We learned the sea

Gravity

Chapter 6

It started with Draco walking down a dark, wet hallway. At first, he saw only a door before him, at the end of the hall, and nothing around him but a black void. As he walked, the details filled in. The floor was concrete, with cracks running across it like the rungs of a ladder. The walls were plaster, cracked along the edges, revealing the brickwork beneath. He could hear water dripping somewhere in perfect time.

Drip. Drip. … Drip. Drip …Drip. Drip.

As the entire hallway came into focus, he realized the building was one he’d been in before, many times, and Draco was completely and utterly terrified. Panic and fear had twisted his nerves into a frayed mess in the pit of his stomach, resulting in labored breathing and sweaty palms. The abandoned warehouse on the river near the Channel was where the Dark Lord flexed his more creatively evil muscles.

Behind him was a steel grey door that magically led onto the most twisted, narrow passageway in Knockturn Alley. In front of him was a black door, the other side of which promised discomfort at best, excruciating pain at worst. Never death through this door; that one was red. After passing the halfway point, he noticed that it seemed to be staying a fixed distance before him, and he could no longer approach it. Draco’s heart rate sped up and he clenched his hand so tightly around his wand that he feared he would puncture his skin. Frantically, he started to run, but the door didn’t move any closer.

There was a sound of hollow laughter to his right and he jumped, startled. Keep moving. He started again, to more laughter. Draco glanced at the floor, hoping for some explanation of why the door loomed at the same distance, only to discover that his feet weren’t moving. He’d taken steps in inches instead of feet. His heart pounded.

There was no return from the black door and Draco knew it. The hallway was one way and he’d been there many times. On each visit during the war, his thoughts had turned progressively more toward running, not just from the door but from everything behind it, everything it stood for, but he couldn’t leave his duty, his destiny.

Draco stopped running and stared at the door.

Then he was in the enormous room on the other side, standing in the middle, a bright light shining down on him. A blood-stained guillotine stood behind him to the right of the door. A rack was hidden behind the red curtains to his left. Devices that hadn’t even been given names were in rooms that branched from the one where he stood. He knew; he’d seen them all in action. He’d put men and women in those rooms, been the direct cause of their suffering and heard the screams as the tortured begged for mercy, offered information, money, anything to end the suffering.

Hollow laughter rang in his ears and he moved forward, always forward, toward the source of the blinding pain in his arm. A monster with red, slitted eyes awaited him.

Draco.

Bile rose toward Draco’s mouth and he swallowed hard. The snakelike creature’s movements were as fluid as water, deadly and swift.

Closer, Draco.

Draco had no choice but to comply. He walked with as much purpose as he could muster and ended up shuffling his feet. An unknown force propelled him and he stopped at the foot of the dark, stone rock out of which a throne had been carved.

Bow.

When Draco was on his knees, the Dark Lord snapped his fingers, something he only did when he was very, very angry. Every fiber of Draco’s being was stretched taut.

We have a new victim. She is … for you.

Draco knew he should be grateful — he’d been given the honor of taking a life — but he knew something was wrong. He hadn’t done anything especially outstanding to deserve the gift.

Bring her.

The blood flowing through Draco’s heart—pumped though his vena cavae, into the veins of his arms, legs, fingers, and toes, transferred to the capillaries and oxygenated in the lungs, then back to his heart to begin the cycle anew—froze at the sight of the broken, bloodied woman who was dragged into the room between two Death Eaters.

He knew her. He screamed …

And sat straight up in bed, chest heaving, gulping in air by the lungful, drenched in sweat.

Directly opposite his bed, hanging on the wall, was the painting Hermione had given him. It was the first thing his eyes landed on and he stared at it, unblinking, focused on one particular star that pulsed with the rhythm of the sea, until his vision cleared and he couldn’t see the images from his nightmare.

When the horror passed, Draco fell back onto his bed, limp and spent. The sun was rising; he could tell by the color of the light on the wall. He had no desire to get up, no desire to think or move or breathe. All he wanted was to forget, to be free.

He started to shiver. When he’d sat up, the blankets that had been clutched to his chest had fallen to his waist and he had left them there. Now the sweat on his skin was evaporating, chilling him. Draco absently pulled the covers to his chin, staring at the painting, scared to fall back asleep.

ooo

When he woke again, it was very late in the morning. His eyes fell again on the painting and he sighed, the events of his slumber a hazy memory. He never forgot his nightmares, but he didn’t see any point in dwelling on them. They were simply manifestations of his fears, drawn from his past experiences, that his subconscious focused on in order to frighten him, He had a large portfolio of images from which to choose to illustrate his worst dreams.

Draco hadn’t had a nightmare in nearly two weeks, the longest stretch without one, and he had faintly hoped they were on their way out for good. Usually they followed stressful days or events in his life, a merger at work or a visit to his mother’s grave. Never before had he suffered one following a good event.

He smiled unconsciously as he remembered the previous night. He’d had a bit of trouble falling asleep the night before, because his mind refused to do anything but think about that kiss. Before his nightmare, he had continued to think about it by way of light, pleasant dreams. And now that his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, he was still thinking about it.

Hermione had been in his nightmares before, but never like this. The first time it happened was after she had given him the painting, and since then, her role in his nightmares had grown. At first, she was one among many he witnessed being tortured or killed. Then she became one of a few, and then she was the only one. He would watch, and scream, but no one could hear his protests over the cheers of the others watching. Always she would look at him, just like she had when he saw her hit with the Cruciatus curse during a battle, her eyes pleading. He was always powerless, unable to do anything to help.

