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I’m not that girl.
Those words echoed in her ears as she watched him step into the ballroom, impeccable in his charcoal gray suit with not a hair astray. The familiar profile of Draco Malfoy pierced her, and she was transported back to their eight-year at Hogwarts.
Returning to school after the dust has settled—so to speak—after the war felt like a facade. There were smiles everywhere and playfulness in the air. Even Harry and Ron and her circle of friends were jovial, so ready to move forward and start anew. But she was stuck, moving slowly among the hustle and bustle of everyone around her, uncertain if it’s because she just couldn’t start over or wouldn’t.
And so she sought solace in the one place she has always found it. In any time she can spare, she would be in the library, her nose buried in books. And it was on one of those days she saw him, and his profile forever etched in her memory. He sat by one of the large library windows, his attention absorbed in the book propped up by one hand. He looked serene, such a stark difference from how she had seen him all these years.
Too absorbed was he that she was able to walk by without getting his attention. No demeaning words. No sneers. It was a strange feeling. Despite her quick stride, she was able to look at the book cover and wasn’t surprised to find that he was reading a potion book. And so, for the next couple of weeks, her eyes will immediately find him in the same spot, and each time he had a different book in his hands.
She has gotten used to seeing him, watching him from afar, that her eyes could immediately pick him if he was in the same room as her. Not that it was difficult. The platinum blonde hair was easy to spot. But in contrast to how she would find his presence repulsive when they were younger, her attention now surprisingly gravitating to him with some… feeling. For a while, she wasn’t sure what that feeling was until it dawned on her. When everyone around her was a blur, he was also stuck like her—trying to move forward, but couldn’t. To Hermione, the reason seemed obvious. She has seen the looks everyone has given him, watched them move around him and his friends, or speak in hushed voices when he is in within distance. To them, he was still a Death Eater. The one who fell from grace.
She refused to act like everyone else. Draco was just as much a victim of the war, forced to do what he needed to do.
I’m not that girl.
With steel resolve, she told herself those words as she sat one of the chairs at his table, his silvery-grey eyes flashing up at her, seemingly caught off-guard. Her marked arm trembled from his gaze, remembering that moment when she was branded in his family’s manor, but she took a deep breath and opened her book—the same book she saw him reading so many weeks ago. She knew he was extremely talented with potion brewing, so any book with his interest about that topic was probably something worth reading.
“Granger.”
“Malfoy.”
Their voices were cordial, and she decided it was best to avoid looking at him right after their greeting. The air was thick with awkwardness but she decided to ignore it. If they see Golden Girl of their age—annoying as it was to be labeled as such—being around him, perhaps they will give him a break and he can move on with his life.
“I don’t need your pity, Granger. Go find a different table or another person to be swotty with,” his voice was harsh—that prat—but it lacked the hatred it used to have.
She decided to be the better person, as always, and continued to read while asking him a question, “Is this book a good reference to have for the upcoming practicals?” She was only met with silence. So much for extending an olive branch.
Only when she sighed did Draco talk, answering under his breath, “There are better books besides that one by Rhaneas. Too many anecdotes.” Before Hermione could reply, he had abruptly stood up and walked out of the library.
She only saw him again the week after as she was writing study notes on a parchment. He dumped a heavy hard-bound book across from her, making her jump and shriek. She cast him a confused look as he sat down across from her. “If you’re still reading that Rhaneas’ book, throw it into a fire.”
“Malfoy, the book is school property. You can’t just destroy something you don’t like.”
He didn’t seem to register what she just said as he kept on talking, “I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. If you found Lockhart’s book such a joy, you would have found Rhaneas’ book equally titillating."
She huffed indignantly as she felt her cheeks warm at the comment. “Well—you know what? Sod off, Malfoy. I wouldn’t have been reading it if you weren’t reading it yourself.”
She realized the error in her words when a smirk graced his face and he leaned back on his chair, “I see. Seems like you’ve been watching me. I thought I was seeing the familiar bushy hair in my line of sight everywhere I go.”
Setting her quill down, she met his gaze, “Seems like you’re the one looking for me everywhere you go.”
