feiniaonovel Chapter 207 207: The Wind and Rain Blowing from the Terrace
Chapter 207 207: The Wind and Rain Blowing from the Terrace
A/N: Why Hello There. Sorry For The Late Update. I was a bit Busy with Family. This chapter is quite Big Like 7K Words.
"Are you sure—" Hermione tugged his hand and led him down a narrow but bustling cobblestone street, trying to confirm once more. "We want to see a Shakespearean play?"
"I noticed some posters, and Shakespeare's works seem to touch on romantic themes. Since we're both in a country known for its 'romance,' I thought—" Draco blushed slightly, avoiding her gaze, still savouring the taste of her lips.
"Romeo and Juliet?" she asked again.
"Probably," he said reluctantly, recalling how Pansy always dragged Blaise to watch romance novels and plays with her, and deciding that the two of them ought to try such things. "Shouldn't couples watch this sort of thing?"
"Oh, Draco—" Hermione stopped and looked at him with a knowing expression, as if she were regarding the world's greatest fool — or a particularly innocent, sheltered child.
"You had absolutely no idea who Shakespeare was or what his works were about before today, did you?" she asked.
"How would I?" Draco shifted uncomfortably.
If the Slytherins ever found out he'd gone to see a Muggle romance play, they'd probably think he'd lost his mind — or worse.
In truth, even he found his own behaviour rather baffling.
Perhaps it was the intensity of the sunlight, but he had inexplicably wanted to go along with her.
"I can't possibly read every single Muggle book you've ever mentioned, can I?" he said, touching his nose and feigning nonchalance.
He would like to read them, actually. But you don't always know what Hermione Granger is currently reading until she mentions it in passing, or tells you directly with that bright, cheerful smile of hers.
And then you have to send your house-elves into the Muggle world to track the book down, and then carve out the time to actually read it.
"Then how did you know I was interested in Shakespeare?" Hermione asked, puzzled.
"I guessed," Draco said awkwardly, his eyes sliding guiltily toward the posters fluttering on the wall beside the road. Their occasional rustle in the breeze seemed to mock him.
"All right—" Hermione studied him for a moment, finding his awkward, curious, well-meaning ignorance rather endearing.
Finally, a mischievous and knowing smile spread across her face. "I'll take you to see it. Then you'll understand exactly what I mean."
Draco caught a fleeting look of barely concealed glee on her face, and frowned. She always seemed to be waiting for a good show. That expression, he realised, didn't belong to the Granger family at all — it was far more at home on a Malfoy.
The thought gave him a quiet, smug satisfaction. And so, without another word, he let her pull him along.
Inside the cramped, sweltering little theatre packed with Muggle tourists, Hermione was surprised to find Draco watching the performance with unusual attentiveness.
At first, he'd muttered complaints about the simplicity of the set, declaring it "absurd" that so many people had gathered around such a small, rickety Muggle stage — one that lacked even the most basic levitation enchantments.
"They can't even fly on stage whenever they like!" he muttered. "And what are those things hanging behind them — fishing line?"
But soon enough, he was drawn in by the actors' passionate performances, and more than that, by the story itself.
In the flickering light of the theatre, Hermione stole more than one glance at his profile.
He held her hand with their fingers interlaced, but unusually, he made no attempt to tickle her palm with his thumb.
He watched with complete absorption, his fine features cycling through expressions like a turning carousel: curiosity, delight, surprise, indignation, sorrow.
The curtain fell slowly at last, after several curtain calls.
The audience around them chattered with excitement.
"The actor playing the male lead is terribly handsome, isn't he?" a Muggle woman said to her friend. "I'd very much like to meet him—"
"He's a pretty face, certainly," the other agreed enthusiastically. "Though I prefer the actress playing the female lead — there was something genuinely moving in the way she faced her death..."
Only Draco remained steeped in outrage.
As Hermione led him out of the theatre with a beaming smile, his expression was one of utter disbelief. "That was complete nonsense! It isn't a love story — it's a tragedy, pure and simple!"
"Yes," she said, drawing out the word and swallowing a laugh. "Do you still think it makes for suitable couple viewing?"
"Absolutely not! I cannot believe I wasted over two hours in there!" Draco complained. "And why were they chattering away from a balcony the entire time? He should have Apparated up there — at least then they could have spoken face to face!"
