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The coastal winds north of the Tagus River are punishing. They’ll steal your breath, humble you into fretting over every stitch of clothing on your body.
They’ll force you to pay attention.
Mischief is mixed into them–she’s certain of it. It's the steady Portuguese gusts that convince her someone uttered, “I love you, Hermione.” One of them declared it to the breeze, and now she can’t unhear it.
She turns, finding her footing on the craggy coastline to encounter three familiar faces. The friends she’s trusted in different iterations since she was eleven.
They have been her confidantes through the extravagant trimmings and trappings of a Parkinson-Longbottom wedding, and her companions in a serene holiday immediately after.
They’re here for fourteen days, part of their month-long sabbatical from the ministry.
The first half was spent at the Parkinson estate. The latter half is here, where Hermione sought these very coastal breezes, and the three others followed suit.
Inseparable more often than not, they show up where they’re told. She’s the lucky one.
Her eyeline traces over the imperfect coastline. The wind hums through the surroundings, marrying with the little noises she can now recognise. The waves crashing and receding, the crunch of the small vegetation under her boots. The smiles of the boys as they slide down the incline closer to where the Muggles dare not climb.
She can sense it all.
The four return to the palm-fringed esplanade and it hits her. She kicks the fine sand off her heels and watches as they take the lead back to their rental flat. Each look back at different intervals.
Harry–her dearest friend–a man that would never dull her flame, for it burns as brightly as his own.
Ronald–her first love– a man whom she slotted back into endearing friendship with the way you welcome the return of a favourite season.
Draco–her colleague–a listening ear to match a shoulder to cry on. A collaborator for close to a decade.
Their fourth.
It’s nearly impossible the way it all works, and yet, it is precise and incontrovertible.
Friendship is a uniquely satisfying endeavour with each of them, so why does the thought of one of them loving her more than a friend send a thrilling rush of excitement down her spine?
I love you, Hermione.
The words cause a mind-body reaction.
A frisson.
She’s quite certain she’s never shivered so intensely; and she has no idea how to reconcile it.
***
The sun kisses the far horizon, bedding itself early as it unfortunately does this late in December, but she takes comfort in the obscene amount of twinkling fairy lights they’ve installed around the kitchen, and cosy sitting room. There’s a tree in the foyer closest to her room, and she can see the shadows flickering in the middle-distance.
The night can end no better way then Hermione biting into the flaky, sugary perfection of a pastel de nata. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she closes the balcony doors facing the ocean. She can almost taste that first whiff of cinnamon sprinkled atop the pastry, and is just about to putter to the kitchen to procure one, when she sees a black VHS tape go soaring over the sofa.
Curiously, two more follow.
The muddled voices make her feel like a secret observer to their scene. Two sets of arms, one freckled, one pale, shove against the telly pushed to the corner of the room. She giggles into the fabric bunched within her palm. Harry breaks them apart, successfully loading his tape into the deck.
“Die Hard is not a Christmas film, mate.”
“It most certainly is,” Harry insists.
“Oh get off it. It’s pure action,” Ronald grumbles. “Don’t you look at me like I’m still new to all this stuff, Malfoy. I’ve seen just as many films as you now.”
“And you’ve obviously learned nothing from them.”
She hides her amusement in an interrogation of the winter sunset, delighted to hear them fighting over something so decidedly Muggle.
“We could start with McClane’s redemption arc, or the fact that it literally takes place on Christmas Eve. Gruber plans the heist specifically for that day in mind.” Draco says, shaking his head.
He looks back at her for support. When she doesn’t answer, he narrows his eyes, and disappears for a minute as the boys continue to bicker about Hans Gruber’s efficacy as a cinema villain. She holds back the urge to call him the chicest, sexiest one. That probably won’t help matters.
“A bribe,” Draco whispers, as a perfectly round tart is deposited into her waiting hand.
“A Malfoy would,” she smiles, hoarding it regardless. “I agree,” she announces. “The plot of the film would suffer immensely if Christmas were to disappear. Shall we?”
Sometime after midnight, the wind rattles against the shutters and she wakes up to find them strewn in overlapping limbs across the sofa. Harry’s legs are intertwined with hers, but he’s a deep enough sleeper that he won’t notice her extricating herself. Ronald is snoring in the corner, producing those affectionate little noises she recalls with a fondness only possible when one no longer has to endure them. Draco is on the ground, his body mirroring her own.
