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Draco stares at the roiling ocean, certain that the foamy waves are no more than a reflection of his own tumultuous soul.
His shadow cuts a severe, dramatic outline against the bright sand. Dark and gloomy, like his heart. All that is missing is a somber accompaniment: perhaps a cello, or the English horn, or an equally miserable instrument.
“Brooding again?” says a familiar woman’s voice.
Or her. That’ll do.
She isn’t standing right beside him, but he catches the scent of her rosewater shampoo when the wind changes direction. He doesn’t look her way, because he always loses his train of thought when he sees her.
“I don’t brood, Granger.”
“Of course not—how silly of me to presume. You’re clearly a paragon of whimsy.”
Draco sneers and finally glances at his fellow Hogwarts professor, radiant in a lacy canary coverup and floppy, wide-brimmed hat. His eyes widen at the crochet pattern, with tantalising holes offering a glimpse at the body within. Her golden skin is on display, accompanied by an artful smattering of freckles, including one just below her collarbone that he’s never seen. Muggle shades cover her eyes, and her lips and cheeks have no need for rouge, flushed as they are with heat.
And yes, the contrast in their attire is stark. While she is bare-shouldered and bright, he wears billowing black robes, shined boots, and a terrible scowl. But it’s his everyday outfit, which is practical, utilitarian, and by no means mopish.
“I don’t brood,” Draco says, inspecting his nails. "And Malfoys don’t do whimsy.”
“Swimsuits aren’t all whimsical. Perhaps there’s a gloomy little number you could don?”
With a sniff, he tightens his collar against the wind, which ripples his cape outward into a menacing silhouette. Granger smirks, and he resists the urge to deepen his scowl. Why must the entire world, even the elements, always conspire against him? Now he looks like a wicked sorcerer come to raze the land.
As if he could be bothered. He just wants to nap.
Granger tilts her head and licks her lips. “You know, if anything were troubling you, Malfoy, you don’t need to bear your burdens alone…” she trails off and watches him expectantly, as if at any moment he might wrap his cloak around his head and weep. A pang of annoyance lances his chest.
“I’m not bearing my burdens. And I do not brood! If anything, I introspect dramatically, and if my appearance happens to be of a sorrowful disposition, well, that isn’t my fault. Perhaps it simply suits me.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re having a sulk, aren't you?”
A gust of wind stings against his cheeks, and he fixes his attention on her sunglasses. His eyes are boring into the shaded glass, practically watering with the effort it takes not to drop his gaze and just stare at that damned freckle. Her clothes have never been cut that low before, and he wonders how the skin would feel against his thumb. Wants to know what other freckles he might find if he explored further...
He shakes his head, snaps himself out of it. “Well, maybe I’m entitled to a bit of a sulk! Getting dragged to the beach at wand point when I told you it’s a heinous locale, fit for a Hufflepuff—”
“I only said it was mandatory for all staff, not that you must arrive on pain of death. A beach outfit isn’t exactly an Avada in disguise!” she cuts in.
“—and now you’re demanding I strip before God and all my colleagues like some kind of bawdy wastrel, prancing about in my intimates without a care in the world! What am I, a peasant? This isn’t restful, and I refuse to unwind under these deplorable conditions!”
At this point, Draco doesn’t care that he’s being absurd. The sun stings upon his fair skin, Granger is half-undressed, sand is trapped in every crevasse of his body, and he isn’t interested in learning that Filch apparently has nipple rings or that Sinestra has tattoos covering her hips and back, though it’s too late for both revelations.
He is not relaxed. He does not want to be involved and friendly with anyone—well, almost anyone. And he does not want to be at the beach.
Even with shades, he can tell Granger has rolled her eyes.
“Why would swimming make you a peasant? Malfoy, it’s warm, and sunny, and this is supposed to be fun. Look, even Flitwick has got swimming trunks on!”
Indeed, the ancient charms professor sports a saucy pink and turquoise paisley set with little mermaids swirling amongst the patterns. Which is all well and good. But unlike Draco, there is no danger for Flitwick every time Granger is in eyesight. The tiny wizard surely does not worry constantly about an unruly visit from his downstairs equipment whenever the Golden Girl walks into a room. Doesn’t get flustered and bumble and pine.
Well, probably not, anyway. Draco’s mouth twists at the idea. Ergh.
“Shockingly enough, Flitwick in swimming trunks isn’t much of a selling point, Granger."
