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Chapter Text

September 9th 2010

In her almost 31 years of living, Hermione Granger had experienced some very bad weeks. Weeks of loneliness and painful rejection. Weeks of sleep deficit and jittery caffeine overload. Weeks of icy weather and empty stomachs. Weeks of fear and an endless yawning pit of grief.

Even with all those weeks to compare to, all in all, it had been a very bad week.

Presently, Hermione's eyes were both dry and stinging viciously. Each unfocused blink seemed to scrape slowly over her eyeballs. Blink, blink. Blink.

Leave to appeal granted under Section…

…Submitted by…

…Notwithstanding…

The neatly printed jargon seemed to crawl across the parchment, becoming untidy, sloped handwriting. Almost as familiar to her as her own.

You're brilliant

I'm sorry

“Hermione…”

Blink.

“Hermione.”

“Hermione!”

She inhaled sharply through her nose, snapping her head up from the pages laid across her desk next to an ice cold cup of Earl Grey tea.

“Oh. Susan.” Hermione peered up at the concerned face, under a thatch of red hair. A different shade, a different person and yet… she dipped her attention back to her work and her dove feather quill. “Can I help you with something? I was just—”

“Marchbanks wants to see you.”

“Oh er—okay.” Hermione smoothed her skirt unnecessarily and rose, both knees popping as she did. Without noticing, she hadn't moved in hours.

“Are you alright?” Susan surveyed her with concern. “You look—”

“I'm quite alright, thank you,” Hermione replied briskly, cutting her off. She didn't want to hear about what she looked like. Early this morning, her reflection in the bathroom mirror had suggested she and her hair had gone several rounds with a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

Hermione knocked on the dark door bearing the nameplate Boudica Marchbanks.

“You may enter.”

Madam Marchbanks, much like her celebrated mother, was a tiny woman. What she lacked in stature, she made up for in bosom and the ability to intimidate grown men three times her size.

“Madam Marchbanks, if this is about the appeal papers I am in the process—”

Marchbanks held up a hand ending in short plum nails. Nails which exactly matched her purple robes and angled pillbox hat.

“Granger, take a seat.”

Hermione sat on the very edge of one of two antique chairs, garishly upholstered in tiger print. She tried to meet the knife sharp gaze across the desk and when she found she couldn't, she pulled at a loose thread on her skirt. Pulled and pulled.

“I am not one to mince words, so allow me to save us both time—you look simply awful,” said Marchbanks bluntly.

Hermione blanched. What on earth was she supposed to say to that?

“One hears rumours about the personal lives of one's underlings that it would be highly inappropriate to speculate on, but one also respects Ministry initiatives to improve morale and wellbeing amongst employees.” A sigh. “Granger, you have been in this office for seven days straight, first in, last out. You will work yourself to death, girl.”

‘Girl’. Hermione wanted to snort at the word. She was practically 40 years old when she was a toddler and presently, with creaking bones and several white hairs appearing on her head, she'd never felt older.

“I—that is to say we—are in the final stages of presenting the proposed Amendments to the Statute—”

“Yes, I am quite aware. I am also aware that while you have been pivotal in this process, Robins, Jeong, Bones, and Clearwater, not to mention Byrne in the Dublin office and half of the DMLE are also working on the articles.” Marchbanks leaned back in her chair, her face set in the exact same expression as her mother's, as she loomed large in the portrait behind the desk. Double Marchbanks. “All this is to say, I am encouraging you to take leave.”

Thunderstruck, thinking of an empty, empty, empty cottage and the little grave and the stupid note, Hermione said tremulously, “I couldn't possibly. The hearing is in less than a fortnight!”

Another deep sigh expelled out of her superior. A kind woman, underneath all the purple, but not a particularly patient one.

“Permit me to rephrase. You will take a week off or I will remove you from the Statute case.”

Hermione couldn't respond, for it was unthinkable. For her months, years of work and dreams of a better world to be dashed before the last hurdle. Yet Boudica Marchbanks was not one for idle threats, and it was clear to them both Hermione had been roundly and quickly defeated.

She now felt 12 years old, rather than 40. “Yes. Yes, alright.”

“Splendid.” Marchbanks brightened, but not to the point of smiling. “This isn't a punishment Granger so you needn't look at it that way. Besides, when was the last time you took a holiday?”

She thought about this. She and Ron had gone to Snowdonia two years ago. Hermione had been excited to explore the rumoured home of Arglwyddes y Llyn — the famed Lady of the Lake. Another painfully obvious example of ‘myth’ being a faithful recounting of a Muggle's encounter with the magical world. But, being Wales, it had rained incessantly the entire time. Ron had caught a minor cold and refused to leave the tent.

Come to think of it... that had been three years ago.

As she struggled to come up with the answer, Marchbanks tilted her head, in pity. Hermione hated pity.

“Aren't you the International Magical Office of Law's Union Delegate?”

“Yes.” Hermione had been elected unopposed as the Department's MOMWU (Ministry of Magic Worker's Union) Delegate. She was well aware this question was rhetorical and meant to remind her of her public commitment to better working conditions at the Ministry.

Marchbanks smiled like the Cheshire Cat. Game, set, match. “See you in a week.”

Hermione stood, thinking again of the emptiness awaiting her on the other end of the Floo.

Just before she closed the door she heard a stern parting shot, “And do not be tempted to take any work home with you, or I shall be forced to come and retrieve it myself.”

When Hermione emerged, Susan looked at her from behind a leaning tower of arbitration. It was clear she knew what was said in the small office. Office gossip was thin on the ground on level five, ever since Penelope's affair with a septuagenarian Muggle politician ended in a disappointingly amicable fashion.

“Alright, Hermione?” Susan asked gently.

Hermione nodded stiffly. Then realised she'd continued nodding robotically, even as she collected her bag and walked towards the lifts. The atrium, mercifully, was quiet.

2 Twayblade Lane, Upper Flagley was silent when she stepped out of the emerald flames into her kitchen. The cottage was cosy on good days and cramped on bad days. Today was a cramped kind of day. A bay window over the sink looked out to Flutterby bushes—a gift from Neville Longbottom—and dying lavender, under a flat grey sky.

The silence in the space was not unusual for a Thursday afternoon, but there was no peace in it. It was a different beast. It was the end result… a thing a long time in the making.

The note was still on the scrubbed wooden table.

You’re brilliant

I'm sorry

She could imagine his face as he wrote it. Agonising over writing those words as if it was an imminently due Potions essay. As if he were composing iambic pentameter. Except if it was a Potions essay or poetry he would've asked for her ‘help’, and she would have dutifully done it for him.

Can't exactly plagiarise your own break up note, she thought darkly.

With a sudden stab of her wand, the parchment was devoured by flames the colour of bluebells.

Perhaps this was the proverbial rock bottom. If that was the case—bar Voldemort's unexpected resurrection—it couldn't get much worse. Hermione knew she tempted the fates with thoughts like that, but she was in a place beyond care. Her care had curled up into ashes along with that bloody note.

Wordlessly, she summoned a dusty bottle of merlot from a high shelf. An anniversary bottle — ha! She did not deign to summon a glass.

Wine in hand, she trudged up the narrow stairs and plopped herself into bed, pausing only to remove her shoes.

The wine was spicy and full-bodied, brimming with the flavour of black cherries. It might as well have been water.

The autumn light gradually dimmed as the bottle steadily emptied. Eventually, with a wand tap, it was refilled, the resulting wine somewhat flatter tasting than before. Still, it was wine. The original batch had been bottled in Bordeaux in 1996. She imagined the vintner working away in the French sunshine, whilst over the water and beyond the White Cliffs of Dover she and Harry had huddled in a cold tent, fearing for themselves and their world.

Then the bottle had sat on a shelf for 14 years, awaiting the perfect occasion. A wedding, a promotion, a coming-of-age—

Or a fucking terrible week.

Hermione saluted to no one with her wine and down the hatch it went. As she guzzled, her eyes caught on an ugly crocheted blanket. The misshapen daisies were vibrant yellows and pinks, nestled amongst black mohair, and all of it was absolutely covered in orange hairs.

A jolt of pain hit her in the solar plexus, and with another wave of her wand, she banished the blanket into nothingness.

When she could no longer ignore nature's call, Hermione took herself on wobbly legs across the hall. She sat for much longer than necessary, assessing her intoxication and the general state of the problem. For Hermione Granger, relentlessly logical and pragmatic to a fault, was a problem solver.

But how does one solve a problem when all signs pointed to the fact that one was the problem?

The tell tale crack of Apparition shook her out of her daze.

Ron, she thought. Somehow, after everything.

But a knock at the front door dashed her hope—or was it dread? Ronald did not knock.

Hermione quickly splashed her face and pondered several glamours to blur the disaster of her visage, before giving up and descending the stairs.

Through the frosted glass she saw a head of untidy hair and knew exactly who waited outside her front door. Her stomach tied itself into a complicated nautical knot. She should've known he would come. With only the barest of hesitations, she opened the cottage door.

“Hi Harry,” Hermione said, trying and failing to sound breezy.

“Hi.”

She took her friend in, bespectacled, bedraggled, beloved. He had dark circles under his eyes and rather more stubble on his chin than he usually preferred. Even so, he carried himself with the air of one still eminently surprised at his own good fortune. Gratitude dripped from him. If it wasn't so endearing it would be infuriating.

“Can we come in?” Harry asked.

“We? Oh.” Hermione hadn't noticed the sleeping toddler strapped to Harry's back. Soft red curls and fat cheeks peeking over a backpack. A Weasley, plain to see. “Of course.”

Harry followed her into the sitting room, helpfully lighting lamps and candles along the way. As they sat, a merry fire started crackling in the grate. The warm light tumbled over them both, and illuminated the golden writing on the spines of the many books set on bookshelves that wrapped around the room. There was at least one overflowing shelf in every room of the cottage, she had seen to that.

“I'll have some of that, if you're offering.”

Following the tilt of Harry's head, she grimaced. She hadn't realised the bottle of wine was still clutched tightly in her hand. It must've made the journey to the bathroom with her. If she wasn't already flushed from the wine, she would have blushed scarlet.

Taking silence as assent, Harry lifted his wand and said, “Accio wine glasses.”

Two vessels obediently sailed into the room and set themselves onto the octagonal side table. Harry filled his with wine and the other, pointedly, “Aguamenti”, with water from his wand.

He sat sideways so as not to disturb Lily's slumber and set emerald eyes on her. When at length she didn't speak, he did.

“Ginny's at an away match, otherwise she'd be here. Albus and James are at Molly's. There are about 17 children there right now, I don't even think I know half of them. I'm supposed to be on a stakeout tonight but this one—” He jerked a thumb at his daughter. “—Will only sleep if I fly around and around in circles all night.”

Hermione only nodded.

“Truthfully, I don't think I've slept in seven years.” He looked thrilled about this, and only slightly manic, but his expression morphed back into familiar Harry Potter-brand concern when she still didn't speak.

“Hermione, you look—”

“I have been informed several times that I look like a troll, thank you,” she said briskly.

“I was going to say ‘exhausted’.”

“Yes, well.”

Harry shuffled his body closer, but stopped short of touching her.

“You know I'm not very good at this stuff.” Harry’s expression was serious. “I want to say something comforting, but I know I'll mess it up and end up with projectile canaries zooming into my face.”

“I would never—” she began hotly, outraged that he would choose to pick at that particular scab.

Harry held up his hands. “See? Wrong thing to say. Foot, mouth and so on.”

Hermione calmed. It had always proved very difficult to stay cross at Harry. The wine, she found, had loosened her tongue. She spoke the fear out loud.

“Please don't choose him.”

Harry stilled. At the tension, Lily stirred on his back and then settled again with a contented squeak.

“Listen. Look at me. There are no sides.” His eyes were wide behind those round glasses, imploring her. “There is no choosing. That's like asking me to choose between my left bollock and my right.”

Despite herself, Hermione felt an incredulous smile spread across her face. “Did you just compare Ronald and I to your bollocks?”

A flush painted itself across his cheeks. “Merlin. Don't tell Ginny, she'll skin me alive. See what I mean?”

Finally picking up her water, Hermione downed half of it in one go.

“Where is he?” she asked casually. She knew he knew and she thought she probably knew too. Ron was nothing if not predictable.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

And with that, she had her answer but nodded anyway.

“In Lille—”

“With Gabrielle,” she finished for him.

“Yes, but they are truly just friends. He has sworn it to me.”

Oh, Harry, so loyal and so naive.

“For now.” Ron needed to be adored and Gabrielle could oblige. Gabrielle, with her glowing, Veela blood and girlish giggles and honey smooth accent. Next thing, Harry would be telling her that Ron had not noticed the deep cleavage Gabrielle delighted in displaying. Truthfully, Harry probably hadn't noticed. Ginny was so thoroughly it for him. Another notion so genuine, it was on the edge of nauseating.

