Archive of Our Own

Being the odd person out at a new school was something of a speciality for Hermione.

There was the year she turned eight, when her family moved into the Wallingford house. She’d been the oldest and tallest child in her class. As if her hair weren’t already a lightning rod of attention, the other kids had been too intimidated by her size and brains to include her in many of their games.

Then there was her move to Cranford House School the next year. She was no longer the tallest, but she was the one most prone to bizarre accidents, almost always befalling her top rivals.

This school also had a boy called Corey, whose group of cronies consistently referred to her as “Hermingey.”

At first it made her cry in the bathrooms at luncheon, but slowly the sorrow was overshadowed by rage. Until finally, on the day of the all-school Christmas pageant, he yelled “HERMINGEY!” in front of the whole cast and she felt as if she would burn up. The way his own hair had then grown at an alarming rate—ending at the ground with sinuous ringlets as he tripped off the stage to the laughter of the other children—had been glorious.

Bizarre accident after bizarre accident tipped her off to something. She had honestly begun to wonder if she truly was like her childhood favorite, Matilda—brilliant enough in mind that she could work real magic.

The truth hadn’t been that far removed, it turned out, as she discovered one July day when a warm, heart-faced woman arrived on her family’s doorstep. “I’m Professor Charity Burbage, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. I’m here to speak to you about a special opportunity for Hermione’s schooling.”

Hermione liked the look of the woman. She had a twinkle in her eye and a kind smile—and something more that calmed and called to a squirming seed in Hermione’s mind.

“You have been accepted at Hogwarts School,” Professor Burbage said to Hermione—the girl had always appreciated adults that didn’t talk about her as if she weren’t in the room, “a place particularly tailored to some of your unique . . . strengths.”

Professor Burbage then explained the concept of magic, why peculiar things tended to happen around Hermione (“accidental magic,” she called it), then ended her explanation by doing an impressive bit in which she made Hermione’s hair lift and plait itself, a flower appearing behind her ear when the bow appeared at the bottom.

“So there are other people with magic like me? Other kids? Are any of my current school mates magical? How many are born to non-magical parents? And why don’t most people know about them? How long have witches and wizards existed? Is there a history I can read? What about magical science? I’ve often thought there was some inexplicable dimension of science that could take us beyond the limits that currently exist . . .” And on she went.

Professor Burbage didn’t get exasperated or tell Hermione to be quiet; she listened patiently and with real interest.

“All your questions have answers, Hermione. But, to answer at least one, you are a rare and special person.” Professor Burbage turned to address her parents, “I’m sure you’re both aware of that. At Hogwarts she can learn alongside other children like her. We need inquiring minds like hers, and I think she shows real promise to be an asset to both our school and magical society.”

Her parents left the decision to her, and she heartily accepted.

As Professor Burbage stood to go, she turned to Hermione. “I look forward to seeing you in the fall. And on a personal note, your hair is magnificent. May I?” She gestured to hold Hermione’s braid. She nodded, and Burbage continued. “Some cultures believe hair is tied to personal power and meaning. That it can add strength. I don’t know if that’s what gives you an edge, but it certainly adds to your striking energy.” And, winking, she departed.

So it was that Hermione prepared for her newest school: a magical castle in the highlands of Scotland. She seized the opportunity to start afresh. Though she might have been slightly less advantaged than children born to historically magical families, she had been in regular contact with Professor Burbage about the books she needed to read, what supplementary material she might find, and could she please recommend her favorite books on magical history? No, there was no page limit.

Even if she was a so-called Muggleborn witch, she would rise to the challenge, persevere through mean-spirited comments, and prove she not only belonged there, but the world was hers for the taking.

It was in Potions that she first had the misfortune of coming across a distinctly Corey-like personality. A snivelly, pointy, washed-out boy with the air of someone who’d been told far too often what a perfect little prince he was.

“Oh, God,” he drawled from right behind her to the bulky boys next to him. “Professor Snape’s gone and sat me behind a Brillo pad with legs.” As the buffoons guffawed, she quietly seethed, determined not to respond. She was better than that.

But then her scalp tickled. Something was rustling in her hair.