He drew a breath and spread his arms, shepherding her through the crowded theatre entrance as he kept talking. "Why did he send messages through a third party? Why not use a reliable owl? No — matters like these demand the utmost care, they should be confirmed in person, shouldn't they?"
"I suppose they weren't quite as foresighted as you are—" Hermione said with a grin.
"If I'd known what this play was actually about, I would have much rather—"
He stopped himself.
He would have rather walked with her through the streets and watched those silly Muggle parades. At least that might have startled that pompous cardinal again.
Hermione smiled secretly and decided to let him off the hook for now.
She wisely chose not to remind him, at this particular moment, that Muggles cannot Apparate and do not consider "sending an owl" to be a viable option — lest he become even more agitated.
Draco's endearing ignorance of the Muggle world never failed to make her laugh.
"I hope you won't go off theatre entirely because of this," Hermione said, leading him out of the dark little theatre and back onto the streets of Avignon.
Thick clouds had gathered low in the sky. The bright sunshine of the morning was gone, and the air was so heavy and still it was difficult to breathe.
"This isn't about theatre!" Draco said indignantly. "Their deaths were completely farcical — the result of a pure misunderstanding, caused entirely by a failure to communicate. It was avoidable. The whole thing was avoidable — Muggles are ridiculous!"
"I think you have a point, actually." Hermione didn't argue with him about whether tragedy possesses its own kind of beauty, nor did she venture into the eternal tangle of hatred, freedom, and love. Instead, she said meaningfully, "So — if anything happens, especially anything that concerns the two of us — don't hide it from me. All right?"
"Why do you suddenly say that?" Draco slowed his pace and looked at her with suspicion.
Were they still talking about the tragic love story written by that irresponsible and heartless Shakespeare?
"I suspect you may be under some pressure lately," Hermione said seriously. "And I'd like to know what that pressure is."
She watched his expression stiffen slightly, and pressed on carefully. "I want to know how your parents have been treating you. I want to know whether you're truly suffering beneath all those cheerful words. I want to know precisely what you mean when you say things are 'tolerable.' I want to know what you're carrying — physically, emotionally, all of it."
She had been thinking about how to say this for a long time, ever since Sirius had planted the seed of worry in her.
"I haven't suffered anything—" he said quickly, discomfited by the gravity in her face.
Why had she brought this up now? Did she know something?
Had someone said something to her? Done something?
"Draco, let me finish," Hermione interrupted him, and took a steadying breath.
Beneath the gathering rain clouds and the rising smell of damp earth, she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead as they walked, and kept talking.
"Draco, if you're secretly carrying a heavy burden because of me, I need to know that. If they despise me and take it out on you because of it, I need to know that too. I'll be hurt for a while — of course I will — but I would far rather be painfully clear-eyed than a cheerful little fool kept blissfully in the dark. I don't want that kind of false happiness."
Hermione didn't dare look at him, afraid he would see the vulnerability in her eyes.
Yes — even the most fearless Gryffindors feel fear and vulnerability sometimes. But more than her own feelings, it was him she was worried about.
She wanted to understand him. To understand all his pressure, his pain, his struggles.
Draco walked in silence, watching her unusually resolute profile. He hesitated before responding.
He wanted to slow down, but her hand held his, and he had to keep up with her pace.
He could not escape her. Could not escape her words. Nor did he truly want to — even though for a fleeting moment, he had.
A sudden gust of cool, damp wind swept over them, ruffling the hem of her skirt. Hermione shivered and tightened her grip on his hand.
But her voice remained as steady as her footsteps, without the slightest tremor.
"Draco, I don't need you to protect me that way. In this, I hope you can respect what I want. I want to know your joys and your sorrows. I want to share in your feelings. I don't only want you to comfort and protect me — I want to be able to comfort and protect you, too."
"Is that what you think?" Draco's jaw tightened, his hand tightening around hers. "Hermione — aren't you afraid of getting hurt?"
The girl stopped walking and finally looked him in the eye.
"Draco, you're always thinking about my feelings." Her gaze was like an ember in a snowstorm, warm against the cold. "But what about your own feelings — you get hurt too. You get tired too. Don't you?"
The effect of those last words was something extraordinary.
If her long, careful speech had been like a steady flame beneath a cauldron — slowly warming his heart, giving him a fragile hope that the ice might yet melt — then these final words were like a warm, gentle hand laid against him. They could have struck him hard. Instead, they barely touched him.
