Chapter Text
Draco
“Congratulations, you lucky bastard, you’re not going to rot in Azkaban!”
None of Draco’s guests actually say these words upon arrival at the Manor, but their general demeanor communicates them all the same. They greet him warmly, with kind words, firm handshakes, and even a pair of chaste kisses to his cheek.
There are seven guests in all. A few older blokes Draco played Quidditch with on Slytherin's team: Montague, Warrington, and Bletchley. Father owns the companies they work for these days, so they might have felt obligated to make an appearance.
And then there’s Pansy Parkinson; she’s a guest as well. She finds every possible excuse for affection, frequently nudging Draco’s shoulder or touching his arm. It’s been this way for years. They aren’t officially together, but with the pureblood population dwindling and only a handful of them close to the same age, the likelihood of them ending up together has always been high.
Draco used to feel resigned to it. Not so much anymore.
And Tracey Davis, who came with Pansy, she’s the fifth guest. She probably relishes having an inside scoop, a look inside the Manor so soon after the war. Merlin knows there are plenty of others out there who will be jealous to hear her speak of it.
And Theodore Nott. Mercifully, he’s another guest. Draco’s one true confidant. He’ll likely stay later than the others, long into the night, and that will give Draco the chance to finally open up. He’ll speak truths he couldn’t risk while the Dark Lord was still alive, then recount his short stay in Azkaban and his trial before the Wizengamot. He’ll tell how it was Professor McGonagall who made the best case for his freedom and insisted he return to Hogwarts this fall.
And, lastly, the Greengrass sisters who gave the previously mentioned chaste kisses — they make up the rest of the guest count. Daphne appears to finally reciprocate Theo’s long held romantic interest in her. They sit close to one another and exchange frequent smiles. And Astoria, Draco notices, is no longer the wiry little girl he remembered, but a regal young woman.
Mother and Father always said the Greengrass girls would grow up to be beautiful. It was the one thing they agreed on when discussing potential partners for their son. Mother’s top pick was Daphne, but Draco wouldn’t hear of betraying Theo that way.
“Astoria, then,” she once said, waving her hand dismissively. “She has less personality, but she’ll be equally beautiful when she’s older. It’s always been that way with women in the Greengrass family.”
Father had conceded that point, but he worried the Greengrasses harbored secret sympathies for Muggle-borns. “Plus, they’re poor,” he added.
Mother chuckled at that. “We’re wealthy enough you needn’t worry about that, Draco, darling. Besides, your father is paranoid. He thinks everyone is a secret blood traitor. But I’m certain Daphne and Astoria will stick with tradition, which is why you would do well to start honoring them both.”
But Astoria was — is — two years younger than Draco, and when he was younger that age gap seemed to matter. He never gave her any real consideration. He wonders now, though, as he steals glances at her from across the small party, if that had been a mistake. Is it too late to endear her to him?
Mother sets a large charcuterie board in front of the group. It’s full of grapes, walnuts, crackers, cheese cubes, and other similar items, all arranged in a way that’s almost too pretty to eat. Each guest praises Mother’s work, then tentatively picks at the food nearest them. As they snack, they discuss the stories printed in recent newspapers: policy changes at the Ministry and reconstruction efforts at Hogwarts.
Before long, Potter and his friends come up. Of course they do. Draco’s guests mention them without insult, though some wrinkle their noses as if names carry odors. Tracey Davis asks what he thinks of the Weasleys’ career plans. They've all heard how, instead of returning to Hogwarts like everyone else, Ron has announced plans to join his brother in managing Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes while Ginny, after gaining attention at a Quidditch charity fundraiser, accepted an offer to play for the Holyhead Harpies.
Draco shrugs. “Good for them,” he says. “If that’s what brings them happiness, good for them.”
Now all seven guests nod. Some even murmur in agreement. No one wrinkles their nose. No one in this crowd dares to debate a Malfoy, not even after the war’s mishaps. Merlin, it's good to be rich. At least in some social circles that still counts for something.