“It’s a staff retreat, Malfoy. It’s a reward. Is there really nothing to entice you here?” She tucks a stray coil behind her ear, plump lips pulled into a frown. “Not a single bit of praise for your favourite co-worker?” So she’s fishing for a compliment, then.
He swallows, looks away rapidly. Of course, the idea of his beautiful, swotty co-worker stripped down, long legs smooth and visible, curves flaunted and bare, is… compelling.
But she’s not fishing for a confession of love and attraction. She just likes his flattery. After all, that’s why he’s allowed to be friends with her.
In Draco’s first year teaching at Hogwarts, he was constantly teetering on the edge of losing his position. McGonagall frequently reminded him that he was a temporary stand-in. A mister, not a professor. The old witch often stopped by to ensure he was keeping the Potion Master’s office clean, lest he forget himself and bother to unpack. Worst of all, he had to be grateful for it, because at least she gave him a sliver of a chance.
Granger had initially seemed to be yet another detractor, always passing him in the halls with a stony face and grim set to her lips. But that all changed on a snowy February afternoon when she overheard him openly admiring the library’s organisational updates.
It had been his turning point: befriending Granger took time and effort, but he kept delivering compliments, and she kept delivering results. Like job security.
The success of his scheme was in part due to his naturally ornery disposition. It was well-known that Draco was a man sparing in praise and unpracticed in the art of meaningless accolade. If only his words had been meaningless, it would have been the perfect scheme, worthy of the Malfoy name.
But no.
Draco was forced to contemplate deeply upon each quality or accomplishment of hers that he genuinely found attractive. Only with wholehearted belief could he convincingly extol her virtues. And even those words tasted unnatural on his tongue, usually so scathing and bitter. Really, it was absolutely typical of his luck: instead of a smug, calculating ploy that allowed him to remain detached and employed, he thought himself into a corner and acquired a big, stupid crush.
“Malfoy?”
Draco has done it again; he’s been quiet too long. He cannot admit the truth; it’s too risky. Sorry Granger, just thinking about the naughty things I’d do to you if I had a chance. He barely represses a scoff.
Against all odds, he is not only free of Azkaban but secure in his dream job. However, one slip-up, one pointed finger from the Golden Girl, and his redemptive legacy dissolves into a nightmare-ish one. He’d be forever known as a slimy, creepy lout, kicked to the dirt and left to rot.
What had she asked again?
If he doesn’t speak soon, she’ll ask about his emotions again, which simply won’t do. He falls back onto a safe topic: snobbery. “I simply do not care for seaside excursions. The sand is dirty, and it clings worse than Weasley to Potter. And the air is much too fresh—abhorrent.”
Granger tsks and stretches her long limbs. He sneaks a peek at her face; she seems resigned, nose scrunched up in probable exasperation, lips twitching between an amused smirk and pursed lips. “Just tell me if you brought anything besides your Severus costume.”
He likes seeing her smile, even if she fights it. He immediately forgets to be snobby. “I’ve come prepared for the unfortunate eventuality, yes. Only because I suspect this is all a ploy centered around your lecherous urges." The moment the words come out of his mouth, he flinches.
Her entire body freezes; his heart skips a beat. Then the scoffiest of scoffs puffs from her lips. “Don’t be cheeky.”
He can’t keep saying things like that. He scans the beach, needing to direct the tension outward. His gaze snags on a terrible sight.
“Tell that to Trelawney,” Draco says meaningfully, eyes darting for only half a second toward the aging woman in her wild, sparkling rainbow two-piece, light on the arse coverage, and matching shawl, because of course. Cheeky, indeed.
Granger makes a sound like she wants to admonish him, but then sighs. “Well, quite. But at least she’s comfortable.”
“Yes, well,” Draco says tightly. He fiddles with his buttons, smoothing subconsciously over where his Dark Mark once lay. But then the hairs on his neck stand up, and his gaze drifts to Granger.
She is staring at him, lips parted, brows appearing just above the tops of her sunglasses. She’s studying him like an O.W.L., which never bodes well for his sanity. Suddenly, her icy hand (why are her fingers always so cold? ) grips his wrist, and she gasps.
“Oh God, Malfoy! Is it about your scars? Are you ashamed? I’m so sorry, I hadn’t thought… I didn’t mean to tease…”
“It isn’t about the bloody scars!” he snaps. His gut twists at the way her hand jerks back, so he adds flippantly, “Staff retreats are for planning and work, not for sunshine and frivolity. It simply isn’t dignified!”