And yet the moment they did, the snow that always fell inside his heart — the snow that fell in every season, regardless of the world outside — began, quietly, to melt.
A strange mist rose in Draco's eyes.
He had always believed that finding someone who would cherish him to this degree was nothing more than wishful thinking.
He had been such a hated person, once.
He had thought he deserved every ounce of suffering and injustice, and that he could never deserve such profound care — least of all from Hermione Granger.
This guileless girl who captivated him without effort, and who was so clever she left him with nowhere to hide.
She was as skilled as any Potions master at working with the most stubborn of ingredients. She had quietly melted away the layers of frost that encased him, and now, with this naked sincerity, she was on the verge of dissolving the very last defence he had built.
There was always one thing Draco had struggled to confront: the harm his parents might cause her if they ever came face to face.
Based on the painful lessons of his own life, he dared not think about it.
He would rather they hurt him. So long as they stayed far away from her — so long as no harm could reach her, and no vicious words could reach her ears — he would do anything.
Anything.
"What if they say something insulting to you?" he asked, his voice taut, his gaze fixed on her thick lashes, which he found so delicate, so beautiful, and so pitifully unaware of what they might face. "I mean... what if they go further than words?"
"I've already been called a Mudblood, Draco — more than once, and not by strangers." Hermione tilted her head slightly, her dark hair sliding from her shoulders and down her back, revealing the line of her neck. "You don't think all Slytherins are as restrained as they are when you're watching, do you? They're considerably less careful when you're not around."
She said it matter-of-factly, naturally. Such words were malicious and utterly reprehensible — she had never doubted that. But she had known who Draco's parents were from the very beginning, hadn't she?
He had made no secret of it, even back in second year, when they had spoken about Mudbloods. He had even apologised on behalf of his family and classmates for that vile and wounding slur.
But Draco was not that person. He never had been.
He had always cherished her, always respected her, and never once called her by that name.
It would be completely unreasonable — and utterly unfair — to hold his parents' prejudices against him.
And truly, who could stay angry at such an earnest, wholehearted, and sincere boy — even if that boy happened to have the most difficult parents imaginable?
"And what if your parents wanted to go further — if they actually tried to harm me?" Hermione said, her expression hardening as she recalled Sirius's warning about Lucius Malfoy potentially sending a cursed dark object her way. "I am perfectly capable of protecting myself! I don't see what possible good hiding these things from me could do!"
"Even if those things turn out to be truly bad? Truly terrible?" He stared at her, his question carrying a strange, almost reverent weight.
That inexplicable tone of near-piety left Hermione entirely at a loss.
She had no time to dwell on it, however. She was intent on pressing her advantage in this conversation — on winning the point she had been working toward.
"Of course. Isn't that the whole meaning of honesty in a relationship? Facing the bad and the terrible together." She looked up at him with warm brown eyes, her gaze steady and full of trust — as though there were no part of Draco Malfoy that Hermione Granger could not accept.
"Draco, I'm not angry with you. If you can only tell me the truth, we can face it together."
Draco's heart hammered in his chest.
It was as if the girl before him had crossed some vast expanse of time and space, and long ago planted something in the left chamber of his heart — a quiet seed that had lain dormant for years, and was only now, today, beginning to unfurl.
His Hermione.
That trust. That certainty. That warmth. She was reaching out, tenderly, trying to understand him — regardless of whether he was a rough-edged thing capable of cutting her if she came too close.
One thing Draco Malfoy had gradually come to understand:
He was utterly defenceless against Hermione Granger.
He could never accurately predict her next move.
Just when he thought he knew her well enough, just when he was certain she could no longer surprise him, she would move him in some new, vivid, and irresistible way.
Time and time again. Again and again.
Merlin. Why did such a person exist? His natural nemesis, and his sweetest undoing.
He was full of cunning — always angling for control, scheming and manoeuvring to stay one step ahead; and she was open, guileless, honest, perpetually catching him off guard and turning the tide on him.
On the crowded street, he looked at her. She looked at him.
The noise of the world fell away. The cold wind lost its chill.
Only they remained.
In that instant, a wild and reckless impulse surged in Draco.
He wanted to tell her everything.
All the secrets he had been carrying. All the things that were dark and confusing and devastating.
"I think—" he began, and felt his eyes grow dangerously wet.
