Draco loves to sit in a library and just breathe. Fortunately for him, he’s known quite incredible libraries his whole life. At school. At home. Even during the manor’s blackest days, he’d taken comfort inhaling the vanilla scent of aged paper and the sharp tang of polished leather. His mother had taken pains to keep certain people out of that sanctuary. It was where his father tried to forget being unmanned. It was where Draco napped.
His family has considerable contribution to the Hogwarts library, which is what gave his father license to demand the withdrawal of certain books from its shelves. One such book is in his lap right now. It was on the table when he arrived, and he’d automatically rescued it from the spring noon sunlight. He picks it up, leafs through it, and traces with his fingertip the intricate script spelling out ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune’.
Perhaps his father’s got his ill-fortune from fighting against this story.
–That’s my favourite.â€
Because he’d been sniffing at the air like a desperate rodent, her champagne/ink scent had alerted him to her arrival. She also likes instigating Gryffindors and Slytherins sitting together, it seems--out of all the empty desks and carrels, she picked the one a seat over from his--but he’s still surprised she approached. Isn’t she disgusted? He’s disgusted.
–In the Muggle world, we have Cinderella--â€
–What is that? A disease?â€
–--Beauty and the Beast, Hansel and Gretel--â€
–I thought you were British--â€
–--but I love the Fountain of Fair Fortune better.â€
–Just like a girl. It’s got nothing on Babbity Rabbity--â€
She utters a library-laugh. Soft. For his ears only. And it’s amazing how quickly he forgets his feelings for his father. Just for the moment, anyway.
As though hearing his thoughts, she starts unpacking her bag, sets quill and inkpot with precision and Summons several tomes to her from the shelves. Not looking at him, giving him the space he needs, she says, –He’s doing what he needs to do to come back to you and your mother.â€
He snorts. –Of course. Why wouldn’t he want to come back? We’ve lost the manor but Mother and I have infinitely better living arrangements than he has at Azkaban.â€
She turns her head from her notes to him. One corner of her lip is slightly higher than the other. –What, are you going to make me defend your father for the sake of arguing with you?†She finds the idea so amusing and smiles outright, and then grimaces in apology afterward. Ducks her head and hides behind the curtain of her hair. Her champagne/ink scent wafts to him. He breathes it in. Again, just for the moment, he doesn’t care that his father’s just turned traitor to so many of his cronies.
Not that it’s done him any good, has it? He gets raved and reviled in the paper but he’s still in Azkaban.
He tells himself that this is what irks him. Would he have hesitated to turn in his friends if it meant his freedom?
The evidence of his answer is right beside him. He wonders how different things would have been if instead of hiding her in the necropolis, he’d turned her in to the Dark Lord. He shudders. Oh, right he hadn’t turned her in because it equated to turning himself in. But still. Would his feelings have been relevant at all? Surely the Dark Lord didn’t expect them to adore him. Surely he would have squeezed this girl’s brains for every tiny iota of information it contained regarding Harry Potter.
He shudders again.
She isn’t even his friend.
Is she?
–Find something else to occupy your time and thoughts,†she says to the parchment she’s filling disconcertingly fast. –You do know I Obliviated my parents and sent them to live new lives in Australia? Over the summer--well, it was winter there--I searched for them and restored everything. Oh, almost forgot, not everything. And I don’t blame them for holding a grudge. But when it’s a matter of survival, morals take a backseat. It’s only levels then, of how far you consent to sink. And anyway, why would it bother you that your father’s turned in Death Eaters? They’d do the same to you.â€
When will she stop doing this? Or would he always be stupefied by this Muggle-born? –How can you talk and write an essay on... effacement of wandless magical creatures at the same time?â€
She twitches her essay farther away, looks up and scowls at me. –Find something else to do and think of. Or, to quote my mother who’s still in bloody Australia and still bloody irate with me, ‘Go play.’ I never did obey her on that, but on the rare occasions I did, I always felt better. You will, I promise.â€
Parent promised funds but is now planning on reneging as a punishment to a misdeed?
Sweetheart promised you forever and is now promising said forever to another?