Not wanting to see whether his outburst has hurt her feelings, Draco turns his back. He’s embarrassed that he cannot regulate emotions in front of her, wildly swinging between lustful, prickly, or spoiled. And apparently, something about his general aura also screams ‘coddle me, for I am a pathetic, wet noodle.’
Needing something to do with his hands, he waves his wand, unpacking his leather-bound beach bag. First, he summons a grand towel, as dark as a midnight sky. Meticulously, he spreads the towel out along the sandy shore, with not a wrinkle or thread out of place. He makes sure that it extends enough to be nearly the size of his entire parlour.
Beside it, he conjures a medieval-looking chair that would be well-suited in a dungeon-themed dining room. No matter his intentions, it’s the only chair he can ever conjure. An ominous umbrella casting an eerie amount of shade finishes the setup.
When he finally looks up, she’s watching him with a fond smile.
His stomach swoops.
“Did you bring along a tombstone as well? Or would that be too frivolous?”
She’s so irritating.
“I like black,” he grunts, flopping down onto the towel in a most undignified, un-Malfoyish way.
Granger settles beside him and runs her hands along the plush black towel. “I’ll make sure you have fun today, Malfoy. Perhaps you’ll feel rather rowdy and shuck your cape! Or even show off those ankles if you’re feeling sultry.”
She’s struggling not to laugh, and he’s so terribly fond. But annoyed, still. And he wishes she did, in fact, find his ankles to be sultry.
“I don’t like sand, Granger,” he moans. “I don’t like the beach, and I don’t like the ocean, and all the little— critters— and the chattering is absolutely unbearable. I never have. My parents brought me every summer, and I realised…” his mouth snaps shut.
She’s listening intently.
Granger is just so easy to talk to. So easy that he's almost given away his oldest, most embarrassing secret!
“Never mind,” he murmurs, and she nods. Doesn’t press. Another thing he likes about her.
They sit in companionable silence as the waves crash soothingly against the shore. The sun provides more heat than Draco could ever need, but he’s still drawn to the warmth of the woman sitting next to him. She wiggles her toes into the sand, the wind whipping her hair back and forth. It’s hard not to stare.
“So my chattering is that bad, then?”
It takes a moment for Draco to catch up to what she means. “Oh! To our mutual surprise, I’m sure, you’re not the unbearable chatter I was referring to.”
And immediately regrets the words when she prods: “Well, what did you mean?”
Because he really, really does not want to tell her the real reason he always avoids the beach. The whispered arguments with his mother, the suspicious eyes of his father, the shame of being a Slytherin who is apparently very much a Hufflepuff…
He is saved—if one can call it that—by the horribly familiar stench of perfume and stale alcohol breezing from behind. The bangles of that rainbow, sparkly bikini and shawl set jingle menacingly. A frizzy shadow falls between him and Granger.
“Hair white as the moon, yet a soul as dark as the turmoil within,” Trelawney proclaims in a warbly voice. “I sense a sordid secret—”
“Yes, yes,” Draco snaps, not bothering to turn around. “I’ve heard your speech a thousand times, Sybill.”
She sweeps forward, blocking the sun and forcing both of them to look upon her wide, buggy eyes. “Because it is of utmost importance, my child, you will never know peace until your soul is cleansed. If only you would allow me… Perhaps here, in the light of the sun…”
“I’ll never know peace at all where you’re involved,” he snarls in irritation. “Stop prophesying in my general vicinity!”
“I do as the eye commands…” she begins mysteriously.
Granger sighs loudly.
“Despite what the mundane mortals of this earthly plane may think!” she snaps in Granger's direction, her airy tone suddenly lacking.
“Well, I’m sorry that my presence clogs your inner eye. Though as always, I must wonder aloud at the efficacy of such an unstable system,” Granger says, suddenly standing up. “But you’ll have to work on Malfoy’s cleansing later. We were just about to get in the water. Weren’t we?”
Draco’s entire brain shuts down.
“The... water?” Trelawney’s eyes widen even further.
“I’m so sorry to leave you here, seeing as you vowed never to touch the ocean after that, erm, tea party…”
“Entrail reading,” Trelawney bites out, but Draco has caught up to Granger now, understands that she has saved him.
“Yes, I’m off,” he clips. He turns his back, cheeks flushed, and strips off his coat and outer robes. Wonders if the other two are watching. Well, just one of them, really.
With a final deep breath, he shucks his shirt and trousers until just his striped bathing suit top and shorts remain. He mutters a strong sun-protection charm (thrice) and walks with purpose toward the water, sparing no one a glance.
