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Chapter Text

Introducing Draco Malfoy to muggle music was certainly not on Hermione’s bingo card for the year following the war. She still wasn’t quite sure how it happened. They’d both been part of the small group of students returning for their eighth year at Hogwarts, forcing them to share the rather cozy eighth year common room and close-knit classes.

She’d reluctantly partnered with Malfoy after determining that her other classmates, while likable and well-intentioned, were simply lacking when it came to academics. Despite his undeniable intelligence, Malfoy was an atrocious study partner, with little to no regard for her carefully planned revising schedule.

Having already mastered much of the NEWT level potions work, Malfoy had taken to entertaining himself during double potions by conducting increasingly alarming experimental brewing. Hermione hardly had a choice in working with him on them. Who else was going to keep Malfoy from brewing some nasty potion, or worse, permanently damaging her favorite cauldron?

Brewing with Malfoy was a careful dance of perfect ingredient preparation and near constant bickering. Their classmates tended to give them a wide berth, eyeing them both with alarm when they thought neither were looking.

It was during double potions that music first became a topic of contention for them. Malfoy had, rather loudly, insulted all of muggle music in his usual backhanded way. “I’m just surprised you can even recognize good music, (he was referring to the Two Headed Trolls, the wizard equivalent of alternative music) what with the dribble you were raised listening to.”

“Dribble?” Hermione scoffed, bumping him out of the way so that she could add the Horned Slugs to their bubbling cauldron. “Malfoy, music is one area in which muggles definitely have the magical world beat. There isn’t even a wizard equivalent to half the music they’ve created.”

“Three counterclockwise stirs should do it, Granger. And I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply, but I hardly think muggles could make better music than wizards. They can’t even transfigure a simple teacup!”

She stirred the cauldron carefully, noting the color changing from a rather foamy gray to a rich emerald in their notes.

“What on earth does transfiguration have to do with good music, Malfoy?”

He ignored her for a moment, his frown directed for once at something other than her bushy hair. “Wasn’t it supposed to turn maroon?”

“I imagine it will once you actually add the saffron.”

“No,” his sharp gaze was unmoving from their potion. “It was supposed to turn maroon before the saffron. That’s why we added the counterclockwise turns to stabilize the flobberworms. And transfiguration has everything to do with music, Granger. You would know if you knew what good music was.”

Months later, Malfoy would admit that his transfiguration metaphor had little to do with reality and much to do with the rather attractive shade of pink Hermione’s cheeks turned when she was exasperated with him. He delighted in being obstinate, if only to infuriate her.

Adding the saffron, Hermione made a declaration before thinking through the consequences. “You leave me with no choice! I’m taking you to a concert.” Her announcement was punctuated by their potion boiling over, melting half of their work table in the process. Malfoy was quick to cast a stasis charm.

Deciding which concert to take Malfoy to was agonizing. She was tempted to shock him with the furthest thing from the music he was used to, but she also found that she desperately wanted him to like it. It would be all the more satisfying when he realized how very wrong he was.

After thorough research, Hermione concluded that it simply wasn’t possible to take Malfoy to see one muggle concert. He would have to attend at least ten different bands she’d narrowed her list down to in order to properly appreciate the sheer range of muggle music.

“Ten,” Malfoy repeated flatly when Hermione handed him the parchment. She’d very casually plopped it over his Arthimancy essay. They were sitting at their table in the library, in front of plenty of witnesses. It was best to publicly bully Malfoy into doing things her way. The general student body tended to take to Malfoy rather poorly when he yelled at a war hero. He glanced over the list of musicians, his lips pursed. “You want to take me to ten concerts.” His voice was beginning to take on a plaintive tone, which meant Hermione would be subjected to his Whinging Voice if she wasn’t careful.

“It’s the only way you can get an idea of what Muggle music is like. Just pick ten artists from that list.” Giving the illusion of choice was most likely to get Malfoy to buy in.

“And you’re not budging on this?”

“I’m not budging on this,” she repeated firmly, her eyes trained on him.

Malfoy sighed a long, self-suffering sigh. “As you wish, Granger. As ever, I am a victim to your whims.”

Having little frame of reference, Malfoy selected 10 bands at random. He chose the ten with the most ridiculous-sounding names with no small degree of smugness.