Angry at her deeply unfeminist thoughts, Hermione pulled again at the thread in her skirt. The woven material frayed obligingly.

“I don't know what to say,” Harry admitted.

“It's alright. You're here.”

“And Lily,” Harry grinned.

“And Lily.” Lily was Ron's favourite. A delicious, bonnie, redheaded baby. Sometimes, Hermione couldn't look at her without feeling that old pain in her stomach. She felt like a Dementor amongst everyone else's effusive ginger contentment. She did not begrudge Harry his joy, and she would not. Not now, not ever. If happiness was earned, through Karma or other divine means, Harry was cashing in. Harry deserved the world.

The fire hissed and spat between them. Harry may not have known what to say, but he knew when to sit quietly and she loved him for it. He did not comment when she refilled her glass to the brim with wine. Nostalgia washed over her, the moment reminding her of times long past, being the last ones awake, safe in their favourite spot next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room.

At length, she said the other thing. The terrible thing. The small, giant, crushing thing.

“Crookshanks died.”

And Harry was hugging her and she was sobbing, splashing tears and snot all over his shirt. He smelled so familiar and lovely and she opened herself up to the tiny occasional wish that had sparked within her over the years; the wish that she had fallen in love with that steadfast, constant boy. The kind, honest man.

Yet she knew he was not for her. And now Ron wasn't either. She would not ask herself whether he had ever been.

Harry did not let go until she moved away from him, sniffing loudly. She picked up her wand and vanished the various dampnesses on his shirt.

“Do you want to talk about him?” he said carefully.

“Ron?”

Harry shook his head with a small smile. “Crookshanks. The dark wizard detector.”

A new tear rolled down her cheek and she thought of the long, bottle-brush tail and squashed face, wiser with age. He had been her friend and her familiar since the day she first saw him at the Magical Menagerie and Ron had called him a monster. Like her, he was judgemental and astute and devoted.

“Not today,” she whispered.

Harry held her hand. “I need to go and try to put Lily down at the Burrow and get back to work, or Stephens will send that bloody Patronus after me again.” The new Auror head looked like a housewife from the 1950s, who also happened to sport a black piratesque eyepatch over her left eye. In case the eyepatch did not betray her ruthless nature, her Patronus was an enormous, screaming lappet-faced vulture. Hermione had seen it lecturing Ron once and had no idea how such a terrifying thing was supposedly made up of happy thoughts.

“But I'll be back tomorrow, yeah?”

“You don't have to,” she replied.

“Sod that, I'm coming. You'll have to ward me out.”

“I could, you know.”

“Of course you could. If you told me you invented a new Philosopher's Stone I'd be like ‘yeah fair play, must be a Monday’.” Harry shrugged his shoulders theatrically. “You're brilliant.”

You’re brilliant.

It was the wrong thing to say, but he wasn't to know that. Her smile was false, painted on.

“What are you staking out?” she asked, as a distraction.

Harry made a face. “A brothel—don't ask.”

Hermione most certainly wanted to ask, and on any other day she would have, and Harry would have indulged her with a thrilling or disgusting tale. She might have even given him suggestions on possible lines of inquiry, but she was so very tired. She sipped her wine instead.

“So er—just because they're going to ask and I—that is, what would you like me to tell the others?” Harry was sheepish as he posed this question to her.

The others. Their extended circle of friends, consisting of more than a few Weasleys.

Her exhale came from her soul. Marchbanks had suggested there were already rumours. For once, she didn’t feel the need to correct them, even though it was probably a matter of time before the Daily Prophet published something about her murdering Ron, or shamelessly betraying him with the Muggle Prince William. Sorry Kate.

“I need some time, I think.” Time she would have filled with work, but now would probably fill with walking from room to room… to room. Perhaps also drinking.

“Done,” he said.

Harry stood and dug around in his pocket, producing a crumpled piece of parchment.

“Er sorry, almost forgot, that's from Gin.” He handed the letter to Hermione before bending to kiss her softly on the top of the head. “See you tomorrow.”

Hermione said nothing as Harry strode out of the room, through the front door. Without the warmth of his presence, the reality of her solitude crept back into the room. She didn’t notice when the ruinous feeling within her extinguished the fire in the grate with a snake-like hiss.

Chapter Text

Ten days before Ron left the note on the kitchen table, Hermione had been in Amsterdam meeting with representatives of the Nederlandse Ministerie voor Magie, otherwise known as the NMM. The entry to the NMM could be found through an apparently abandoned sky blue houseboat, covered in overgrown white flowers. The offices were a sprawling complex hidden beneath the canal system. It had been beautiful, really, a breath of fresh air compared to its stuffy, dark English counterpart. Where the Ministry of Magic had windows—subject to the whims of overworked maintenance staff—the Dutch had enchanted underwater skylights revealing the bottom of boats, the paddling feet of waterfowl, and fish ambling along above.

That day, Hermione had attended several tedious meetings that could have been easily summarised in a short missive delivered via Owl Post, and tried not to be distracted by the life in the canals above. Mercifully, there had been a generous break for lunch. Transfiguring her low, sensible heels into even more sensible trainers, she took the opportunity to enjoy the agreeable weather and stroll amongst the angular buildings and narrow alleyways of Muggle Amsterdam. A large banner had soon caught her attention and she stole into an art gallery. Rapt, Hermione wandered through a stark installation. Huge black words on white walls. On the stairs, on the floor.

Don't touch me.

Snaking around the top of the wall.

The words awed her. She had heard of the artist, Barbara Kruger, through her mother, who ensured that Hermione didn’t forget the world that she came from. As if she could.

All violence is the illustration of a pathetic stereotype.

She had always thought Muggles had a lot of wisdom to offer to the wizarding world.

All too soon, Hermione had to return to the submerged offices of the NMM. She had presented, shook hands, taken copious notes and finally caught a Portkey to London, before Flooing home in the waning light.

Late though she had been, Ron arrived home an hour later and was very quiet as he ate the plate of puttanesca she placed in front of him.

In years past, she would have told him in lurid detail all about her day and asked about his. But that night, she had known he would only pretend to listen and she was so tired that she couldn't even bring herself to try.

The morning after Harry left with Lily on his back, Hermione dreamed of the Stedelijk Museum. Of Kruger's words.

Just push me a little harder and your world explodes.

She was alone amongst the words, spinning and spinning. Laughing. Until a Crookshanks, larger than a lion, padded his way in and stared. He slowly blinked his yellow eyes at her, communicating his utter disappointment.

Her own eyes snapped open.

She didn't need a clock to know it was exactly 6am, for it was the same time she woke every day. While everything else collapsed around her, some things would never change. Even when she'd barely slept, even when the kindest thing would be her body allowing her prolonged unconsciousness. She woke at 6am on the dot.

Clearly, she had not closed her curtains the night before, and pale dawn light poured through the windows and onto her floral quilt. Dust motes danced in the air and the bitter aftermath of the Merlot hit her with all the force of the speeding Knight Bus.

She let out a groan and shoved her pillow over her head. Maybe the world would go away if she stayed under there. Maybe she could beat the odds, go back to sleep and wake up, and things would be good again. Or good enough to pretend they were good.

At the sound of incessant tapping at the window, Hermione peered blearily out from under the shelter of her pillow. A tawny owl holding the morning's Prophet stood waiting for her to admit him. Owls didn't generally have facial expressions, but she could have sworn this one was looking at her with deep disdain. Perhaps that hadn’t been his first tap.

Hermione groped for her wand, finding it on Ron's pillow, or rather the pillow formerly known as Ron's. She waved open the window and wasn't entirely surprised when the owl swooped in and dropped the Prophet on her head with a disgruntled hoot. She conjured a bronze Knut from her handbag and gave it to the petulant bird.

Ordinarily, Hermione would have done whatever she could to banish the throbbing headache and foul taste in her mouth. Over the years she had come around to Ron's preferred hangover cure: a combination of Charlie and Seamus’ sworn recipes. Pumpkin juice, Firewhiskey, Pepperup Potion, Hydration Elixir and Strengthening Solution. Utterly disgusting and surprisingly effective. That brew was directly followed by black coffee, buttery scrambled eggs and fat slices of black pudding. She abstained from the latter.

She groaned again. There would be no potions. Today, it seemed, she was in the mood to suffer.

Orienting herself in time and place, she cast around. On top of the pile of books that served as her bedside table, Hermione spotted a folded piece of parchment.

That's from Gin.

She had forgotten. The paper was well within her reach, but she summoned it anyway and opened the letter. It was brief, but so abundantly Ginny.

Hermione,

Harry is going to tell you that there are no sides but there are sides and I am firmly on yours. My brother is and has always been an utter tosser and you are too good for him.

See you in a few days. I know you'll say ‘don't come’ but I am not afraid to hex my way in.

G x

Hermione wanted to cry, but was so dehydrated she could no longer produce tears.

Ginny's words stirred something in her. That spark within that allowed her to bend and to break notions that she usually clung to. The viciousness that helped her curse and deceive and brew Polyjuice Potion in a haunted bathroom.

Hermione stood, and as soon as her head stopped spinning she marched down the creaking stairs, still in her rumpled work clothes from the day before. The sun was rising over the village, lending the sky a spectacular rosy palette, but its majesty did nothing to stir her.

I’m sorry

He wasn’t, not really. But he would be.

The garden of the cottage on Twayblade Lane was a perfect confluence of Muggle and magical. Abundant poppies, colour-changing roses, and delphinium stood amongst echinacea, wormwood, and dittany. Hermione grew gooseberries and artichokes. At night, glowing jasmine, bred by Neville Longbottom himself, lit the path to the front door and when the bluebells emerged in spring, they gently chimed in the breeze.

Standing barefoot in a dew-soaked clover patch, surrounded by the sleepy foliage, Hermione raised her wand high.

“Accio Ronald Weasley’s clothes,” she called vindictively into the air. At this stage in her life, Hermione could confidently work almost any spell non-verbally, but sometimes she found there was nothing quite like spitting out an incantation. Really meaning it.

Her bedroom window burst open and a procession of colourful fabric flowed out towards her. She dodged a Quidditch boot and watched dispassionately as the last (holey) sock flopped onto the large pile in front of her.

So many Christmas jumpers. So much maroon.

She thought of the months of tense, terse conversations. Of Gabrielle’s tinkling giggle ringing around the Burrow. Of bellowing rows and Ron’s passive aggressive sighs.

That was all it took. All reason and fairness left her body. Any lingering affection withered.

“Incendio,” an acid whisper and blue flames roared to life, devouring those traces of him. Erasing that lingering spearmint smell she had so loved. She watched it all burn with a placid expression, absently fiddling with the hem of her skirt. She looked down at the hole that she had well and truly created, pulled off the ruined garment with a spiteful flick and threw it on to the inferno.

Clad now only in practical black knickers, she stood alone amongst the dawn and the smoke.

Approximately one hour later, Hermione had managed to drink a coffee and drag herself into the shower to stare gloomily at the sage green tiles. Under the warm spray, temporary numbness gave way to the dark despair that always seemed to be waiting for her in the wings. With a gasping sob, she dropped to the shower floor and hugged her knees to her chest, watching the water mix with her tears and flow down the drain.

Black words on white walls, snaking around a room.

You blind my eyes, choke my neck, harden my heart, stone my face, and shatter my reluctant human surface.

It simply wouldn’t do to carry on like this.

It was only ten minutes past nine and she had already experienced almost the full spectrum of all available human emotion. On any other Friday, Hermione would be at a morning briefing meeting. She would be drinking her second coffee and sending infamously detailed memos to zoom around the Ministry of Magic at large.

How she wished for the oblivion of her work. Boudica Marchbanks was not offering her respite and kindness with this enforced leave, she was pushing her closer to the edge that Hermione spent her days walking along.

Yet didn’t she have many ideas and to do list items she had not been able to enact right here in Upper Flagley? She read so much for work that she had little time to read for pleasure or education (the same thing, in Hermione’s opinion). At a guess, she had over 200 volumes both magical and Muggle awaiting her perusal, variously shelved and stacked around the house.

She perched at the kitchen table and tried to channel the feeling of being at her desk — her confidence in her work and her heady sense of purpose. She straightened her slumped posture and ran a hand through the cataclysmic mass of her curls.

Get it together, Granger.

This all worked, somewhat, and she opened the Daily Prophet, scanning for any mention of the forthcoming hearing on the Statute of Secrecy. Ironically enough, the work on the Statute was also a tightly kept secret, and there had been a fair amount of anxious discussion around the office over what would happen should their work be leaked to the Prophet. There was nothing that she could see. She exhaled in relief.

