One for sorrow, two for mirth

He’s completely lost it after all. Hermione can see it in his eyes, leaden and lacklustre, when he leans in and whispers into her lips: 'You just had to lure me in, Mudblood, didn’t you? ' His kiss is ravenous. It’s like all the air in her lungs surges out to become his, to let him breathe. She’s suffocating. Hermione gasps and jumps up on her bed. Goddammit! She is not having dreams of this Malfoy porn, not again… It’s been two weeks since that cursed Potions class, and now is the third time she is seeing Draco in her dreams in this… dubious role. She’s learnt enough about the human mind to know that erotic dreams can rarely be interpreted word-for-word. But hers seem to be precisely that rare case. Draco is the focus of her thoughts every minute she isn’t forcing herself to think of something else. And gods, is he cruel! Not a single word, a single glance since she kissed him. They never run into each other in the Library or the Common room. Hermione sees him in class, but he’s not even a ghost anymore, he’s a stone statue. It’s as if to him she has ceased to exist. So, without any new input, her mind is just restlessly feeding on itself. Does she like Draco? Or is she really just trying to fill in the boyfriend position? Can it be that her mind pushes her towards Malfoy to piss Ron off to the fullest? Why would she want to piss Ron off, though? And if she honestly likes Draco, isn’t it a glaring red flag, an indication of some syndrome named after two fellow German psychologists with unpronounceable surnames? These questions devour her for days, until another one pops up. That night back in their Third year, if Draco came alone and was honest… would she have agreed to date him? Hermione fiddles with the idea incessantly. She may be an avid fan of set-in-stone knowledge, but her imagination has been trained for all sorts of what ifs by the war. She can see him. The blond annoying ferret, too much of a wimp to oppose his father, yet enough of a showoff to parade their fling before Harry and Ron. She tries to imagine going to the Yule ball with him. He actually had quite a dashing robe that day if she recalls correctly… But he wouldn’t have asked her out anywhere they could be spotted together. However madly in love, that Draco would have always seen her as his flaw, his brand of shame. That’s why she would have never dated him. She is not self-destructive after all. Unpronounceable German psychologists can shut it. Draco Malfoy of today is different. If anything, it’s her who should be ashamed of being seen with the likes of him, and he does everything in his power not to put her through this. If they were to date, he would probably parade it before his parents and hush everything up around her friends. Oh, the irony! After tossing away the alarming suspicion of her being a low-key abuse enjoyer, Hermione unravels the Gordian knot of other lingering doubts rather easily. And the truth she is left with is transparent: this changed, improved Draco attracts her. As a person and as a man. Whatever the outcome, she’d like to try and have a chance with him, and it better happen now. Hermione Granger wouldn’t want to be distracted from her looming N.E.W.T.s by a maelstrom of unresolved feelings. 'Draco! I desperately need to discuss a certain matter of utmost importance with you. Please, come to the Lovers' portrait on the third floor tonight just after curfew.' She’s meant to sign it, but then this see-through anonymity struck her as a nice nostalgic joke. Now she needs to find a way of passing him the note. She drags it around everywhere she goes and searches for Draco like a hawk. Unfortunately, the only class where they occupy the neighbouring tables is Potions. But if she approached him there, it would be too cruel. All the roasting he gets from the whole school for that incident with Amortentia reaches its peak at each Potions class. Honestly, someone even graced him with a newspaper clipping from the day after the Yule ball. A photo of her and Victor, waltzing. Hermione prefers not to think of why a random student would have such a clipping. Another genius gifted him a hair comb that was specifically charmed to turn into… a dog collar. That must have been a witty reference to his nonsense about wishing to become her slave if she let him braid her hair. Actually, one of her highly inappropriate dreams has delved into that department. Braiding hair, that is, not slavery. Fine, maybe a bit of slavery too, but he wasn’t in a collar! Or was he… Hermione grunts, feeling a familiar itch to ensure that each of the brilliant comedians gets a detention. She’s felt herself boiling with anger every time they pulled these stunts on Draco. He, on the other hand, was unbothered, at least on the outside. Well, in a sense, this was a turn for the better. Now he’s simply being bullied for his crush on a girl, which is much more innocent than getting hexed for his brief Death Eater past. His crush on a girl. On her. This makes her giddy like a schoolgirl (which she actually is, but rarely feels like one). She knows he is head over heels for her, she knows his love is there — suppressed, bound, loathed, but flat out refusing to die. She just needs to find the right key and set it free, revert Draco from his stubborn resolve to stuff all of it away. For her, that’s similar to an arithmancy problem, a conundrum to be unriddled. It’s a matter of when, not if. But when, though?! Three weeks have already passed. The Amortentia jokes have almost died out. In today’s Potions Class, Draco has received only a couple of giggles and a suggestive whistle. Praise Merlin, people are going back to minding their own sodding business, at last! This might actually be her