Dramione One Shots

10. at the coffee table

Tuesday, September 1, 1998 - 4:02 PM

I put my books down on the coffee table. Malfoy's the only one on the sofa, reading a novel, pale fingers covering the title and most of the cover page. The others have gathered around the worktable by a massive bow window, playing card games and sharing sweets. Did he sit here first and did everyone choose to avoid him? Or did he choose to isolate himself?

He's on one end of the tufted sofa. I sit on the other. We don't speak.

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Friday, September 11, 1998 - 9:39 PM

It's my tenth attempt at writing this letter. The words are all wrong, sentiments hollow. I crumple the parchment and toss it over my shoulder with the rest of my botched efforts, fully intending to clean up after myself later.

The rejected-letter-ball lands in my lap like a boomerang. Someone's approaching from behind.

He makes a show of looking at the wads of paper on the ornate Turkish rug.

I flush.

He doesn't ask.

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Sunday, September 13, 1998 - 3:07 AM

Ron's response stares at me, folded so many times it's become an origami square. Even though I ended it, there are cold, tacky tear tracks on my cheeks. Something beneath my ribcage aches like it's been plucked out and rewired improperly.

The floorboards creak.

He's veiled in a black cloak so dark it nearly sucks him into the shadows. It's a good thing we've never had to go into hiding together because his hair glows like a gargantuan firefly. I want to ask where he's been, but we never talk.

He stumbles to a stop, not expecting to see me either. I'm lit by a speckle of fire and it's impossible to see my puffy eyes or milky cheeks, but he stares so long I second guess myself.

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Wednesday, September 16, 1998 - 4:56 PM

I'm sitting cross-legged behind the coffee table, where I've systematically arranged my books and stationary. There's a worktable by the window, but I never sit there. Nobody ever sits here except for Malfoy and me. He's sprawled across the sofa with a textbook on his lap. My back is facing him, but I hear when he turns a page, scrapes his quill across parchment, readjusts himself and the leather cushions squeak.

I'm so bewildered when he says, "Hey, Granger?" that he repeats himself, more bluntly the second time.

I peek over my shoulder. He's fumbling with the corner of his textbook, not looking at me. Convinced I'm hearing voices, I face forward.

"Could I ask you a question about Muggle Studies?"

I look over again. This time, our gazes meet but he looks reluctant. "Go on."

"What does it mean to call 9-9-9?"

After explaining it to him, I ask, "You're taking Muggle Studies?"

"Mandatory to graduate." Mandatory for him.

I turn back to my textbook.

Too much time has lapsed to say, "let me know if you have any more questions," but I say it, anyway.

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Saturday, September 19, 1998 - 8:09 PM