Before he could say another word, a fat raindrop struck the tip of his nose.
The cold, heavy rain began to fall.
It jolted him back to earth. In an instant, the cloud of impulse that had swelled inside him — vast and blue-dark, like ink bleeding through water — collapsed.
His heart sank. The fear rushed back.
He couldn't tell her. Not now. Not yet, Draco thought frantically.
It's too much. It would frighten her away.
And in that moment he understood, with horrible clarity, that he could not let go of her — and could not bear the possibility of watching her run.
There was no time to dwell on it in any case. The cold rain arrived in full force, falling thick and fast, crashing from the sky like a barrage of Bludgers let loose all at once.
The drops struck the cobblestones with force, pelting the pedestrians caught unawares.
Amid startled cries and complaints from all sides, the rain soaked through everything, leaving people's clothes damp and clinging.
Hermione had no time for further conversation. Elegantly dressed people were hiking up their skirts and scattering in every direction.
"It's raining — what do we do?" A flash of alarm crossed her face as the rain came down harder. She raised one hand to shield her eyes, squinting through the downpour. "Draco, we need to find cover!"
She was right. Draco exhaled, quietly folded all his hesitations and half-confessions back into the ruins of himself, and swept his gaze over the winding medieval streets and the mottled stone walls that had stood for centuries. Just below the looming bulk of the Papal Palace, he spotted a familiar beige two-storey building.
"I know somewhere — not far from here." He tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her forward. "Come with me!"
O rain that washes away all filth — I beg you, wash it all away. Wash away the grime and the dust with everything you have.
If it is possible at all — could you wash away my past as well? My transgressions? My sins?
As Draco ran, a bleak and longing thought crept through him, unbidden.
He couldn't help glancing back at her. He pulled her along, and she ran laughing through the rain — bright-eyed, fearless, utterly alive.
She glanced at him as she ran, her eyes glistening with pure trust beneath rain-soaked lashes, shining with something close to joy.
The happiness of that moment was almost unbearable in its perfection.
It seemed as though, as long as she held his hand, even the bitterest storm was something she would laugh through.
The building connected to the Papal Palace looked close enough, but it still took several minutes of running through the sudden downpour and gusting wind before they burst through the doors of the hotel lobby, soaked to the skin — looking, by all appearances, as though they had been dragged out of the bottom of the Black Lake.
The doorman took one look at them, hurried to hold the door open wide, and bowed deeply.
"Is this a wizards' hotel as well?" Hermione asked breathlessly, pushing a dripping strand of hair behind her ear. She noticed the "LA MIRANDE" sign in the lobby and turned to him.
"No, it's entirely Muggle." Draco wiped the water from his face and led her through the lobby with the air of someone who owned the place. "Avignon wasn't in our plans — we hadn't made any reservations in advance, so we settled on a Muggle hotel. We'll only be here for two or three days. Apart from the inconvenience of not being able to cast a single spell, it isn't entirely dreadful."
"If I recall correctly," Hermione said, glancing with quiet interest at the ivory-white statues, the gleaming candelabras, and the richly patterned tapestries covering an entire wall, "this is the finest hotel in Avignon." She found herself rather powerless to comment on his forced tone of sufferance.
"That's because you haven't stayed in a proper wizarding hotel," Draco said, guiding her up the staircase. "Mind your step."
As she climbed, Hermione asked tentatively, "Is your grandfather here?"
"No — he's out," he said calmly. "Attending some social engagement in the wizarding community, as usual."
"Will he be back soon?" She glanced through an arched French window at the glowering, wind-battered street outside.
"Don't expect him before dinner." Draco shook his head. "I doubt he'll return until he's finished that bottle of Château Margaux 1787 he brought along, and worked his way through that box of Cuban cigars as well."
He turned this over silently in his mind. That Monsieur Danmas must be no ordinary wizard — to have his grandfather, who never did anything without a clear benefit to himself, so enthusiastic that he had personally brought gifts and gone out of his way to cultivate the acquaintance.
He was pulled from his thoughts when he realised Hermione had been asking about his grandfather repeatedly.
Draco paused and looked at her.
"What — are you afraid of him?" he asked.
"No," Hermione said at once, lifting her chin. "I simply think it would be rather rude to show up in your grandfather's suite without warning."
