Chapter Text
while I powder my nose,
he will powder his gums,
and if I try to get close,
he is already gone
---
Hermione didn’t need to look over to know that he was staring. She felt the weight of it, hot, up the nape of her neck. She scratched there, her fingers moistening with sweat. In her peripheral was the blurry shock of platinum hair bordering on white.
She was perched on the very edge of the bench, the heels of her feet lifted, and her weight flexed onto tiptoes. Anxious—flighty. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, thumping hard against its cage, threatening to tear through it. She took a steeling breath through gnashing teeth and squeezed her eyes shut.
The truth is, one so deeply crass she’ll never admit out loud lest it be real—tangible, there, existing in silly words suspended in the air above her stupid little gob, is, she’d taken to watching him. There was something so wonderfully depraved about it. Like getting decked across the face and revelling in the power that drives, pushes someone’s inhibitions to violently and almost audibly snap—before the swelling and bruising and purpling of the reward. Hermione found herself reaching for a stiff drink and furiously, self-loathingly masturbating in the tub, day after day of tracing the contours of his pale, pointy face. The slope of his straight nose. Sharp lines of his jaw that tightened at the edges when he often clenched it. His longer, unruly hair that fell over eyes that obstinately refused to meet hers. Except for when they did. It was always sparse and fleeting, and she held her breathe each time.
Hermione’d spoken at his trial over the summer. When she first saw him slumped in the cage at Wizengamot, she had politely left Harry’s side to vomit into the nearest loo. He looked like absolute shit, frail and bony, sickly pale with grime and filth and dried blood soiling his hair and stuck under his nails. There were dark circles under his empty, bloodshot eyes, she guessed, from six months of sleeplessness in Azkaban. He looked away, loosely, at nothing, like the Kiss would be a fucking relief. Even so, she and Harry testified in favour of him and his mother. When she spoke, that day, and he finally, finally, looked right at her, surprised and terrified and confused, her voice cracked, and she tripped over her words, but a hush fell over the room and—it worked. He was pardoned shortly after, when the sun seeped through the window behind him, setting the tips of his hair alight, she thought, then, he looked fucking ethereal, as his mother cried soundly against his cage. He kept his gaze trained on Hermione. She’d tried to smile, to not cry, to swallow through the lump in her throat, but she felt frozen, Petrified.
Harry and Ron both opted for Auror training over gruelling N.E.W.T.S. They wrote often. Ron promised to visit. Technically, she supposed, with a bitter taste in her mouth, they were dating. It didn’t matter, nothing was the same since the War. Ron felt foreign, or maybe, really, she did. Madame Pomfrey had diagnosed her with severe post-traumatic stress disorder at the start of the new term. Hermione wasn’t stupid, she knew she was broken. She didn’t need muggle anti-depressants—the wizarding world hadn’t overcome the stigma of mental health, yet—to dull her thoughts either. Her mind, sharp and quick, was all she had left.
Malfoy was quiet since the trial. Despite public outrage and one particularly cruel article in the Daily Prophet (she had sent a strongly worded letter and had it redacted), he was allowed back at Hogwarts for seventh year. He kept mainly to himself, save a few Slytherins he was sometimes seen with. Blaise Zabini, non-partisan trust-fund toff, Theodore Nott, entitled neo-elite wanker with a likely list of mysteriously redacted sexual assault charges and, of course, Pansy Parkinson, resident slag and Slytherin cock-suckler—those were their roles, their identities, according to most of the student body. Hermione suspected there was more to it, though, to them. Not one to subscribe to the rumour-mill, she’d spared them smiles and bouts of gentle eye contact as they walked past. But whenever Pansy stroked his arm, or fingered his jaw, casually, overtly friendly, she looked away and desperately, as an avid feminist, tried not to think of her particular set of trademark skills.
He mostly read, she found. That or quietly he observed the others, eyes so pensive his silences seemed thoughtful rather than withdrawn. Hermione craved that privacy. To be able to slink quietly into the background. She was granted fame, instead. Her face was pasted across the papers for months. She couldn’t walk down a street in the Wizarding World without being ambushed. They erected blasted statues, for Merlin’s sake, in Diagon Alley, to honour the three of them. While Ron basked in the attention, her and Harry were awkward and in comparison, uncharismatic. She’d respectfully, declined the position of Head Girl, upon her return to Hogwarts. The badge felt stupid, now. She sought to immerse herself in her studies. And indulge, sometimes, in this pesky fixation.
He rarely met her gaze, like he was actively avoiding it. Like he physically couldn’t. He wasn’t a threat, despite what the younger years thought as they scrambled from him in the corridors. Hermione knew she could, would, win, kill him with one spell. He’d let it happen and perhaps even thank her. But she wondered, sometimes. Physically, null of magic, he towered over her. He was tall, as tall as Harry, six-two. His shoulders had filled out since his freedom, broad and body taut and lithe, that of a Seeker’s. He could hurt her, she thought. Honestly, she might let him. Maybe she even wanted him to.