It’s good, too, Draco thinks, to keep up appearances, even among friends. That's why he gave the answer he did about the Weasleys. Truth be told, he couldn't give a fig less about their happiness. But appearances !
“We’ve entered a time of transition,” Mother recently told him. “Potter’s victory over the Dark Lord is bound to move the bar on what is and isn’t acceptable when it comes to blood purity issues. But where exactly, is still to be determined. As such, we want to position ourselves to be ready for anything.”
Play nice with Potter and his friends, but don’t get too friendly. That's the gist of what Mother expects of Draco, which suits him just fine.
Still, it’s a bore the way the conversation dies down after his good-for-them comment. Couldn’t his guests at least debate if Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes will fare as well under George and Ron's direction as it did under George and Fred’s? Or whether Ginny has what it takes to compete at the professional level? Perhaps the Harpies simply hope to use her to boost ticket sales? And anyway, what does it say about Arthur and Molly’s parenting that two more of their children have dropped out of Hogwarts?
If the guests would debate these questions, Draco might be able to predict the general consensus to come; that is, where the bar will land. Then he could get a head start in carving out his place for himself in this new world order. But no, unfortunately, the guests shift into a safer conversation topic: next year's N.E.W.T.s. It's a disappointing turn of events. But, hey, at least Draco’s not rotting in Azkaban.
-x-
Pansy squeezes his hand every few minutes as they make their way through Diagon Alley. He knows she means to be comforting, to tell him it doesn’t matter how many people give dirty looks or mutter rude comments under their breath. It doesn’t matter because they have each other. But every time Draco feels her hand tighten around his, he wants to scream. Every gentle squeeze reminds him he still hasn’t done what he knows he must.
It's not going to work out between them. He’s not going to choose her in the end. And that admission is long overdue. Draco has tried to imagine a happy life with Pansy. Married with a perfect house and a perfect pureblood baby. He still wants those things. But with her? No, if he’s being honest, he's never truly wanted those things with her.
And now that he and Mother are trying so hard to anticipate the future — the upcoming political landscape and their role in it — Draco simply can’t go on pretending otherwise. The thing is, Pansy can’t be counted on to play many parts convincingly. Not long-term anyway. Convince others that she’s taken a nuanced position, that she’s proud to be a pureblood but doesn’t believe it makes her inherently better than others? She could never. It took Mother pointing it out, but now Draco quite agrees.
Good riddance, though. Because he’s certain the only things Pansy has ever liked about him are his blood status and the size of his Gringotts account. It’s strange to think he used to accept that, albeit begrudgingly. Then again, the only thing he ever really liked about her was that his parents would approve.
It will be different with Astoria, though, he tells himself. Better. They’ll grow to genuinely love each other. Somehow, Draco feels sure of that. He wants to lean into that thought, to come up with reasons to support his growing interest in the younger Greengrass sister. But before he can, he and Pansy step inside Flourish and Blotts and she squeezes his hand again.
It’s especially annoying this time because the nearest person hasn’t given a dirty look or muttered an insult under her breath. But that, apparently, doesn’t matter to Pansy because the nearest person is Hermione Granger.
She stands behind a display table of books, holding one of them up to her chest so she can read the back cover. She hasn't noticed Draco and Pansy at all, let alone done anything to make them feel unwelcome. But her presence, according to the hand squeeze, is a tragedy in and of itself.
They start to pass her by, and that's when Draco notices she's dressed as Muggle-like as ever in a bright tank top and frayed shorts. He looks at her tanned legs and then, guiltily, at his feet, afraid Pansy might somehow know the thought that has just popped into his head. Granger has fantastic legs.
This isn’t the first time he’s noticed, but probably the first time noticing hasn’t immediately made him sick to his stomach. He wonders if he has Blaise Zabini to thank for that. Blaise had been the first to admit it out loud, that Granger has the best legs in school, though every boy in Slytherin had surely noticed long before.