They stared at each other, neither one wanting to avert looking at the other until he conceded and stood up. “That brain of yours would probably appreciate that book better.”
She eyed the book on the table, curious. She hasn’t seen this book in the library, and she should know with how much time she has spent looking at spines and reading anything she can. He must’ve understood the look on her face because he then said, “It’s from my family’s library. You can keep it. I’ve read it way too many times and it has already been a bore.”
Before she could say her rebuttal, he was already walking away. She eyed the book with curiosity, and then guilt, but she gave in and started reading. When she found him in the library again that week, she hurriedly went to his table and slammed the book down.
“Granger,” he greeted.
“Malfoy,” she started, “this is advanced potion making.”
The deadpan look he gave her couldn’t be anymore annoying but she ignored it and asked away. “Are you telling me the potion you will make for the practical exam is from this book?”
There’s that smirk again. She took a deep breath and breathed out, “Will you tell me which one?”
He seemed to enjoy how she’s acting and shook his head, “Even if I tell, which I won’t, you won’t be able to make a better potion. I’ve been practicing for weeks, and you also suck at potions.”
She sucked at potions? She could feel her hair zapping with magic as she took a deep breath. The nerve of this pompous git. So she’s second to him when it comes to potions—that does not equal to her not being talented in potion making.
But the temptation to best him was there. She inched closer to him, ignoring his widening eyes, as she muttered, “I need to do really well in the practical exam. So,” she pushed the book at him, “tell me which one is comparable to yours so I can also attempt it, so I can get a… “ she gulped at her next words, “satisfying mark.”
She watched his face twitch, seemingly torn between trying to be the prat he is or something else. But he reached his hand out and flipped a few pages, his long finger pointing at a recipe. “If you can master this one, you can start mastering advanced recipes. Most all of the ingredients are available at the green house.” She hurriedly grabbed the book again and muttered her thanks.
The days went by, and she hounded him at the library with questions, his exasperation with her obvious in his replies. Despite it, he was forthcoming with answers. “What happened to that brain of yours? Can’t you recall your basics with potions?” He would guide her anyways, tell her what she missed, and ask questions that made her think about what she did wrong.
She had been consumed practicing for the exam that, on the day of, she realized she had used up all the motherwort from the green house and failed to keep some for her practical.
“Ms. Granger, the rules of the practical exam are set. Students will be looking for and using their own gathered ingredients. I will have to fail you if you are unable to brew any.”
She was ready to ask for an extension, when Draco approached her table. “Professor, since I’m done, I’d like to take my leave.” She eyed the three vials in his hands. He produced three?! Why are others calling her a swot when clearly he is worse than her?
“Excellent! Five points to Slytherin for being able to produce the first concoction—well, first three actually,” Professor Stine looked at the vials with a nod and waved his hand. “You may leave early then.”
“Professor, where might I dispose of my ingredients?”
His words made Hermione look up and gawk at his table. How many ingredients did that prat bring? Godric, how much did he spend to buy all those ingredients?
Professor Stine looked up and their eyes widened—probably noticing a very expensive ingredient or two—and stammered, “Oh. Oh my. Mr. Malfoy, I would think it would be best if those ingredients are donated to this class, yes? My goodness, the assortment. You really did prepare. Most excellent. Oh, Miss Granger, look at that. Go ahead and use the remaining motherwort from Mr. Malfoy’s leftovers.” And they sauntered off with some phoenix feathers and unicorn hairs.
Hermione eyed Malfoy’s back as he left the room without another word. How bizarre that he has motherwort when none of the recipes he mentioned creating for the practicals called for motherwort.
And so when she saw him at his usual spot in the library, she hissed at him, “I don’t need your pity or… or whatever you call that stunt. Really? Bringing in an excess of so many ingredients that your recipe didn’t even need?”
His callous gaze wasn’t new to her. “Granger, those ingredients will have ended up in the trash. I don’t care. It was at Professor Stine’s suggestion that the leftovers were donated to the classroom.”
She balked at his words and he continued, “I’m assuming you were able to finish your potion?”
