Chapter Text
8
It costs her quite an effort to enter the Transfiguration classroom.
Hermione doesn't know what came over her; what she was thinking when she pulled Draco's hair. After all, the fact that his reaction to her touch caught her off guard is no excuse for assault. Because that's what hair-pulling is. She fucking looked it up.
What she is even more ashamed of, however, is what she felt when she did it: a frisson of excitement. It may have been tiny, but it was there.
Admittedly, she has a bossy personality. She is decisive and knows how to get her way. But she is not sadistic, she is convinced of that. And especially in the bedroom, she has always been rather submissive; has never dared to express her desires or claim her own satisfaction, let alone try and take control. Nor has she ever felt the urge to manhandle one of her partners.
What Hermione did (and felt) in the library is not like her, which is why she lay awake half the night brooding over it.
Why the aforementioned frisson of excitement? Did it have to do with the feeling of exercising power? With Draco in particular? With the knowledge that he wants to please her? Or with the glint in his eyes that conveyed anything but disgust?
Now, the morning after, she is still none the wiser.
Draco keeps his eyes lowered as Hermione sits down next to him. Over the past few weeks, she has gotten into the habit of greeting him, but today the ‘Hi’ sticks in her throat. He doesn't say a word either. This is nothing new, but after her moment of madness in the library, his silence strikes her as ominous for the very first time. Not that she can blame him. Whatever she thinks she saw on his face yesterday, he still has every right to be angry. She simply went too far.
When her gaze happens to meet Harry's, he mouths the words, "Are you okay?"
Hermione nods and breaks eye contact.
Wow, how awful must I look? she thinks. I am probably paler than Moaning Myrtle and look at least as miserable.
Minerva rises from her desk, calls the class to order and begins discussing the Glamour Charms. Of course, Hermione has been expecting this — she was the one who insisted on practising so that she would be prepared. Nevertheless, the thought of possibly being picked to perform one of the spells, on Draco no less, makes her so nervous that her breathing becomes shallow.
She only realises that she has started thrumming her fingers on the table when something soft tickles the back of her hand. Startled, she looks down, only to discover with even more horror that it is the tip of Draco's quill tapping her skin admonishingly.
"Stop fidgeting, Granger," he mutters under his breath.
He doesn't sound upset, just slightly annoyed, which prompts Hermione to instantly stop the thrumming and clench her hand into a fist. Draco pulls back his quill and places it next to his notes on the tabletop.
Minerva begins to ask questions, but Hermione is so tense that she can hardly listen. She is acutely aware of Draco's proximity. There is his body heat, his calm breathing, the scent of apples and peppermint. He is not just sitting next to her, he is dominating the entire room.
Merlin, what's wrong with me all of a sudden? she thinks, just as Minerva asks, "Which one of you can tell me where the Department of Magical Law Enforcement draws the line between legal and illegal Glamour Charms?"
When Draco's hand shoots up, Hermione flinches, so little did she expect the movement. If she is not mistaken, this is the first time he has raised his hand in class since the beginning of the school year — in any subject.
Minerva seems to know this too, because she doesn't hesitate for a second, but jumps at the unexpected opportunity.
"Yes, Mr Malfoy?"
"Legal Glamour Charms, also known as Beauty Charms," Draco drawls, "are those that change one's appearance but do not make one unrecognisable. Illegal, on the other hand,—"
Those are my words, Hermione thinks. Oh God, he is quoting me.
"—are all Glamour Charms that alter one's appearance to such an extent that one is no longer clearly identifiable. Accordingly, it would be permissible to charm one's own hair so that it's always shiny and perfect. However, making someone's perfectly fine front teeth grow to the length of a beaver's would be a violation of the law governing the proper use of Glamour Charms. And rightly so, for it would also be terribly rude."
Hermione snaps her head up, turning to face Draco. He ignores her, keeping his gaze fixed on Minerva with an earnestness she didn't expect given his words. The headmistress reacts as pragmatically as one would expect from her.
"That was an oddly specific example, Mr Malfoy, but at least it was illustrative. Thank you."
