Fic: Glimpse (Harry Potter, HG/DM, HG/HP, HG/RW)
Title/Prompt: Glimpse #042
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Draco/Hermione, Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione
Words: 1400
Author’s Note: This turned from drabble to ficlet in a blink of an eye, but it was just begging to be written. It sort of satisfies my need for canon, as well as D/Hr and H/Hr in one fic, since if you squint it could sort of be DH-compliant. Although, to be honest, this is less about the pairings and more about Draco.
-----
Looking back on it now, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that it had been Flourish & Blotts of all places. He was just surprised that he had managed to avoid any one of the Golden Trio for almost twelve years now.
It was the hair he had noticed first.
Just as he’d lifted another useless book on Quidditch up, only to place it almost immediately back onto the old wooden shelf, had he caught sight of the unmistakeable mass of wild, unruly, honey brown curls.
She was standing in the adjacent aisle, facing the opposite bookshelf, her back to him.
But it was her. Of that fact, he had no doubt.
The last he had seen her, she had been sporting the wide smiles and the sparkling, joyous eyes of a blushing bride.
No, he hadn’t gone to the wedding. No, he hadn’t even been invited (not that he had ever expected it, or would have attended had hell frozen over and he’d actually received an invite). He’d just been unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the happy couple plastered across the front of the Daily Prophet.
His eyes had lingered on the picture for only a few seconds, but it had been a few seconds too long.
She had looked beautiful.
She had never been anything but plain; her intellect and grating, goody two-shoes persona resigned to make up for what she lacked in appearance. Yes, she had been passably pretty back in their fourth year during the Yule ball, but that fleeting thought had been overruled by the pity of her being a Mudblood.
Mudblood.
He was indifferent to the word now.
He was indifferent to them.
His parents had been bloody fools to follow Voldemort, easily duped and manipulated. So much for Pureblood supremacy, he’d thought with a scoff, as he realised in weeks after the Great Battle how easily they had all succumbed to and cowered under a mad Half-Blood megalomaniac who was the very definition of hypocrisy. So much for the superiority the Malfoy name heralded when Lucius had been so willing to live a life of servitude for an unwinnable and pointless cause.
Because Light always defeated the Dark.
He wasn’t jaded enough to not know that to be the truth.
The words Mudblood and Pureblood that had been drilled into his head since infancy, and had tainted his understanding of the world for most of his life, were nothing but lies.
And the fact that he had been so very wrong had only compounded his hate for the fabulous three.
It didn’t help matters either that he would often catch glimpses of brown curls in the street and that glowing image of her looking so happy and beautiful would dance before his eyes; taunting him with what, he didn’t know.
Perhaps a small part of him had been waiting for the inevitability of this moment.
And now that it had arrived, he found himself unable to move.
She slid the book she had been holding back into the shelf, her fingers skimming along the spines of others.
She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, he realised.
Her surreptitious glances at the watch on her wrist told him she was only passing time, waiting for something, someone.
She turned in that moment, her gaze landing on the opposite bookshelf. The back to back counterpart of the shelf he was stood in front of.
There was no way she couldn’t have not noticed him.
It wasn’t conceit when he’d admit that his hair was one of his most distinguishable attributes; white blond hair as equally recognisable as bushy brown curls.
He waited again for the inevitability, and when her gaze finally collided with his, and that jolt of recognition sparked in her eyes, he was struck with the oddest sensation of utter absence of thought and feeling.
The hate which had flowed through his veins so readily at even just the casual mention of Granger, Potter or Weasley, the hate which he had been expecting to burst to the forefront of his mind when she turned around, was simply not there.
“Malfoy,” she said.
Though the shock was plainly evident, she still sounded the same.
She looked almost the same, had it not been for the few creases in her skin around her eyes that marked twelve years.
Her hair was still a bird’s nest, trimmed yes, but just as chaotic as he remembered.
Her pink blouse and grey knee length skirt was both prim and proper. So very her.
His voice came out scratchy as he spoke, “Granger.”
Uncomfortable, was probably the best way to describe it.
She looked away first. Her eyes dropped to her empty hands that betrayed her with no book and embossed title to stare at instead.
“Fancy running into you here, of all places,” he said, sarcasm woven into each word as he regained his footing now that she had looked away, “Ever the bookworm, I see.”
He honestly hadn’t meant offence, but it was perhaps his natural sardonic drawl, together with Hermione’s propensity to get defensive that led to her retort.
“Yes, well, better to be a bookworm, than a ferret.”
And Merlin help him, he had laughed.
His genuine amusement quite obviously baffled her, as she stared at him.
