RNP Chapter 208 208: Barely Passable
Chapter 208 208: Barely Passable
The Muggle waiter who handled room service arrived promptly.
Draco stood in front of the bedroom door and knocked. It opened a crack almost immediately.
A bulging laundry bag was thrust out by a pale, lotus-white arm, accompanied by a firm voice. "Draco, you have to promise me you won't look inside."
"I promise," Draco said, bewildered. He found the instruction entirely unnecessary.
It's just wet clothes — what could possibly be so interesting about that?
What else could she be wearing besides that wet dress?
Sometimes he really couldn't understand what she was worrying about.
Draco quickly handed both laundry bags to the smiling Muggle waitress waiting at the door, pressed a handful of Muggle coins into her hand as a tip, asked her to expedite the washing and drying, and then closed the door again.
The sky outside the window was dim and overcast.
Raindrops pattered against the glass, streaming down in rivulets on the clear pane.
Wrapped in a bathrobe, the boy settled onto the sofa, scratching his damp hair, gazing absently at the shadows of lavender swaying in the wind and rain — and found himself thinking, with uncharacteristic earnestness:
What else could she possibly have on besides that wet dress?
Hermione isn't the kind of girl who says things without reason — so what, exactly, was she so worried about?
He pondered for a moment. Before he could work it out, Hermione came out.
Her cheeks were flushed from the bath, and her eyes were bright — so bright they almost seemed to brim with tears.
Her damp hair was casually draped around her ears and fell to her shoulders; tiny water droplets crept down the strands, trying to disappear into the patterns of the carpet.
"Thank you, Draco," Hermione said, not daring to look at him for long, busying herself with carefully tightening the belt of her slightly loose bathrobe. "A bath makes everything so much better."
"You're welcome," Draco said softly.
He watched her, finding her shy, evasive expression rather beautiful.
He tapped his chin with the knuckle of his index finger and returned to his contemplation: besides that wet dress, what else could she possibly have on —
Then he noticed that the rather pretty girl with damp hair was holding a heavy, dark, peculiar object in one hand, scanning the wall for some kind of square, perforated white fitting.
Why did this girl always manage to find something baffling to interrupt his important thinking?
"What is that?" Draco couldn't help but ask.
He watched her pulling on a strange black cord, apparently trying to connect it to the wall.
"A Muggle hair dryer — it dries your hair," Hermione explained enthusiastically, still trying to keep her attention on the bathrobe rather than on his meaningful expression or the intensity of his gaze. "You know, Muggles are just as resourceful as wizards. Even without a Drying Charm, they've invented all sorts of clever ways to manage."
"Will it actually work?" Draco eyed the device with open scepticism.
"Of course," Hermione said confidently.
After wandering about for a bit, she located a power outlet in the bedroom.
Draco followed her in and watched as she settled comfortably into a brown beechwood armchair with hand-painted floral patterns and a gilded sash, facing a Louis XVI neoclassical gilt-bronze dressing table with intricate floral carvings, and began drying her hair.
He stood behind her, watching her work through the process, still unable to claim he understood how the Muggle contraption functioned.
A hair dryer. It looked rather clunky.
And it was noisy. Extremely noisy.
He cast a dismissive glance at the buzzing thing, shook his head, looked at her damp hair, and clenched his fist.
He knew he couldn't keep standing there watching. He had to go and take a hot shower.
Taking a hot shower turned out to be rather less straightforward than Draco had anticipated.
In fact, the whole matter had grown considerably more complicated — even frustrating — today.
And yet — he could hardly believe he was admitting it — his troubles had nothing whatsoever to do with any inconvenient Muggle toiletries.
What unsettled him was a subtle atmosphere that had permeated the bathroom.
For someone who was both highly alert and controlling, noting every detail in his surroundings was second nature.
So the moment he stepped in, Draco keenly noticed the obvious signs:
A thin layer of steam still clung to the mirror. A faint, intoxicating fragrance hung in the air. Tiny water droplets remained on the tiles beneath the showerhead.
He hung his bathrobe on the hook by the door, stepped into the shower, and stood under the spray, taking slow, deliberate breaths.
The knowledge that she had been standing on these same tiles just minutes before, the same water falling over her, filled his mind with all sorts of unwelcome fantasies.
It only got worse when he looked down and found a strand of her long hair floating near the drain.
The brownish colour is very pretty.
He thought suddenly of her tangled hair, soaked with rain.
The mysterious destination of that drop of water that had slipped down through her hair became one of the questions that kept nagging at him.
Oh, and besides that wet dress, what else could she be wearing —
Oh. He seemed to have worked it out.
