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Ronald Weasley is a fucking prick.
Hermione rushes down the corridor, sniffling and clutching a book to her chest. The library used to be her safe space, a quiet refuge where none of her friends would be unless they really needed her. Until today, when she had found Won-won and his girlfriend snogging at a table in the stacks.
She had stiffened, her cheeks burning and a throbbing ache blooming in her chest, when she’d seen them. How dare he, she’d thought as she turned on her heels and bolted, needing to be as far from them as humanly possible. At least she was in a giant castle with numerous unused hallways and quiet corners to escape to.
Her feet are carrying her blindly, her only thought to keep the library squarely at her back. When her vision begins to blur, she finally looks up and realizes she is now nearly at the clock tower. The passage has a line of windows that overlook the lake and the mountains. The sun is beginning to set, making the world look gilded.
Hermione lets her bag and book fall to the ground, and she collapses with them, burying her face in her hands as the tears she’s been fighting for weeks overflow. She knows this is silly, knows she really has no reason to be crying over Ron. They were never official, had never even talked about it, but there was something there, wasn’t there? They had been building up to something, something that blossomed warm in her chest and kept a smile on her face. They’d been writing each other more over the summer hols, almost meeting up in her Muggle town. It had never happened, she reminded herself, but just talking about it was a sign, right? She’d been reading Jane Austen this summer, and found her heart aching for Elinor Dashwood, understanding her pain when she had to put her family’s survival above her growing attraction to quiet, simple Edward.
“Who did this to you?”
Hermione startles, sniffling and wiping her eyes as she looks up.
“Wha- Malfoy?” Her voice cracks as she says his name, her sobs under control for a moment. The light washes out his platinum hair, some strands reflecting like golden threads. His face is cast in shadow, but still visible. He looks tired, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark.
Malfoy’s fists clench then unclench, and he shifts his gaze to the ground between them. “Want me to find them?”
She almost laughs. Was Malfoy offering to- what, beat up somebody for her? “I didn’t know you cared.” She tries to sound snarky, but then she thinks of the boy who is making her cry and another wave of sobs hits her. She drops her head and presses her hands against her face again, too overcome with the release of her her pent-up emotions to care if her regular tormenter is watching her at her weakest.
She hears him exhale, take a few steps, and then slide down the wall next to her. Her head aches. Her chest aches. She wants him to leave her alone, but can’t stop crying long enough to tell him.
A warm weight spreads across her shoulders. “I don’t like seeing girls cry.” Malfoy’s voice is barely a whisper. His fingers curl around her shoulder.
“You don’t have to-“
“I know.”
He grips her tighter for a moment, and whatever restraints she has left crumbles. She leans into his chest and lets him wrap his other arm around her, holding her while her sobs continue and her tears collect on his shirt.
She finally gets herself under control, but even after the tears stop, neither of them move away. Hermione selfishly enjoys the feeling of someone holding her, and thinks that maybe Malfoy was missing some kind of human contact. She’s barely seen him this year, she realizes, and even when she does he seems withdrawn and listless. She can’t remember the last time he insulted her. Even in potions, when she’d had the last vial of a ingredient he needed, he’d simply asked her for it instead of accusing her Muggle blood of tainting it.
“Whoever he is, he’s probably not worth it,” Malfoy finally says, breaking the trance.
Hermione pulls away, and Malfoy drops his arms. She leans back against the cool stones, turning her head towards him. He faces forward, and she studies the gaunt skin of his face. He’s not wearing his uniform, even though it’s a Tuesday afternoon. His hair is still slicked back, but it’s a shade or two darker than she remembers. She can just make out a layer of pale stubble on his chin, and a dark shadow under his eye.
“Are you okay, Malfoy?”
He snorts, shaking his head once. “Why Granger, I didn’t know you cared.” She thinks he was trying to sound menacing, but he just sounds weary.
Her hand reaches for his arm, and he flinches. Frowning, she pulls it back to her lap, turning away to look out the windows on the far wall. “Thank you.”
He inhales so abruptly it almost sounds like a gasp. Then he stands, and takes off down the hall and around a corner.
Hermione remains sitting until she can see the stars. The ghost of Draco Malfoy’s warm arm still lingers on her shoulders. Without that, she would be certain she had dreamed up the whole encounter. She replays the moments she had her face pressed to his chest, his heartbeat steady and strong against her ear. She blushes when she realizes it was the longest she’d ever been that close to a boy. She blushes again when she recalls the firmness of that chest, the strength in those arms. The scent of something sharp but undeniably nice lingers around her, a new whiff passing her nose as the breeze passes over the lake and plays with her curls.
What will the boys say, when she tells them? Will they even believe her?
Who says you need to tell them? a voice in her head drawls.
She rises slowly, gathering her things while fighting a smile. Yes, why should she tell them? She could have one thing that belonged to her and nobody else. Her own secret.
Bolstered by the clear-headedness that follows a good hard cry, she made her way to the common room with a spring in her step, vowing to never tell Harry or Ron about the time Draco Malfoy offered to beat up a boy for making her cry.