Neighbour promised to return your willowware but has probably broken it?
Friend promised servitude but is now begging off due to a piddling injury?
Never again!
Seal promises with signatures!
Jab signatures with jinxes!
With the Vow-Maker
vow-breakers won’t get away with it any longer!
Choose from a wide variety of home-grown,
horrible but harmless (non-debilitating, non-fatal, non-traceable)
WWW patented hexes.
Choose their longevity, too!
Antidotes sold separately.
Only efficacious if administered by jinxer.
–Look what Uncles Fred and George sent.â€
–I’m looking.â€
–You don’t like it?â€
–I’m not fond of vows, are you? This day twelve years ago, our parents made vows and--â€
–Don’t discolour our birthday like that, priss.â€
Lia hadn’t thought she was one for hugs but she’d received plenty all her life, and giving one to her sister now was not only easy but necessary. Callie sighed into Lia’s hair. Callie’d been right miserable all day. Lia was barely succeeding in not joining her in the sigh-boat.
The snow had stopped just after lunch and they were on the lakeshore, on a patch of pebbles and sand inexplicably dry and snow-free. It was still bloody freezing though. The blanket where they were taking inventory of the day’s haul was charmed to stay warm and to give off warmth, but Lia could no longer feel her nose and toes. The bluebell flame in Callie’s jar seemed feeble for some reason.
Callie leaned on her sister and took what comfort Lia could give. And she could give a lot. She supposed she should stop being a sourpuss and count her blessings, wasn’t that the Muggle expression? But that was just it, she was counting her blessings and she couldn’t help begrudging the imminent loss of said blessings once term ended in June.
She hadn’t thought she was one for acting spoiled but she’d received plenty all her life, and having them taken away when she felt like she’d worked for them herself was not only hard but infuriating.
–This didn’t really come from a dead camel, did it?â€
Callie pulled away and saw Lia, one hand gloveless, stroking a riding habit without taking it out of its nest of tissue. From Grandmother Narcissa, of course. Callie had a matching set.
–No. Grandmother would never drape us in animal pelt, don’t worry. She used to have real furs, though, when it was the thing and no one pondered how disgusting it was. I remember the face of the shop owner who came over to appraise them. He nearly cried when Grandmother said he has to take everything away that day, never mind that he can’t pay what he thought they were worth.â€
–Longest speech you made today.â€
–Shut it.â€
Lia went along, pursuing the subject that got Callie talking. –Where would I wear this thing?â€
–Riding.â€
–Riding? Really? Poppy Lucius got us brooms?â€
–Oh, keep the dream alive. We won’t be getting a broom any time soon, not from Grandfather or Father, not so long as they fear Grandmother. The costume is for riding horses.â€
Lia was unimpressed. –I’ve got boots and denims for that.â€
Callie was undeterred, even though she’d seemed to be. –I think we can use this Vow-maker ink.â€
Lia rolled her eyes. –I was wondering when you’ll catch on.â€
Hermione loves to watch the Highlands change colour. The shift from winter to spring, from white and brown to green is what she likes best. It helps that the morning is inexplicably still. The March winds are somewhere else that day. The temperature still numbs her nose, but the promise of warmth is visible.
Especially when you’re in the Quidditch stands.
What is she doing there again?
Oh, right. Everyone’s playing. And she means everyone.
Officially, there are no scheduled games this year. There’s not even a House Cup. The period of mourning will only end on May second, when the first Hogwarts Victory Fair will be held.
For now, no romping. That was the rule.
The staff and rule caved to demand and necessity, though.
The castle is being rebuilt, and along with stones and mortar, it needs high spirits. This from Dilys Derwent, who had eavesdropped as usual when several individuals traipsed to the Headmistress’s office to ask for permission.