Only when she turns away and asks another question, whereupon Cormac's snooty voice rings out, do Draco's grey eyes slowly wander in Hermione's direction. They lock gazes, then he raises an eyebrow as if to say, What now, Granger?
She plucks up her courage and asks the first question that pops into her head.
"Do you really use a Glamour Charm on your hair?" she whispers.
Because that would very much surprise her. In fact, she is sure she didn't sense any magic when her fingers ran through the light blond strands the day before.
The corners of Draco's mouth quirk. His gaze darts between her eyes, dances briefly to her lips and then back up again.
"No," he murmurs. "It really was just an example, Granger. My hair is innately shiny and perfect. And good to grip."
Hermione blushes so fiercely that she briefly considers leaving the classroom under some flimsy pretext. Only the fact that Harry and Ron would immediately become suspicious and ask questions keeps her in her seat. She lowers her gaze to her notes and takes a deep breath.
Now she wishes Draco was cross with her, because this — his amusement, his subtle teasing — is so much worse.
When, at the end of the lesson, she rushes out of the classroom and heads for the library, there is the sound of long strides following her. Heart thumping, she spins around, but it's only Ron, who raises his hands placatingly in response to her scowl.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, eyeing her with concern.
"What?" Hermione replies, still slightly out of breath. "What do you mean, is something wrong?"
"You look feverish. And what was that with Malfoy back there? Why did he mention the incident with your teeth? Is he harassing you?"
Hermione groans, rubbing her face wearily.
"I'm fine," she assures Ron impatiently. "I suppose it was the first example that came to his mind."
Ron huffs in disbelief.
"It was a disguised dig," he claims. "And I swear, if he gets too close to you... if he so much as harms a hair on your head…"
Ha, if only you knew, Ronald.
"If you ask me," Hermione interrupts him, "it was more of an apology, albeit a clumsy one. So let it go, okay? If there's ever a problem with Dr—Malfoy that I don't think I can solve on my own, you're the first person I'll ask for help, all right? I have to go now. See you at dinner."
With these words and what she hopes is a reassuring smile, Hermione turns around and continues on her way.
It's only Monday, she thinks, feeling quite stressed. How on earth am I going to get through the rest of the week?
As it turns out, all Hermione has to do to get through the rest of the week is ignore Draco as much as possible. They sit next to each other in class and do their rounds, but there is no small talk and no new ‘redemption task’. When Hermione feels his gaze on her, she keeps hers down. When she smells him in the corridors, she turns on her heel before she even sees him. When he enters the library, she packs up her things and retreats to the common room or her private room. It's probably cowardly, but she needs the distance. And Draco doesn't seem to mind.
By the time the weekend rolls around, she has almost forgotten about the incident in the library and the feel of Draco's soft hair between her fingers. Enter Ginevra Molly Weasley and her unwavering persistence.
"Why am I here again?" Hermione grumbles as they fight their way through a crowd of squealing third years.
"To keep your dearest friend company," Ginny says, beaming.
She pulls Hermione to a free spot right by the railing of the stand.
"Where is Luna then?" Hermione deadpans.
"Haha, very funny, Granger," Ginny chuckles. "But you can't fool me. I know I'm your absolute favourite. Everyone's favourite, in fact."
Hermione shakes her head, but can't hold back a small grin.
"Still!" she sighs. "I actually planned to only watch the Gryffindor matches this year. You know I don't care about Quidditch."
"Don't be a spoilsport," Ginny says warningly. "There are only six matches a school year — you'll survive. Besides, the sun is shining, and you could use some. You're as pale as the pages of the books you have your nose buried in all day."
Hermione opens her mouth to defend herself, but then notices that she no longer has Ginny's attention. Curious, she follows her friend's gaze and discovers Blaise Zabini leaning against a stand post on the other side of the pitch, grinning up at them confidently. He is not wearing a Quidditch uniform, but a green Slytherin fan jersey and a matching scarf, which tells Hermione that, just like Harry, he has given up playing.
"Let me guess," she murmurs, mostly to herself. "We're not cheering for Hufflepuff today."
