Of Photographs and Flashbacks

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Memory Five –

The summer was gone. Like every summer before it, it started sweetly, innocently anticipated and expected. And like every summer that had come and gone before it, it was now at an end, and like every summer before, the end was full of regret, sorrow, sadness and for some, relief.

Hogwarts was not the same as it was at the end of last summer, but in many ways that was a good thing. It still bore the scars of the battle that badgered it only a few months ago, and although it looked much the same, it was different, not only on the outside, and the inside, but through the eyes of the people who inhabited its hallowed halls.

The same could be said for the people who came to work there this summer. Many looked the same, but on the inside, (and some on the outside) they bore a myriad of different scars. Some of the people came here this summer to make a difference, some came here because they were forced to do so, and some came for reasons that fell somewhere in-between.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy came to Hogwarts this summer for very different reasons, but they were leaving with mutual feelings – for each other and for the things they had accomplished.

Sitting in a field of high grass during a free afternoon, two days before their work for the summer was to be over, Hermione turned to Draco and asked, “Have you decided what you’re going to do when you leave here yet?”

Plucking a weed and tossing it over his shoulder, he said, “Does it matter?” He already knew that she would say, ‘of course it does’, when right on cue she said…

“Of course it matters,” she begged to differ, pulling a Muggle sketching pad from her satchel. “You were only sentenced to do this work program for the summer, right?”

He nodded without making eye contact, fidgeting with another tall weed, moving the top of it to and fro with the flat of his hand.

“Well, then the summer’s at an end,” she continued. “It’s time to make decisions. Your whole life awaits you, Draco Malfoy. You only have to decide what you want to do with it.” She opened the pages of the sketch pad and placed the end of a lead pencil on the slightly rough surface of the papers. The sounds of her strokes blended with the sounds of the wind, the call of a robin, the buzz of a bee, and the sound of his breathing

“Are you still going to Uni?” he asked. Again, he already knew her answer before she spoke it.

“Yes and my parents are ecstatically happy,” she revealed. “I’ve decided on a Wizarding University, since I want to study Magical Law. It starts in two weeks.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t think of another reply. He wanted to convince her not to go, to stay with him somehow, but he had no valid argument to force her to that conclusion. They had become friends this summer, they had kissed twice, held hands, touched frequently, talked honestly, but Draco still didn’t know what all of that meant. What were they to each other?

She clearly didn’t want to marry. She wanted an education. Draco didn’t know what he wanted, although he wouldn’t balk at peace and happiness. Mostly, he wanted quiet and comfort, all of which he found with her. Would he seem pitiful if he asked to go with her? Abruptly, he stood up and turned away from her.

She asked, “What’s wrong?”

He sounded harsher than he meant to sound when he answered, “Nothing. Never mind. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

“If nothing’s wrong, then sit back down. I’m drawing you,” she rejoined. “I wanted to have something to remember you by.”

That surprised him. “Take a photograph, then,” he bit back, turning to face her. “Since when do you draw?”

“I’ve always drawn,” she explained.

He stalked over to where she sat on the grass and gazed down at her sketch pad. Then he laughed, causing her to frown up at him. “That’s supposed to be me?”

Next, she looked hurt when she looked up at him, but then she smiled back when she saw that he was smiling. “Yes, why?”

“Where’s my shirt?” He pointed down at the pad of paper, his hand moving along imaginary lines. “You forgot to draw a shirt.”

“I’ll add the details later,” she complained, seemingly embarrassed, closing the sketch pad quickly.

He chuckled and said, “I hate to inform you of this, but I think we’ve finally discovered something Hermione Granger isn’t very good at, and that would be drawing.”

Now she actually scowled up at him. Leaving her drawing utensils on the ground, she stood, pointed at him and huffed, “It’s a new hobby, but I’ll get better.”

“Sweetheart,” he started with amusement still in his voice and eyes, “someone either has talent or they don’t.”

For the first time since their strange and wonderful friendship began, Hermione thought of him as something different, all because he just called her ‘sweetheart’ and it came so naturally. It was the first time he had used any term of endearment to her, and though it was followed by a reprimand, it still caused her blood to still and her skin to burn. Swiftly, to hide her swirling, confusing attraction, she sat back down, picked up her pad, and opened it back up.