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It was with some regret that Hermione dragged Malfoy to his first muggle concert. She’d bought tickets to all ten concerts, only later realizing that the very first muggle concert Malfoy would attend was for the Flaming Lips.

Granted, she enjoyed their music. She just wasn’t sure what he would think of it. She glanced sidelong at him, taking in his wide eyes with pleasure. They stood in the line of people waiting to get into the smoky venue, both sporting muggle clothes for the occasion. Malfoy was wearing a pair of dark trousers and a black t-shirt. It was the most casual she’d ever seen him, and it was doing strange things to her stomach.

“Is that why they call themselves the Flaming Lips?” Malfoy gestured to the muggles smoking, his eyes narrowed on the flaming tips of their cigarettes.

Hermione snorted. “No. Surely you’ve seen people smoke before?”

“Not with such skinny cigars. Do all muggles have devices that light on fire? Surely that’s a dangerous thing to keep in one’s pocket.”

She ignored him, grabbing his arm to pull him through the doors. After presenting their tickets, Hermione weaved her way through the growing crowd. She wanted to get as close to the stage as possible, so Malfoy could feel the vibrations of the speakers.

Malfoy cursed when a sloshed man bumped into her, nearly knocking her over. After a scathing look in the offender’s direction, he placed his hands on her shoulders and directed her to a small opening in the crowd.

“Are all muggle concerts so close knit?” His sharp question was half-shouted in her ear.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. Wizard concerts were shockingly mild in comparison. You weren’t likely to act like a dick when a witch or wizard could give you a nasty hex as a reprimand.
She turned to look at Draco, smiling in earnest as his curious gaze roved around the fellow concert-goers. “Flaming Lips fans tend to be a particular sort,” she responded, standing on her tippy toes so that she was closer to his ear.

“What sort is that? What kind of music do they play anyway?” He was staring at a snogging Muggle couple with a sort of morbid curiousity.

She considered his question. “I suppose they’re a bit out there.” They would be to him anyway. “The best description that comes to mind is Acoustic Acid? Oh! I think the actual category is psychedelic rock. Hence all the muggles imbibing in psychedelics.”

If Malfoy didn’t know what psychedelics were, he didn’t indicate as much. Rather, he watched the opening band with a blank face, though his eyes remained wide.

Finally, they were on. She watched Wayne Coyne step on stage, unable to restrain her grin. Despite how nervous she was about Malfoy’s reaction, she really did enjoy their music.

“Looks a bit like Black, doesn’t he?”

A laugh burst from her lips. The only thing similar between the singer and Sirius was the length of their hair. Before she could respond, the music started.

Unable to help herself, Hermione went back to face Malfoy so she could see his reaction. He was as expressionless as ever, but she could swear she could see a glimmer of wonder as they made it through their first song.

The Flaming Lips weren’t known for having tame concerts. She continued to watch Malfoy take in the streams of glimmering confetti and the brightly colored lights. His eyes were wide open, his lips curling ever so slightly. Merlin, Malfoy was smiling .

Keeping his eyes firmly on the stage, he leaned towards her. “Granger,” he began, his voice incredulous. “Surely you’re mistaken. They’re Muggles?”

She laughed, ignoring him in favor of turning her own attention to the concert. She couldn’t recall the last time the band came to the UK, and she had no intentions of letting the moment pass her by.

She danced and sang, badly, to the songs she knew. Malfoy didn’t move, but he also watched the entire show with a degree of intensity she hadn’t expected.

When they left, they both had flushed cheeks and large grins. Malfoy guided her out of the venue, casting scowls at anyone who got too close. She rolled her eyes at his distaste for muggles, but refused to let it ruin their night.

“I have to say, Granger, that was not at all what I was expecting.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at his mild tone. He’d said those exact words when their modified Veritaserum potion caused the user to sing all their answers to questions.

“You loved it,” she said in a singsong voice, nudging him with her shoulder.

Malfoy scowled. “Surely, Granger, you know that Malfoys don’t love things. We’re much too sophisticated for love.”

She snorted in spite of himself. “I guarantee you’ll be admitting your love for muggle music by the fourth.”

Malfoy didn’t dignify her comment with a response. Rather, he offered his arm to her for a side-along.

Hermione didn’t hesitate to take it, letting him apparate them back to Hogsmeade.

Chapter Text

It was a stroke of luck that they didn’t have to wait more than a week for their next concert. Hermione was afraid Draco would back out otherwise.