Ginny throws Zabini a wink before turning back to Hermione.
"Don't be silly. Just because Blaise is excellent in bed doesn't mean I want the snakes to win. Besides, we're watching the game with Harry and Ron — speaking of, where are they? — and I don't feel like quarreling with them."
Hermione glances at her watch.
"Ten minutes till game time," she says. "I'm sure they'll be here soon."
The second half of her sentence is drowned out by applause and foot-stomping from the crowd as the teams enter the pitch. As always, the Slytherins are dressed in green and black, while the Hufflepuffs wear yellow and grey. Fourteen students mount their broomsticks and, one by one, shoot into the air.
And Hermione doesn't want to. She has firmly resolved to pretend that he is not part of today's gameplay; has vowed to herself not to give him a single glance until the final pursuit of the Snitch. But now, as his white-blond shock of hair glows like a beacon in the low November sun, she can't help herself.
High above the pitch, Draco has already taken his starting position. He is sitting... no, he is slouching on his broom in a way Hermione has never seen anyone do before. Only one of his Quidditch boots is already on the footrest, the other leg still dangling casually in the air. He is busy adjusting one of his forearm pads, but even as she watches his nimble fingers tighten the laces, he lifts his head and scans the crowd with sharp eyes.
Hermione doubts that he is looking specifically for her, and yet their eyes meet almost instantly. Even though the school's Quidditch stadium is packed. Even though it feels like every single student is currently romping about the stands. And then — perhaps by reflex; perhaps because it's their first eye contact since Monday's Transfiguration class; perhaps because Draco doesn't look away at once — Hermione raises a hand and waves.
When she realises what she is doing, she pulls her hand down and whirls around, blushing.
"Dear me," Ginny comments, eyebrows raised to her hairline. "You just waved at him, Hermione, you didn't propose. No need to panic."
Hermione, feeling caught out in the worst possible way, turns even redder.
"Oh God," she whispers, rubbing her cheeks. "Please stop, Ginny. Is he still looking?"
"To be honest," Ginny says with a smirk, "I think he's coming over."
"What?" Hermione squeaks. "Oh my—what?!"
Ginny clearly tries not to laugh, but she fails miserably.
"Okay, this is interesting," she snickers. "And so delicious!"
"This isn't funny, Ginny," Hermione hisses, looking for the quickest way out of the throng of second and third years in the middle of which they are standing. "Can we get out of here? I didn't mean to wave. God, how stupid can—"
"Ferret!"
"Weaselette."
Hermione freezes like a deer in the headlights. She still has her back to the pitch, so she can see some of the younger Hufflepuffs recoiling with wide eyes. She uses her last clear thought to be annoyed by the fact that there are apparently still people who are affected by Draco in this way.
"Nice broom," Ginny says. "The Supersonic Four Point Zero?"
"Four Point Two," Draco replies, even sounding a little proud. "From zero to two hundred miles per hour in under eight seconds."
"Yeah, I saw that."
"Pretty, isn't it?"
"Indeed! I like it even better than Blaise's broom."
"Everything I own is just a tad better than Blaise's stuff," Draco says arrogantly.
Ginny snorts, but it sounds amused.
"What's wrong with Granger?" Draco's voice rings out again.
Hermione wants to die. To disappear into the ground. To use a Time-Turner. To spontaneously Disapparate and, preferably without splinching herself, re-materialise in another country. Or even on another continent.
"I'm not sure," Ginny says, before she, the backstabber that she undeniably is, passes the question on to Hermione. "What is wrong with you, Granger?"
Hermione closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and forces herself to put on an indifferent expression. She turns around and clears her throat.
"Just something in my eye," she says lightly before looking up.
Draco is hovering at eye level, a good two metres away from the stand. He is leaning forward on his broomstick with both forearms resting on the handle, which makes him look more like a cat sunbathing than someone about to participate in an athletic competition.
It should be illegal to be sprawled over one's broom like that when one is more than five metres above the ground, Hermione thinks, feeling a twinge of envy. (She herself can't even look out of a second-floor window without feeling queasy.)
