner? Did he think her chest was too small? She’d definitely remembered to shave the small patch of hair that grew under her bellybutton.
“You’re gorgeous,” was what she got instead before Draco was kissing her again, and her bare skin was finally, finally pressed against his. The hardness against her thigh was becoming more pronounced, and without thinking, Hermione let her hand wonder towards it.
Draco stilled when he realised what she was doing. And Hermione stilled with him. She looked up into his eyes, strangely cloudy and unfocused, noticing for the first time how pink his cheeks were. Like a sunrise. He was so damn pretty.
“Do you… do you want to?” he managed to gasp out. And she knew now that when Draco asked her that, he really asked her that. It wasn’t the formality she’d always imagined brushing past.
So she considered. She wanted him, she knew that. The specifics were veiled by some fog of unknowns and anxiety. But she didn’t want to stop. The thought of not getting to touch him again for a whole twenty-four hours was excruciating. She wanted his skin on hers, his lips on hers, she wanted to feel the weight and warmth of him wrapped around her. As much as possible, for as long as possible.
“I want… something,” was all she could really articulate.
He nodded, as usual probably understanding her better than she did, and pulled her over to the couch, closer to the fire. She shivered, having not even realised she was cold. Sitting down, he pulled her on to his lap and pulled a blanket over her bare shoulders. She burrowed her face into his neck, smiling and content to just breath in the scent of his skin. For now.
It was his damn hands that brought that tension back. Tracing lazy circles into her skin – firm enough that it didn’t give her that sick feeling light touch did. She kissed him then. His neck, his jaw, his lips. And there they were again, except Hermione felt safer now with the blanket and the couch and gravity itself keeping her attached to him. So as the kisses deepened, she shifted her weight and let that space between her legs press into the hardness of him. She gasped as Draco’s own breath caught in his throat, and then something took over her and she ground her hips against him. And again, and again.
Hermione threw her head back and let herself fall into the sensation. She was distantly aware of some embarrassing noises coming out of her throat, but couldn’t bring herself to care about anything but the friction between her legs and how much she wanted more, more, more.
Draco recovered eventually, sitting up and wrapping his arms around her, one hand on the back of her head, fingers clutching desperately at her hair, pushing her mouth to his. But when he joined in with her thrusts, she couldn’t even kiss him. Her mouth fell open as she moaned wantonly, falling forward against him. He responded by sucking at her neck, which only made it worse. It was torture. Why were they still wearing all these damn clothes?
But she couldn’t talk. Could barely move, except to spread her legs and angle her hips to give him more access. The friction and Draco’s gasps against her neck and his hands clinging on to her for dear life caused something inside her to build and build and build. She felt full, overflowing, ready to burst from it all but still needed more.
That was the only word she got out. She repeated it like a mantra between the other noises she couldn’t stop. “More… more… more…”
He answered her without words. He answered with nails digging into her back and lips on her collarbone and desperate thrusts between her legs. Anything you want. Anything for you.
The wave crested, so high that Hermione’s whole world was water and Draco and this feeling he gave her. It shattered in a violent burst of pleasure and she convulsed through it, burying her moans in Draco’s neck. He came next. She felt the clenching in his abdomen, the shaking, the wetness against her own.
#####
For a few moments they just clung to each other and breathed. Then Hermione pulled back to look at Draco’s very flushed face and felt laughter bubble up like a spring. She didn’t even try to stop it, looking into his eyes and knowing that he’d understand the joy she felt. There’d been some part of her that had doubted she’d even be able to have something as normal as this. But here she was, having it.
She wiggled her toes as she swelled with pride. They had done that. She had done that. Draco smiled back at her and pulled her face back to his, claiming her lips with his own before kissing across her jawline, her cheek, her forehead and then hugging her into him again. Hermione knew she was probably supposed to stay still but she couldn’t stop her happy fidgeting. She wanted to jump up and down but settled for tapping happily against Draco’s bare chest.
“You’re happy.” He knew her well enough by now to know what the tapping meant.
“Mmm,” was all she managed. Was all she needed.
“You’re also perfect. Fucking hell, Hermione…”
“So that was…. okay?”
Malfoy barked out a laugh and kissed her again. “It was brilliant. You’re brilliant.”
“You’re not mad we didn’t… do anything else? I know I’m being slow with all this-”
“Shhh… I don’t lie to you, Hermione. We’ve been through this. So when I say you’re perfect, I mean it. I really, really do.”
“But… I know you’ve done… that before and I know that with other girls it hasn’t been nearly as much of an issue and-”
“Hermione, again, if I wanted easy I could have it. But I don’t. I want you. There’s no amount of waiting that’s going to change that. Plus, I think I prefer it this way.”