It happened during sixth year. Draco had returned to the common room after serving detention with McGonagall. The Quidditch team lounged about while discussing girls’ body parts. Ranking them, really. Best eyes, best lips, best breasts, and best legs. Those tossers.
Draco held his breath. They all did for a moment, not wanting to admit to admiring anything about a Muggle-born, but not wanting to lie and be called on their bullshit either.
“For fuck’s sake,” Blaise said, sounding irritated, “it’s Granger. We all know it’s Granger.”
Everyone laughed. “Yeah, definitely Granger,” they agreed.
So blame her legs, or Pansy’s annoying hand squeezing, or Mother’s assigned approach of playing nice with Potter and his friends. Whatever the reason, Draco turns around and marches right up to Gryffindor’s golden girl. He extends his hand and says, “I’d like a fresh start."
There’s a beat of silence, of skepticism, but then the corners of Granger’s mouth twitch. A tiny smile. “A fresh start,” she says, and they shake on it.
After their hands drop, she glances between Draco and Pansy a few times. None of them know what to say next.
“Right, well, we’ll see you at Hogwarts,” Draco supplies.
Pansy looks aghast as he pulls her toward another section of the bookstore. She doesn’t say anything at that moment, though, or much else for the remainder of their time in Diagon Alley. But later, when they’re back at the Manor organizing everything they bought into neat piles on the dining room table, she finally addresses it.
“What was that earlier, with Granger? And at your party when you said those things about the Weasley? Is that a — a strategy or something? Something your parents put you up to?”
She says parents, but she means Mother. Father's still in Azkaban, awaiting his trial date, which is something Draco doesn’t like to think about. It’s too painful.
“A lot more people would be dead if not for Potter and his friends,” he says. “And it costs nothing to be civil, so I figured why not try?”
Only once the words are out of Draco’s mouth do they strike him as perfectly reasonable. Though he can't say exactly what motivated him to approach Granger, and though he'd tell Mother it was a calculated move, It costs nothing to be civil, so why not try ? could easily be his new mantra. It feels right enough, anyway.
"Why not?" Pansy shrieks. "Why not?"
Not to Draco’s surprise but to his dismay, she proves herself completely out of step with his line of thinking. She throws herself into a full-fledged meltdown complete with tears and wild gestures. Words like unfair, and purity, and birthright, and Mudbloods get tangled together in a way that’s not quite clear but easy to draw conclusions about.
Can't be trusted to play her part convincingly? Mother called that one correctly, yes, indeed.
“Listen, Pans. There’s something else we need to discuss,” Draco says when finally he gets the chance. And then he ends their relationship, the one that has never been officially declared but weighed heavily on his shoulders for years.
Pansy cries even harder.
-x-
A letter arrives for Draco’s during his first breakfast back at Hogwarts. He chuckles as he takes it from the owl’s beak, thinking how Mother has forgotten he’s in his final year at Hogwarts, not his first. No need to send a letter so soon. But then he opens the envelope, unfolds the piece of parchment, and glances down at the signature line. What in Merlin’s name? The letter isn’t from Mother, but from Granger. How curious.
Dear Draco,
First of all, don’t assume me using your first name means something it doesn’t. It isn’t a poorly disguised way of hinting at affection for you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’ve called you Draco instead of Malfoy because I know you prefer it the other way around. God, you Slytherins think you’re so cool, don’t you? Calling each other by your last names, flaunting your family connections. What a bunch of prats!
Just so you know, “Malfoy” sounds like a fungus.
Did you know that when you stopped me after Arithmancy and apologized about Buckbeak, I would develop feelings for you? Sometimes I think you must have. Yes, definitely yes. You know why? Because you think EVERYONE is obsessed with you. And that’s what I hate most about you.
But that isn’t your only terrible quality. Here are some others:
- You think having a lot of money makes you better than other people. But you know what? It’s not even your money! You’re barely fourteen and you don’t have a job. You haven’t done anything to earn a single Knut!