"It's perfectly fine — we don't share rooms at all. The suites are private; we each have our own space." Draco paused, then added with his usual matter-of-fact disdain, "Staying in this inconvenient Muggle hotel is already stretching the very limits of my patience. You can't seriously expect me to cram myself into a small suite with my grandfather and pretend that's normal? Who does that—"
"Almost everyone," Hermione said flatly. "Draco, I'm beginning to understand why Ron finds you irritating. You are a thoroughly spoiled brat."
"How did you come to that conclusion?" Draco asked, genuinely baffled. "Did I say something wrong again? I mean it — that apartment was already appallingly cramped—"
Hermione shrugged and let her gaze drift to the pristine white busts positioned along the wide, thickly carpeted corridor.
"You're hopelessly spoiled and you haven't the faintest idea. Come now — how cramped can a suite be?" She sounded deeply sceptical. "And besides — doesn't your grandfather worry about you being on your own?"
Draco smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth curving just slightly.
"Every Malfoy prizes personal privacy and extends the same respect to the others. That holds true when travelling and at home. My parents keep separate bedrooms."
(Lucius's bedroom: You may not believe me... I am so lonely. So isolated. No one has slept here in so very long.)
"They sleep separately — do your parents get along well?" Hermione asked, curious.
What sort of marriage exists between two people who each retire to their own rooms?
"Well enough, I think. I don't know the particulars of their private life — they have always been very composed in front of me." He spoke lightly, and as he did, he found himself thinking of the way his parents held each other's hands — the quiet constancy of it, through every hardship, never letting go. "But I expect, if you stripped away the stubborn blood politics, they are simply an ordinary couple who have steadied each other through a great deal."
Hermione studied him with curiosity, still trying to comprehend what really lay behind that description — "ordinary couple" — and what it meant, coming from him.
"And how did they treat you?" she asked. "Were they kind?"
"Well enough. Though I'll admit — they are quite clearly not the same sort of parents as yours," Draco said, straightforwardly. "I wouldn't call them the kindest parents in the world, but I know they love me."
Hermione frowned slightly, turning this over. "And your grandfather? Is he kind to you?"
"My grandfather is a fairly gentle sort. Didn't you see him briefly that summer two years ago?" Draco said with a small smile.
"Yes, but back then—" Hermione hesitated.
They hadn't been together yet, then. She had simply exchanged polite greetings with the old man from across the room.
Carefully, she asked, "Is he — also a committed pure-blood?"
Draco glanced at her, recalling what she had said to him out on the street.
Perhaps he should test the ground first — offer her a small measure of honesty and see how much she could take.
"Unfortunately, yes. In certain respects, he is even more entrenched in it than my father — he has held those beliefs for considerably longer, after all." He said it plainly, watching her expression as he spoke.
She appeared steady enough. No visible alarm.
A knowing smile touched his lips, and he continued. "However, my grandfather has his own particular weakness."
She waited.
"His weakness is also, in a way, his strength," Draco said. "He is skilled at scheming and manipulation — at working through others, at keeping his own hands impeccably clean."
Under her attentive gaze, he went on slowly. "But precisely because of that, he relies too heavily on intrigue and indirection. He does everything through proxies rather than directly. He's inclined, almost by instinct, to reach for some clever stratagem — and then he grows complacent, always assuming that everything is well within his control."
He glanced at her again, reading her expression.
Hermione was watching him with considerable interest.
She noticed that when he spoke of his grandfather, his tone contained two contradictory things at once — admiration and warning — woven together without any sense of strain.
"I heard something about Sirius's younger days from him," Hermione said carefully, as Draco led her by the hand along the long, thickly carpeted corridor.
"Ah — the Shadow Minister in his prime? He was formidable when he was young — not easily crossed, according to my father." Draco smiled. "But now he is the most senior figure in the entire Malfoy family, and since he passed the reins to my father, you'd be hard pressed to see him sever ties with anyone directly."
"Is that so?" There was an unsteady note in her voice.
He caught it and moved to reassure her. "Don't worry — he won't express any hostility openly. If you were to meet him, you might very easily mistake him for the most charming and harmless wizard you'd ever encountered."
"But in reality—" she said, cutting to the heart of it.
"He is not. He never has been. And no one who values their own interests should ever lose sight of that." Draco said it with simple matter-of-factness, steering her around a corner into a darker corridor. "No matter how warm he appears, you must never give him your complete trust."
"Oh." Hermione frowned, processing the information.