“Prefer… waiting?”
“Mmhmm,” he said, nuzzling into her neck. “Makes everything we do feel more… special somehow I guess?”
Special. “You called me special once.”
“Well, you are. And you’re worth waiting a thousand years for.”
She snorted. “A thousand?”
“Sorry, a million.”
Although they both considered throwing caution to the wind and staying the night, logic won over. They did give some concession to their feelings – t’was the season after all – and walked carefully back to Ravenclaw tower hand in hand. And even if Hermione was alone, and a bit cold, and felt the lack of Draco in the very core of her, she slept soundly that night.
***
Sunday morning saw Hermione trying desperately to wrangle her ridiculous hair into a bun. After three broken hair ties, she might just have managed it. But her hair seemed to take offense at her triumphant “Hah!”, a strand jumping randomly out at that moment. She glared at it as Daphne threw a packet of bobby pins at her.
“Thanks.”
“You should put your hair up more often, it looks nice,” she said, despite having been witness to the last fifteen minutes of Hermione’s struggle. She stared disbelievingly at the frustratingly sleek-haired girl lounging on her bed through the mirror.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“I still think those shoes are hideous.”
“Draco said to wear sensible shoes.”
“They look like they’ve been chewed on by a dog.”
“Yes but they’re sensible. If you had your way I’d end up hiking through some bog in heels.”
“I happen to own plenty of very sensible and stylish heels. Exhibit A!” Daphne held up a knee-high heeled boot from the foot of her bed.
“Ok, fine. But I’m sticking to my trainers. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“What’s you shoe-size?”
“No, Daphne.”
Daphne huffed, and went back to studying her nails while Hermione re-checked the contents of her undetectably extended bag.
“You forgot something,” Daphne said as Hermione sorted through her stack of Ibuprofen, Panadol, a water bottle, some bananas, granola bars, pads, her wallet, tissues…
“Really?” Hermione said, panicking.
“Yeah, the kitchen sink.”
Hermione glowered at her and stood with a huff. “Fine, if you’re ready, let’s go then.”
So Daphne pulled on her ‘sensible’ heeled boots while Hermione nervously tapped her hands against her bedframe, and they left. The plan was for them to walk down to Hogsmeade together and meet Draco at a lamp near the shrieking shack. The idea was that it was somewhere all the happy couples would want to avoid. Hermione didn’t really fancy spending Valentine’s day on a tour of the shack, but even that would be better than being spotted.
It was an easy walk, the snow on the grounds part-way thawed by the gentle winter sun. Hermione lifted her face to it and decided that today was going to be a good day. She didn’t know the plan, but she was determined to trust Draco. He knew her well enough to choose something she’d like. And he said there’d be escape routes. She’d been practicing in her head what she’d say if she really didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to hurt Draco’s feelings but he’d reassured her multiple times that she could go home any time she wanted, and that it was ok, and that he knew she was stressed about not knowing and yes, Hermione I promise it’s ok if you want to go home, I won’t be offended. But she knew it would be easier said than done if it came to that.
Either way, she could do this. If there was anyone she’d be safe and happy and understood with, it was Draco. The absurdity of that still hit her sometimes.
When the shack and then Draco finally came into view, Theo did as well.
“You’re joking,” Daphne groaned.
“What?” Hermione asked, glad for something to distract her from her nerves.
“I said I wouldn’t go to Hogsmeade with that overgrown turnip and now he’s bloody cornered me.”
Hermione laughed, then suddenly stilled. “Wait, are you serious or are you joking?”
“I’m joking, Hermione, don’t worry. It won’t count as a date unless I say it does and he knows it.”
“Oh, good good.” Crisis averted.
“Hello Daphne, Granger,” Draco said courteously when they were finally close enough, using his we’re-in-public persona. Hermione told herself it didn’t hurt, which did nothing to stop it from hurting. Meanwhile, Theo waved and grinned manically at Daphne, who rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful.
“Shall we go?” Draco asked, ignoring the others’ antics.
“Not so fast, Malfoy. You can’t just dump me with him,” Daphne said, arms crossed.
“What? I thought you two were going out,” Draco replied.
“You told him we were going out?” Daphne rounded on Theo like a bull seeing red.
Draco, evidently unwilling to deal with the incoming shitstorm, clipped off a quick, “Sorry, we’re on a tight schedule,” before turning on his heel and walking away. Hermione followed, grateful for an excuse to escape.
As she caught up to him, she had to physically stop herself from reaching out for his hand. It stung. She felt very small and clumsy and self-conscious of her hair. She just knew one of the curls had started a rebellion and that it was only a matter of time before her bun exploded at the most inopportune moment. Did he even like the bun? Daphne had said it was nice.
