August

Late July, undefined year.

The weather wilted away as she felt the engaging blooms of spring hide. Something about spring always resonated in her eyes. Each year, before their departure, they seemed to promise to be better next time. 

Hermione walked down the almost humid streets of Hogsmeade, it’s bustling stores trying their best to slip away into their renowned glory. The door to Three Broomsticks rattled, as she entered the spot that her trio once coveted, filled with an innocent and naive air, something old and forgotten inside her heart, moved.

Nostalgia never worked well with alcohol.

Sitting down, she asked for a Butterbeer, waiting patiently.

Unknowingly.

Unaware that she was about to walk into what - or who - would become the axis around whom her world would tilt, and commit to rotate. 

That’s when he walked in, bringing along with him a gust of sweltering sun, causing Hermione’s skin to prickle, partly covered with sweat. 

“A firewhiskey, please. The best,  if you will.” His new voice, what Hermione presumed to have been dependent on the arrival of adolescence and a manly gusto, was deep; though it still seemed to have retained some of it’s childhood charm.

She pondered upon their early years at Hogwarts. He had been rather torturous to her in their first year. But with the passing of their years, and as she continued to prove herself over the years, she had seen the growing respect in his eyes.

Her gaze fixated upon his paper white skin as he turned, eyes searching for a seat in the bustling store. His wandering gaze landed upon hers. She blinked, he didn’t.  

Something distantly snapped into place. 

A sudden wind of courage blew through her heart and before she could stop to evaluate the consequences of her actions, her eyes had beckoned him over to the empty stool beside her.

A flash of curiosity, mingled with surprise covered his face. Then, he smiled. She stared, she blinked. The next moment he shuffled into the seat. 

He gave her a warm smile, raising his hand. Hermione took his hand, her fingers curling around his long, slender ones. The cool band seemed to leave a searing mark where it had touched her skin. The piece of metal on his finger gleamed and glistened at it’s edges. Her sight wandered upon it, and sometime between, the smile must have wiped off her face. 

He noticed it, of course. But he didn’t quite understand it. 

“It was a small ceremony, really. The Malfoys and Greengrasses agreed that a private affair would be rather befitting.”, he beckoned, offering her a smile, condolences, and apologies.

“Of course.”, she began with a small smile, “Congratulations.”, she felt obligated to chime in, not knowing why she had exactly had to put in effort into wishing him a good future.

“Astoria and you were one of the strongest couples amongst us. It seems rather appropriate.” She said, her voice tight, in a mirthless yet, emotionless tone.

He gave her a small, hearty laugh and she looked up at him. She looked as the corners of his mouth curled up in happiness, taking pleasure in her compliment, the corners of his eyes crinkling lightly. 

He looked down upon their linked arms, forgotten for the length of that conversation. His gaze lingered upon it, until he caught hold of how long they had been holding each other for. He flinched back, withdrawing his hand, returning an awkward quiver of his lips.

His posh demeanour had seemed to fade over the years. His face now held the kindness, the innocence of his childhood, mingled with an understanding of the world that was once foreign to and beneath him. His features had matured, he had now grown into a man, who held knowledge, and understanding.

“So, How has Astoria been doing?”, Hermione said, feeling obliged to break the thick, palpable silence between him and her.

“Very well. It’s been three years and yet, it feels like we just fell in love yesterday.”, he smiled, looking back.

“How are things with you then?”, he asked, more out of compulsion.

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, really, just hoping to spend a good summer before I return to school.”, she answered.

He let out a sigh, almost in relief, before saying,”I return this year too, Astoria really wanted to go back.”, he smiled, his mind wandering off, to what Hermione presumed were thoughts of Astoria.

Hermione took a sharp breath, and looked down at her half empty glass of butterbeer, suddenly not wanting to stay there anymore. She raised her hand in farewell, asking him to meet it. He did. 

She stood there a moment longer than appropriate, and took in the electric impulses that flowed through their touch. She couldn’t really offer him a smile.

“Meet me here, tomorrow?”, she asked, for reasons unknown to either of them.

He looked up at her, trying to gauge what had prompted such a predicament. 

“Yeah, why not?”

                    ***

And so it began. 

The duo met every day as spring ebbed away into summer and their acquaintance slowly morphed into friendship. Calmly molded by small patisseries in Muggle London, and the frost of ice cream at Fortesque’s.

Hermione insisted that they travel the muggle way. He had denied at first. Draco argued that they would get around much quicker and safer if they apparate. They could get a lot of their expeditions done earlier. But then as he waited before the Manor for her to apparate, she had pulled up in a flaming red Maserati, a cheeky grin plastered over her face. Rolling his eyes, he settled in. The wind grew on him and soon the leather of her car seat began to almost feel like home.

She drove over hills and green patches of land. Magic was home but her muggle life could never leave. Abruptly stopping on the outlines of what seemed like a bustling town square, she got down. 

“Where are you taking me, Granger?”, he questioned, his usual mask of politeness cracking apart, giving way to sheer curiosity. She smiled the smile that only he could bring on. Her lips curled inwards, tipping upwards, the corners of her eyes crinkling. 