The more she learned about them, the more she understood how completely his family differed from hers — different in every way that mattered.
"How else would you describe him?" she asked, struggling slightly.
"A pure-blood Slytherin in the fullest sense — purer in temperament, I'd say, than my father. He had some of Professor Slughorn's talent-collecting habits — that fondness for identifying promising young witches and wizards and drawing them into his orbit."
"Oh? He plays those social spider games as well?" Hermione asked.
"Not in quite the same way. He was a shade more cunning, a shade more hypocritical, and considerably more opportunistic than Slughorn. If Slughorn is a spider spinning a web of connections, my grandfather is the puppeteer — the one holding all the strings." Draco said it meaningfully.
"Puppet master..." Hermione repeated, surprised he would choose that particular word.
And yet it captured the man with remarkable precision.
"There is no one in the world he cannot use or manoeuvre. Rather arrogant, when you put it that way," Draco said with a mild, detached air, as though he were describing a cunning rival rather than his own grandfather.
"But he still loves you, doesn't he? Just as your parents love you—" Hermione asked.
"Of course. They all love me, each in their own particular way. And I love them, in my own particular way. I'd call that fair." Draco's voice was entirely even.
"But you love each other — and yet you can't tell each other the truth," Hermione said, frowning.
She paused, and something in her expression shifted, growing quietly sad.
In her memory, Draco had never seemed to truly trust his family.
He hadn't told them about his defiance of the Dark Lord, as far as she knew.
She understood the necessity of secrets. She had kept her own involvement in that resistance hidden from her parents — but that had been to spare them worry, and they lived entirely outside the wizarding world, which made the distance far easier to maintain.
Draco's family had always been at the heart of the wizarding world. They were complex, sharp-minded people who held suffocating beliefs, and who had once been amongst the Dark Lord's most faithful servants.
If Draco had been an arrogant, hard-hearted boy who shared his family's convictions, things might have been far simpler. But he wasn't — not remotely. He had, against all expectation, developed a profound opposition to the very principles he'd been raised on.
And yet he could speak of his own family with this kind of calm, clear-eyed appraisal.
Behind those words, she thought — how much inner conflict must he have endured? Living caught between the old world and the new, between what he was raised to be and what he had become. She felt a quiet ache for him, and without thinking, she tightened her grip on his hand.
"In the Malfoy family, 'love' and 'trust' cannot always be reduced to the same thing." Draco gave a slight shrug, and seemed to decide that this particular conversation had gone far enough for now.
He'd already given her a great deal to sit with — she had been frowning for some time.
"It's nothing so dire. Relax, Hermione — it isn't as bad as you're imagining. I can still come and see you, can't I?" He stopped, produced a key, and opened the suite door, the elegant, languid smile settling back onto his face like a familiar mask. "After you. Ladies first."
His smile did something to her.
You could not easily resist Draco Malfoy's smile. Especially when his fringe was rain-damp and slightly dishevelled, lending him an air of rare, unguarded wildness. Especially when he watched you with those grey eyes and let you see — just for a moment — something that was not quite the composed Slytherin heir.
"A rake who somehow fails to be irritating," she muttered under her breath as she walked through the door.
This rake appeared utterly indifferent to whatever hostility his family might choose to show, and closed the door behind them with a casual click.
He smiled at her — not his showman's smile, but something quieter, more certain — as though he were silently telling her: with me here, nothing will happen to you.
Then the lock clicked.
Hermione's heart paused for a beat, and the small sorrow that had been gathering in her chest quietly dissolved.
She smiled back at him, and felt the tension she'd been carrying slowly ease.
Only then did she have the presence of mind to actually look at the room.
She found herself standing in a world of quiet, sumptuous antiquity.
The spacious room was laid with a deep red carpet that complemented the red and blue stripe pattern on the walls. A long sofa in dark green velvet stood at the centre, its back carved with acanthus leaves, flanked by a gilded wooden armchair and a round stool that radiated the unmistakable spirit of French design. There were several paintings on the walls — Hermione could just make out the styles of Camille Pissarro and Gustave Moreau through their gilded frames — and between them hung a Rococo mirror occupying nearly a third of one wall, its presence opening the room and filling it with reflected candlelight.
Overhead, a twelve-arm gilt bronze chandelier cast a warm glow, while matching double-branched candlesticks lined the black marble mantelpiece, their light caught and doubled in the mirror above the fireplace.
