The Unexpected Kiss

THE UNEXPECTED KISS

One of the mysteries of Hogwarts, many people felt, was the friendship between Hermione Granger and Cleo Malfoy. Hermione was the undoubted academic star of Gryffindor house; Cleo, while widely popular in her own Hufflepuff house, was not credited with much by way of brains. Cleo's brother and his friends hated Hermione and her friends, and Hermione and her friends hated them just as heartily back. And Cleo's family cultivated a virulent prejudice against Hermione and people like her - people with magical powers but not from magical families. Yet Hermione and Cleo spent an awful lot of time together, mostly at homework time, their heads close together, talking fast and giggling.

What Cleo got out of it was clear enough to her. "Darling," she said to her fiancé Blaise Zabini when he asked, "you know I'm stupid. There's no getting away from it. You are sweet and never say it, and I'm so grateful that someone like you" - and she looked straight at her darkly handsome lover - "bothers with someone like me..."

Blaise's swarthy countenance was suddenly covered with a flush, and he stuttered. He had told her many times that she was "beautiful, beautiful inside and out, the loveliest thing that ever happened to me;" this time he did not bother. He just embraced her fiercely and kissed her into silence. For a moment or two they held on to each other... he not yet eighteen, she hardly sixteen, and committed for life. "Blaise," she said; and he felt more in the way she spoke his name than in the half-dozen girls who had, in the past, called him "darling" or "my love," and meant it.

"Hermione...?"

"Hermione... yes. Hermione helps me with homework, and I mean really helps. You can't imagine what it's like being stupid, Blaise. When I sit in class and try to follow the teachers, it's like I'm fighting my way through thick black mud. You just sit there trying to understand, and most of the time it's so frustrating and so tiring that even if you do get something right, it's no fun."

"But Hermione makes me feel as though I was intelligent too. When I'm with her, I feel as though all that black mud had suddenly vanished. You can't imagine how wonderful it is: it's like your brain just runs on oil... on roller skates... it just moves along and grasps everything, and it feels like you're flying in the sky."

"Surely Draco..."

"Draco helps too, and he's sweet, but it's not the same thing. You can tell that he's trying, and that he's impatient with me, and he never will say it, but I know that he thinks I'm stupid."

"Draco doesn't think that! He's very fond of you."

"I know. Oh, I know that! He loves me, but he also thinks I'm stupid. Now with Hermione that never happens. When I'm with her, I almost feel I was like her."

"Even so," answered Zabini thoughtfully, "you know that your family doesn't like her..."

"Yes. I know that too. Any time that I mention her, Draco and Dad get 'the look' " - that was her term for the sudden, set air of disdain and denial that would seize Malfoy faces at the mention of anything they did not like - "and Mother changes the subject and then takes me aside and lectures me about being insensitive. It's all this stuff about being pureblood, and oh, Blaise, I'm so glad you're pureblood, because if you weren't, they wouldn't like you either. Oh" - this was almost an outburst - "I wish they would know her as I know her!"

Blaise managed to keep from his face the expression that had threatened for a second to take it over at the thought of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy ever coming to make friends with Hermione Granger. But then, he thought, it did not sound as though Cleo herself saw much hope for it either.

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Cleo's six slender, elegant feet lay across Hermione Granger's bed. Under her Hogwarts robes, she wore a below-knee-length plain hazel brown wrap with a simple white-and-gold border in a floral design, and strappy sandals on her feet; everything the height of simplicity, highly expensive, and devastatingly becoming. Her golden ringlets were spread across the pillow like waves of precious metal; altogether, thought Hermione, she was too much like a Vogue photo shoot to be real. Even the sun had obliged, peeping through her sash window apparently for the express purpose of outlining the tall figure on the bed, glinting off her grey eyes, placing fiery highlights in her hair and dramatic shadows in her dress. Hermione sat at her desk, surrounded as usual by books. A hairband kept her uncombable bush of brown hair from falling in her face; and she wore a nondescript jeans skirt, a white tee-shirt with a design of a large strawberry and the word SWEET in block capitals, and a rather battered-looking pair of trainers with their laces undone.

They had just finished an exhilarating pair of hours working on Arithmancy, Hermione's favourite subject, and one on which she could be particularly inspiring. How she had managed to not only get Cleo involved but to have her in gales of laugher, was something of a mystery; let it just be said, here and now, that Hermione Granger had the makings of a very good teacher.

"So what do you get out of it, Hermy?" Hermy was her own personal nickname for her friend; when other friends shortened her name, they called her 'Mione.

"Out of what?"

"Out of being my friend. Blaise" (and Hermione felt her voice soften as she thought of him) "was wondering about our friendship, and I told him that you made me feel intelligent. But what is it that I do for you? I can't be making you feel more intelligent, can I?"

