She couldn't remember when she had stopped being afraid of him.
“I must admit,” he said in a low voice as though it were a confession, “if anyone had told me that you'd become so lovely, I would never have come near you. I was rather blindsided when I first saw you again.”
She stared at him in confusion.
“You're like a rose in a graveyard,” he said, and his lips curved into a bitter smile. “I wonder what you could have turned into without the war.”
“I've never thought about it,” she said.
“That doesn't surprise me,” he said, voice quiet. His hand reached over and he captured a curl that had come loose from her braids. “Is your hair still the same?”
She snorted. “Yes. Mostly.”
“It's like it's you,” he said, twisting the curl in his fingers so that it wrapped itself around his fingertip. “Tied in place, but still the same underneath.”
Hermione stared at him for a moment, and then tears welled up in her eyes. His eyes widened.
“Oh god, Granger,” he said hastily, “don't cry again.”
”Sorry,” she said withdrawing her hand and reaching up to wipe away the tears. She felt cold.
When she looked back up at him again, his expression was pensive.
She'd never seen him so expressive before. Everything had felt like a mask until then. With just the briefest flickers of something real coming through on occasion.
As they sat there, she almost thought she might be seeing the real him.
And he looked—
Sad.
Lonely.
Maybe even heart-broken.
“I told you I'd cry if you got me drunk," she said.
“I know. I don't mind. I just don't want to be the reason why tonight,” he said, looking away from her and dropping his hand from her hair.
She gulped down another swig of firewhisky and then offered it to him. There was less than a quarter of a bottle left.
He took it and stared around the room. His expression grew bitter. The air around him abruptly grew cold.
Hermione recognized the shift. It was like her with crying. Something had occurred to him. Struck him. The alcohol had thinned his occlumency walls and he couldn't stop himself from feeling it.
Quiet. Angry. As he had said.
Without thinking, she reached over and took the hand closest to her. His left hand.
He looked over at her. She turned it over in her hands and ran her thumbs across the palm. Flattening it. She could feel the barest tremors from the cruciatus still in it.
“When did you become ambidextrous?” she asked.
He met her eyes, and she could see his surprise.
“When did you guess?” he asked after a moment.
“Your holster is on your right arm, but you've always used your right hand when dueling with me,” she said. “And you have the same wand calluses on both hands. I noticed it the day I first worked on the runes.”
“Clever,” he said.
Hermione smirked. “Only figure that out now?”
He snorted. “Humble too,” he added dryly.
She drew her wand and muttered the charms as she tapped the tip across his hand. Trying to relieve the last of the tremors.
“You don't have to keep healing me, Granger,” he said after a moment. She felt herself blush under his gaze.
“Hermione,” she said, reminding him again. “You looked sad. I didn'tknow if you'd want a hug from me. So I thought of this. I thought healing you, at least, is something you would want.”
He was silent, and she continued massaging his hand. Running her fingers over and against his. He had long tapered fingers.
“And if I wanted something else?” he said. His voice was quiet but there was a pointed quality to the question.
Her hands stilled, and she looked up at him. It felt as though all the oxygen in the room had suddenly vanished. Her heartbeat tripled, and her chest abruptly felt hollow.
“What do you want?” she asked cautiously. She studied his face. His eyes were dark, but his expression was relaxed. Curious. His hair had fallen down over his forehead, softening his angular features. He looked young.
“Will you take your hair down? I want to see it,” he said.
She blinked. “Really?” she asked, staring at him with disbelief.
He just gave a short nod.
She slowly reached up and pulled the pins out. The braids tumbled down and she pulled the ties off them and started slowly running her fingers through to unbraid each side. When she reached the top of her head, she dragged her fingers through once more and then dropped her hands into her lap.
“There. My mane.”
He stared at her for several seconds in silence. “I didn't realize it was so long.”
“The weight makes it more manageable,” she said, glancing around; not sure where to look. She gathered the pins in her hands and pocketed them. The tip of a long curl brushed along her wrist, and she started slightly.
She wasn't used to having her hair down anymore. She normally only unbraided it long enough to shower and then had it tied back before it was dry. She felt almost Victorian, as though having her hair loose was revealing something deeply intimate about herself.