flying, falling
complete and utter wish fulfillment tbh but the prompt was: dramione + philip carlyle x anne wheeler mashup
pairing: draco malfoy x hermione granger
word count: 1923
setting: greatest showman au
i.
The first time he sees her, it is among the swirling lights of the circus, the multicolored fabrics swishing below, the cheers and raucous cries of the crowd muted beneath the rush of blood in his ears.
The first time he sees her, he knows he is in trouble.
ii.
The first time she sees him, she hates him on principle. The press of his suit, the crisply folded corners of his collar, the shiny black shoes that he frowns at when someone accidentally kicks up dirt, as if any smidgen of dust upon his person will magically denigrate him one of the working class. He’s the kind of person that Hermione would never talk to, and she knows that she is the kind of person that he would never talk to either. And that’s perfectly fine with her.
She hates the way he looks at them- the circus freaks. Or rather, the way he decidedly doesn’t. He looks through them, past them, as if they aren’t there, as if they aren’t people themselves. So she does the same to him- walks straight past him, ignores any attempt he makes at speaking to her. It’s rude, she knows, but he’s rude as well, and Hermione is a big believer in justice and the just world fallacy. So she ignores him, and moves on, and pretends to be utterly unaware of the way his startling grey eyes track every movement she makes.
It makes her skin crawl, truth be told.
iii.
His name is Draco Malfoy, and he is a well-respected playwright, the son of aristocrats and old money. He doesn’t typically associate with people below him, the poor. The entirety of the working class. He isn’t entirely sure what madness took over and compelled him to agree with the circus owner’s request for partnership, but he supposes it has something to do with the way he feels that rush of attraction for the curly-haired girl- Hermione, the owner had quickly introduced as they’d walked by- as he watches her swing from the trapeze, soaring high, high above him.
It’s embarrassing, how much Draco likes this girl, and for no good reason at all. Sure, she’s a talent, a vision in the air, sure, she makes his breath hitch in his throat and his hands get awkwardly, uncomfortably sweaty, his heart threaten to jump out of his chest, but in the end, she is nothing more than a poor girl with an aptitude for acrobatics. But still, the fact remains. He wants her, he wants her, he wants her.
He wants her up to the point she comes up to him and slaps him in the face.
iv.
Hermione hadn’t seen much of Draco- Malfoy, she’d taken to calling him, out of a large sense of rebellion and an unwillingness to form attachment- lately. Not since she had slapped him, at least. She figured that he had left to go nurse his pride- a typical move for those with fragile masculinities, she thought- somewhere far, far away from the circus. She hoped, at least.
She had thrown herself vigorously into her training the last few days ever since he had left, taking advantage of the absence of a certain blond-haired prat. Much as she was loath to admit it, his gaze had driven her to distraction, and she hadn’t been able to focus on her new routine as much as she would have liked to.
Slowly, Hermione taped up her hands, walking to the side of the rink and scrubbing some chalk on her palms for a better grip. Unraveling the coarse rope wound tightly along the hook on the column, she walks with it to the center of the rink, backing up and taking a running start before she feels the weight attached to the other end of the rope pull her up into the air. For a moment, she is breathless, soaring, flying. This was the part she enjoyed the most, the time when she felt most in control, her mind quiet for once.
Most people were afraid of the height. Hermione wasn’t. It wasn’t that she was reckless, or fearless, but simply that she had enough faith in herself, enough confidence in her amount of practice to know that her own life was in her hands, she was in control, and that logically, the risk of her falling during an actual performance was slim. As long as she was in control, she would be fine.
Hermione was always in control. Until Malfoy walked into the building, and all rational thought fled her mind.
v.
She was falling. That was all Draco knew, all he saw, and despite his wounded pride, he rushed forward, kicking up dirt and sand behind him as he reached out his arms to catch the girl that infuriated and frustrated him beyond measure. She crashed into him hard, and Draco virtually crumpled under the sudden weight of her body.
It was a moment before they both groaned, Draco trying, and failing miserably, to brush some of the dirt off his once impeccable clothes. He tried to ignore the way she was sitting on top of his legs, her every breath pushing against the growing knot in his stomach. Slowly, delicately, he reaches up to her face, pushing the disarrayed curls behind her ear. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know why she’s suddenly letting him touch her when last week she had so vehemently come up to him and slapped him square across the face. He doesn’t know anything when it comes to Hermione Granger.