She’s well aware that this trip has shifted something in their habitual camaraderie.
There is a line, but one of them is ready to cross it. She falls asleep with thoughts of what she’ll ruin, but more importantly, what she has the potential to gain.
***
The surf crashes over Ronald's head, his hair blending with the array of orange hues in the Iberian sunrise. They’re insane for swimming in such high waves, but they’re still young, and magical, and feeling invincible is baked into the way they’ve coped since childhood.
“I want bigger,” Harry calls from deeper in the swell. Adrenaline chasing is not something that’s lessened with age.
“I know a place,” she offers, before dipping under the crest of an incoming wave. She lets the barrel underneath propel her forward until an idea comes fully into focus.
She gasps, and the air feels chillier than below the surface. She wandlessly strengthens the warming charm that surrounds each of them.
Draco swims closer, a smile on his face like he can feel her magic through the ebbs and flows of the water. Wouldn’t she know his? In an unknown place, in a new surrounding, his magic would feel a little bit like home.
I love you, Hermione.
Rewind, pause, and she examines the idea of crossing the line they’ve so carefully drawn. She inhales deeply, fanning out the oversized towel on the shore, before tugging it over her shoulders.
Tucked into its warmth, the four words wrap around her with equal comfort.
She knows, in their own way, that each of them must love her. She takes out their friendships and examines them. Her loyalty to them is devout. She can’t deny various attractions at times. Feelings she’s minimised, or sometimes confronted to find them wanting.
Uncertainty is not a space she dwells in for very long.
Their laughter echoes over the waves and she’s taken aback by their beauty in the early morning sun. They’re the sons of Poseidon. Curiously alluring, and even if the scales in Hermione's brain may tip to a certain one, she owes each of them a day; an opportunity for a clear admission. She decides if there is anyone who is due the privilege of being chosen first, it’s Ronald.
***
In December, the denizens inside the sleepy walls of Óbidos host a Christmas village.
“Vila Natal,” she tells him, as they cross the arch allowing access to the city. Blue and white painted azulejos line the citadel gate, and she stops to gaze up at them before Ronald pulls her to a stand selling ginjinha in handheld chocolate pots.
“Did you know it’s red?” He sips deeply as the lights from a nearby tree dance across his face, highlighting the freckles that have only darkened in the sun.
Walking shoulder to shoulder, they pass by white-washed houses as the stripes of accent paint, unique to the village, changes from yellow to blue, and back again.
Portions are generous at lunch, and the two feast on black pork cheeks, goat cheese salad, and almond tart with cinnamon ice cream.
The laughter of Muggle children rings through the narrow alleys as they ascend closer to the ancient keep that highlights Óbidos’ outline. Bay laurel and rosemary is strewn around their feet, and they kick up the scents of comfort she’s come to associate with Ronald. With the whole Weasley family.
She asks after each of them at lunch, and his trademark storytelling spills out beyond the meal and onto the stone streets. It’s peculiar to lose time this way, yet she’s always felt so entwined with their family that the hours unravel and she’s swept along as though she’d lived every moment herself.
“What should we do next?”
“Mione.”
“Ron.”
It’s like they're fifteen again, and time stands still, their chat moving from effusive to tongue-tied instantly.
“I could fancy a game of Wizard’s chess.”
“Back at the flat?”
“Sure, why not?”
She was hoping she’d feel something while the two were away, but she’s hesitant to go back until she’s proven to herself that she’s considered the possibility of it being him.
“Draco would be a better opponent you know; Harry, even.”
“I want to play with you.”
“So you’ll win?”
“You’re not complete shite at it.”
“Thank you.”
“I want to play with you because I enjoy it.”
Because you love me, she thinks?
The pull of apparition spins her into the warmth of their modest kitchen. Ronald is already across the flat, pulling the table to the center of the room and setting up the board. It’s quiet, and Hermione imagines Draco and Harry are at the corner shop shoving marinated chicken and chips into their greedy mouths. They’ve become near heathens here, encouraged by the sun, and nourishment of the simple dishes by the sea.