chance. Their classmates are finally paying attention to their cauldrons rather than Draco. Absent-mindedly grinding sage leaves in her mortar, Hermione ponders the idea of slipping her note into his handbook. In a way, it would complete the nostalgic picture she is already going to set with the note itself. But wouldn’t he take a full rip-off of his Third-year invitation for a mockery on her side? He should know she would never mock him, right? By the time the class ends, she is so exhausted by her doubts that she can’t even be bothered to wait until Draco turns away or gets distracted — she slaps the note blatantly over the opened book and leaves, ignoring the chance to see his reaction. They will talk tonight. She can wait. Only she can’t. She counts down minutes until curfew, unable to concentrate on anything. She stares at him so intensely at dinner that Ginny asks if he’s done something nasty to her again. Oh, Gin was so pissed when she heard about the whole Amortentia debacle! She even offered to Obliviate the memory of his kiss out of Hermione’s mind. If only she knew how eagerly Hermione relives this memory in truth… She has to tell Ginny at some point. Especially if she and Draco can make it work. The Lovers' painting meets her with revolting amorous giggling. That’s the part she definitely hasn’t missed. This is so bizarre if she thinks of it: she and Draco met here five years ago and since then they both have changed drastically. Yet the effervescent young lady and her ardent admirer are the same. She isn’t worried about waiting here after curfew since, as the Head Girl, she is around the same level of authority as the once dreaded Filch. Yet the unrest inside her is the same, if not heavier. She knows precisely who she’s waiting for. Yet the giddiness sweeps over her all the same… She waits for a good half an hour, convinced that Draco is going to appear any given second. Then ten more minutes. And ten more, ogling the corner of the hallway that he appeared from around the last time. He couldn’t have missed her note — she practically shoved it in his face. An ambush on him is highly unlikely — right now Draco is more of a class clown against his will rather than a hated Nazi. Hardly anything prevents him from coming, but he’s not here. Seems like she’s got mistaken with the key after all. She glances to the corner for the last time. He is not coming, it’s obvious. Hermione straightens her back and almost starts to walk when she hears light steps from behind. Of course he would appear from the other wing, how hasn’t she thought of that? They have the same Common room now and would come the same way. She turns swiftly on her heels and finally sees Draco down the hallway. He looks hesitant, and Hermione feels a sudden urge to ditch the company of the stupid portrait and run up to him, but she suppresses it. If anything, such enthusiasm would only scare him off. She clasps her hands and waits patiently. 'Asking me to meet here… You know how to hit the most painful spot, Granger, ' Draco points out, looking rather baffled. 'Let’s say I updated your favourite memory, ' she makes an inept joke. Is she this nervous on her own or is his nervousness contagious? 'So… What is it that you desperately need to discuss?' he inquires, trying and failing to keep a straight face: his teeth are firmly set, but the jaw muscles bulge, and he looks anywhere but at her just to avoid her gaze. Hermione wishes she could close in on the subject gradually, but if the question isn’t asked in mere moments from now, one of them will show the white feather, she just knows it. 'I dropped that cauldron because I was surprised by the smell,' she starts after a heavy sigh. 'It smelled of you, Draco. I have to know why you smell like love to me.' The derisive smile Draco tries to give her barely holds a second and then crooks in a strange way. It’s like he is desperately suppressing laughter. Finally, he takes a sharp breath and replies: 'Granger, I applaud your inquisitive mind, but I’ve asked you once. Don’t give me false hope. Are you that cruel? Do I have to beg? ' He looks absolutely miserable. She lets herself at least touch his hand, but he jerks it away. 'What if it’s not false? What if I do love you? ' she whispers and looks him in the eye. His pupils look gigantic and the eyes glazed-over, as if he is high on Felix Felicis. He forces a scoff. 'You did love Weasley, your heartfelt friend for life. And you’ve lasted for several months.' Draco clenches his hands into fists and the pause is so weighty, Hermione cannot help but try to object. 'How many months, no, days, do you think, I, your bully, your enemy, an accomplice to your torture, will hold out? ' His voice nearly dies out on the last words. She steps closer and reaches for him. It’s a vain attempt to show once more that she is not afraid to trust him. But he takes a step back. 'Draco, you are not any of those anymore…' If he is that desperate to abscond from her touch, she must make do with words. He gives a choked laugh and covers his eyes with his hand. 'Yes, these days I am a pariah! An outcast!.. Just quit it, Granger, please. I don’t need your pity.' Apparently, there are limits to her patience too. 'Oh, so Amortentia is a pity potion now? That’s why it smells like you? ' Draco sweeps his hand across his face, his lips a bitter line. 'And what exactly do I smell of? ' Hermione feels her cheeks grow hot. 'Of bergamot. And sweet orange flowers… And library books.' He raises that signature Malfoy mocking brow, definitely copied from his arsehole of a father. Almost nothing shows that only a second ago he was on the verge of a nerve storm. 