This was the first time he had been told to inflict the pain on her, and he wondered if the new twist was a result of his revelation the night before. He liked her, he wanted her, and the idea scared him. The worst thing he could imagine was something bad happening to Hermione, and even more so if he were somehow involved, or the cause of it. Draco knew that she was safe, at least, as safe as any of them were, from Death Eaters and their brand of evil, but there were many different kinds of evil. Inequality and prejudice still existed in the wizarding world; there were people who still hated her because of her blood. Though he did not associate with such individuals, he still heard of their activities.

Part of him was glad she was with Fred, safely away from the dark corners of his mind and his vivid imagination. He couldn’t hurt her, drag her down with him when he stumbled — an inevitability he anticipated and dreaded more with each passing day.

Draco sighed and shook his head rapidly to clear his thoughts. He didn’t need to think about that right now. He was tucked in his bed in his empty house, and he wouldn’t be seeing Hermione for weeks, most likely.

A grin spread across his face at the image of Fred seeing their kiss. The thought made him happier than it should have, and then he felt a remnant of the desire the kiss, and being so close to her, had stirred in him.

It would have to suffice until he saw her again. He wondered what their next interaction would be like. Would she ignore him? Would she carry on as though nothing had happened?

The stars on his painting twinkled and drew his gaze to the end of his bed. His brain put things together; last night had been Christmas Eve, so now it was Christmas. He had a pile of gifts at the foot of his bed, likely all magicked to arrive there before he woke, but he didn’t care just yet. He wasn’t finished thinking. He needed to give his mind free rein to think about it now so that he wouldn’t dwell on it later. Get it out of his system, so to speak.

He replayed it over and over in his mind. It wasn’t just a kiss. It had been so much more than that. It was his heart pounding, her warm, rapid breath as he neared her, her tiny, barely audible squeak that made him pause. The feel of her lips on his, however light, however brief, was indescribable. He could still remember that feeling, and his lips protested against the absence of hers, even this morning.

He remembered the look on her face when she’d stepped away from him, full of shock and surprise. He’d gone to the party alone, flirted insatiably with a perfect stranger through dinner, and then kissed Hermione under charmed mistletoe. What would she think of him now? Surely, she would have noticed hisreactions, as he’d noticed hers. Had he given himself away? What did her racing heart mean? She was with Fred! Even if he had given something away, there were ways to fix it, albeit unpleasant ways. Ways that involved him being mean to her to remove any suspicion. Or, kissing someone else and letting her hear of it.

He shuddered at the thought. He didn’t think that he — even he— could snog someone he didn’t care about. Not anymore. Once he would have done so without a second thought, but now … it was inconceivable. The only person he wanted to snog was very much, at present, unsnoggable. He groaned and threw a book across the room, relishing the sound of impact. He’d bought a few old, beaten-up paperbacks for just this purpose. He needed to express the violence that had been ingrained in him growing up on occasion and sacrificed a few worthless books to the cause. It was a far better alternative to the bullying he had done when he was younger.

The kiss with Hermione, though devastatingly brief, had put all prior kisses he’d shared to shame. It was true that honestly caring about someone intensified the sensation beyond his imagination. Although real, honest kisses weren’t abundant in his past, even if they had been, he suspected he would forget them all in light of what he had shared with her.

Why bother with others when there was that out there?

Draco sat up and examined the stack of gifts. He was glad he didn’t have an audience; people watching him, waiting for his reaction, always made him nervous. But when he saw the names on the packages—Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly—he wished he had accepted the many invitations to the Burrow, despite the inevitable discomfort. At that moment, he thought he could have put up with watching her and Fred, having them watch him, if it meant being with his friends.

He reached for the first package. It was from Fred and George. He scowled and felt a fresh wave of jealousy bombarded his gut, accompanied by pain, anger, and loss, all in one. He opened it carefully, lest it should bite, to find new products from their shop. Their originality in products did not extend to giving gifts; they merely assumed everyone would appreciate more wares from their joke shop.

From Molly and Arthur he got a Weasley sweater, green with a silver “D” over an excellent depiction of a Hungarian Horntail. It was the fourth Mrs. Weasley-knitted gift he had received in just nine months, He’d received a pair of socks and a scarf on his birthday, a hat at Easter. Harry and Ron had told him that Molly was just going to make up for all the time lost during Hogwarts. Molly had also packed some food with the Christmas present. The smell of the mincemeat pies made his stomach growl, and he wished once more that he hadn’t been so stubborn and gone to the Burrow first thing upon waking. But it was too late; they were probably all together, sipping spiced pumpkin juice, eating Christmas pudding … he’d missed the presents and by the slant of the sun, the Christmas meal as well.

The remaining presents were from Harry, Harry and Ginny together, Ron, Pansy, Charlie, Percy, and Hermione. He saved her gift for last.

It was wrapped in shimmering gold paper with blue trimmings. He carefully opened the gift to reveal another painting, this one of his house. It captured the grounds, the cliff and the sun, and it seemed to hold its own light. It was amazing, and his eyes darted to the lower right corner where he saw in gold ink this time: H. Granger, as before. He smiled in awe at the depiction. She’d captured his small house at its best, with the sun shining, illuminating the grass and his garden in full bloom. He turned it over and found a piece of parchment stuck to the back.

“I thought maybe for your book room. Hermione.”