“We need wine!” she announces. Courage, in liquid form.
Their shoes are discarded, candles lit in the near distance, and Ronald is making her feel like a kid again. She’s chasing the high of chasing him. It’s a near certainty he’s ahead, and she adores the challenge, his easy confidence. It’s why she fell in love with him the first time.
Her fingers hover over the bishop and he hums, unable to hold in his chagrin.
“You’re missing what’s right in front of you.”
“I’ve improved,” she pouts.
“Not likely, mate,” he laughs, finishing off the wine so he can search for the ale Hermione knows he’d prefer.
It’s the way he says it. So easy, like breathing. The same cadence he would use for Harry.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
He places the pint on the table, settling down with more hesitation than before.
“Uh yeah,” he answers, clearing his throat. “Pans told me that I couldn’t bring her to the wedding since it’s so new again.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, it’s, well, it’s Lav.”
“Naturally.” Her wine glass is in dire need of refreshing.
“We’re good, Mione. It’s been really good.”
“And she’s been charitable with you gone this whole month?”
“Yeah, about that.”
She scoots up onto the sofa, letting the leather envelop her like a hug.
“Mum said I should bring her by ‘round the holidays,” he confides, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Ronald.” She says it with more conviction than she feels. Somewhere buried deep where dark thoughts reside, there is a memory of him leaving. She takes a deep breath, reminding herself this is nothing like that. “She’ll raise hell if you’re not back for Christmas.”
He grins. “Which one?”
They’re still in fits of laughter when Harry and Draco return.
Ronald announces checkmate not long after, and Hermione decides that the balcony is an appropriate place to sip her third glass.
“Hiding?”
“Please,” she huffs.
“He’s told you then?” Harry nudges her.
“I love being the last to know.”
“Don’t be silly, Mione. Draco is the last to know.”
She smiles into her cup. “That’s acceptable, I suppose.”
“So is it my turn tomorrow?”
“Do you want it to be?”
He shrugs noncommittally, and Hermione crosses her arms over her chest.
“Do you even know what’s going on?”
“Not likely,” he says, “I just know I want to be before Draco.”
***
The oversized waves are a result of Nazaré Canyon, a deep underwater ravine that funnels and amplifies the ocean's swells.
It’s a tiny fishing village, but Hermione knows Harry will adore it.
She wonders if he’s itching to fly above the water. She probably should have taken him somewhere they could talk, but she’s never been able to resist Harry's face intrigued by spectacle.
“Would you fly over them with me?” He leans back against the red lighthouse that stands as a harbinger before the dangerous surf.
“Gods, no.”
“Look at that,” he motions to the next set, thirty metres high at minimum. “Look how it’s coming together. That’s magic right there.”
“Harry.”
He has the audacity to look handsome as the wind sweeps his curls up and away from his glasses. She knows the answer before she asks it. She knows it like she knows the ins and outs of her own charmwork.
He loves her like a friend.
Still–
“Do you ever think–could we have?”
He wasn't always the wrong person. At one point, one achingly short stretch of time and want, she could have fallen into him. The memories play out more fondly in retrospect, but Hermione had been hungry, and lonely, and Harry had provided her the necessity of belonging to someone.
“It’s a pity I can’t read your mind, you know,” he sighs, spinning the small circumference of the lighthouse until he’s back at the start.
“I’d let you.”
“I know you would.”
After the waves settle, they sit tucked into a seaside shack dining on heaping pots of seafood rice, and chocolate mousse.
He refills her glass, giving her this look like he sees more than she does.
If it isn’t him, if Harry doesn’t love her the way she’s convinced someone does, then that–
Her heart is too stubborn to acknowledge what it means.
“It’s pretty to imagine it though, isn’t it?”
“Almost too easy, Harry.”
***
This is the second night Hermione returns to Draco’s inordinate silence. She’s confronted it before, but this feels less like a punishment, or a signal, and more like a shield.
He watches every interaction in Hermione’s relationship to Harry. The way they talk, the way they touch. His light pat on her shoulder as he says goodnight, and she turns to search the flat’s kitchen for the box of pastries she left before their trip to Nazaré.
There is something about the way he regards her; so relaxed, like he's found himself. Hermione can only stay busy hunting for the pastries before she's pulled into his orbit.