Draco's grey eyes roam attentively over her face, undoubtedly looking for the culprit (the non-existent fly) or at least a tear that would confirm her story. Of course, he finds neither.
"What can I do for you?" he asks, expertly ignoring Ginny's sensationalist expression.
"I—what—why?" Hermione stammers.
The blush she was convinced she had under control returns with full force.
"Well, you beckoned me over," Draco says with a frown.
"I—no—you—" Hermione closes her eyes once more and takes another deep breath before continuing in a steadier voice, "I just waved at you."
She still wants to die.
"You waved at me," Draco repeats blankly.
"Yes. To say hello."
"To say hello."
"Are you a fucking parrot?" Hermione hisses.
Ginny throws her head back and howls with laughter.
Draco slowly raises an eyebrow. His lips twitch, but it's hard to tell if it's because he is amused or because his patience is wearing thin.
"You haven't said hello to me all week," he scoffs, "but never mind. So there's nothing you want from me?"
"Of course there's nothing I want from you," Hermione growls.
Ginny wipes tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes.
"I could catch the Snitch for you," Draco offers.
Now she is certain that a grin is trying to make its way onto his lips, but his self-control is impressive. Only his eyes are sparkling with mirth. It suits him, this quiet cheerfulness.
"Tsk, you're going to catch it anyway, aren't you?" Hermione mutters, as she suspects that he won't stop embarrassing her otherwise.
"What was that?" Ginny chips in, feigning indignation. "Didn't we just agree that we're rooting for Hufflepuff today?"
Draco's eyes never leave Hermione's face. He has the audacity to pout, which draws her gaze back to his mouth. She can't believe that the same lips that have mocked her for years now serve the sole purpose of flustering her.
"Pity," he sighs, before tapping his forehead with two fingers. "Granger. Weaselette."
Then, just as Madame Hooch blows the starting whistle, he leans back on his broom and disappears behind the railing. Hermione gasps in shock and rushes forward. She just manages to see Draco fly an elegant curve inches above the ground and zoom away.
"Holy shit."
Hermione flinches, turns her head and meets Ginny's gaze.
"You are flirting with Malfoy!" Ginny adds accusingly.
"I—Excuse me?" Hermione huffs. "I am not flirting. With anyone. Full stop."
"That's right," Ginny agrees, much to Hermione's surprise. "Malfoy was flirting with you while you were busy blushing like a schoolgirl."
Hermione rolls her eyes.
"Technically, I am a schoolgirl."
Ginny gives her a look that seems to say, Oh, come on!
"It's a proverb, Hermione, and besides, don't change the subject!"
Hermione glances over her shoulder, but Harry and Ron are still nowhere to be seen, even though the match has already started. So she gives in and tells Ginny about the incident in the library. Her friend's eyes grow wider and wider, then she starts cackling and clapping her hands in delight.
"This is brilliant," she exclaims. "Phenomenal, even. I wish I had been there."
"And I wish it hadn't happened," Hermione mumbles, bracing an elbow on the railing and resting her chin in her palm.
"Nonsense," Ginny says, patting Hermione's shoulder. "Malfoy doesn't seem to hold it against you, does he? And considering that he was checking you out, I'd even say that he enjoyed your head massage a little too much."
Hermione lets out an unladylike snort.
"Now you're the one who's being silly," she replies, shaking her head. "It wasn't a head massage. And he definitely wasn't checking me out."
Ginny merely grins and shrugs her shoulders.
"Keep telling yourself that, but I know what I saw."
For a few minutes, there is silence. Ginny, an avid flyer herself and the youngest sub for the Holyhead Harpies, watches the game intently. Only when the Hufflepuff Seeker is fouled by one of the Slytherin Beaters and Madam Hooch pauses the match does she open her mouth again.
"I actually wanted to ask you today if Malfoy still does your bidding, but now that I have my answer: what do you think? Is he secretly a people pleaser?"
Hermione slowly shakes her head.
"Not at all," she murmurs. "I'm sure I'm the only one he wants to ‘please’. He's set his mind on atoning for his sins, and apparently I'm the symbol of all his mistakes."
