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Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express arrives with a blistering whistle and a billowing cloud of steam. Draco Malfoy, standing tall beside his trunks and one small crate, can’t help but smirk.

It’s all old hat to him now; the muted bustle of platform 9 ¾, the lamplight throwing long, dramatic shadows on the worn stone floors, the powerful engine pulling in as families cry into their handkerchiefs, then wave the damp fabric in the air as they bid farewell to the students for the next three and half months.

But as it’s his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, Draco tries to take it all in. He lifts his head to admire the iron and glass ceiling and fills his lungs with crisp, autumnal air. Idly, he adjusts the snake-shaped pins of his platinum collar chain, keeping his trinity-knotted tie centered between the lapels of his charcoal robes. His chest swells with pride. Most wizards can’t master a four-in-hand, let alone the trinity. But Draco is not most wizards.

This is going to be his year. He’s twenty-one, Slytherin’s best seeker in a generation, and dating the fittest witch at school. By June’s end, he’ll ace his NEWTs, win the coveted potioneering apprenticeship and another quidditch cup, and since seventh year coincides with courting season, he’ll also leave Hogwarts with a fiancée. Then he’ll leave boggy old Scotland behind for good.

His smirk widens. He has it all figured out.

“Malfoy.”

Draco winces as he turns to find Crabbe clapping him on the back in greeting. Built like a bludger—and about as clever—Crabbe has never been one to know his own strength.

“Crabbe. Have you seen Pansy?”

Draco rubs his shoulder as he scans the crowd for his girlfriend, but as usual, she seems to be running fashionably late.

Crabbe scratches his armpit, looking more thoughtful than usual. “Mm, might be with Goyle.”

Before Draco has the chance to hunt for Goyle’s wide frame, his mother appears at his side.

Narcissa Malfoy holds her head high, despite everything their family’s been through the past three years. A veiled pillbox hat sits atop her platinum hair. While her robes aren’t new, she’s brought out one of the sparkliest necklaces from their vaults as a tactical distraction for the gossipy types.

“Good morning, Vincent. I just spoke with your mother. She tells me she’ll be chaperoning with me this season.”

“Yes, Mrs Malfoy,” Crabbe says, dipping his chin in respect. He’s buzzed his dark hair short. “Hoping for a good match.”

“I’m certain you’ll comport yourself well. Draco practised all summer. I trust you did the same?”

Draco sighs and searches again for Pansy. It’s been a long summer without her. She’d travelled back to Vietnam with her family while he’d been stuck at home with merciless French dance instructors, stoic Germans specialising in manners and etiquette, and his father’s solicitors, who required his signature, thumbprint, and far more day-to-day management than Draco expected. It would have been much more convenient if his father had not gotten himself tossed in Azkaban after the disastrous final task of the Triwizard Tournament, but since he has, Draco has not known a moment’s peace.

That will all change once he marries.

As the wealthiest wizard in all of England, Draco will be the prime target this season for those looking to climb the proverbial ladder. But he’s also clever, which is why he decided to sidestep the obvious traps before him and toss his lot in with Pansy far in advance. Pansy is much more suited to the running of the estate. He'll be able to leave matters in her capable hands while he continues to brew potions with his godfather—surely the extra work he's been doing on medimagical applications will make the apprenticeship a sure thing—and play for the national quidditch team. In return, she’ll be set for life.

He’s always known they belonged together. Years ago, when he presented her with his plans for the future, she hadn’t even blinked before saying yes, and a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders. Rather genius on his part, really. He doesn’t know why more people don’t lock something down early.

Of course he still has to go through the motions. According to everyone who’s been through it, including his parents, courting season is fun, but predominantly stressful. Traditionally-minded Purebloods have less than a calendar year to find a suitable partner; it’s just the way things are done. He’s memorised the schedule of events, knows every step of every dance drilled into him by his poncey tutors, and can interpret intentions by the tilt of a fan or the composition of a corsage. Perhaps he can’t recite the entire extended family tree of all the eligible witches his age, but again, he’s anticipated this. All he needed to study was who-married-what-Parkinson for the last three hundred years.

And he knows it, mostly. He’s never been one for long hours in the manor library. Who could blame him, when he has the fastest broom on the market and the clear skies of Wiltshire beckoning?

Reluctantly, Draco tunes back into the conversation.

“Draco’s lucky he doesn’t have to worry about courting,” Crabbe was saying. “He and Pansy are perfect for each other.”

“Indeed,” his mother murmurs. “I look forward to welcoming Draco’s choice of bride to the family.”

Draco offers a polite smile, carefully harnessing his satisfaction. If possible, he’s even more excited for his wedding day than his mother. He’ll marry the perfect bride in his ancestral home surrounded by the most prominent members of polite society.

In addition to locking down a wife, he’ll have unlimited access to his inheritance and permission to finally run the manor as he sees fit.

The train whistles again, and Crabbe makes a hasty goodbye before lumbering off.

“Do you have everything, little dragon?”

“Mother,” Draco huffs. He’s had a full foot height advantage over her since he was sixteen, and yet she won’t let the nickname go.

“If you’ve forgotten anything, I can bring it with me to the first social. It’s only two weeks away.” She reaches up and smooths her thumb across his jawline, then cups his face with soft, affectionate palms. “And I though I suspect you’re tired of me saying it, I’m your mother and I must: you only get one season. This is your chance to explore your options. Even though you and Ms Parkinson are currently intertwined—”

“Mother.” Gently, he closes his fingers around her wrists, the metal of the Malfoy signet ring winking in the light, and while she purses her lips, she drops her hands and steps away.

Technically, his mother is right. Draco has more options than any Malfoy before him. Ever since Potter defeated the Dark Lord in that frigid graveyard and upended societal norms, half-bloods twenty-one and up can participate in the yearly courting season.

Draco would never stoop so low as to marry a half-blood. But he sees the sense in opening up the process.

There aren’t many witches and wizards to begin with, let alone purebloods. The best families, those with massive wealth and pristine bloodlines, make matches immediately, but those with lighter vaults or less secure connections have to shop around a bit, and since the new wave of participants falls into the latter category, the new state of play has the obvious effect of turning the competition between the families of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight even more fierce. Families prepare for years for the chance to marry well and have their fortunes soar, socially and financially.

His mother’s obvious disappointment twists his stomach, but he remains steadfast. She just doesn’t understand that he can’t risk entertaining other witches. She can’t understand. His mother has never been plagued by fortune hunters, or worse, morally bankrupt witches who don’t value their education and instead attempt to land a wizard by way of a covertly sabotaged contraceptive charm.

He’s known Pansy since he could walk. They used to sneak away during balls and hide under tables draped in silk damask, where they’d strip off itchy lace socks and stiff leather shoes and take turns picking the worst Bertie Bott’s flavours from the bag and daring the other to eat them. When wine-drunk adults asked where they’d been, Pansy could always spare them from any real trouble by batting her lashes and spouting some lie that made them chuckle and comment on her precociousness.