Draco is, well, Draco again. A smirk replaces his scowl, and her knees go weak as he pushes away from the door jamb, extending a pastry like a present. He means for her to retrieve it herself. She nearly does, before he breaks his self-imposed silence and tuts. "Not like that."
It’s the scent of cinnamon sugar she notices first. Then, it's him. Comforting, familiar, irresistible.
She looks up to trace the smooth curves of his fingers. His strong wrists give way to forearms exposed against a rolled cashmere jumper. Her mouth follows, and she bites down just as their eyes meet.
A swift intake of air. He’s locked into every movement. The pink in his cheeks deepens as she licks the flakes away from the corner of her mouth.
He smiles. “It’s my turn tomorrow, yes?”
She’s shocked to see him close the lid of the pastry box and secure it with care, knotting the green ribbon.
It’s the same exactness he brings to their work. The precise attention to detail that won Hermione’s consideration and friendship after the war.
“Aren’t you having one?”
Across the flat, there is a lively discussion of Portuguese Quidditch, but she’s singularly focused on the way Draco reaches over to push an errant curl behind her ear.
“Not tonight.”
“Draco, you adore sweets.”
“What is it they say about an absence of something?”
Like he’s testing a new potion, analysing a formula for the first time, he leans in experimentally, and she wonders if he may kiss her. He smiles against her ear and the tiny gush of air causes that feeling again. She shudders so completely her full body participates, and she nearly misses the susurrus purring of his goodnight.
“You saved the best for last.”
She hardly possesses the words to describe the way he saunters out of the kitchen. So ineffable. She’s sure she’s never seen anything move that beautifully. It’s easy to curse his smooth lines and easy charm that leave her wanting more.
Time turners are no longer in her purview; if they were, she would surely replay that moment as many times as it took to reconcile what she now acknowledges to be true.
She’s loved him for so long she hid approximations of those thoughts into ink and parchment and let them languish between the pages of her diary. For her eyes only.
The problem, the insurmountable agony that comes with this acknowledgement is now she isn’t quite certain what happens next.
Sure, she’s considered it could be Draco, maybe even hoped that it was, but how is she meant to act now that she knows?
Hermione takes a moment to consider the fact that perhaps she heard nothing that day by the Tagus. But then why had Draco looked at her like that just now? Why had it felt like he was ripping himself away, and how long had she been ignorant of it?
She knocks on his door before she confronts her motivations.
“Did you need an RSVP for tomorrow?”
“I was just–no.” She isn’t quite sure anymore.
Distracted by the sleep in his eyes, and the pajama bottoms resting distractingly low on his hips, Hermione drags herself back to the point.
“The apparition may be quite far tomorrow, and I was hoping–”
“Would it be alright if I picked our destination?”
Her eyebrow ticks, and she can't ignore the way her heart flutters in her chest.
“We can go to your location after, if you prefer, but I’d really enjoy taking you somewhere,” he says, sounding impossibly earnest in his request.
“We could simply go to mine the day after.”
“The day after,” he agrees.
Neither move, and Hermione finds her hand tucked neatly into his. She never considered a thumb to be concupiscent, but she can feel her whole body ignite from the simple stroke of his finger across hers.
“I should sleep,” she says weakly.
“Yes.” Her body is pulled a little closer to the threshold.
“Right.” But her head shakes, like she’s forgotten the concept of independent ownership and she’s unbothered by it entirely.
His chin dips lower, his smile creasing at his eyes with a mirth she so seldom sees.
“Goodnight, Hermione.”
She intends to say goodnight, but it's lost in a moan as he pulls her completely into him, as his lips meet hers.
Draco’s mouth is soft, and inviting. He’s used it to torment and correct her; to encourage and cajole, and yet she’s never found an occupation that has quite matched this feeling.
Heat floods her from toes to cheeks, and her arms are around his neck before she realises she’s being spun and pushed against the doorframe.
“I meant back to my room,” she gasps, but her leg is wrapping around his waist as she ignores Harry and Ronald’s laughter from the den.
“Yes, I know what you meant,” he says, chasing her lips as her head thuds against the wood.
On his lips she tastes the whiskey he sipped in her absence, and she wonders if he can taste the sweetness of the custardy tart on hers.