What else would be in a laundry bag besides a dress?
If he wasn't mistaken, there was probably no other fabric beneath her loose bathrobe at that moment.
No wonder she had looked so nervous, constantly checking the ties of the bathrobe! The boy swallowed hard and turned the water temperature down a notch.
Having worked this out, he found that the water from the showerhead felt particularly hot.
Was there boiling water running through the pipes? Why was steam rising from his own head?
Her ambiguous invitation — "I do need a bath. Don't you want one?" — flashed through his mind. His head filled with thoroughly unmanageable fantasies, and those thoughts lingered like the steam long after he turned off the shower.
The boy, his hair dripping, exhaled slowly and addressed his reflection in the mirror with some severity. "Keep calm, you cowardly idiot with a head full of nonsense!"
"What did you promise her? Have you forgotten?" He changed into a fresh shirt and trousers with rather less attention than the task required, muttering fiercely at himself. "Behave yourself — follow her pace — take it slow — don't do anything excessive, don't make her nervous, don't frighten her off..."
And so, repeating the promise he'd made to the ring under his breath, he absently opened the bathroom door with a towel pressed to his damp hair.
When he stepped out, Draco believed he had managed to calm himself down.
He had even formulated a plan.
He would walk straight to the living room, paying no attention to the girl or to any tempting thoughts connected with her bathrobe.
But after only two steps, the familiar buzzing noise made him turn his head.
He only glanced at her — and his resolve evaporated. He might as well have become a monk for all the good it had done.
Oh, Hermione. She sat serenely in front of the dressing table, innocently fiddling with the hair dryer, apparently attempting to give her hair some volume.
Perhaps she was sitting there waiting for him; walking past to the living room without a word would be rather rude. He gripped the towel, hesitating.
Perhaps he should personally tighten the loose belt of her bathrobe — just a little — though not too tightly. Her figure was so slight beneath that large robe, and she deserved to be treated with care.
Like a hungry puppy, Draco swallowed hard, his legs moving entirely of their own accord. He drifted towards her, drawn by the sweet scent that was uniquely hers, trying his best not to hover too obviously.
Draco Malfoy — a man riddled with all the standard human weaknesses — had never had much in the way of willpower.
He stood behind her like a rather guilty ghost, trying to catch her face in the mirror, and instead caught a face full of warm air from that wretched Muggle device.
The hot air seemed to make his own cheeks even hotter.
But after all this time, why was her hair still half-damp?
Draco frowned.
Muggle life was so inconvenient. A simple Drying Charm would have solved this in seconds.
He gripped the back of her chair, leaned down, and said loudly into her ear, "This thing is completely inefficient!"
Attempting to suppress the strange tension churning in his stomach, he tried not to look at the loose collar of her bathrobe, and even less dared to think about the belt.
"That's because I have so much hair!" Hermione called back over the noise, glancing at him in the mirror.
His face was very close to hers. His pale grey eyes, tinged with some inexplicable darker note, were fixed on her through the glass.
Perhaps it was the lighting, but the flickering candlelight seemed to have given their cheeks a warm glow.
Or perhaps it was the heat from the hair dryer.
Hermione switched it off, restoring some peace and quiet.
She looked directly at his reflection, intending to mount a defence of the hair dryer.
"In fact, if my hair were as short as yours, it would dry in under a minute," she said matter-of-factly.
"I have serious doubts about that. It's Muggle stuff — all show and no substance." Draco had a tendency to adopt a slightly combative tone whenever he was nervous.
As he was, right now.
Her slightly damp hair smelled wonderful, and Draco sighed inwardly over the pounding of his own heart.
It was always like this. She could be so self-assured that she left him completely flustered, while he couldn't do a single thing about it; surely he could at least take his frustration out on this innocent Muggle device?
"Oh? Not convinced?" Hermione said, her chin lifting. "Come on, then — try it!"
His dismissive tone had stirred a vague irritation in her.
He had unconsciously revealed a certain arrogance typical of pure-blood wizards — she wasn't sure she could appreciate it — in fact, she rather resented it.
The better she came to know her boyfriend, the more Hermione sensed the contradictions in Draco Malfoy's attitude towards Muggles.
Admittedly, he was gentle and unpretentious with her, a Muggle-born witch; but she always felt that his gentleness was directed specifically at her — Hermione Granger — and that his unusual friendliness extended only to her parents.
She even had the strange feeling that his warmth towards them had nothing to do with whether or not they were Muggles.
Her family had been neatly filed away into a kind of "special treatment" category in his mind.