But couldn’t they have had indoor tournaments? Gobstones, exploding snap, chess, debate, poetry slams, table tennis? Nice games Hermione can watch without having to leave her N.E.W.T.s notes behind? Why did she leave them behind? She could turn them into stone slabs safe from any puffs of wind and Confundo her bench mates into thinking she’s avidly paying attention to the game when in fact she’s very adept at tuning out noise because she happens to have lived with girls who tittered and chittered night and day--
–Stop looking like you swallowed something Hagrid cooked. This was all your doing.â€
Hermione stares at Ria incredulously. –My doing? And how would you know about Hagrid’s cooking?â€
Ria just smirks. Without the malice usually behind it, she looks rather like a Botticelli angel who’d just done something naughty, like pinch someone who’s made a baby cry. Ria’s blonde like Draco. If they marry, their children will carry the traditional Malfoy blondness another generation.
–What, did I step on your cloak or something?†Ria peers down at their feet and sidles a little. Hermione shakes her head with an apologetic smile.
It’s Saturday. This match is... Pink versus Violet. Both teams have a mix of players from all four Houses. The stands are absolutely packed. Even the castle’s volunteer restoration teams have laid down their wands and tools for the day. She can’t remember going to matches when Gryffindor wasn’t playing, and she certainly hadn’t been alone in the castle those times, but now if she went back inside, she’d probably be alone with the ghosts--well, no, there they are, all clumped together.
–Is this Umbridge versus Lockhart?â€
The Greengrass sisters swivel on the bench to stare at her, and then burst into laughter. –My goodness, we’ve just been thinking of good names for the teams!†says Daphne.
–I was in charge of uniforms,†says Ria. –Both should be neutral colours with no connotations like white and black--and black’s a Hufflepuff colour anyway, so I went for purple and pink.â€
Hermione wants to say those colours do have connotations, but she bites her tongue and can’t help grinning at seeing several boys still looking gobsmacked by what they’re wearing. But as soon as they leave the shadow of their lockers and set foot on the thawing ground, they seem to forget about it.
–How did this come about? Only got wind of it because I was on my way to see Professor McGonagall when she was petitioned for this match and there was this chorus of yells that shook the revolving staircase.â€
The Greengrasses find this terribly funny. –I told you, it was all your doing, Draco said. At first, it was a two-a-side Slytherin game. Some people saw and watched. And then they joined in, and word spread, and teams were formed, thanks to someone’s redoubtable charms,†Ria says, pointing at herself.
–It was very nice of you, Hermione,†Daphne says.
This is punctuated by Madam Hooch’s whistle and Daphne and Ria turn eagerly to the field. Hermione gives up. She can ask Draco later.
Deafening cheers and laughter erupt after the first score when Ria announces, –Cadwallader scores! Ten - nil to Umbridge! And Corner of Lockhart takes the Quaffle.†Even Professor McGonagall is smiling at the impromptu team names.
And then Draco is there, hovering on his broom before them.
–Pink becomes you,†Daphne says.
–I’ll get you for this, Ria.â€
Ria sticks her tongue out at him.
And then he abandons looking for the Snitch to look at her instead and she must have inhaled air that’s much too icy and it’s the reason her lungs and heart are suddenly tripping up in the functions they’ve mastered since she was born. Yeah, it’s the cold, not his hair, not his eyes, not his smile. –I feel better,†he says. –And since you like nauseating stories like the Fountain of Fair Fortune, you’ll like that this is the start of nauseating amity between the Houses, I promise.â€
Quillian entered Priscilla’s room and dropped himself on the sofa with a sigh. He wished he could lynch whoever invented and approved N.E.W.T.s. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, but seeing Priscilla cured them in an instant. –Was that the twins?â€
She looked up from her mountain of notes and wordlessly conveyed that she shared his sentiments about the culprits of N.E.W.T.s and wanted to include him in the lynching for asking pointless questions.