"It's a little weird," Ginny judges.
"And nerve-wracking," Hermione adds drily.
"Well, no one's forcing you," Ginny says with a laconic sidelong glance.
"Huh?" Hermione asks distractedly, as one of the Slytherin Chasers has scored a goal right after the whistle and half the audience has jumped to their feet, roaring.
"No one's forcing you to ask him for things, make demands, give him orders, whatever. If you're tired of his redemption game, then let him know. He said ‘anything,’ right? So if you told him to just leave you alone, he'd do it, don't you think?"
Hermione keeps her eyes fixed on the pitch, because Ginny isn't wrong. The thought has crossed her mind many times — just as many times as she has been on the verge of telling Draco to get it over with and apologise to her. She could put an end to their deal at any time, she knows that. But she is too stubborn, too proud, whatever you want to call it.
She is spared having to answer Ginny, because suddenly Ron is standing next to them.
"What did I miss? What's the score?"
"Sixty to forty for Slytherin," Ginny says curtly. "Why are you only here now? And where the hell is Harry? The match has been going on for fifteen minutes."
Ron clicks his tongue in annoyance.
"That's why I'm late," he grumbles. "I waited twenty minutes in the entrance hall until his Patronus strolled by and informed me that he didn't feel like watching the match after all."
Hermione knits her brows, because that doesn't sound like Harry. On the other hand, he didn't come back to school as the same person he was before the war, and if it had been up to her, she wouldn't be here either. She doesn't begrudge him a few hours of peace.
Fortunately, thanks to Ron's arrival, Ginny seems to have forgotten their conversation about Draco. The two siblings fall into their usual match commentary, which Hermione eventually tunes out, as she has nothing to contribute anyway.
And then she finally caves in.
Contrary to her firm resolution to pay no attention to Draco, her gaze keeps straying to him. She watches him circle the pitch for minutes on end; spiral upwards again and again, only to plunge into breakneck dives moments later; perform manoeuvres that don't belong on a school Quidditch pitch, but in a league stadium; dodge Bludgers as if he has never done anything else.
For the life of her, Hermione can't remember what his flying was like when he was a teenager. She simply never watched him, as she was always focused on Harry and, a few years later, on Ron. But now, despite her limited knowledge of the sport, she can understand why the two students she overheard at the beginning of the school year said that he had become incredibly good.
Draco on a broom is a force to be reckoned with. And for Hermione in particular, his competence is almost unbearable.
She knows that ever since Rita Skeeter's slanderous articles during the Triwizard Tournament, people have been rumouring that she fancies Quidditch players. But that is not true. Hermione fancies men who are really, really good at something. And she can't deny that it does something to her, the ease with which Draco handles his broomstick.
When he eventually catches the Snitch with a lead of a good twenty metres and a movement of his arm that some would use to pick cherries, Hermione's heart begins to flutter in her chest.
Draco lifts his head, locating her in the crowd within seconds. His gaze wanders to his hand, where the Snitch is fluttering for its freedom, lingers briefly on the small golden ball, and flicks back to Hermione's face. Then the bastard winks.
For you, Granger.
On Sunday evening, just over twenty-four hours after the Quidditch match where Hermione learned to appreciate the sight of Draco on a broom, a soft knock interrupts her nightly routine.
She is wearing nothing but one of her dad's old, faded T-shirts, but since it reaches down to the middle of her thighs and she expects it to be one of her friends visiting her so late, she decides not to change clothes. This turns out to be a mistake, because when she opens the door, she finds herself face to face with Draco.
To his credit, his eyes remain on her face. Not once does he peek at her legs, let alone her nipples, which are most probably poking through the thin fabric.
Within a millisecond, her heart accelerates from resting rate to maximum rate.
"Oh," she breathes, awkwardly running the bare bridge of her left foot over her right calf.
"Granger," Malfoy greets her quietly, presumably so that none of the students in the adjoining rooms will prick up their ears. "Do you have a minute?"
"I—sure—come in."
