The Tearsmith on Netflix: is it going to win awards? Probably not. But omg if it is not the most delicious beautifully done tension I have seen in a long time! I have literally already watched it twice for the fever scene alone.
The stomach kissing, the through the shirt kissing, the gripping and the intensity!!!!!!!!!!!!! This is exactly what I picture certain scenes in books between the two main characters to feel like and this is the first time I have seen it captured on screen.
[Image text.
“I haven’t washed anyone’s hair since my little
sister was six and didn’t want to do anything
in life but sit in a huge plastic tub and let me
massage her warm head. I remember how I
held her in two palms and scrubbed her clean.
It felt like my hands were a gods. Like I could
absolve her of something.
But there was nothing.
She is my sister. How could there be anything.
I sometimes look at you and imagine your head in
my hands. The warm skin of your neck pricking
as I washed it. The soap turning my fingers into
a strange silk. I imagine sitting with you in the
tub, like a wrinkled baby. Unaware and so much
more naked than the stones that have forgotten
how to talk. I think I am hoping, when you smile.
I’m hoping you will love me. Hoping you won’t
break my neck
when it’s my turn to be washed clean.”
End text.]
Half the stands chanted his name, turning it into a rhythm as they stomped their feet on each syllable, “Dra-co, Dra-co, Dra-co!” Lucius was up in the professors’ box, thinly veiling his disgust as Lee Jordan babbled on about the mighty Harry Potter, Gryffindor’s saving grace, and a load of other shite. Teammates zipped around him on glossy Nimbuses, green capes afloat in the spring breeze. Hooch’s whistle screeched across the field.
Draco was going to be sick.
He veered his broom towards the opposite stands, blinded by a sea of red and gold screaming, “Har-ry, Har-ry, Har-ry,” because of course the prat had to have a two-syllable name, too.
It wasn’t difficult to spot her. She always stood at the very front, buried beneath a bonnet of windblown hair.
You’re ashamed of me.
You won’t even sit with me at the library.
Goyle called me a Mudblood, and you stood there and said nothing.
The rosy flush on her cheeks became discernible as he approached. Guilt settled in the pit of his stomach. I’m going to lose this game, he thought, because I was stupid enough to lose you.
Was this to be his life from now on? His heart wouldn’t cooperate, his ambition had wilted, the sense of satisfaction from besting a Gryffindor ran foul.
He stopped in front of her. “I want my life back, Granger.”
Hooch’s whistle sounded again, and he thought he heard his name called from down below.
Around Hermione, classmates gossiped into each other’s ears, hypothesizing why Malfoy was holding up the game of the year to yell at Granger. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. A golden snitch had lodged into his chest, paper thin wings flapping senselessly against the ladder of his ribs.
Set me free, Granger, he beseeched with his eyes. On numerous occasions, she’d confessed to loving the way he looked at her. In private, the traitorous internal voice reminded him.
Without replying, she stepped closer, hands curling around the wooden railing. The anger was drained out of her, just as it’d been the night she broke his heart.
He manoeuvred his broom lower, hovering at her eye-level.
Another whistle. People shouted his name, only now they weren’t chanting it in praise. Somewhere behind him, robes whipped through the air as another player approached.
Hermione’s face went beet-red, realizing he didn’t intend to fly away. “What are you-”
He cut her off with a kiss. One hand cradling her cheek, the other holding his broom steady. “I want my life back, Granger,” he repeated breathlessly.
Only then he realized how quiet the field had become. He fought the urge to turn to his team—to his father—even as his skin began to warm.
Stunned, Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips.
He held his breath; convinced he was free-falling to his doom.
She shook her head, muttering something about him being an attention-starved git. But the smile on her face was undeniable. Relief replaced the ache in his pent-up body as newfound energy buzzed across his limbs. Gods, he was going to give it to her good tonight. “Meet me after the game?”
“Depends,” she shrugged, voice full of cheek. “I only date winners.”
For the first time in days, Draco broke into a full smile. Keen to kick serious Gryffindor arse, he zoomed back to position, fueled by newfound purpose.
(570 words, tweaked and cross-posted from twitter)
Summary: Hermione stared at the swoops in the letters on the parchment. Graceful, beautiful, perfect in every way. They were a warm memory of how the letters used to spin exciting fantasies in her mind. Her lips twitched into a smile before falling back into a hard frown. They were happy once.
