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Tuesday, September 1, 1998 - 4:02 PM
I put my books down on the coffee table. Malfoy’s the only one on the sofa, reading a novel, pale fingers covering the title and most of the cover page. The others have gathered around the worktable by a massive bow window, playing card games and sharing sweets. Did he sit here first and did everyone choose to avoid him? Or did he choose to isolate himself?
He’s on one end of the tufted sofa. I sit on the other. We don’t speak.
Friday, September 11, 1998 - 9:39 PM
It’s my tenth attempt at writing this letter. The words are all wrong, sentiments hollow. I crumple the parchment and toss it over my shoulder with the rest of my botched efforts, fully intending to clean up after myself later.
The rejected-letter-ball lands in my lap like a boomerang. Someone’s approaching from behind.
He makes a show of looking at the wads of paper on the ornate Turkish rug.
I flush.
He doesn’t ask.
Sunday, September 13, 1998 - 3:07 AM
Ron’s response stares at me, folded so many times it’s become an origami square. Even though I ended it, there are cold, tacky tear tracks on my cheeks. Something beneath my ribcage aches like it’s been plucked out and rewired improperly.
The floorboards creak.
He’s veiled in a black cloak so dark it nearly sucks him into the shadows. It’s a good thing we’ve never had to go into hiding together because his hair glows like a gargantuan firefly. I want to ask where he’s been, but we never talk.
He stumbles to a stop, not expecting to see me either. I’m lit by a speckle of fire and it’s impossible to see my puffy eyes or milky cheeks, but he stares so long I second guess myself.
Wednesday, September 16, 1998 - 4:56 PM
I’m sitting cross-legged behind the coffee table, where I’ve systematically arranged my books and stationary. There’s a worktable by the window, but I never sit there. Nobody ever sits here except for Malfoy and me. He’s sprawled across the sofa with a textbook on his lap. My back is facing him, but I hear when he turns a page, scrapes his quill across parchment, readjusts himself and the leather cushions squeak.
I’m so bewildered when he says, “Hey, Granger?” that he repeats himself, more bluntly the second time.
I peek over my shoulder. He’s fumbling with the corner of his textbook, not looking at me. Convinced I’m hearing voices, I face forward.
“Could I ask you a question about Muggle Studies?”
I look over again. This time, our gazes meet but he looks reluctant. “Go on.”
“What does it mean to call 9-9-9 ?”
After explaining it to him, I ask, “You’re taking Muggle Studies?”
“Mandatory to graduate.” Mandatory for him .
I turn back to my textbook.
Too much time has lapsed to say, “let me know if you have any more questions,” but I say it, anyway.
Saturday, September 19, 1998 - 8:09 PM
“Are you going to finish that?”
I bite my lip to hide a grin, even though he can’t see it. I pass off the half-eaten cupcake. Red velvet with a glob of cream cheese in the centre, red and gold sprinkles dusted on top.
His study snacks are packed-full of sugar. Cauldron cakes, chocolate frogs, sugar quills. Maybe I purposely left it there to see if he’d ask.
An “mm ” sounds behind me and I turn to see him licking his fingers, tiny red crumbs contouring his mouth. He flicks out his tongue, swiping them clean, then scrunches the wax paper in his fist. My gaze lifts from the swell of his throat, how it dips when he swallows, and our eyes meet.
Pink gathers at the height of his cheekbones.
I don’t tell him it’s my birthday, but his reaction is the best gift he could’ve given me anyway.
Tuesday, October 6, 1998 – 8:08 PM
Why I do it, I’ve no clue.
But his book bag is right by my hip and there’s something so orbital about Malfoy and me.
We communicate wordlessly but live in one atmosphere. If he opens a packet of Bertie Bott’s he offers it to me. I always sit on the floor so I can use the coffee table, and he takes the sofa.
Wednesday, October 7, 1998 – 3:07 PM
A throat clears above my head. Malfoy is at the opposite end of the coffee table, arms crossed. “Care to tell me why I’m sporting one of your SPEW whatsits on my bag?”
The stray badge I found at the bottom of my trunk yesterday, nestled among dust bunnies and lost bobby pins, is clasped on the buttery black outer flap of his book bag where I left it. I conceal my smile with my fingertips. “How curious.”
He rolls his eyes and heads towards the stairs.
When he comes down later and drops his things beside me, the stark blue badge is still there.
Friday, October 30, 1998 – 5:17 PM
Our dynamic is that of a stubborn window cranking open after years. Post- SPEW incident, the screen is knocked from its latches, and things start to flow, filter-free. He asks me about Muggles. What is a launderette? Are there health benefits to microwave dinner and why do people eat them if they’re so bad for you? Why do fast-food joints offer toys to children alongside their hamburgers?