- You make fun of people for things they can’t help. Just like your parents’ wealth isn’t something that makes you a good person, Ron’s parents’ finances don’t make him a bad person. But more importantly: how dare you say anything to Harry about his parents’ deaths! That’s despicable.
- You’re a manipulator. When you apologized, you seemed sincere, but I’ve since realized that wasn’t the case. You know I’m better than you at magic and now that I’ve slapped you, now that I’ve reached a limit for what I’ll put up with from you, you’re afraid of me. Good, you should be! But it's a shame that, instead of letting fear motivate you to make a change, you gave a fake, self-preserving, manipulative apology. You’re the worst.
I wish you’d take an honest look in the mirror. If you did, I bet you wouldn’t like what you see.
Too harsh? I’m starting to feel a little bad, so let me remind you that people can change. It’s never too late. I really believe that, but I have to be careful. Believing you can change — specifically you, Draco Malfoy — is what led me to like you in the first place. Ever so briefly!
I considered your better qualities and also the root of your worst qualities. You know that your worst qualities stem from your insecurities, don’t you? Well, I thought about that and how I have plenty of insecurities myself. And somehow that made me feel like we had a secret understanding.
Ugh, this is so embarrassing to admit, but fine, here goes. For a short time, I convinced myself that you liked me back. I told myself you only called me Mudblood because you knew it didn’t really bother me. And if it did bother me and you knew it, you wouldn’t have used that word. That’s what I thought. Now I know better, but it was a comforting fantasy while it lasted.
Okay, okay, even though you don’t deserve it, I’ll tell you all the things I liked about you. Liked! Past tense!
- Once in Herbology, nobody wanted to be partners with Millicent Bulstrode because she has B.O. and then you miraculously volunteered like it was no big deal. Suddenly everybody thought Millicent wasn’t so bad.
- A small majority of the time, your jokes aren’t mean. They’re actually funny. Sure, you like to tease people, but so do Fred and George Weasley, and people love them anyway. People think their jokes are charming. It’s because your jokes are so cruel the rest of the time that my friends don’t recognize when you’re being like Fred and George.
- You possess all the positive qualities of your House. You’re clever, resourceful, and ambitious. You're loyal to the people you care about and, if you wanted to, you could easily convince others to commit to a good cause.
Those are the reasons I liked you. But like I said, I don’t anymore. I’ve decided not to like anyone based on their potential. I’m done with that. I have to start liking people for who they already are.
Anyway, now that the year is almost over, I know for sure that I am over you. Other girls have started gossiping about how handsome you are. Lavender and Parvati have even wondered out loud what it would be like to kiss you. But I’m proud to say I’m immune to such thoughts now. I had a bad dose of you this year, but now I never ever have to worry about catching you again.
Immunity! What a relief!
- Hermione Granger
By the time Draco reaches the end of the letter, he’s fully aware it was written ages ago. But why would Granger send it now? Because he told her he wanted a fresh start? Is this her way of… of helping with that?
That doesn’t make any sense. How is knowing she once had a silly little crush on him meant to help anything? Trying to figure it out, he peers across the Great Hall towards the Gryffindor table. He half suspects Granger will be watching him, waiting for him to make eye contact, and then her facial expression will give something away.
But, no, no such luck. Granger’s eating cereal, grinning at something Potter’s saying, and paying Draco no attention at all.
Hermione
Hermione quickly loses track of the number of times she’s caught Malfoy staring at her since returning to Hogwarts. It started during the first breakfast in the Great Hall, but grew uncomfortable during Transfiguration. Worse still in Herbology and Potions. It continued the following day. And the day after that. And the day after —
Well, all week he’s been staring. Now, in the library, occupying tables catty-corner from one another, he’s doing it again. Every time Hermione glances up from her Ancient Runes book, Malfoy’s eyes are on her. But why?