Then she said, “Out of line, Malfoy, and you could be more helpful, you know.”

“How? I can’t draw either.” He watched her as she lowered her head over the pad, her hair falling in front of her face, her lips puckered tightly in concentration. Didn’t she even notice that he had called her ‘sweetheart’? He had been dying to call her that. He had been waiting for an opening for days, but he had to make it seem natural, but perhaps it was too blasé, because she didn’t even notice.

He stood away from her and said, “I guess I could pose for you, or something. I didn’t even know you were drawing me. I’ll take my shirt off, if you’d like, that way you could accurately draw my chest.”

Indignation all over her face, she said, “I was going to add the shirt later, honestly!”

“Sure, all artist draw their models nude and THEN add clothing,” he teased. He could tell she was blushing and he knew why. She had seen him and his friends without their shirts on the other day, when they were working in the extreme heat. He was pleased that she had noticed him.

With her brown curls sparkling in the bright sunlight, he dared her in his mind to look back up at him. He asked, “Shall I pose?”

She looked up and he had his fist tucked under his chin, his face in profile, affecting the pose of ‘the thinker’. She giggled and he too began to laugh. “Stop that,” she ordered with another laugh. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to strike a pose that’s not natural.”

“So droll, Granger,” he said with a smile.

“You know, you could … no, never mind.”


“It’s just, well, I was wondering, would you mind removing your shirt?”

This time he asked the same thing, only louder and with more surprise. “WHAT?”

Hermione shook her head and quipped, “Never mind” again. He could tell that she was blushing deep scarlet now.

She went back to her drawing, swallowing hard, embarrassed. A few days ago, Draco and some of the other boys had been laying gravel on the road to Hogwarts, and they had all removed their shirts because of the heat. She walked by them and she was mesmerized by what she saw. Draco without a shirt was a beautiful thing to behold.

His summer of manual labor had caused his muscles to become larger and more defined, and while he was always tall and thin, he was now close to what Hermione would consider a ‘perfect male specimen’. He was what she imagined the sculpture of ‘David’ to look like - his biceps and shoulders looked like granite and his forearms had long sinewy veins that seemed to be cut out of marble. He didn’t have a lot of hair on his chest, which Hermione liked. His waist was thin, and his back was smooth, and truthfully, she was obsessed with his naked chest and since seeing him that day, she had thought of it almost non-stop.

Hence her foray into ‘semi-nude’ drawing.

She even had an erotic dream the other night, and Draco was the star. Since then, she had been trying to ‘draw’ his body from memory, but even when she was by herself, she would end up putting ‘clothing’ on his body, out of embarrassment, or guilt, or something in between. Having him see her sketches was the last thing she ever expected.

And now she asked him to remove his shirt for goodness sakes! What was wrong with her! What would he think? She continued to draw, aware that he was still standing a short distance away. She rubbed a line with her finger and slowly glanced up at him.

When she did, he was standing before her, closer than before, in only his trousers, his shirt at his feet before her.

She dropped her jaw in awe, and the pencil dropped from her fingers as well. Her mouth hung opened for what felt like an eternity, but no sound came out. Placing the sketch pad next to the pencil on the ground by her legs, she stood up and walked to where he stood.

Draco kept his expression calm as she stalked toward him. He had wondered when she would notice that he had removed his shirt. The other day, when she walked by as he and the other lads were working on the graveled road, he saw her watching them. He had an ideal why. He knew his body had become closer to that of a man than that of a boy this summer.

He was excited that she should notice that. He noticed her body, so why shouldn’t she notice his? After all, they had this odd and atypical attraction to each other, which neither could explain, and neither had pushed to explore. He wanted to explore it. No longer content with two or three kisses, hand holding, glances and touches, he wanted this woman.

Today might be the last day he would get his wish.

She was leaving in two days. He might not ever see her again. He had always been a selfish man, and one summer rebuilding a castle hadn’t changed that. He wanted her and he would have her. The only difference from the way things used to be was that instead of him taking her without regard, he would let her take him instead. He would let her think it was her idea.

