July 14 th , 2004
Even after their explosive row two weeks ago, they still bicker a lot, so much that it would seem like they weren't even friends. She seems to have forgiven and forgotten, and he is grateful for it. Though he is not convinced of Heaven's existence, he appreciates her desire for it and comes to respect it.
He still likes fighting with her (though they stay away from the more touchy subjects), challenging her, getting a rise out of her, but most of all, he just likes being the centre of her attention, as brat-ish and selfish as it sounds. But later, he won't remember what any of their little spats were about. He won't remember their twenty-minute argument sparked by Lavender Brown's reputation on June 7th or their shouting match that started with a spilled inkwell on July 10th.
He will keep track of them, number them, clutch them in his fists for weeks, but before long he will drop them, drop them onto the ground and walk away without ever turning back.
But he will remember the Assuming. The Knowing. The Photographs. Edelweiss.
Among other things.
His clock reads 19:34 when he hears a knock on his door. He stands from the sea of paperwork that surrounds him on the floor—there was too much of it to fit on his desk.
"Want to go out for a drink?" Hermione asks when he opens the door. She's wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and it makes her look like a teenager again. Younger.
A drink. He wonders if Weasley knows she's here. He never asks, and never will.
"No tonight, Granger," he tells her. "I've still got work."
"We've finished the King Case two days ago, and Kingsley hasn't given us anything since then. What work could you possibly have to do?" she asks.
"Family stuff," he says shortly.
"Oh. What kind of family stuff?"
"Business. Just because we're disgraced doesn't mean we're suddenly poor, too," he informs her, trying to keep most of the bite from his tone.
"You work too much."
"Look who's talking."
"Touché. Which is exactly why you and I both need this. We've become over-worked, and so delusioned toward the fact that this is normal behaviour for good-looking young people."
Good-looking.
"Just because we work too much doesn't mean we're over-worked. There's a difference," he says.
"It's a technicality. Now come on. I've already got a pub picked out."
They stay out far later than either of them expected, he thinks as they apparate back to his flat. Not that he's complaining.
"Why are you coming back home with me again?" he asks when they walk through his front door.
"I want to find your old Thompson Case file. I got a request from Roberts for some cross-referencing."
"And why couldn't we find this before you dragged me out to go to a pub?"
She shrugs. "I hadn't thought about it."
An awful excuse if there ever was one.
"Fine," he says as she slips off her shoes and tosses them onto the welcome mat, making herself perfectly comfortable despite the fact that this isn't her flat.
"It's in my office, I'll go look for it. Stay there," Draco tells her. The last thing he needs is her snooping around his home.
She's blatantly ignoring him, though. She's caught sight of the piano.
"Holy Hell," she says as she nearly sprints over to the baby grand he brought into his living room. "This thing is gorgeous!"
"It's not a thing. It's a priceless Eisenbrandt," he scoffs pompously, naming a German Instrument-Making wizard. "He's like the Ollivander of the wizarding music world," he further explains after catching sight of her puzzled look.
Hermione runs her fingers over the keys, first the white, then the black, with an expression on her face that he can't quite decipher.
"Do you... do you play?" he asks hesitantly, the words trotting out, meek and shy, from his mouth.
"I used to. When I was younger," she says distractedly, drowning in her own lake of whorling recollections. "I haven't played in perhaps seven or eight years."
"Oh? Why not?"
She shrugs. "Not as much time to practice, what with school... and then the war..."
"...You don't remember anything?"
"I think... one song... but I learned it so long ago..."
"Try it," he said softly.
"No, no, I couldn't, I'm not even sure if I remember it all—"
"Try it," he repeats. "Please."
She sighs.
"Fine."
And then—
Rolling arpeggios. Treble clef. Falling gently like snowflakes in sweet, cold winter air. Alighting down from what seemed like thin air and settling in his ear. A slight slip on Hermione's part (a flat, perhaps, when a sharp was in order). Though after that, perfection.
A melody, gently pushing aside the introduction with a courteous bow, and harmonies flitting in and out and alongside said melody like butterflies in a flower garden.
He visualises white flowers. Five petals. A bit fuzzy. Soft.
He finds himself stumbling back against the couch.
A voice. Like pure, transparent glass made beautiful by inexperienced, luck-blessed hands. Untrained. Unimpeded.
"Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Every morning you greet me
Small and white, clean and bright
You look happy to meet me
Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow
Bloom and grow forever
Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Bless my homeland forever."
A final run of chords.
An end.
And a beginning.
YOU ARE READING
Eyes Open by: orphan_account
Fanfiction[ COMPLETE] Granger corners him one last time, pulling that bloody envelope from her robes. He lets it fall into his open palm. "You know the rules, don't you?" "Only for when I'm at my lowest point," he says. "And after I open it, I go straight to...