He gives unsolicited advice about my Potions assignments, which he reads over my shoulder. It’s his favourite thing to criticize because he’s doing better than me by one measly mark.
Above me, there’s a soft rustle in my hair like wind. I think nothing of it until his hand appears next to my shoulder, two masculine rings glinting at the base of his knuckles. He holds a tiny feather between his index finger and thumb. “This was in your hair.”
I take it from him without looking at his face, even though I badly want to know if he’s smiling. But my cheeks are hot and I don’t want him to see how much his proximity has affected me. Instead, I take the feather from his hand and twirl it in my fingers while I read.
Wednesday, November 4, 1998 – 12:36 AM
Tree branches tear into my arms and icy cheeks like jagged fingernails. I’m heaving and don’t remember if I’m supposed to run with my mouth open or closed for optimal oxygen efficiency. I try both and find that open feels better, but it hurts either way. A stitch screams open in my side as if I’ve chugged water before sprinting and it’s sloshing in my insides.
My foot catches on a swollen root and I’m somersaulting down a leafy hill, twigs and pinecones snapping beneath my weight. My neck twists and the muscles of my upper body yank taut. Someone approaches, but I can’t move. Get up, I tell myself. Get up .
Out of thin air, a hand comes down on my shoulder. It makes me scream.
“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s me.” Large, grey eyes stare at me, pupils wide like a great horned owl. He’s knelt by the coffee table, the top of his folded knee kissing the edge of my thigh.
There’s a protest in my neck and shoulder when I sit up straight. The page of my book has stuck to my cheek and makes a peeling noise when I pull away.
It’s dark. Minuscule embers crackle in the fireplace, nearly receded to ash, sweet, toasty scent gone mute. A bright light beams across the floorboards. It takes a moment to realize it’s Malfoy’s wand, tip glowing Lumos .
My voice is groggy. “Must’ve fallen asleep.”
When I stretch, a weight lifts from my shoulder blade. His hand. It was on me the whole time and I didn’t even notice. I wedge a scrap of paper between pages of my book and slap it shut.
My eyes are heavy and a nervous energy thrums in my veins as I hobble up to stand. He gathers my books and carries them in one arm, picking up his wand with the other. I’m convinced I’m half-dreaming as he escorts me back to my room.
Saturday, November 14, 1998 – 10:13 AM
Crunch .
—therefore, the sum of two integers multiplied by the number of hours in the eleven days preceding— Crunch—the solstice in addition to the seventeen— Crunch.
Dropping my quill on my notebook, I ask, “How is it you like green apples so much? With that rotten sweet tooth it seems counterintuitive.”
Malfoy takes the last bite of his apple and tosses the core across the room in a perfect arc, landing straight into the wastebasket without skimming the rim. “They’re my mother’s favourite. We always had heaps in the house. When she couldn’t convince me to eat fruits or vegetables, she’d give me sliced apples with nut butter on the side. Chocolate hazelnut was my favourite.”
Imagining a fussier Draco Malfoy than the boy I knew in first-year makes me grin. I can practically envision him shuffling his green beans around his plate with a haughty sniff, refusing to eat anything earth-toned and sugar-free.
“It’s good with cinnamon too,” he continues, “you like cinnamon, don’t you?”
I frown, wondering if I’ve ever had anything cinnamon-flavoured in front of him, but don’t recall. “Why do you say that?”
He averts his gaze, fumbling with the button at the edge of his sleeve. “You smell like it. Thought you knew.”
“I do?” I lift a strand of hair to my nose and sniff, but detect nothing resembling cinnamon. “Maybe it’s my body lotion.” I’ve used it so long that I can’t smell it on me anymore, but now that he mentions it, I think it might have cinnamon as one of its key notes.
“Suits you,” he says. “Reminds me of autumn.”
“I remind you of the dying season?” I snort, not sure if I should be offended.
“You scream autumn, Granger. Golds, reds, oranges, start of the school year, bright, warm. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” I can’t hide my grin. It’s only growing wider and wider, replaying his words. How much he’s noticed about me. How none of it is dirty or broken or besmirched by the war—which is how I feel most of the time: slashed open, bled out, scrambling for a modicum of normal.
“You have your cold currents.” There’s a sparkle in his eye. “Might hex someone in the arse if they push you too hard.”
Jabbing my elbow into his calf without force, I say, “Or slap them in the face.”
He chuckles. “Or that.”
