The Silver Envelope

The Knight in Tiny Armor

The moments after using the Obliviate spell were always the worst. Coming from someone else's mind was, at best, like waking from a dream. Hermione had not seen many details in Selwyn's mind, but the impression she got was much more like a nightmare than a dream. The man's internal self matched his laboratory cluttered and toxic.
The nightmare softened into a dream when Hermione walked into Draco's flat with him.
With a few sharp flicks of his wand, the fireplace and two lamps all lit, bathing the whole flat in a warm glowing light. Hermione noticed he still hadn't let go of her hand, even as he walked to the kitchen.
It was strange, the things she noticed these days. The things that felt meaningful to her. They were always so small that they caught her by surprise. For instance, right now, she was noticing that, as Draco was left-handed, he was able to hold her hand while they both held their wands in their dominant hands. It shouldn't have mattered. But it made her think of Ron, and how holding hands with him had felt forced and anxiety-inducing, because one of them would inevitably be left vulnerable should they need to draw their wands. After a while, they had given up on handholding altogether. It wasn't as though Ron had done something wrong. But Hermione couldn't suppress her awe at the feeling of comfortability she felt around Draco. They were compatible in ways she had never considered before.
The other day, Draco had spotted a spider on the wall. Ron would have stood on a chair while Hermione went to squish it. But Draco had calmly levitated the spider with his wand, opened the window, and deposited it outside. When she had told him about Ron's aversion to spiders, Draco had only smirked and made a comment about how he'd thought Gryffindors were supposed to be
brave.
She hated comparing them, but it was unavoidable. Her attraction to Draco was like a force of nature at this point; it was as unrelenting as the tide. Since she had been with Ron for so long, and broken it off so recently, she supposed it was only natural that she would compare him to Draco.
But still, it made her feel uncomfortable, like she was inviting the memory of the most unwelcome person imaginable into her thoughts, over and over, every day. She didn't want to associate Draco with Ron. She often wished she could simply forget Ron, at least during the moments she spent alone with Draco.
Hermione wondered what it felt like, having one's memory altered. Did it hurt? Did it feel like something was missing, like when you left on a long trip and had the feeling you'd forgotten something but couldn't think of what it might be? Or was it peaceful, like the bliss one remembers feeling before they learned something they wished they hadn't?
She supposed it depended on the kind of memory that had been wiped away.
Draco's face appeared in her line of vision, and she blinked again.
"Sorry," she said, feeling embarrassed. She realized she'd been staring off into the distance with a blank look on her face as she thought.
He said nothing, just slid something toward her.
All at once, she realized she was in his kitchen again, sitting on the same stool he'd brought her to the night before.
Was it really only last night? So much had happened.
Then again, the dejà vu of sitting here with a cup of tea made her feel adrift, as if perhaps she had been dreaming this whole time, and it really was still yesterday.
She took a sip of the tea.
No, this was definitely a different brew. Something lovely and floral, but with a tangy bitterness that awoke her taste buds. Hermione took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrant steam before she took another sip.

"What is this?" she asked.
Draco smiled mysteriously.
"It's a secret," he said.
Hermione frowned at the cup.
"Well, I suppose as long as it's not spiked with love potion or poison or something equally sinister, then it's very good,' she said.
"I made a cup for myself as well, so you can be sure it's safe," he said, raising his own mug.
She watched him take a sip, taking in the way the muscles of his throat contracted.
At some point, Draco had taken off his cloak, revealing a thin, dark green jumper underneath.
Hermione wondered if she had ever seen him wear color before. He was absolutely stunning in it.
She imagined him wearing each color of the rainbow, flipping through the possibilities in her mind.
Lavender, she decided, would make him look soft and elegant, like a bouquet of hydrangeas or a bath spritzed with perfume. She wanted to see him that way, see how a pretty color like that would affect his tattooed, angular hardness
"Granger, you're staring at me," Draco pointed out. "Do you not like your tea?"
Hermione shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment.
"I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm waxing lyrical about jumper colors in my mind. Perhaps I'm just tired," she said.
A smile tipped up one side of Draco's face.
"Why don't you share those wandering, lyrical thoughts of yours, eh?" he suggested.
"They're not as interesting as you presume," Hermione said with chagrin. "I just get sort of... nostalgic, I suppose, whenever I obliviate someone. As if altering someone else's memories makes me want to cling harder to my own."
Draco listened to her speak, his face open and relaxed. She decided to say the worst bit, to see if he would cringe away from her.
"It's a strange feeling. I think I should feel sorry, should hate what I've done to them. But those feelings are always overpowered by both a sense of relief that it worked combined with a feeling of power and control over them. Invincibility. It's...horrible. And heady. And terrifying. I feel like a villain, and the worse part is... I don't mind it."
Hermione had thought this admission would weigh them both down. But Draco's expression of curiosity and acceptance didn't fade, and the air in her lungs felt lighter because of it.
"Did you see much in there? When you were in Selwyn's mind?" he asked.
Hermione shook her head.
"It's harder when someone is unconscious. Like slogging through a dark bog with only a torch for light. When someone is conscious, you can call out to the memory you seek and your subject will instinctively bring it forward for you. But I'm almost glad that he was knocked out. I got the sense that Selwyn's mind is a particularly unpleasant place to be. The moment I entered, I wanted to leave."
Draco looked apologetic.
"I shouldn't have asked that of you," he said.
"No! No, don't say that," she insisted. "It was a brilliant plan. Truly. And I feel much safer knowing that Selwyn and whoever he's working for won't know we're onto them. That would be so much worse."