She was debating reminding him of his obligations the entire time they worked on their third iteration of Veritaserum. Only, Malfoy seemed especially unhinged today. He’d taken creative liberties to the extreme, and was determined to drive Hermione insane as he changed ingredient orders on a whim.

“Malfoy!” she smacked his hand out of the way. “You cannot just dump the Powdered Moonstone in whenever it ‘feels right’. What has gotten into you?”

“Just making sure you’re paying me mind, Granger,”

She scowled at him. “We’re not even supposed to be brewing this,” she whispered furiously. “And we’ve already messed up two batches. I am not doing this for another month because you can’t control yourself.”
Malfoy smirked. “Nervous, Granger? Perhaps you should run to the Headmaster and tell her what I’ve been up to.”

Rather than being grateful, Malfoy was determined to constantly needle her over the fact that she had yet to rat him out for his very illegal potion-making. Why he was determined to get himself expelled, she wasn’t sure.

She felt her face go hot, turning her attention back to their cauldron. “I’m not going to say anything to McGonagall,” she murmured.

She could feel his gaze on her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes.

“I know,” he said finally. For once, he didn’t sound smug. “Granger, I—”

“We’re going to a concert tomorrow,” she blurted out. Double Potions was almost over, so she started carefully organising ingredients. They’d gotten creative with their ways to disguise some of the rarer ingredients, lest Slughorn get an idea of what they were up to.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed flatly, his lips twisted into a weaker version of the infamous Malfoy sneer.

“Tomorrow!” she said much more brightly, composing her features into an expression that she hoped was both enthusiastic and properly intimidating.

Malfoy eyed her warily. She waited for him to protest, but it never came.

24 hours later, she found herself once again dragging Draco Malfoy through a crowd of muggles. This time, they were seeing The Cranberries.

Malfoy was in the same black t-shirt he’d worn last time. This time, though, he’d opted for a pair of denims.

“How did you pick your ten?” She asked Malfoy, raising her voice to be heard over the noise. They were in line outside of the small venue, their tickets clutched in one of her fists. It was an unseasonably warm night for November, and she could feel the sweat dripping down the back of her neck.

Malfoy smirked. “Well,” he drawled, leaning towards her. “I’m not sure if I should say.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just answer the question.”

Malfoy took an unusual amount of pleasure in ruffling Hermione’s feathers. Unfortunately, he had a knack for it. He pretended to contemplate answering her, his finger tapping on his chin. “It was a rather complex process. I’m not sure that I could explain it even if I tried.”

The smart thing to do would be to drop the topic all together. Hermione Granger was very smart. She knew it would be all the more satisfying for Malfoy if she continued prodding. And yet. “Oh please, that’s absurd! I’m certain you picked them at random. Or are you suggesting that you looked into their music before choosing them? Which, by the way, would have been the most sensible option.”

Malfoy’s grey eyes brightened with wicked enjoyment of her misery. He gave her a put on sigh. “I just don’t think you could grasp the process.”

She scoffed. “The process? Don’t be absurd.”

The line finally started to move. She startled when she felt Malfoy’s hand on her back, guiding her forward.

“Don’t insult my process, Granger,” he murmured in her ear. She shivered at the sensation, nearly forgetting their argument.

“Your process is a load of bollocks,” she hissed back, unsure why they were whispering.

Malfoy had a lazy look about him. His lids were half closed, his full lips pursed in mock offence. He was watching her with an almost predatory gaze.

She elbowed him in the stomach, stomping her feet as they inched up in line. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned, his white teeth flashing. “You’re the one who strong-armed me into spending all my free time with you. Honestly, Granger, your obsession with me is getting out of hand.”

She stuttered out a denial, but Malfoy was no longer paying attention. Instead, he was watching with delight as the Muggles in front of them lit up a blunt. The pungent smell of the smoke quickly wafted their way. Why he was so excited to see Muggles smoke, she wasn’t sure.

“Granger,” he whispered, his eyes still blatantly staring.

She ignored him, pointedly looking the other way.

“Granger,” he started prodding her in the shoulder.

Honestly, he was completely unbearable. What had she been thinking? Ten concerts? She would have more fun spending ten nights cleaning flobberworm mucus off of her cauldron than going to ten concerts with her worst enemy.

“Psst, Granger.”

“WHAT?” she whirled to face him, taking a pointed step away from his prodding finger. “What could you possibly want?”