With Muggles outside that category, he was far less gracious. He didn't harbour any particular malice towards them, but there was a definite distance — an apprehension and indifference that he rarely bothered to conceal.
Of course, if he needed a Muggle's help with something, he would never hesitate to communicate with them — and would effortlessly become the most well-mannered person in the world, polite enough to satisfy any discerning standard.
His pragmatism was evident in how he navigated Muggle society. Draco Malfoy had no objection whatsoever to the conveniences it offered him; and yet he vocally scorned any "inconvenience" it presented.
Even with Muggle objects that served him well, he often harboured an innate, slightly awkward condescension towards them.
Unlike Mr Weasley, who looked upon Muggle inventions with benevolent curiosity — always finding them either ingenious or fascinating — Draco seemed capable of categorising them only as either "barely usable" or "complete rubbish."
For instance, he always said that Muggle Walkmans and Muggle music were "barely listenable, passable at best"; and yet he genuinely seemed to enjoy some of the Muggle music she had recommended to him, and had once let slip that he'd been listening to it all night to help himself sleep.
What an arrogant and contradictory boy. Shouldn't someone correct those ingrained prejudices, that habitual tendency to belittle? Hermione thought.
Perhaps it wasn't entirely his fault. From childhood onwards, Draco had simply never had many opportunities to approach the Muggle world with an open mind, had he?
With that thought, Hermione's tone lightened. "Come on, Draco. Give the Muggle hair dryer a chance."
"Hang on —" Draco straightened up, an expression of resistance crossing his face. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why isn't it a good idea? Where does this prejudice come from?" Hermione turned and glared at him, annoyed by his stubbornness.
Though his damp hair was still dripping slightly, which made it rather hard to stay annoyed, and somewhat difficult to look away.
"Muggles are dangerous," Draco muttered, absentmindedly running his hand through the half-dry hair at the back of her head. "Who do you think the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy is designed to protect against?"
"We protect Muggles because they're unarmed — that's the whole point of Mr Weasley's work!" Hermione said. "His Muggle Protection Act —"
"That law has it completely backwards! Hermione, have you ever asked Nearly Headless Nick how he died? Or studied the Salem witch trials and seen what Muggles are truly capable of?" he retorted.
"Even so —" Hermione stood up from the armchair, her patience fraying. "I don't think a hair dryer poses any danger whatsoever to you."
Forgetting her shyness, she firmly took hold of him, pressed on his shoulders, and pushed him down into the chair in front of the mirror.
Draco shouldn't have given in so easily.
Trusting Muggle devices with his most carefully maintained hair was an unacceptable risk.
He shouldn't have sat down at all. He was taller and stronger than her — he could easily have held her slender arms still if he'd wanted to — and kept the situation firmly under his control.
But the conclusion he had reached in the bathroom, that rather significant conjecture, and the sight of her loose bathrobe had robbed him completely of the will to resist.
When she reached out and pulled him towards her, the sides of her bathrobe seemed to shift slightly.
That was too dangerous. What if he resisted too firmly and accidentally pulled it open? What would happen then?
Given that the bed was right beside them —
"Let me dry it for you." Hermione pressed him firmly into the chair and set the hair dryer buzzing again.
A gust of warm air swept past — as if his head needed any more heat — and her fingers wove gently through his hair.
Draco sat perfectly still, silent and rigid as one of Hogwarts' stone statues.
It wasn't so much the hair dryer he was worried about. It was the risk that her movements might become too animated, giving him an opportunity to confirm his suspicions at close range.
Merlin, the buzzing of the device was practically inside his skull. Her nimble fingers seemed to have entirely ulterior motives, circling and weaving through his hair with an unhurried determination, as though specifically designed to accelerate his already rapid heartbeat.
Was she doing this on purpose? He studied her face intently in the mirror and found her drying his hair with cheerful concentration, a pleasant smile on her face, seemingly unaware of how red his ears had become.
Merlin. The sensation of her stroking his hair was both a thrilling, spine-tingling pleasure and a sweet, vexing torment.
Draco gripped the bottom of the chair tightly with both hands — forcing himself not to reach for her — and after counting to roughly sixty in his head, his hair was inexplicably dry.
"What did I tell you?" Hermione was very pleased with Draco's cooperative attitude and quite proud of the reliable hair dryer.
She smiled and asked, "Admit it — Muggle gadgets have their uses, don't they?"
"It's barely passable," he maintained stubbornly, staring at the candlestick on the table, oblivious to the girl's pointed look.
The flickering flame reflected in his pupils. He had stopped caring what his hair looked like.