Not just any something. His wand was buried in it—twisting and yanking and emitting sparks that sent off smells like burnt feathers. “Oi, Curls! CURLS!”

Some sort of explosion went off behind her eyes. All those years of being teased, reduced to her appearance because they were afraid of her ability. Now here she was in a sea of other brand-new students, already being reduced to her hair again.

With menacing deliberateness, she turned toward him, wand in hand. Sparks crackled near her ears, and she had the distinct impression her hair also took exception to being teased, adding to the air of wrath by becoming almost alive with rage.

Then she exploded.

“You mean, hateful boy! How DARE YOU! ‘CURLS’?!”

And she tried out the bat-bogey hex she’d been so eager to use. To great success, she might add.

Although it also landed her in detention. Not the best start.

After that she tried to keep her head down, even if her curls refused to do the same.

And still that boy—Malfoy—used the nickname whenever possible. Baiting her, no doubt, in an attempt to get her into trouble.

In the halls. “Hey, Curls! Isn’t it about time you learned a taming charm?”

In the Great Hall, after an eagle owl dropped a bottle reading “Sleakeasy’s Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment” into her oatmeal. “Special delivery, Curls! Try some of that, will you? We use it on our prize long-haired poodle. You bear striking resemblance.”

Generally she tried to ignore him—the same advice she gave to her new friends Harry and Ron, who had even less control of their tempers than she—but every so often she sent a well-placed and hidden stinging jinx his way. Nothing he could ever prove. And if he looked her way afterward, she raised one eyebrow in subtle disdain, and he would mirror her.

If she was ever irate, and there was no subterfuge possible, she hissed a simple “I hate you!” with as much venom as possible; it helped relieve the pressure of her rage just enough.

Fat lot of good that did, though. He always smirked like he’d won something.

Prat.

One night it got to be too much—the teasing, the continued lack of belonging with most of her peers, and always, always that cloud of black-brown knots surrounding her head like a swarm of wasps—and she tried a spell of her own devising to calm it. She’d done all sorts of research about the theory, the language, even the provenance of different spells—and from what the teachers told her, she was a natural conjuror. She had every reason to believe it would work.

So when she had cast the charm—to detangle and relax her curls—it was with horror that she saw their volume simply grow. As if her curls rebelled her attempts. Hoping a night’s sleep would deaden them, she put on her sleep cap.

Morning was worse.

When Harry and Ron saw her, their eyes went as round as saucers. But when Malfoy saw, he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t make a sound.

At least she could hope he might asphyxiate and free them all of his presence.

*****

In third year, he became especially nasty.

There had been some business with him using a slur against her in second year, but that didn’t affect her nearly as much as the way he feigned gagging and plugging his nose whenever she was near.

“Merlin, Curls! Don’t you ever wash that mane? Someone should show you how to properly take care of yourself. Muggles are so grubby.” He sneered and said it loud enough for his growing band of Slytherins to hear, then made a show of brushing his robes. When Pansy Parkinson, who’d taken up the role of girlfriend in his little entourage, started in on female-specific teasing, it was all she could do not to run from the room sobbing.

Ron and Harry had shouted them down at the beginning of the year, for which she was grateful. But when Ron got it into his head that Crookshanks had killed Scabbers, she was left to bear the teasing alone. Like she always had.

There were two small consolations.

One: she’d started to insult Malfoy back, which made her feel not only marginally better, but cleverer.

“Hiya Curls! You got an owl stowing away in that nest? I need a letter sent.”

“I hear the quidditch pitch is looking for a resident ghost, Malfoy. You should apply—you’ve got the complexion for it, and you’re already dead awful.”

Oh, she loved to see his pale complexion get ruddy.

And, two: Unlike her primary school years, she didn’t have to worry about anyone else using the horrible epithet. If any of Malfoy’s cronies ever called her Curls, he sent them a quelling look that shut them up.

Why he was possessive of the insult, she neither knew nor cared. She definitely hadn’t spent any time thinking about it.

*****

Fourth year proceeded much the same: Malfoy largely ignored Hermione, and on the occasions he didn’t, they exchanged insults. Though there was a moment at the Yule Ball when he looked at her curls with open-mouthed awe—not in the shocked way he had that first day, but as one might look at a gothic cathedral. Or violent ocean waves from the safety of land.