He can trust her.

“If she’s your choice,” his mother nods, worry creasing her forehead.

Draco falls back on his father’s words. “The Parkinsons are a good family. Sacred Twenty-Eight, holdings in England and Asia, no debts or known health issues.”

“Of course.”

“And Pansy’s practically a Malfoy already. You told me yourself how much you appreciated her input when you redecorated the east wing. Good taste is hard to find.”

With a flick of his wand, his belongings take flight, floating behind him in mid-air like ducklings bobbing behind their mother, waiting to see which direction she might sail.

He busses his mother’s cheek, a twinge of guilt plucking at his nerves. They aren’t an outwardly affectionate family, the Malfoys—it isn’t the done thing—but sometimes he wishes he was small again, so he might be permitted a hug. It wouldn’t undo the tension between them, which roils beneath the surface of every interaction they’ve had since he assumed control of the estate. But it might help.

Every decision goes through him. Every purchase, every sale, every investment, because he’s the man of the household now; no longer his mother’s responsibility. The script has flipped. He’s responsible for her, and her future, and marrying well will ensure them both much happier years ahead.

It’s rather a lot of pressure.

Draco shoves the thought away. He’s twenty-one, for Salazar’s sake, and Malfoys have broad shoulders. He can carry this.

He’s the last to board the train. Even the nervous firsties have gotten on before him. As the doors close, the familiar scent of bituminous coal and protective magic fills the air, as if he’s not on a train but standing over his cauldron for the first time again, and for a moment, he closes his eyes and breathes it in. It doesn’t last—a series of discordant, excited squeals from a gaggle of third year girls rather spoils the effect—but he shouldn’t linger this close to departure, anyway. He stows his trunks on the rack and takes the crate in hand as he strides down the aisle toward the seventh year compartments.

“Malfoy, in here,” Goyle calls from a few doors down, waving a meaty hand in Draco’s direction.

The compartment is spacious, and the walls are embroidered with miniature couples dressed in Slytherin green, dancing across an endless parquet floor, moving in time to a song only they can hear. Draco slides past Goyle and onto the hard wooden bench, tucking the crate beneath his seat just as the train lurches into motion. Daphne scoots over to give him more space, tossing her dark blonde hair over her shoulder while nudging Crabbe closer to the window. Draco pays Crabbe’s protests no mind, because across from him sits Pansy.

She’s shed her robe, revealing a starched white button-down tucked in a black skirt, her long pale legs crossed demurely at the ankles. At first, he can’t see all of her heart-shaped face because she’s checking her signature red lipstick in her compact mirror, but when she shuts it, Draco’s heart stops.

Pansy wields her beauty like a weapon, and she stabs him in the chest every time. Somehow she even makes the regulation skirt with the stupid box pleats look sexy. As she tucks her black bob behind her ears, her dark eyes meet his, and his mouth twitches up at the corners. She doesn’t smile back.

That’s Pansy for you. Zabini loves to say she’s the Ice Princess to his Slytherin Prince, born and bred to be a perfect, proper pureblood wife. At Hogwarts, she’s pursued courses in finance and magical law so she’ll know exactly how to handle a noble family’s holdings. She’s stylish, in the way his mother is stylish; she keeps her colour palette black and white, and wears sky-high heels no matter the occasion. She comes with an allergy to timeliness and a high degree of sass, but that’s part of her charm. A less difficult witch wouldn't interest him.

“Hey gorgeous,” Draco tries again to get Pansy’s lips to curve.

“Malfoy,” she says primly.

Malfoy? Since when is he Malfoy? Is this a test? Does she want him to snog her in front of everyone or something? He’d be all for it, but Pansy doesn't go in for public displays of affection. He means to inquire further, but doesn’t want to embarrass himself by asking what’s wrong—they have an audience.

“Seventh year. Last autumn term,” Crabbe cheers, slapping his knees as he turns his attention away from the red and gold foliage outside the window. “And courting season. Can you believe it?”

Daphne snorts. “Courting season. They made sure to give it a benign name, didn’t they?”

“Here she goes,” mutters Goyle.

“Whose bright idea was it to commit young pureblood men and women to an entire year—during NEWTs prep, I might add—of exchanging gifts ascribed archaic meanings? Months of veiled conversation whilst dancing at galas in order to secure a spouse? I’d love to know.”

Pansy’s nose shoots up in the air. “Just because your sister’s considered a better catch doesn’t mean you have to rail against the system, Daph. It’s getting tired.”

“This adherence to tradition is what’s tired.”

“Our magic helps us divine the right match,” Crabbe says. He’s always defended the courting process, probably because he stands to benefit the most from it. As far as Draco knows, Crabbe’s never had a witch give him the time of day. “You don’t trust your magic?”

Daphne’s eyes roll so far toward the back of her head the entirety of her irises disappear. “You sound like Professor Trelawney. If divination was real—and it isn’t—we’d know our entire future because it would be laid out for us at birth. We wouldn’t need a courting season. It’s utter rubbish.”

“Worried no one will choose you?” Pansy sneers. “Why don’t you consider taking a page out of Astoria’s spellbook and, I don’t know, try being ladylike for a change?”

The Greengrass sisters, despite being only two years apart in age and sharing the trademark Greengrass dark blonde hair, could not be more different. Spiky as a weed and twice as stubborn, Daphne is frequently overshadowed by her younger sister, who’d blossomed early like wisteria on the vine. Draco had blinked and Little Greengrass turned pretty. Unfortunately for him, he’ll always remember her as the precocious tadpole he taught to fly. Otherwise, he might’ve considered her.

“Lay off, Pansy,” Goyle glowers, and for some reason Pansy wilts a little, as if she’s ashamed.

Weird. Draco didn’t think shame was in Pansy’s emotional lexicon. She and Daphne always snipe at each other. Draco tries not to take sides, but Daphne’s like a sister to him, and Pansy is so often the antagonist in their little spats.

Pansy clears her throat. “What I meant to say is wizards are only considering waiting for Astoria because you’re, well…”

“Openly hostile,” suggests Draco.

“Kind of a buzzkill. Not as bad as Granger, but, you know, up there,” Crabbe adds, unhelpfully.

“You’re fiery, and some men can’t handle that.” Goyle stretches and lays his arms on the back of the bench, deep in thought. Draco raises an appreciative eyebrow. He’s not checking his best friend out like that, just admiring that he’s clearly been working out. Good thing, too, since they need to pull out all the stops if they want to take down Potter and the Gryffindors this year.

Daphne folds her arms in front of her chest. “Good. I don’t wish to be manhandled.”

“Don’t you want to be married, though?” Pansy retucks a hair that foolishly dared to rebel and trains her gaze on Daphne. “Make a house of your own into a home? Have children?”

“Not really.”