Malfoy was nothing short of delighted. His eyes were wide, his smile in full force. “The nice man here would like to see our tickets.”

She felt the full force of her embarrassment. With hot cheeks, she handed over their tickets, giving a soft-spoken apology. Malfoy looked on with a little knowing smirk that she wanted to hex straight off of his face.

He didn’t mock her about the incident, though the humour in his eyes was enough to peeve her. That same hand found its way to her back, gently guiding her inside. Her eyes glanced over the long line at the bar, tempted to grab a pint to drown out her humiliation.

Malfoy noticed. “Drink?” he asked, pulling a wad of cash out of his trousers.

Her eyes widened. Merlin, how much money did he bring? “Put that away,” she hissed. “Are you mad?”

He rolled his eyes, returning the majority of the cash into his pocket. “Drink?” he repeated.

“Well,” she hedged. “We are a little early. But I don’t know if—”

Malfoy was off to the bar before she could finish his sentence. She followed the halo of blond hair with her eyes as he left her. He seemed more comfortable this time around, and he’d clearly come prepared. He shouldered his way to the front of the bar, waiting to catch the bartender’s attention.

Instead of joining him, she moseyed over to the merch stand. Her eyes roved over the collection of t-shirts. It was a bit premature to buy him a shirt for a band he never listened to, wasn’t it? Still, she found herself handing over cash for two matching black t-shirts, one slightly larger than the other. She tucked them both into her beaded purse just as Malfoy returned, two drinks in hand.

“Cheers,” he said, handing her one.

She eyed the amber drink warily. “What exactly did you get me?”

Malfoy threw his own back. “You’ll like it,” was his retort.

She took a tentative sip, her eyes watering slightly at the burn in her throat. It wasn’t horrible, so she gave it a larger sip, her teeth crunching slightly on sugar. “Is this an Old Fashioned?” What an odd choice for her.

Malfoy chattered away about their Ancient Runes project, a subject her friends had banned her from discussing any further, while Hermione finished her drink. There was a delay to the opening band, and they only just got on as Hermione finished, feeling a pleasant buzz.

They both opted to stay near the bar. Malfoy snagged them another round before guiding her to the corner of the room.

Spending time with him was shockingly easy. Despite his determination to rile her, his wit shone through in their conversation. She couldn’t help but enjoy his company, not that she would ever admit as much to him.

Eventually, they made their way through the doors into the main stage area. She pushed through the crowd, her trainors sticking to the floor with every step.

Malfoy hovered just behind her, still rambling about the runic inscriptions he was studying. He only stopped once they reached a decent distance from the stage.

“So what kind of music do The Raspberries play?”

She rolled her eyes. “They’re called The Cranberries,” she corrected. “And I honestly think you’ll like them.”

“Based on what, exactly? Or have you secretly taken to Divination?”

She scoffed at the thought. “Don’t be ridiculous,”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he shot back, his eyes bright. “Ridiculous? In front of the great Hermione Granger? The shame would kill me.”

“The great Hermione Granger herself will kill you herself if you don’t stop acting so bloody insufferable.” She pushed her hair out of her face, wishing she’d had the forethought to bring an elastic.

Malfoy eyed the motion, his expression inscrutable.

The stage lights flickered to life, and Hermione joined the crowd in screaming herself hoarse as the band came out. She felt every stroke of the guitar as they tuned their instruments, the amps so loud it made her teeth vibrate.

Thrumming with excitement, she felt the crowd push closer to the stage. Malfoy pushed her in front of him, his arms hovering just over her waist.

The crowd roared as familiar chords thrummed through the venue. Hermione was bouncing on her toes, her eyes glued to the stage. Her cheeks strained with the wideness of her smile.

The audience gave another whoop of approval as O’Riordan’s haunting vocals blasted over the crowd. Their music was captivating, and hearing it in person was incomparable to the records she had in her room. They were right in front of one of the large amps, and she could literally feel every chord as it blasted out of the machine.

It was only after the first few songs that Hermione remembered the wizard behind her. She twisted to look at him, her wide smile firmly in place. “Well?” she shouted expectantly.

It was moments like these that it seemed Draco Malfoy was undeniably not a Muggle. His grey eyes reflected the lights of the stage, almost appearing as if they contained their very own light source. His platinum hair was damp with sweat, pushed out of his face. He looked so otherworldly, it made her heart flutter.