This did not count as working, she told herself, passively watching an image of Ginny scoring a spectacular goal in the magical games and sports section. Ron had once tried to claim credit for Ginny’s athletic prowess. Hermione had roundly shut him down, knowing that Ginny had outstripped all her brothers mostly for spite. She told him to stop being a sensitive man baby.

Ron had sulked for the rest of the day and she couldn’t have cared less.

Stop thinking about Ronald Bloody Weasley, she told herself sternly.

Returning to the front page of the newspaper, she ignored the main article which was a lengthy postmortem on England’s terrible performance in the recently concluded Quidditch World Cup. Frankly, she’d heard enough about that particular topic to last her several lifetimes. Scanning down, tucked at the bottom right of the paper, next to an advertisement for wrinkle banishing potions, she found herself staring into the cold eyes of Lucius Malfoy.

Malfoy Senior Denied Parole For The Third Time

Lottie Gottman

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy has had his latest day in court, finding that even overflowing gold cannot tip the scales of justice in his favour.

Sentenced to life in Azkaban in 1996, Malfoy escaped in a mass breakout less than a year after he began his sentence. It is an established fact that he then rejoined the ranks of the Death Eaters and readily participated in Tom Riddle’s continued reign of terror.

Recaptured in 1998, Malfoy negotiated a retrial in exchange for information that led to the capture of mass murderer and werewolf, Fenrir Greyback. Malfoy stood accused of a further laundry list of charges and was widely expected to be sentenced once again to life in Azkaban, much like his disgraced colleagues. When Malfoy received a mere 25 year sentence, survivors of the wizarding wars expressed their disappointment and outrage regarding what they saw as a miscarriage of justice.

Malfoy’s feit accompli has been credited to the services of notorious legal duo Locke and Flint. The pair successfully argued that there was scant evidence for the most serious of Malfoy’s crimes: muggle torture, murder, and multiple uses of the Cruciatus and Imperius curses.

Malfoy became eligible for parole this year, citing exemplary behaviour and a willingness to use his considerable philanthropic resources to once again support multiple causes across wizarding Britain. The Council of Magical Law took just 20 minutes to deny his request for parole. Mr Malfoy’s Barrister Montgomery Locke accused the delegates of demagogism and harbouring a vendetta against the defendant.

Malfoy’s son, Draco, now works as an Unspeakable in the very same department that his father ransacked 14 years ago. Both he and Narcissa Malfoy (née Black) could not be reached for comment. However, as has been previously reported, the son has not visited his father in over three years, his last journey to the lonely island prison taking place just weeks before his unexpected and public separation from fiancée, noted socialite Astoria Greengrass…

Hermione stared at the elder Malfoy, gaunt and imperious in his mugshot. The face under all that silvery hair seemed to dare her to burn the paper the same way she had burned Ron’s clothes.

Hermione had many opinions on the ethics of the wizarding carceral system. Under the Dementors it had been unconscionable chaos. Over a decade later, it wasn’t much better—graduating to unethical shambles. Solitary confinement was still used regularly, conditions were poor to abysmal, and opportunities for genuine rehabilitation were few and far between. Despite this, she couldn’t help her feeling of relief knowing that Lucius Malfoy would not be allowed to return to his comfort and his gold.

And his family. Her mind was so prodigiously busy that she had not spent much time thinking about the Malfoys, particularly since leaving Hogwarts. Of course, she had seen them mentioned in the Prophet, especially when Draco and Astoria’s Pureblood fairytale ended abruptly and was splashed over the pages for weeks. With memories of her own ‘scandals’, Hermione had avoided this feckless coverage and put little stock in it. But, she had to admit, her interest was piqued when Draco returned from a long stint abroad to take up employment in the Department of Mysteries.

One day, shortly after all those whispers travelled down the corridors and around the lunch table, Hermione stepped into the lift and caught sight of him in the simple black robes of an Unspeakable. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t looked at her even once. A dormant part of her braced herself for a muttered insult or a mocking song, but he gave no sign he noticed her as anything more sentient than an interoffice memo.

Once in the lift, in her peripheral vision, she was too curious not to notice that somehow he was even taller than when she had last seen him as a withdrawn 19 year old. His hair was longer and pushed back ineffectually behind his ears. His posture was as arrogant as it ever was and he seemed to be composed entirely of straight lines. To Hermione, there seemed something rigid in it, something that couldn’t bend—it could only break. That day in the lift, she’d begrudgingly admitted to herself that he had presence, even if he was a swaggering prick.

She’d barely seen him since. Glimpsed him only across the Atrium and from time to time in the crowded lift. She had little to do with the Unspeakables, and when she asked Ron and Harry about a case where they worked cross-departmentally, Ron summed it up by saying, “they’re ruddy mental, the lot of them” and Harry had enthusiastically agreed. They hadn’t seen anything and they rated the Unspeakables as less than helpful.

Hermione broke her staring contest with the newspaper. She set her cup of coffee on Lucius’ face with a vindictive flourish.

Fuck the Malfoys.

After Hermione had cried over the fabric ashes in her garden and cried some more over Crookshanks’ tiny grave, she had returned to pacing around the house with a simmering temper. She hadn’t eaten anything, but had poured herself a third coffee, which was definitely a contributing factor to the pacing.

The way she saw it, since it was clear she could not rest and frankly was too afraid to try, she had several possible courses of action. She could burn more of Ron’s possessions, which would lead to temporary catharsis, but also, as demonstrated this morning, probable regret. Equally, she could neatly pack away Ron’s possessions so she didn’t have to look at them, few though they were—especially now. The driving force in making the cottage a home had been her, lest they live amongst the garish orange of Chudley Cannons merchandise forever.

There was more wine. She could practise a little hair o’ the dog, or a lot. Or, with the thought of wine turning her stomach, she could indulge in a large dose of the Calming Draft she had sitting in the potion cupboard.

She could test Marchbanks’ conviction and waltz right into the Ministry as if nothing had ever been said.

She could order a Portkey to Lille and curse Gabrielle Delacour’s stupid, silky hair off.

Hermione ceased her pacing and dropped back into her seat at the kitchen table. In front of her, she knew, lay the answer in the form of a shiny black rectangle. A mobile phone she had received from her parents last Christmas.

Hermione had told them technology and magic were a tricky combination. Her father had just winked and said that she would figure it out. Taking this as the challenge it was meant as, she had indeed figured it out. With a touch of research and a conversation or two with an overexcited Arthur Weasley, Hermione had managed to cast a looped Replenishing Charm on the battery, so it would not need to be charged, and a modified Shield Charm formed a bubble around the phone, blocking out interfering magic. Then she had tweaked the spell using a rune symbolising disruption engraved into the phone case, to allow non-magical frequencies to penetrate.

She had to admit, the ability to read The Guardian on a daily basis was a boon.

“Protego Sphaera Objectum,” she said. A slight shimmer in the air told her that her spell had worked, of course. There was also the telltale warm pulse in her hand when she picked up her phone and powered it on.

Marie Granger.

Mum. Hermione took a deep, deep breath, and made the call.

Chapter Text

“Hello hello my darling, what a nice surprise,” trilled her mother’s voice after picking up on the second ring.

“Hi mum,” Hermione said quietly, dismayed to be already on the verge of tears as her inner child wrestled for control. She swallowed and coaxed her tone back to normality. “How are you?”

“At work, but you caught me between patients,” she said brightly. “A pity your father is in surgery or I’d grab him and put you on speakerphone. Three impacted wisdom teeth with multiple complexities, he’ll probably still be in there for a few hours. We've been completely snowed under. I just finished with a man who’d decided to extract his own decayed tooth with pliers, can you imagine?”

Pulling teeth with pliers. An apt metaphor for her life in the present moment, she thought, but she made the appropriate dismayed noise of agreement.

Marie Granger continued, “And of course I’m finishing early today to go and pick up your birthday present. You will love it, I am certain of it. How are you my darling? Oh, dad and I can’t wait to see you and Ron.”

She went cold. There it was.

“Er mum, I’m fine, really, and I’m looking forward to seeing you and dad.” Where had all her saliva gone? “But there’s something I have to tell you.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. It had taken years to repair their relationship, alongside the agonising piecing together of her parents’ memories. When she had syphoned herself away from them, not knowing what the future would hold, she had no idea that there would be some permanent damage. That there were things she had taken that she could not give back.

Hermione and her parents got on famously, but there was a depth and an understanding from before that was missing. After dinners at her childhood home where there were many laughs and anecdotes shared, she'd always returned to the cottage and been unable to sleep. While Ron snored away, she couldn't shake the foreboding feeling that her mother’s warm brown eyes regarded her as little more than a stranger. Hermione’s father William had declared bygones to be bygones, water to be safely under the bridge—but he had changed too. His smiles were less frequent, tighter.

Their relationship survived mostly on lightness. Hermione liked to simplify things by blaming Voldemort and thinking about it as little as possible.

“What happened?” Tentative, toneless.

“Crookshanks, he—he died.” Yes, start with that.

Marie’s voice immediately returned to motherly concern. She was an animal lover, and doted on Hermione's ‘fur sibling’, Charles the schnauzer. “Oh my poor darling, your beautiful cat. I’m so sorry. But he was old, yes? You gave him a lovely long life and so many adventures.”

Miraculously keeping it together, Hermione stood to pace again. Up and down, up and down the galley kitchen.

“And the day he died—Ron left. I mean, Ron and I, we’ve split up.” The two events were an awful coincidence. Returning from digging her cat’s grave, and lowering in his fluffy body, smaller in death to find that note at the table. When exactly he put it there, she couldn’t be sure. But there it was, not unexpected, but stark all the same. He had taken the coward’s way out.

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“I see…” her mother said, cautiously.

“...So he probably won't be attending my birthday dinner.”

“No, I expect not. Sweetheart, it does sound like you’ve had a very trying time. But—” her words were clipped. She stopped herself with a sigh.

“But what?” Hermione demanded.

“Hermione—”

“But what, mum?” Louder this time.

“Well, you know your father and I love Ronald…”

“Do go on.” They were teetering on the edge, and it wouldn’t take much before one of them started shouting.

“It's only that I am rather surprised it lasted this long.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t mean anything by it, only that in several of our chats recently—not that I hear from you barely at all—it seemed like you were close to dropping him anyway. You haven’t seemed happy for a long time. To be perfectly honest, I am relieved that you aren’t calling me to tell me you’re pregnant by him!”

That one hurt like a curse to the gut, she closed her eyes and breathed through it. Her mobile phone shook in her hand.

“Wow,” she whispered. It felt like an ‘I told you so’, only her mother had never told her so before now. She seemed nothing but thrilled about Hermione choosing to live her life with Ron. Didn't she? Had Hermione managed to delude herself so thoroughly that she could no longer see the wood for the trees?

“This chat isn’t going the way I would have hoped, and you must believe me that I am truly sorry, but darling, I was sure two years ago even that you would decide to throw in the towel. You are bright and dynamic and driven, and no doubt that boy loved you fiercely, anyone could see that. Worshipped you. Especially after what you… experienced.” A pause, but she was not finished. “Hermione, he is not for you, he dimmed your star. You need to be challenged, not worshipped. Devotion like that is as dull as dirt. As your mum, I am sorry for your pain and I would take it away a thousand times over. But I am relieved, do you hear me?” Marie’s conviction was growing with every word. “He is not for you.”

After a pause, Hermione managed to bite out, “Sorry to have been disappointing you for so long.” She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

“You may choose to interpret what I have said that way if it helps, but I know you and I know a relationship that should have lasted two years has lasted over a decade. There is a reason you never married him. You may see me as just a M-muggle Hermione, but I have lived and there are perhaps things that I can see that you can’t.”

“I feel so stupid,” Hermione whispered wretchedly, when she finally found the strength to respond, a tear escaping from her tight grip and slipping down her face. “And you’re not just a Muggle.”

“You don’t have a stupid bone in your body, but you don’t have to be smart all the time either.”

More tears followed. Her mother listened to her cry, until…

“Gosh, darling, awful timing but my appointment has arrived. Do you need me to cancel?”

“No, mum, I’m alright.”

“Can you come for dinner?”

“Not tonight, Harry’s coming.”

“Oh bless that lovely boy.” Hermione’s parents always liked Ron, but they adored Harry. “Tomorrow then, tell me you will. Bring Harry.”

“I—maybe.” Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to sit down with her parents if they had been counting down the days until her relationship ended.

Marie Granger tsked. “Text me and let me know tonight. Don’t forget.”

“Will you tell dad?” Redundant, she knew her mum would be chomping at the bit to tell her father everything.

“Yes, of course. So sorry, I really must dash. I love you darling, so much. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it will all be okay, you’ll see.”

“Bye mum.”

The call ended and Hermione stood as though petrified for several heartbeats. She then flung her phone across the room. The spherical shield was the only thing that stopped it from shattering into a thousand pieces.

