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Hermione is wearing a sweater.
A bit oversized (because it's a man's).
With the scent of patchouli and dusty ink layers, hiding all her past.
This new-strange-no-longer-the-same Granger loves autumn. Because of the particular density of the air laced with mulled wine, cinnamon, and sorrow.
Yes. Autumn is about her. The season of unending silence. The time when the world seems a little closer to death.
This Hermione doesn't talk much (she's unlearned idle chatter). And silence is now rightfully her friend. Worth noting — her only friend.
And she's acquired an anchor. It sounds banally simple, but it's — cocoa. A small ritual. The chocolate is bitter (and that's good). She always asks Theo not to add sugar. Just milk.
He understands. Silently sets the cup before her, warm and heavy, and smiles faintly.
Ah, Theo.
Draco, though, prefers to drink exclusively sweet cocoa and wrinkles his nose every time he accidentally sips from her mug.
Draco.
Theo.
Draco.
And Hermione.
Their house on the edge of the forest.
An old Muggle estate, restored by means of magic. Their magic.
It smells of mildew, coffee, and candle wax. The rooms are mixed up.
Who sleeps where — does it really matter that much? Who loves whom—even more so.
Evenings, by tradition—books. Mornings, coffee brewed by Theo with meditative focus.
Noon — as if on schedule — quarrels with Draco over every line of the read work.
They get along as three. Like mismatched parts of a single whole.
With Theo, they're like autumn: light touches, tea steeping in the rays of the setting sun. Hermione loves how he looks at her — simply and as if right into the essence.
With Draco… Different. Literally everything different. Passion, cruelty, shattered dishes, shards of phrases after which it's impossible to piece oneself back together.
He breaks her. Time after time. Simply because he doesn't know any other way.
At night, the three of them. Sometimes in one bed, sometimes apart (each with their own pain).
The love between them — not like cocoa, or autumn. Rather, like forbidden and dangerous magic. Perhaps even sacred. Such an adult love-tenderness, in which there's room for anger, jealousy, fears.
But there's room for this too — one must inhale each episode with the skin to feel it:
Theo falls asleep, embracing Hermione from behind, and Draco lies on his back nearby, staring at the ceiling, and with a quiet sigh places his palm on her collarbones.
or
She sits by the window, with a book on her lap, and watches Theo slice apples. And in that one mundane knife motion — crunch, crunch, crunch — so much life that Hermione is ready to cry.
and here's
She and Draco in the garden. At night. Arguing in whispers. His hand almost on her throat. Her palm weightlessly rests on his heart.
Hush, Draco. Please, Draco. It's all right, Draco.
and often too
Hermione sits on the floor by the wall, reading Proust, in the light of a single candle. Theo sleeps nearby, his head on her lap. Draco comes later and silently covers him with a blanket. And her — with silent presence.
in the morning
She — barefoot, in Theo's shirt — fries bread. Draco, still unwashed, appears in the doorway. And shamelessly watches how she moves. Not a word. Hermione pretends not to see him. And hopes that from such a distance he won't notice the goosebumps rising on her skin.
rarely, but still
She writes a letter to her parents that she'll never send, and they'll never read. She doesn't want to reflect on this. No strength.
Hermione fears only one thing in this upside-down world — guilt. Therefore she chooses to apologize, pulling out onto her thinning notebook the sharpest, most painful thorns.
Forgive me for being alive
For loving two
For not saving everyone
and for not
saving
you
Cocoa doesn't help.