Quillian chuckled. He liked her glares, he didn’t know why. –What did they want?â€
She went back to her notes, brow furrowed in concentration. For several seconds, he thought she was ignoring him. And then she said, –Something their parents have to sign.â€
–Interesting. What did you come up with?â€
She growled. –This stack to my left--extreme left--look what you did, you dolt. These are spread here by importance and date and subject--distribute that, would you?â€
Quillian danced away with the correct stack, avoiding her slapping hands. –Sorry, sorry.†He read the words glowing in purple ink on the top flyer. We’re doing a play?â€
–No, of course not. That’s all I need, isn’t it? A play on top of studying my arse off--â€
–Your arse is safe--â€
–Stuff it and get out.â€
–I love you, too.â€
She stopped glowering, but still muttered to his departing back, –I’m changing the common room password.â€
He poked his head back in her room. –I always get it out of you eventually, don’t I?â€
She threw the nearest stack of notes at him. Laughing, he waved his wand and sent the shower of parchment fluttering back where they came from. And on top of them plopped a small card and an even smaller box. Priscilla made a soundless, –Oh!†and casually read the card, raising her eyebrows and nodding as if what was inside was a Transfiguration diagram. But her face was splotched now--which was why she hated blushing, because she didn’t blush, she splotched --and the splotches darkened when she opened the box.
–Happy Valentine’s day,†said Quillian.
She looked up from the box, face still splotchy, eyes now shining. –I--I--You are an absolute toad. I’m studying--how could you--this is--â€
Quillian laughed and strode to her side, kissed her soundly. –You’re welcome. Now go back to studying, you harpy.â€
They are back in the library.
The Olde English translation of the Tales of Beedle the Bard is back on the table, probably the very same copy he’d held a week ago, probably yellowing by the second from the sunlight, but now Draco can’t rescue it, because several people are between him and the book. Several sweaty people. Several sweaty people still grinning from the game. Several people who’d left books they’d just opened on the tables, reluctant to go back to studying just yet, they’re –...eschewing the do anyway, dammit.†Grinning.
Is he grinning himself? Can’t tell. He doesn’t care.
Game was close. Feels good. Umbridge--Draco--caught the Snitch. But Lockhart had scored a lot. Score was two hundred ten to two hundred sixty.
It’s early. He regrets ending the game.
He looks around. Everyone on both teams here. Plus prefects. Head boy. Head girl. Lots of fifth-years and seventh-years who probably felt returning immediately to the library after spending three hours at the game would earn them points in their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. Madam Pince probably Confunded. Surprisingly mellow and uncomplaining at her desk while muddy and noisy students stomp around.
–... could just sign here, I’ll release you to the showers and I’ll release Madam Pince from the Daydream Charm. Although I don’t know how to do that. We should just let it run its course, eh?â€
Laughter. A queue forming, moving forward and sideways, people shoving good-naturedly.
–What did I miss?†he asks Ria, blinking at her. –You’re not a prefect.â€
She grins back. –Ditto.â€
He actually puts his still-gloved hand to help his face dispel the grin. –So what are we signing?â€
Someone else answers. Cadwallader from Hufflepuff. –Granger says it’s all your doing, Malfoy.â€
All your doing, Malfoy.
No malice, no censure, no hatred. Instead, a grin-grimace and a slap upside the back of his head. No one’s done that before. If someone’s done that before, there would have been hell to pay.
Is he in a Daydream Charm?
Not that he’d daydream about this. Too... tame.
At last--he’s the last-- he’s at the desk. Same desk that had been between Hermione and his, last time they sat here. First, he shoves the Tales of Beedle the Bard to the shade. Second, he looks at the sunlight burnishing Hermione’s hair. And then he looks down at the parchment. In the centre of the signatures, like a rock in a rippling pond, is a single sentence.
I solemnly swear to henceforth uphold amity between the Houses.
Still bent over the desk, he raises his eyes to Hermione. She raises her eyebrows at him in return.
–What prompts your hesitation?†she asks.
He turns around. –Corner, how long did that hex last? You know, when she turned you into a walking, talking sausage?â€
Corner winces. –Three days. On the third day, I rose again!†When no one laughs at his joke, he amends, –I rose from bed and sent to detention every single one of my prefects because they knew about the ongoing amusement of misinforming the Slytherins about meetings.â€
–If you hadn’t done that, the hex would have lasted a month, Michael.â€
–Bloody hell, Granger.â€
There were more epithets and speculations as everyone recalled their own hexes and what they’d done in a desperate attempt to cure themselves.
–I should tell Logan to do atonement, then,†one Hufflepuff says, running off.