I ALMOST REFUSE. But the ache for him is stronger than my anger. I want to speak of something not dead or divine. I want him to live.
At first it is strange. I am used to keeping him from her, to hoarding him for myself. But the memories well up like springwater, faster than I can hold them back. They do not come as words, but like dreams, rising as scent from the rain-wet earth. This, I say. This and this. The way his hair looked in summer sun.
His face when he ran. His eyes, solemn as an owl at lessons. This and this and this. So many moments of happiness, crowding forward.
She closes her eyes. The skin over them is the color of sand in winter. She listens, and she too remembers.
She remembers standing on a beach, hair black and long as a horse’s tail. Slate-gray waves smash against rocks. Then a mortal’s hands, brutal and bruising on her polished skin. The sand scraping her raw, and the tearing inside. The gods, after, tying her to him.
She remembers feeling the child within her, luminous in the dark of her womb. She repeats to herself the prophecy that the three old women spoke to her: your son will be greater than his father.
The other gods had recoiled to hear it. They knew what powerful sons do to their fathers—Zeus’ thunderbolts still smell of singed flesh and patricide. They gave her to a mortal, trying to shackle the child’s power. Dilute him with humanity, diminish him.
She rests her hand on her stomach, feels him swimming within. It is her blood that will make him strong.
But not strong enough. I am a mortal! he screams at her, his face blotchy and sodden and dull.
@fantasysociety event 1 | favourite media
The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller
In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.
Best Draco/Hermione Fics Dramione Shippers Read in 2021
A few weeks ago, I asked you what were the best Dramione fics you’d read in 2021. Here’s the long list of your excellent, marvellous, fantastic recs (in alphabetical order):
A House in the Country by BoredRavenvlaw620: “That’s it, just no. I’ve done my duty to the Wizarding world. I gave up my childhood, I gave up my dreams, and for what… a tiny cubicle in which I put the Ministry stamp on endless permits. No more. I quit. Effective immediately. I think you’ll find I have ample vacation saved up. I’ll owl human resources on where they can send my check.”She spent her childhood fighting a war she didn’t start. Now life is passing her by. What will she find when she makes choices not based off expectation? T, 12 Chapters, 25,871 Words
A Week to Atone (a Hogwarts-era series) by real_jane: Hermione gives Draco a week to atone for all the hurt he caused her for the last seven years. Atonement only scratches the surface of what he does for her. 7 Works, 28,040 Words
A Well-Behaved Woman by femme_ecrivain: Astoria Greengrass can’t remember a time when she didn’t know she would one day be a Malfoy. Her entire life has been focused on one thing only: becoming the perfect wife to the scion of Wizarding society’s most prominent Pureblood family. Not even a war can get in the way of that goal—but her fiancé’s feelings for Hermione Granger just might. On the evening of her engagement ball Astoria’s world is rocked to its foundations and she finds herself facing some difficult decisions. But if there’s one thing she’s learned from Hermione (and Draco) it’s that well-behaved women rarely make history. And sometimes the drastic choice is the only one to make. T, 3 Chapters, 12,229 Words
A Woman of Independent Means by PacificRimbaud: In London, 1851, Draco Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire, has been tasked with gifting the British Museum with a bequest from his grandfather’s estate. Simple enough, but for the mysterious contents of the gift, and the museum staff assigned to receive it. M, 1 Chapter, 5,023 Words
Adrift by In_Dreams: Life is closing in on all sides and Draco Malfoy is drowning in expectations. Something has to give. A chance encounter with Hermione Granger infuses his life with something new―but she doesn’t even remember her own name. E, 45 Chapters, 177,855 Words
An Apparition Condition by ChaosAndCrumpets: Every time Hermione Granger is in close proximity to Draco Malfoy, she is seized by a sudden urge to flee his presence. What on earth could be the reason for that? E, 4 Chapters, 9,538 Words
Anchors In A Storm by inadaze22: Draco’s current mistake—well, it wasn’t simply one, but three—was a chain of seemingly unconnected events that, when spliced together just so, made one hell of a shit storm. E, 9 Chapters, 30,442 Words
Top 10 Most “Kudos-ed” (Completed) Fics on AO3 of 2021:
Bring Him to His Knees by Musyc - E, 31 chapters, Words: 246,196 - Draco is on the case of a murderer, but to investigate, he needs a fake relationship - and a kink club play partner. When Hermione volunteers to take the role, both do their best to maintain the lie without letting each other know the truth: neither of them are acting.