She felt as if her core self grew when she saw that expression. Like some understanding of the world and their places in it had shifted.

After that, he and his entourage seemed preoccupied with who she was or wasn’t dating. Once or twice she caught him looking at her with something bordering on curiosity, only to adopt his usual sneer just a millisecond too late.

*****

In fifth year Malfoy started to get taller—distractingly so, in that way teenage boys suddenly shot up and you didn’t see it one day but couldn’t see anything else the next. Like a building that seemingly erects overnight. His jaw took on a slightly squarer shape (though he was still unattractively pointy), and his shoulders broadened, giving him the rhomboid body shape of an athlete.

Everyone was changing, she told herself; it fascinated her in everyone, not just him.

As far as she herself was concerned, Hermione had heard wonder stories about girls going through puberty and getting straighter hair. She’d always harbored a secret hope for herself. But as she drew nearer to what she knew was the end of her growth arc, nothing, of course, changed. If anything, her hair just got bigger.

“My lifelong sorrow,” she said to her reflection early in the year when she finally accepted her fate, listlessly pulling it straight only to watch it spring back.

“Yes dear, it is rather sad,” the mirror responded in a croaky sort of voice.

Still, she’d figured out a better routine for taking care of her mane—a combination of Muggle and magical strategies—and she could tame it more to her whims. Sometimes she wore it in looser ringlets. Sometimes she tied it in knots around her head, which resulted in lovely curls when she let them out. But more often than not, she threw it into a bun before rushing to classes.

As a byproduct of self-preservation, she always kept a mental map of where people in a room were, and she used this to occasionally, innocently, happen to pass her eyes over Malfoy.

Something kept drawing her eyes back.

Maybe she was waiting for the attack and planning a pre-emptive strike. Maybe she was trying to pinpoint the myriad of ways he’d been altered by teenage growth. Maybe what drew her was the way his newly darkened eyebrows defined his face. Maybe it was the sharp line of his jaw she could just imagine swooping her finger over.

She decided the worst moment of their rivalry was when he caught her staring.

She’d been so lost in looking at his shoulders and arms that she didn’t realize he was talking to her.

“Hey, Curls. CURLS. GRANGER!” Warrington sniggered next to him as Hermione came back to reality. “Well, you can’t blame a dog for wanting some steak,” he whispered to his seat mate before he looked back to her. “If you want a better look you can come by the prefects’ bathrooms, eight to nine this evening. Can’t guarantee I’ll be gentle, though.”

He made her sick. “I hate you.”

Her oldest comeback wasn’t shiny or showy, but she had four years’ experience under her belt to make the words really mean something. She could pour every last bit of ill will into those words, and like a magic spell, she knew he could feel them.

Not that he would actually care, but perhaps it would paint a black spot in his golden life that would someday give him cause for reflection. The Mudblood Who Hated Him.

She felt his gaze boring a hole in the side of her head long after she’d turned; his proposition made her feel shaky, and not in a pleasant way. It made her want to cry, again, like in first or second or third year, and she realized it wasn’t for any of the other reasons he’d made her cry in the past.

In fact, it always felt different. How was it that Malfoy made the shame and confusion a fresh wound each time? How could he continually plumb new reasons for her to cry?

The incident stuck with her long afterward. She even idly wondered what might have happened had she shown up—gamed through hypothetical conversations and responses to his commentary—and her mind took her a million unpleasant and mysterious places. Her insistence not to look his way in the months afterward was how she realized just how often she’d been looking before.

Then, near the end of the year, they were caught in Professor Umbridge’s office.

Harry had, as usual, not listened to anything but his own worries, and Hermione had relented in trying to contact Sirius.

It was how she found herself restrained by Malfoy, her arms held in his vicelike grip. No immobilization for her—just him, aided by a well-placed cuff charm, his increasing mass from another growth spurt, and the power he got from his well-documented loathing of her.

“Stop squirming, Curls,” he demanded in his low voice, giving her a little shake for good measure. She didn’t stop, so he reined her backward, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and aiming his wand at her throat. She could feel it poking into the sensitive muscles near her carotid artery.