–It’s all right, Abbott!†Hermione calls. –If Logan didn’t glower and complain about the mixing of teams at the game, he should be fine now, I think!â€
–Are you going to have us mix the teams for always now?†Cadwallader says. –That’s not on. It’s tradition--the House Cup, the House rivalries--â€
–As it applies to Quidditch and the House Cup, it’s all right to win and to wish to win, so long as you don’t pummel or bad-mouth the other House to win or when you lose.â€
–Who do we bad-mouth then?â€
–Why do you have to bad-mouth anybody? It’s just a game.â€
Groans all around. Cadwallader actually sort of crumples using Draco as support and sort of bellows like an injured elephant onto Draco’s shoulder.
–You just came from that game, and here you are grinning like fools and not bad-mouthing anyone, you can’t groan at me like it’s impossible!â€
Draco unbends from the desk and shakes off Cadwallader. His back was beginning to hurt. He turns to Hermione and tries not to look at the sunlight still burnishing her hair. Where’s the frizz when he needs it? –It’s not impossible, it’s dictatorship. Use your formidable magic and amend this right now. Myself bad-mouthing Cadwallader doesn’t necessarily mean Slytherin bad-mouthing Hufflepuff. We as individuals should be free to bad-mouth whoever we like. And the other party should take it. Especially if they won anyway.â€
Cheers all around. Cadwallader grabs Draco’s shoulders and shakes them. That’s all right because just as he turns around to tell Cadwallader to sod off, Draco sees Corner pounding Cadwallader on the back. The Huffelpuff’s eyes waters, but he goes on whooping.
Hermione looks both exasperated and amused. –Look at you. Amazing how much Quidditch can accomplish. I knew I should grab the opportunity while you’re all drunk on Quidditch... But since you’re all drunk, let me clarify. You do know what this means, don’t you? The prefect speeches to first-years should no longer predispose them to which House is the rival and which is ‘the one we get along with best’ and--â€
–We’re not Confunded like Madam Pince, Granger.†Draco signs.
More cheers.
–She’s not Confunded! I wouldn’t!â€
And that’s how it went. As if to prove Hermione’s drowned sputtering, the agreement to amity is punctuated by Madam Pince suddenly shrieking at them to –Get out, get out! Mud! Mud! What do you mean holding a rally in the library! I’ve never! I’ll see you all in detention and you better not have besmirched any of my books, you animals!â€
Oh, and ‘bad-mouth’ becomes a vocabulary trend for several weeks.
The morning after goddamned Valentine’s found Hermione breakfasting at Minerva’s office. Hermione was in a fine temper that day, reflected in the angry explosion that was her hair. Instead of attempting a futile battle, she’d simply stuffed it into a barrette large enough to cut blood supply from body to brains. Minerva had sensed her mood and finished her own tea and toast quickly without commenting on the mutilation of kippers and teabags.
–Miss Granger--â€
Just one look and even Snape was quelled in his frame. The portraits were too mindful of self-preservation to even titter audibly.
The little gargoyle seemed to be dancing on his spot on the shelf. When Hermione looked up from glaring at her plate, the gargoyle stilled and threw its chest out. Most admirable. –Students to see Professor Granger. Permission?â€
–Don’t they have classes? Let them up.â€
In the interval, Hermione drank her tea and thought of Lia and Callie when they were babies. So when the girls knocked and opened the door, they had no reason to scurry back out. Hermione even smiled despite--because of--the fact that she and her girls had something more than genes in common that day.
–Hello, you two. Why the long faces?â€
–Mum, we need you to promise that you won’t separate me and Callie for the summer. And ever after. Unless we decide ourselves to go separate places.â€
–Of course, sweetheart.â€
–Promise.â€
–I promise.â€
–Thank you. Oh, I need you to sign this permission thingie.â€
Lia handed over a piece of cream parchment with purple lettering. –The Fountain of Fair Fortune? But how can Miss August make time for this? She has N.E.W.T.s.â€
Hermione signed the parent/guardian’s permission blanks. The very second she lifted the quill, Lia sprinkled the signature with sand. She got some on Hermione’s hand. It smelled like orange blossoms.