He smiled sadly. Merlin, he missed her. But she was someone else’s now, wasn’t she? Draco scowled. Fred Weasley. How could she have gone for him? His hair was outrageous, looked like it hadn’t been trimmed in years, his nose—No, stop, he scolded himself. She had chosen Fred. End of story. Besides, it wasn’t as though he was any great catch: reclusive, snarky, rude when the mood struck him … a dark and violent imagination …

Draco got out of bed and pulled on a pair of faded jeans. His stomach growled again, and he made his way down the stairs. He didn’t make it to the kitchen, however, because as soon as he reached the bottom step, it was as though someone had lifted a Silencing Spell. In his living room, hisroom, in his house, were all the Weasleys, plus Pansy, Harry, and Hermione, making as much noise as the crowd in Diagon Alley on the day before Christmas.

No one noticed him at first and Draco stared open-mouthed as they all bustled about, carrying on various assigned tasks, such as bringing in wood from outside, and hanging ornaments on the tree they’d set up in the corner.

Then George noticed him and called out, “He’s awake!”

As one, all fourteen people stopped what they were doing and looked at him. “Happy Christmas!” they shouted.

He blinked, astonishment evident on his face. He shivered; he would be needing a shirt for this.

Draco turned without a word of welcome or acknowledgement and ran back up the stairs, pulled on the first thing he saw, and went downstairs again. Everyone was still swarming like bugs in his small space, and he couldn’t help but be swayed by the overpowering flood of holiday spirit. Just a touch, mind you. Not enough to make him sing carols and hug strangers. A touch.

Molly came to give him a hug when she noticed his return. “Sorry for the surprise, dear. We all had a nice chat and decided that we refused to let you be all alone today. So, here we are!”

He sat down on the sofa, dazed, All eyes were on him, and for once, the entire Weasley clan was quiet. It was uncomfortable, but not, at the same time.

“How did you get in?” he finally managed.

“Hermione let down your wards,” said Molly.

He made it a point to not look at her. “I change them every month or so,” he returned.

“She … er … guessed, she said,” offered Arthur.

“Oh. Uh, how long have you been here, exactly?” The way his house looked and smelled, he thought they could have been there for a week. How had she guessed? True, she’d been to his house a number of times, and he had told her how to lower the wards to allow Apparation and entrance into his home, but he had changed it since her last visit, two months before. He always used book titles, but he had hundreds of books …

“Since eight this morning. Cast silencing charms so we wouldn’t wake you.”

“But it’s almost noon!” he said anxiously. At least they hadn’t been there when he’d woken screaming from his nightmare.

“Yes, dear. You had a bit of a lie-in.”

Draco caught sight of Ron sniggering and Pansy elbowing him. He couldn’t completely absorb it all right away. “Well, uhm, thanks.”

Molly squeezed his flawed arm. “Don’t mention it. Lunch is on in about ten minutes.” With that, the noise and activity resumed and Molly made her way to the kitchen.

It turned out to be the best Christmas he’d ever had in his life, which really wasn’t saying much, considering his past. The pick-up Quidditch game that lasted nearly three hours was the most fun he could ever remember having, despite being on Fred’s team.

Everyone stayed in the house after the game or in the large, snow-covered front garden, so when he needed a moment of solitude just before dinner, he stole out the back, intending to sit and watch the sunset. He got about halfway between the house and the cliff and stopped, shoving his hands in his pockets and enjoying the feel of the frigid, biting wind through his hair laced with the phantom whispers of his mother that only he could hear.

He heard a small noise behind him and was jerked from his peaceful reverie. He spun around to find Hermione leaning against the porch, He hadn’t noticed her there when he’d left the house. They looked at each other briefly and he really wanted to say or do something, other than gawking lamely at her. He hadn’t spoken to her all day; she’d been nearly inseparable from Fred. Even if he had found a moment to speak with her, he couldn’t have asked the questions burning holes in his brain. Foremost, he wanted to know what she wouldn’t tell him the night before, the reason she had been so completely complicated and mystifying.

The moment quickly lengthened to awkward proportions. She hadn’t moved, and he was rooted firmly to his spot, his gaze directed a few feet to her right. “Happy Christmas,” he forced out.

She shifted somewhat. “Happy Christmas.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Freezing, actually,” she admitted, rubbing her arms.

He noticed that she hadn’t even put on a jumper, just wore a long-sleeved, dark blue shirt. He wasn’t dressed for the snow either, but his he barely felt the cold so soon after leaving his warm house. It wouldn’t last long. “Merlin, Hermione,” he mumbled, quickly going to her, but realizing when he reached her that he didn’t have anything to offer for warmth.

She looked at him expectantly.

“I … er … don’t have my wand.”

“It’s okay,” she said, laughing, her teeth chattering. At the clear sound of her mirth, something inside him swelled. “I should go in anyway.”

“Oh, all right,” he said.

She gave him a small smile and hugged her arms to her chest, and then made to move past him. But she suddenly stopped, staring at something behind him. “Oh!” she gasped softly.

Draco turned and saw that the sun was about to disappear over the horizon. They stood there together, he now freezing as well, watching as the sky lit up with golden rays for an instant before the sun dipped out of sight.

“Have you ever thought about how interesting it is that the world isn’t just plunged into darkness when the sun sets?” she asked, looking at him sideways.

It was the kind of question she always asked, one that boggled his mind, though not because of its complexity. No one but Hermione would even think of such things, and yet he found himself somewhat exhilarated by her questions all the same, and especially the conversations they often sparked. It was as though her questions fulfilled some strange, hidden, innate need.

He fought the smile but failed. “Not really, but now that you mention it—”

“Hermione, there you are!” came the voice of none otherthan Fred Weasley. Fredbloody Weasley. Draco scowled and looked away, anywhere but at the two of them.