His large hands landed on her waist, twisting her back to the stage. “Don’t worry about me, Granger,” he shouted in her ear. “There will be plenty of time for you to brag about how right you were afterwards.”

She was positively glowing with happiness. Malfoy chuckled, his hands lifting from her waist. Before she could regret the loss of his touch, she felt them wrap around her hair, pulling it away from her face.

With practised hands, Malfoy braided it away from her face. She leaned back to look at him curiously once he was done. She had so many questions, she wasn’t even sure where to start.

Malfoy was grinning. “Your hair was floating, Granger,” he said with a wink. “You’re lucky you have me. Honestly, we have to teach you how to control yourself around the Muggles.”

She scoffed, whipping her head back around so her braid hit him as she turned. His laugh was loud and more carefree than she’d ever heard it.

She spent the rest of the night singing along, her heart so full it could burst. The energy of the crowd was catching, and by the end of the night her cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. Her voice was slightly hoarse, and her feet were killing her, but she felt happier than she had in awhile.

Malfoy insisted on waiting for the crowd to clear some before they made their own exit. His eyes darted around the venue, his posture relaxed as he patiently waited for it to clear out.

“Well,” she demanded, tugging on his t-shirt to get his attention. “You loved them, right? Tell me you loved them.”

His lips tilted up, his eyes still on the crowd. “I loved them,” he agreed, guiding her to start walking out the doors.

She laughed. “And I was right?”

“Right about what, exactly?” Malfoy led them towards the side street where they’d apparated.

It was quiet outside. Hermione’s ears were still ringing, and she was certain she was shouting louder than she needed to.“Don’t play daft! About Muggle music!”

He slowed his steps, looking at her with a solemn expression. “That I can neither confirm nor deny, Granger. It was your edict that I needed to endure ten concerts. I can’t possibly share an opinion before then.”

He was unbearable, and she told him as much after they disapparated back to Hogsmeade. The familiar sight of Hogsmeade eased something in her chest. The war had done a number on it, and already it was restored to how it was before.

She had planned to needle him the entire walk back to Hogwarts, only she remembered what she had in her purse.

“At least tell me you liked them!” As she spoke, she reached her arm into her purse, pushing her textbooks out of the way. “I could’ve sworn I left them right on top,” she mumbled, digging around.

Malfoy was looking on with a sort of bemused fascination. “I believe I already admitted as much. But if you need to hear it again, they were excellent. My process in choosing our ten concerts is clearly perfect.”

“Aha!” she exclaimed, her fingers closing on the neatly folded shirts. She pulled them out of her bag, checking the tags for his shirt. “For you,” she said, holding it out to him.

His eyes widened, his long fingers grasping the shirt. He held out, his mouth agape. He looked at the t-shirt like it was one of his beloved peacocks, his eyes shining with emotion.

Hermione hadn’t expected him to have such a reaction. She expected moaning about the Muggle clothing, maybe some ribbing about her being too sentimental. Instead, Malfoy cleared his throat roughly, taking a jerky step towards her.

“Granger,” he started, only to stop again. He opened his mouth and closed it, his face shell-shocked.

Just as she was going to say something to break the awkward tension, Malfoy grabbed her and roughly pulled her into his arms. She stood stock still. Malfoy was hugging her, his face buried against the top of her head. She could feel his heart pounding.

Slowly, she raised her arms and hugged him right back. “It’s just a shirt,” she whispered, flustered.

He inhaled, his chest rising against her cheek. “I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but it was certainly longer than she’d ever hugged Ron or Harry. “We should get back. We’re going to have to sneak in already,” she whispered.

His arms tightened around her for a moment before he released her, taking a step back. His eyes were bright with something she couldn’t name, his attention fully focused on her. “Right,” he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared it, visibly jostling himself to attention. “Right,” he said, more clearly this time. “Get yourself together, Granger, we’re already past curfew.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Malfoy had already turned on his heel and resumed up the path. She had to hurry to keep up with his long strides.

Sneaking into the castle was easy. It was late enough that Prefects were no longer doing rounds. Hermione wasn’t even sure they would get in trouble for being out after curfew anyway. Regardless, they were quiet the rest of the walk to the eighth-year common room, parting ways with a brief goodnight once they made it.

Hermione fell asleep thinking about ethereal music and striking grey eyes.