That afternoon, Hermione had chewed over her conversation with her mother, vacillating between indignation that Marie had been so callous, and despairing that she was right about wasting her twenties with Ron.

Finally, she had alighted on an activity that soothed her inasmuch as she could be soothed in her current state. Curled up on the mustard coloured sofa in her sitting room, with a blanket draped over her knees, she opened the time-softened leather book in her hands, eyes scanning lovingly over the familiar words.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

She had always found comfort in books, and had admitted to very few people, not that they’d asked, that there was no book that she had read more than the incomparable Pride and Prejudice. Usually it was the book equivalent of sinking into a warm bath, but sitting in this room, in this exact spot without the presence of a purring Crookshanks anchored to her knees, was a pain as sharp as his claws had been. With a deep breath in through her nose, she acknowledged the gaping wound, and tried to settle into Jane Austen’s England. Knitting needles floated in front of her, clicking as they purled and cabled.

Time passed, more comfortably than it had in days.

In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

Ron’s voice, like a shard of glass.

Honestly, been a nightmare this year, hasn’t it? Without you. You know everything, so you must know I’m mad about you, that I’ve loved you for years. I love you right now, I’ll love you twenty bloody years from now.

There was a book on her face. She smelled something baked and delicious, and she was being shaken gently.

“Er Hermione?”

Ugh, how long could headaches last without magical intervention? She sat up, and her book slid to the floor with a thump. Harry Potter stood over her, holding a basket with a cloth over it, and a fatherly expression which she tried not to resent.

“Hi, sorry,” Hermione said.

“The door let me in, figured you must be home. Should I ask how you are?”

“No.”

“Done. Do you want to talk about Ron?”

“Also no.”

“Right.” He had no Lily with him this time, but was wrapped in a navy blue travelling cloak over non-descript Muggle clothing. Once again, Harry cast flames into the tiled fireplace and sat in a brown leather club chair, extending out his legs. He set his basket on a round table between them.

“Molly sent these.”

Hermione hesitated, before lifting a corner of the gingham cloth covering golden scones, cheese and butter, and smaller offerings with oozing cream and jam sandwiched between them. The baking remained warm and fresh under an enchantment, as though they had just come out of the oven.

There was no note, but scones were her favourite. This was Molly reminding her that she cared, but also that Ron was her son.

She lowered the cloth again.

“You should eat,” Harry said seriously.

“Soon,” she lied.

“I can get you something else. What about something from that chippie in Haworth?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry. I’m going.” Ignoring usual etiquette, Harry stood and Apparated on the spot.

Hermione was left blinking at the place on the carpet where he had been. The smell wafting from the basket drew her back in and she lifted the cloth again. Before her brain could engage, she lifted a jam filled morsel and shoved it into her mouth. Perhaps that would silence her aching stomach.

By the time Harry returned approximately twenty minutes later, bringing with him another oily delicious smell, Hermione had splashed her face at the kitchen sink and braided her knotted hair without a mirror. She had conjured cubed ice into two tumblers and mixed together Firewhiskey and ginger ale. She wasn’t quite finished clearing the table before Harry plonked two packages down amid the detritus.

“Cod for me, mushy peas, gravy and chips for you,” he announced.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said genuinely.

“You can’t just drink. Eat.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. Harry did not use imperatives. Fatherhood was changing him by small degrees. At her look, he wilted a little.

“Er—please. For me.”

As an answer, she summoned cutlery, with rather a lot more speed than she needed to. Harry caught his torpedoing fork regardless, with a knowing grin.

“I live with three children under 10. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Pass the vinegar,” she sniffed.

They ate and drank in comfortable silence.

“Did you hear anything today from the fifth floor?” She tried to sound nonchalant and innocent.

Harry’s look was understanding, if not infuriating.

“I was up most of the night at the Randy Satyr, got a bit of a kip and been up to my tits in reports all afternoon. I warded my desk so that people would leave me alone, so honestly you’re the first person I’ve talked to all day, except for the kids, and I don’t think I understand half of what they’re saying. Most of it’s yelling anyway.”

“I see…” she said neutrally.

“Sorry. But—don’t bite my head off—maybe having some time off work is a good thing?”

Hermione dropped her chip in outrage. “Before the hearing I’ve been working towards for more than two years? Good? You’ve got to be joking. The kindest thing anyone could ever do for me is to shut up and let me work.”

In lieu of a response Harry took a large bite of battered cod.

“Do you think it will pass?” he asked, managing a thoughtful tone through the large mouthful.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t even know if the British seats will agree to adopt it, and without that we’re dead in the water.” The thought had her wanting to pace again. If only she could go through the articles again, send an owl to Byrne…

Hermione demurred. Slightly. “How was the stakeout, anyway?

“Very boring for most of it, with a dash of extremely disturbing. But we made two arrests, so…”

“Explain.”

“If I said the words ‘incomplete horse transfiguration’ and ‘lap dance’, would you be satisfied enough to stop asking questions?”

This had the opposite effect that Harry intended. Hermione set down her fork and turned to him, thinking through the laws in question and her readings on the wizarding world’s attitude towards sex work (archaic, with occasional bizarre liberal exceptions). There had been efforts to decriminalise sex work in the 1970s, but these were put aside as the first wizarding war raged across Britain. The issue had only occasionally reared its head since then, with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement adopting an unofficial policy of burying their heads in the sand.

“I know that face Hermione, I already had to write a report about this and I have to go back to work. Don’t make me relive it again. Can’t wait until Ginny is home, I’m manic and without Ro—”

Hermione did not want to hear about Ron, and Harry's feelings about being without him. Ron would never leave Harry.

“...Why do you have to work tonight?”

Harry avoided her gaze and spooned more peas into his mouth, chasing them with a large gulp of his drink. It was a familiar dance: Harry was working on something secret, and wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Invariably, he and Ron told her, almost every time. She had unofficially advised them on more than a few cases and reminded them almost weekly of multiple laws that they would likely break if they enacted certain ridiculous schemes. After the Horcrux hunt and enough life and death duels to last a lifetime, Hermione had not even considered training to become an Auror. Still, she sometimes missed being part of a trio, and Harry and Ron continued to periodically lean on her. She would roll her eyes outwardly and preen on the inside.

“I shouldn’t.”

“We both know you are going to,” she said. “Shall we save time?”

“Drmrrfmsssat,” Harry said around another large mouthful.

“Pardon?”

He swallowed, running his index finger distractedly through the condensation on his glass. “Draco Malfoy has been missing since Saturday.”

Oh, that did it.

Her interest was piqued, her eyebrows were sky high. Yet she knew Harry would shy away if she bombarded him with questions; she needed to play coy.

“Oh?” she said slowly, focusing on her food.

“He and his mother had argued, apparently. She was the last to see him. She thought he might have just left to cool down. But three days later, nothing. Croaker owled the Manor when he didn’t show up to work and Malfoy’s mum almost instantly Apparated into the Ministry on the warpath. Croaker called Stephens and Stephens is looking into it and wanted me on it, even though I told her I would prefer to eat the puking end of an expired Puking Pastelle. Anyway, nothing missing, wards intact, no traces of recent dark magic. But that bloody place makes detection spells tricky, seems like Voldemort's essence seeped into the ground or something.”

Hermione had always metaphorised her brain as a library. When she was 11, just before she started at Hogwarts, she had visited Oxford's Bodleian library and been astounded by Duke Humfrey's reading room. The dark wood and painted ceilings, and that ever present smell of parchment, leather and dust. And from there, so many poignant and peaceful times in the Hogwarts library. As Harry spoke, the lamps in her cerebral library turned on, a desk with fresh parchment and a fountain pen appeared and multiple volumes rattled on their shelves, begging to be read.

Harry continued, “Don’t know why she put me on this, enough info’s out there to say he’s distancing himself from his father and isn’t spouting bullshit about blood any more—publically, anyway,” the Prophet was laid out beneath their plates, Lucius Malfoy’s face was by now ringed with coffee and spotted with vinegar and he looked outraged about it. “But I’ve played him in Quidditch over the years, the man’s still a colossal git.”

Hermione thought of the pale faced boy calling her Mudblood for the first time, introducing her to the prejudice that would loop itself around her neck for the next five years and beyond. She thought of that same boy in a circular room surrounded by enormous windows. Taller, quieter, straight-backed even as he was called evil, monstrous. She thought of the black-clad Unspeakable, pointedly ignoring her in the lift.

“Do you think someone—as in, are there suspects?” she asked.

“If I was telling the Prophet I would say we haven't ruled out any line of inquiry—to you, I'll admit we haven't the foggiest.” Harry scratched his jaw distractedly. “Malfoy is not the most popular man in some circles but he's definitely got more friends than sworn enemies. Mostly kept his head down since his trial and Hogwarts and all.”

“Magical disappearances actually aren't all that common, Harry. Well—that is to say outside of wartime. Of course Venusia Crickerly disappeared in 1905 for almost a year while in office as Minister for Magic, but it turned out someone stole her wand and shrunk her to the size of an ant. Managed to ink her tiny feet and write a message to her undersecretary.”

“Er, I don't think Malfoy's been shrunk, unless you’ve got him trapped in a jar somewhere.” Harry contained his ironic smile. “Missing witch and wizard cases only get turfed up to us if it’s been over a week or the person is high profile enough to make someone look bad. Honestly, I've only looked into one disappearance and it turned out the bloke duplicated a lot of Muggle money and tried to live like a billionaire. Only got picked up when the Auror undercover at Interpol saw he got flagged trying to buy an island in the Bahamas.”

Her brown eyes widened at this. “Harry, your job truly is fascinating, I hope you know that.”

He shook his head modestly. “Pff, it's mostly paperwork, couples duelling each other, and slightly shadier Mundungus types poisoning elderly witches and that.”

“And brothel stake outs.” She pointed at him with her fork.

“Don't remind me of that while I'm eating, please.”

Silence reigned, broken only by the scraping of cutlery and the gentle ticking of the kitchen clock. It showed the time and the date, but also the movement of the moon and the planets, and could be enchanted to whisper, speak, then finally yell reminders at the user.

“So what are you going to do about Malfoy?” Hermione eventually asked, because, well, she had ideas.

Harry shrugged. “Stephens’ call. But I'm interviewing his ex tonight, apparently she's only available at 10pm. Has to Portkey in from Ljubljana.”

Here was a problem to solve. A problem that wasn’t to do with the tattered remains of her life. A problem that didn’t require the type of deep introspection that sent her into a tailspin. Hermione searched herself, and found she didn’t much care about Draco Malfoy being missing, only that it was a mystery that needed investigation. A circle that needed to be closed.

More than that, it was a life raft.

Harry wouldn’t like it.

“I could—” she began slowly.

“No.”

“I think I could be very—”

“Hermione…” he sighed as though he were talking to one of his children.

“It’s only a matter of time before the Prophet gets hold of this, especially if the Chosen One is working on it. Just send me the initial report.” Using the moniker Harry so resented was below the belt, but was usually effective.

“Absolutely not. I’m changing the subject.

“But—” Hermione protested.

“Did you hear Slughorn is finally retiring? ‘Bout time, Neville told me he keeps falling asleep while he’s teaching…”

Harry had roundly shut down any further questions she had (and she had many). Eventually, he looked at Fabian Prewett’s old gold watch on his wrist, swore, and made a swift exit, kissing her head again on the way. Her heart swelled with love for him, and she realised what a marvellous distraction he had been.

Once again, she was alone in her quiet cottage with no Ron and no Crookshanks. While they had been eating, she could have sworn she saw Crookshanks out of the corner of her eye, plotting a way to swipe a morsel of Harry’s cod. If he was there, she would have gladly given him her whole dinner.

Later, when sleep evaded her, she made her way downstairs on unnecessary tip toes. She lit the lamps in the hallway and ran her fingers over spines until she found what she was looking for.

Magical Crime and Magical Punishment: One Thousand Years of Justice by F. D. Marple.

Just as she remembered, there was a satisfyingly dense chapter on disappearances.

Like the day before, Hermione woke to tapping on her window. She lay across her bed, with one foot under the blankets and one foot poking out. Marple’s book was open beside her, referencing an entire wizarding village vanishing from their beds in 1869.

It was still dark, but when Hermione flicked open her curtains she could see the familiar white face of Hadrian, Harry’s owl. Harry’s sentimentality had led him to adopt another snowy owl, but compared to Hedwig, Hadrian was bigger and, unfortunately, angrier.

Hermione let Hadrian in, feeling unreasonably energetic as she saw what he was carrying and knew that it meant she had won.

Hadrian flew over to the bed, dumping a folio tied up in black ribbon on top of her book. He then hopped across her legs and promptly bit her exposed toe.