“No kids?” Crabbe’s face takes on a pained expression. For years it’s been obvious to anyone within a ten mile radius that he’s smitten with Daphne. He either can’t interpret her overtly oppugnant signals or refuses to acknowledge that Daphne wants nothing to do with wedded bliss, and he’s so bloody sensitive that no one wants to tell him the truth outright, lest they have to deal with the fallout.

“I’m not about to end up a broodmare for the establishment. That’s all they care about, you know, the Ministry. More magical babies. That’s the only reason they’re letting muggleborns in this year. Too many wix going unmatched.”

“Muggleborns?” Draco jerks back in surprise. “They’re letting muggleborns court?”

He doesn’t share his father’s exact views; it’s one thing to recognise the inherent superiority of purebloods, and quite another to resurrect a monster hellbent on world domination. But Draco doesn’t have to be a fanatic to recognise that muggleborns are wholly and utterly unprepared to participate in the courtship season. Muggleborns typically marry other muggleborns by way of a lengthy, messy process, roughly outlined in his Muggle Studies course. It involves things like a ‘talking stage’ and risky engagements without so much as a basic contract. As far as he knows, they don’t even have rudimentary cotillion lessons. If they match at all, he’s led to believe that it’s usually at a serious social, economic, and magical disadvantage.

“First half-bloods, then mudbloods,” Pansy sneers. “All because of Potter, I suppose.”

Mudblood. Draco winces. Few people use the slur anymore, especially in public. It’s so ugly and obvious. But amongst his set, the term hasn’t been relegated to the history books. Many purebloods claim it’s the only appropriate term, that using it is part of their heritage.

The fact is that despite Potter’s heroics, the hierarchy of the wizarding world remains relatively unchanged. There’d been some minor business about freeing house elves, though most, including the Malfoy elves, stayed on with their families in exchange for clothes and nominal wages. The Ministry made a big show of hiring a half-blood Head of Portkeys. And of course, his father, his mad aunt Bella, and the other Death Eaters who'd helped the Dark Lord become corporeal again received life sentences for their troubles. But that was about it.

His father did wrong, but Draco can’t forgive Potter for his part in putting Lucius Malfoy behind bars, thrusting his obligations into Draco’s lap at the tender age of nineteen. As such, their rivalry endures, though without the political rancor that once fueled it. Both wizards are seekers of the highest calibre, excellent duellists, and have been trained—separately, of course—by Draco’s godfather in the art of occlumency.

Draco had hoped he’d be awarded Head Boy this year, seeing as his marks are far better than Potter’s, but the absence of a letter from Dumbledore this summer had told him all he needed to know. He’d consoled himself with firewhisky and the fact that Potter can’t change his lineage. Even if he marries a pureblood witch—and odds are good—he’ll always be a half-blood; worse still, a half-blood with no sense of style who spends his time rollicking around with muggleborns and muggleborn sympathisers.

Draco is too genteel to use outdated vulgarity, but it doesn’t mean he finds the idea of mixing with the lower classes the least bit palatable.

“Too bad Snape’s not chaperoning this year,” Goyle muses. “He’d have a field day taking house points for that sort of language.”

“He’s not chaperoning?” This is news to Draco.

“How’s he supposed to chaperone if he’s not even at the castle? Apparently he took a sabbatical. My father heard he might be forced to come in and teach a few lessons, in case that cousin of yours with the tattoos can’t handle preparing us for DADA NEWTs.”

“Fucking Black family affair,” Crabbe grumbles, digging around in his pockets and coming up with a few knuts. “Anyone else hear the trolley?”

Draco refuses to be distracted, even by the potential opportunity to temporarily sate his sweet tooth. “Sirius is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“Seems more than qualified,” Daphne shrugs as Crabbe brushes past her. “Vince, get me a cauldron cake, will you?”

“So it’s Vince when I’m stopping the trolley, is it?”

It’s undeniably true that Sirius Black, Draco's second cousin once removed and, more recently, Potter’s substitute father, has more hands-on experience going up against the dark arts than most wizards living today. Ironic, since most people thought he was the dark wizard who betrayed Potter’s parents. He’d been offered an Order of Merlin and a position in the Ministry once his name had been cleared, but decided to fuck off to Islington instead, where he reportedly lives with Remus Lupin (his husband), Nymphadora Tonks (Remus’s wife, and also, damnable narrowing bloodlines, Draco’s cousin), their son (all three claimed him), and, who else? Potter.

Draco sweeps a hand over his face, but it does nothing to quell his rising irritation. They aren’t even off the damned Hogwarts Express and he’s already thought about Potter more than he wanted to for the entire year. Once they’re finally face to face on the pitch he’s going to crush him; break his stupid spectacles and grind him into the dirt.

Crabbe ducks back in the compartment and shoots Daphne an apologetic look. “Firsties ate all the cakes. Second choice?”

“Figures.” Daphne stands, resolute. “Let’s see what’s left.”

Draco’s heart rate picks up. This might be his best chance to speak with Pansy alone before the feast. He tosses a meaningful look at Goyle, tilting his head towards the door.

Come on, old chum.

“I’ll go, too,” Goyle says smoothly, as if leaving had been his idea. Despite his hulking form, he moves with surprising grace as he steps over Pansy and Draco’s feet and slides the door shut behind him.

For a scant second, Draco studies Pansy. Deciphering her mood is always a challenge, but especially so today. She doesn’t seem to want to meet his gaze.

“Missed you this summer, gorgeous,” he says, lifting his trouser-clad leg and dragging it down the side of her bare calf.

Pansy recoils, and her eyes finally lock on his. She looks… Scared? No, not scared. Nervous?

“Malfoy,” she starts, then swallows her next words. Draco shifts to lean forward in his seat. What’s that about? She’s called him Draco since they’ve been together.

Maybe their last few months apart have her questioning his loyalty. Malfoy men are deeply loyal to their intended brides, but the same cannot be said for other Sacred Twenty-Eight families until rings are on fingers and bindings are sealed. Perhaps he’d been remiss not to reassure her sooner that he won’t entertain other offers this season. By the end of seventh year, they’ll be betrothed, and soon after, he’d make her his wife.

Salazar, he’d almost royally fucked this up, hadn’t he? He should have had one of his solicitors put something in writing. He’ll send an owl as soon as the feast is done. Until then, he’ll reassure her with words of his own.

“I know we’ve spent a lot of time apart this summer, what with your travels and everything I had to attend to at home, but I promise you, Pansy Ngân Parkinson.” He deploys her full name like a trump card, taking her cold hand in his. “I haven’t once thought about changing my mind. You’re the right witch for me.”

She looks as if she might cry. Again, highly unusual, but in her defense, Draco has just been terribly romantic.

Pansy draws back her hand, and that’s when he feels it. A shift. If he had an empty teacup, he feels certain there’d be a grim staring up at him from the bottom of the porcelain.