The doorbell rang.
"I'll get it!" Draco exclaimed, leaping from the chair as though the candlelight had singed him, and striding rapidly into the living room.
He opened the door to find two Muggle waitresses smiling pleasantly at him, pushing a heavily laden room-service trolley.
He suddenly remembered that when he'd handed over the laundry bags, he had also placed a modest lunch order.
Despite his habitual wariness of Muggles, their arrival was a genuine relief. It gave him something concrete to focus on other than the sound of the hair dryer still drifting in from the bedroom.
Amid the noise and bustle, he directed the waitresses to arrange the lunch and fruit on the table, pressed a few Muggle coins into their hands, and said pleasantly, "Thank you very much."
The two Muggle waitresses seemed quite pleased with the amount — rather excessively so.
They exchanged a glance, registered the persistent sound of the hair dryer from the bedroom, looked Draco up and down, and gave him a knowing smile.
Before Draco could begin to work out what they found so amusing, they had already scattered rose petals across the pristine white tablecloth; poured the sparkling water he'd requested and, without being asked, filled the other two empty glasses with red wine; and then, with remarkable dexterity, folded the napkins into a pair of swans with their necks entwined.
Once everything was perfectly arranged — casual yet unmistakably intimate, like something from a private honeymoon — they said "Bon appétit!" and departed with matching grins.
One of the waitresses, on her way out, even took the initiative of hanging a "Ne pas déranger" sign on the door handle, offered Draco a conspiratorial wink, and considerately pulled the door shut behind her.
Merlin. Something was increasingly, unmistakably wrong. Draco shifted his gaze from the door back to the pair of entwined swans, his face slowly flushing again.
It wasn't that he objected to the romantic atmosphere — if he were being honest, Draco had long wanted to share a proper, private lunch with her, as a couple.
On Hogsmeade weekends they ate at the Three Broomsticks, but nearly always in full view of half the school; sometimes they shared meals alone in the attic of the Trick Room, but that could hardly be called formal; and she had once come to sit at the Slytherin table with him, though at the time both of them had been too preoccupied with the Dark Lord to enjoy anything at all.
Now, even with all those unpleasant matters still hanging over them, they were not so pressing that a proper lunch was beyond reach.
There was, however, one small and persistent problem: his thoughts kept drifting back to her bathrobe.
Draco Malfoy had never considered himself remotely connected to the word "saint," and the amount of nonsense that occupied his mind was frequently outrageous.
When a boy liked a girl, when his body was in a state of adolescent hormonal upheaval, reining in the imagination was no small feat.
What worried him was the possibility of frightening her.
Hermione was sometimes so innocent and endearing, and at other times so passionate and headstrong that she made him want to do anything for her. She oscillated perpetually between "sensitive and shy" and "wilful and unrestrained," making it almost impossible for him to judge the right approach.
Since his rebirth, Draco believed he had developed some understanding of people's inner workings. And yet — of all the people in the world — she remained the most impossible to read, more unpredictable even than his grandfather, whose mind ran as deep as the ocean.
It wasn't that she was devious. It was that she was capable of surprising him with sudden bursts of reckless Gryffindor impulse.
Where intimacy was concerned, he had no idea what she actually wanted from him — whether to move forward or hold back, whether she would step closer or pull away.
It was endlessly confusing.
The one thing he was certain of was that he absolutely did not want to frighten her, nor did he want to push so far that she would pull away from him afterwards.
He could not afford to ruin a single thing where she was concerned.
He needed to take it slowly.
And so Draco Malfoy frequently tried his very best to appear perfectly innocent and harmless, terrified that Hermione Granger would somehow detect the less innocent thoughts concealed beneath that exterior.
And yet, at this moment, everything felt so tempting and so logical. They were stranded together by torrential rain on an inescapable little island, with enough food spread before them to properly feed her.
Dark clouds loomed overhead outside. Lightning flashed; thunder rolled. Whatever happened here would go unobserved by anyone.
She had wandered unsuspectingly into Draco Malfoy's private domain, utterly unaware of the considerable danger she was in. She harboured her thoroughly obvious little secret that couldn't be brought to light, and she kept radiating that impossibly compelling fragrance in his direction.
Inevitably, his thoughts went to the old mahogany table in the library and everything that had happened there. And then to the hotel bed in the next room — not the finest in the world, perhaps, but nothing to complain about.
And then, damnably, to the ring he had given her beneath the oak tree. He had promised not to do anything she wouldn't want, to behave himself, to follow her rhythm.
"Yes, be proper," he said fiercely to himself, and sighed.