The girls shrugged as Lia rolled up the parchment. –If it pulls through, great. If it doesn’t, that’s fine,†Callie said.
Hermione smiled at Callie. –What did your father give you? Where were you yesterday? I hardly saw you. I wanted us to have dinner.†Not that I saw your father either. He left me to the wolves. Pitying looks from girls half my age, for Merlin’s sake.
They unpocketed tiny black cats. Just big enough to fit their palms. Exquisite, with onyx eyes.
Suddenly surging to the forefront of her mind was the memory of owls, hippogriffs, unicorns and Persephones.
–That’s what your father gave you.â€
–Dad says he only gives these to people he adores. He says you have one--â€
–I do?†Hermione snatched her hand back from the cats.
–Can we see it?â€
The evil pall that had draped on her the moment she woke up and receded when the girls came, now descended on Hermione again. She wanted to blurt, ‘Your father’s never given me anything. And that’s just rich, isn’t it? Nothing for Christmas, nothing for Valentine’s-- not that I care, but if the matchmakers knew--oh, I forgot, they do know--they’d burn him on a stake. I wish they would!’
Hermione had to fight not to grit her teeth. That was hardly creditable. Did someone feed her something while she was asleep?
Instead, she merely told the girls, –You have classes, don’t you? Go on.â€
Why was everyone glaring at him? There was a time when he kept his eyes on the floor to avoid girls’ fluttering and flattering looks, but now if he tried that, he might fall over from the weight of the figurative daggers being thrown at him left, right and centre.
And where was the only person whose glares he rather liked much more than he’d like?
He’d been looking for her all day. But he always seemed to just miss her, catching sight of her hair, catching a whiff of her peculiar personal scent, catching the flick of her robes swishing around the corner and into doorways that always closed on him decisively before he could go through.
What now? Honestly. She drove him mad.
Nothing for it but to wait until after dinner and she’d be in one place for sure, not showing off her bewildering expertise on the castle’s corridors.
To be absolutely certain, he waited until midnight. He’d used a warming charm on his boots no less than twenty times while he sat in the library, where everyone’s eyes were too busy studying to spare him any glares. And then curfew arrived, and they all left. Madam Pince stayed on, even offered him a cup of tea. If she puzzled over his stroking a tatty, yellowed translated copy of Beedle, open to the Fountain of Fair Fortune, she didn’t voice it.
And then, at midnight, he bid the old librarian thanks and good night, and went upstairs to the Charms classroom. One knock and Hermione answered the door in his favourite red nightgown.
She just gazed at him. Not even glaring. Shame.
–Can I come in and thaw a little by your fire?â€
Still wordlessly, she opened the door wider and left it for him to close after himself. He strode to the fireplace and basked in the warmth with a smile to Hermione, as if calling at midnight was utterly conventional.
For her part, she was now looking unsure and even contrite, and annoyed. At herself. He could tell because her mouth was pursed. When she was annoyed at someone else, her lips thinned. Like Snape. He congratulated himself on effectively distracting himself from the urge to kiss her. She shook her head. –Tea?â€
–No, thank you, just had some from Pince.â€
–You were at the library?â€
–Here, this is for you.â€
She took the rectangle parcel. –From the library?â€
–No. From me. Didn’t want to give it to you for Valentine’s. You wouldn’t want it to be tainted with triteness, would you?â€
She looked startled. –No.â€
–Open it.â€
He’d wrapped it in plain brown paper on purpose. So that the drabness would contrast and highlight the book’s complete un-drabness.
–Oh, gods,†Hermione breathed, tearing at the wrapping now and letting it unceremoniously drop to the floor. Gratifying.
–Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?†he murmured, moving to her side so they could both look down at the book.
Hardly that. It was an illuminated manuscript of the Fountain of Fair Fortune, preserved within slabs of hand-tooled leather and embroidered silk. Someone--perhaps a lonely convent novice, because this book had been in auction from one of those nunneries in France--apparently loved the story so much to put such effort into copying it and saving it for posterity.
