December 1st, 1998
Ginny returns with two pints of Firewhiskey, and if that doesn't explain how she feels about it, nothing does.
Without any breakfast, it affects them quickly, and it makes telling the truth so much easier.
Hermione finds the words just pouring out of her, like ink from a broken well.
"It's...it's hard to explain. It's like - d'you know what splatter art is? It's a Muggle thing, it's strange. Abstract. It's taking paint and just throwing it against a canvas. Staining everything. Just letting it hit where it hits. And it's violent and messy and it has no rules or patterns or intentions. Bright, vicious colors thrown everywhere. Some people think it's just a disaster on paper. That it's the act of making art by ruining art. Other people adore it. But it's - it's just that you can't undo it. Can't erase anything once it's there, you know? Can't even try to aim or make it look a certain way. It's just this collision course - this clash of paint and canvas that someway, somehow makes something. And that...that's what happened with Malfoy. Draco. We just sort of collided with each other - stained each other with all of our problems and just sort of bled out all over the place. But I...I like the way it looks? I think? I don't know, Gin. I don't. I absolutely do not know. I don't know if I'm making a mistake or reading things wrong or hurting people but I don't feel normal unless I'm with him. It started with the Lake. I kept accidentally finding him there, or I don't even know if it was accidental, but I kept finding him there and he's just such a prick. All the time. He doesn't care. He says what's in his mouth, he doesn't swallow it or change it or hold it in. And I know, I know who he is and what he's done and who he used to be. I remember what he used to call me. I remember all of it. But then he just - he sits there and he tells me he couldn't watch me scream like he did before. And he spends all of his time writing in that bright purple journal and just looking so out of place. Like me. So much like me. We - we're so similar. And I've spent so much time thinking it should be Ron. Growing up thinking it. Waiting for it to feel right. To sit right in my stomach. But it's wrong. It's so, so wrong, and when Ron kissed me I was numb. I was nothing. And then - then fucking Malfoy kisses me and it just absolutely shatters all those hopes I used to write down in my thirteen-year-old diary and I just had to sit there and try to make sense of it. Of how that could be. How the one person I'm supposed to hate unconditionally is the only one I want to let touch me. And my thoughts have been so impossibly loud, all trapped in there at once, bickering and arguing and switching sides. Because I couldn't just go and tell you, like I could if it were some other boy. I couldn't sit with you and Parvati and Luna and gush over how it made me feel and where he touched me because it's fucking Malfoy and I'm not allowed to feel that way about him - and...and because every time anyone sees him touch me they think he's trying to kill me. It's fucking prejudice. And it's too strong. It's too fresh. So I let you all believe it was Zacharias because at least that was safe, but it hurt him. It fucking hurt him. And it hurt me and I wanted so badly to have you know the truth. To have you all know. But how could I? How could I? Knowing what you'd think? What some of you might do? What Ron would do? So I lied. I lied. I felt like I had to. I've been lying for months. But then - last night, I...we...it's gone too far. It's gone too far and I can't lie about it to you anymore. My first time was supposed to be with Ron. Everyone told me that. I told me that. But no - no, my first time - mine, me, Gryffindor's bloody princess, or whatever bollocks they call me in the Prophet - was with Malfoy. Death Eater. Pariah. War criminal. Slytherin's disgraced fucking prince. It was with him, in a hospital bed and I wanted it to be. I didn't waste it. In my heart I know I didn't waste it. And I had to tell you because it was so absolutely, ridiculously right. He and I are paint splattered all over the place and we're staining everything and maybe we absolutely don't go together, but to me - to me we're a fucking Jackson Pollock."
She feels like she hasn't taken a breath since she started. Gasps and gulps down air, tears streaming down her face. She drowns any future words with Firewhiskey and waits for Ginny to speak. She's been silent this whole time. Listening. Staring.
The sudden quiet is painful. Makes Hermione's fingers tremble.
Ginny sips her whiskey.
And then she asks, quietly and calmly as ever, "Who is Jackson Pollock?"
"Masterpiece Muggle splatter artist," Hermione murmurs around the rim of her cup, unsure what to make of this response.
Ginny nods as though committing it to memory. Sips more whiskey.
