requirement | dramione

0.28

It was exactly that, his imperfection in this very moment, the persuaded Hermione to tell him the truth. He was beautiful and, even if it was unusual, he deserved to know.

"But Draco. I did have a nice time. And, honestly, I don't think you're an arse. Not when it's just you and me." When he didn't respond to her with the anger that she had expected, her confidence grew. "You remember what I said, don't you? Before, I mean, when I told you that you could be just Draco. I like this version of you. Just Draco."

His hand was cool against her cheek, stifling her warm blush, reminding her of their differences. He was cool to the touch. The skin on his face was pale and milky while she knew she was bright red and warm. She found his eyes, which were wide, watchful, and memorizing the ripple of dark gray on the outermost ring of his pupil as it blended into a silver glow. His eyes were so brilliantly light gray that they were easily mistaken for dull blue. They were beautiful. And they were the exact opposite reflection of her deep, murky brown.

They were opposites all together.

Hermione sighed as if she was making her realization known, blinking as she waited for Draco's demeanor to change, waiting for something to ruin the moment that seemed so sweet. And yet, the blonde boy didn't move; he kept his hand against Hermione's warm face, like it was a peace offering. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, knowing their shared harmony would come to an end soon. She would prefer it be on her own terms, not his.

She stepped back, ever so slightly pulling her cheek away from his palm, watching his limb hover in the air for a moment before dropping to his side. She wet her lips, preparing the words that she wasn't sure she wanted to say.

"I think we both know that this doesn't change one thing though." She stared at his chest, unable to meet his eyes. "You're still you. And I'm still," a mudblood? "Me."

Draco heard the word she did not say, understanding what she truly meant. Concepts of the outside world, like blood status and the war and something so silly as the school houses they had been sorted into. He was a Slytherin, built on ambition and cunningness, and she was a Gryffindor who prioritized bravery and chivalry. Their houses were rivals; Draco remembered learning the history of the founders of Hogwarts and, even then, Slytherin and Gryffindor did not get along. They were not meant to befriend one another, let alone have sex. 

 A fucking pureblood– the last descendant of both the Malfoy and Black family who hadn't been disowned. Had he just tainted his bloodline forever? Would he too be burnt off the family tree, never to be spoken of again? His stomach swelled.

Fuck.

And then there was the matter of the civil war.

His eyes were glued to Hermione, who avoided his gaze and looked down at the floor. Her brown curls were strewn around her head, small pieces framing her face. Her cheeks were still rosy, but her lips were pulled into a fine line of concern.

Draco wondered how much she knew. How much had she been able to discern from the censored news articles and the redacted statements that made their way through the Ministry and into Hogwarts? Did she know the raids had begun months ago– that the Dark Lord already had footholds in the North and that there were Death Eater's living like royalty in his house? 

He suddenly felt overwhelmed with grief. Perhaps he had just ruined her. 

Did she know that he was supposed to be one of them? A Death Eater? Did she know that he was branded? Draco swallowed the urge to cry. Or throw up.

What had he done? 

He centered himself, casting his eyes to the floor and hardening his face.