“We’ll discuss it all tomorrow,” he promises, swiping the hair off her shoulders before tilting her chin higher. “I know that brain.”
Yes. Yes. He’s usually right, except right now she can’t be bothered to think of any consequences, any futures except the one that begins and ends in his arms.
If she could ask for a perfectly wrapped gift under the tree, one that held the promise of a Christmas miracle. The present she knows she deserves because she’s been such a good girl–it would be this exact kiss.
This is a kiss you wait lifetimes for.
Her body molds to his so perfectly she becomes desperate to nip at any section of skin she has access to.
“Draco.” She sighs it against his warmth as he holds her head tightly to his firm chest.
“Baby, don’t say it like that, and expect me to let you go.”
She looks up, and part of her is stunned, the other is rationalising how twenty minutes of a mind-bendingly good kiss can put that word on his lips.
“It shouldn’t be as easy as–”
“I promise you, it is.”
His nose caresses hers, the kisses turning hot and insatiable, before she’s weightless in his arms.
“Don’t make me wait for tomorrow,” he exhales, burying himself into her neck.
She clings to his chest, ready to throw any conviction she’s ever possessed into the churning waters of the Atlantic.
“To what end?”
“Tonight?” he smirks, guiding her inside his bedroom and closing the door with his foot. “I just want to sleep next to you.”
“Just sleep?”
“Haven’t I already proven how patient I can be?”
Their next kiss has her nodding against his open lips.
“Let’s say I believe you.”
Her fingers further dishevel his hair as he lays her on the bed. She pulls until he is flush against her.
“You’ll just hold me?” she asks, as his arms slide around her waist and chest.
“It’s enough,” he kisses it against her neck, “all I want.”
She nods, grudgingly, because she could consent to so much more, but his head rests on the pillow beside hers and she’s not sure how tonight could be any more perfect.
***
I love you, Hermione.
It’s a full-body shudder that wakes her, preceded only by a hypnopompic whisper, and she questions its validity before she feels his warm hands encircle her body.
“Are you sure we need to go anywhere?”
“You’ll like it.”
“More than this?”
“Trust me, please,” he insists, as he buries his head between her legs. They're delayed only an hour when he lifts her off the mattress, and nudges her to the en-suite.
***
“A palace?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Lucius is thinking of moving our summer home here.”
She leans forward to smack his arm, and he scoops her into an embrace, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.
It’s odd how easily they’ve slipped from friends to this. It's instinctive, like putting on a second shoe. She no longer sees the line they've crossed, and that brings restorative order to the chaotic noise in her brain.
The palace in question is Mafra; an awe-inspiring Baroque behemoth. Draco procures a well-thumbed guidebook from his robes and rifles through the pages before placing it over her head. He cocoons her from the back as she browses the contents.
A Christmas market with a miniature carousel shimmers invitingly in the near distance, but Hermione can't pass up the pleasing symmetry of the palace. “Twelve-hundred rooms?”
“Mmm,” he hums, pushing the hair away from her ear. “We’re only here for one.”
She’s not sure what to remark on first: the ornate ceiling or marble flooring. Perhaps it's the carved wooden bannisters that scream for exploration.
They turn a sharp corner and she gasps. Luminescent streams pour in from a series of arches above the shelves, and she’s nestled into the palace’s library.
The vastness of it keeps her momentarily speechless.
“Thirty-six thousand tomes,” he laughs.
“And it’s not even magical,” she demures, pushing around another tourist to get a closer position at the partition separating her from a waking dream.
“How did I not know about this place?”
“I’m a better researcher than you, clearly.”
She spins in place, pointing a finger into his chest. “Take that back right now.”
He smirks, pulling a piece of fabric from his pocket. “A peace offering,” he murmurs, as the cloak envelopes his hand.
“Did you steal that?” She whispers harshly.
“Hardly,” Draco laughs, tucking it back in, “I traded Potter for it. Do you want to get a closer look?”
“But the partition protects the books–”
“Tell me when you’ve convinced yourself.”
He knows she'll say yes before she does. She hates that she adores that about him.
“We spell our fingers with preservation charms–”
“Of course.”
“We only touch what is absolutely necessary–”
“Naturally.”