“What is it, Fred?”

“Mum wants everyone inside for dinner. Is that okay, Malfoy?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

“Great, let’s go in then. Merlin, Hermione, aren’t you cold?”

Draco waited until they were inside before forming a tight, dense snowball and, with a running start, chucking it as hard as he could off the cliff.

The rest of the evening went really well, though he didn’t get to talk to Hermione again. Not really, anyway. There was the occasional small talk, about the nut mix versus the mints, or the delightful cider, which Draco suspected had been ‘enhanced’ with Old Ogden’s, but she pretty much stayed with Fred or Ginny the whole time, which, much to his chagrin, irked him to no end. When he finally said goodnight and ushered his guests out, a feat that took nearly half an hour thanks to Molly Weasley’s constant hen-pecking and the other Weasleys forgetting things, he felt lighter than he had in, well, ever. Even though he felt torn in two about Hermione, at the same time he felt as though he belonged somewhere. He leaned against the closed door and relished the silence filled with echoes of the day’s conversations and laughter. So that’s what family was all about. He liked it. He could get used to it. He wanted to get used to it. He wanted it.

ooo

The day after Christmas, two days after Pansy’s party, he jumped, for five and a half seconds, then righted himself on his broom. It took eight-tenths of a second to stop falling, and he came so close to the sharp edges of the rocks that he decided it was good enough. Five and a half seconds would be the official time.

Knock, knock.

Draco went to the door, curious and with a twinge of hope. Yesterday, his friends had pretended that nothing had happened, that dinner at Pansy’s hadn’t happen. But pretending didn’t make it so, and Harry Potter was standing on his porch, looking as though he had just eaten something awful.

“Harry,” he said, opening the door, trying not to look too disappointed.

“Draco.” Harry walked into the front room and sat. “Let’s talk.”

“Go ahead,” Draco said, sitting opposite Harry in a chair.

“I’m just going to come right out with this. You’re my friend, so I can be blunt. What was all that about the other night?”

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Maybe it would be good to tell someone the truth, other than Pansy and he would rather tell Harry than Ron. Maybe Harry would be kind and let him down gently, tell him he was ridiculous and needed to move on. That Hermione and Fred were perfect together and would be getting married in the spring. Something, anything to get him out of this hole.

“I’m in love with Hermione,” he said. Then he blinked, twice, when the residual sound of his voice had faded. What!? Had he actually just saidthat? Because he didn’t remember thinking it, or intending to say it. It just spilled out from somewhere hidden. It took only one glance at Harry to know that Draco had, in fact, said it, because Harry’s jaw was currently resting on his knees.

“What?” Harry yelled, half angry, half confused.

“Oh, bugger. I said that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you bloody well did. You’re in love with her?”

Draco shrugged. “Apparently.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’d never really put it together like that in my head. It just sort of … said itself.”

Harry shook his head slowly, trying to clear the fog. “You’re in love with her. Well,” he said, looking at Draco sternly. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

“That was stupid on my part.”

“Spot on. That’s the understatement of the year, Malfoy. It was imbecilic, moronic … not to mention slightly nauseating and disgusting.”

Draco grimaced. “Pansy had good intentions. She was trying to help …” he shook his head. “You’d have to know her better. She wanted to … protect me.”

“Pansy? Protect you? From what?” said Harry, now confused.

After Draco explained everything to Harry, he was even more confused. “She wanted you tohurt Hermione?” Harry asked, incredulously.

“No, not to hurt her, just to help me ‘save face.’ She didn’t want me stuck at a table with all couples. I mean, Pansy … knows too. Probably before me, actually.”

“Oh. Still. It was uncalled for.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Once it started, I didn’t know how to stop it.”

“You could’ve,” Harry pointed out.

He felt, if possible, even worse. “Old habits and instincts,” he mumbled. “‘Must save reputation.’ Can’t let the enemy see you weak.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “The Enemy? That’s idiotic Draco.”

Draco chuckled. “I know. I have no excuse. It was reflex.”

After a few minutes of silence, Harry said, “So … You’re really in love with her?”

“I don’t know.” He collapsed into the armchair. “It’s complicated. It seems like I am. I mean, when Pansy told me about her and Fred I thought I’d been hit in the gut by a steam engine.”

“Uh-huh. And you feel twisted and stupid whenever she’s around, you wonder if you could ever be good enough for her.”

“Exactly. Me? Good enough for her? Not bloody likely.”

“Who knows?” said Harry. “I don’t think this thing with Fred will last.”

Exactly what he wanted to hear. And exactly what he didn’t want to her. Draco dismissed him with a wave. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does. When they break up, you can—”

“I’m not going to do anything.”

“Why not?”

Draco gave Harry an ‘are you serious?’ look and shuddered, remembering the general tones of his nightmare. “I am the last person she should get involved with, and as her friend, I should be the lastperson you would want for her.”

“Just because of your past, that doesn’t mean—”

“No, it’s because of my present. I still struggle, every single day. I have demons I wrestle. Horrible memories of things I’ve seen. Things I’ve done. Nightmares …”

“You think the rest of us don’t?” Harry interrupted.

Draco stopped and stared.

“We all went through the war, mate. We’ve all been through things we’d rather forget. I know you’ve seen a whole lot more, and your demons are darker than ours, but it’s not just you. Ron still has trouble sleeping, even after all this time. Thinks as soon as he shuts his eyes that Death Eaters are going to rush into the room.”