“Come on”, she said, gently throwing her head to the side as a few of her wild curls flew across her face. She wasn’t aware of the moment where she reached out and wrapped her fingers around his as she led him to the place where it had all begun.

She pulls on his hand, him scoffing and not trying to hide his inquisitive impulses. Then, she came to a stop before what seemed to Draco, a dingy old alleyway that had a wall blocking it’s path. It had no people inside, other than the aged woman at the register, her nose buried into her own book.

But the smell. The beautiful fragrance of old ink on even older parchment. He had always loved this enveloping smell but the Manor’s books had been charmed to remain in perfect condition, even if they were to survive Wizardingkind's worst storm.

“This is where my parents got me my first book.”, she said, as images of a then young couple flashed before her eyes. Her copy of Matilda. How she had dreamed of becoming Matilda herself. How she had her first role model. She turned to face him and noticed his gaze rest longer on her face. He didn’t look away.

Leading him inside, she pointed at all the different books she had read, as a child, as a teen, and those that she wanted to read. Seeing the mildly impressed look on his face, she knitted her eyebrows together in amusement.

“Do not tell me you don’t own old books.”

“Those at the Manor simply replenish themselves.”, he said, looking around sheepishly. 

“Well, I believe you’ve missed out on life’s finest pleasures Draco Malfoy.”, she said, jutting out her nose higher, the air around her filled with determination.

“Why do you like old books so much?”

She stopped walking.

Without turning around, her fingers careening the spines, she spoke in a soft voice, “You never know where they’ve been. You never know what they’ve seen. A mother could have read these very books out to her unborn child, someone could have read these to a dying loved one, a soldier away at war could have read these out to their camp, encouraging them to victory. These books have travelled more than you and I, Draco. And I can’t even fathom the people they’ve met, the things they’ve seen, the moments they’ve brought into fruition.”, she turned, offering him a small smile, the glimmer from her earlier years now back in her eye, before returning to the books.

His gaze followed her around as she walked to the corner, his legs springing in action to follow her. His leg hit what seemed like an abandoned pile as he was flung through the air, the books flying around him as he struck his arm out over her head, pulling her closer. Her back hit the wall of the old bookstore, his arm went around her waist, pulling her tight against his warm core. 

Both their breaths were shallow as she wrapped her arms tighter around him. He exhaled a warm, sweet breath. His stormy grey eyes looked deep into hers. Her eyes flickered down to his perfectly pink lips. He pushed himself off of her, muttering a string of apologies.

Somehow, the alleyway felt cold, even that late in the spring.

She walked past him, past what happened. 

And it all settles. 

Like dust.

                    ***

Their days grew wilder. They laughed together at the silly things that they often came across on their miniature expeditions, looking into the other's face as they bellowed. They read together in the wilderness of the muggle libraries Hermione had guided him into, listened to music in another of Hermione’s contraptions from the muggle world.

He seemed to grow kinder as the days passed by. He no longer avoided her car. He loved Muggle authors. They stayed up late on his free nights, the few nights he didn’t spend with Astoria. They stayed up talking about the kind instances that had happened to them. They stayed, talking about the authors they presently adored. He watched her as she went on breathless rants, listening to every single word. Answering her dilemmas with rationale. And that’s how she noticed she came alive with him.

She had noticed his sadder smiles too. And she hadn’t wanted to pry. Because she already knew. She knew that Astoria had made him that way. The Prophet hadn’t been quiet about the Greengrass-Malfoy marriage. They had made headlines and front pages for weeks, just with their “private and small” betrothal. The Prophet had speculated about Draco and Hermione spending their time together, “causing Astoria to descend into serious concern”, in the words of Rita Skeeter herself. 

Draco recalled that Astoria had simply kissed him, smiled and said that she trusted him blindly. And Hermione hated it. She hated that Astoria was okay with this. She hated herself for the insurmountable load of emotions that she was feeling.

And then, when it had receded, Astoria had sported the cover, dancing at one of Draco’s charity balls, in the arms of none other than Blaise Zabini. 

Draco had not shown up to their expedition the evening of the article. And then when he had shown up, the next day, to her apartment,  his voice was hoarse and worn out. His eyes darker, sunken. And Hermione didn’t ask.

“She said she just danced with him.”, he had said as she brewed them tea, flicking her wand, conjuring his favourite scones.

Hermione turned, unaware of how she should have replied. 

“I saw the way he looked at her”, - his voice broke - “the way he held her gaze.”

“Maybe, they were just dancing out of friendship or formality, Draco.”, she said, desperately trying to avoid the storm she had known was coming. 

“She plans these affairs. She plans these galas. And now I can’t help but think she does it for him. I hate parties and large crowds, you know that.” 

“Draco, I’m sure Astoria would never hurt you.”, Hermione comforted. 

He sniffed, throwing his head to the side, destroying the notion of a continued conversation. 