Hermione still hadn’t shut her mouth. She was staring at the golds and greens and pinks in the first page. Whoever that nun had been, she was a witch, and she’d used magic to keep the ink and dyes not only legible but breathtaking, even now, centuries later.
–Beautiful?†Hermione tore her gaze away from the book for a moment to let him know she thought he was quite mad to call this ‘beautiful’. He grinned. –You’re--you’re giving this to me?â€
It’s his turn to let her know he thought she was mad to ask that question.
–No, no. I can’t.†Tried to very gently push the book to his hands. –This is priceless.â€
–Of course it’s priceless. Why would I give you anything less?â€
Did he just say that? She made him say that. She was impossible.
Before he could vent anything on the book, he very gently placed it on the sofa. She very gently moved it to the coffee table and encased it in protective charms, the very same charms he had placed on it while it had been Shrunk all day in his pocket. And then she very gently unbent from the task, as if she might disturb the iridescent arch over the book. And then she very gently stepped toward him as if he might bolt.
He’d never bolt. Bent his head and very gently kissed her instead.
It was exquisite and disconcerting. Each brush and touch insidious, searing him all the way through, like she was tickling whatever it was that bound him to his soul, to his mind, to earth.
Tickling was right, because they were both smiling while kissing.
Neither of them noticed the rose that popped and flopped onto the coffee table just outside the arch of protection over the book.
The kiss lasted long and would have gone on and on if their bodies were immune to strain. Moving to relieve strain broke the spell. Damn you, strain.
–Did you get the idea from the play?†she murmured almost casually after they drew apart.
–What?†He loved her shoulders, wanted to stroke them, but he kept his hands on Hermione’s cheeks. She was already moving away from him, in keeping with this tango they were perpetually in. One step forward, one step back.
–The play. Didn’t Callie ask you to sign something?â€
–Oh. Right. Yes.†Callie. Daughter. He expelled breath, succeeded. Expelled bespellment, barely but enough. –Also promised we won’t separate them again.â€
–We should plan the summer. Maybe they can go with you first. If they can spend spring break with my tribe.â€
–I’ll ask Mother.â€
Did he just say that? Do not grimace, Draco.
Hermione was grinning, so he was probably grimacing.
–Well, good night, I think?â€
–Yes, yes, good night.†He wanted to kick himself on the way to the door. But that would just infuriate him further.
She stood by the door as he went out. –Thank you for the incunabulum, Draco. It’s a treasure. You can take it back any time you want. I’d understand.â€
Instead of feeling offended, he laughed and couldn’t resist tweaking her pert chin. –Of course you would, because you don’t see yourself giving something like that to someone else, do you?â€
–No.†She swatted at him. He caught her hand, squeezed it. –I vow not to take it back.â€
She scurried back inside and closed the door.
I, Hermione Granger, on my blood, do pledge to keep and cherish my one daughter, Thalia, golden-haired and brown of eye. Her twin, Calliope, dark of hair and grey of eye, is not mine to hold.
I, Draco Malfoy, on my blood, do pledge to keep and cherish my one daughter, Calliope, dark of hair and grey of eye. Her twin, Thalia, golden-haired and brown of eye, is not mine to hold.
I, Hermione Granger, on my blood, do pledge to not reveal myself and Calliope to Thalia, nor cause the revelation.
I, Draco Malfoy, on my blood, do pledge to not reveal myself and Thalia to Calliope, nor cause the revelation.
I, Hermione Granger, on my blood, do pledge to sever all claim on Calliope. I will not allude to, admit or acknowledge our kinship, on the event that we should meet or be questioned.
I, Draco Malfoy, on my blood, do pledge to sever all claim on Thalia. I will not allude to, admit or acknowledge our kinship, on the event that we should meet or be questioned.
I, Hermione Granger, on my blood, do pledge to stay in England with Thalia, in wisdom of keeping the secret.
I, Draco Malfoy, do pledge to stay in France with Calliope, in wisdom of keeping the secret.
On my blood, I, Hermione Granger, do pledge.
On my blood, I, Draco Malfoy, do pledge.