Tuesday, December 1, 1998 – 6:16 PM
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?” I snap, one of my cold currents as he calls it. I don’t care.
“Were you crying?”
I look over at him. Usually, he lies on the sofa with books in his lap, but right now he’s sitting up, arms draped over his knees, bent over to look at my face properly.
I turn away.
The envelope at the corner of the table catches my eye, its horizontal edge ripped open, a letter prodding out from inside.
“You can talk to me,” he says when I don’t respond, but it sounds more like a question.
Tears well in my eyes all over again. I swing my arms around my calves, creating a shelf for my chin. “Ron asked me not to visit. Says it’ll be too hard to see me so soon after the breakup.” I dip my finger beneath my knee-high sock, tug, and watch it snap back into place. I do this a couple times, feeling a prickle of hair on my leg from missing a day of shaving.
“What about your parents?” he asks carefully.
I bury my tears in my lap.
Everything goes warm.
A stubbly chin presses onto my forehead, sturdy arms circle all the way around me. His jumper bunches and wrinkles in my fists. The scent I thoroughly associate with him, like winter woods and crisp ginger, draws deep inside my lungs.
He holds me until I stop crying; he holds me when I start talking; he holds me until I tell him everything. My parents, my broken relationship with Ron, how lonely I am.
He holds me.
Monday, December 21, 1998 – 2:00 PM
I’m not sure if he stayed because he felt sorry for me or if it was because his mother needed time to herself. Any semblance of festivity sealed behind Lucius’ prison bars.
On the gramophone, I play cheerful holiday tunes, the Muggle kind, as snow edges on the windowsill like rising sea foam.
Friday, December 25, 1998 – 1:17 PM
On Christmas Day, I wear a red dress with nude stockings. He wears black slacks and a matching dress shirt, hair pulled out of his face for once, unlike how he usually has it, all shaggy and soft and too pretty. We haven’t bought one another presents, but I use my wand to send the coffee table and sofa to opposite ends of the room and ask boldly if he’ll dance with me.
We spin around the floor in one another’s arms, eyes glittering, colour in our cheeks, Let It Snow dictating our rhythm. The song fades into It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas and we slow it down until our chests are pressed up against each other, eyes and fingers connected, lips inches apart. His free hand glides up my nape, through the mass of curls and curves behind my skull. Jittery breath catches between my teeth and all I want is for him to kiss me.
And when he does, it’s better than I imagined.
His tongue tastes like candy canes, because of course it does, and he’s gentle at first, as if asking for permission. But when I lean into him, he clutches my hair into his fist and pushes me up against the wall. My shoulder clips the Christmas tree by the mantel and an ornament shatters on the ground.
We don’t slow down. Not when we’re gasping for breath and still kissing one another everywhere: neck, cheeks, eyelids, jaw. Not when the sun sets and the only light in the room is the dim glow of the fire and twinkling holiday decorations. Not when the sky goes pink, and morning blooms again.
Saturday, January 23, 1999 – 1:36 PM
The window has shattered, and we float freely. At first like newborn wind, then gradually growing into a summer storm where everything is flung up into the air, all charged and wet and sticky. Explosive. We don’t stop. Not the next day, or the one after that.
Not when everyone comes back from holidays to find that Draco and I hold hands in the corridors now and steal kisses between classes and slip into the same bed at the end of the night.
Not when I sit behind the coffee table with his legs on either side of me, playing with my hair as he corrects my Potions homework (unsolicited). I tell him to busy himself with something else, so he sinks his fingers into my curls, twisting and tucking. It doesn’t hurt and I like it when he touches me, so I don’t stop him.
Until Dean and Neville and Hannah walk in and begin to snicker.
“What have you done?” I rise, pulling away from his grasp.
Using my wand to conjure a hand mirror, I spot three long horns sticking out of my head. Twisted into cones, magicked to stick up in the air, defying all laws of gravity. I open my mouth to yell at him, but that’s when I notice that he’s laughing along with the other three. And it does something strange to my heart, so I shake my head, seal my lips, and say nothing.
Friday, February 19, 1999 – 4:06 PM
We’re in our regular spots. Draco and I at the coffee table. Cool-toned sunlight pours over Dean and Seamus and Hannah while they assemble an animated jigsaw puzzle by the bow window. Neville enters the room, veering naturally towards the sun. He spends so much time with botanicals, I fear he’s becoming one.