Then she felt a barely perceptible brushing along her neck; he was gathering her hair to the side. “Your bush is tickling my nose.”

The double meaning wasn’t lost on her. Her stomach bottomed out—both in fear and, this time, some bizarre form of excitement. Before she could stop herself, she responded with, “I’m sure your mouth could be put to better uses than complaining. If my hair is bothering you, stop holding me so close.” Instead, he stepped further into her.

Warmth against her entire backside and cascading over her ear from his breath. She felt shaky again. Before he could say anything more, Hermione was deceiving Professor Umbridge about a weapon in the forest, and Malfoy was letting her go.

*****

In sixth year, not a single teasing remark came her way.

At first, she couldn’t even place it as part of the reason the school year felt off. So much was up in the air—war, Harry distracted by conspiracy theories and mysterious errands from Dumbledore, and Ron being just as obtuse as ever.

Then she saw the way Malfoy looked, realized he hadn’t said anything to her in weeks—even though he still sat near her in Potions—and it was just one more thing that felt off about the castle.

She’d come to rely on the counterpoint he provided to her entire existence—ideologically, academically, ancestrally. So when she saw him alone in the library one rainy fall morning, she tried to get a rise out of him.

She threw a remedial potions book onto his table with a loud THUD, and when his eyes startled to hers, she smiled triumphantly.

“I’m pulling away from you in potions, Malfoy. Better look alive. Though, to be fair, you never really have.”

He blinked, then dragged his eyes back to the window, looking as if he might fall over from sheer exhaustion. “Shut up, Granger.”

There was no ire in his voice. No energy. He didn’t even look at her when he said it. And the slightest twinge of disappointment—it was his name for her, after all—when he said "Granger" instead of "Curls."

She felt worried. For Malfoy, Merlin help her.

Harry had taken a total of two milliseconds at the beginning of the year before becoming obsessed with the idea that Malfoy was up to something, and Hermione eventually had to admit that something wasn’t right.

“He looks almost ill,” she said in passing to Harry one day.

Malfoy had never asked forgiveness or grace for any of his wrongs against her, Ron, or Harry. And he certainly never seemed to care what they thought. But the seed in her mind connected her to him, just as it did to every other soul in the school, and she longed to know what kept him from thriving.

It wasn’t until Harry nearly (unintentionally) killed Malfoy that she realized she didn’t really hate him. She didn’t even wish he were gone. Just wished perhaps he didn’t take so much of his own misery out on the rest of them. It was awful to wish that a near-death experience might actually affect someone—might finally make them more chastened and unprejudiced and liable to see everyone as worthy of life as oneself. But she wished that for him.

*****

“I wonder how everyone’s getting on,” she said out loud to the trees, during what she knew was the Hogwarts Easter holiday in what would have been their seventh year.

“The wireless says they’re keeping up the good fight,” Harry said as he gathered wood.

At first she tried to think of everyone—Neville and Ginny and Colin—and not Malfoy. But maybe also him, specifically. Harry had said Draco was lowering his wand, that night on the tower. She couldn’t imagine his failure had been received too well, and she wondered what life would be like as a boy Death Eater who failed the Dark Lord.

Fate has a funny way of clueing one into what is going to happen. All too soon after her idle curiosity, Hermione had a chance to see firsthand just how he was. Though truthfully, she had a hard time caring, dragged as she was by her curls into the drawing room of Malfoy Manor.

Harry was the most important one, she reminded herself. She tried not to care whether she lived or died. Tried not to care that, surely, in order to protect himself and his family, Draco would identify her. No matter that they’d been in school together for years. Or that she’d shown passing concern for him. That was nothing compared to the unswerving path of blood and tradition.

But she couldn’t muster her defiance when she was before him. She couldn’t bear to cast her eyes to his. They pulled her hair back, forcing her face into view and demanding he identify her.

“I . . . maybe . . . yeah,” he said.

It was still a confirmation, her stomach tightening as it sunk like a stone, but a smaller part of her recognized his unwillingness. She knew he could recognize her wild curls anywhere. He’d sat near them, prodded them, held them. If he’d had the inclination, he would have gleefully pronounced, Yes, that’s the Mudblood. And the idea that he didn’t outright reveal her, that he wove even slightly around the truth, it gave her some hope that not all was lost. Even if she died.

