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How could she pack up a life and store it in a neat little beaded bag? Hermione had cast the charm to expand its limits – bigger on the inside like her parents’ old favourite television show – but what should she take? What should she leave behind?
What would she miss the most if she never saw it again? If her house were razed to the ground? She hesitates for a long minute, caught in her own indecision. She reaches for the photo book – flips through it as she deliberates, the pulse of fear strumming in her veins.
Childhood photos – still and unmoving – pictures with Harry and Ron – wizarding pictures that wave from behind the cellophane. Hermione runs her fingers over a photograph at random – the three of them awkwardly saying cheese outside the front of Hogwarts, and then pauses, bringing the book closer to her nose.
In the background – a silver flash of hair. Draco looking surprised and still. Her fingertip presses against the photograph, wishing it was spelled with magic, wishing she could see his face a little clearer. He’s half-blurred, the flash of the camera having caught his attention. His single visible eye gleams red with the flash and he looks a little demonic.
She sits down on her bed, scanning through the rest of her photos. He’s in the background in a handful of them – always half-turned, as though caught by the excitement of the picture-taking and unable to resist. In the wizarding pictures he turns to face her, looking sheepish. Blushing as he rubs at the back of his head, as though he’s been caught filching pies from the kitchens.
It’s been a long summer. Long enough to dull the sharp edges and make her – for a moment – miss him. There’s a Slytherin scarf tucked under her bed – found on the train one year and swiped before she could even think about what she was doing – one with an embroidered D.M. on the corner. In case she needed it to track him down, or something, she’d always reasoned with herself, but she’d ended up sleeping the whole summer with it pressed to her nose until the faint trace of the smell of him faded. Cedar and bergamot, the kind of smell you’d expect on a grown adult and not a thirteen-year-old boy.
Though he almost was a man now – they were all growing up. Their penultimate year at Hogwarts. He wasn’t a gangly teenager who had trouble fitting into his skin any longer – he’d grown confident last year. The only time he’d slipped had been the Yule Ball – when he’d flustered at the sight of someone and hastened away so quickly that he almost upset a bowl of punch.
Sometimes Hermione wondered who had caused such a reaction.
With an annoyed sigh she closes the photo book and shoves it into her beaded bag. She was getting nostalgic over nothing and she had more important tasks to finish. Her fingers trace over the embroidered initials before she balls up the scarf and throws it into the bag as well.
Just in case, Hermione tells herself, but she knows she’s lying. She wishes she could see him – and a wild idea strikes just as she looks over to the window. An owl. She has one – of course – a delightful little brown owl that she calls Hugo – and it only takes her a moment to dash off a quick note that she regrets as soon as Hugo’s out of sight.
She distracts herself with packing up her precious memories. A teddy bear she’s had all her life. Her favourite pair of jeans. The hiking boots her father had insisted she’d buy and that she’d never worn. A music box with a lopsided ballerina that had an unfortunate incident with a flight of stairs.
There’s a tapping on the window. Hugo with a piece of parchment in his beak. Hermione hadn’t realised it was getting so late – that two hours had passed while she shrunk her life down to the confines of a single beaded purse.
He’d written a response right under her own scratched note.
I found you in the background of some of my photographs and it made me wonder if you had a lovely summer. Or if you’ll be as obnoxious as usual.
Hermione.
You’re in the background of some of mine as well. Suppose we’ve been accidentally stalking each other. My summer was unremarkable. I hope yours was better.
Draco.
She can’t help but reply, even as Hugo gives her what can only be interpreted as an annoyed look.
“Sorry, Hugo,” Hermione says as she gives the owl a gentle pat. “Last one.”
He hoots at her and then sets flight – disappearing into the black sky until she can’t make out the shadow of him.
She finishes packing – though she’s sure she’ll have forgotten something – and brushes her teeth. Gets ready for bed and pauses between every routine action to stare at the window. It’s been longer than two hours – almost three – and there’s still no response. She wonders for a moment if Draco has kidnapped her poor owl – hexed it or something – if she sent Hugo to his wayward and untimely death.
But as she’s about to give up and get into bed, he flies through the window and drops a parchment on her head. And then trills at her as if to say he’s done for the night.
“Thank you, Hugo,” Hermione murmurs as she sits on the edge of her bed and unfolds the letter. A proper letter instead of her piece of scrap parchment – though she finds that inside too.
You look so surprised in some of them. Like a different person. And in the muggle ones you’ve got red eyes – everyone does, something to do with the flash – and you look positively evil. I’ll show you, if you want, when we’re back at Hogwarts. Your mother might want copies. Mine always does.
Hermione.
I’m sure my mother would appreciate the copies, but it would mean sending the photographs back to the Manor for a week or so while she gets them duplicated. I don’t think you’d trust your precious memories to your childhood enemy for so long.
But if you really want to, I know she’d be pleased. Maybe not the muggle ones, though. Father wouldn’t approve.
You probably shouldn’t owl me again after this letter. I’ll see you at Hogwarts in a few days. Save all your ramblings until then and corner me in the library on the second day back.
I’ve missed hearing them.
Draco.
Hermione flushes as she holds the letter against her chest. She’d ranted at him a few times in the library – cornering him in the aisles and poking him in the chest with a finger while she lectured him about morals and how he was an insufferable and arrogant prick – and now he was telling her he missed them. Which was sort of like admitting he missed her.
She unwinds the Slytherin scarf from her bag and curls around it as she slides under the covers. A foolish crush – she’d mostly gotten over it – but in the depths of night when the stars shine as silver as the threads in her hands, she can’t help but be a little nostalgic and ridiculous.
Maybe this year will be better. Maybe their Sixth Year they can be not-quite friends, but not-quite enemies, either.