She walked over , and hesitantly, rested a hand on his shoulder. She felt him lean into it. So, when she felt him shaking beneath her grip, she couldn’t help but pull him to her. She held him tighter than a scared child. And the sadness in the room loomed, and as Hermione drifted off to troubled sleep, it faded into the gray of her now day-old tea.

The sadness in him grew with the weather. She could feel it, as it grew like the small gusts of warm wind in the spring to the hot sweltering heat of the summer. He spent every day with her now. She tried to distract him. And he grew closer. 

It felt like he was just a cry away.

                    ***

One early summer morning, Hermione awoke with a different feeling in the centre of her chest. It spread out like vines to the area just beneath her diaphragm. And as if it had an extension it spread out across her abdomen. She had dreamed of him. She always dreamed of him. But this wasn’t her usual fever dream, this was different, he had kissed her, and he had held her, and she had held his hand, and she had walked towards him as he opened his arms to her. 

She had awoken in cold sweat but a warm, tingly feeling spread through the insides of her thighs. Her breath, already struggling to make its way out of her lungs. Her heart, on the other hand, seemed resentful that it was forced to stay in its cage of bones. But her mind was steady. It was steady because it knew what it wanted.

She wanted him. And she wanted to have him. She wanted him to have her. 

The cool of the breeze did nothing to stop the thrumming in Hermione’s heart. She felt like every part of her was on fire. A fire of desire. She reminded herself that he had Astoria. And Astoria had him. And Hermione despised it.

She couldn’t really put a finger on what exactly she hated with such a deep passion. Herself for even entertaining such a vile and spiteful thought of being the person from her worst nightmares. Or that she could have been the Woman. She knew Astoria hadn’t been with Blaise, like Draco thought. But she had desperately wanted it. Just as much as she yearned for him. Only if she had acted on her heart's signals earlier.

She saw him, walking on the sidewalk, as Hogsmeade transitioned profusely into summer. She pulled up next to him, her heart hammering at her chest. Shutting all the voices in her head which were going off like sirens.

“Draco, get in the car. Let’s drive.”

He looked around, immediately aware of what it would mean if he got in. 

And then, he swept in, shutting the door behind him. 

Astoria was the last thought on his mind and the first on hers. 

                    ***

The drive seemed never ending. She was an insect stuck helplessly in a web finely woven by the spider of fate, and yet, she felt like it had been over sooner than she had wanted. 

He hadn’t looked at her on the way. Getting in, whispering only one word, “Boathouse.”

Hermione had known instantly of course, he could only ever have meant the boathouse by the magical lake at one of his estates. It was their little secret. The small mystical lake that he had placed in plain hidden view. She was the only one who knew about its existence. She drove, her foot pressing down upon the accelerator. 

The morning wilted away into a hot afternoon, making Hermione question just how long she had been driving them around. Every few seconds, she turned her head slightly to the side. And then, she slowly took him in. 

Him. 

Hermione could only think of Hogwarts as a comparison. Something so beautiful yet so secretive. His pale blond hair whipped backwards at the impact of the wind, 

shining as the sunlight hit it in all the perfect places. Gleaming, twinkling. 

His cloudy gray eyes looked forward, the curve in his throat bobbing as he tilted his head further. 

When they reached the cottage, which in all honesty was one of the more modest possessions of the Malfoy heir, the heavy air that had been weighing down on Hermione’s chest wilted away.

They sat in the stationary car. The air was stale and cold.

Guilt melted and morphed into desire. The noise from the accelerated thumping of her heart spread through her senses. The loud, clattering noises that were screaming in her conscience faded into the background. The steady heartbeat now, as loud as a 

drum. 

Taking in a shaky breath, drawing in every bit of courage that she could muster, she reached out, pining in anticipation. Her fingers touched his alabaster cool skin. She looked up. The hollow feeling inside her chest, which with each fleeting moment had turned into a bigger void, grew. He licked his lips.

Before Hermione could fathom his next actions, he flew in and sparks flew. Their teeth collided. He pulled back and Hermione let out a small moan of approval. Reaching up and snaking her hands through his hair, she dragged him in. 

He was a drug.

She wanted more.

His breath was hot and agitated, like he had been out fighting demons just a moment ago. He tasted like the sea. He tasted like the relief provided by a bowl of soup in a cold, dry winter. He tasted like the free sun. He tasted like the fleeting wind. He tasted like agony and comfort. And he tasted like a bit of peppermint.

Little did the couple know, this small action would burn his and her life down.

***

They apparated, hands still clinging on to each other’s faces. Tongues clashing. Desire burning. 

Her back hit the cold of the cottage wall. Draco’s arms around her waist. She was all he could think of. How beautiful she was. How captivating. How she was a figment of his worst intentions.

She kissed him. Kissed him like she had wanted to, since the day they met in the now sacred spot. She kissed him. Her hands rooted deeper in his hair. His arms sheltered her. Her brown curls flailing around them. Making it easier for them to lose themselves in the euphoria of their illicit affair. 

She loved her high. And she wanted more. 

She wanted it all.

And that was where Hermione Granger went horribly wrong.

***