“I didn’t want to do this now,” Pansy says quietly. “But I don’t think there’ll ever be a good time.”

“To what?” Draco asks, but when he looks back on this moment later, he realises that deep down, he already knew.

Her voice is barely a whisper. “End things.”

Draco reels back. “What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I… You have to understand, I meant to marry you.” She wrings her hands, half her focus trained on the door, where any minute their friends will burst back in with a largesse of snack foods and no idea of the strained conversation taking place. Draco holds his breath and waits for her to continue.

Pansy frowns when she speaks again. “All this time I’ve been preparing to eventually become your wife. I mean, I know everything there is to know about what it would take to be the perfect Malfoy bride. I could throw a gala wandless with my eyes closed. And when we left things in June my mind was made up. But then I went to Chùa Bái Đính with my cousins a few weeks ago, and it was so peaceful there. I had some time to reflect on what I really wanted out of life. And I realised that I want more than a marriage that makes sense on parchment.”

Having entered a state of shock not unlike being hit by a stunner, Draco can’t think of anything clever to say, and only repeats himself again. “What?”

“I know it’s a massive risk,” Pansy continues. “Everyone’s going to think I’m mad. What girl wouldn’t want to marry you?”

His brain, which until this point has been reading her signals as the opening to a renegotiation of terms—he’d planned to give her unfettered access to everything he had, but maybe there was something he’d forgotten?—suddenly erupts into chaos, jettisoning adrenaline into his bloodstream. He clenches his fists around the lip of the bench, so tight he thinks he might splinter the wood. He feels sick.

“Don’t do this. I—I need you, is that what you need me to say? Tell me what it’ll take, and I’ll do it.”

Pansy looks at him like one might look at a fussy mandrake mid-repotting. “I don’t understand why you’re fighting this so hard. You’ll have your pick of witches.”

“I don’t want them. I want what we agreed to.”

“And that’s just it. You want what we agreed to. You don’t actually want me, Draco.”

She’s finally called him by his name again, but it’s like a thin layer of cheap salve after a nasty stinging jinx. Not the right cure.

“I do,” he implores. “Forgive me if I sound upset but I’m offering you an incredible life in the lap of luxury and you’re threatening to throw me to the wolves. Make it make fucking sense!”

There’s a loud bang, and the compartment goes dark. They’ve entered a tunnel.

Draco keeps talking, words spilling out faster than he can vet them for sensibility. “Look, I’m sorry about this summer, alright? I’ll make it up to you. Courting season starts in two weeks, and I’ll dote on you every second. The freshest flowers, the finest jewels, fucking, I don’t know, Swiss chocolates on your pillow every night before you go to bed. It’ll be the talk of the castle.” He spreads his arms wide. “The courtship to end all courtships. You know I can afford it.”

There, that ought to tempt her out of whatever nonsense she’s fallen into.

Sunlight floods the compartment again, and with horror, Draco turns and sees the half-open compartment door, riddled with the sticky ends of extendable ears, and his friends just outside, cringing as they look on.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy says hurriedly, rising from her seat. She wobbles in her heels, and—are those tears in her eyes? “I just can’t.”

“Pansy.”

“I hope you find the right one.”

She flees, and from his seat in the now-empty compartment, Draco vaguely hears a choked sob followed by the soft, mournful sound Goyle made when they found that injured unicorn that one time. He leaps to his feet and—it is Goyle, scooping up Pansy like she weighs nothing and carrying her off in front of the entire train. Almost all the doors are open, and when he steps out into the aisle, it’s packed. Hundreds of eyeballs watch their departure into another compartment, then swing to him.

Sweat gathers under his arms. He resists the urge to fidget with his collar.

Everyone onboard has just borne witness to his break-up. Dumping, more like. They’d heard his unseemly begging, the way Pansy denied him even after he promised her the world. There’s mortification, and then there’s whatever this is.

The tips of his ears go hot.

“What are you lot staring at? Show’s over,” he shouts. Crabbe and Daphne crouch, hustling themselves into the compartment. Draco stands determinedly, gripping his wand like a lifeline.

What’s his next move? Go after Pansy? Act as if nothing happened? Buy every sugar quill left on the trolley?

He attempts to retreat down the aisle with some semblance of dignity, but instead stumbles backwards into another person. Grand, just grand.

“That was rough, Malfoy,” comes a muffled but distinctly feminine voice from behind him. “Are you alright?”

Draco closes his eyes and nearly growls with frustration. He’d know that uppity speech pattern anywhere.

Of all the people to overhear the total decimation of his relationship—and possibly his life—it just has to be Granger. And she has to ask him, like the kind of precious, pure-intentioned angel she’s fooled everyone into thinking she is, if he’s alright.

He won’t give her anything more than the sight of his back. The so-called cut direct, if she knows anything about purebloods, which she obviously doesn’t, because she speaks again.

“Dreadful luck, and right before the start of courting season. Although, from my limited research, you’ve got time. Not that I’ve read much about courting season—there aren’t exactly many books on the subject, it’s mostly old family journals—but the Weasleys told me Sacred Twenty-Eight families always match the first go-round. Unless you’ve got some sort of horrid disease or some such.”

“What could you possibly want?” He grits out.

“Oh, Snape gave me your Head Boy badge.” He hears her fumble for it.

Head Boy? Not that he’s about to turn the honour down, but what about Potter?

Granger’s still nattering on. “He’d hoped to be here, but, as I’m sure you’ve heard, circumstances have changed, and now I’m meant to give it to you.”

Circumstances have changed, indeed.

He holds his hand out at his side. “So give it to me.”

Draco expects her to throw it at him. Instead, she lays the badge, still warm from her pocket, into his open palm. He senses her hand lingering in the air above his for the quickest of moments before falling away. He curls his fingers around the metal.

“Right. That’s done then,” she says matter-of-factly. “I suppose I’ll see you in our rooms.”

She’s already sailed past him, a thundercloud of hair, before he realises what she said.

No. No no no.

“Now hold on a second, Granger,” he snarls. Before he thinks better of it, he follows her into her compartment and slams the door behind him, trapping them alone together.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger straightens her spine even as she cranes her neck to look up at Malfoy. He’s much the same since the last time she saw him, lurking about the dungeons with his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, as of two minutes ago. Same slicked-back white-blond hair, same mercurial gaze, same sneer. But there are a few differences. His jawline is sharper, and somehow he’s grown even taller. Not that she’s intimidated by their height difference.

Hard to be intimidated by someone who’s just been unceremoniously dumped in front of half the student body.

Malfoy’s certainly not intimidated by her. Few people are. She didn’t inherit her father’s impressive presence, or her mother’s ability to cut with a glance. No, Hermione knows how others see her: Brilliant, but too curious, too sincere; overly serious in a manner that elicits discomfiture and, inevitably, dismissal. Cute, but never beautiful. Too much and yet, somehow, not enough.

But intimate knowledge of these facts does not come with the ability to change them. Even with magic.