“I didn’t know,” said Draco quietly.

“And Hermione has panic attacks when she gets really stressed.”

He knew that; she had told him a few weeks before they went to the amusement park. It had been the first really serious thing they had discussed and though he had felt awkward, and hadn’t known all the right things to say, he felt honored that she had shared part of the dark side of her life with him.

“I see what you’re saying. But you’re exactly right and that’s partly the point. Ihave seen a great deal more than you lot, things you can’t even imagine. I don’t want to bring her into that, to expand her fear. I can’t.”

“Seems like it should be her decision if she wants to be brought in, not yours.”

Stupid conversation. “We’re done, Harry,” he said warningly.

“All I’m saying is, don’t count her out before she even gets a say in the matter.”

“Fine. Point taken.” He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Then, referring to the purpose of Harry’s visit, he continued. “Does that sufficiently satisfy your curiosity?”

Harry eyed him warily. “Hardly. I’m more interested now than I was when I came over. But I reckon it’ll have to do.”

“Yes, it will.” Draco stood. “And Potter? Four walls, okay? Not a word.”

“Of course, Draco. I’d never tell her, or anyone.”

“Not even Ginny.”

Harry looked cross. “Fine. Not even Ginny. Promise.”

“Fine. Now run along back to your pregnant wife.” A huge grin flew onto Harry’s face. “Congrats, by the way.”

“Thanks, mate. And should it ever be an issue, give Hermione the benefit of the doubt. She’s stronger than even I know. I bet she could take your demons.”

The idea made Draco slightly sick. She deserved far better than his nightmares. Harry left.

Draco wrote Hermione a thank-you for the painting. “Hermione. It’s beautiful. Book room. Absolutely. Draco.”

ooo

Before Draco knew what was happening, The Obnoxious Holiday, situated in the middle of the second month, approached, and despite how much he knew it was stupid, and commercial, and inane, he couldn’t help but be affected by it. Witches all over the wizarding world were giving their Significant Others very significant looks and not-so-subtle hints. His secretary had replaced the Christmas candy in the bowl on her desk with pink and red Every Flavour Beans, along with a sign that read, ‘Eat at your own risk.’

He tried to ignore the approaching date as much as possible and was mostly successful, until it was the evening before the big day. He knew Muggles and Wizards everywhere would be judged according to the impossible standards set by books, songs, and syrupy movies. It was completely unfair. And Draco was glad he wasn’t forced to perform the nauseating rituals of trying to be individual and thoughtful when the expected — flowers, cards, candy — was demanded. How much could that possibly really meananyway?

He had just returned from a meeting and was changing out of his suit robes and shirt when there was a knock on the door. He threw a T-shirt on that looked awful with his nice pants and went downstairs. He opened the door to find Ron standing on the other side.

“Weasley,” he said.

“Malfoy. Having another lie-in, I see. Honestly, do you ever work?”

Draco smirked. “I run my own business, which means I set my own hours. As it happens, I just returned from a business meeting in France.”

“France? Really?”

“Yes. Coming in? Or are you going to stand there gawking all afternoon?” Draco asked with a grin, opening the door.

Ron walked mechanically into the main room, ignoring Draco’s comment, and started pacing. Draco sat down leisurely, watching him, amused.

“I’ve come to ask you something,” said Ron.

“Okay, ask away.”

“I want to marry Pansy.”

Draco waited, but Ron’s mouth was shut tight. “That’s not a question, Ron.”

“What do you think?” Ron stopped pacing and looked at him eagerly.

Draco considered the question. Pansy seemed genuinely happy for the first time Draco could remember. And he wanted things to stay that way. She had nothing but good things to say about Ron, who was treating her better than Draco could have hoped.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Ron’s face fell. “It’s too soon, isn’t it? I mean … we’ve only been together for eight months.” He paused and looked at Draco, who was frowning slightly. “You think it’s too soon.”

“I didn’t say that,” Draco said patiently. “And Weasley, sit down. Your pacing is annoying.”

“Sorry.” Ron sat and started absently tapping his foot. “You don’t think it’s too soon? “

“I—”

Ron jumped up and resumed his circuit, from sofa to doorway to chair and back to the sofa. “I don’t want to scare her away or anything, it’s just that I know she’s the one I want to spend my life with. And since I know that, I should just go ahead and tell her. Right?”

“I have no idea. Maybe you should talk to Harry, since, you know, he’s actually married.”

“Yeah, but you’re Pansy’s best friend, and Harry’s married to my sister.” Ron made a face. “And I want to ask your permission.”

Draco sighed. “Weasley, haven’t we had this conversation already?”

“No, not like I asked before. You’re practically the only family she has left. Her dad’s dead, and her mum’s in the loony ward. So, I guess I’m asking for your blessing. You know, old fashioned-like.” Ron gave him a hopeful smile.

“So … I get to play her dad.”

“I just want someone close to her to agree that this is a good idea.”

“Okay, then convince me of why I should give you my okay.”

Ron looked at him. “I love her. She’s amazing, she’s incredible! I’ve never met anyone like her. She makes me laugh, and think, and we have fun together. And for some reason, she likes me too. I just feel like a whole person when I’m with her.”

“What about when things get hard?” Draco asked, sitting up and leaning on his knees. “What if you get injured and can’t play anymore? How will you take care of her? What about children? What about everything that could possibly happen in the world? Are you going to protect her, and cherish her like she deserves?”