Various Storms and Saints by viridianatnight - E, 48 chapters, Words: 199,835 - Mudblood. Hermione stared at the letters that besmirched her skin. They hadn’t healed since the day she was maimed.
your lonely calls to me by Avendell, senlinyu - T, one-shot - Less than a year post-war, trainee healer Hermione Granger visits Azkaban to perform volunteer medical check-ups and finds something she isn't intended to see, and has no choice but to do something about it.
The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy by speechwriter - M, 33 chapters, Words: 296,116 - The night that Harry and Dumbledore return from the cave, the Death Eaters are delayed from reaching the top of the Astronomy Tower for one more minute. Draco Malfoy lowers his wand. A Deathly Hallows rewrite in which Draco accepts Dumbledore's offer to fake his death and go into hiding with the Order of the Phoenix.
Self-Preservation by senlinyu - E, one-shot - After a Quidditch loss, Draco vents his frustration in the Slytherin showers. “Do you know why you lost?” she said, interrupting his reverie. Her voice was still careless and lilting. He stiffened, she might as well have dumped ice water on his ardour. His lip curled into a derisive scowl. “Because Weasley is a suicidal idiot.” Granger laughed under her breath and then proceeded to lean back against him, like he was just a wall that she happened to have at her disposal. “No,” she shook her head, eyes closed under the spray, “Ginny’s an idiot about Quidditch, same as Harry and Ron both were, but she’s not suicidal. She just wanted to win more than you did. That’s why Slytherin always loses against Gryffindor.”
unexpected by ambpersand - E, 13 chapters - Hand drifting down to her abdomen, she knew. When she was younger, she’d known that there was something different about her. About her abilities. Her certainty had been palpable, and was only confirmed when Professor McGonagall had shown up on her doorstep with that fateful letter in hand. And now, just over ten years later, she felt that same sense of certainty again. She was pregnant. And it all because she’d gone and had a one night stand with the worst person in the world… Draco Malfoy.
From Wiltshire, With Love by MistressLynn - E, 86 chapters, Words: 355,118 - Hermione convinces Draco to spy for the Order and she becomes his handler. But what are Draco’s true motivations? Hard to say when he's still figuring that out himself. A story of reaching adulthood during war. ... Draco cut her off before she repeated the question. “Granger, you may have my wand, but you're not in control of the flow of information here. It’s not your life on the line.” Granger bristled at his assertion. “My life is on the line every day.” “So. Is. Mine.” He growled at her. “Give me my fucking wand and don’t be so bloody obvious when you contact me.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I already told you I'd be more careful next time.” She better be. “One more thing.” “What, Malfoy?” she said impatiently, still angry that she hadn’t gotten the information she wanted. He pointed his finger at her so she would understand how important this was. “You need to learn Occlumency. If you’re captured, I’m dead.” She stared back at him defiantly. “We both are.” He couldn’t argue with that. She tossed his wand to the floor and Disapparated with a crack.
Once More, With Feeling by wetpretzel - M, 12 chapters, Words: 106,117 - As she looked around her living room - at the green velvet ottoman she didn't remember purchasing, the 14th century Wizarding texts on her bookshelf, the hideous and obnoxiously ostentatious grandfather clock that could only belong to a Malfoy - she pictured the toothbrush next to hers on her bathroom counter, the old Slytherin quidditch jersey she regularly tripped over in her bedroom, and the mint chocolate chip ice cream in her freezer - a flavour she abhorred, but that a particular, pale, pointy faced aristocrat sat across from her had a tragic fondness for. Her chest burning, as if she drank a barrel of bubotuber pus, Hermione turned to him with narrowed, accusing eyes. "Malfoy...are we dating?" If there's one thing Hermione Granger knows, it's that she simply doesn't have time to date. Draco decides to date her, anyway.
Husband Size by senlinyu - M, one-shot - Pansy Parkinson’s quiet night in is interrupted by the news that Draco is having an emotional crisis.