Moments or hours later, under the wand of his aunt, she saw his eyes in a flash. They weren’t triumphant, or pleased, or even superior. Through the curls that hung limply across her blurred vision, she saw a flash of panic. Then he clenched his eyelids, tore his gaze away, and ran out of the room. She had just enough consciousness to feel something sticky soaking into her hair—and hear a sound of retching from the direction Malfoy ran.

As her vision swam, she tried to refocus—and just before all hell broke loose and Ron and Harry saved her, blurry legs had begun their way toward her, a hand outstretched just before it jerked back to duel her friends.

She made it out that night—barely—away from Malfoy’s cursed home and cursed family. But it wasn’t very long before she saw him again, and under almost opposite circumstances.

After the final battle, after Voldemort was defeated (and she, Harry, and Ron had saved Malfoy’s life twice), she saw him across the Great Hall, peering at the celebrations with a grimace—less of disdain and more of uncertainty.

He must have sensed her watching because their eyes locked.

Met with her eyes, his were full of an enraged sort of fear. Neither of them could look away. Then, almost instantly, his gaze shifted to one of desperation. Like he was a drowning man and she the one holding a life preserver. He broke eye contact and buried his head in his hands, just before Ron drew her attention elsewhere. When she looked back again, the Malfoys were gone.

*****

“McGonagall is asking me to be Head Girl.” She was packing her belongings from Grimmauld, Harry and Ron milling about, looking vaguely like they wanted to help, but not really.

“I still don’t understand why you’re going back,” Ron grumbled, “but isn’t Head Girl something you want?”

“I suppose.” Really, Hermione was just tired. “Ernie Macmillan is set to be Head Boy—but I’m also going to have to deal with Malfoy as a prefect.”

“Malfoy? They’re letting a Death Eater be involved in school administration?!”

Hermione shrugged. “He’s probably the world’s worst Death Eater.”

“There seem to be a few of those,” Harry piped up, with a half-smile. Hermione was, after all, staying in the room of another boy Death Eater who hadn’t turned out to be a true believer.

“Cases like that,” she tried, “you know it has more to do with his parents’ ideas than his. I imagine he’s just trying to move on, now.”

“I heard from him, you know,” Harry said. “Thanked me for saving his life and apologized for, well, being a dick.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ron said with begrudging admission.

Hermione was surprised she hadn’t received anything, which was followed quickly by surprise at her surprise.

“I know for a fact that he’s been at a court-mandated residential treatment facility for mental health. Saw the paperwork on Hanson’s desk—she’s in charge of rehabilitation,” Harry added for Hermione’s benefit. “I heard he had some sort of breakdown after the final battle.”

They spared a moment of silence for their collective rival, though Hermione’s was at least slightly sullen as she considered her lack of apology. Maybe he was repentant, but not that changed.

But she had thought.

Oh well.

Yet only two days later, hours before she was meant to board the Hogwarts Express, a handsome eagle owl tapped on her window. She unrolled a parchment sealed with blue wax and an ornate M.

Dear Granger,
What does someone like me say to someone like you?

Not a promising start. She considered crumpling the paper and tossing it into the fire, but there was almost an entire sheet’s worth of writing, so she swallowed her anger and continued.

I’ve put this off for as long as possible—in fact Mother is screaming at me to get a wiggle on, because we have to make our allotted Floo appointment.

I’ve waited longer to write this than any other of my admittedly profuse correspondence, mostly because I don’t see much point. Not for myself, mind you—words just seem inadequate when weighed against the years of abuse I’ve heaped upon you.

Nevertheless, I keep hearing that words and accountability also matter—but I’m rambling. So here goes: I’m so sorry. For everything. I wish I could take back the things I’ve said that made you feel scared, or unworthy. And most of all I wish I could take back that night in the drawing room—when I as good as condemned you to torture and did nothing once it started, even though my stomach turned at the thought.

A splash fell on the parchment, blurring some of the words. Hermione wiped bemusedly at her wet cheeks.