"Please say something."
She swallows, setting down her glass and starting to twirl the ends of her hair around her fingers. Never a good sign with Ginny. "You won't like what I have to say."
Hermione scoffs. Splutters. "I - I don't care. I don't. I knew that before I told you. I want to know what you think. What you really think."
Ginny sighs and leans forward on her elbows. "I think..." she pauses, sighs again, eyes flitting between each of Hermione's. "I think he's going to hurt you."
She nods, feeling shaky and neurotic. "He is. He has. But - I...I've hurt him, too. I'm not...I'm not powerless in this situation. I'm not scared. I can hurt him, too."
Ginny's eyes narrow. Not in anger, but rather introspectively. Like she's sizing her up. "Spoken like a true Slytherin," she says, and her gaze drops to the silver and green tie.
Hermione gives a nervous laugh. She can't read her. Isn't sure exactly how she means it.
"Speaking of which..." Ginny pulls out her wand. Casts a spell to fix her robes and glamours her neck in under ten seconds. She's always been quite impressive with her magic.
"Thank you," says Hermione quietly. She still can't tell what she's thinking. How she's feeling.
Ginny's poker face is quite impressive as well.
"Gin," she urges after another long silence. "Please."
"What?"
"Just say it. Whatever you're thinking. Say it."
Ginny finishes off her whiskey - leans her head on her hand. "'Mione, I...I don't really know what I can say to make you feel better. I hate him. I'm sorry, but I hate him and I think I'll always hate him. He's flesh and blood of the woman who murdered my brother. His father is the reason I -" She breaks off. Clears her throat, "First Year. He's the reason for what happened in First Year."
"I know," Hermione breathes, inwardly cursing herself. How could she have been so stupid and selfish not to consider Ginny and Tom Riddle's diary? How much more deeply this might affect her? She's not a neutral party. Not by a long shot.
But Ginny continues. "The way you talk about him, though...it worries me. It sounds as if you're very far gone, Hermione. You're very deep in this. What happens if you come to a point where you need to crawl your way out? Will you? Can you?"
Hermione huffs. Glances down. Away. "Probably not."
Ginny says nothing.
Slowly, the Three Broomsticks grows busier with the late morning crowd. Hermione watches her whiskey grow murkier by the second, clouding in the glass. She's swirling it around when Ginny speaks again.
"So...last night then?" She doesn't need to finish.
Hermione chews her lip, not looking up. Nods.
"Are you alright?"
Now she does meet her eyes, feeling color flood to her cheeks. "Better than alright," she admits. "I know, though. I know you don't want to hear it."
"Hermione." Ginny's tone is suddenly stern, and she sounds somehow older than her years. Wiser. "I may hate him. But it is none of my business who you see. It's not in my control, nor should it be. I'm sorry I can't say the same for others -"
She means Ron.
" - but you can always talk to me. And while I may judge Malfoy - will, will judge Malfoy - I will never judge you."
Hermione feels tears well up in her eyes again.
"Do you understand?"
She nods, and it shakes a few of them free, sending them streaming down her face. Ginny conjures her a tissue.
"Thank you," she says through the thin fabric of it as she wipes her eyes. Hopes Ginny knows how broadly she means it.
Ginny orders one more round of the tamer Butterbeers, along with some pumpkin pasties to soak up all the alcohol. They sit together well into the lunch hour, talking things over. Hermione tells her about Zacharias's threat and about Pansy. Tells her about stealing Draco's journal and about Theodore Nott.
In turn, Ginny tells her what she hasn't seen. Tells her how it's looked from the outside.
And she's slightly horrified, because from the outside, she's behaved like a complete sociopath.
"And we miss you, 'Mione," she says as well. "We want to be there for you, but you don't make it easy. With this, I understand. But with everything else - we can help you. You don't have to do it on your own."
She finds herself holding back more tears. "I know. I know, I'm sorry." But all she can promise is, "I'll try."
Walking out of the Three Broomsticks, though...she feels like a tangle of impossibly heavy chains has been taken off her feet. Feels fifty pounds lighter.
Ginny should've known all along.
She crawls into bed that night having not gone to a single class and feeling thoroughly unlike herself.