Did he expect their fresh start to be of the intentional, positive effort variety? Not the silent, neutral understanding she’s been going for? Did he expect her to sit by him so he wouldn’t have to be alone? To defend him when others sneer? Or what ?
Hermione hates the look in his eyes. She also hates to admit it — won’t admit it, if anyone asks — but earlier in the day, Malfoy's stares made her shudder with fear. His Dark Mark probably hasn’t even faded yet. According to a book she once read, dark magic like that takes months to fade and never completely goes away.
So, yes, she’s questioning Malfoy’s motives for asking for a fresh start. Yes, she’s telling herself not to let her guard down around him. And, yes, she’s shuddering, too, apparently.
But he lowered his wand that night on the Astronomy Tower with Dumbledore. That’s what Harry told her. And ever since then — well, before then actually, but especially since then, Hermione has wanted to believe Malfoy can and will redeem himself. With that in mind, she tells herself to go ahead and keep her guard up, but don’t shudder again. Malfoy doesn’t deserve that.
But really, why is he staring? She wonders if she has something hanging out of her nose. Wait, all week? That doesn’t make sense. Maybe someone hexed her? Gave her an invisible aura or something? Oh, God! Could she have inadvertently contributed to and then passed along a love potion? To Draco bloody Malfoy? That’s impossible, right? She’d know if she did something like that, wouldn't she?
Enough, already! This is getting ridiculous! Hermione gathers up her things and moves to Malfoy’s table. “Out with it,” she commands. “Just tell me why you’ve been staring at me all week.”
Malfoy actually grins at that. An I-know-something-you-don’t-know grin. Hermione wants to swat it right off his smug face. And she just might! But before she can decide, he digs into his backpack and pulls out a piece of parchment.
“An owl delivered this on Monday,” he says. He slides the parchment across the table for Hermione to read.
Dear Draco,
First of all, don’t assume —
Oh, no! No, no, no, no! There’s absolutely no way.
Hermione doesn't need to read the rest. She remembers perfectly well what she wrote. Oh, bloody hell! She hates this. She really, really, really hates this. If she could crawl into a hole and and live there the rest of her life, well, then that is precisely what she would do. Why did she have to write those letters? Why did she have to keep them in her school trunk all these years?
She’ll strangle Lavender Brown! Really, she will!
Wait. Would Lavender have sent the other letters as well? What if — Woah, Hermione, breathe. Breathe!
Okay, what if the other letters were somehow sent too? To Lou. To Viktor. To Fred. Oh, God, Fred! Would his have been delivered? If someone — possibly Lavender — got into Hermione’s trunk and took the letters to the Owlery, where would an owl even take Fred’s? The Burrow? The joke shop? His grave?
Hermione leaps out of her chair without a word to Malfoy. She’s got to find those letters. Right now!
“Granger, hang on —”
But dammit, there’s Harry standing near the library doors. And — Hermione's heart sinks. He’s got an envelope in his hand. And he's scanning the room. Looking for her no doubt.
Yes, she wrote Harry a letter too. That fact hadn't escaped her memory. But his letter hadn’t been in her school trunk with the others. It had been hidden in the tent they left in the woods the day the Snatchers captured them and took them to Malfoy Manor. How in the world, then, could it now be in Harry’s hand?
She sits back down, now in the chair next to Malfoy as opposed to the one across from him. But she barely registered the change, her head in a cloud of fog. The room starts to sway, then starts to fade away. Hermione’s that close to passing out. Truly.
Breathe!
She inhales deeply, an attempt to gear up for whatever comes next. What will that be? A confession? A confirmation? Yes, Harry, I had feelings for you as recently as six months ago. Hermione would rather die!
No, that’s a terrible thing to think. She lost too many loved ones in the war to use humor like that. She’d rather — kiss Draco Malfoy! Ha!
Hey, wait, there’s an idea.