Malfoy takes a menacing step towards her, but despite the movement of the train, she holds her ground. The compartment feels smaller; stuffier. On the walls, the tiny couples in their embroidered finery up their pace from a basic waltz to a quickstep.

“You’re Head Girl,” he chuckles with derision. “You?”

She can’t believe she tried to be nice to him two minutes ago. God, he’s an arsehole.

Of all the situations Harry’s gotten her into, this might be the worst.

She’d been thrilled to pieces this summer when she received the letter from Dumbledore. Molly Weasley brought it up to the attic, where Hermione was fifth-wheeling it with Fred and Angelina, and George and Lee, working on the latest Wheezes product. Hermione opened it then and there, vibrating with anticipation until she read the pivotal lines and burst into tears of joy. That night, all the Weasleys gathered round the Burrow’s massive oak table with her to celebrate, raising glass after glass of frosty butterbeer in her honour.

There’s never been a muggleborn Head Girl.

It’s a huge achievement; a reward for long hours in the library spent hunched over dusty tomes. An acknowledgment, beyond house points—which don’t do anything for her, the way Harry and Ron fritter them away—that she has the right stuff to make it in the magical world after her school days end.

When she and Ron, arm in arm, visited Harry and Sirius at Grimmauld, they celebrated again, as Harry, to no one’s surprise, was named the Head Boy to her Head Girl. Ron joked about sleeping on the sofa, so they might all room together, and Hermione had wondered, after the not-so-innocent kiss they’d shared in the kitchen one July morning, why he didn’t say he’d be bunking with her.

In hindsight, that’d been the sign she needed. Within the last fortnight, she’s cried more than she ever has in her entire life. Ron got back together with Lavender. Harry won’t be at school this year, after he promised her he’d help her navigate courting season—the first one to ever allow muggleborns. On top of that Professor Snape, who she’d hoped might help her launch her career by awarding her the potioneering apprenticeship, won’t return to Hogwarts for her seventh year, either.

Oh, and to top it all off, if her instincts are right, they’re all in grave danger, so Malfoy will just have to forgive her if she doesn’t have time for his unoriginal jeers.

Hermione plants her hands on her hips, further wrinkling her plaid skirt. “Just say it. I know you want to.”

“Fine. You’re a muggleborn.”

Unlike some of the other purebloods, Malfoy has stopped saying mudblood, at least to her face. That small glimmer of decency, plus the fact that her badge would’ve likely gone to the utterly undeserving Susan Bones, made her dig in her heels and stay Head Girl despite the change in plans. She’s earned it, after all. Still, he doesn’t deserve accolades for following a pro forma Ministry mandate to eliminate a slur from his vocabulary. The bar is already in hell; no need to lower it for cordiality’s sake.

Not that she’s feeling particularly cordial anymore.

“My, what an astute observation. I only regret that we’re not on school grounds yet, so I can’t award you any house points for this miraculous discovery.”

He scowls. “You know what I mean. There’s never been a muggleborn Head Girl.”

“And the revelations keep on coming! You really should’ve waited to tell me that when it would have benefited Slytherin’s house pot. I might’ve sprung for ten, even twenty.”

A satisfied smile creeps onto her face as he tries to reel in whatever he’d been about to say. Something nasty, no doubt. Probably about her frizzy hair, or her big brown eyes that he often accuses of granting her a more innocent look than she deserves. He’s not altogether wrong, but he severely overestimates the halo effect.

Instead, he bites out, “Where’s Potter?”

She’s prepared for this, and the lie slips from her lips like a simple spell. “Auror training. I’m not privy to all the details.”

Malfoy’s brows raise in surprise, but he tamps down the emotion just as fast as it flickers across his face, resuming his cool demeanor. An efficient mask. Despite her best efforts, she’s long admired Malfoy’s mastery over his feelings. Hermione sucks at the corner of her cheek, remembering her last ill-timed outburst.

“Just tell me why,” she’d begged, crying into Sirius’s chest. “I should be there!”

Malfoy interrupts the painful memory with his slow drawl. “I suppose saving the world once wasn’t enough.”

She doesn’t meet his gaze, the pit in her stomach well on its way to becoming an ulcer. She should’ve eaten more than yoghurt with berries this morning. “Suppose not.”

“Second place, as always,” he mutters to himself. “And now I’m stuck with little miss muggleborn herself. Grand, just grand.”

Of course he’s still hung up on her blood status. Malfoy insists on carrying water for theories of pureblood superiority—theories which had been thoroughly disproven in various magi-scientific publications. Not that she’s ever seen Malfoy open a book. It’s what makes his intelligence so infuriating. He barely lifts a finger.

Hermione can only hope he’ll hit a wall at some point. Preferably at one hundred and sixty kilometres an hour, or however fast firebolts ridden by foppish prats can travel.

She expects him to return to his compartment, but Malfoy doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Strange, since they can’t stand each other. From the moment they met, when he shattered her picturesque, snowglobe-like view of the magical world by introducing her to the deep-seated bigotry touted by nearly every one of its inhabitants, she’s hated him. If you’d asked her then if anyone from their year would join up with the Death Eaters, she was sure it would’ve been Malfoy. He never missed a chance to taunt her.

But after Harry took down Voldemort, and his cronies, including Malfoy’s father, went to Azkaban, Malfoy has avoided Hermione entirely. He still takes shots at Harry, mostly about his scar or his performance on the quidditch pitch, but any battle with her is smaller in scope, usually limited to academics.

That doesn’t mean she wants to spend her last year at her beloved Hogwarts with Malfoy as her roommate, though. She’d raged to Snape when she heard from Dumbledore.

“Are you saying you can’t handle Draco?” Snape had asked, his stare lancing her while flinty aconite embittered the air. Lupin’s wolfsbane, near-ready, shimmered in the cauldron. “My, my. Times have changed. I seem to remember you setting my robes ablaze with that cold fire of yours.”

It isn’t that she’s lost her fire; far from it. Flames shoot through her veins if she so much as thinks of conjuring them. It’s just the… Malfoy of it all.

He remains where he is, pure male arrogance gussied up in fancy robes.

Hermione spares a thought for her own attire: tight squeeze of a skirt, plain ivory jumper with patches Molly sewed onto the elbows, frilly socks tucked into mary janes. The most expensive thing she’s wearing is her rose gold locket with the tiny diamond in the middle. She never takes it off.

It would’ve really sparkled in the candlelight at one of the courting season’s galas.

“As long as you’re here, I’ve drawn up some ground rules for cohabitation,” she says, rummaging around in her beaded bag. A gift from Viktor right before they parted ways, she isn’t sure why she’s held onto it. A flashy purple handbag is hardly her style. But he’d liked her, really liked her, even though she couldn’t seem to return the depth of sentiment.

Even with Ron, the tears she shed were more for the demise of their friendship than out of any romantic love for him.