It is crucial that Draco be submerged in water from the waist down before he dares to turn around, lest he catch a too-welcome sight of Granger’s body and immediately stand to attention, pecker-first.
The drag of legs and resulting splash trail close behind him. “Wait up, Malfoy!”
He’s just managed to sink below the waterline before she catches up, touching his shoulder to hold him back, slightly out of breath. “See! I knew…”
And she’s still talking, but he’s got no idea what she’s saying at all. She might be declaring that the moon has exploded and little aliens are invading the earth, and Draco can only pay attention to the soft, supple skin lovingly safeguarded by two thin strips of cloth and held together with a tight string.
All the blood has left his face and limbs and heart, and it is all assembled between his legs as his proverbial mast ascends with fervour.
Tits.
“—which I suppose would work, don’t you think?” Granger stares at him expectantly.
Draco makes a vague noise. “Shall we, deeper, the water, er, swim?” And backpedals with great urgency further from shore.
“And you said you didn’t want to get in!” she laughs, swimming toward him. With her chin hovering just above the foamy waves, she smiles with breathtaking abandon. Her sunglasses are left behind on the beach, and he’s caught in her gaze, those bright, clever eyes waiting for him to say something, anything. He wants to impress her with something witty or ask her a question, but he’s struck dumb.
“Well, ain’t this a proper shit show?” asks a cool, gravelly voice. The words bounce and echo across the ocean’s salt water, and Draco’s heart sinks.
This is why he fucking hates the ocean.
Oblivious to the turmoil within Draco’s heart, Granger tilts her head and smiles at him. “So, where did your parents take you in the summers? Is there a Manor-By-The-Sea, perhaps?”
Draco is too busy panicking at the arrival of the blasted dolphins to respond coherently. “I—with, and…”
“I reckon he’s fucked it,” agrees a second, slippery voice. “Thinking with his little eel, in’t he? Look at ‘im, dumb mouth hanging open like he’s a wormy chum.”
Draco snaps his mouth shut, irritated beyond belief. When he told Granger that the chatter is unbearable, he meant this. He can barely stray within a mile of the ocean before the dolphins—complete arses, as it happens—and whales—even cuntier, and stuck up to boot—find him and start shouting things. His burning secret; his dark shame.
Draco is a tursitongue.
Granger swims a little closer, eyes tracking back and forth along Draco’s face with genuine worry. “Can you hear me, Malfoy? Draco?”
“I, er, sorry,” he blurts. “I’ve not been to the ocean since I was nine. It’s a bit…”
“Overwhelming?” Granger asks, her voice quiet. Worried.
A deep, sonorous rumble in the distance means a whale has drifted closer to the shore. “Oh, do try to give the poor simpleton a break. I sense a tainted nature in this one; a fluke child of the Great Mother Helga’s gift. Corrupted by ambition and pride…”
Draco burns with annoyance. He isn’t corrupted just because he isn’t in the Hugs and Kisses House.
The snotty whale continues her condescending take-down of his already withering ego. “He never learned to charm, to make friends. It is natural that he will flounder and miss the mark with his young chit, of course. But isn’t it endearing to see him try?”
Gritting his teeth, Draco tries to block the insolent animals from his mind and focus on Granger before she tries to drag him to St Mungo’s. “I just have incredibly negative associations with the beach. DUE TO TERRIBLE COMPANY,” he adds loudly, shooting a furtive glare at the horizon.
“Oi!” screeches one dolphin.
“Rather presumptuous and rude!” the whale cries.
“Innit though?” the second dolphin added. “Harsh, when you’ve never seen a human so pale, ‘ave ya? Look at that ugly mug, like he crawled out that dodgy trench, wotsit called, tha’ one down by The Sinful Shark…”
“Think anyone ever told ‘im about the sun? I bet no one told ‘im.”
“Or maybe he hasn’t got any blood left innim, that’s why he’s thick in the head—”
“Is Trelawney gone yet?” Draco snaps, accidentally directing his annoyance Granger’s way. When her mouth falls open in surprise and she blinks, clearly hurt, he tries again. “Sorry, it’s not you, I just need to get out of here.”
“I really… I didn’t mean to aggravate you,” Granger says, a sad furrow creasing between her brows. She reaches out a hand.
“Ohhhh dear, now look what the pale human has gone and done. We shan’t ever know what brought on his delusions of adequacy,” the whale decides in her slow, deep tone. “But he’s a Speaker nevertheless, and we must always try to help, no matter how very lost the cause is.”
