In These Silent Days

Chapter 8

Unsteady, rapid steps sound out from the kitchen followed by a groan and a, "Praise the founders—tea."

Hermione stifles a giggle as Draco walks carefully into the sitting room clutching his mug.

"Er, hi."

His dress shirt is half untucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his glassy eyes, pink cheeks, and mussed hair only amplify the handsome unkemptness.

Hermione lets her gaze rove up and down his figure then indulges in a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"I know, I know," Draco says and joins her on the sofa, "but we were celebrating tonight. Theo and Astoria are expecting."

"Oh, how exciting, please pass on my congratulations next time. We should get them a gift."

"I'll take care of it. I'm to be godfather after all."

"Are you really? Then congratulations to you, too."

"Well, technically I'm not yet. I've got to duel Blaise and Greg for the honor. But I like my odds."

Draco tips his head back and closes his eyes. Hermione studies his sharp, pointy profile, bathed in firelight with a lazy half-smile that exudes contentment along with the slight inebriation. He glows like a muted flame and she is a helpless moth—hovering, staring and wanting to be closer.

"It's nice," she says quietly. "Seeing you this way."

"Drunk? I don't make a habit of it."

"No, not drunk just...unburdened?"

Draco opens his eyes so he can roll them. "That's dramatic."

"I just meant...you always seem...lighter, I suppose, after you spend time with your friends. It must be nice, I mean, I know it's nice since I have a wonderful group of friends myself...but it's nice to relax with people who understand you fully. That's all I was saying."

Draco doesn't answer, just settles lower against the couch.

"You could be that way here, you know. At home," Hermione adds. "I'd never want you to feel as if you couldn't be yourself...with me."

After a long, piercing look at her, he replies: "Noted."

Occlumency is replaced by alcohol, it seems, as Draco's tool for falling asleep quickly later. He snores lightly, with limbs more sprawled than usual. He's not near enough for them to touch, but he's close enough for Hermione to wonder how it would feel if they did.

The following morning's shower thoughts: long-fingered hands and a lazy, pleased smile.

Hermione's sated, post-shower mood is ruined by an official missive that arrives with her morning paper. She's been given a written warning from the Office of Matrimonial Affairs for exceeding the maximum number of appeals allowed in a sixty-day period. They will not accept any forms from her for the next sixty days.

Hermione has endured a few more social outings with Draco, some for her work, some for his.

Hob-knobbing was never a skill she possessed. She often envied Ron's affable charm, the "I'm just a regular bloke," demeanor that ingratiates him with strangers. Then there's Harry, who can command a room without even trying, and while part of it is "The Boy Who Lived" appeal, he also possesses an innate magnetism that would make him an excellent professor.

People listen to Harry, whereas they tolerate her. Hermione knows her passion can come across preachy, enthusiastic conversations opening with sanctimonious salvos on her end. And it's too easy for her to make a swift turn to argumentative if her conversational partner is misunderstanding her or worse, wrong.