Maybe she’s broken. Though she tries not to believe it, the thought plagues her from time to time. Recently it’s taken up a more permanent residence in her mind, masquerading as an inevitable truth; another piece of trivia about herself that proves she’ll never fit in. She feels her jagged edges now more than ever.

Her fist closes around a roll of parchment, and she clears her throat like a royal herald as she withdraws it, letting it unspool down to the floor.

“There is no way,” Malfoy groans.

“Rule one: all shared spaces, including but not limited to the kitchenette, living area, and bathroom—”

“We have to share a bathroom?” he asks, aghast.

“Tradition,” Hermione says with a scowl, thinking of all sorts of unfortunate intimacies it’ll require. She can always sneak out to the prefects’ bathroom, but the very idea of hauling her soaps and sundries through the castle when there’s a perfectly good private bath mere steps away makes her nose wrinkle in distaste. “These spaces are to be maintained to a reasonable level of cleanliness at all times. That means more than a scourgify every week. Rule two: do not use my things. This includes but is not limited to—”

He interrupts again, hooking one long finger over the parchment and giving it two taps. “Granger.”

She glances up. “Yes?”

“How many rules do you have there?”

“Forty. But I reserve the right to add more.”

Malfoy sighs so hard it ruffles the baby hairs at her crown, and a hot wave of pique sweeps through her at his imperious tone. “Fucking ridiculous. Okay, here’s the only rule we need: don’t talk to me unless it’s necessary, don’t eat my food, and don’t get in my way.”

“That’s three rules.”

“What-fucking-ever.”

“I’m only trying to help,” she says, injecting her words with honey-sweet venom. “It’s not my fault you can’t count.”

“Would you like to test that theory? I believe I bested you in Arithmancy last year.”

He had, damn him, and they’d both aced Potions. But she’d edged past him in Curse-Breaking and Astronomy.

Malfoy steps towards her again, but in the cramped compartment, she has nowhere to go. Her duelling skills are excellent, but he’s leaving her very little room to manoeuvre. Her back hits the wall, sending the charmed dancers scattering.

Up close like this, his eyes are molten silver. But they can’t distract from that awful cologne he wears. It smells like someone poured rubbing alcohol over macerated pine needles, swished it around, and at the last minute threw in an old lemon peel. Probably costs a hundred galleons a spritz.

She raises her chin in a show of defiance. “I’m adding three rules of my own then.”

“Fine. Let’s have them,” he seethes.

“You have to be nice to Crookshanks.”

“Who?”

“My familiar. Big orange cat? Surely you’ve seen him. He rode in with Sirius on his motorbike. Hates trains, tinned fish, and blond wizards who hold themselves in too high regard.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches, but as quickly as it registers on his face, it disappears. “And the other two?”

“Never go in my room.”

“Obviously.”

He says it like his godfather. Slowly, and full of contempt.

“And no overnight guests. No one after midnight.”

She can justify the rule. First of all, ‘nothing good ever happens after midnight’ is an adage for a reason. It’s worth heeding, especially if you’re the only muggleborn witch in your year. The amount of times she’s been cornered by pureblood supremacists only to be saved by Harry and Ron… Hermione doesn’t like to think about all the close calls in her younger years. The events at the quidditch world cup gave her nightmares for weeks.

Malfoy had tried to warn her. But he didn’t try to stop them.

Coward.

Will she be fine now that she’s nearly twenty-two? Of course. Probably. She’s a dab hand at disarming spells and semi-lethal hexes. But the real reason for the rule is that the last thing she wants to hear is Malfoy entertaining witches—well, wix, she doesn’t want to assume his sexuality (or think about it at all, thank you very much)—through any shared walls. And since she isn’t participating in the courting season, she doesn’t have any reason to believe this rule will impact her own sex life or, rather, the lack thereof.

“I’m not following that,” Malfoy snorts. “Pansy will want to stay over.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Au contraire, Granger. You’re the delusional one. Pansy and I are meant to be. Everyone knows it. This is but a mere hiccup along our way to the altar.”

His smirk is carefree, completely unbothered, and it burns her up inside that he might be right. Pansy is one of the most selfish, cruellest people Hermione’s ever met, but also stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful with style beyond her years. Vibrant and poisonous, like a wicked stepmother from a fairy tale: It’s fitting that she’d marry Malfoy, not to mention something of a public service.

“Seems like more than a hiccup to me, considering the timing.”

He’s still so close to her. The compartment feels overwarm, but she doesn’t push up her sleeves. She can’t be distracted.

“I’ll have her back by the end of the week. A thorough shag should do it.”

“You’re foul,” she replies. “That doesn’t work. It’s not that simple.”

Hermione cringes with embarrassment, then quickly comforts herself with the knowledge that Malfoy doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and so, fortunately for her, he won’t unpack her retort.

“I’d explain all the ways you’re wrong, but I’m afraid I’d shock you, and that hair of yours has been through enough without adding electricity.”

He’d done well in Muggle Studies. It still rankles.

She resists the urge to check her hair’s current voltage and instead decides to hit him where it hurts. “You think so highly of yourself, don’t you, Malfoy? If you’re so knicker-meltingly good in bed, why would she break things off at all? Maybe she’d rather take her chances on the open market than commit herself to a lifetime with a man proud of mediocre...” Hermione flicks her eyes down to his trousers with faux pity. “...Conjugal relations. Ah, well. Money doesn’t buy everything.”

Malfoy runs his tongue along his teeth, pure hatred in his eyes, but before he can return fire, the compartment door flies open. Quick as lightning, he steps aside, hand hovering over the wand holster on his hip. Seeker reflexes.

Three familiar witches hover in the doorway, and Hermione’s shoulders drop with relief.

“Hermione,” Luna Lovegood says airily. Her dangly silver earrings tinkle as she tilts her head to one side, her thick plait cascading down her navy robes like a blonde waterfall. She ignores Malfoy.

The Patil twins, Padma and Parvati, peer over her shoulders, two sets of deep brown eyes assessing the situation. As a firstie, Hermione learned to tell them apart by their fringe—Padma wears hers blunt and straight across, where Parvati’s frame her face like curtains.

Luna’s smile is serene as she continues. “We thought you might like some alternative company.”

“I would, thanks.” Hermione glares at Malfoy, willing him to leave. She can finally breathe properly again now that he’s not almost-touching her, but this also means she can smell his offensive cologne clinging to her jumper. While no one’s looking, she casts a silent, wandless scourgify. There’s a vainglorious satisfaction in it—she’d bet Malfoy can’t do that.

“Ladies,” Malfoy bows slightly, and damn him, Padma’s forward sway tells Hermione everything she needs to know about the power of his charm. He pulls witches in like a black hole.

“Sorry to hear about you and Pansy,” Parvati says, fingers stroking the gold Lakshmi pendant hanging from her bracelet.