On the round table before the sofa — inlaid with colourful hardstone, its legs carved in the Louis XVI style with gilded floral motifs — sat two table lamps with brass candlestick bases, their yellow-patterned fabric shades fringed with delicate tassels that swayed gently in the draught.
"I love this room," Hermione said, the words escaping before she could stop them.
She stepped forward, following the source of the draught, and discovered it came from a half-open arched doorway with a cream-white surround. In the warm glow of a gilded bronze wall sconce beside the door, she could see a wide terrace beyond — spilling over with purple lavender.
And that was only the sitting room of the suite.
She looked at the room again. Every corner of it exhaled a kind of exquisite, expensive artistry.
It was entirely, unmistakably refined and luxurious — and it had absolutely nothing to do with being cramped.
"Draco," Hermione said, turning to face him with an expression of open incredulity, "on what possible grounds did you describe this as a 'humble little suite' and then complain that it was 'appallingly cramped'?"
"For Merlin's sake, it doesn't even have a separate dining room!" Draco said with genuine grievance, reaching to switch on the table lamps. "I have to eat at a round table in the sitting room. Is that really acceptable?"
At that moment, Hermione Granger became absolutely certain of one thing: Draco Malfoy was, when it came to the creature comforts of life, one of the most insufferable and insatiable people she had ever met.
"Draco, I think you—" A sudden gust swept in from the terrace, and Hermione's sentence was cut short by a sneeze before she could finish it.
Draco had been pacing the room, switching on every lamp he could find. At the sneeze, he stopped and looked at her properly for the first time since they'd come in.
And then he realised.
Her hair was no longer its usual wild cloud of curls. It was soaking wet — hanging in heavy, dripping strands plastered against her cheeks.
A small tendril had caught on her collarbone, and one or two drops broke free from it, tracing slow paths down the line of her neck and disappearing somewhere he could not see.
Merlin.
Despite the cold of his own rain-soaked shirt clinging to his skin, Draco felt his face flood with heat in an instant.
He looked away. Looked back. His face went drier still.
Right. They had both been too preoccupied — him with weighing his words, her with listening to them — from the entrance of the hotel to this very room. They had been too close together, entirely caught up in each other's expressions and the rapid back-and-forth of conversation.
It was only now, with a few paces between them, that he could see her properly.
The heavy rain had done its damage. Her dress — orange-pink gauze, light and floating when it was dry — was thoroughly drenched. Like a blossom bent down by wind and rain, the fabric no longer drifted; it drooped and clung, dripping steadily.
In such conditions, certain things become difficult to overlook. The soft suggestion of hills in front; the upward curve behind; the impossible slenderness in between, which looked as though it might give way if you so much as breathed too hard.
Everything that her loose Hogwarts robes had quietly concealed was now, thanks to the rain, entirely apparent.
His gaze flickered with something he could not entirely suppress. He crossed the room toward her in three strides and looked at her directly.
She was like a bud heavy with rain, full and just on the point of opening.
And he was the one who wanted, desperately, to do something about it.
"Go to the bedroom," Draco said, low and steady, his voice tight. "Take off your clothes."
"What?!" Hermione stared at him as though she had misheard entirely.
She stood rooted to the spot, utterly at a loss, and forgot completely what she had been about to say.
How could he look at her so directly — so unashamedly — and say something like that? And in an imperative sentence, no less!
This was simply — this boy — a complete—
She stared at him with wide eyes, her chest rising and falling quickly, her face flushing a furious pink.
At that moment, the aforementioned boy noticed that the girl was shivering slightly in the cool draught from the terrace. Before she could sneeze again, he stepped past her and quickly pulled the glass terrace doors shut.
Hermione was startled by how close he came.
For a single, suspended second, she thought he was going to help her out of her soaked dress —
She only came back to herself when he swept past her like a gust of wind and she heard the click of the doors closing behind him.
"This is — highly improper!" she stammered, her heart hammering. "My coming to the hotel with you does not — does not mean that we are going to—"
She couldn't finish. The unintentional implication of her own words made her feel shy, awkward, and thoroughly flustered.
Then she caught her own reflection in the gilded mirror above the fireplace, and hurriedly crossed her arms over herself.
This was a futile and entirely undignified attempt to recover some sense of composure.
Through the glass of the terrace doors, Draco could see her reflection perfectly clearly.
