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It is surreal to Draco as he trudges up the stairs to the last place he should want to go. He shouldn’t want to return to his hell, his palace of torment and sin when he was his most vulnerable. He never thought he would ever desire to go back, but he knew he needed to as Potter made the toast.
“A year ago today, there was a great victory not just for the Order of the Phoenix or the wizarding world. No, a year ago today, light won. Goodness won. Love won. But that doesn’t erase the things and people we lost,” Harry said, his voice booming through the great hall. “Fred Weasley. Lavender Brown. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Severus Snape. Colin Creevy. And so many more people we all still hold near and dear to our hearts. So let us raise a glass, to not only winning the war, but to the people who sacrificed their life in order to make that possible.”
All of the attendees of the gala, students and officials alike, raised their glasses in usion before continuing to mingle. As Draco stood in the back, avoiding the spectacle that no doubt his adversaries would bring, his heart ached. He knew the only one in the castle mourning Vinny’s death was him. Out of the Slytherins who returned for their 8th year, no one particularly liked Crabbe. All the other students and war heroes saw him as a spineless villain. Draco guesses that isn’t too far from the truth, but Vinny was also his first friend. Riding a broom for the first time, crashing a broom for the first time, all of it they did together.
So Draco decided to drink his fire whiskey for a moment longer before disappearing and making his way to the seventh floor. As he approaches the level he knows the portraits are murmuring about him, but he pays them no attention. His brain is a boarded up echo chamber. His thoughts are numb and they sludge even though the perimeter is blazing. The mind may be empty, however the body never forgets.
Turning into that left corridor hurts. Making those final paces toward the room of requirement physically causes him pain. He feels like he’s being stabbed in the chest, or like a cord has been tied to his rib and a sadist decided to pluck it. But he’s not a sadist, he’s not a masochist, he’s just a young man flailing and trying to heal.
He walks in front of the wall once, twice, then three times while letting the muscle memory, habit, and instinct set the intention for it to turn into the room of hidden things.
The door forms and he stares at it for a moment. He doesn’t know what to expect. He can’t help but think he might walk in on Vinny’s corpse, covered in bugs and dirt, somehow spared from the fiendfyre. Realistically, he knows he is going to walk into a cavern of ash. It is just going to be a dusty room. It is no longer his secret keeper. It is no longer his childhood friend’s execution chamber.
Letting his body return to autopilot, he goes through the door and he was right; it’s just an ash filled room. But more than that, it’s an ash filled room where Hermione Granger is stepping and swaying in time to soft music as she lights candles. Her heels are in the corner, her wandless hand is holding the fabric of her dress, and she is completely oblivious to his presence.
He makes to turn out and leave but the scuff of his shoes on the floor gets her attention and she turns swiftly, pointing her wand and ready to fire hexes if need be. When she sees that it’s him, she smiles softly and lowers her wand as she continues her task of illuminating the room.
Over the last year, they truly hadn’t talked much. He wanted to apologize for it all, and he thought he’d have the opportunity after his trial. She was adamant though that he was forgiven and she didn’t want to talk about where they came from. She didn’t want to talk about the events that became their origin. She just wanted to smile again. And so he let her.
She moves with the music, the ruby silk of her dress flowing and her half pinned up curls cascading softly down her spine. He gets lost in the tranquility of her steps, wishing he could have her peace and reckless joy.
“Want to dance?” she asks him as she finishes with the last candle, and he is completely caught off guard. The dim firelight reflecting in her warm brown eyes is enchanting, and he is too drained to calculate the risk- reward ratios of all his potential responses. So he just gives a sad smile and nods, walking over to her and extending his hand.
She grabs it and returns the expression stepping closer to him and he places his other hand on the small of her back. It’s a relief that she doesn’t ask him why he’s here, and he can see in her eyes that in some sad way she already knows.
He gets lost in the soothing guitar and he doesn’t even have it in him to wonder what she’s doing in here. He doesn’t even think about her choice to light fires among the already burnt ruins. He just savors her rhythm and pulse.
Life after war can only be described as cold. The freeze of the morgue. The chill of empty sheets. The icy glares from people who don’t know the full story. So the comfort of holding a warm body is euphoric.
He hasn’t held someone since fourth year after getting to third base with Pansy, but that was awkward and panicked and the opposite of intimate. That summer everything changed, and he saw first hand with his dads friends and prisoners how brutal men could make sex. The memories of their pain have made the idea of taking a woman to bed terrifying for him now. He knows he’s not like them, but what if he is? What if he’s destined to become them? He buries the thought and just holds her tighter.
The innocence of a dance, connecting with someone over chords and crescendos, brings him closer to the simple idea of vulnerability.
“Does it ever strike you how bloody young we are?” Hermione says softly into his ear, barely more than a breath. “We have seen and done so much already, it's hard to think we are only nineteen”.
She’s not wrong. Everything he’d done he’d done as a child. He spins her around, and as he pulls her back to him he says “I’m still eighteen.”
“Even worse!” She replies, squeezing his hand.
“It all just seems fake sometimes” she continues. “Somehow I grew up and took on the weight of the world before I even entered my teen years. All of my milestones were traumatic; they don’t even feel like they happened. I had my first kiss in the middle of the deadliest battle of the century” Hermione says laughing at the irony.
“My first kiss is also tied to trauma” he says and she looks at him with a curious glance. “Quidditch World Cup after the attack. Pansy thought it was cause for celebration but I honestly just wanted to run home to my mum”
She just nods in understanding and then moves to spin again before completely tripping over her gown. Her clumsy ass accidentally pulls him to the ground with her as she falls and Draco laughs for the first time in months. The release pulls him out of his dissociation, and he is hit by a wave of guilt. He is sitting in fire amongst the remains of his friend's essence and he has the nerve to laugh.
She scoots over to him and puts her head on his shoulder as she sees his expression drop.
“You’re right. It all just feels fake” he says as she grabs his hand, absentmindedly making circles. “I want my childhood back. I want my innocence back. I want my first kiss back” he says, the flames continuing to dance for them as they sit.
“Me too” she says, and she slowly grabs his face and pulls his lips to hers.
It’s not heated or rushed. It’s chaste but it’s real. It makes him feel real. Not because it’s electric but because it’s sweet. It was what they both deserved after everything else had been tainted.
She pulls away and keeps their foreheads pressed together, so close they share breath and their eyelashes graze.
“I’m not going to ask you what you’re burying or what you’re seeking. But if you need something to remind you you’re real, that you survived against all odds, come to me. Whatever you need.” She breathes.
“We can just kiss. Like real people do” he replies before pulling her back to him, and together they channel the innocence that war stole.