Amends by thelashjedi - M, 7 chapters - The ball had been underway for about an hour before he caught his first glimpse of her. He was off to the side, chatting with his parents and Astoria, who was preening under all of the attention she had received as the newly announced, future Mrs. Draco Malfoy. Granger was standing across the dancefloor, with her back to him, engaged in conversation with Potter and some higher-up from the Ministry, her wild curls making her instantly recognizable. She was wearing a golden evening dress – like the Gryffindor queen that she was – a Muggle fashion that showcased her curves. Even from behind, without seeing her face, she was practically stopping his heart she was so gorgeous. And then she turned around and he thought his heart might have actually stopped for a moment. Granger was pregnant. Granger was noticeably pregnant. Probably around five months pregnant. Which meant that she had been pregnant the night that they had ended things, three months ago. The night that she had confirmed that she was exclusively sleeping with him, and had been exclusive with him for the preceding several years. Granger was pregnant, with his child. ** Secret relationship/Unplanned pregnancy/Arranged Marriage AU **
summary: hermione and draco make an agreement--draco will do what she wants for one week, as penance for his past treatment of her. and after? who knows?
warnings: draco is pining for hermione, divergence from canon, most students come back after the war, hermione and draco share one singular brain cell
a/n: part 1 of 'a week to atone', my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. i'm moving this little series to tumblr because it's such a better format for short-form series! i will also get back to consistently updating it to get us through the full week of draco's penance ;) enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!
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If the closest he could get was a brush of her fingers against the back of his hand, Draco was going to savor it.
New school year, laced with the anxiety of returning to the castle after it had survived a catastrophic battle… and she had found him, just for a moment, while the crowd filed into the Great Hall. Two knuckles, three max. Her burgundy lips pursed to whisper something, but no chance to do so unheard. Her two barnacles tore her away towards the Gryffindor tables, leaving Draco to wander over to his respective house’s tables and try to find a hospitable seating arrangement, away from his fellow eighth years. It was not to be--instead, the only seat he could find positioned him with his back to his former cohort of friends, where he could hear every word of their insufferable banter.
But he watched her.
Aphrodite was a roadside attraction on the way to beauty, compared to Hermione. At some point in the months since had last seen her, he had begun to think of her with a choking sort of longing, and it was magnified tenfold to be so near to her again.
She must have ordered new robes--he had seen a set just like the ones she wore in the window of Madam Malkins’ shop, and admired the cut of the high collar. It was a new style, one which didn’t require a button-up shirt or tie beneath it with the way it buttoned at the neck; the house colors could be seen in the intricate piping and thread which finished the garment . Most of the other eighth year girls wore the traditional style, allowing them to show off tops which barely passed decency requirements, and skirts worn scandalously short. Which, though fetching, threatened to send the Headmistress into a fit. The golden girl seemed unconcerned by such a charade. And it had him gulping punch by the gallon to see her so poised, so very much her own figure of grace.
Potter leaned over to whisper something which made her laugh, and the Weasel seemed to be striking up the courage to try the same, angling in like he might, and then shaking his head faintly. She hadn’t even looked at Draco since the brief greeting, but he wished she would chance one glance.
Maybe he had imagined it. The faint touch of her skin… maybe it was an accident. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. This fixation was driving him mad.
It had been… one hundred and twenty-one days. He had been dreaming lately about the press of her forearm against his chest… stopping him from joining the Dark Lord when he had called out to him. What felt hazy and unspecific in his dream-state was crystal clear in his memory of that day that the Great War came to an end. She hadn’t even looked at Draco. Just extended her arm in his path, and faintly shook her head. So, he didn’t go. And when his father had threatened him-- ”Think twice, my boy, or you’re dead to me.” --her hand had found purchase in his jumper and stayed him.
He didn’t know why he had let her keep him there. When the fighting was done, and much of the great castle ruined, she had disappeared into the throng of students, leaving Draco to be set-upon by several members of the faculty, expressing their concern and hollow encouragements, alike.. He had never spoken two words to Hermione Granger without malice in the whole of their acquaintance, but her arm pressing into his chest had… probably saved his life.
He couldn’t stop watching her raise her goblet to her lips to sip, now that they were in the same room again.
“Which of the two do you think the Mudblood’s shagging?” a low voice behind him murmured. Draco’s blood immediately rose into a protective fervor.
“McLaggen said she’s a boring shag.”
“Who does she think she is in those robes?”
“Bet Potter paid for ‘em.”
“She’s not fooling anyone. Barely has tits to fill robes like that, nevermind an arse of any value--”
“Gods, don’t make me think about her naked!”
“Nauseating, isn’t it?”
“Wish she’d do us all a favor and kill herself--”
The time it took to make Blaise Zabini eat slugs and Theodore Nott’s nose collide with the table blurred, but Draco was on his feet with his wand drawn and panting. Pansy shrieked beside Nott as blood gushed from his face, doing what little she could to stop the bleeding with the sleeve of her nobes.