Hermione has no idea whether it's a good idea to let Draco into her room at this late hour wearing nothing but a T-shirt, but she does it all the same. He pushes past her and stops next to her dresser. With his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, he glances around briefly before fixing his gaze on her again.
"Why are you here?" she asks, crossing her arms, only to immediately uncross them and instead fiddle with the hem of her T-shirt.
Draco wets his lower lip with his tongue, then squares his shoulders.
"I know it's only been a week and a half since you gave me the three vials of Dreamless Sleep, and I also know that you're not supposed to take more than five doses per month, but I've hardly slept the last two nights and—"
Relief doesn't even begin to describe what Hermione feels when his words sink in. So Draco isn't here to talk about the hair-pulling.
"Yes," she quickly cuts him off. "I have more. Wait."
She spins around, bends down and starts rummaging through her beaded bag, where she has hidden the remaining vials. In her eagerness, she knocks over at least two stacks of books and something she suspects is a bottle of Firewhisky. There are several thuds and the muffled breaking of glass. In the end, she manages to get hold of the small bottles and pulls them out of her bag with a triumphant huff.
When she turns to Draco, his gaze snaps back up to her face. Hermione, who is pretty sure he was eyeing the backs of her thighs, feels her cheeks flush.
Gods.
"Here," she murmurs, holding out two vials.
Draco takes them, thanking her so softly that Hermione practically has to read his lips. His eyes flicker to her bag, examining it curiously.
"Extension Charm?" he guesses.
Hermione nods.
"I needed it when we set out to search for the Horcruxes. I never reversed the spell."
Draco takes a deep breath, looks away from the bag and lets his gaze drift around her room once more. Whether he is doing it to avoid looking into her eyes or because he is genuinely interested, Hermione doesn't know.
"Your parents?" is his next terse question.
He nods towards the three photos that she has attached to the wall with a Sticking Charm.
The one on the left shows her with Ginny and Luna at a café table in Paris. They are waving and smiling at the camera, raising their espresso cups. It was a wonderful short trip. The photo on the right is much older. It shows Hermione, Harry and Ron during the summer holidays before their fourth year at Hogwarts. They are standing arm in arm, grinning at each other. Arthur took the photo before the Quidditch World Cup, which means they had no idea what was in store for them. How much their lives would change in the woods of the campsite, under a dark sky with a bright green snake skull in its centre.
The middle photo does indeed show Hermione with her parents. It's the oldest of the three photos and stood on the mantelpiece in the small townhouse in Hampstead until the end of her sixth year at school. In the photo, she is very young, only seven or eight years old, and is being hugged and snuggled by both her parents.
"Yes," she whispers and nods.
"Are you going to visit them for Christmas?" Draco asks.
Hermione shakes her head, whereupon he gives her a questioning look.
"No, they live in Australia and the international Portkeys there are too expensive. Especially since I wouldn't even be able to talk to them. It doesn't make sense to spend so much money just to watch them from afar."
She can see the wheels turning in Draco's brain. There is no question that he knows she Obliviated her parents — Rita Skeeter was kind enough to write about that, too. However, the information that Hermione was unable to reverse the spells seems to be news to him.
His forehead wrinkles, the corners of his mouth turn downwards and he lowers his gaze to the vials in his hands.
He doesn't tell her he's sorry, but he says, "That's terrible."
Hermione doesn't know how to respond. Somehow, this version of him throws her off balance more than any other. The quiet, serious, remorseful version that isn't bent on teasing her or bickering with her; that is neither angry nor making jokes at her expense.
"Yes," she says at last, startled by how tired she sounds. "It is."
Draco nods slowly, then raises his hand and shakes the two small bottles in her direction.
"Thanks for these," he mumbles before opening the door and disappearing into the corridor without giving her and her flimsy pyjamas a second glance.
Hermione watches him go, shaking her head.
Draco Malfoy, the enigma, she thinks, before noticing a movement out of the corner of her eye.
Something is stirring on the dresser where Draco was standing just a moment ago. Something small and golden that is just unfurling its long wings. Buzzing happily, it flies over to her, waits until she holds out her flat hand, and then lands on it.
The Snitch that Draco caught for her the day before.