Once he’d finished, Draco realized that he had just voiced his own concerns about relationships, about the prospect of a future with Hermione. He felt drastically inadequate and in addition to the reasons he gave Harry, Draco also worried about how he could take care of her. Not financially, but in all the other ways she deserved. Could he be attentive enough, understanding, patient?

“I know things will be hard. I know marriage is hard. I’ve talked to my parents already, and they gave me all kinds of advice. They told me this initial feeling of love will eventually fade, to be replaced by a different kind of love, one that will last forever as long as I’m dedicated to making it last. If I get hurt, and can’t play, I can always find work. I did graduate Hogwarts, and I have connections in the Ministry and at Gringotts. We both want children, we’ve already talked about it a little. I will protect her from everything bad in the world, and when I can’t, I’ll be there for her and hold her and tell her I love her.”

When Ron finished his rambling, he looked at Draco, who was frowning.

“What?” asked Ron.

“But how do you know? I mean, what makes you so sure that you’ll even want to be around her in a year? How can any person know that?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I know. You know?”

“No, I don’t. Remember? Single.”

“Right. Well, okay, so maybe you don’t. But I’m telling you! You’ll just know when it’s your turn. You’ll look at her and know that she’s the one.”

“How?”

“It’s just a feeling. It makes you feel like you’re flying.”

Draco thought of jumping off his cliff. He thought of flying on his broom. Those two experiences made him feel alive. Like he was really, actually, breathing for a purpose. He’d felt that same way when he resolved to turn to the Light Side, like he could do anything, even fight off ten Death Eaters. He had to admit to himself that he felt that way with Hermione. She made him feel worth something, that he wasn’t just wasting precious air. Maybe that’s what love was. Someone to give you purpose in life. He didn’t know about shared love, though, since he only had what he felt for her. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like if the person you adored returned your feelings.

Ron had that with Pansy and if it were Draco, he wouldn’t want to let go of the luck and happiness that had fallen into his lap. “Yeah, okay. You should marry her. Do you have a ring?”

Ron nodded and reached into his pocket to pull out a small box. He handed it to Draco, who opened it. A large diamond was set in a gold ring surrounded like a flower by smaller diamonds. It was stunning.

“Wow. This is … her.”

“You think so?” Ron said excitedly. “It took me so long to choose.”

“Yes, this is Pansy, exactly. Good job,” he said, and handed the ring back to Ron.

He pocketed it inside his robes and looked at Draco intently. “What about you, mate?”

“What about me?”

“Well, Harry’s married, and Ginny’s pregnant, I want to ask Pansy to marry me. And you don’t even have a girlfriend.”

Draco chuckled. “So?”

“Even Hermione has a boyfriend.” Draco’s jaw clenched and his insides roared, but he said nothing. “Granted, it’s only Fred.”

“Why do you say that?” Draco asked.

Ron shrugged. “Because. It’s my brother. I mean, I don’t think he’s ever had a serious thought, much less a serious relationship. I can’t see why he asked Hermione out, or why she said yes. They’ll never last.”

“Oh.” Two votes against her relationship with Fred lasting. Despite himself, despite the warnings not to let himself think about her, he found his inner ego preening.

“Seriously, though. You should get out more. You won’t meet any eligible witches by staying here all the time.”

That was true. But did he want to meet any eligible witches? He’d found one he liked, only she was currently taken. Both Harry and Ron seemed to think they wouldn’t last, so maybe he should just wait around for them to break it off. The whole process of meeting someone new seemed tiring and tedious to him. Still, a little company until Hermione and Fred ended didn’t sound too terrible.

Except it did. He still dreamed about their kiss on Christmas Eve, and usually in the dreams they didn’t stop after just one. Always there was that first, soft, tentative kiss. Then things got a bit more heated. Before he knew it they were standing on the edge of his cliff, holding hands. They’d look at each other, smile, and leap off. Freedom to him was the wind rushing around him, and knowing he would land safely, with her.

“I’ll think about it, Ron,” he said, knowing full well he would do no such thing. But waiting for her was awful. And he didn’t even know if she’d be interested in him anyway. Maybe just meeting some new people would be okay. He was always working, and when he wasn’t, he was with Harry and Ron, and the other times he was at home, in his book room. Rearranging. He thought with a sad smile that Hermione hadn’t been over yet to see her painting in the book room.

“Do,” said Ron, standing. “Maybe Ginny or Hermione could set you up.”

“I’m quite capable of meeting women on my own, thank you. I do still possess the famous Malfoy charm, and I can turn it on at will.” He immediately regretted mentioning anything remotely close to what had happened the night of Pansy’s party, but since Ron hadn’t been at the table, he didn’t even notice.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Right. Well, I’ve got to go. Thanks, Malfoy. Really.” He headed toward the door.

“Weasley,” called Draco. Ron turned around. “Do me a favor, and don’t ask her tomorrow. Wait until the next day.”

Ron frowned. “Why? That was my plan. You know, Val—”

“I know. But trust me on this. Okay?”

“Are you sure?” Ron asked, looking even more puzzled than before.

“Yes. Quite.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“I do. Have a good day, Ron.”

Ron waved and exited, then Disapparated with a pop.

Draco spent the next day buried in work, doing everything he could not to think about what Fred and Hermione were doing. He wasn’t completely successful; at odd moments, she would pop into his head, smiling, or saying something thought-provoking, and he would have to push her out, sometimes forcefully. He planned on stopping at a pub after leaving his office at nearly nine and getting thoroughly wasted so that he wouldn’t think about her for the rest of the evening, but he was stopped on his way out with a last minute request. Finally, at nearly one in the morning, he fell exhausted into bed.