Silence enveloped them until she blurted out her thanks and muttered as she stormed out, “I’ll pay you back,”
She shook her head from the memories. When did it come to the point where they end up leaving notes for each other? Trying to get the other’s attention and time when they weren’t able to see each other in the library? How did it came to be that they suddenly were seeing each other at the boat house, talking into the wee hours of the night.
She couldn’t recall how. It just came to be.
Hermione chanced to look up again to see him, and her memories drowned her. Her moments with him felt suffocating. They were back at the boat house, sitting on the floor and drinking form a bottle of firewhiskey that Hermione took from the Griffindor party after winning quidditch against Ravenclaw.
One of his legs were folded and his cheek was resting on it on his knee, and he was watching her talk about something she couldn’t recall. But she remembered how seeing his slightly flushed cheeks stopped her from blabbing some more.
His words rang in her ears as he whispered, almost as if he was trying to say it but not want her to hear it. “Granger, I fancy you.”
She had laughed nervously and pointed at the firewhiskey. “Is that the drink talking?”
He was quiet and just stared at her, and before she could stop the words from coming out, it was already said, “I think… I fancy you, too.”
Time seemed to slow when she remembered how he slowly turned his body to her and reach his hand out to cup her cheek, run his thumb along the bottom of her lip and when he whispered, “I have been wanting to kiss you,” she had already leaned in to his hand and their lips touched.
Hermione got up from her seat, trying to remove the memory of their first kiss, their first touch, and the other times they sneaked out to the boathouse to see the other, addicted to kisses, the warmth, and the sounds the other makes. The memories need to stop. Her heart was aching.
I’m not that girl.
She told herself that as she saw Astoria stepped gracefully beside Draco, perfectly matching his ensemble. When their eight year was drawing to a close, they both knew what they had was something that couldn’t go beyond Hogwarts. It was a secret meant to stay.
“I think I can find a way to dissolve the marriage contract.”
His words were desperate and the hand holding hers tightened around her palm like a vice. With her thumb, Hermione caressed his knuckles. “You shouldn’t. Didn’t you just say this is also to find someone to care for her while she has a… curse she has to deal with? It’s not just about dissolving a contract—”
“I don’t give a shite about it. I want this. Only this. After we’re done here, we can—I will—”
This has been the topic of their conversation every time they meet for the last couple of weeks. He was insistent that there should be something he can do. But in Hermione’s mind, what they had wasn’t worth all the trouble that Draco has to go through.
“I can obliviate you and remove myself from your memories,” she suggested, despite the words feeling like acid in her mouth. The startled look he gave her and the tremble of his hand within hers broke her heart, including the words he said next.
“Those are mine to keep.”
They spent their last night together, no words other than saying each others names, grasps of longing on each other, bodies shuddering in their last moment of being with each other.
Hermione stood there in the ballroom, heart beating painfully in her chest, tears streaming down her face when his gray eyes saw her across the ballroom. She tried to ignore how quickly he dropped his arm away from Astoria, or how he walked with purpose towards her.
She cursed under her breath and quickly found her wand to clean her mess of a face, just in time as she looked up to see those familiar gray eyes taking her in.
“Granger.”
“Malfoy.”
There was a tension between them, but she avoided it. She stepped back and made a semblance of her words in an attempt to hurry away from him, “You look great—great with Astoria. I’m glad everything is going well.”
He looked so perfect. Her hand trembled and she had to stop herself before she could reach out and touch him, pull him, bury her face on his chest and feel his familiar warmth on her again.
When she saw his hand reaching and she stepped back some more. The tears were falling again. Fuck. “I need to go. Emergency with—”
She apparated away before she could finish her sentence when she saw the pained look on his face. She was in an alleyway a little walk away from her apartment. With quick strides, she got home, locked the door and her floo and took a deep breath.
I’m not that girl.
She told herself that. Astoria was meant to be with him, and both perfect for each other. And her moments with Draco at Hogwarts was a fluke. It shouldn’t have happened at all.
Despite those words, she sunk to the floor and clutched her chest like her heart was about to burst out. In the silence of her apartment, she finally spoke the truth.
“I wish I was that girl.”