“What have you done, Draco?” Pansy spat.
He said nothing. Just breathed… and then he felt the prickling of hundreds of sets of eyes settling on the back of his neck.
He ran.
***
And then, because he couldn’t go back to his dormitory--not after attacking two of his housemates, in front of the entire student body--Draco suited up into his training kit in the locker room and jogged laps around the quidditch pitch.
It was only after his knees started to buckle from the exertion that he took a pause, bracing himself to catch his breath against one of the goal posts, and he saw her again.
She was seated in the Slytherin stands, tearing off and eating small pieces of a dinner roll. She didn’t really acknowledge him much when she realized that he had seen her. Just nodded. Against his better judgment, and the crippling pang of panic that shot through him, he approached. He paused at the railing which separated the stands from the field and leaned against it. Back to her.
A breadth of silence passed before she spoke.
“Don’t like being back,” Hermione said softly.
“...hmm.”
“The castle looks like it never happened. Apparently there are engraved stones in the courtyard for… everyone who died… but. I don’t like it. Being here. Feels wrong.”
Draco could not have agreed more. He nodded. Couldn’t articulate his agreement beyond that. Hearing her voice was strange, and even more so when the words she spoke were to him.
“You’re playing this term?”
His head spun to gape at her. “...what?”
Her cheeks reddened. “You’re... running on the pitch. So I had assumed--”
“Seeker,” he managed. “Earned my spot back in summer trials.”
“Ah.”
They looked away from each other quickly.
“I’m shit on a broom,” she admitted so softly he almost missed it.
The memory came unbidden of their first year with Madam Hooch, when Hermione could not make her broom obey her commands, no matter how many times she ordered it to do so. A memory which used to live in his mind as a reminder why Gryffindors were useless… now a warm recollection of seven years ago. He huffed a slight laugh. “I remember.”
“Haven’t improved since first year. Brooms shudder in my wake.”
“The world shudders in your wake,” he said. Oh, if only he could stuff those words right back in his mouth. Her face fell, and she twisted her mouth to keep back whatever emotion he had conjured up. “I--that’s not, um. Not how I meant it.”
She sniffed, but she nodded. “How… um. Sorry.”
“What for?”
“I was going to be intrusive.”
“Um. Go… ahead. Go ahead. With whatever you were going to say.” Draco jammed his hands in his pockets and readied himself for whatever payback he had coming.
“How have things… been, for you? Since the battle and everything.”
“Uh--well--”
“Sorry, I don’t even know why I asked--”
“You’re the first to ask, honestly.”
Her eyes found his then, and she looked… hurt. She frowned. “The first?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody asks you how you are?”
“Granger,” Draco sighed. “Do I look like I have any relationship that survived the war? Any at all?”
“You… don’t seem to be on good terms with Blaise or Theo.”
Draco blanched. “You didn’t hear what they said?” he said quickly. She shook her head and Draco carded a hand over his face in relief. “No. I don’t ally myself with purists anymore.” Not a one. Not even his mother, though she wrote him twice a week begging for some kind of conversation to occur.
Hermione gestured to the bench beside her and waited for him to elaborate.
He took the invitation readily, hauling himself up between the bars, but he sat as far from her as he could while still remaining polite. “I probably reek,” he said, more to himself than anything. She didn’t confirm or deny that fact.
Draco looked down at his hands. Like his father, he had long fingers, but he was much stronger than Lucius Malfoy had ever been. The man looked down on sport. It was the one thing that belonged only to Draco, and it showed--especially after a summer of training and fighting to earn his place back on the Slytherin team. It had probably helped his case that the other members of his former posse were disallowed by the Headmistress from rejoining the team. In any case, it was… because of her that he was even there.
“You ruined my life, Granger.” Draco sighed, leaning back against the bench one step higher from theirs. Hermione’s posture was fixed, and she kept her eyes on him, but she was confused and biting back some kind of unbidden emotion. Still, she nodded for him to go on.
“If it weren’t for you, I would have gone to him. I would have. I wasn’t… strong enough to say No to him. I… guess I want to know why you did it.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. Hermione turned her head towards the whole of the quidditch pitch, but her eyes searched as if they were replaying the memory over again.
“There has to be a reason--”
“There isn’t. You were just suddenly… there. Next to me, and I saw you start moving, and independent of my will, my arm raised up to stop you.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s just…” She stopped. “You should have had a choice.”