Without pausing to evaluate the merit of it, Hermione leans over, grabs Malfoy by his shirt, and presses her lips against his. For about three seconds, he lets it happen. He doesn’t kiss her back, but he doesn’t pull away either. Until — well, until he does.
“Granger, what the —”
“Is he still there?”
“What? Who?”
“Harry. Is he by the door?”
Malfoy peaks around Hermione. “He is,” he drawls.
There’s a beat of silence. Malfoy's still confused it seems, still putting the pieces together. But then he glances down at Hermione’s lips, so she tells herself he won’t mind if she keeps with the same strategy — if she even call it that — until Harry leaves.
She kisses him again. This time he kisses her back. Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and pureblood supremacist, kisses her back. And with a sense of urgency and purpose too. It makes absolutely no sense, but she doesn’t care. Her brain has turned to mush. Her lips, to fire. Her heart, to a drum.
It’s a good kiss, isn’t it? Hermione hasn’t kissed many boys before. Viktor, Ron, and now Malfoy. But the longer it lasts, the more convinced she becomes that it qualifies as good. Somehow equal parts firm and tender at the same time. The sort of kiss that’s just on the verge of being indecent, unfit for — oh, God, for public!
They’re in public. Hermione didn’t think this through when she started. Obviously . In panic, she did the first thing that came to mind to help her avoid Harry. But now it’s sinking in and she’s realizing she’ll have to face the consequences. Can she handle that? Can she turn this into something useful?
She’ll simply have to. There’s no other choice now, is there?
Finally, she pulls away and opens her eyes. Malfoy stares at her. Well, what’s new? Actually, a little something, it turns out. From this stare, Hermione at least has an idea about what’s going on inside his head. He expects her to speak first, doesn't he?
“Thank you,” she whispers, the two words sounding even more sincere than she’d meant them to be.
Malfoy smirks. Why does he still look like he knows something she doesn’t? Such a prat. “You’re welcome,” he says, and then he peaks around Hermione again to check the door. “He’s gone.”
“Oh, good!” Hermione stands to leave.
Malfoy grabs her hand and pulls her back into her chair. “Not so fast, Granger. A minute ago you were about to run off without explaining this." He reaches across the table to where she left the letter, picks it up, and wiggles it front of her face. "See, I was curious why you would send it to me now, after all these years. But then Potter showed up with — what, a similar letter? And that made you want to avoid him. So to avoid him, you kissed me. Twice. And that makes sense, how ?”
Hermione cringes. “I can’t explain all that right now. I have to see about, um —” She swallows her nerves. “I have to see about another letter.”
“Merlin, Granger, how many did you write?”
She stands again. “That’s really none of your business.”
Malfoy stands too. “I may not understand the details,” he says, “but it’s clear you used me in this situation, darling. So as far as I'm concerned, that makes it my business.”
Darling? “Gross, don’t do that,” Hermione returns. “Don’t decide flirting will be your new form of torture.”
Malfoy's expression falters on the last word. Torture. Death Eaters. He must think Hermione’s referring to the war as opposed to all the bullying he did long before it. And he’s not prepared for that?
“Sorry, I — I didn't mean — Listen, I really have to go,” Hermione says. “But we can talk more about this later if you want. Tomorrow, maybe?”
Malfoy scratches his neck. It might be an attempt to appear casual. To appear calm and collected when, in reality, he no longer is. “Yeah, tomorrow. That’s fine,” he says.
Hermione can’t be bothered to feel too badly for him. Not right now anyway. She has the rest of the letters to consider. The one to Fred in particular. “Great. Thank you,” she blurts out. “And — yeah, thanks for the other part too.”
And then she dashes out of the library.
-x-
Five minutes later, having snuck into Slughorn’s office to use his connection to the Floo Network, she steps into Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes where, thank God, she discovers Ron is not currently on duty.
“Looking for this?” George asks, snatching a letter from inside his robes. He barely contains his laughter as he wiggles it in front of him, his action disturbingly similar to Malfoy’s before.