It's nice.
Madam Pomfrey hadn't said a word to her about Draco when she came in. She'd simply asked her to perform the contraceptive charm three times with her newly working wand, hmmph-ed when she'd done it right, and then dropped the subject.
Poppy has never been one to pry.
This, though, is the first moment she's had all day to be alone with her thoughts. She stares up at the vibrant red canopy of her four-poster, and for the first time since waking up, she opens up the floodgates.
Her thoughts run rampant. Her legs grow restless. She lets herself retrace every memory in her head without restriction, and it starts to feel real. Like it truly happened.
She's partly shocked at her behavior last night. Surprised by her nerve and her assertiveness. Certainly, she's always maintained those attributes with vigor during everyday life, but she'd never imagined they'd cross over into the bedroom.
Never imagined she could be so forthright about what she wanted.
And what's more, who could've ever expected Draco Bloody Malfoy to listen?
She makes a mental note to ask his middle name. Is abruptly wildly curious and surprised she doesn't know.
But these are suddenly things she wants to know. Almost should know, considering what's happening between them. She can in no way put a label on it, but she can at least be sure that she wants to know him better.
Childishly, she makes a list in her head - twenty-one questions with Draco Malfoy.
And she wonders whether she'll ever get to ask them.
December 2nd, 1998
Diary,
The fuck do you mean my last entry was too brief?
I answered your weekly prompt, you mouth-breathing halfwits. What more, by law - if you've even actually read my fucking charges - do I have to do?
The answer is fucking nothing.
I can read. I read it.
I know all the loopholes.
Have a pleasant evening,
Draco
December 4th, 1998
It's Friday evening when Ginny first brings it up.
The Gryffindor common room is tamer than usual, and Hermione's working on an essay in the armchair by the fireplace while Harry and Ron fill out Preliminary Auror Training forms on the floor by her feet.
Ron didn't want to be an Auror. He wanted to play for the Chudley Cannons. At least, that was the last she'd heard.
But she hasn't really spoken to Ron in months - not like she used to, and it seems things have changed.
Ginny's been working at drawing her back into their social circle, quite casually and without any ridiculous grand gestures, thank goodness - but it's an adjustment all the same.
She tries to remember the last time the three of them sat like this. Worked in silence in each other's company. Not since before the war, she reckons.
Malfoy has been a blur since that morning. She's only caught glimpses of him coming and going. He's skipped several of their shared classes. She doesn't know why it makes her tense, but it does.
Ginny sits across from her in the other armchair, reading, and she says it without looking up, "Any developments with Jackson Pollock?"
Hermione's quill slips, and she draws a thick, black line down the empty quarter left on her page. Ruins it. She flashes wide eyes at Ginny, but she still hasn't looked up from her book.
"Who's Jackson Bollocks?" asks Ron, yawning.
"Pollock," Hermione corrects automatically. Adjusts herself in the armchair, pulse suddenly quite fast.
But Ginny explains before her thoughts get too far away from her. "He's a famous Muggle artist - abstract. Hermione's doing a research project on him for Muggle Studies."
Her pulse slows...just a fraction.
"Yes..." she murmurs after a moment, uncertain and suspicious, "I...am."
"Pretty in-depth, the way I heard it. Lots of work." Ginny turns a page, still not looking up.
"Yes," she says again, catching on.
Harry looks up from the floor through his messy mop of hair. Smiles impishly. "Hermione's probably already finished it."
And Ginny looks up finally, tossing Hermione a complicated glance. She thinks she understands. "Not at all," she says, continuing when Ginny subtly nods. "It'll take me months, I expect."
Ron has already lost interest. His face is screwed up as he scribbles on his form. Harry is only half-listening.
"So?" Ginny asks again. "How's it going?"
And she gets it.
Ginny really is a brilliant witch. In under two minutes, she's perfectly crafted a way to talk about Malfoy in front of Harry and Ron. In front of anyone, really.
She hides a smile. "No new developments. Just preliminary research at this point."
Ginny winks when no one's looking. "Well, let me know if you need any help."
And all of the tension in her body seems to ease in that instant.
Finally. Finally, an ally.