Work Text:
2005
The tulips are white. Two have bloomed; more are promised as buds tease through the earth.
She finds a vase. Two is an odd number for an arrangement, but Hermione doesn’t care. Elegant white petals weigh down and bend delicate stems, swanlike. They’re pretty in her—no, their—breakfast nook.
They share a lot these days. More than she would have expected. A twelve month lease. Cutlery and plates. A hallway and living room and breakfast nook. Polite nods in the morning.
Tulips in window boxes.
“A Christmas present,” Draco had said gruffly in December, holding out a handful of bulbs. She nodded, and he planted them outside her window, and that was that.
Draco walks into the kitchen and stops, eyeing the tulips.
“They’re lovely,” Hermione says. He gives her a small smile, then continues to the kettle.
Later, in a slim volume on floriography:
White Tulips: An ardent hope for forgiveness.
2006
“Draco, what have you done with the tulips?”
He’s sprawled on the couch, a cat in the sun. “Nothing?”
“They’re not white anymore.”
“Ah, yes.” He nods vaguely, resuming attention to his novel. “They’re not.” But he’s got that sparkle in his eye. She recognizes it by now, a pleased little glimmer of a thing.
It appears when they debate her latest Creatures legislation (why must he always be so contrarian?), or win charades at game night (Pansy insists inside jokes are cheating; they beg to differ.)
Anyway, the flowers are a vibrant, warm orange—the color that bursts behind closed eyelids when you tilt your head to the sun.
“Don’t you like them?”
“Of course,” she scoffs. “They’re perfect.”
He gives a pleased hum.
The page is already dog-eared when Hermione reaches for the floriography guide.
Orange Tulips: Understanding, appreciation. Warmth and energy.
She supposes it’s fitting for the friendship that’s blossomed between them.
2007
Hermione tries to guess the meaning when she sees a slip of butter-yolk yellow. Cheerfulness. Sunshine. Friendzoned?
“What’s that?” Ethan’s voice is muffled, his face mashed into the pillow.
“The tulips are yellow,” she says.
“Great,” he grunts. “Come back to bed.”
After a perfectly adequate Sunday morning shag, they pad to the kitchen. Draco is already there.
“No Helene?” Hermione asks.
“We broke up.” She freezes, though Ethan continues with the tea.
“Oh, Draco.” She sits and takes his hand. “I’m sorry.”
She’s not.
Helene was… fine. Beautiful (they always are), but dull. With Helene, Draco’s eyes never sparkled.
He looks at her hand on his and blinks. She panics. Her pulse has run away, right off a cliff, and oh God, does he know that?
“Don’t be,” Draco finally murmurs. “It was never going to last.” When his eyes meet hers, she forgets how to breathe, until Ethan sets her tea in front of her.
***
Yellow Tulips: Jealousy, or unrequited love.
Her fingers trace the words again and again.
2008
“Do you plant new bulbs every year?” she demands.
“No.”
“Are they some magical variety of tulips?”
Draco laughs. “No, Hermione.”
“You’ve charmed them, then.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?” She stamps her foot.
“Salazar, witch.” He gives her a fond smile, and her heart does a little tumble. “Let a man have his secrets.”
And that—that makes her want to scream, because he already has so many goddamn secrets, and she has so many questions she knows he won’t answer.
Why do you always buy my favorite tea?
Why do you re-sign the lease, every year?
What does it mean, when you look at me like that?
Why are the tulips pink?
The definition makes it worse.
Pink Tulips: Affectionate love between family and friends. Or, hope for a romance.
She wants to shake him and beg: which is it?
He would just smirk. Let a man have his secrets, Hermione.
2009
She pounds on his bedroom door, rattling the frame. When he opens, she knows he knows what she saw, because there’s an errant lock that falls on his brow, like he’s been pacing and running his fingers through his hair.
“Red,” she breathes. “The tulips are red.”
His smile is soft, resigned. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You know. Don’t you?”
There are stars in his eyes, or maybe they’re a reflection from hers?
He leans in, and it’s just a graze. But it’s petal-soft, a slow bloom, warm spring that thaws a long winter. She opens her mouth and invites him in. The kiss turns candy-apple-cherry-red, a long-awaited taste, an explosion of sweetness that bursts on their tongues. She steps through the door and he invites her in.
She doesn’t need to look up the definition, because he’s right—she already knows. It’s red tulips and stifled sighs and I’ve been waiting. Whispered confessions.
Two lips.