Draco is fuming. He's had it with these salty little shits. Gratefully, he reaches for her hand, ready to walk away.
“Can’t lose a cause what he never had—”
“Oi! Where you think you’re fucking off to—?”
A splash of water hits him in the back of the head, and a tail disappears out of the corner of his eye.
Draco loses it. He whirls around, eyes wild.
“SHUT UP!” Draco shouts.
Beside him, Granger freezes. He tugs his hand, but she grips him tighter, though he can feel her concern like a spell crackling against his skin. “Er. Draco?”
Oh, fuck.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
The second Malfoy strips off those claustrophobic robes, Hermione’s mouth waters.
Even if he is dressed like an early nineteenth-century bather just escaped from prison, even with his shoulders hunched and his pasty legs probably meeting the sun for the very first time, she can’t help it. He intrigues her, draws her in. His features are alluring and seductive in her eyes because they are his .
And she’d have to be blind to not notice the muscles rippling just below the surface of his skin, the sharp line of his calves as he bends to drop his robe, the ARSE! She knew it, she knew he would be toned and well-built when he finally unbuttoned that high collar and stripped down…
He doesn’t turn back as he marches toward the water, shoulders stiff.
He’ll allow her to follow, though.
Surly as Malfoy can be, bits of his personality peek through when no one is watching. It’s as if he’s in constant mourning for the boy he was instead of the man he has become. She worries that he is fragile; lost, like a bird with clipped wings. Hermione is careful with him, but she has an agenda.
She is determined to make Malfoy view himself in a better light. He will be happy. She will force him to have hope, to see the beauty of the world, even if she has to drag him there kicking and screaming.
Luckily, Hermione doubts it will come to that. She can always get his attention and wrangle him into being present with great focus and perseverance. He grouses and moans, but he always shows up when she asks. It’s a compliment, coming from him.
She likes his company too.
“The time will soon come that the boy who speaks to the ocean shall become the man who speaks to himself,” Trelawney pronounces loudly. She is trying to see if any of the other professors are watching and doing a terrible job of pretending she’s not.
With a barely suppressed sigh, she turns her back. There’s no use hanging around the old bird, and in fact, it would probably be detrimental to Hermione’s health to remain for another moment. Then, trying not to overthink it too much, she pulls her cover-up over her head and flings it toward an annoyed Trelawney. Then she kicks off her sandals and runs barefoot across the stinging hot sand, aching for the cool water.
Malfoy is already just a pale, slender shape against the foaming waves. He’s so fast! The icy water burns against her hot skin, but she grits her teeth and splashes forth, pushing against the heavy water with all the force of a woman who gets things done. Even at top speed, she’s forced to slow him down, calling, “Wait up, Malfoy!”
He stills, and within moments she’s close enough to see pale scars wrapping around his side and fine white hairs along his spine. She grabs his shoulder, and he turns, and his eyes are dark grey and piercing, and is her heart about to stutter to a stop?
Flustered, the blubbering begins.
“See! I knew if you just got into the water, you’d cheer right up. Trelawney is a bit of a head case, I know, and I wouldn’t listen to her tripe about the darkness within. After all, she was constantly predicting Harry’s death, wasn’t she?” she rambles, somehow unable to stop. “Only I suppose he did die…oh, we were rather rude, maybe we’ll let her give you a little palm reading. She’ll get over it. That would work, don’t you think?”
“Eerhhgh,” he says, and Hermione isn’t sure whether that counts as a no or a yes. However, when he insists on backing even further into the water and invites her along, she follows gladly, even when they’re so far out that her toes barely touch the gritty ocean floor.
“And you said you didn’t want to get in!”
Normally, she can draw him out with some gentle teasing. He loves to banter; his eyes shine when they’re going back and forth, and it melts her insides when she can get him to flash that one special grin, like they're sharing some secret only the two of them know.
But instead, his face is stricken, and her heart drops. Oh no. Getting in the water, stripping down to his conservative little suit, it all must have been a big moment for him, surely. She wanted to peek through a tiny crack in his emotional walls and has slashed through them with a jagged knife.
If only she could kiss him better…
But no. That would alarm him, and she’d probably never see him again.
She starts small. “So, where did your parents take you in the summers? Is there a Manor-By-The-Sea, perhaps?”
A confusing parade of emotions each cross Malfoy’s face, and she has no idea how to gauge what he must be thinking. “I—with, and…”
What torment must lie in his heart?