And before he knew it he was smiling. Smiling at her, and he didn’t even know he was doing it.
“You’ve finally cracked, haven’t you?” she said, the uncertainty in her eyes wavering, the corner of her lips, tilting ever so slightly upwards.
“Insanity is apparently a family trait.”
“As is cowardice and racial bigotry,” she said, all illusions of a smile just moments before vanishing, her face taking on a hard, challenging edge.
He immediately sobered, remembering just who they were.
She wanted something from him. Whether she knew she had made it so obvious, he wasn’t quite sure, but she wanted it nevertheless.
An apology.
How did one apologise for all the foul, despicable words spoken and actions taken over a decade ago, all born from the fallacious and twisted beliefs fed to him as a child. A simple ‘sorry’ seemed inadequate. But at the root of it, Malfoys never mind how wrong, had never before uttered the word.
He opened his mouth to reply, but whether he would have ever said the word he would never know.
Whoever Granger had been waiting for had chosen that moment to walk into the shop and their conversation,
“Hey love, sorry for being late. I got caught up at the Ministry, Shacklebolt wanted to discuss the headway we were making on . . .”
And the rest of his sentence fizzled out, as bright green eyes found grey and widened in shock.
If he’d been surprised that the endearment that left the man’s lips was the same pair of lips that had briefly kissed hers, and that that man had neither red hair nor blue eyes, he had not let an ounce of it show.
“Malfoy,” the man uttered, much the same way as she had.
“Potter,” he returned.
“I, we . . .”
Whatever he’d wanted to say would have been decidedly futile, and so The Boy Who Lived could only heave a wary sigh.
He was neither blind nor stupid.
Had he been the Draco Malfoy of twelve years previously, he would have rubbed his hands together gleefully at being privy to such a deliciously outrageous secret, and yelled it from the rooftops.
But he was no longer that boy.
There was fear in her eyes. And fear was an emotion he had lived too long with. He could do without it.
“You can sleep easy Potter, I won’t be the one telling either of the Weasleys.” The unspoken “You will,” hung in the air.
Lies ruined lives. He knew that only too well.
He caught her gaze, held it for only a second, but it was long enough to convey his message.
He walked out of Flourish and Blotts then without another glance at either of them, feeling strangely lighter than he had in years.
He may not have been able to say the word, but his silence would have to do as his apology.
And she had understood, but more importantly, she had accepted.
-----
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Draco/Hermione, Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione
Words: 1400
Author’s Note: This turned from drabble to ficlet in a blink of an eye, but it was just begging to be written. It sort of satisfies my need for canon, as well as D/Hr and H/Hr in one fic, since if you squint it could sort of be DH-compliant. Although, to be honest, this is less about the pairings and more about Draco.
-----
Looking back on it now, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that it had been Flourish & Blotts of all places. He was just surprised that he had managed to avoid any one of the Golden Trio for almost twelve years now.
It was the hair he had noticed first.
Just as he’d lifted another useless book on Quidditch up, only to place it almost immediately back onto the old wooden shelf, had he caught sight of the unmistakeable mass of wild, unruly, honey brown curls.
She was standing in the adjacent aisle, facing the opposite bookshelf, her back to him.
But it was her. Of that fact, he had no doubt.
The last he had seen her, she had been sporting the wide smiles and the sparkling, joyous eyes of a blushing bride.
No, he hadn’t gone to the wedding. No, he hadn’t even been invited (not that he had ever expected it, or would have attended had hell frozen over and he’d actually received an invite). He’d just been unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the happy couple plastered across the front of the Daily Prophet.
His eyes had lingered on the picture for only a few seconds, but it had been a few seconds too long.
She had looked beautiful.
She had never been anything but plain; her intellect and grating, goody two-shoes persona resigned to make up for what she lacked in appearance. Yes, she had been passably pretty back in their fourth year during the Yule ball, but that fleeting thought had been overruled by the pity of her being a Mudblood.
Mudblood.
He was indifferent to the word now.
He was indifferent to them.
His parents had been bloody fools to follow Voldemort, easily duped and manipulated. So much for Pureblood supremacy, he’d thought with a scoff, as he realised in weeks after the Great Battle how easily they had all succumbed to and cowered under a mad Half-Blood megalomaniac who was the very definition of hypocrisy. So much for the superiority the Malfoy name heralded when Lucius had been so willing to live a life of servitude for an unwinnable and pointless cause.
Because Light always defeated the Dark.
He wasn’t jaded enough to not know that to be the truth.
The words Mudblood and Pureblood that had been drilled into his head since infancy, and had tainted his understanding of the world for most of his life, were nothing but lies.