“Ouch!” Hadrian looked at her innocently and then pointedly at Ron’s bedside drawer. “Fine then. You didn’t have to bite me.”

Hermione reached into the ‘snack drawer’ and pulled out a cockroach cluster to give to the owl. Ron had ensured he had a supply of them on hand, when he learned that they were the cantankerous bird’s favourite.

“I really don’t think these are good for you.”

Hadrian held the cluster in his beak and hooted through his mouthful, before taking off again into the approaching sunrise.

Hermione fluffed her pillows and sat up. The purple folder bore the rune Nauthiz and a string of numbers that meant nothing to her, identifying the case and for filing purposes. Below this, printed in tidy black ink was the name Malfoy, D. L. Furthermore, a small note was stuck to the front. Handwriting she had seen a thousand and one times before, as she proofread his subpar essays. She managed a tiny grin.

Don’t make me regret this.

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she spent the morning in bed, but from the minute Hadrian left and she opened the file from Harry, there was no question of her moving or finding any alternative way to occupy her time.

After five years of working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and from Harry's previous floutings of confidentiality clauses, she was quite familiar with Auror casefiles. The quality and legibility varied wildly. For example, some of Ron's most important case notes were hastily scratched onto the back of takeaway menus, or in the corner of newspapers before being stuffed into the file.

The first page usually contained pertinent photographs, succinct data points about established facts, and an initial incident report. Additional information followed in chronological order, making it easier to build a timeline of the investigation.

Samantha Stephens’ fastidiousness as lead investigator and Head Auror meant this particular file was perfectly in order. Scary though she was, Hermione always deeply appreciated competence from other professionals, and Stephens had it in spades.

Stuck to the inside cover was what looked to be a recent photo of Draco Malfoy. In it, he was standing beneath a bowed tree, laden with fat pink cherry blossoms. He was dressed all in black, which seemed to be his standard uniform, and leaning against the side of the picture as though supremely bored by being observed. There was absolutely no doubt that the years had been kind to him, physically at least. His sharp angles had softened and filled out. People always commented on him being the spit of his father, but Hermione had seen photos of younger Sirius; some of that essential Black family grace had definitely emerged in him.

There was rather a lot of room in the frame to his left, and Hermione surmised that there had once been another occupant of this picture and that whoever it was had walked off.

The initial report was brief, written in blue ink by a precise hand.

07/09/2010 — Notified by S Croaker (Director DoM) that D Malfoy was absent from work for a second consecutive day. No contact received, considered unusual behaviour. Exemplary work attendance record. Croaker contacted mother N Malfoy (Née Black), who resides with her son at the same Wiltshire address. Last known contact with subject evening of Saturday 04/09/2010. N Malfoy questioned. Mother and son argued, she would not divulge content of discussion. Assumed lack of contact was normal ‘punishment for saying things he did not want to hear’ until owl from Croaker early 07/09.

From here, Stephens had resorted to bullet points.

• Croaker maintains he is unable and unwilling to discuss Malfoy’s work as an Unspeakable unless the Minister of Magic issues a direction to do so
• Known associates T Nott, B Zabini denied knowledge of whereabouts, both merit further questioning
• Subject not known to be currently in a romantic relationship, T Nott suggested an active social life ‘birds love him and he loves the birds right back’
• Previous engagement to A Greengrass dissolved 2007, circumstances unknown. Interview to be arranged as soon as is practicable. Greengrass currently abroad
• N Malfoy to be interviewed again, emphasising importance of subject’s frame of mind during alleged argument
• No known crime scene, initial search of address indicated nothing missing but it is assumed subject still armed with wand (10” hawthorn, unicorn). Photos enclosed, exhibits I — XIX
• Wards and enchantments with subject's signature intact indicating ongoing proof of life
• Case likely to receive media attention, strategy needed. Merit to transparency, appealing to public for assistance if speedy resolution not found

Reading between the lines, it was clear that Harry was quite right — no one had the foggiest idea where Draco Malfoy was or why he might have disappeared.

Adjusting onto her side, if only to regain some feeling in her numb backside, Hermione pored over the photos of Malfoy’s living quarters. Her brain was buzzing marvellously, and all other thoughts were relegated to the dusty stacks in the basement of the library in her head.

Truthfully, Hermione didn’t like to think about Malfoy Manor, but the images contained in the file showed a monochromatic, dare she think it, modern space. It appeared nothing like the austere, terrifying shrine to dark magic she still sometimes saw in the worst of her nightmares. The quarters she could see were clean, with light wood floors, minimal furnishings and a large number of—she raised her eyebrows—bookshelves.

She shuffled through statements from Draco’s friends and a House Elf curiously named Thor. There were terse memos from Croaker. He was the type to write all in capital letters, so it appeared he was yelling at the top of his lungs when he wrote.

AS PREVIOUSLY STATED, UNABLE TO DISCLOSE NATURE OF AN UNSPEAKABLE’S WORK UNLESS DIRECTED BY MINISTER OF MAGIC, MY BEST TO ANNIE, CHEERS, SAUL

It was becoming difficult to ignore that she really needed a wee, but a report poking out from the bottom of the file distracted her enough from the urge. She drew it out. Definitely Harry’s handwriting, still appalling. Somehow the sloping notes managed to look tired.

Witness interrogation 10/09/2010
Participant: Astoria Ermentrude Greengrass, of Knightsbridge, London. Subject’s former fiancée
Investigator: Harry James Potter
Interview commenced 10:14pm, Sneakoscope used

H: Thank you for your time, especially for travelling so far on a Friday night.

A: I only came to reassure you that Narcissa is overreacting and that Draco is definitely not missing.

H: Then do you have any idea of where he might be?

A: He’s probably in Kyoto shagging a geisha.

H: Is he?

A: I wouldn't know, as I haven’t seen or spoken to him since January.

H: Can you be more specific?

A: Theodore Nott’s New Year’s celebration. I left early. We did not speak.

H: It's been reported that it is unusual for him to miss work, would you agree with that?

A: I don’t know. He started working at the Ministry after we separated, and before that we were travelling extensively. He worked occasionally, but hardly at a desk job. I don’t know anything, Potter, and I don’t believe there’s anything to know. I left evening cocktails with a Slovenian Count to attend this farce, so unless there’s anything else?

H: What were the circumstances that led to the end of your relationship?

A: They are not relevant and they are none of your business.

H: Where were you on the evening of Saturday the 4th of September?

A: In a castle, underneath a Slovenian Count. Will you be needing his name?

H: Not currently, but we’ll be in touch, Miss Greengrass.

A: This could have been an owl, Potter, rather than a monumental waste of my time. May I go?

H: Unless you have anything to add, you’re free to go.

A: Do your job and keep my name out of the papers when this leaks, would you? If Draco is truly missing, which he is not, it is not my concern. I don’t care.

[Sneakoscope detected minor deception]

H: Thank you once again for your information

Interview concluded 10:20pm, 10/09/2010

Hermione could almost hear their voices; Harry with his practised Auror calm, and (mostly) faux naivety. And although she had never met Astoria, she remembered her older sister Daphne's sleek London accent. An accent that firmly placed the family on the right side of the tracks. An accent that wouldn't be out of place within the Muggle-filled walls of Cheltenham Ladies’ College. At the bottom of the short transcript, Harry had written several extra notes.

Presentation: Greengrass well-dressed, wearing black dress and fur-lined travelling cloak. Spoke with clarity and without hesitation. Sneakoscope detected a misleading statement: conclusion that Greengrass still cares for Malfoy, also demonstrated by willingness to participate in this interview despite her presence being requested rather than required. Check information against Nott’s regarding party January 1st.

Back in inconvenient reality, Hermione's bladder could no longer be ignored. But with no one to judge her, except the rather judgemental photo of Draco Malfoy, she took a report with her to the bathroom.

At just past noon Ginerva Weasley, who had never taken her husband's last name, walked into Hermione Granger’s kitchen. Hermione was sitting at the table, with two books and a number of pieces of parchment spread out in front of her. She was wearing a large Muggle t-shirt with no trousers to speak of and she had stuck her wand through the messy bun she had tied on top of her head.

It wasn’t until Ginny walked around the table and drew out a chair to sit directly in her line of sight that Hermione even noticed her.

“Ginny!”

She tugged her wand out of her hair and with a wave the papers on the table stacked themselves neatly with the heft of Magical Crime and Magical Punishment on top.

“Hermione, you’re crying,” Ginny looked alarmed by the sight of her undeniably blotchy face and bloodshot brown eyes.

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m fine. Couldn’t summon my otter, that’s all.”

Remembering when Ron first earnestly confessed his love to her was what usually summoned her otter without fail. The memory felt bleak now, tainted, along with every other memory she might have utilised. There were only the ashes of Christmas jumpers instead of her kissing him amongst Basilisk fangs, or drunkenly dancing and giggling at Ginny and Harry’s wedding. Instead, she had tried thinking about seeing the line of perfect Os on her NEWT results for the first time after she returned for an ‘eighth year’ at Hogwarts. She had been overwhelmed with pride and relief. When that failed, she had tried to think about putting her signature on the bitterly negotiated Dobby’s Law. That didn’t work either.

Not a Dementor in sight and she couldn’t produce so much as a wisp of silver.

“Otter?” Ginny repeated. “Oh, your Patronus. Why were you—”

“Just wanted to send a message to Harry and I have no owl. Pigwidgeon’s gone… I think he’s probably with Ron. He’s a bit doddery these days anyway—keeps banging into windows. Trying to call Harry’s mobile crossed my mind but that’s a lost cause if ever there was one.” Hermione paused for breath. “Sorry, can I—I should… tea?”

Hermione stood and found that Ginny mirrored her movement. Before she knew what was happening, she was crushed in a hug so tight it was almost painful. Years of hard Quidditch training and child wrangling had lent Ginny undeniable physical strength and firm musculature, but she still smelled as softly floral as ever.

“Harry told me about Crookshanks,” Ginny said into her hair. “It isn't fair, I know how much you loved him. He was a very good cat.”

In Ginny's arms she thought of that beloved squashed face, and his deafening purr.

“The best,” Hermione whispered back wretchedly. Ginny took her time to let go.

“Sit. I’ll make tea,” said Ginny decisively. “Have you eaten today?”

“Yes,” Hermione lied.

“What did you eat?”

“Oh er—”

“Wine?” Ginny pointed at the empty bottle of merlot and tutted. “Working in diplomacy and you're still a terrible liar.”

Hermione muttered something about reading.

Ginny snorted affectionately. Fussing at the bench with her back turned and red hair braided over her shoulder, in that moment the maternal essence of Mrs Weasley was palpable in the room. Hermione did not give voice to this thought, as she did not think it was a comparison that would be appreciated.

“Where are the kids?”

Ginny levitated two cups of tea, a loaf of bread and a block of butter onto the table in front of Hermione. Side plates and cutlery followed with finesse.

“Harry took them to see Uncle George. I told him to check their pockets before coming home, since James put Icelandic Itching Powder down Harry’s trousers after their last visit.” She tried to look stern but cracked a very Weasley grin. “Didn’t tell him to check their socks though.”

Hermione tried to distract Ginny from the fact she couldn't manage a smile in return. “How was the game?”

“200-50, so not bad—but it was a close thing. Conditions were horrendous—snow in September, I ask you.” Ginny softened the butter with her wand and slathered a thick layer over a piece of bread. “But I’m not letting you pretend to care about Quidditch, I’m here to ask you how you are.”

“Fine.” It wasn't truly a lie. Between all the mood swings, she had to have been fine for at least a few minutes over the past two days.

“Oh yeah, you definitely seem fine,” Ginny said sarcastically. “The picture of fine. Look up fine in the dictionary and there you are with your crazy eyes and your wand in your hair.”

Hermione stuffed a slice of bread in her mouth so she didn’t have to respond.

“What happened?” Ginny asked, softer, kinder.

Hermione knew Ginny could not be put off like Harry could be, she could eat as much bread as she wanted, but Ginny would wait and watch her choke down the whole loaf, then ask again.

She could give her something. She could take the comfort being offered. She swallowed painfully.

“It’s been… not good, for a while.”

Ginny nodded. Hermione and Ron had fought publicly on occasion, in sharp whispers at the Burrow. At the dinner table in Godric's Hollow. Sometimes they had arrived at social occasions trying to hide the fact one was giving the other the silent treatment. As secrets go, it was very poorly kept.

“We rowed before work on Wednesday and he said some horrible stuff. I'm not going to repeat it, so don't look at me like that. So I said the door’s open and he can leave if that’s what he wanted. I came home and Crookshanks was, he was… on the doorstep.. I don't know what happened, maybe his heart just…” She took a deep, shuddering breath and tears slipped silently down her already sticky cheeks. “And Ron did come home that night, he did, but he saw me digging the grave and he didn't speak, he just left. I found his note in the morning and then went to work. Then Marchbanks told me to take time off, I don’t know if she knows, but I think there were rumours about Ron and I fighting going around.”