The thought wrenched her out of it. She whipped her head back, hoping to catch his stare, if only for a moment. But his seat at the Slytherin table was empty. Hermione exhaled, curling her trembling fingers around the edge of the bench as if it would rip out from beneath her. Later that evening, she’d sit in her room, pretending to read the book in her lap as she thought about how it hurt.
Looking at him hurt.
---
“You were staring, again.” Ginny told her after the match, her broom slung over a shoulder. It was a close one, but Malfoy had secured the snitch with moments to spare. She sounded particularly chipper for someone who had just been dramatically defeated.
Hermione clutched her book tighter to her chest, falling into step beside her friend. “No, I wasn't.”
“Come off it, ‘Mione.” She smirked knowingly, a dangerous glint in her eyes as she shook her long, red hair out of its braid. A huddle of Ravenclaw boys whistled at her as they walked past. “You couldn't have been more blatant if you were a registered nonce with those muggle binoculars round your neck.”
“That's—ridiculous, Gin.” The brunette insisted, blushing. “I was watching the game.”
“Right, because you're such a Quidditch fanatic. Tell me, what was the score?” At her solemn silence, the younger girl sniggered, shoving her shoulder playfully. “I get it, you know. Merlin, I'll bet ten galleons he's carved like a fucking Apollonian statue under that kit.”
“Would you keep your bloody voice down?” Hermione hissed, sparing a terrified glance over at the Slytherin players that crossed them en route to the changing rooms. Surely, they hadn't heard. Eager to change the subject, she pulled a folded letter from between the pages of her book. “Harry’s been asking you to write back.”
Ginny’s face sobered, and she nodded, plucking it from between Hermione’s outstretched fingers. “Right.”
Hermione gave her a sympathetic smile, “Gin—”
“Distance hasn't done us any favours.” Ginny said, averting her eyes and stopping once they'd reached the women’s changing rooms. She clutched the letter tightly in a fist. “I don't know what to say to him.”
“You can't avoid him forever.”
The youngest Weasley scoffed, “You’re one to talk, ‘Mione. When was the last time you responded to one of Ron’s requests to visit?”
Hermione sniffed, eyes narrowing to slits, “Duly noted. Go on then, I’ll wait out here.”
“See you in a bit.” She said, with a wink that seemed forced, before disappearing into the dressing room. Hermione spun around, nose already buried in the book where she last left off, eager to find a bench or a wall to lean against as she waited. She walked straight into something hard—someone, who stumbled back but steadied her with large, cool hands on her shoulders.
She lifted her head to apologise profusely, she’d nearly toppled them both over, if it wasn't for the stranger’s balance, but her words caught adamantly in her throat when she saw him, peering down at her between blond tresses. Her mouth, parted stupidly, felt made of cotton balls, dry and fuzzy useless. If she could think straight, she'd be half-concerned her lungs had forgotten to breathe in quite some time.
He stepped back, hands dropping from her body to clench and unclench at his sides. He was still sweaty and flushed from the match, his kit plastered to the hard, sharp planes of his torso. He cleared his throat and raked a hand through his damp chair.
She found a voice, though it was pitchier than her usual one. “I’m sor—”
“Watch where you're going, Granger.” He murmured softly, almost gently, averting his eyes and pushing past her.
Hermione stood there, after, eyes closed, trying to regain regular breathing and a level head.
---
Watching him, Hermione would argue, began as an accident. She had a debilitating curiosity and failed to leave things unstudied, unquestioned. At first, after his trial, she had just wanted to keep an eye on him. Ron, who caught her staring during an unveiling ceremony to the newly reconstructed Hogwarts archway, had chalked it up to granted suspicion. She didn’t correct him. Hermione had seen it in the War, the unbridled fear in his eyes of a boy groomed for an evil he didn’t possess. He wasn’t his father, rotting away in Azkaban, nor was he good, either. He was a privileged bigot with a weak spine. He was clever, broken, almost irreparably, and haunted. He could kill her. He wouldn’t dare.
Quickly, it became a dirty little habit. It was quietly depressing and exhilarating, all at once. Miserable. Fucking thrilling. He wasn’t easy to read, either, which was her main excuse for watching him so intently.
It worked out in her favour that he spent most of his time in the library. She guessed he liked the quiet of it, the solace of socially acceptable silence. He read books she couldn’t find in the school’s catalogue, she’d spent hours looking before she realised, squeezing her thighs shut at the filthy—dirty thought, they were from his own collection. She’d heard the Malfoys’ private library was one of the most exhaustive in the country. He thumbed through pages quickly and wrote in the margins with a quill he licked the tip of periodically. He wrote his assignments with an easy, cursive scrawl so swift she wondered about how quickly he thought. He ran long, dexterous fingers through his hair often, mussing it up in a way that made Hermione flush. He had those friends, the Slytherins, even admirers, younger girls that loitered by and giggled when he walked past.