Eventually, Draco pulled her by the sleeve behind an old, decrepit shed. And then he was kissing her.
“You look beautiful,” he said, pulling back and cupping her face. “And very sensible,” he said, making a show of appraising her trainers, coat and scarf.
She giggled with relief. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He never was. He looked like some absurdly gorgeous Greek statue as always. “So, do I get to know where we’re going now?”
“France.”
“France?!”
“Yes, it’s not entirely allowed but it’s not strictly illegal either. I mean, the portkey is, but…”
“Draco Lucius Malfoy you created an illegal portkey!?”
“Technically, no. I obtained an illegal portkey. It’s perfectly safe and that’s all you need to know.”
“That… that really can’t be… how do we know it’s safe? And we’re leaving the country?! Without telling anyone?”
“We’ve told Theo and Daphne. C’mon, I thought you Gryffindors liked a bit of adventure.”
“I’m a recovering Gryffindor, actually. My adventuring days are over.”
But he must have seen the spark in her eyes that gave away the thrill she was feeling. France?! Really? So he picked up an old piece of scrap metal from the ground and tapped it with his wand.
“Ready?”
She made a show of sighing her acquiescence as she grabbed on to the portkey. It wasn’t a very good one seeing as she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.
After a few seconds of spinning at the speed of sound, they landed gracelessly in knee-high golden grass. Hermione was very proud of herself for not falling into it as she waited for her blood to return from its rapid journey down to her toes.
Looking around, the sun was shining obscenely on the golden field, beams refracting through the fuzz of the fountain grass. The field stretched as far as Hermione could see in all directions but one, where it sloped upwards into some lively-looking evergreens. The air smelt of grass and leaves and the breeze that kissed Hermione’s cheeks made her feel vividly alive.
“Shall we?” asked Draco, offering his arm.
Hermione took it and they strolled lazily off to the trees.
“I can’t believe we’re in France!”
“Well, you’ll have proof soon enough,” said Draco, taking her hand and apparating them without warning. When Hermione got her breath and bearings back, she was looking down a quaint cobbled street lined with old-style shops, rooves sloping gently and windows thrown open to let in the crisp air. The late winter sun shone persistently through Hermione’s coat, which she shrugged off. Draco took it immediately and draped it over an arm. Hermione was not blushing.
Draco grinned and walked off along the street as Hermione followed, looking around wide-eyed at everything. The signs written in delicate cursive, the sloping hills, the people milling about cheerfully. After just a few steps she felt his hand hesitantly brush hers and froze.
“No one will know us here, I can almost promise. This town has a population of four hundred and zero connection with the wizarding world. We’re safe.”
Something warm settled into Hermione at the words, all the way down to her fingers and toes. We’re safe. So she grabbed Draco’s hand and, for good measure, stood on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek before pulling him forwards. Finally. They could be normal. Maybe just for a day. But a day would be enough, for now.
“So, in the spirit of love and romance I’m not going to press about the illegal portkey you most certainly obtained through your black-market connections, but this had better not become a regular thing, Malfoy.”
He snorted. “Don’t worry, a few more months and I won’t even be able to afford any of my favourite black-market goodies.”
“Are you telling me there are multiple?”
“You have a funny way of ‘not pressing’,” he said, grinning at her as he swung their linked hands together. He was so… loose here. Relaxed. Happy.
“Coffee?” he asked, gesturing with an exaggerated flourish to a small shop branded as ‘Le Petit Lion’.
Hermione laughed, open and carefree. “Is this an allusion to my dark Gryffindor past?”
“Perhaps.”
“Right,” she clipped, “off we go, you slimy snake.”
They entered – a bell chiming – and bunched themselves into a booth near the front window. Hermione has chosen it, determined to revel in this freedom while she could. She had never considered herself a possessive person, but there was something satisfying about the idea that whoever looked in would see them sitting together. They’d see this absurdly attractive man with impeccable posture pulling out her chair and know that he was hers.
Hermione did have a grasp of basic French, but indulged Draco anyway, asking for translations on the menu where she wanted them. As expected, he delighted in showing off.
“That’s one thing I have to admit muggles do better,” Draco said after a first sip of his long black. “Coffee.”
“That’s one of them,” Hermione said, happily digging into her breakfast wrap.
Draco’s expression turned strange for a second before he hesitantly said, “So… I’ve been thinking…”
“Careful with that.”
He rolled his eyes. “How do muggles know the universe is four billion years old? And about the monkey thing…”
Hermione laughed as they fell into easy conversation. After they’d finished, Malfoy insisted on paying despite Hermione’s protests.