Ginny's mouth was set in a grim line. “What did the note say?”

Hermione hesitated. “I burned it, but it wasn’t hard to remember. ‘You’re brilliant, I’m sorry’.”

“That fucking—”

“Don’t, Ginny.”

“No, don’t you defend him. He saw you burying Crookshanks and he just LEFT?” she exploded. “He wrote a NOTE?”

Hermione took a scalding sip of Earl Grey. “...Did Harry say where he was?”

Ginny was trying and failing to suppress her fury. “Mum said France, I thought maybe for work but I'm getting the feeling—”

“Lille,” Hermione told her, needing her to know.

Then Ginny seemed to be frozen with rage. She set down her teacup with a loud chink. The acid whisper was even scarier than the bellow.

“I’ll hex him into slime Hermione,” she promised fiercely. “I’ll murder him.”

While Hermione did appreciate that Ginny was so pure and clear in her anger, despite being Ron’s sister, she couldn’t allow the simplistic explanation of Ron as villain and her as victim. The latter bothered her more, she realised.

Devotion like that is as dull as dirt, her mother's voice said in her head.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “That’s not necessary. I know you don't believe me, but I really am fine. I'm keeping busy.”

“I thought you weren't supposed to work.” Ginny gestured at the pile Hermione's mind had been half on during their entire conversation.

“It's not strictly work…”

“Liar. Amateur, Hermione, you even looked down as you said it.”

Hermione thought that whilst she may be a terrible liar, she was quite adept at keeping secrets when she wanted to.

“Well, not my work anyway.”

Ginny's eyes narrowed. “Harry Fucking Potter.”

“It's honestly nothing.”

“Oh sure ‘nothing’. A whole organised, annotated pile of ‘nothing’.” A sigh of surrender expelled from the redhead's mouth. “When was the last time you went outside?”

“Does standing in the garden burning Ron's clothes count?”

Ginny looked impressed but shook her head. “No, it doesn't. Come on, it's a lovely day outside, and I still have a while before I have to get back. Let's go for a walk.”

Like many of Ginny's friendly suggestions, it was not friendly, nor a suggestion.

Once outside, dressed properly in dark jeans and a soft cream turtleneck of her own creation—she had come a long way since her knobbly elf hats—Hermione finally did allow herself to notice that the day was indeed lovely. The crystalline blue sky overhead was streaked with insubstantial, lacy clouds. Clinging summer warmth fought with a cool breeze. Early fallen leaves skittered across the paved streets.

Ginny set a brisk pace and chatted away about Gwenog Jones moving into coaching, asserting that if the England team had hired her rather than ‘that puffed-up, dick-swinging American’, the World Cup results would have been quite different.

“—Imagine in this day and age naming an all male squad based on size rather than skill. Might be American but clearly studied up on Slytherin team management strategies—”

As they talked and walked, Ginny didn't require much more than a hmm or a yes, and Hermione deeply appreciated her for it.

They wound through narrow streets flanked by stone houses and merry gardens. The occasional owl swooped overhead and coloured flags strung between buildings fluttered, flashing between blue, green and white.

A wizard in striped robes nodded politely at them as he walked by and the witches returned small, practised smiles. Hermione was a notable resident of Upper Flagley, but no longer attracted the attention that she once had. In many circles, Ginny was now the more renowned one of the pair.

They passed a line of silver birch trees, and then the tall, ivy-covered garden wall that concealed the entrance to the Muggle village of Haworth. Hermione walked there sometimes, but today Ginny was leading the way to the magical town centre.

Eventually, they arrived in the village square, colourful shop fronts arranged around a monument to those who suffered in historical witch trials. It depicted the endless loop of a bronze witch tied to a stake, surrounded by flames. The flames moved and grew, then froze. The witch then spun on the spot and disappeared. The flames died and then grew again.

“Need anything from the Apothecary?” Ginny asked. “Or to send anything at the post office—you really should get your own owl.”

Hermione did not want to consider loving another animal at the moment.

“Not today,” she said.

Her eyes caught on the newspaper advertisement sitting outside the small newsagents. A larger version of the front page was framed in gold and propped against the shop front.

She had admitted the post owl and ignored the Prophet this morning.

Draco Malfoy Missing Under Mysterious Circumstances, Harry Potter Investigating

The photo they'd used underneath the headline seemed to be a mugshot.

In fact, it was a mugshot. A mugshot over a decade old, taken before the boy it pictured was cleared of all charges.

Ginny noted what had stopped Hermione in her tracks and studied the headline.

“Ah. That headline wouldn't happen to connect to any files on your kitchen table, now would it?”

“Er no,” Hermione replied, pulling herself away. “I'm helping him with the horse brothel thing. Shall we keep going?”

Ginny was not convinced, but accepted the deceit with a sniff.

“I assume Harry will be working this evening then,” Hermione said slowly, as they started their walk back up the hill.

“You're about as subtle as a Bludger, you do know that?”

“I'll dispense with further attempts at subtlety then. Will you take a note back to Harry for me?”

“You know, Hermione,” Ginny said slowly. “Rather than doing someone else's job for them, it would be okay to feel your feelings. To cry and knit and take baths and get absolutely cabbaged on red wine—maybe even shag someone else eventually, I don't know.”

“I don't want to shag someone else.”

“Right, but you get told to take a holiday and you take that to mean you should try your hand at being an Auror?”

“I appreciate your concern and I know I’m not myself at the moment, but I know what I'm doing.” She didn't, she was off the deep end. Who said she couldn't lie? “Will you take Harry a note or not?”

Eventually, Ginny agreed, as long as Hermione promised to eat, shower and walk, as well as research. This didn't seem too cumbersome, and was probably sensible. Besides, she could do all of those things quickly.

Back at 2 Twayblade Lane, Hermione scribbled out her message in fountain pen.

Harry,

Have there been any updates? I wondered if his broomstick is missing and think there is merit in a further examination of the house.
I am very familiar with tracing magical signatures and if there was some way I could come with you I could help, I am certain of it.

Send Hadrian back with your reply, or use the Floo.

I'm fine really, she added, before erasing it with her wand.

Love, Hermione

Ginny rolled her eyes as she pocketed the note.

“Will you come to Sunday lunch at the Burrow tomorrow? Ron won't be there, obviously.”

There was nothing Hermione wanted less than to endure the noisy weekly gathering of Weasleys and associates. She imagined the pitying glances, for she was sure every member of the family was well informed of the current state of her relationship and knew of its drawn out death rattle. And if somehow they weren't, she would hate to deprive them all of the prime gossip it was sure to be the next day.

“Um, no I don’t think I can, I said to mum I would see her and dad.”

“Right. Well I'm going to keep checking on you, and if you need a change of scene and a lot of screaming just come to ours, alright?”

“Thank you, Ginny.”

They walked to the front door.

Before she Apparated, Ginny's chocolate gaze appraised her. “I won't prattle on, but Ron's right that you're brilliant. You're brilliant, yeah? And he's a right cunt.”

With a crack, she was gone.

Hermione decided she would curse the next person who called her brilliant.

Chapter Text

Slimy guilt had found Hermione not long after Ginny left. She located her mobile phone on the floor where she'd thrown it, reactivated the shield charm and sent her mother a quick apology message. Finding herself unable to contemplate even a Granger family dinner, she suggested they meet for a breakfast the next morning. Her mother loved the eggs florentine at the tiny cafe on the corner of their street, and it would be no trouble to Apparate first. Hermione usually aimed for the small garden shed in her parents’ garden, after a disastrous occasion in which she Apparated into the hallway and her father fell down the stairs in fright.

A short reply with only one ‘x’ at the end suggested her mother was annoyed, but mollified by her offer of breakfast. If she was truly furious there would be no ‘x’ at all.

The rest of the afternoon trickled by and evening dwindled into night. Where before her stomach had felt twisted up in barbed wire, she now felt hollowed out and empty. The loaf of bread Ginny brought disappeared down Hermione’s throat, and she found herself reading the file again and idly eating thin slices of butter, barely realising she was doing it. This prompted her to search the cupboard, standing far emptier than Ron would ever tolerate. There was a pot of vegetable stew, more than a few days old, but still fresh under a food preservation charm.

She heated it with her wand, and sat down to eat, just as she told Ginny she would. After scraping her bowl clean, she polished off half a squashed packet of jaffa cakes and a large measure of Ogden’s for good measure, all the while scanning her eyes down the Prophet article.

Using too many words, it said very little. Only that the Malfoy heir was alive but missing under mysterious circumstances. There was no current evidence of a crime and any information should be directed to the Auror office.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, feeling certain that Stephens had made the call to share the information with the Prophet herself, before it could no longer be contained. However, she was also quite sure that Stephens had not sanctioned the paragraph of postulation around whether Harry Potter, in spite of his excellent record as an Auror, could be relied upon to thoroughly investigate the disappearance of a former Death Eater.

…Draco Malfoy’s contrition has always been questionable, and there is scant evidence of his reformation…

She scoffed. She had long been suspicious that the reporter Edwin Hornby was a pseudonym which an ageing Rita Skeeter had adopted to allow her to keep peddling her nastiness. If she found any proof that she was up to her old tabloid tricks, Hermione was not afraid to put a beetle in a jar (again), tie a bow around it and deliver it to the right authorities.

The kitchen fire flared brightly, slicing into her vengeful musings and startling her. There was a tap tap tap announcing someone would like her permission to enter the hearth.

“Hello?” she said.

Harry Potter’s head popped into the fire, at which point she became very enthusiastic indeed.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, moving closer to the flames.

“I got your note,” he gave her a small grin to cover his head-to-toe appraisal of her person.

“For Heaven’s sake, just come in,” she insisted. “You know I don’t like looming over you like this, talking to your floating head.”

“Fine, but I don’t have long. Hang on.”

Harry disappeared, until a moment later the fire roared and he was stepping into the kitchen, brushing ash and Floo powder off his robes.

“How are—”

Hermione held up a warning hand against the next word. Harry raised his eyes to the heavens but did not finish his question.

“You look better,” Harry settled on instead.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said coolly. “Is it good to see Ginny?”

Harry’s goofy, lovesick smile was answer enough. “Dunno what you said to her, but she sent Hadrian off with a Howler and I’m pretty sure I know where he was going...”

“She didn’t!” Hermione gasped. She didn’t know whether to cringe or smile at the thought of Ginny’s voice screaming at Ron over top of a plate of crêpes, perhaps within Gabrielle’s earshot. No matter how much she tried to deny it, Ginny was her mother's daughter.

“She didn’t exactly ask for my permission to send it,” he responded, though it was said fondly. His eyes roved over the table Hermione was using as her base of operations, complete with biscuit crumbs and hard liquor. “Er she’s not thrilled that I sent you all that, but knows I can’t say no to you either. Probably doesn't want to encourage me to be less of a soft touch.”

Hermione did smile a tiny smile at that. Harry Potter, certified Great Wizard, at the mercy of witches everywhere. It was nice to smile, she felt out of practice.

“Drink?” Hermione remembered to ask. She didn’t offer any food, because by now there wasn’t any.

“No, thank you.” His manner became slightly more businesslike. “I just came to tell you, in case you haven’t already figured it out, that I duplicated that file and if anything new gets added it will appear there too.”

“I did see. That’s very clever magic, Harry.”

“Figures you’d be impressed by my prowess at administrative charms.”

She laughed sarcastically. She didn’t tell him she’d been duplicating her notes and essays in such a way since third year at Hogwarts, in case something should happen to them.

“And to answer your other question, all known broomsticks are accounted for,” he said.

“...What about my other, other question?” she shifted from one foot to the other, hoping this didn’t betray her nerves.

Harry inhaled deeply, like he was preparing himself for something. “This doesn’t get back to Ginny.” His green eyes darted around the room, as if there might be a portrait of Ginny somewhere with folded arms and a murderous glint in her eye.

Hermione slid her fingers over her lips in a zipping motion.

“If I was to be searching the residence again, tonight, and I was to be doing that alone, and in this imaginary scenario, I was also to have the Invisibility Cloak with me… what would you say to that?”

Hermione’s heart started to beat a little bit faster. She knew it would be madness to follow Harry tonight, but madness and excitement were frequent bedfellows. Getting involved was reckless, not to mention illegal, but it was also noise to drown out the silence. It was a precious distraction before she could return to her work and stare down the British members of the International Confederation of Wizards, daring them to upend their world.

Despite what Ginny said, she was not currently interested in embracing her feelings. She was sick of having them in the first place.