To be fair, he was blatantly, obscenely, objectively attractive. He’d gained a little colour from time in the Black chateau in the south of France, where, according to the tabloids, Narcissa now lived. His once malnourished face looked fuller, though his cheekbones remained high and prominent. He still looked like the rich, aristocratic prick with perfect posture that he was, a silver spoon in his pink mouth and a trust-fund the size of a small country’s gross national income—but it was a front. He kept his Dark Mark hidden, disillusionment charms and long sleeves he itched at discreetly. Hermione read recent studies which claimed they faded slowly with the death of Voldemort. She thought about his, striking against his stark veins, wondering if it was fading, if it hurt. The dark circles under his eyes were unmistakeable, though. The drooping of his brows. A faraway darkness in his grey eyes.
Hermione wasn’t daft enough to think he’d ever look at her like that. She wasn’t an eyesore, but she certainly didn’t have Pansy’s striking green eyes, or the long shapely legs of the Greengrass sisters. She was fairly plain, her arms felt too long and gangly, disproportionate, her hair was a righteous mess and her tits looked like that of a twelve-year-old boy’s, compared to Ginny’s. She didn’t have the poise or education of an heiress, couldn’t recite French poetry from memory or play the piano or whatever in Godric purebloods had their daughters do to be bred for marriage. She had no fucking clue how to organise fundraisers for pseudo-charities and she despised wine. She theorised that she was, surely, the epitome of a pureblood’s worst nightmare.
His mother sent him fortnightly owls, to which he responded promptly. He spoke four or five languages, French and Latin being two she’d noticed he could read. Rumour had it, shortly after his pardon, he’d burned down the Manor. Perhaps he was homeless. She was too, really. Molly had insisted she was always welcome to the Burrow, which was close enough, but she hadn’t built the courage to find her parents yet. It felt selfish. They could live a blissfully ignorant life in Melbourne without any knowledge of the horrors of a world riddled with magic. They were safe as long as she was alone.
Tonight, she sat at her regular table in the library. It was well past curfew, but the professors were lenient with the seventh years. Madame Pince had even given Hermione a spare key to lock up after she was done.
Hermione tried to think, but she had inked the same word three times, now. She looked down at the parchment and huffed. Malfoy had been sat across the section from her for the last hour. It kept her on edge, curling her toes into the soles of her sensible shoes. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She should say something. There was no one else here in the Reference section. She doubted there was anyone else left in the library, at all. That spiked her heartrate. She should say—hello, polite and short. She was a Gryffindor, the Gryffindor, she could say hello to Draco fucking Malfoy. Moments later, after she’d talked herself into it, she lifted her head to trigger the beginning of the end.
But she was alone. He’d gone, again, and she hadn’t even heard him leave.
She left the library soon after, embarrassed, as she locked the doors behind her. What had she been thinking, wanting to speak to him? Watching him was still vaguely justifiable. But starting a conversation? She had lost her buggering mind.
“Granger.”
Hermione, startled, jumped and dropped the books she’d cradled in her arms with a loud, resounding thud. She turned to follow the voice, clutching her heaving chest.
“Merlin,” she panted. “Lurking in the shadows, Malfoy?”
He leaned against the far wall, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched. His hair was an adamant mess, victim to his fidgety fingers. His tie hung loose around his neck and the first few of buttons of his oxford were undone. Hermione swallowed.
“I could ask you the same,” he said quietly. His voice was hoarser than she remembered. She realised, with a start, she hadn’t heard him speak since the War.
“I don’t lurk.”
“No,” his jaw tightened. “You stare.”
Hermione felt heat rush to her cheeks, thankful for the low, warm light of the torches in the hallway. She knew that he’d notice, in some crevice of her mind, she hadn’t been very careful with it. Part of her wanted him to.
“Does the Ministry have you watching me?”
She paused, wide-eyed. “Wh—what?”
And she saw it, he was nervous around her. He pushed a hand through his hair roughly and exhaled shakily.
“Is that it, why you’re always looking at me?” he snapped, and it was fear that edged his voice. “Do they want me on a fucking leash?”
“I’m not always—”
“Save it, Granger.” He sneered and stepped closer, before abruptly stopping. His hands, clenched into fists, shook at his sides. “I want to know why you’re doing this.”
“Malfoy—I’m not doing anything. You’re being paranoid, and, and—unreasonable—”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking idiot.” He snapped, his voice growing louder. “I’m not one of your lackeys.”
“And I’m not one of yours.” Hermione countered, suddenly, narrowing her eyes. She huffed, as if exasperated at the scene he was on the verge of creating and levitated her books back into her arms. In reality, her entire body was shaking. “If you want to talk, like civilised adults, I’ve got a kettle in my room.”
It was a miracle that she didn’t stutter the dangerous, dangerous words. He looked like he’d just been bludgeoned in the face. In an attempt to hide the visible fear of rejection, of acceptance, she turned away and stalked down the corridor, knees threatening to give out beneath her.
She stopped and turned her head, shadows cast across her face, “Malfoy?”
“Wh…” he shook his head, and Hermione thought for a second that she saw him pinching his forearm. “What?”
“Tea. Coming?”