Draco scoffed. “I’ve been horrid to you. Worse--”
“Yes, well. Even little bullies make mistakes.”
“Granger…”
“Did you want to join him?”
“No! I don’t know--”
“Because I distinctly remember you telling Crabbe not to kill Harry in the Room of Requirement! If anything that proves--”
“That doesn’t prove anything! The Dark Lord gave an order, and I wasn’t about to go against him--he had my mother.”
Hermione stood and plonked herself down on the bench right next to him, in his space, and stuck her finger in his face. “We all did what we had to do!”
“You didn’t have to save me.”
“Yes I did.”
“No, you could’ve let me walk across that courtyard--”
“What would I have gotten out of that?”
He grasped her wrist to try to force her out of his personal space, but he couldn’t help but hold fast to her skin at the first opportunity to touch her. “You? I’ve been a loathsome, vile, evil little cockroach, remember?”
“I got my revenge back then. Letting you go back to Voldemort would’ve been excessive!”
Draco winced to hear that name again, hard enough that it frightened this strange companion of his into action. She gripped his shoulder with her free hand. “Sorry, I didn’t think--"
“Stop apologizing to me, for Merlin’s sake!” Then, his hands were on her cheeks, and his pupils flicking back and forth between hers. “Stop,” he said softly. “Please. I can’t bear it.”
She pursed her lips to go on, as she always did, and for the second time that day, Draco took action before his brain could catch up. She hummed in surprise against his mouth, but she was so soft. Pliant, and devastating. He kissed her, and he kissed her. He let all good sense dry up in his mind, and he said what he had been holding onto for one hundred and twenty-one days: thank you.
“What are you doing?” she murmured, and he realized he was pressing his forehead to hers.
He shivered involuntarily to hear her voice, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Managing expectations.”
“Sorry, you’re what?” Amusement colored her tone.
“I have been dreaming about what you did for months now, and trying to muster the courage to write to you, something. And you’re just here. Apologizing to me. I won’t have it.” Draco let himself curl forward, as his body wanted to do, and he pressed his face into the shoulder of her exquisite robes. I’ll only allow myself to dream one minute more, he thought. But her arms came up around his shoulders.
“What is happening?” Hermione whispered.
“Don’t know.”
“Malfoy, look at me--” She urged him to do so by taking his cheeks in hand as he had done hers. Her eyes were shining. “Are you alright? Truly?”
He rose up and sat tall, but her hands stayed affixed to his face. Her thumb even traced his jaw. “I… you’re touching me.”
A slight smile tugged at her lips. “Mhm.”
“People don’t do that. To me.”
“I’m getting that.” She let her hands fall to his shoulders. “May I be intrusive once more?”
“You could knock me over with a quill feather at this point, but go on, if you must.”
“You… you need friends.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You got in a fight at breakfast with your two best friends--”
“Former. And I was justified.” Draco stood, stepping away from her grasp. He leaned against the railing on his elbows. He scratched his cheek. His lips were tingling. “They were slagging off someone.”
“Who would warrant a belly full of slugs and a broken nose?”
Draco glanced at her pointedly. Immediately her cheeks flushed pink, and her fingers raised to her lips.
“I’m glad you didn’t hear them. I doubt they’ll try anything with you directly--cowards, the lot of them. I might have to sleep in the broom shed, but…” he trailed off. “I don’t need friends.”
“Do you want them?”
He rolled his eyes. “Semantics.” Her fingers curled into his elbow and she was there, again, in his space.
“It’s okay if you do, I mean… I’d do it.” Her face was turned up towards his, and she was pleading, and for what he didn’t fully understand.
“I don’t need your pity, Granger. You have two mates that I’m sworn to loathe, and being seen with me would ruin any notoriety you’ve gained from your heroics. It would ruin us both.” But he covered her hand with his, anyway. “Besides… I have seven years of monstrosity to make up to you.”
She shook her head. “Make it up to me in deed, then. One week of doing what I ask of you.”
“A week?”
“One day for every year.”
“And… after this proposed week?”
“We’re friends.” She turned her hand beneath his so she could squeeze it. Her gaze kept falling on his lips, and Draco felt a bolt of pride shoot through him to know that she was just as affected as him. He let himself do what he had done in haste before. She pressed up on her toes to return affection, which was blooming like a rose in the desert--from nothing, for nothing, but somehow they both seemed mesmerised by it.