But some feelings could not be ignored. In the process of contemplating a spot of nighttime vigilantism, she couldn’t ignore the fear knocking at the door. Even after all these years, her own screams sometimes echoed in her ears.

Harry was standing in front of the fireplace, waiting for her to say something.

“I don’t think I can go to Malfoy Manor,” Hermione admitted to him when the silence had stretched thin.

Harry's gaze fell onto her neck, and she resisted the urge to grab the spot and squeeze, as if that would somehow make the thin, telltale scar disappear. The softness and understanding he regarded her with was too much to bear, and she looked down, away. Outside the kitchen window a sickle moon was visible and Neville's marvellous jasmine was softly luminescent, releasing its sweet scent into the air.

“Malfoy doesn't live in the Manor. He lives in another building in the grounds, which are fucking massive,” Harry said softly. “I'm not trying to convince you, truly—but just so you know.”

The photos she'd spent too much time looking at made some sense then.

He left words unsaid and she knew it. Reminiscing was a dangerous sport amongst their friends. Some people had broken away because of it, and she could hardly blame them.

“I can do the grounds,” she said, deciding as she spoke.

“Can't even see the Manor, just millions and millions of trees.”

She didn’t want to be left behind.

“Alright, let's do it.” Her voice was stronger now. “Floo or Apparition?”

“We'll Apparate, but you'd better wear the cloak.”

“Just like old times,” she joked feebly. “Wait here while I get my coat.”

And so it was that Hermione found herself in her garden under Ignotus Peverell's familiar cloak, clutching Harry's arm and turning on the spot with determination and deliberation, leaving the destination to her old friend.

Harry hadn't been lying about the trees. They reappeared in a dark forest, surrounded by a phalanx of oaks, gnarled and twisted and ancient. Anamnesis complete, Hermione felt thoroughly 17 again.

“Hallows or Horcruxes?” she joked. Gallows humour had been currency during her time at the DMLE. Laugh or you will spend your days crying at your desk.

Harry lit his wand, illuminating a tapestry of tree roots, dead wood and coiled ferns beneath their feet. “Worse, Slytherins.”

The beam of light revealed little after a quick scan around. Nothing but trees, thick undergrowth, and more trees. The sound of water coursing a path over rocks suggested there was a stream nearby.

“Where—”

Harry pointed, up.

Apparently, Draco Malfoy had built himself a treehouse.

If one could call the full-sized wooden home, with angular roof and vast arched windows, a treehouse. It was most certainly a house, in a tree. She supposed this is the type of thing one did, when one wielded both magic and generational wealth.

“Oh,” she said mildly, not sure what to make of it.

“Yeah, I know.” Harry sighed in an annoyed way. “I wanted to be mad about it, because it seems a bit wankerish, but it's actually quite cool—you'll see. Come on.”

“How are we getting up there?”

Harry held up one finger as he rummaged in the pocket of his cloak. “Never get tired of these pockets you did for me, y’know,” he said, and tumbling hollow sounds could be heard coming from within the fabric.

Hermione's work in magical law had solidified her belief that some laws were suggestive rather than instructive, and that most pockets and handbags were much too small to meet her needs. She had also been known to add extended pockets to garments that had none at all. For equality.

Finally, triumphantly, Harry pulled out his beloved broomstick, a Firebolt X. Hermione had no idea why they slipped from the 3 straight to X. Regardless, 20 years after her first broom ride, Hermione was still committed to her stance regarding her feet remaining firmly on the ground. Flying held no allure for her, whatsoever.

“There's a perimeter set up to detect Apparition, in case Draco or anyone else turns up here. Stephens knows I'm here, but thought we better fly up, just in case.”

Harry mounted his broom, making room for Hermione behind him.

She hesitated.

“Should I remind you that you once rode a dragon?” he said drily.

“And screamed most of the way…” she muttered under her breath.

This was what Ron said every time he suggested a nice ride on a broom was exactly what she needed to get some perspective.

But she'd come this far.

She got on the back of the broom and held Harry's cloak in a death grip.

“1, 2, 3.” They rose up in an easy arc, at the balcony in mere seconds. Harry seemed to decide that she got off too lightly, because he neglected to land and flew two fast loops around the house and the rustling tree tops, before touching down.

She may have squealed in his ear.

Harry’s toes landed lightly on a long wooden balcony, and Hermione’s followed a second later, though with considerably less grace. As soon as she could, she leapt off the broom, mindful that the structure was still quite high up in the air. She was very good at cushioning charms, but she would have to be very fast to cast the spell with enough time to ensure she did not break all her limbs. Better not to look down.

Harry stowed away his broom and waved his wand at enormous folding glass doors. Like an accordion they receded, leaving a wide entrance to the shadowy room beyond.

“Wards?” she asked, whispering as though someone might hear them. A creature that she hoped was an owl screeched nearby.

“There were blood wards,” Harry grimaced. “Pretty dark if you ask me, but not illegal. Fortunately Stephens has yet to find somewhere she can’t get into, and Malfoy's mum’s blood worked to unravel the spell. We’re safe. Well, maybe not safe safe, but we’ve been much less safe before. Come on.”

He led the way inside.

“Lux Grandis,” he muttered, and golden light flared all around the room.

‘Cool’ was the way Harry had described the place, and certainly that was one word for it. There was a lot of wood, a lot of cream, and as the photos had suggested, a lot of books. Gravity-defying shelves lined most of the walls that weren’t windows. Hermione's immediate thought was of her father’s favourite television programme. Grand Designs, eat your heart out.

They were in one large room, serving as kitchen and living room. The kitchen was all straight lines with clear white bench tops and lots of cupboards. There was a mammoth cream settee, horseshoe-shaped and large enough to seat an entire Quidditch team, plus reserves. In front of a white stone fireplace, two clearly expensive brown armchairs sat, a game of wizard’s chess set up between them.

Upon her first scan, the biggest surprise was how… Muggle… it all looked. Yes, magic was everywhere, but it was subtle. It was in the floating glass bubbles serving as lighting, in the several pieces of art that refused to stay static, in the glittering powder sitting in a decorative bowl on the mantelpiece.

Hermione walked deeper into the house, staring from the Floo powder to the painting over the fireplace of an epic, churning sea moving in and out, white-crested waves shining in the moonlight.

A small hallway led past the kitchen area to the bathroom. She opened the door. It was a dark space, with herringbone green tiles in a familiar, Slytherin green. In the daylight, a skylight over a cavernous bathtub might show the highest leaves on the trees and the sky beyond.

Hermione had been so busy looking, peering through this oddly intimate window into the life of her high school bully, that she had almost forgotten entirely why she was there.

The house was a cosy temperature, no doubt enchanted that way, and it was extremely stuffy under the cloak. Face flushed with heat, she remembered her deal with Harry and dutifully remained concealed beneath the ancient fabric. Even though her first charm reassured her that she and Harry were alone with the trees and the small creatures of the night.

Making space under the cloak with her left hand for the complex wand movements required with her right, she started whispering incantations, starting with the most obvious that would most certainly have been already performed and moving on from there. She cast multiple variations of Revelio and traced fiery runes arranged in meticulous order, sending them flickering throughout the room.

The bathroom revealed nothing to her.

She returned to the living room, her spells like a quiet chant, her wand moving quickly through runes, angles and shapes, simple and complex. Her wand tip glowed green, pink and then a brilliant white.

“You there, Hermione?”

“Yes,” she said, concentrating on the shapes she was tracing.

“Anything so far?”

“I can conclude that this is a magical dwelling and a variety of magic has been performed here.” She stepped slowly, one foot in front of the other. “Not dark magic, it seems, but we are within the vicinity of a very dark footprint, so I can’t be sure.”

“That’s what Zamfir said too,” Harry confirmed. Zamfir was a hairy, burly Auror who looked like he spent most of his days chopping wood in a Romanian forest, rather than unravelling complex spellwork. “Bedroom and study are upstairs.” The same configuration as her own cottage.

She followed Harry up the floating staircase. The stairs floated not just in the Muggle architectural sense of the word, but were truly hovering in the air. Much like the balcony, the staircase did not have a bannister of any kind. The owner of the house apparently had confidence in his balance or his magical ability—or perhaps in both.

There were two doors off the landing, all in that same warm, light wood.

Harry led her into the bedroom.

Dimly, she wondered at all the perplexing permutations of the universe which had led her to be standing in Draco Malfoy's bedroom.

The room really was mostly bed, dominated by an enormous bouclé bed frame, with soft grey linen everywhere. A window in the ceiling looked up towards the winking stars above and a doorway led through a truly cavernous wardrobe to a small ensuite.

Hermione was both surprised and mildly irritated by how calm and tasteful everything was. Galleons often did not buy good taste. She had visited a wealthy elder of the Wizengamot once, whose entire decorating strategy seemed to be offing non-magical animals and bewitching their taxidermied bodies to play brass instruments.

Trying to forget the elephant with the trumpet, Hermione refocused on the task at hand. She flowed through her spell work, whilst Harry looked meticulously through a carved wooden jewellery box, tapping an ancient looking signet ring with his wand, in case it decided to bite him.

The magic was certainly stronger here, but she was pulled towards the study.

“Study,” she whispered to Harry, who was opening drawers with distaste.

Back home, Hermione’s cottage study was small, with embossed floral wallpaper featuring butterflies and birds, that she had enchanted to slowly flutter and flit around the room. In the centre of the room was her desk and favourite leather chair. A white laptop, protected by a shield charm sat in the centre of her desk; Ron had often given it the look he might give a very dark artefact. There were book shelves, meticulous organised piles everywhere, and a gallery wall that told many stories about her. Only days before, she had stuck up a postcard from Barbara Kruger’s show in Amsterdam.

Your comfort is my silence.

Draco Malfoy’s study was spacious and neat where hers was not. A huge wooden desk was the main feature, with bookshelves and several shelved magic instruments along the wall behind his chair. Two other chairs sat in front, as if he summoned people here to fire them. There was a shining cello on a stand in one corner.

Hermione noticed a Foe Glass hanging on the wall. The figures were barely visible.

She wanted to open the drawers, but it felt strange to do so. Perhaps Harry would be willing to. As she turned to call for him, she was interrupted by the movement of an immense silver shape, gliding up the stairs towards the bedroom.

Like an incoming tempest. She knew that vulture.

With a nervous ‘oh’, she followed the Patronus into Malfoy's bedroom, where it landed in front of Harry, rustling its wings and tossing its featherless head.

Harry shot her a swift look. Patronuses could not hear, but Stephens’ vulture looked ready to shred and eat anything that it found untoward, dead or alive.

“Potter,” the vulture said in Stephens’ commanding voice. “Need all hands in London. Wizard on Muggle violence in a bar in Soho. Looks like a fucking Conjunctivitis Curse on the Muggle and he fell and hit his head. Anyway he's bloody dead and seems like he might have been famous and the Muggle police have our bloke. The Obliviation squad is on the way and it's a great fucking mess. Get here, now.”

She'd never heard a Patronus swear quite so much.

When the vulture had faded away, Harry closed the jewellery box with a snap. He groaned.

“Shit.”

Until she was rudely sent on holiday, Hermione and her colleagues were working tirelessly towards more cooperation between Muggles and wizards. This oil and water situation was a reminder of the sheer uphill nature of that battle.

“That's awful Harry, that poor Muggle.” She wondered how famous… David Beckham? Jeremy Clarkson?

“If people would just stop drinking and waving their wands about, the world would be a better place… I'd be out of the job, but a small price to pay. Anyway, where are you exactly? We'll Apparate out from here.”

Hermione, exasperated, pulled off the cloak finally. Her hair went wild with static. “There's another spell I could do, takes a while, but—”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “We have to go, Stephens'll give me the worst job going if I'm late.”

“I can stay,” she said immediately.

“I knew you'd say that—look Hermione, we don't know what happened or if it's safe…”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Yes, Harry Potter was an excellent wizard, and was maturing like fine wine. But Harry Potter would have been very dead a number of times if it weren't for Hermione Granger.

“I can look after myself.”

“I know you can,” Harry said, exasperated. “But you don't have to.” His meaning extended beyond investigating the disappearance of Draco Malfoy.

“One more spell, then I'll go.”

“Hermione…”

Hermione folded her arms, indicating that she would not be moved.

Harry held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine! But wear the cloak and use the Floo, yeah? I'll be ‘round to see you tomorrow, but I'll have to bring the kids too. They'd love to see Aunty Hermy.”

An affectionate nickname, brought about by toddler James’ inability to say her name.

He kissed her rather peevishly on the head, before Apparating away.

Now, she was in the calm bedroom, quite alone. She cast a quick perimeter by pointing her wand at the sky light. She would know if anyone approached.

Flouting Harry's orders immediately, next she stashed the cloak in the deep, deep interior pocket of her lilac coat, idly wondering what Ron would say if he could see her now.