I’m just starting to awaken to the harm my beliefs did to others, and myself. I still feel the villain, and I can’t guarantee I’m going to be pleasant, but I’m trying to weed out my nasty instincts, where you’re concerned. I’m realizing we’re not so different. And for what it’s worth, I’ll do my best with whatever time or resources I have to make it up to you.

Again, I know this falls dizzyingly short from anything that could merit forgiveness, and I doubt we’ll be friends, but hopefully it’s a start toward something better?

Well, I think I’ve properly given my mother an ulcer. See you around, Curls.

Draco Malfoy

There it was. Despite herself, the corner of her mouth lifted a millimeter.

*****

Eighth year and being Head Girl quickly filled Hermione’s mind with various responsibilities, but for the life of her, she could not stay awake. Ever.

It was as if the past year’s worth of sleep deprivation was catching up with her. Her inability to get to sleep or stay asleep most nights didn’t help, and neither did the nightmares. But Hermione felt a righteous commitment to her role and her studies, and she would never allow herself to back down or quit, so she persisted.

Even as she fell asleep in practically every lesson.

Strangely, none of the teachers minded. The only person who did, it seemed, was Malfoy—her partner in three different classes: Transfiguration, Potions, and Charms.

Their partnership had started out awkwardly: him sitting stiffly next to her and occasionally inquiring about her day—but about a month in, soon after she made a point of verbally acknowledging the letter he’d sent, he got more familiar. And started trying to rouse her in class.

“Hey, Curls,” he would whisper. She regularly woke to him gently lifting her tresses off the desk with his wand. “We need to get moving on this potion. I’m bolloxed if you don’t help me.”

“Curls, open those eyes and show me how to move my wand properly for the Extension Charm. I know for a fact that you’re an expert.”

The tone of his nickname for her had lost any spite. His mouth looped around it, as if testing and cradling the sounds tentatively.

One day they had arranged to meet in the library to go over their Transfiguration project—and Hermione was running late. Breathing hard and already in a foul mood, she slid into the seat opposite Malfoy. For two minutes she struggled to disentangle herself from the strap of her bag while Malfoy watched her difficulty with glee.

“Frizzy and frazzled, as usual.”

It was the closest he’d come lately to an insult, and Hermione’s reaction was immediate.

Her murderous eyes darted to his, her cheeks flushed, and she opened her mouth to retort.

“There it is!” He fairly yelled, before she could get a word in.

She was baffled. “What?”

“Your flustered, angry look! You always used to get it when I called you 'Curls'! But you haven’t lately. I was beginning to worry I’d never see it again.” He smiled as he began rifling through his transfiguration book, clearly pleased that balance had been restored.

Several thoughts ran through Hermione’s mind. One: Malfoy liked seeing her flustered. Not much surprise there, although now it seemed he enjoyed it more in endearment than enjoying her suffering. Two: she realized his nickname for her had moved from the “insult” column to the “nickname” column in her own mind. And, related, three: the movement had both to do with her own feelings and the way he used it.

“Well, you haven’t really used that epithet in anything but endearing tones for a while now.”

He froze mid-page turn. And, not looking up to her as he resumed, he said, “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

The color on his cheeks revealed her success: she’d flustered him.

He was quieter the rest of their study session but lost none of his warmth. And when, halfway through, he joined her on the same side of the table so they could more easily compare notes, his thigh had inched closer to hers until their legs were flush. Neither of them moved until it was time to go.

*****

“You’ve got it all wrong, Curls. The stirring methods are just an ancient attempt at hazing novice potioneers—I almost guarantee this clockwise-counterclockwise nonsense is meaningless.”

Ignoring their current argument, Hermione said abruptly, “I feel like I should have a better nickname for you than Malfoy.”

“What’s wrong with ’Prat’?”

“Everyone calls you that.” She considered as they set their bags down and took up their ingredients. “Fat Cat.”

“I beg your pardon!” He actually looked a little hurt.

“Moneybags Malfoy.”

“Too long.”

“Ferret.”

“Overdone.”

“Blue Steel!” She giggled when he looked at her like she was going insane and pretended to feel her forehead.