Merlin. What on earth had he blurted out, in a moment of sheer panic? He forced himself to swallow, turned his gaze to the lavender shuddering in the wind and rain outside the terrace, and issued himself a very firm internal warning not to look at certain things.
"What are you thinking about?" Draco said, taking a careful, quiet breath. He turned without looking at her and walked into the bedroom with a studied air of composure.
He pulled a large, dry towel from the wardrobe, returned to the bedroom doorway, and tossed it across most of the room to her.
There. You're soaking wet, aren't you? Use that.
"Oh. Right." Hermione said, slightly flustered.
She wrapped herself in the towel, and felt, at least, marginally less exposed.
She really, desperately wished she could cast some sort of spell to un-say what she'd just said. Had she imagined things? Had she completely misread him?
"That's the great disadvantage of a Muggle hotel," Draco said, his tone controlled, finally allowing himself to glance at her again now that the towel provided something of a buffer. "No Drying Charms. Your clothes—"
"I imagine the hotel's room service ought to be able to help with that," Hermione said, smoothing the towel around herself and making every effort to sound perfectly composed, as she walked briskly past him to the telephone on the bedside table.
A faint colour still high on her cheeks, she picked up the receiver, pressed the buttons, and spoke quickly and competently to the Muggle attendant on the other end.
After she swept past him, Draco stood in the bedroom doorway for a full half minute, utterly motionless, a vague restlessness settling over him.
She was leaning against the bed where he had been sleeping. One gentle push was all it would take—
She was soaking wet. She was about to take off those soaked clothes, right here.
Her figure was something else even through wet fabric. If—
Merlin! Draco wrenched the wardrobe door open with a sharp, almost aggressive pull, and buried his face inside, rummaging through it with frantic purpose, searching for more towels and bathrobes and anything else that might give his hands and his mind something to do.
"They'll come in five minutes to collect the wet clothes," Hermione said, glancing at him and quickly looking away. "You'll need to change too, I'd think."
"I expect so," he said, extracting himself from the wardrobe and fixing his gaze pointedly on the Claude Monet roses in the crystal vase on the bedside table. He kept his hands hidden beneath the towel and bathrobe he was clutching. "I'll change in the sitting room."
"I'll use the bedroom then—" Hermione said quietly.
She was still thinking about what she'd said.
Though — could anyone entirely blame her?
His phrasing had been so ambiguous that anyone would have drawn the same conclusion. Hermione thought this with considerable indignation.
And yet here he was — perfectly controlled, perfectly proper. Keeping a careful distance. Showing absolutely no indication of trying anything.
He tossed the bathrobe onto the bed, still not daring to come any closer to her.
Who would dare, in good conscience? Her face was flushed pink — she looked like a delicate, trembling thing on the verge of startling. One wrong move and it might all come apart.
He gritted his teeth and gestured toward the bathroom door on the side of the bedroom. "The bathrobe is clean and unused. You should have a hot shower — you'll catch a cold otherwise. Madam Pomfrey's Pepper-Up Potion isn't exactly available here, is it."
"You're right. I should." Hermione paused, and then, without thinking, added: "Won't you need one as well?"
And then stopped.
She replayed what she'd said and heard exactly how it sounded — as though she were extending an invitation.
"I will," Draco said quickly.
Then, staring at her increasingly burning cheeks, the meaning of what he'd just said slowly caught up to him.
The girl was watching him with wide, nervous eyes, the large towel clutched tightly against her.
Her eyelashes were blinking very fast — like a butterfly bracing itself to take flight at the first sudden movement.
Draco cleared his throat quietly and said, in a lower voice: "You go first. Ladies first."
Hermione's face was crimson. She bit her lower lip and watched the thoroughly soaked boy make a swift, dignified exit from the bedroom, arms full of towels, bathrobe, and a change of clothes.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"Not at all. Take your time," he said, and closed the bedroom door behind him without looking back.
Merlin, just let him die now.
The moment the door clicked shut, the boy pressed his forehead flat against the wall outside the bedroom and tapped it there — once, twice — like a clock pendulum that had lost its rhythm.
Between the thoroughly ambiguous thing he had said, the thoroughly ambiguous thing she had said in response, and the thoroughly ambiguous thing he had then said in reply to that, he had more than enough material to keep his face burning, his brain buzzing, and the back of his neck a very bright shade of red for the foreseeable future.