'Wait. So all the fuss is about my cologne and a place I frequent most at this school? Granger, honestly, you are pathet-' 'Quit it, Draco. I’ve known you far too long to buy into this mouldy bully act of yours. Especially now that I know how you really feel towards me. I know it smelled of you. Not of cologne, not of old books — there was much in between and it was you.' Hermione gathers a full breast of air and blurts: 'For me, love smells of you.' And she doesn’t give him a moment to think, to leave, to bottle out — she jumps at him, and her kiss almost misses his mouth. This is silly and clumsy and hasty — and not like Hermione Granger at all. But there is no time for decorum; she has to break this ice he deliberately surrounds himself with. In this moment, the world shrinks to Hermione and him. To his lips, his pounding heart, his smooth hair between her fingers. She couldn’t care less about the rattle-brained lovers giggling at her from the painting, about her treasured satchel, now lying on the floor — about anything aside from what is happening between her and this impossible dolt, so desperately shunning himself from happiness. With great reluctance, Draco hugs her and returns the kiss. His lips are dry but soft, and his hug is very warm, hot even. Everything around her smells of him — of love! — and Hermione’s head is spinning. When their lips finally part, she is probably panting even harder than him. 'Should I tell you what the potion smelled of for me? ' he asks and bites his lip, eyes closed, as if savouring the lingering taste of her kiss. 'What? ' He gives her a faint smile, mostly visible in his eyes. 'I smelled cut grass and new parchment and… I suppose it was green apple? Something very fresh, I…' 'Mint toothpaste,' she breathes out. 'What? ' Hermione feels absolutely flustered. 'Mint toothpaste, it’s… It’s a Muggle thing.' 'So that is what you smell of every morning? Some minty potion for teeth?' he asks with a snicker, but she hardly listens. It was her all along. She thought the last aroma she felt, the toothpaste, pointed at Ron. Because he was the only person aside from herself to use it in the wizarding world. The traditional way to care for teeth among wizarding folk was the Coalberry Tooth Salve. But Ron never liked the taste of it, so when Hermione introduced him to toothpaste, he immediately changed his routine. He really smelled of toothpaste sometimes, but… That wasn’t what Amortentia was trying to tell her at Slughorn’s class that day. It was all her. The freshly cut grass in the field not far from her home, where parents took her to play badminton in summer. New parchment she eagerly rolled out every evening to start yet another assignment. And the toothpaste her father always loaded her with before sending to school in autumn. She longed to love herself, being a Muggleborn, an oddball, always a runner-up. And now when she can finally say she is enough and believe in it wholeheartedly, now she has a place in her heart for someone else… Apparently, one sullen nitwit that smells of the most bitter and the most sweet citrus flowers at once. 'Granger!' Draco snaps his fingers right in front of her eyes, waking her from the thoughts. 'Come on, did one small kiss make you swoon that much? ' She sighs and smiles at him. 'Draco, could you at least try talking to people in a nice way? I suppose I would still like you snarky, but if you just made an effort.?' 'If it’s you, I’ll do my best. With others… Well, I doubt it.' He picks her satchel from the floor and slings it over his shoulder. 'Granger, it weighs a ton! How is your backbone still in one piece?' She shrugs and takes him by the elbow. The Common room meets them with dimmed lights and unusual silence. Luckily for them, it’s empty. Otherwise, some narrow-minded idiots would surely kick up a fuss about her, Harry Potter’s friend, a Muggleborn Joan of Arc of sorts, dating a former Death Eater. 'We probably shouldn’t be seen together, ' Draco whispers in her ear, obviously thinking the same thing. Either because having a secret paramour is a bit exciting or because his hot breath is brushing her ear and cheek, Hermione feels goosebumps on the nape of her neck. 'Probably not. For now.' She nods, fighting the urge to kiss him again. Not here. The room may be empty, but walls have ears. Or in their case — portraits have eyes. 'Good night, Draco.' She hastily starts for the door to the girls' wing, but he catches her by the wrist. 'Granger, wait.' Hermione almost swings round because of the abrupt stop and somehow ends up caught in his arms. Draco is quite tall, so she nuzzles into his neck when he rests his chin against her head, curling them together tightly. They stay like this for a minute. In the stillness of the room, his heavy breath and her heart thumping in her ears are the only audible sounds. Then he draws back a little and leans in so slowly, as if giving her all the time possible to reject him. But she would never. He presses his lips onto hers, and it’s nothing like that crazy kiss he saved her with at Potions. His touch is almost unsettlingly chaste. She nips at his lower lip in reply to his tacit question. Yes. Kiss me. There is nothing wrong with you kissing me. Draco deepens the kiss immediately and cups her face with his hands. He is insanely tender. Hermione could never imagine Draco Malfoy, however repentant, to be this attentive. She feels light-headed. When he pulls away, all her being almost begs to draw him back in. 'You forgot your bag, ' Draco whispers under his breath. She needs a moment to connect the dots of what was going on before he kissed her. The bag. Right. Her satchel. He was carrying it from the hallway. 'Thanks, ' she murmurs, taking the satchel from him. It’s weightless. Hermione could never imagine Draco Malfoy, however repentant, to be this attentive.