“You read it?” Hermione whines.
“Of course I read it. Didn’t know ahead of time it was from you, did I? Merlin's pants, I bet you’re mortified.”
She crosses to the room to stand in front of George where he leans against the check-out counter. She plucks the letter from him and sighs with relief. At least George didn’t try to keep it.
Oh, God, Malfoy still has his letter! Why didn't she take it away from him when she had the chance?
“You didn’t mean to send that thing, did you?” George asks, pulling Hermione from her latest wave of panic.
“No, not at all,” she tells him.
“Then why is it here?”
“I haven't figured that part out yet. It's meant to be in my school trunk, so I thought at first Lavender had discovered th— it ."
It. Not them.
"But, um —” Hermione realizes she can't very well explain about Harry’s letter which, again, is meant to be lost in an abandoned tent in the woods. If she explains about that, she'll end up explaining way more than George needs to know. She'll just have to steer the conversation somewhere else instead. “Please tell me Ron doesn't know about this.”
“He doesn't and don’t worry, I don’t plan on telling him. He’s heartbroken enough as it is. Doesn’t need to know that you used to fancy Gred and Forge on top of everything else.”
Hermione smiles sympathetically. “Just Fred,” she says.
George clutches his hand over his heart, pretending to be insulted. “But we’re so much alike. I mean, we were . How could you fancy him but not me?”
Now, Hermione smiles in earnest. “I thought you said you read the letter,” she teases. “It makes it perfectly clear why I liked him for a short time.”
“Because he showed you a bit more attention? Because he said a few flattering things at the World Cup? Is that really all it takes to catch your interest?"
“What can I say, I’m a sucker for flattery. I was even more so at that age.”
George snickers. “A sucker for flattery, you say? Should I pass along that tip to Ron?”
Help Ron win her back, George means. That’s what everyone expects: that after she finishes her last year at Hogwarts, they’ll reconnect. Become an official couple again. Even Rita Skeeter and so-called journalists like her have said so in the papers.
Hermione bites the inside of her lip. “If I say no, I don't want to patch things up between us, will you start to hate me like the rest of the Weasleys?”
“The oldest three don’t hate you. They hardly know you.”
“But Ginny and your parents? You’re saying I’ve been right about that?”
“Hate is a strong word,” George says. He reaches across the counter and ruffles
Hermione’s hair, acting the part of big brother. “They simply don’t understand your decision. Give them a bit more time. I’m sure they’ll come around.”
-x-
After Arithmancy the next day, as their classmates shuffle out the door and into the corridor, Malfoy catches Hermione by her arm. “Today is yesterday’s tomorrow,” he says.
She looks at him with confusion. Is that the beginning of a riddle?
“And you owe me an explanation,” he adds, reading her expression.
Oh, right. She remembers the kiss, obviously, but she'd forgotten she agreed to explain herself, so long as she could do it later. She’d been too busy worrying about the letters, trying to figure out how they’d been sent, what Harry might be thinking about his, and what Ginny and Ron might do if they ever found out.
And, okay, sure, she’s also spent some time worrying about the explanation she’ll give if anyone asks her about Malfoy. Because, surely, other library patrons must have noticed their kissing.
Are rumors already circulating, she wonders, about me and a Death Eater?
Judging by the sideways glances from their classmates as they pass by, yes, that is the case. Lord help her. Such a stupid thing to do, kissing Malfoy in order to avoid Harry.
Hermione waits until they’re completely alone in the corridor and then, knowing she won’t be let off the hook, explains herself as best she can. “I wrote Harry’s letter not that long ago, and I'm painfully embarrassed by that fact. I hate that he’s seen it, and I’d hate it even more if Ron or Ginny found out about it.”
She goes on to explain how she doesn’t know how the letters got sent out and how the idea of kissing him, Malfoy, popped into her head because of an attempt to adjust a bad mental joke.
“You panicked, basically,” he summarizes.