And then it was the day after.

ooo

Knock, knock, knock

“Just a second!” she called.

He waited nervously, his heart pounding in his ears, adrenaline from his spontaneous idea still pumping through his blood. Then the door opened.

“Oh! Hi,” she said, a little out of breath and clearly surprised.

“Bad time?” he asked, fear settling on him. His visit was unexpected, he knew that. They didn’t hang out anymore, even though they’d last parted, after Christmas, on relatively decent terms. There had been no fighting, shouting, or yelling. But bugger it all, he missed her. So he was going to try to get back what they’d once had: a real friendship. He knew it was a tricky thing, that he was playing with fire, but he was confident that he could keep his feelings under control. That it was worth the risk of getting burned.

“Oh, no. I was just cleaning. Come in?” She opened the door further.

He hesitated. “Okay. But I’m just here for a minute.”

She closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”

He looked at her. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and there were quite a few strands that had come free and fallen around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, obviously from cleaning. It smelled like lemons in the flat, and he heard music coming from somewhere. He tried to find something in her expression that would give him a clue to her thoughts. Nothing, though.

He took a deep breath and plunged. “A client gave me two tickets this morning for something called the Harlem Globetrotters. It’s some kind of show. It’s tonight. Want to come?” He held his breath; his heart was racing, his palms were sweaty.

She cocked her head. “What is it, again?”

“I have no idea. It’s a Muggle show from the States.”

He held up the tickets and she glanced at them, then looked back at him and a wave of uncertainty passed over her face. He feared she would say no. She bit her lip and it was obvious she was thinking about her decision very carefully. Finally the shadow passed and she smiled hesitantly. “Sounds fun. It’ll be an adventure, discovering what these Globetrotters are all about.” She glanced back at the tickets in his hand. “When is it?”

“The show is at 7:30.”

“Okay, why don’t you come by at six? I’ll do something for dinner.”

He nodded, refusing to show his relief and excitement. “I will do that.” He moved toward the door. “Oh, and I don’t think it’s anything fancy.”

“No formal dress and updo, then,” she said, smiling and following him to the door. “Where are you going now?”

“Back to work. I’ve got a meeting at three, then another at 4:30. I just popped over during a bit of free time.”

She leaned against the doorframe, looking at him speculatively. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed … our talks.”

“Oh. Right, me too. That’s why I thought of you for this. It’s been awhile since we, um, spent time together.”

“We’re good as friends, aren’t we?” she said, an odd pitch to her voice.

He swallowed hard and nodded, fighting the gnawing feeling in his gut and reminding himself that all he had wanted to do was see her again, to be friends again. Then it hit him: they were going to spend the evening together. He smiled. “I agree. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yes. Bye.”

He Disapparated, feeling light and nearly like he was flying.

ooo

He returned at promptly six, and knocked.

“Come in!” she called. “Oh, bugger!”

He pushed open the door. Something smelled awful.

“I’m in the kitchen.” He made his way to the kitchen, and found Hermione standing over a smoking oven. She looked up at him. “I burned it. I never burn food.”

“It happens.”

“I know, but not to me.”

“Is it salvageable?”

“No, not at all,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

He smiled at her. “Well, what shall we do for dinner, then?”

She shut the oven and smiled hesitantly at him. “Ever eaten take-away?”

Draco had to let her order for him, as he had never eaten take-away or Chinese food. When the doorbell rang, Hermione hopped off the sofa and went to answer it, returning with a bag of food. She set it on the kitchen table and Draco joined her.

“So, take-away is like having house elves,” he said, watching her pull box after box from the plastic bag. He was fascinated with way so much food could be contained in those foil boxes, each compartmentalized so efficiently.

“A bit, yes,” she said sternly. “Only the take-away people get paid for delivering food”

Draco grinned. “Right. Of course.”

“You’re hopeless. You want to come across as thoughtless and insensitive, but you’re not at all.”

“If I meant to seem thoughtless, then I would have.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course,” she said dramatically. “What was I thinking? Your intentions are always crystal clear.”

“What are these?” Draco asked, holding up what looked like two pieces of wood fused together on one end and slightly pointed on the other, anxious to change the subject and wondering what she really meant by her comment.

“Chopsticks!” she answered, taking them from him and splitting them. “I got us both the same thing, my favorite, since you’ve never had it before.”

“All right.”

They ate at her dining table, an old wooden table with one leg too short, and he thought about all the times before, at his house, when they’d sat across from each other over food, discussing the day’s events or books. He had been to her flat a few times, to meet her before one of their excursions, but he’d never spent more than ten minutes inside.

In the moments of silence during the meal, though few and far between, he glanced around as much of the open flat as he could see from his chair. Most of the living room and kitchen were visible, as well as the front door and an insignificant portion of the hallway. Though the flat was very practical, neat, clean, it was also cozy and inviting. As though she didn’t mind people dropping by without warning. He could tell that Ginny Potter had been there, as not a single wall was left white, though Hermione had obviously played a significant role in choosing the warm colors.

He could see her in everything. The calendar on her refrigerator was color-coded and the magnets arranged in a row based on color. When he’d been in the kitchen, it hadn’t taken him long to notice that the cookbooks were arranged by cuisine ethnicity, and that she had the pudding books set apart. There was nothing out of place in her living room, the blanket she used to snuggle up with a book was folded on her sofa, two plush pillows resting on top. He pictured her sitting there, knees bent, a glass of wine on the coffee table and a fire roaring, completely caught up in the world being opened to her through her book.

