Work Text:
Hermione shoulders her beaded bag, doing her best to be quiet as she moves toward the entrance of Grimmauld Place. She’s about to enter the foyer when she hears the floorboards creak and someone clearing their throat. Drat. She had hoped to sneak out without anyone noticing, but Harry always seemed to have a sixth sense for these types of things, even when they were younger.
She turns around, hand still on the doorknob, to see the man standing on the stairs, watching her. “Where are you going?” he asks, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You know we’re supposed to go out in pairs, at least. Never alone.”
“I’m not going far,” Hermione assures him. “I’m not even Apparating. I’m just going to walk to that park a couple of streets down. The sun is out for the first time in weeks, it feels.”
Harry doesn’t look convinced. “...and you’re sure you’re not going to walk to the park and just Apparate from there?”
Hermione gives him an affronted look. “Harry Potter, I am offended. You don’t trust me?”
“Of course, I trust you,” he says immediately, “but I also know you. You’ve developed a habit of telling half-truths whenever you want to do something someone doesn’t approve of.” He pauses. “Not that I haven’t benefited from that a few times over the years…”
“Exactly that. Which is why you’re not going to say anything to Remus or Moody,” Hermione replies. “And I promise I’m staying at the park. It will be okay. We’ve already warded that spot so that we don’t have to suffer in this gloom.” She gestures pointedly toward the dark walls and even darker curtains.
By now, Harry has come down to the landing. Hermione meets him in the space between the staircase and the door and places both hands on his shoulders. “I promise I’ll be back in an hour,” she tells him, looking into his eyes. “If more than ninety minutes pass, then you can call for help.” She pulls him into a hug, and she can feel more than hear his sigh of resignation as he wraps his arms around her.
“You can’t blame me for worrying,” Harry says, “but anything—anything—looks even slightly suspicious, you come back immediately. Send a Patronus if you need to.”
“I will.” Hermione gives him one last squeeze and then slips out the door of Grimmauld Place.
She makes her way leisurely down to the local park, savouring the warm breeze as she walks. It’s mid-spring now, and the sun is making a rare appearance. It’s been raining for nearly two weeks in a row, and Hermione is grateful for the reprieve.
When she arrives at the park, she immediately makes her way to the swing set. The metal chains are cold against her arms, but she welcomes the chill—anything to shake the crushing numbness she’s been drowning in for the past few months. She waits there, swinging slowly and watching the children run around on the playground set.
Ten minutes later, she hears footsteps crunching over the woodchips, and she twists around to see Draco Malfoy approaching, cloak draped over his arm. He’s wearing dark trousers and a white Oxford, entirely too formal for a park.
“Do you always dress so nicely for casual meet-ups?” Hermione asks teasingly.
Draco tugs on his collar. “This is casual,” he sniffs. “I’m not even wearing a tie.”
Hermione huffs out a laugh. “If you say so.” She jostles the chain of the swing next to her. “Sit. I don’t have long; I promised Harry I’d be back in an hour, and it’s already been nearly twenty minutes.” She knows if she’s late, even if she makes the hard ninety-minute deadline, Harry would have questions. How would she explain that she was meeting up with someone who was not only a Death Eater but also her best friend’s biggest school rival? She isn’t sure which part would be worse, honestly.
“We’d better make the most of this meeting, then.” Draco leans down, pressing his lips against Hermione’s in a brief kiss before sitting down on the swing. He reaches over and takes her hand, linking their fingers together as they swing gently back and forth. “What made you decide on this place?” he asks. “It’s rather public, no?”
“It’s also warded to the teeth,” Hermione replies. “No one should see us here.” She pauses. “…Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.”
To his credit, Draco doesn’t ask questions, just nods in acceptance. “How are you faring?”
Hermione sighs heavily. “We’re surviving. But I feel like we’re losing a little bit of hope every day.”
Draco’s thumb strokes the back of her hand rhythmically. He’s silent for a few moments, “The Dark Lord is becoming more ill by the day,” he says finally. “I haven’t seen him outside his room in months. I happened to pass by his room a couple of weeks ago, and I think he’s mostly bedridden as well.”
With this new information, Hermione figures Voldemort is too weak to make another Horcrux and therefore remains mortal. However, his condition all but guarantees that he would remain ensconced in Malfoy Manor, and no loyal Death Eater would reveal his death, if and when it should occur.
But instead of voicing her thoughts out loud, she only says, “This is… enlightening. Thank you.” She squeezes Draco’s hand.
They swing and talk about mundane things, basking in each other’s presence and savouring the brief time they have. Hermione is struck by how peaceful it is. It’s a moment to breathe, away from the war, away from fear. But she knows it won’t last forever. She discreetly casts a Tempus, revealing she only has ten minutes until her hour is up.
Reaching into her bag, Hermione pulls out a small, plastic blue tube. She shakes it, watching the liquid inside suds up. “These are bubbles. When I was a kid, my parents would take me to the park and bring these, one for each of us,” she explains. She pulls out another tube, this one green, and gives it to Draco. He turns it in his hands, watching the liquid flow from side to side. “They’re filled with soap, and the cap has a little attachment for you to blow the bubbles.” Hermione demonstrates, blowing several of the shiny orbs through the loop.
Draco copies her, and Hermione giggles at the sight of such a posh, uptight man blowing bubbles with her as he sways back and forth on a swing set. He looks over at her. “What?”
She giggles again. “Nothing. I’m just…” She sighs, turning solemn. “I’m going to miss you. Who knows when we’ll be able to see each other again?”
“We’ll find a way,” Draco says. “It might not be too long before things begin to shift.” He screws the cap back on the bubble tube and stands up, holding his hand out for Hermione to take. When she’s upright, he pulls her into an embrace, full-bodied and full of longing.
They stand together for several long moments, soaking up the last remnants of their time. Hermione pulls back briefly, then rises onto her toes to kiss him. They linger, still keeping the children playing not too far away in mind.
A tear traces down Hermione’s cheek, and Draco brushes it gently away with his thumb. “Don’t cry, love,” he whispers gently. He gives her a soft smile. “Blow some bubbles when you think of me, will you?”
Hermione sniffles. “You, too,” she replies, “if you can.”
“They’ll never see them if I’m in my room,” Draco says. “It’ll be filled with them. Perhaps I can try to brew something that will keep longer.”
“That would be wonderful.” Hermione casts another Tempus. Three minutes.
They retreat behind a cluster of tall hedges, away from curious eyes and children who would likely ask questions if they saw someone vanish into thin air. Draco kisses her one more time and steps back, drawing his own wand. “I love you.” It's a promise.
“I love you.” She intends to keep it.
They Disapparate simultaneously, the resolve Draco’s eyes remaining burned in Hermione’s mind long after she arrives home.