Hermione nods. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
That should do the trick, right? Nothing more to say? Because Malfoy probably already knows about her and Ron, even if he doesn't care. That is, even if he hasn’t read the gossip rags about how they’d broken up nearly as soon as they’d gotten together or how Ron’s thrown a public tantrum or two since then, Malfoy’s probably heard people talking about it. It’s a favorite topic as of late.
“You know you can’t avoid Potter forever, right?" Malfoy asks, sounding too much like he thinks himself a sage. So annoying.
Hermione huffs. “Yes, obviously I know that.”
Draco doesn’t say anything back right away. Instead, he smirks. Again, it’s in that I-know-something-you-don’t-know kind of way. Then he says something… troubling. “I have an idea."
“And I have a feeling I’m going to hate your idea,” Hermione returns, crossing her arms over her chest.
“We should pretend to be together.”
“What? No. Why?”
“It’ll help you save face with Potter. And it’ll let Weasley think he’s justified in hating you which, trust me, is the kindest thing you could do for him right now. He’ll move on faster.”
“And what would you get out of such an arrangement? Actually, no, don't tell me. I don’t care.” Hermione shakes her head, then walks away.
Malfoy hurries after her. “Pansy and I recently split as well,” he says.
“I didn’t realize the two of you were officially together.”
“Good point. We weren’t. But that’s the thing with us purebloods. We've got all sorts of unspoken rules. The way Pansy and I acted together? We might as well be betrothed, even now. Which means the girl I’m actually interested in will be reluctant to give me a chance. I’ve got to prove I’m really available, you see.”
Hermione stops in her tracks, confused. Malfoy’s not making any sense. “Who is this girl and how does being in a fake relationship help prove you’re available?”
“Astoria Greengrass. And if I’m willing to date a Muggle-born, then clearly I don’t care what the unspoken rules have prescribed regarding Pansy and me. Everyone will get the message, then you and I will break up, and then I’ll make a move on Astoria and she’ll happily agree to marry me someday.”
Is he serious? Why go through all that trouble? “Why not just tell Astoria you’re interested in her?" Hermione asks. "And that you don’t care about the unspoken rules?”
Malfoy groans. "You don’t understand purebloods at all. It’s like I said, I've got to send a message. To Pansy most of all. I’ve got to convince her to release me from her talons, otherwise there isn't a single pureblood girl in Great Britain who will give me a chance. Strict honor system with our lot.”
Hermione shakes her head, then walks away again. But she isn’t done with Malfoy just yet. Knowing he’ll catch up, she says, “Even if that made sense —”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“It really doesn't. But even if it did, wouldn’t Astoria’s family discourage her from dating someone who dated a Mudblood?”
Malfoy groans again, louder this time. “Don’t call yourself that, Granger."
“Why? Because it takes the sting out of it? Makes it less impactful when you use the word?”
Draco suddenly looks at her with all manner of seriousness. "I don’t use that word anymore. Not since —” He cuts himself off and lowers his eyes to the ground.
Is Hermione’s mind playing tricks on her, or did his eyes flicker over the scar on her neck, the one she got from his Aunt Bellatrix. “Not since — when?” she asks.
“Let’s not get into all that right now,” Draco says, bouncing back. “Now, about your concern regarding the Greengrasses? They’ve always been more progressive than the Malfoys. They want to see their daughters married to purebloods, no doubt, but they won’t mind if between Pansy and Astoria, you and I date for a while. Might prefer it, in fact, if it means common folks hate me a little less.”
Hermione scoffs. “Common folks?”
Draco smirks. God, she hates that smirk. And yet despite it — and despite her common sense — she almost wants to agree to this madness. Why? Because she feels sorry for Malfoy? And she thought Harry had a savior complex!
“I'm sorry," she says resolutely, before she can be talked into doing something truly stupid. "You make a strong case for yourself, but no. I’m not the girl for the job. Good luck with all that, though. Honestly."