At first, they theorized over the show they were about to see and Hermione tried to teach him to eat with the chopsticks. He failed miserably, finally Summoning a fork from the kitchen. Then she mentioned something about her job and he asked her to elaborate, and soon they were talking the way they used to, as though nothing had ever happened, the incident at the park had never occurred. The kiss … that, too, seemed forgotten, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. He felt at home for the first time in months and when he thought of it that way, Ron’s words about Pansy made perfect sense. He understood exactly why Ron, or anyone, would risk it all.

When they arrived at the London Dockland Arena, after walking from Diagon Alley, they handed their tickets to the woman at the door. She examined them briefly before ripping off a small portion and handing Draco the rest.

They went through the first door they found and showed the tickets to the man there. He glanced at them and then pointed. “First level, row seven.”

Draco thanked him and they found their seats. The show turned out to be a Muggle sport, basketball, only it was no usual game.

“This is a show team,” Hermione said, five minutes after the game started. She was reading the program Draco had purchased. “I thought this looked odd. My dad and I watched the Summer Olympics together one year, and basketball is one of the sports. Listen to this: ‘The Harlem Globetrotters are an exhibition team that combines basketball with comedy. The Globetrotters' acts often feature incredible coordination and skillful handling of one or more basketballs, such as passing or juggling balls between players, balancing or spinning balls on their fingertips, and making unusual, difficult shots.’”

“Fascinating,” Draco murmured, as one of the players performed an acrobatic shot and the crowd cheered when it went into the hoop. “Tell me more about basketball.”

“Well,” she began, straightening in her seat and folding her hands in her lap. “It’s a sport played with a ball, and the players try to get it to go into their basket.”

He waited for more, but when she peeked at him from the corner of her eye, he knew that was all he was going to get. He laughed. “So, not much, I take it.”

“No,” she said, laughing with him. “My father and I watched it, but I never bothered learning the rules.”

“How is this game different from those you watched?” he asked.

“I’m pretty sure that the stunts aren’t typical. The crowds on the telly never laughed, only cheered. I’m sorry I haven’t got anything more to tell you.”

“It’s all right. If I want to know badly enough, I’ll get a book on the subject.”

“Oh? Are you purchasing books again?”

“Not quite. Nearly there, though; twenty-three remaining. By summer I should be finished.” While they watched the game, unconcerned with the outcome but interested in the stunts, they fell into a comfortable conversation about what books they were currently reading. The discussion was punctuated now and again as they laughed at the players.

At halftime, after he had returned from the snack bar with chips, sausages and sodas, something occurred to him.

Hermione had just taken a bite of her sausage when he said, “How did you get into my house on Christmas?”

Her eyes widened and after quickly chewing and swallowing, she laughed. “Oh, Merlin, I’d forgotten! Of course you’d want to know!” She grabbed a napkin from him and dabbed the corner of her mouth, where he saw a smudge of mustard. “The wards. Well, you know, before, they were always book titles, and I started writing them down after a few weeks because I thought I saw a pattern.”

Draco groaned.

“When you first gave me the code to get through your wards, it was a classic Russian authors, who I would later learn was your favorite. Every week or two, when you changed the code, I noticed you were going through his major works in alphabetical order. Next it was your favorite Welsh author, whom we had discussed. You were still on Victor Hugo the last time I’d been to your house, and fairly early in the alphabet, so …”

“You guessed,” Draco said.

She shrugged. “It was an educated guess, at least.”

“That makes it all better,” he said, smiling at her. Then he continued. “Speaking of books, I just finished one I think you would like.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

The second half of the game passed more quickly than the first had. They brought each other up to date on which books they had read, those they liked and didn’t, and when they came upon a book they’d both read, they discussed it through the end of the Globetrotters performance.

As they walked out of the arena toward the alley, Hermione chatting about a film she wanted him to see, he couldn’t help but wonder, and not for the first time, what it might be like to be Fred Weasley. He doubted highly that they discussed literature and the arts, but he wanted to be not only on the receiving end of her smiles, but the cause of the happiness that instigated them.

After Apparating back to her flat, they stood in the hallway so Hermione could finish convincing him of why he should see the film. He nodded and tried to participate in the conversation, but her smile and the way her eyes were shining distracted him. Eventually she was finished, and she opened the door and stood in the frame; he remained outside. They stood that way for a few seconds.

“Coffee?” she said, biting her lip, a small smile on her face. Inviting him in.

Though he wanted nothing more than to spend more time with her, he knew he couldn’t. They had passed a delightful evening together, but extending it might place it outside the realm of two friends spending time together. In addition, there was Fred. And … Draco refused to take even the slightest chance of messing anything up. He wouldn’t.

“No. Thank you, though.” Think of Fred, he repeated to himself.

She actually looked disappointed! Merlin, that did nothing to help his resolve. “Oh, okay.”

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said, turning to leave.

“Draco?”

“Yes?” he said, stopping a few feet away from her door.

“This was nice. I’d forgotten how nice.”

He nodded, afraid that if he spoke he’d say something he would later regret.

“I … I’ve missed you.”

His heart thudded in his chest and thoughts of Fred vanished momentarily from his mind. He could reach her in two long strides, and … then what? No, he had to fight against the rash impulse to kiss her. It would only end with him backing off, or her pushing him away. A picture of a grinning Fred Weasley popped into his head once more.

“Me too,” he said and continued toward the exit.

“Hey,” she called, poking her head out the door. “Reckon it’s my turn now.”

He didn’t look back but called over his shoulder. “Reckon so.”

ooo

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