Even now, Malfoy is lost in his own memories, perhaps fighting for the courage to voice his inner truth. If he can even speak at all. In fact, the way that he’s staring into the water, eyes wide and flecks of water glistening on his white-blond lashes… He looks positively morose.
Sometimes she’s so sure he might like her just as much as she likes him, but then moments like this happen. He freezes up, locked in his head even at the thought of childhood talk, and he disappears. She is afraid that if she says too much, he’ll be lost to her forever.
Watching him now, brows rising and falling, mouth slightly parted, she wonders if he’s still there with him at all.
“Can you hear me, Malfoy?” He isn’t answering, but his mouth is curling into a strange grimace. She tries again with his first name. “Draco?”
His head snaps up, already stammering apologies. “Sorry, I’ve not been to the ocean since I was nine. It’s a bit…”
Oh. God. Her heart constricts.
“Overwhelming?” she asks, keeping her voice soft, measured.
His jaw is working back and forth, as if the cruel voices of his past torment might be with him even now, filling his mind with agony. “I just have incredibly negative associations with the beach,” he manages.
Then, in a startling, Nicholas Cage-esque turn of events, he turns his head and shouts loudly into the great abyss: “DUE TO TERRIBLE COMPANY!”
If Hermione is being honest with herself, she has no idea how to navigate the emotional breakdown that she’s surely witnessing. Or is it she who has aggravated him so? Is this his way of letting her know she has pushed him too far? Annoyance, insecurity, and rage all seem to flit across his troubled brow.
And then her stomach drops at his next words.
Lip curled, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, he grumbles, “Is Trelawney gone yet?”
This has set them back so much. She was busy ogling his chest and sharp jawline like some mawkish profligate. And her friend is having a nervous breakdown, reliving some trauma in the water.
What has she done?
His eyes soften, perhaps catching the stricken look on her face. “Sorry, it’s not you. I just need to get out of here.”
“I really… I didn’t mean to aggravate you,” she tries. Tentatively, hoping to cast him a lifeline in a sea of dark emotion, she reaches out her hand.
And then a sudden wave of water crests and hits him in the back of the head, and he snaps, eyes wild, and opens his mouth wide, nostrils flaring:
“EEEEE-EEEE-EEEEEE!”
Instead of human words, a high-pitched trill exits his mouth, and Hermione is calm, and composed, and hey, everyone has moments where things just happen, right? Like tripping when walking down the stairs, or getting frustrated and throwing a crumpled paper at the rubbish bin. Or completely losing it and emitting ear-piercing shrieks in the water...
Except, no.
No, this needs further investigation. Because what the fuck was that?
“Er, Draco?” she manages.
His already pale face has drained of all colour. He sinks down until only his chin shows above the water, looking like he might prefer to submerge himself entirely. His eyes are so wide that she can make out the tendrils of sage and even sea green that add to the grey colour of each iris. A beautiful effect, especially set against the soft ocean landscape. She could get lost in those eyes, and it’s almost enough to distract her.
Almost.
Hermione pushes her damp hair back, unconsciously trying to pull it back into a ponytail as she shifts into problem-solving mode. “Listen… if it’s your father, or if you’re too overwhelmed by memories...”
When his eyes narrow, tracking her fingers dragging through her hair, she stops and lets it all fall back to her shoulders. He’s seen her do this a thousand times, knows her hair goes up when she wants to think.
With her hands stretched out, Hermione drifts closer, letting the tide pull her body toward his. Reaches for him. “I know you’ve had a very difficult upbringing. And you said the ocean…. Well, I know it’s hard for you to talk about. But you can tell me anything…”
He turns to glance over his shoulder, and she follows his gaze, catching the unmistakable glimpse of a dolphin fin rising and falling into the water. Then, his lips tighten. “You think I’m… troubled?”
“Oh, Malfoy. Draco, there isn’t any shame—”
Devastation seems to hit him like a meteor strike. His face crumples, shoulders falling inward, and he pedals back from her, looking stricken. “Merlin, you think I’m mad!”
She shakes her hand frantically, but he doesn’t give her a chance to respond. He straightens his body, rising above the water so they’re no longer at eye level. His normally tidy hair mirrors his alarm, with sugar-white strands pointing in every direction. He’s still tall enough to stand on the ocean floor.
“I know I’ve a tendency to be a bit clumsy with my words, around you. I know I haven’t been— well, fuck, of course you think I’m a great, bumbling oaf. This has all been… I’ve never told anyone, it’s humiliating...” He turns his head and scowls. “Ooooooooooo-EEEEEEEEEEE-ooouuuuuuuu!”