“I,” she starts, then clears her throat. “Thank you,” she says quietly, before standing up and walking away, shoulders proud and head held high.
He memorizes the rosy shade of her cheeks, the intensity of her dark eyes.
vi.
She tries not to think about the way he had looked- looks, she corrected herself- at her. She tries not to think about him in general, but it was hard when he seemed to be everywhere she turned, either helping out with the circus or mingling with the performers. He seemed to have gotten past his original prejudice in the weeks that he had been here, but Hermione still doesn’t trust him.
She can’t afford to.
Some part of her wonders about him though, and Hermione has always been a curious girl. She can’t deny the attraction that had seemed to have awoken the night he had saved her, but still, she avoids his glances, and secretly puzzles at night at why he’s changed.
vii.
The next time they interact is at the theatre; it’s one of Draco’s shows, and he had generously invited the circus performers to attend, buying out an entire section of seats for them. Everything was going marvelously well, the play was running smoothly, fate had somehow maneuvered Hermione into the seat next to him, and yet he could focus on none of these things besides the fact that Hermione’s hand was perilously close to his and he had been debating for the last half hour whether or not to intertwine her much smaller hand with his.
The first brush of fingers was an accident- he had shifted slightly and as a consequence, his arm had moved over and touched hers; he froze. The second time was purposeful. When Hermione hadn’t made any sign nor sound of protest, he dared to hold her hand completely, very much relieved when she relaxed hers against his, the palm of hers skimming lightly against the palm of his.
During intermission, Draco happened to glance up into the box seats, meeting the glare of both his parents. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were the definition of Manhattan elite: they were the well-known politicians, descended from French lineage and aristocracy. As he watched, Lucius turned to speak to Narcissa. To an outsider, it might have seemed as if Lucius were simply whispering sweet nothings in his wife’s ear, but Draco knew better. Even from a distance, he could see the tension to his parents’ posture, the way Lucius’s grip on his cane was a little too tight.
Draco dropped Hermione’s hand, his fingers feeling oddly bereft of her warmth. She turned to him, curious, but he refused to look at her, and it didn’t take her long before she worked out why he had so openly rejected her. Shaking her head, she brushed past him, refusing to speak a word.
He had always been a coward, and he had never hated himself more for it.
viii.
She saw him in the turmoil of the fire. It wasn’t as if she had been actively looking for him- no, it was merely that his distinctively bright hair was hard to miss, even through the smoke and ash raining from the rafters of the building. She had seen him corralling performers and pushing them to the exits, pressing his suit jacket to his mouth and face, trying to avoid the soot and contaminated air.
She had been trying to do the same, pushing others in front of her, checking around her to make sure that other people had gotten out before her, but just as she made for the exit where she had seen the back of Draco’s head disappear, a beam fell in front of her, blocking the way.
Thinking quickly, she pivoted on her heel, knowing there was another exit to the side of the building, praying desperately that it wasn’t blocked off as well. With luck, it was clear, and she made it safely through and away from the building, running when she saw the rest of the performers gathered near the front. Relief rose in her chest, quickly tempered when she noticed that they seemed to be huddled around someone. Screams and cries reached her ears, calls for help lost among the sirens and vicious crackling of the fire.
She searched for Draco’s head, but couldn’t find him. There was a figure on the ground.
Dread rushed through her veins.
It was Draco.
“What happened?” she managed to choke out, unable to tear her eyes away from his figure- too still, she thought- spread on the floor. She had watched him leave the building, had known that she was the last one before she left.
The girl next to her looked at her briefly, a strange mixture of resentment and pity in her eyes. “He went back in for you.”
ix.
“You bastard,” she said, and she meant it. “You imbecile. You stupid, reckless, git.”
He didn’t move; didn’t stir, give her that grin she knew meant spelled trouble for her heart.
He didn’t do anything at all.
And unwillingly, she broke down crying.
x.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was her. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days- her hair was an absolute atrocity, her eyes puffy and tired, her delicate features wan with exhaustion.
And yet, Draco thought she was still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
Without thinking, he pushes himself off the small hospital bed, and kisses her, and it’s like he’s seeing her for the first time again, feeling that rush of adrenaline beneath his skin and his heart pound violently against his ribcage. One of his hands winds up in her hair, and the other settles on her waist, and hers come up to rest on his shoulders, and the kiss is soft, and sweet, and perfect.
xi.
The first time he sees her, he is in love.
