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In the center of an obnoxiously pink post-it note, Hermione writes, in big bold letters, the word friends.
Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends.
She says it until the word loses its meaning. An incantation, an amulet, something to protect and hold on to. Believe in it. Give it power. Speak it into reality.
She folds the paper into a small square and tucks it in her handbag. It doesn’t feel so good, but it’s safe.
“I say you should go for it,” says Draco, forking a piece of chips into his mouth.
The pub is warm and a tad too loud for her liking, but Draco claims this is his favorite place and Hermione knows nothing about Glasgow to even bother suggesting a different place.
“Wouldn’t it be… strange? Sudden? Precarious?”
“Don’t use the word precarious for that.”
“You know nothing.”
“It’s called intuition, Granger. Now listen to me.” He sips his beer. “Ask him to come over.”
“No.”
“Under the guise that you need to discuss a project.”
“Work-life balance, Malfoy.”
“Then he’ll miss his train, and you’ll offer to let him stay the night.”
“Diabolical. I’m going to forget you just said that to me.”
“Indeed it is. Why can’t you just ask him out?”
“It’s complicated. Look, they’re changing the record.”
Behind the counter, the barman turns down the volume, lifts the needle, and with one well-rehearsed movement, replaces the old record with the new one. He brushes the dust on the stylus, drops the needle, turns up the volume again, and slots the old record back into its sleeve.
“People don’t really notice even if the music stops playing. Too absorbed in their own voices to care.”
“I do. It’s Cilla Black,” she remarks.
“A classic.”
“I’m surprised you know her.”
“Potter said his aunt used to spin her records a lot.”
“And he didn’t come to hate her music by association?”
“It’s a miracle. You should really ask him out, though.”
“I’m not. Stop trying to make this happen on my behalf.”
“You deserve to be happy.”
“I’m very much enjoying my time wallowing in the endless pain that comes with unrequited love.”
“You know, it’s really not that romantic.”
“What do you know about yearning?”
“Quite a bit, in fact. Took me a few tries to get it right this time.”
“Well, congratulations.” She means maybe eighty-percent of that.
“Thank you. Now go get your guy.”
“He’s not my guy. It’s just a silly crush. I don’t want a boyfriend anyway.”
“Having a crush and wanting a boyfriend are two different things, you realize that?”
“Why do you care so much about my love life, Malfoy?”
“Because,” he says, looking at her, and she thinks in those grey eyes there is an abyss threatening to pull her under, “you’re my friend.”
At half past ten they get up to leave; Draco pays.
The night is quiet and pleasant, and the alcohol in her system keeps her warm enough that when Draco suggests they take the long way home, she doesn’t protest.
“Thank you for letting me stay,” she says.
“Of course. Do visit more often."
“Where’s Harry?”
“On a trip with his work friends. He’ll be back on Tuesday.”
“Ah.”
They walk, side by side, Draco slightly outpacing her, through the dark streets lit up by rows of metal lamp posts. Now and then they pass by a pub where the night is evidently still going on, the sounds of chattering muted, coming in and out of focus as they leave the pub behind. Draco’s humming a tune she cannot place; so instead, she rummages her brain for something to say.
“Seems that Harry’s getting along well at his new job.”
“He’s certainly less miserable now compared to the previous one.”
“Strange, isn’t it? Back at school we were each other’s everything. Now he’s gone and made new friends.”
“Are you jealous?”
“I’m happy for him. It’s a part of growing up.”
“And when are you growing up?”
“We’ve been through this before. Being in academia is a valid profession.”
“It’s also the only thing you’ve ever known.”
“What’s wrong with being safe?”
“Safe is boring. Boring is a crime.”
“It isn’t.”
“It should be.”
“Can we please stop discussing whether you think pursuing academia is a waste of my time?”
“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic. “You’re a dear friend.”
“Thank you.”
They don’t talk for a while, and as they turn the next corner Hermione thinks she’s mucked this up again.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be. I was an ass.”
“Does Harry care that you’re spending the night with a girl?”
“The girl in question is you, Granger.”
“You’re right. That was an idiotic thing to ask.”
“Anyway, the answer is no, he doesn’t.”
“He’s very trusting.”
“Should I ask if he’s ever interested in a hot sexy threesome?”
“If you’re willing to cover my travel expenses.”
“Here we are.” Draco stops in front of a building, fishes out the keys from his pocket, opens the door, and steps inside. “On a serious note though – can you keep a secret?”
“Like what, do you grow cannabis here?” She follows him through the darkness and up the stairs.
“I haven’t told anybody about this yet. You’ll be the first to know.”
“Now that’s exciting.”
The stairs are steep, and by the time she reaches the end of it Hermione’s slightly breathless. Draco doesn’t seem to notice. He turns the knob, flicks on the light switch, drops his keys at the entrance, shucks off his coat, and hangs it on the rack.
“Come in,” he says, setting the kettle. “Tea?”
“Sure. Can I sit here?”
“Make yourself at home. Care for some biscuits?”
“I’m still a little full from the pub, thanks.”
While Draco busies himself with preparing the tea, Hermione studies their living room. She recognizes stuffs from their time at school – Harry’s records, Draco’s favorite board games, fragments of their lives fused together, until it becomes impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
“Do you still read these textbooks?”
“I do, actually.” He sets the cups on the table and sits down next to her. “When I struggle to sleep.”
She picks up a cup. “It’s delicious.”
“Believe it or not, this is not my tea.”
“Harry bought it?”
“He did.”
“Show me the brand later.” Another sip. “So what’s the secret?”
Draco’s gaze meets her once again, and in that split second she sees something akin to happiness glinting in his eyes.
“I’m thinking of proposing.”
Somewhere in her handbag, the post-it note crumples.