Standing toe to toe with him, he jumping back slightly when as her fingers skimmed his chest lightly. This might not have been a good plan after all. His blood was racing hot and fierce and the tighter he clenched his hands into fist at his sides, the tighter his muscles coiled and flexed, which meant the more fascinated she had become.

Light fingers whispered over his shoulders and down one arm, easing his hand from a fist, holding his hand in hers, and then dropping it to travel back up his arm and over his back. A single finger went down his spine and his cock jumped and he had to bite his bottom lip.

“You’re so beautiful,” she exclaimed, walking back around so that she was facing him again. He closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to say something stupid like that. Why did she have to say that?

Her hands on his chest, her eyes moved with her hands, down to his abdomen. He wondered if she could see his erection. He wondered if she would know what it meant. Her hands were shaking slightly, out of nervousness or fear. He was shaking with desire and want.

When she told him he was beautiful he should have said it back, but it was too late now. He was a fool. A shirtless, quaking, ‘erect’ fool.

“Your skin is so soft, too,” she retorted. “I didn’t think it would be, and it’s so much darker than it used to be.” He didn’t like her constant litany regarding his looks.

Flattening one palm, she ran it around his ribs, so he lifted that arm. His skin was as warm as it was soft. Her other hand went to the middle of his chest, over his heart. His heart was beating rapidly, and she knew why, so she started to step back, but he abruptly grabbed that hand, and kept her captive against him.

He released her hand only to grab the collar of her shirt with both hands, then he pulled her up against him, and whisper next to her mouth, “If I’m never going to see you again, I think it’s only right for me to have something to remember you by, too, Granger. You’ll have your drawing, after all.”

“What do you want?” she asked humbly, “A Photograph?”

“No. a memory.” When he had kissed her previously, it had been nothing but playful and flirty. This time, it was evident that it meant something different. She stumbled against him when his hands moved from her collar to her back, molding her against him, then his lips slanted over hers, forcing her head up, and his mouth came down hard and hot.

She grasped his bare shoulders for leverage and moaned as he drank from her well. She felt alive, daring, aroused and needed. She wanted…something, everything, more than what she had. How could this man make her feel so alive and desirable?

His hands brushed against the outside of her breasts, and she stepped backwards, shocked, as warmth spread through her, settling between her legs. Kissing wasn’t enough; she wanted more, much more. She brushed his hands aside, and said, “I want more.”

He smiled. “Granger, you’re a conundrum.” It was a stupid thing to say, but then again, he was a stupid man sometimes. He delved on and said, “I’ll be cautious. I won’t tell a soul. You won’t get pregnant. I want you very much. I’ll be gentle and careful, I promise.”

“Just shut up, won’t you?” she leveled. She felt nervous enough, without his excessive talking.

He grinned at her, took her hand, and picked up his shirt from the ground. He found a discreet place, with high rocks and weeds, hidden from view, and placed his shirt on the grass.

Where he proceeded to make love to her.

He kissed her everywhere. Her hands twined around the back of his head, her mouth joined his, their breath mingled, her heart pounded. He felt reckless, and weak. He wanted to show her ultimate pleasure and no pain.

Wanting to say and do the right thing at the right time was difficult, but she was beyond the pale, exquisite, extraordinary, and when he felt her bare skin against his, and she called his name out when she climaxed, he thought he might cry.

They moved together, hip to hip, mouth still on mouth, her hands clutching his shoulders, digging her nails in deep, moaning with each push, each thrust, until it was done, and he withdrew, and sunk on his side next to her, pulling her close.

It would soon be time to dress. It would soon be time to walk back to their tents. It would soon be time say goodbye. Soon, summer would end.

And all of this would end as well.

But maybe everything didn’t have to end for them. Maybe they could have a future together. Maybe they didn’t have to have only this one summer, this one time together, this one moment, this one memory. Perhaps they could have an entire lifetime together. Life didn’t have to be like a photograph – something you took out and examined every once in a while. Things could be better than that, better than a distant flashback, which seemed to fade after a while.

Things could be permanent, real, lasting, forever.

This didn’t have to be the end.

This could be their beginning. They could have a middle, then a future, and then someday an ending.

It would be nice to have an entire lifetime together. That would be better than any silly photograph or memory.

- The End -

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