But he stops, glances over at us, and decides to settle on the opposite end of Draco’s sofa. We both stiffen. It’s odd how in tune we are with one another. Or maybe we spend so much time together that our thoughts and actions have become one. Never imagined I’d say this about Draco Malfoy, but sometimes I feel as if he and I are the same person, split into two vessels. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe, our vessels are different. One is quicker and deadlier and sharper at the nose, the other deeper and carefully measured but can churn waves across the open sea. Together, we’re terrific—and I rather like that.
Neville doesn’t say anything, he merely flips his Herbology textbook open and begins to read.
Thursday, March 11, 1999 – 3:32 PM
When I enter the common room, Dean, Seamus, and Draco are huddled around the sofa, arguing.
I storm forward, ready to give Dean and Seamus a piece of my mind. Just because Draco’s the only Slytherin to come back for eighth, doesn’t mean he’s fair game to beat on. But when I reach them, Draco simply tugs me onto his lap and eases my bag off my shoulder. His confident fingers knead that one spot beneath my neck that’s always always sore.
His eyes are fixed on the newspaper spread open on the coffee table.
“Ah bollocks, Tornados swiped Nayer from the Kestrels, he was the only decent Keeper on the team.” Seamus groans.
“Nayer used to be good, he’s rubbish after the shoulder injury,” says Draco. “How did the Bats manage to get Birmingham? Sharpest Seeker to come out of Durmstrang since Krum.”
“They got first pick this year,” Dean says. “To hell with Birmingham, Cannons drafted second and they picked Stacey? Fucking wankers.”
Already bored, I kiss Draco on the cheek and head up to the dorms to shower.
Thursday, April 1, 1999 – 7:37 PM
The coffee table and sofa aren’t exclusively ours anymore. I don’t know if Draco’s been integrated into the group because he’s dating me or if it’s because everyone’s grown used to him. But he’s seldom alone when I enter the room. Today, he’s helping Hannah with her Astronomy homework, drawing constellations on her star chart with a steady hand. Because he’s left-handed, he pens his lines from right to left.
I sit on my knees across from them at the other side of the coffee table. He pauses mid-explanation to look at me and his smile thunderbolts straight to the base of my belly. For a moment I’m rendered breathless, lost in cool velvet eyes sparked with a shock of electricity only ever for me.
The realization slips into my grasp like a forgotten note trapped between pages of a beloved book: he’s mine. He’s mine and I want him to be mine for a long time. For even longer than that.
Sunday, May 16, 1999 – 2:38 AM
Our fingers are intertwined. I run my thumb across the ring on his index finger. It’s silver and feels heavy with a coiled snake engraved in the centre. I pluck it from his finger and put it on my own, watching it circle around like a hula-hoop.
Winter-spice skin is pressed to my cheek, I’ve undone the first few buttons of his shirt to feel his heartbeat. It’s well after dark and we’re the only two inside the common room, legs tangled along the sofa, mine only up to his calves.
He speaks softly into my ear, “I want to go to Australia with you after graduation.”
I smile into his chest because I’d been hoping he’d say something like this. Not the Australia part, just a hint at a future with me. “I’d like that.”
The arm around my waist tightens. His belt digs into my skin where my shirt has ridden up but I barely notice anymore. I run my foot up the leg of his trousers. “Will you tell your mother about me?” I ask. There’s no vulnerability in my voice, no doubts. I don’t care whether his parents approve of me. Draco’s heart is mine.
“I already did.”
That makes me look up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter what she says.”
I sigh.
His lips stamp onto my forehead, holding there.
“I’m yours. Nothing is going to change that, nothing and no one.”
“I don’t want to drive a wedge.”
He snorts, but it’s cynical. “We’re on three separate islands. The wedge would sink to the bottom of the ocean.”
I drop his ring into my hand, squeeze it tight against my palm, tiny ridges embedding into my skin. “You have me, Draco. All of me, for as long as you want.” I slip the ring back onto his finger, hot from my grip, and seal it with a kiss.
Friday, June 25, 1999 – 9:34 AM
Though the room remains fully furnished, it’s obvious that something’s changed. No games scattered on the table in front of the bow window. No silly doodles or birthday cards propped above the mantel. The wastebasket is full of moving day rubbish, brimming with scrap paper and old assignments, broken quills and expired sweets.
Draco and I stand hand in hand by the coffee table, giving the place one final sweep in case we left anything behind. But mostly because we’re sentimental saps and the thought of leaving Hogwarts and stepping into an unknown future with broken families who aren’t waiting for us, houses that aren’t homes, careers we haven’t secured, and a looming trip to a land across the ocean where tragedy or triumph awaits, is terrifying.
But we’re nineteen and ambitious and in love and we’re Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy and even if that means nothing to anybody else, to me it means that everything’s going to turn out alright.