Malfoy chuckles, and it’s almost jolly, as if ten minutes ago the whole Hogwarts Express hadn’t heard him plead with Pansy to stay with him; as if one minute ago he hadn’t been spoiling for a row. “Word travels fast, I see.”

What’s his problem? How can he act this way? Everyone knows Malfoy and Pansy are attached at the hip. He should be devastated.

Ordinarily she wouldn’t care, but knowing she has to live with him and manage prefects alongside him for the entire year, she supposes she ought to pretend to care. If she pretends to—ugh—tolerate him, maybe he won’t hog the bathroom in the mornings.

Not that she’s any good at pretending. There’s no fake-it-til-you-make-it when it comes to being Hermione Granger. It’s the main reason Harry offered to guide her around the ballrooms this courting season, as a trial run for the real deal. As her best friend, he’s always understood her dislike for crowds, loud noises, and most of all, the unknown. Odds are good no one will make a match with the muggleborn girl right out the gate, but with enough time and practice, she can blend in enough to stand out.

And it’s crucial for Hermione to stand out in the right way. She wants to marry someone magical, and this courting business seems to be the only path to doing so (unless she wants to marry another muggleborn, and considering Justin Finch-Fletchley isn’t interested in witches, and there aren’t other unattached muggleborn men around her age…). That’s why when the decision to let muggleborns court came down a few weeks ago, she’d pleaded with Molly Weasley to tell her everything.

Molly did her best, but since the events change every year, there’s no way to prepare for all the eventualities. Purebloods take years and years of manners and dancing, and study languages of flowers and jewelry. A month isn’t nearly enough time to play catch up.

Harry knew only a little more than she did, but he had Sirius in his ear and fame on his side, so he could steer any negative focus away from Hermione. No one would dare breathe a word against Wizarding Britain’s saviour.

She misses him terribly.

It’d be nice if Ron would step in and help her, but he’s achieved his long-held dream and taken up with Lavender Brown. After he confessed to Lavender that they’d snogged—once!—she won’t let Hermione within ten feet of him, for fear that her Won-Won might be tempted to stray. And as Ron told her (gently, via letter), he can’t mess things up with his future wife.

So that’s her two friends, gone. Luna’s nice enough, and she appreciates the thought behind her rescue mission, but again, Hermione already made her peace with the fact that she’ll have to handle Malfoy’s irksome presence all year. As for Padma and Parvati (who everyone mostly refers to as ‘the twins’ since the older Weasley twins are long gone), well, they’re as beautiful as they are mysterious. Potential friends, but Hermione has never been very good at having friends.

Ron, coming from a big, loud family, is immune to her quirkiness, which helps. Harry, though… Harry loves her like the sister he never had. Their bond transcends friendship.

Now, she’s on her own.

“Aren’t you upset?” Luna asks Malfoy. “I would be, if my intended bride broke up with me right before courting season kicked off.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Malfoy replies. He doesn’t even flinch as he pushes past the trio of witches, affixing his Head Boy badge to his robes as he goes. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again before the season begins, but if not, I wish you all successful betrothals.”

“And the same to you, of course,” Padma titters, watching him walk away.

Luna shuts the door with a bang and wipes her hands. “Ugh. He’s awful.”

“Awfully dreamy,” Parvati sighs as she melts into a seat, dragging Padma down with her. “The hair’s bad, though. I don’t know why he wears it slicked back.”

“It was terrible at fifteen, and it’s terrible now,” Padma agrees. She pops a stick of gum in her mouth and begins to chew before offering the pack to the other girls. “Pansy told me he’s a total slob, too. Used to being picked up after.”

“Lovely,” Hermione says with a grimace. She really should’ve stuck to her original list of rules.

The compartment falls silent except for the chug of the train and intermittent popping of bubblegum. Unsure of what more to say, Hermione stares out the window.

She’s always loved the autumnal scenery on the way to Hogwarts. Every year, it’s like the world drapes itself in Gryffindor colours, just for her. It’s not lost on her that this is the last time she’ll ever have this view. But without Harry next to her chomping down cauldron cakes and cracking bad jokes, it’s just not the same.

“Are you joining us this year? For the season, I mean,” Luna says after about twenty minutes of relative quiet. “My father’s been preparing me forever. I can’t imagine how it must feel for you to go in without the benefit of familial knowledge.”

Padma scans Hermione with her perceptive eyes. “No manners. No grooming. No formal training.”

“Don’t be such a twat.” Parvati elbows her twin. “You make her sound like livestock.”

Hermione keeps her focus on the ethereal Scottish landscape and clears her throat before responding. She won’t let them see how deep their words cut her. “I’m aware of my shortcomings, thanks ever so.”

“Not shortcomings,” Padma rushes to say. “Just, erm, well, you know.”

“Deficiencies?” Hermione offers coolly. “Inadequacies? Failings? Lack of purity?”

No one says a word.

“You should do it,” Luna says finally, voice soft like rain.

“You should,” echo the twins, nodding at breakneck speeds.

She doesn’t know why she tells them the next part. “I thought about it. Harry was going to show me the ropes, but he won’t be at school this year.”

Padma sighs. “Married Ginny early? That’s another wizard off my list. Damn.”

Hermione thinks of Ginny, kneeling in the garden in full sun, her hands tearing up every weed and when there were none left, starting on the flowers.

“No,” she says. “Ginny’s doing a year abroad. Harry’s got Auror training. They’re not together anymore.”

“I suppose if you’re the Chosen One, you can have your courting season whenever you bloody well please,” Parvati shrugs.

“Yes, well,” Hermione redirects her attention towards Luna. “I don’t think this season is my season.”

Luna’s lips scrunch to one side, but she nods, her earrings tinkling again. “If you change your mind, I’d be happy to loan you a gown.”

It’s a genuinely sweet offer. Hermione has a gown, purchased on a shopping trip with Harry and Sirius this summer, with the courting season in mind. Crimson satin, strapless, with a slightly scooped neckline. And of course there were the matching shoes, gloves, ribbons, barrettes…

But then Harry was suddenly gone, and there’d been no time to learn what to do once she was actually in the dress. So she left it hanging in his closet at Grimmauld, shimmering satin spilling out like liquid stardust, scattering light on his black dress robes. A dream deferred.

She considers taking Luna’s hand and giving it a squeeze, but she isn’t sure if they’re close enough that Luna would welcome her touch. Instead, she whispers, “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Who’s still on your list, then?” Luna asks Padma. Hermione is grateful for the way the attention shifts away from her. “Seamus?”

“Seamus, Dean, Anthony, Eddie, and…” Padma trails off, looking sheepish. “Maybe Goyle?”

Hermione is flabbergasted. “Goyle?”

Greg Goyle? The same Goyle who used to wear his robes backwards and had to take remedial Potions after somehow destroying a double-reinforced cauldron? That Goyle?