“No no! I can do it. I’ve been practicing.” He leapt up before Hermione could stop him and paid exactly their total.
“See? All under control,” he said as he swept her out the door while she glared at him half-heartedly.
“You did a good job wearing those,” Draco said, gesturing to her beaten-up trainers. “I was worried Daphne would force you into something we’d have to transfigure.”
“Oh, so we’ve got a hike ahead of us?” Hermione had noticed the buildings getting sparser already, only two blocks away from the centre of the tiny town.
“Well, more of a leisurely stroll, really,” he said, taking her hand to pull her down the next street. As they turned the corner, Hermione’s eyes widened and something soft wrapped around her heart. Her feet stopped moving as she processed the sight in front of her. They’d reached the end of the buildings, and for what must have been at least a mile a massive rose garden stretched out in front of them, paths winding through oceans of green dotted with vibrant, singing colours. Red, yellow, white, pink, peach. Hermione could smell it already. It smelt like their room had every time since she’d mentioned she liked the scent.
“Shall we?” Draco said, holding out the hand she’d dropped and looking at her with quiet, easy confidence and no trace of his icy mask. Looking at the slightly calloused, warm hand she knew so well now, Hermione was transported back months. To a cold wall at her back, an all-consuming storm in her brain, and an offer of help – one she’d rejected. She had pulled herself up and carried on. Miserable, alone, desperately misunderstood. But she didn’t have to be anymore. This time, she took the hand, and let herself be led into something bright and hopeful.
“Do you like it?” Draco asked with a smirk as they passed under the entrance arch.
“Ugh, you know I do,” Hermione said, batting at his arm.
“Come on, we can start with this section, I think I see some English roses…”
They spent the next few hours of their day ‘leisurely strolling’ through the garden, Hermione smelling and touching everything within reach and having Draco translate the plaques to her. They talked about anything and everything as they explored, with the conversation periodically interrupted by Hermione’s need to point out every interesting texture she found and get Draco’s opinion on it. With the patience of a saint, he indulged her. Or maybe, she thought, seeing the widening of his eyes as he stroked a particularly velvety plant, he wasn’t just being patient. She’d met so few people who saw the world through details the way that she did, and the way that he seemed to. Her awareness of every possible issue with every plan had always been ‘neurotic’. Her fascination with the world – with knowledge – was always ‘annoying’. The more she thought about it, the deeper she sank into herself, the more she realised that it wasn’t that other people were just better at being relaxed, their brains were just like that. Naturally. Hers wasn’t.
“What are you thinking?” Draco asked.
“Huh?”
“You’ve got your thinking face on. Which is essentially just your regular face… but tell me. You look contemplative.”
Hermione smiled, revelling for a second in the warmth of being known, before focusing her gaze on a rose just past Draco’s shoulder. “You know… the way you are?” she asked, “Like, the way that your mind works? And how it’s not always… easy? Would you change it? If I told you that you could take a potion right now to be normal, would you do it?”
Draco’s gaze shifted from Hermione to somewhere in the middle distance, and her eyes found his face again. The furrow of his brow fascinated her – she’d believed for so long he couldn’t feel such things as uncertainty. Finally, he answered, “No.” Clear and crisp as the air. “There are… things wrong with me. I know that. It was seeing the world through your eyes that made me realise. I’m not supposed to be this scared of everything. I’m not supposed to be able to… stop feeling. But there are other things I wouldn’t want to change at all, and they’re woven right into the mess, so I wouldn’t take the risk.”
“You Slytherins and your calculated risks,” Hermione said fondly.
“Actually, I’m a recovering Slytherin. And what about you? Would you take the potion?”
Hermione had expected to struggle with the answer. But as she knelt down to feel the grass swish between her fingertips and the easy joy that came with it, the thought of losing what she had – this brain that gave her everything all at once – made her feel cold. Becoming someone calm, someone healthy, who was fine with loud noises but didn’t even notice the tiny layers built into a popular chorus… it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be her. He autism wasn’t an illness. It was just her. And she was finally, finally starting to realise that she didn’t have to be anyone else.
“No,” she said, standing up to look Draco in the eyes. “I’d vanish it into oblivion.”
“Good,” he said, cupping her face with his hands. And then he was kissing her under an open sky, and Hermione was free. She was falling at breakneck speed into a life that she’d never even imagined she could let herself have. The feeling in her chest was exhilarating, addictive. There was still a part of her telling her to be careful, to hide, to be scared of what was happening because nothing that felt this good could really last – but it had been slowly retreating into the corner where it belonged for a while now. Chased by Draco’s steel-forged promises and her own hopeful, beating heart.
She could have this.