Chapter 7: The Morning Show
The rain began sometime before dawn, a steady percussion against the glass that seeped into Hermione’s dreams. She woke to a world washed in monochrome, the lively square below subdued under a ceiling of low, swollen clouds. The light was a thin, watery grey, leaching colour from everything but the vibrant blue of the borrowed robe, which she had draped over the back of a chair before sleeping.
Her flat was cool. She slid out of bed, the hardwood smooth under her feet, and padded to the kitchen. The ritual of tea—boiling water, the scatter of leaves, the slow steep—felt unusually solitary. She carried the steaming mug to the window, leaning her hip against the sill.
The rain fell in earnest sheets, blurring the lines of the opposite building. It was a moving painting, all soft edges and melancholy rhythm. She sipped her tea, watching the droplets chase each other down the pane. She was wearing only the thin silk robe she’d slept in, the one Ginny had given her as a joke last Christmas. It was too short, barely brushing mid-thigh, and she’d never bothered to tie it properly. The damp morning air whispered against her skin.
A shift of shadow in the gloom across the alley caught her eye.
He was there. A silhouette in the same window, backlit by the low light of his own kitchen. He was perfectly still, one shoulder propped against the frame, something—a mug, probably—held forgotten in his hand. The distance and the rain should have made him a blur, but she could feel the focus of his attention like a physical touch. It travelled slowly down the exposed line of her leg, up over the dip of the robe’s collar where it gaped open.
A familiar, defiant heat spread through her chest. This was not like catching him mid-smirk during a prank war. This was different. This was quiet. This was watching him watch her, with the city’s noise muted by the rain.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cover herself. She let him look.
Then, with a slow precision that felt both foreign and thrillingly natural, she raised her free hand to the loose tie at her waist. Her eyes never left his shadowed form. She pulled the end of the silk belt, feeling the knot give way. The robe fell open, just a few more inches. Enough to reveal the delicate black lace cupping her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the sharp cut of her hip bone. The cool air rushed in, raising goosebumps on her skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth pooling low in her belly.
She saw him move. A slight straightening of his posture. The mug was set down, out of sight.
Holding his gaze through the streaked glass, she brought her own mug to her lips, took a final, deliberate sip, and then shaped two words with her mouth, clear and slow.
Good morning.
She turned then, letting the robe swing loosely around her as she walked away from the window. She didn’t look back. She focused on the sway of her own hips, the deliberate pace of her steps across the living room, the way the silk whispered against her skin. She felt utterly exposed and completely powerful. The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
She leaned against it, her breath coming a little faster. Her heart was a steady, heavy drum against her ribs. What had she just done? A laugh, shaky and quiet, escaped her. She had declared a new kind of war, one with no rules and far higher stakes.
Across the alley, Draco remained at the window for a full minute after she disappeared. The rain blurred everything but the imprint of her against his retina—the pale skin, the dark lace, the challenging calm in her eyes. He let out a long, controlled breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He turned to his desk, a clean sheet of parchment already waiting. He didn’t sit. He snatched a quill, dipped it, and wrote a single line in a swift, slashing script. No deliberation. No clever literary quote. Just the raw, immediate truth the sight of her had punched into him.
He folded the parchment twice, his fingers sure, and whispered a waterproofing charm. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it sailing out into the downpour. It cut through the rain, a white dart against the grey, and tapped once, twice, against her windowpane.
Hermione, now dressed in sensible jeans and a wool jumper, her hair in its usual twist, heard the tap. She walked to the window, saw the sodden parchment plane clinging to the glass. Her pulse jumped. She opened the latch, letting in a spray of cool mist, and caught it.
The parchment was warm, somehow, from the charm or from his hand. She unfolded it.
The ink was stark black, already beading with tiny droplets of water.
You’re going to be the death of me.
—D
She read it twice. A slow, deep warmth unfurled inside her, starting in her chest and spreading outwards, dissolving the last of the morning’s chill. It wasn’t a surrender. It was a confession. A recognition of the game’s escalating danger.
She didn’t write back. She placed the note on the sill next to the empty mead glass from the night before and the vase holding the strange, glowing flower. The three objects formed a curious collection: a ceasefire drink, a biological mystery, and a stark admission of lethal intent.
She looked across the alley. His window was empty now. But the connection felt thicker than the rain, a taut, humming wire strung between the two spaces. The pranks had been fun, a witty volley. This was something else. This was a territory of silent understandings and skin-deep challenges.
She touched the edge of the note, a faint smile touching her lips. The day ahead, full of dry legal research and policy meetings, seemed suddenly, utterly inconsequential.
The death of him. Perhaps. But she had a feeling she’d be walking right beside him to the edge of whatever this was.