Hermione is always a bit off-kilter in front of Draco—a lifelong affliction whenever she has a crush on a boy. She becomes spacier, less observant. Slow. But even with the handicap of adoration, Hermione’s brain is finally starting to come back online.
The chattering is absolutely unbearable.
Fit for a Hufflepuff.
Negative associations with the beach due to terrible company.
She gasps, the pieces snapping together with crystalline ease. The reluctance to get in the water, and the way he’s been so distracted... And she accused him of being ashamed of his scars! Either he’s having a breakdown in the form of making dolphin and whale sounds, or…
“You’re a tursitongue!”
Malfoy grimaces. “You figure everything out eventually, don't you,” he mumbles.
But her brain is still whirring, because there’s one last bit that doesn’t make sense. Why is he so embarrassed? Why does he shun his gift? In classic Hermione fashion, she blurts out a series of facts. “But why would the chatter be unbearable? It can’t be that the dolphins and whales are terrible company, can it? I suppose it’s possible that you were rude first, of course.”
His mouth parts and brows narrow indignantly.
Hermione is unable to keep the words from falling from her lips. “But even if they’re quite terrible company, why keep it a secret? It’s a great honour to have a gift, though I suppose it didn’t do much good for Harry when he had the connection to Salazar Slytherin. But that was different, there was the Chamber, and the Petrifications… But this is Helga Hufflepuff’s gift! Surely that would only reflect the Hufflepuff kindness within, show you’ve got a sensitive heart...”
“I have no such thing!” Malfoy cries, flushing a deep pink. “I’m a Slytherin!”
He’s already halfway toward trying to shoulder past her, cheeks flushed.
“Wait!” she cries.
He freezes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”
Like the ocean waves crashing down on the shore, the realisation floods Hermione’s brain. The satisfaction at figuring out a tricky puzzle dies quickly, though, as she understands the implications. She’s been a fool.
Just because his clothes are dark and he’s taken up the potions post, it doesn’t mean he’s just another version of Snape. She’s treated him like he’s broken and fragile, taking his lifelong penchant for dramatics to heart.
She’s treated him like Harry.
Because Hermione's two best friends are at opposite ends of a wide, wide spectrum. Ron was smothered with family love; Harry was neglected. She’s been approaching Malfoy, approaching life, like everyone must exist at one extreme. When he’s been reluctant to speak of a memory from the age of nine, she sees his shuttered face and reluctance to open up and thinks of Harry in the cupboard under the stairs.
He’s wavering now, but isn’t trying to storm away anymore. “Listen, you can’t tell—” He freezes, neck turning to the side. “EEEE-EEEE–EE-EEEEEEE!”
She watches him glower into the water, and realisation after realisation crashes over her.
Getting to know Malfoy has been an exercise in patience, because he’s so hard around the edges, but she’s seen the soft, squishy inside within. And in her mind, the only reason to bury the sensitivity deep would be trauma. But not everyone is her best friend.
She sees it now: Draco doesn’t look broken, he looks defensive, like he’d been expecting her to make a witty remark about his secret Hufflepuff heart. He’s so very proud to be a Slytherin, sometimes overboard, and now she understands why.
He’s just a little awkward. A little proud.
“So…” Hermione licks her lips. "What are they saying now?”
“Nothing of concern,” he sniffs, lifting his chin. But she catches the way he sneaks a glance in her direction, trying to seem above it all. “They like to heckle me, but it’s likely because they know I’m not really one of them. A bleeding heart, that is.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound very Hufflepuff at all,” Hermione comments, watching him carefully. “That must be why it’s a Slytherin trait now—so someone can teach them what’s what.”
Malfoy’s eyes light up, and he drifts closer. “You think? They are quite beastly!” he tells her, encouraged. “They’ve been hovering about roasting me this whole time, calling me a bloodless trench-fish and saying I’m very stupid.”
“Maybe it’s worth researching? In fact, it certainly is,” Hermione decides, already planning. “There’s so much research to be done on Oceanography and marine biology, and particularly with the intersection of magic…”
He eyes her doubtfully. “Would I have to tell anyone? I’ve a reputation to uphold, after all.”
“A surly, dangerous reputation?” He chuckles, and it’s a warm, velvety sound, and her entire body constricts with a pang of remorse. She’s been wrong to tiptoe around him, to wait for his big emotional reveal. She’s going back over their conversations, not just from the beach, but for years, and this whole time, he was just.