“Miss Granger! Mr. Malfoy!” Slughorn furrowed his brow at them as they snapped to attention like soldiers. “Kindly keep your voices down while your classmates are trying to concentrate!”

“Yes sir,” they both intoned, then stifled their laughter.

*****

She was in the middle of the war again. Somehow. She’d had to go back. Running. Dodging curses. Except this time Malfoy was next to her. He was hit. Fell. Her stomach plummeted. “Malfoy! DRACO! Please, get up!”

“Curls.” He said it faintly, reaching for her.

“Curls. Granger. Wake up.” She felt a warm hand on her back. Something wet on her cheek.

“Mmmm-wha?” Light streamed through the Transfiguration classroom windows. Everyone else had gone. He’d waited with her.

But Malfoy was looking at her strangely. “I get dreams, too.” He handed her his handkerchief, an ornate DM embroidered on the corner.

Hermione wiped her cheeks and stretched, the anxious feeling slowly dissipating in the security of the classroom. When she had started feeling security around Draco Malfoy, she wasn’t sure.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if we all get them for a while—years if none of us gets treatment.” She realized too late how brusque and dismissive she’d been, so she added, “It’s terrible, isn’t it? Does it affect your sleep?”

“What sleep?” He tried to laugh like it was a joke. They gathered their belongings.

“Have you thought of going to see anyone?” she asked. “You know, about working through . . . trauma.”

A beat of silence fell between them, and she cast a look over to find his body tense.

“I, um . . . I got a little bit of help like that . . . earlier this year.”

Oh, God. She’d forgotten about the rumors of his breakdown. She had no idea how to cover her gaffe.

“Oh,” she said quietly, clearing her throat. “And how did that . . . go?”

“It was . . . alright. It’s not really spoken about in families like mine.” He kept his eyes fixed forward. “Kind of supposed to be a one and done thing. I wouldn’t even know where to start, if it were to be more regular.”

“I think I might ask Professor McGonagall for some direction. Or Madam Pomfrey—she’s bound to know someone,” Hermione tried to keep her voice light. They were out in the snow and January sun of the courtyard when she chanced a look his way. “Would you . . . want to come talk to them with me?” When he looked at her with horror, she quickly switched direction. “Or I could give you a copy of whatever information I get? If you want it?”

He relaxed. “Yeah. Let’s do that. Thanks, Curls.” And he gave her a salute before heading off to his next class.

“Wait! Your handkerchief!” She waved it weakly.

“Keep it,” he said as he turned and walked backward for a moment, keeping her in his sight long enough to wink.

*****

“Curls,” Malfoy said one evening a few weeks later as they studied late by the eighth-year common room fire. “I was thinking I could really do with some adult beverages this weekend—maybe a gourmet dinner to go with it. Care to join me at Chat Noir in Hogsmeade this Sunday?”

The tone of his voice was forcibly offhand—like he’d practiced this question and its cadence several times. She slowly raised her eyes to his, and though he looked as casual as usual, he briefly looked away and back, as if he couldn’t hold the stare.

“But Malfoy, Sunday is Valentine’s Day.”

She watched him swallow. “Yes, I’m aware.”

The firelight danced on his face as they stared at one another, logs popping in the quiet room.

Slowly, he closed his book, placing it on the table, and edged closer to her on the sofa. Turned so that his left leg was bent up on the cushions.

“I didn’t even dare think we could be friends. I certainly don’t deserve it.”

“Draco—”

“No, I really don’t. Only until recently you were just someone to fantasize about from afar.”

The dim lighting of the room hopefully hid her blush. “You—fantasized? About me?”

He nodded solemnly. “Years, Granger. And I’ve tried to shout it down—objectified you, bullied you. As I said, I don’t deserve to even try for . . . anything.” He shook his head and lowered his eyes.

Try for something.

“The name—” she started.

“The nickname was always my little indulgence—the one thing I shared only with you. Got you to react to me—think only of me. Like the whisp of hope that I could stay tethered to you somehow—however boorishly I used it.”

He seemed to be thinking out loud, now. “Maybe that’s why my efforts to shout down my feelings didn’t work. They’ve only grown. Especially once you, God knows why, took a chance on trusting me. And somewhere between being effective partners and laughing together in class,” Draco’s eyes met hers again, bright and sincere, “I realized I actually enjoyed your company.”