Impossible. Of course, Hermione isn’t blind. All the hours she spends with her nose in books have not yet necessitated the need for spectacles. Anyone can see that Goyle is big in the way Scottish highlanders of old were big, and a lot of women are into that. But if she has a type, it isn’t Goyle.

Parvati jumps out of her seat with a squeal. “I told you, he got so fit!”

“Speaking of fit,” Luna giggles. “Has anyone seen Nott?”

Hermione has, in fact. Last year, she spent a great deal of time with Theodore Nott. He’d been an excellent potioneering partner, which to Hermione meant that he let her manage the entire process without complaint. Half the time he entertained himself by peering over Harry’s work with Ron, making snide remarks as their projects turned to ether or, worse, burnt sludge. Nott is Slytherin in the sneaky way, where he disarms you without you knowing it, and only later do you realise he’s nicked your wand—and your galleons.

But for all his dimpled charm, Hermione isn’t certain what to make of him. His father, next in line for Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is a notoriously “reformed” Death Eater, though according to Snape, Nott Sr is the furthest thing from recalcitrant; he merely calculated that it would be better to appear chastened and keep his seat, and he was right. All his associates are in Azkaban while he holds court.

Does Nott share the same beliefs? He’s never called her mudblood aloud. But she’s not a legilimens.

She settles on a safe compliment. “He has nice eyes.”

“Neville looks good too,” Parvati adds, brushing her fingers through her fringe. “I’ve no idea how. Maybe all those hours in the greenhouses? Doesn’t matter. He’s my number one. He’s got loads of money since his parents passed, and if he can take care of all those high maintenance plants, he’ll definitely know how to spoil me.”

Padma rolls her eyes at her twin. “Don’t be gauche.”

“We shouldn’t only be thinking about potential matches in terms of money and looks,” Luna says firmly, though she doesn’t scold. Luna isn’t like that. “What about the things that make someone a good husband?”

Finally, some sense.

“I’d like a gentle husband,” Padma declares. “Someone who’d be a good dad.”

“Someone who’s willing to stray from the beaten path would do it for me,” Luna muses.

Parvati huffs. “I didn’t say I didn’t want anything beyond money and looks. I’m just saying chemistry is important. Don’t you agree, Hermione?”

Hermione knows a great deal about muggle chemistry. She memorised the periodic table by the time she was five. She understands ionic bonds, covalent bonds, and metallic bonds. But human chemistry, human bonds? Those remain a mystery to her, even after her adolescence, when attraction caused reaction after reaction.

“Of course. Chemistry is a must,” she says blithely. “But there are other things, like Luna’s saying.”

“Like?” Parvati presses, scooting to the edge of the wooden bench.

Shit. Hermione didn’t expect to be asked. She blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Challenging. He should…” She falters a little, feeling the weight of the other witches’ eyes on her. “He should challenge me. And himself. He should want to be the best version of himself he can possibly be.”

Padma stifles a laugh. “Oh, Hermione.”

“What?” Heat blooms across her cheeks. Clearly she’s said the wrong thing.

She always seems to say, and do, and want the wrong thing.

Parvati reaches across the compartment and pats her knee. “Pureblood men don’t want to challenge their wives, let alone themselves. They’re mostly soft, spoiled princes who’ll play at marriage for a bit while they still need to produce a legitimate heir, and then they’ll pop off again as soon as you give them a boy.”

“The next soft, spoiled prince,” Padma groans.

Luna spits out her gum and folds it up in the foil. “That’s why I’d like someone—or someones, I’m open—who’ll do something different. My mother and father loved each other very much. After she died, he didn’t do what some men do and abandon me with one of my female relatives. He didn’t even remarry. He raised me himself. I’d like to think any wizards I chose would do the same for our children.”

“You’d have a poly marriage?” Parvati asks.

“I’ve always been a bit unconventional. I know they’re rare, but as an only child, it might be nice to learn how to share.”

Luna says it wryly, like she knows it’s funny, but Hermione covers her mouth to hold back her laugh anyway. But it’s impossible when Padma and Parvati start giggling, and soon the conversation naturally flows into safer waters, like their opinions on the new Celestina Warbeck album, and what everyone did over the summer.

An hour passes, and the train rocks in a steady rhythm that lulls Hermione to sleep.

When she wakes, deboarding is nearly through, but Luna’s waiting for her.

“Hello, sleepyhead. We’re here.”

Hermione gathers her things and follows Luna off the train. Hogsmeade glows in the sunset, and just beyond the outskirts of the cosy village, thestral-drawn carriages wait to fly them off to Hogwarts.

“Go ahead, I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” she says. “And thanks again for the rescue earlier.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Luna’s smile radiates kindness, or maybe sympathy. Hermione always finds it hard to read other people’s emotions. Well, except Harry’s, and maybe Malfoy’s, when he’s baiting her.

“I’ll see you at the prefects’ meeting? After the feast?”

“After the feast?” Luna echoes, and her smile doesn’t fade, but it changes somewhat. “You don’t waste time.”

Hermione wishes she hadn’t said it; wishes she could be more casual about things—everything. But she’s not like that, and she can’t pretend to be. If she and Luna are going to become friends this year, and she hopes they will, despite her misgivings about Luna’s proclivity for conspiracies, it’s better for her to know what she’s really like.

“Yeah. I guess I’m just ready to get started. Close to, anyway.”

There’s one more thing she has to do. It’s tradition.

Luna bids her farewell and starts down the cobblestone streets. Hermione waits two minutes, then follows the same path, focusing on her feet. Her heart rate picks up when the stones turn to mossy hillside, and doubles again when she senses the undiluted presence of raw, ancient magic. When she finally reaches the top, she takes a deep breath, and slowly lifts her head.

Dusk paints the sky in hues of pink and purple as the sun dips beneath the horizon, abdicating her throne. A westward wind, just this side of chilly, whistles in her ears, carrying with it the soft hoots of owls headed home. At the edges of Hermione’s vision lies the Forbidden Forest, tendrils of fog beckoning her to discover the mysteries within.

But those things aren’t what commands her attention now.

It’s the castle.

Hogwarts.

It’s both in time and out of time all at once. Bathed in fading light, towering spires reach towards the heavens. Stained glass windows, lit by torchlight, wink at her merrily, dotted along the stone walls like a hundred homing beacons. If she squints, she can see the vines creeping up the turrets, and the gentle waves on the lake, pushing ever-towards the place she’s called home the last seven years.

This might be the last time she ever sees it like this.

Tears spring to her eyes, but she wipes them away as quickly as they appear. They only distort the view. She waits a few more moments, and when there’s a shift in the wind, she clutches her locket, as if it’s a tiny pensieve where she can tuck the memory away. She doesn’t ever want to forget this feeling; the deep sense of belonging she feels when she’s alone here, the magnificent castle in the distance calling to her magic.

This can be Hermione's year. Even without Harry and courting and the potioneering apprenticeship. It’s up to her to make the most of it.

Now she’s ready to start.