"Oh, Cleo..." Hermione looked at her friend with affection, but it was affection with a distinct touch of exasperation. She would ask things like a child, with the most complete lack of self-consciousness, the most complete lack of sophistication, the most complete lack - sometimes - of manners. How did you answer a question like that? And there she was, with her big grey-green eyes fixed on Hermione, with the unquenchable curiosity of a child. Dammit, why did people even like each other? What was it that linked her especially to Ron and Harry, out of dozens nice and bright people of both sexes in Gryffindor? What made Cleo's company so agreeable to her?

"Well... You're nice."

"Nice?" Cleo's voice was wondering, even slightly incredulous.

"You're nice, Cleo Malfoy. You're nice to be with. You mean well and you like people and you leave a clean smell behind you."

"I like people..." Again the wondering tone. Cleo looked thoughtful, as though she were trying a dress on for size.

"I don't think I do, you know. There's a lot of people I don't like."

Hermione looked amused. "Name one."

"Well, er... I..." Then she noticed the look on Hermione's face. "Hermy, that's not fair! You're just taking advantage because you can think faster than I can!"

"In this case, darling, I don't think you can think at all - not of a single name. I doubt you could mention one person you disliked. I think you are familiar with the concept of unpleasant people - academically - but that you never found much practical application for it. I've never heard you say a nasty word about anyone... Not a feature I'd expect in Draco Malfoy's sister."

Cleo did not answer. They had already debated Cleo's brother, and come close to a real quarrel. Cleo honestly felt that if only Hermione and Draco could get to know each other properly, they would become friends; and Hermione implied, at first none too subtly, that this was only a symptom of Cleo's hopeless naivety.

"I still don't understand. Surely liking people is normal? Everyone has friends..."

"It's not that. It's like a general attitude..." - and Hermione fell silent again. What she really wanted to say was, Do you think that Draco feels about people the same way that you do? But she couldn't. Cleo might be slow, but she was not insensitive. Even if she replaced Draco's name with that of one of his less bright friends, Gregory Goyle or Vincent Crabbe, she would still see through it. And Cleo's love for her family made her, if not blind, at least very forgiving of their faults.

"A general attitude... Is that what you meant when you said I leave a good smell behind? I thought you meant my perfume..."

Hermione couldn't help it: she chortled. And Cleo blushed to the roots of her hair, conscious of having said something silly. "Yes, Cleo, that's exactly what I meant. Not that I would ever question your taste in cosmetics..."

"You know, Hermy, I think the truth is that you are nice. You like people. You are just finding these things in me because you have them. I'm nothing special, it's you who are talented and nice and beautiful..."

Hermione was stunned. Cleopatra Malfoy calling her beautiful? That was like Merlin calling her a great magician - or like a giraffe calling her tall. She went over to her friend, took her by the hand, and stood her before the full-length mirror that was a standard of all Hogwarts girls' rooms.

"Look, Cleo. Look in there. I'm not saying I'm ugly - I know I'm not - but there just is no comparison. You are the most beautiful thing in Hogwarts by a country mile. There isn't a boy here who wouldn't sell his soul to get into your pants. You're going to go down in history as one of the school's great beauties."

"She's right, you know," added the mirror. "I've worked in Hogwarts for a couple of centuries now, and I don't remember anyone lovelier. As lovely... yes. Lovelier... no."

"Lovely? I'm so lovely?" And Cleo instinctively held herself a little straighter. "Is that why the boys want to make love with me? I thought it was just because I was, you know, I mean, I fell for the patter..." Cleo stuttered and fell silent.

"Cleo, believe the mirror if you don't believe me. You are incredibly beautiful. And let me tell you another thing: beauty like yours is not just a matter of features. You would not look so good if you were selfish or sick or nasty or crude or cruel... You are sweet, and it sticks out all over you."

Looking back, Hermione was to think that she had, perhaps, become a bit too heated. She had allowed herself to be trapped into a conversation that could not help but become extremely flattering to Cleo; had she had a little more savoir faire, that could have been avoided. On top of that, she had thrown herself recklessly into praise of her friend's beauty. It was a fleshless passion for her, a passion for truth and sense that could not help but react to Cleo's basic mistake. With the same passion, she would have set Harry or Ron straight if they made some major mistake in Potions or Charms. But Cleo understood it differently. She reached down, drew Hermione closer, and kissed her on the lips.

It was not a rough or aggressive kiss; there was no roughness or aggression about Cleo Malfoy. But there was no mistaking what it was about. Her lips were open, and her tongue reached out to gently touch Hermione's flesh.