“I don’t kiss my friends,” he whispered against her lips.
“Not sure how we got here,” she admitted. “I didn’t come here to kiss you. Doesn't mean I don't enjoy it, but...”
“Why did you?”
“You… you were the only person in that hall who looked how I feel. Everyone else seems content to just leave the war behind them, and I just… wanted to see. If I wasn’t the only one still living through it.”
Draco brushed a lock of hair off her temple where it had fallen out of her messy bun. “Surely Potter isn’t unscathed.”
“He’s so zen, it’s infuriating. If he isn’t, he’s not telling me.”
“And the Weasel?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“The nicknames.”
Draco sighed. “What about Ronald Weasley, then?”
“He’s just Ron. I don’t think it will all really hit him until Christmas, when… the party is significantly smaller. But. For now, he’s same old Ron.”
“Weren’t you two… a sure thing?” He hated himself for intimating that he had observed such a preference in the past, but there wasn’t much room for masking anything with her pressed against him.
“I don’t kiss my friends,” she mimicked, wrinkling up her nose at him. “But no. We weren’t. He thinks I’m brooding.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, but I don’t like being accused of it.”
“Granger… what happens if I say no to your little proposal. Is this spell broken?”
She shook her head, and removed herself from his personal space, though he still held fast to her hand. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He yanked her back to him. “Please don’t.”
“Then… say yes.”
Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “One week.”
“Seven days. You do what I say.”
“And…”
“And we both feel better about this.” She gestured between them. “Once the week is up, it’s your choice. We can go our separate ways. If you want.”
“What… what sort of torture do you have in mind?”
“Well…” And then, she bit her lip, studying him through narrowed eyes. “Tomorrow, you have to volunteer to be my partner in Potions. I happen to know that you’re very good, and I need to get an O on my final exams this year if I want to get an internship at St. Mungo’s after graduation”
“Using me? Already?” Draco pretended to be aghast but his heart surged. “But this arrangement, if agreed upon, only lasts for a week. I’d still be your partner the whole term.”
She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Is that a yes?”
“What else do you have in mind?”
“No more hints! Is that a yes or a no?”
“Oh, what the hell. I have no dignity left. Sure, Granger. I’ll be your errand-boy for a week, as my penance, for seven years of unbridled bullying, and general ugliness.”
Hermione took hold of the front of his jersey in her fist and hauled him along the first row of the stands, until they were concealed beneath the large green and black tapestries, which protected the staircase to the upper levels from the elements.
“Where are you taking me?” he chuckled, despite the insistent feeling that he was doing something very wrong by being near to her. Hermione hiked herself up on the railing so they were nearly eye-to-eye.
“Do you want to kiss me again?” she asked breathlessly.
“Is this your first day’s order?”
Hermione shook her head. “No. Tomorrow is day one. Today, I’m just me, and you’re just you.”
“You’ve never been ‘just’ anything,” he replied, but he stood between her knees and looped his arms around her waist to stabilize her. “I like these robes. By the by.”
“I look so silly--nobody else likes them! Ginny said I look like a swot.”
“I’m inclined to disagree with the Weasley’s on principle. You look elegant.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I hope you don’t forget it.”
She sank her fingers into his hair and pulled him forward. Her mouth--those sweet burgundy lips that he had hoped were trying to whisper to him--it was perfect and gentle. He hadn’t kissed anyone in such a long time. Thrice in one day wasn’t his highest record, but he was content to strive for a new personal best if this witch continued to insist on it. She kissed him like tongues were a secondary matter, and like memorizing every part of his lips was all she had ever lived for. She kissed like she had no thought of ever stopping. He knew they shouldn’t, that it was madness that they were, especially now, but Gods… maybe nothing else mattered while they were. Time could pause, and history turn a blind eye, and two people could just kiss like they had all the time in the world.
“Hermione?” Harry Potter’s distant voice called from somewhere on the opposite side of the pitch, likely near the Gryffindor stands. Draco ripped his lips away from hers, but Hermione chased him. She gave him three languid kisses. Then, she hopped off the railing.
“See you at supper,” she murmured. Draco stole another kiss for the road, which made her laugh and bat him away. As she disappeared down the staircase and ran across the pitch, he could hear her speaking to her oldest friend. He squatted down, rubbed his hands over his face, and breathed out. Hard.
Seven days, huh? What’s the worst she could do to him?