He sounded so shocked. She couldn’t help huffing out a laugh.

“When you’re in another class and I hear something interesting, I think about sharing it with you and imagine what you’ll say. Whenever someone argues with me and I try to think of a response, your words are the first that come to my mind. I always find myself trying to find my way back to you—drawn to you and the way you steady me.”

When had he gotten so close? Their legs were touching again—though after all these months, it seemed more natural than not—and his face was mere inches from hers.

“My therapist says I should allow myself to try for things I want, to trust that working to become better is enough. But if you just want to keep studying together and be ‘effective partners’—I’m happy to keep things that way.” Except when he said “happy,” it sounded forced and his face looked like he was swallowing a mouthful of crackers with no water. “We could just grab dinner as friends sometime—”

“I’d like to go with you. Sunday. As your date.”

From his miserable gaze toward the ground, his eyes snapped to hers. In his face was the most boyish look of questioning she’d ever seen on him—a nonverbal Really?

Hermione smiled and nodded.

Inching closer, he brought his hand under her chin—stroked his thumb down the curve of her jaw until it rested just below her lips. But then his eyes refocused to the side of her head, to the hair near her ear, and he attempted to tuck it back. Her eyes fluttered over his gentleness and her mouth opened to release a small sigh.

Draco twisted one lock gently around his forefinger and she scarcely dared breathe. The ringlet fully wrapped around his long, slender finger, and he stroked it with his thumb—then pulled gently down, until it sprang back.

“I wasn’t supposed to want your attention . . . Curls.”

And gathering his hands to cup her face, his fingers buried in her wild ringlets, he kissed her.

*****

After their dinner at Chat Noir, they strolled through Hogsmeade in the falling snow, bundled in cloaks and arms wrapped together, talking over memories and hopes. Draco’s acerbic wit consistently made Hermione laugh, and try as he might to conceal it, he looked excessively proud of himself every time she did.

They walked the sloping path back toward the castle, stopping periodically to look at the twinkling lights of the village. A streetlamp at the top of the hill provided them some light, whereby Draco pulled out a package.

“I have something for you.”

Taking the box, Hermine opened it to find an elegant hair comb of pearls and—were those diamonds?!—in a white peacock feather design. “Draco! I couldn’t . . .”

“Oh, please. I barely even asked before my mother insisted.”

His mother?

“May I?” holding the comb, he gestured to her hair.

She nodded, and despite feeling a bit shaky with butterflies, she couldn’t resist teasing. “Trying to tame my hair?”

“May Merlin strike me down—never,” he said, as he gently pulled back several curls and affixed them. “There. Absolutely stunning.” Draco wound an arm behind her waist and kissed her.

And in the light, as Hermione withdrew again to smile at him, she noticed that snowflakes had melted in his uncapped hair—revealing something unexpected.

She laughed and brushed her fingers over his sideburns, incredulous. “You have curls?!”

He had the audacity to smirk. “Waves—and in fairness,” he added hastily as her face screwed up in mock outrage, “they only came in during fifth year, once my beard came in.”

Slapping him playfully, she said in high dudgeon, “You complete prat, Draco Malfoy! You were so merciless to me!”

“Poetic justice, love.” He bunched her hair and affectionately brought it over the side of her shoulder. “Though I can’t say I’m sorry for my waves. Nature has seen fit to give me a reminder of something I worship.”

He wrapped her up and kissed her until she was breathless and her eyes were hazy.

“I’m sorry I teased, but allow me now to say, unequivocally, your curls are perfect. They elude sense and frighten and fascinate. They defy taming.” And with a stare that burned through to her soul and spoke words he wouldn’t utter audibly for months yet, his gray eyes blossomed as they met hers. “Your curls are you. And precisely for that reason, they will always be perfect to me.”

He cupped her face. “I love your curls.”

Never in a million years would Hermione have imagined herself here, feeling so happy over something Draco Malfoy had said to her. But she was.

She smiled beatifically, swinging her arms around his neck and punctuating her next words with kisses. “I love you, too, Draco.”

End