In a second, it was over. Hermione went as stiff as a board, and Cleo recoiled, blushing furiously and all too aware that she had done something wrong. They started speaking together, Cleo asking in an apologetic tone whether Hermione did not want her, Hermione trying to explain that she was not into girls and had not meant what Cleo thought.

Cleo took a minute or two to understand the idea of not being into girls - "I thought all girls did it..."

"They don't, Cleo. Honest, we don't. Most women don't like other women - I mean, sorry, they don't want sex with them."

"I just thought, you know, that girls didn't want me."

"Oh Lord, Cleo, when are we ever going to get through this? You are beautiful. You are overwhelmingly beautiful. Trust me when I say, most women will just leave it at that, and pass by. There is even a special word for women who want sex with other women... more than one, come to think of that."

"Ohhh...." Cleo fell silent, trying to make up her mind to this complete readjustment. She had to believe she was beautiful: Hermione would not lie to her, and besides many other people had said the same thing - she just had never paid any attention. And she had always had a lot less women after her than boys. So that was it: most women did not want sex with other women.

"But...is it wrong? I mean, when Father and Mother told me not to have sex with boys, they never said anything about girls."

"Maybe they didn't realize. You know, it is kind of a minority pursuit."

"They did, Hermy. They know all about it. Besides, Mother does it all the time."

Hermione was staggered at this revelation of the cynicism of the Malfoys; nor did she want to ask how Cleo knew about her mother's sexual habits. Taking as neutral a tone as possible, she answered, "I suppose they thought it less important. After all, you can't have babies with another woman." And she half-expected Cleo to answer, "You can't?"

But she didn't. "I suppose so... The thing that upset them most is when I got pregnant." Unlike Hermione, she seemed to see nothing especially surprising, let alone reprehensible, about the brutal cynicism of her parents; and Hermione felt, for the first time in their friendship, a sense of being really outside Cleo Malfoy's world, her experiences, her values. She did not even have to guess about the fate of Cleo's baby, of which she had never heard before; immediate and unfeeling destruction was nothing more than natural in such a world. How did such a creature come from it?

"You think this is pretty strange, don't you?" said Cleo timidly, looking at her. She had finally understood, watching Hermione's shocked reactions, just how far outside her friend's frame of reference all this was. She started fearing that this might damage their friendship, might estrange Hermione from her; and she wanted her to realize that she understood. Then her train of thought - which, you will have realized by now, was slow but sure - reached another place: one that mattered even more to her.

"Do you think Blaise thinks the same?"

Hermione was openly horrified. "You mean that you are...?"

"If Blaise knew that I have sex with girlfriends, would he be upset?"

"Oh my God, Cleo. Yes, I should bloody well think so."

"Well, there's Tina Prewett and Eloise..."

Hermione's ability to react to shocks was exhausted. "Eloise Midgen?" she asked dully. After all the efforts she had made to find dates for her sweet but unattractive friend!

"Yes. She's a dear... my best friend after you."

Then she became thoughtful. "Blaise is jealous. I know he is, though he keeps it under control. If he minds about Tina and Eloise and that kind of thing..."

She fell to thinking about her fiancé; she thought about union for life, about the kind of person she was going to live with - longer than she had lived with her parents, with her brother. And an image of Blaise at seventy took hold of her mind. She was sure he would not become fat, and that his hair would not fall - she had seen pictures of his family, and not one of the older generation was bald. She thought of that eagle nose, more prominent, even, than now - she had seen how old men's noses became even more impressive with time. She thought of thick, bushy white eyebrows shading dark eyes, and a dense, unmanageable thatch of snow-white hair: the face of a raptor, old, fierce, and splendid. She thought ofhis strength and vitality, moving into a magnificent and fearsome old age. She did not know whether this was a prophetic fit or just a fancy; but she believed in it utterly. And she thought: I want to be there. I want to spend the rest of my life with this person... if he'll have me.

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Dear Father,

Something happened that I think you ought to know about. Cleo has dumped both her girlfriends. Tina Prewett told me, asking whether I could do anything to change her mind... as if I would! Apparently, she feels that Blaise would not be happy about it and that it is not fair to him, and that she is fond of Tina and of the Midgen abortion, but not enough to hurt Blaise's feelings. As far as Midgen goes, good riddance; if I'd heard about that misbegotten Mudblood with the pimply face much longer, I'd have run the risk and Avada Kedavraed her myself. But I don't know what brought this about. Do you think our girl is developing a backbone? I have a sort of feeling myself that Granger is at the bottom of this, though I have no evidence.

Your loving son,

DRACO MALFOY

Lucius Malfoy stood at the window of his palatial studio, looking at the autumn leaves chasing each other on the lawn. He spent much time trying to understand the implications of this news; then he turned and walked towards the living quarters, to discuss it with his wife.

END OF THE STORY