She reaches for the cloak, and there’s something about the way he looks at her. It must be akin to the way she sees the grandeur of this library, but it lights her up from within.
It’s the way he’s looked at her every day at the office, only now…
I love you, Hermione
She intertwines their hands, pulling them around a dark corner.
“It’ll be tight under here.”
“No tighter than our lab,” he shrugs. “I like tight.”
She snorts, pushing back licentious thoughts of feeling freshly fucked against ancient bookshelves. Instead, she allows her eyes to scan down his perfectly tailored trousers and well-suited green cashmere jumper. He looks impeccable. Pristine in his presentation, and it makes her want to muss him under the heavy weight of invisibility.
After a couple of hours, perhaps many, her stomach makes a dissatisfied grumble, and she dismisses the apple that appears in her eyeline.
“We shouldn't eat in here.”
"We probably shouldn't snog in here either."
Well, that can't be helped, she thinks, kissing away his emerging grin.
“It’ll give the bats something to fuss over. Think of how bored they are of bookworms."
“A novelty feast.”
He laughs. “Really complements the moths.”
She turns, and the closeness of the embrace makes her feel boneless. They’re alone together at work more often than not. Their unique skill set—and the clearance it requires—means the lab was designed for just the two of them.
But this new physical intimacy is disorienting at times. Without Harry and Ronald the tension pools and collects until it’s syphoned away, or until she’s ready to explode.
“Why did you bring me here?”
The leap from instigation to flirtation is paperthin. “Why do you think?”
He nods at her frozen form. Still, apart from her eyes moving back and forth as she drinks him in under the soft glow of his Lumos.
“I would have asked to take you here anyway. I knew it would make you happy. Your face when you saw the alchemy texts. You stood for two hours lost in the section of incubabula.”
“We take so much for granted being magical, the way these books have been preserved—“
“Hermione, I would stand here for twenty hours.”
His hand finds her lower back.
“I think about you endlessly. When you visit Potter and Weasley on Level Two, I drive myself mad wondering if they’ve made you laugh. When you left with them—”
“Were you jealous?”
“Unequivocally. Always. Half the time I wonder if I’m friends with them just to keep them close.”
“Draco,” she admonishes.
“No, I know. I promise I like them too. But I don’t think you understand what this is for me.”
His hand cups her chin, and her lips part, letting his thumb graze against them.
“I miss you when you’ve only gone to the tea trolley. We flirt, and backpedal, and pretend it all works. I feed you when you’ve forgotten to nourish yourself, and you make me an idiot in all things. We are together, yet we are alone, and we shouldn’t have to be, not when—“
“Not when you love me?” she nearly loses her breath as the words rush out.
“I’m done pretending I don’t want to say it every day for the rest of our lives.”
“Draco.”
“When I see you at work I know my day can start. I leave knowing it was all worthwhile. I’m here on holiday, and still, you’re my home.”
“I—“
“Save it,” he whispers, crushing her lips with his. “One day I’ll build you a library to rival this one, but I don’t think I’ll survive if I can't apparate you out of here right now.”
“Please.”
The kiss that starts in Mafra, ends in Cascais, and Hermione only breaks away because—
“Ronald and Harry?”
“Benfica.”
She pulls back, confused.
“Muggle football, love.” He’s quite effective at taking her apart stitch by stitch, and depositing her atop the kitchen counter. “Open for me.”
This time, the cinnamon sugar confection is shared between them, often chased by a kiss as he licks the sweet custard from her lips.
“This is all the sustenance you’ll get, I’m afraid.”
“Pity.”
She waits until their bodies are perfectly aligned, until he’s writhing, and whining, and helpless.
“I love you, Draco.”
He waits until she’s completely blissed out. Until the Patronus begging them to come to a pub in Chiado is ignored, and his warm hands cradle her from the bed to the chilly night air of the balcony. Until they’re breathless under the stars.
“I love you, Hermione.”
***
“What did you have in mind for tomorrow?”
“Well, there is this Moorish castle in Sintra, or perhaps the Livaria Lello in Porto, or—“
“Perhaps,” he laughs, pulling the red and green knit blanket around them, “we have enough to fill up all of the tomorrows?”
Yes, she thinks, frisson coursing through her body.
Give me tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.