And the fact that he had been so very wrong had only compounded his hate for the fabulous three.
It didn’t help matters either that he would often catch glimpses of brown curls in the street and that glowing image of her looking so happy and beautiful would dance before his eyes; taunting him with what, he didn’t know.
Perhaps a small part of him had been waiting for the inevitability of this moment.
And now that it had arrived, he found himself unable to move.
She slid the book she had been holding back into the shelf, her fingers skimming along the spines of others.
She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, he realised.
Her surreptitious glances at the watch on her wrist told him she was only passing time, waiting for something, someone.
She turned in that moment, her gaze landing on the opposite bookshelf. The back to back counterpart of the shelf he was stood in front of.
There was no way she couldn’t have not noticed him.
It wasn’t conceit when he’d admit that his hair was one of his most distinguishable attributes; white blond hair as equally recognisable as bushy brown curls.
He waited again for the inevitability, and when her gaze finally collided with his, and that jolt of recognition sparked in her eyes, he was struck with the oddest sensation of utter absence of thought and feeling.
The hate which had flowed through his veins so readily at even just the casual mention of Granger, Potter or Weasley, the hate which he had been expecting to burst to the forefront of his mind when she turned around, was simply not there.
“Malfoy,” she said.
Though the shock was plainly evident, she still sounded the same.
She looked almost the same, had it not been for the few creases in her skin around her eyes that marked twelve years.
Her hair was still a bird’s nest, trimmed yes, but just as chaotic as he remembered.
Her pink blouse and grey knee length skirt was both prim and proper. So very her.
His voice came out scratchy as he spoke, “Granger.”
Uncomfortable, was probably the best way to describe it.
She looked away first. Her eyes dropped to her empty hands that betrayed her with no book and embossed title to stare at instead.
“Fancy running into you here, of all places,” he said, sarcasm woven into each word as he regained his footing now that she had looked away, “Ever the bookworm, I see.”
He honestly hadn’t meant offence, but it was perhaps his natural sardonic drawl, together with Hermione’s propensity to get defensive that led to her retort.
“Yes, well, better to be a bookworm, than a ferret.”
And Merlin help him, he had laughed.
His genuine amusement quite obviously baffled her, as she stared at him.
And before he knew it he was smiling. Smiling at her, and he didn’t even know he was doing it.
“You’ve finally cracked, haven’t you?” she said, the uncertainty in her eyes wavering, the corner of her lips, tilting ever so slightly upwards.
“Insanity is apparently a family trait.”
“As is cowardice and racial bigotry,” she said, all illusions of a smile just moments before vanishing, her face taking on a hard, challenging edge.
He immediately sobered, remembering just who they were.
She wanted something from him. Whether she knew she had made it so obvious, he wasn’t quite sure, but she wanted it nevertheless.
An apology.
How did one apologise for all the foul, despicable words spoken and actions taken over a decade ago, all born from the fallacious and twisted beliefs fed to him as a child. A simple ‘sorry’ seemed inadequate. But at the root of it, Malfoys never mind how wrong, had never before uttered the word.
He opened his mouth to reply, but whether he would have ever said the word he would never know.
Whoever Granger had been waiting for had chosen that moment to walk into the shop and their conversation,
“Hey love, sorry for being late. I got caught up at the Ministry, Shacklebolt wanted to discuss the headway we were making on . . .”
And the rest of his sentence fizzled out, as bright green eyes found grey and widened in shock.
If he’d been surprised that the endearment that left the man’s lips was the same pair of lips that had briefly kissed hers, and that that man had neither red hair nor blue eyes, he had not let an ounce of it show.
“Malfoy,” the man uttered, much the same way as she had.
“Potter,” he returned.
“I, we . . .”
Whatever he’d wanted to say would have been decidedly futile, and so The Boy Who Lived could only heave a wary sigh.
He was neither blind nor stupid.
Had he been the Draco Malfoy of twelve years previously, he would have rubbed his hands together gleefully at being privy to such a deliciously outrageous secret, and yelled it from the rooftops.
But he was no longer that boy.
There was fear in her eyes. And fear was an emotion he had lived too long with. He could do without it.
“You can sleep easy Potter, I won’t be the one telling either of the Weasleys.” The unspoken “You will,” hung in the air.
Lies ruined lives. He knew that only too well.
He caught her gaze, held it for only a second, but it was long enough to convey his message.
He walked out of Flourish and Blotts then without another glance at either of them, feeling strangely lighter than he had in years.
He may not have been able to say the word, but his silence would have to do as his apology.
And she had understood, but more importantly, she had accepted.
-----