Awkward.
With a deep, shuddering breath, she prepares herself to do the thing she should have done a long time ago. “I have something to admit.”
Slowly, he turns away from her, staring off toward the horizon with resignation on his face. “Right,” he says in a hollow voice. “Tell me, Granger. I can handle it.”
Oh, the irony.
Of course, he could always handle it; maybe she’s the one who has been a little broken. Afraid to speak up.
She licks her lips; they’re salty with ocean water. “Draco,” Hermione announces, heart hammering. “I like you.”
Draco stares at her woefully, chin down, hair falling into his face.
Each second stretches into a thousand years, with Draco giving her that sad, wistful smile (is that what she’s looked like all this time? How annoying!) and her waiting with bated breath for his response.
“And?” he says at last.
Her cheeks flush in mortification. She wants to throw herself to the bottom of the ocean floor.
“Right,” Hermione says, unable to look him straight in the eye. “Well, there. Now you’ve had a secret of yours revealed, and I’ve revealed mine, and I’m not expecting anything, of course…”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” She sneaks a glimpse at his face; his brows are drawn together in confusion.
Hermione does not have time to say more before a hard, slippery mass of rubber hits her from behind, rocketing her into Draco’s arms. With seemingly instinctive reflexes, he catches her in his muscled arms.
Before she can blink, he’s running his fingers down the small of her back and trailing his short nails up the back of her scalp. It’s like he’s in a trance or under the imperius curse, because she’s never seen his eyes like this. Glazed. Lost.
She doesn’t know if her face landed this close to his or if he’d drawn her in naturally, but it’s electrifying. The tip of his nose brushes against her hot cheeks, and his hard abdomen is solid against her body, slick with salty water. Her feet can’t touch the rocky bottom, and it’s like he’s holding her in his arms.
He smells like sweat and ocean water, like leather and citrus soap. And somehow, like the memory of warm nights, sitting side by side at the Hogwarts Professors table, or perched on the sofa in the staff lounge, or long nights of research in the library.
The air between them is firewhiskey. It’s heady and inebriating and it lights her on fire.
And then he drops her and backs away, saying, “I’m so sorry, Granger, I didn’t mean to, I promise I’m not a creep, I swear I’m not some vulgar animal trying to feel you up, I didn’t—”
Oh. He thinks he’s in danger of sexual misconduct.
Because there is no way she made up the chemistry between them, no matter what tosh he’s babbling about now.
He likes her, and he’s been holding back, and why did it take a brutish heckling dolphin to figure all this out?
“Draco, you can feel me up anytime.”
His neck snaps toward her so quickly she fears he might have strained it.
“Pardon?”
She flushes, hoping her gamble pays off. “I am romantically interested in you,” she enunciates. “I have been for a long time, and I just haven’t told you.”
He hangs on to every word she says, still even as the waves softly nudge their bodies back and forth. It reminds her unnervingly of a show she once watched on the telly, a nature special showing how a wolf stalks his prey.
“I had hoped you felt the same. That you were worried about overstepping. But if I’m the one who has overstepped, of course, then mmmph—!”
He has yanked her forward, eyes hard and determined.
When their lips meet, Hermione gasps at how right he feels, and his hands tighten around her arms, warm and secure. She’s glowing with his touch. This is what she wanted.
She could have had this all along.
When she pulls back, she sees dolphins jumping in a coordinated movement, arching one after the other high into the air. In the distance, a whale blows water from its spout.
“They approve?” she asks breathlessly, caught in the way his eyes are shining. She hasn’t ever seen him look like this. Like he’s glowing from the inside, like he’s looking at everything he ever wanted, but he’s looking at her.
“They say you could do better. Insist nothing gets done without their interference.”
“Wankers,” she says, even if that last part is technically true.
He flashes a brilliant grin at her, and a warm, glowing heat that has nothing to do with the sun fills her up. She can’t help but smile back.
His hand squeezes hers tighter as he follows her out of the water. Together, they ignore Trelawney’s assurances that Malfoy’s soul has now been unburdened, likely thanks to her remote cleansing of him from the sandy shores.
They ignore Flitwick eyeing them knowingly as he charms a massive sand castle to spread along the shore.
They ignore Professor Sinestra and Madam Pomfrey sneaking off, hands entwined, for their own private rendezvous.
Draco dips his head to press his lips against her once more, like he can’t believe he finally gets the chance, and she smiles into his kiss.