No, she didn't wonder what Ron would say, because she didn't care what he thought, and he probably had a face full of French bosoms and was not thinking of her at all.

A complex potion of thoughts swirled around her head, and not even Golpalott’s Third Law could sort them out. She resumed wandering slowly around the house. She examined the spines of books, and the subtle touches of personality here and there. An empty tea cup on his desk, a photo of three finely dressed smirking young men on a shelf. Downstairs, a vase of glittering white hydrangeas on the table. A well-stocked cocktail cabinet, that she was sure would make her a Manhattan if she asked it to.

And everywhere, a deep, warm, woody smell.

This didn't seem like the home of an omnipresent, ghoulish bully, persecuting Hagrid and spitting foul epithets at her.

Filthy little Mudblood.

On the contrary, this house seemed like a place she might live—if she was slightly more ostentatious and less fond of her cottage.

Hermione sat on the ground. One spell, she'd told Harry.

Tracing magical signatures was fiendishly difficult, and to do true justice to the process would require days of Arithmancy to prepare. She would have to make do. With a cleansing breath, she began, closing her eyes, and moving her wand as though conducting an orchestra through a complex fortissimo. The incantation was in her head, but her lips still moved automatically.

Ten minutes, then twenty minutes passed. Inch by inch, threads seemed to connect her to all corners of the house, and she felt little disturbances everywhere. She was Shelob in her lair and she knew all. She felt the stubbornness of the objects, the fading flavour of a select handful of visitors, and she felt him.

His was a strong, unyielding presence. A presence that seemed to be, unsurprisingly, green. Yet, somehow softer than she would've reasonably expected. A drop of sweat ran down her neck.

Upstairs, her threads encountered a supernova.

Her eyes flew open. There was most certainly something up there, something powerfully magical.

She all but sprinted back up the stairs, two at a time, boots echoing against the floating wood.

She was standing in the study. Looking for something, something, something.

No longer hesitant, she opened the drawers. She pulled books off the shelves, waved her wand here, there and everywhere.

And finally, fruitlessly, sat in the executive style chair behind Draco's desk. Summoning her threads again was extremely draining, but she would not allow herself to surrender to being exhausted. Her body was secondary to her mind as the threads led her to…

The almost bare desktop.

Hermione stared at the polished wood. She started tapping and tracing methodically, though she was growing more and more frustrated. Moreover, she was completely exhausted.

Until she detected blood. Not a lot, but blood all the same.

Reflecting upon her actions later, Hermione wasn’t sure what led her to do it, but she gritted her teeth and sliced her index finger open with her wand. The blood of her Muggle parents bubbled forth, and she traced two runes across the surface of a Pureblood's desk.

A window appeared to open in the wood, and a pale stone basin rose slowly out of the desk to rest in front of her.

A Pensieve.

Oh.

Her heart thundered with triumph and she surveyed it with her hands pressed against her lips, as though in prayer. She felt sure that if the Aurors had found this it would have been in the file. No, she was the one who had uncovered it, and she wished fervently she could call Harry back to marvel with her, and perhaps gently gloat.

She knew she should back away, and that fraternising with an unknown artefact was ill-advised, especially while alone.

But she would not wait.

Pensieves were exceptionally rare magical objects. The only other one Hermione knew of was safely ensconced in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. She had seen it, and heard the legend of its discovery by the Founders, but had never been able to delve into it as Harry had. She had of course been dizzyingly jealous of his forays into Dumbledore's memories, and had comforted herself by reading extensively on the subject.

From what she knew, this particular Pensieve defied what little was recorded about them. For starters, it was very… pink. Rosy opals and blushing sapphires sparkled around the lip of the basin and a soft cherubic glow seemed to surround it, and by extension, her. The Runic inscription was completely out of order, upside down and including symbols she had never seen before. She could not translate them by sight alone. That thought made her giddy.

The basin swam with a rose gold rather than a silvery substance, and now that it was before her its magic was palpable, overwhelming. She raised her wand with a trembling hand over the surface of the not quite liquid, not quite gas and it swirled obligingly.

She wouldn't lower her face in, as much as she wanted to, but there was an inexplicable allure beyond the intellectual. Madness drew her in, cleared away all her doubts. She couldn't help leaning closer, breathing in deeply through her nose.

An unruly, foolish, thoughtless curl of hair slipped over her shoulder…

And skimmed across the bright surface of the Pensieve.

Draco Malfoy's study dissolved into nothingness.

Chapter Text

Hermione was dead.

She was dead and everything was bright white and as cold as a winter frost. The ground shuddered and quaked beneath her. Shapes emerged from the mist and the confusion, and a window silently appeared beside her. Outside, familiar countryside and a rapidly approaching night slid by.

Her mouth was so dry. Where was she?

She catalogued an empty bench seat opposite her, and a sliding glass door to her left. Youthful laughter swirled and twittered around her, only just audible over the roaring in her ears. Breathe. It appeared she was in a train compartment, alone, surrounded by an obscene number of sweet wrappers strewn around like colourful leaves.

Death, then, was like Harry had described. One could board a train, onwards, into that most unknown of magics. She hadn’t expected there would be litter. And she didn’t feel dead, but then again, what did being dead feel like? Such a question had diverted poets and philosophers since time immemorial, and she could not add much to the discourse.

Only this: being dead felt like riding the Hogwarts Express.

Although the compartment she was sitting in was presently empty, she was quite sure she was not alone on the train. On the contrary, through the glass she was able to see the compartment opposite, filled with a group of chattering Hufflepuff girls. Students who seemed very small indeed to her adult eyes, ran up and down the corridor, apparently having a race of some sort. There were more great whoops of laughter.

A young girl with a head of bushy hair bustled past at a blistering pace, self-righteousness pouring off her like smoke.

It can’t be.

Except, how long had she lived in the world of magic? Of course it could be. Somehow, some way, Hermione was quite certain she had just seen her 11 year old self on a mission.

Perhaps where wasn't the pertinent interrogative word. When was she? She did some very quick thinking.

She concluded that she was quite probably not dead, though it was not entirely out of the realm of possibilities. Considering her recent proximity to the Pensieve with the pink stones, it was most likely that she was currently inside a memory. Thus, by the time-honoured process of elimination, if that was the case, signs would point towards this being Draco Malfoy’s memory.

She chewed the inside of her cheek as she continued to ponder the drawbacks to this theory. Both Harry and the books she had consulted on the subject had suggested that there was an insubstantial nature to memories projections, yet everything around her felt so… real.

As a 13 year old, highly questionable decision-making had allowed Hermione to join a tiny pool of individuals to have experienced time travel, though only for hours at a time. As far as she knew, traversing back almost 20 years had never been done. Even in the magical world, it was considered an impossible feat. At least according to Important Modern Magical Discoveries and Ticking Away the Dull Day: The Invention and Regulation of Time Turners.

And yet if there was even the slightest chance this was the past, she must not change anything—must not be seen. Altering even a mundane occurrence this far in the past could shatter the world as she knew it. She could return to a world where Blast Ended-Skrewts had replaced humans as the dominant species. She could return to a world where Voldemort had triumphed and Muggle-borns were enslaved.

The pieces clicked into place, alongside a prickle of fear. She remembered the cloak in her pocket with a start. Please be there, please be there.

Hermione reached her hand into the suitcase sized pocket and withdrew the Invisibility Cloak with relief. She threw it over her head, and sidled out of the compartment.

She had acted not a moment too soon. Three very familiar figures were making their way down the train corridor, muttering angrily. One of them was cradling his finger and howling about “that bloody rat!”

She was looking into the face of a dead boy, and finding it hard to breathe. Crabbe, with Goyle at his side. Fiendfyre whipped and whirled through her memory. Both boys looked far older and larger than their 11 years. Hermione realised she hadn’t thought about Vincent Crabbe or Gregory Goyle in a very long time. They were a caricature in her memory; henchmen in a Bond film. She let herself wonder about them briefly; she wondered whether Goyle, now imprisoned in Azkaban, ever missed his friend who had seemed more like his other half than a mere companion.

Slightly behind them, paler, smaller and obviously spitting mad, was Draco Malfoy.

There was Draco Malfoy, but where was Draco Malfoy?

The trio showed no signs of noticing her, invisible and plastered to a wall. They disappeared into the compartment and she heaved a quiet sigh of relief, just as a disembodied voice echoed around the train, telling the students that they would be arriving at Hogsmeade Station in five minutes’ time. Her mind filled in the next steps… the carriages… the boats… the Great Hall.

It was September 1st, 1991 and 11 year old Hermione was about to be sorted into Gryffindor house.

Beneath the cloak, as the train pulled into the station, 30 year old Hermione was rapidly going through her predicament and her options: if she was in the Pensieve, there had to be a way out, and she would have to take it. Being found in Malfoy’s house with an exceptionally rare magical object would quite possibly end her career, not to mention Harry’s. It was untenable. If she was in the true past, well… she had absolutely no idea what to do. More information would need to be gathered. But how?

Hogwarts students were piling into the corridor as the train slowly came to a stop, unaware of the invisible, conflicted witch in their midst, trying to be as tiny as possible.

An over-enthusiastic Hufflepuff trod bodily on Hermione’s foot. It… hurt. A Ravenclaw jostled her from behind. She stifled her gasp. They gave no sign that they had noticed anything amiss.

She joined the throng pushing towards the doors, holding the cloak tight so it would not be accidentally pulled from her. The students alighted onto the platform, darkened and swept over by the reliably cold Highland air. That smell. She couldn’t remember anything about olfactory memories being recreated by the Pensieve, nor atmospheric conditions such as warmth or a slight chill…

Hagrid was moving through the crowd as if he were a snowplough, as ageless as ever, but younger even so, calling for, “Firs’ years, this way!”

Hermione slunk silently away from the crowds, to the shadowy fringes of the station. Bright laughter drew her gaze, and Fred and George Weasley passed by. The young twins, together as they should be. The sight momentarily robbed her of breath.

She had to get out. She turned on the spot, thinking of Draco Malfoy’s study.

Nothing happened.

She pointed her wand at the sky, attempting a controlled ascension, up and out. For all good that did, she may as well have been a mad woman holding a stick. She certainly was starting to feel that way. By now, the platform was almost empty.

If these were Malfoy’s memories and there was any logic left in the world, they would unfold around him. He was in control. For now, she could see no other option but to follow Hagrid and the first years from a safe distance, staying close to the young protagonist-cum-antagonist. She looked for Hagrid’s large form and the bobbing lantern, and set off.

As she clambered up the steep path, it was properly dawning on her that she might be in rather deep trouble. It was a very uncomfortable realisation, especially for one who spent most of her days undoing the troubles of others. In spite of this, as she crested the hill and the young students before her made noises of wonder, she couldn’t help but absorb what they were feeling, for she remembered it so well. She turned her head slightly and caught sight of her own young face shining, transfixed.

It was surreal.

She looked at the glittering lake, and a castle, lit up magnificently. Hogwarts—a place of belonging and of battle. A home.

Feeling as though she needed an extra minute, she lingered, watching the path of a bird, soaring on wide wings, down from the hill and over the shining water. When she could no longer delay, Hermione followed down to the boats, carefully casting a weightless charm on herself before hitching a ride with tiny Hannah Abbott and—another jolt—Lavender Brown. In her mind she saw Lavender shredded, dead at the claws and teeth of Fenrir Greyback. She chewed on her fingernail until the image faded.

The boat carrying Draco as well as Crabbe and Goyle glided along the glassy lake next to them. The young Malfoy’s face was set in a determined expression.

Through the tunnel, up the stairs—finally, in front of the oak door. Hagrid knocked thunderously. Hermione tried to take it all in, but time seemed to be moving very fast, and she couldn’t be sure if it was her own whirring brain causing it, or the enchanted nature of the predicament she was in.

Minerva McGonagall’s stern face appeared. It was a face she had grown to respect, a witch she held in the highest regard, and whom she held as a role model well into adulthood. Torch light glimmered across the entrance hall. Hermione followed quietly behind the nervous flock of first years, silencing her feet on the flagstones and entering the small waiting room. Professor McGonagall patiently explained the Sorting. She watched her own young face again from her spot pressed against the wall. Back then, she had been holding her chin up as if in defiance. Nearby, Draco Malfoy’s 11 year old chin did the same. Huh.

Hermione knew that for all the rightness she felt when her Hogwarts letter arrived, the seed of fear in her stomach remained then and for many years hence—perhaps it had all been a mistake.

She almost leapt a foot in the air as the Bloody Baron glided through her body, alongside the other Hogwarts ghosts streaming through the back wall. Horrendous, icy cold hit her like a wave. It was a miracle she hadn’t screamed. She cast Muffiliato around herself, hoping no more ghosts would walk through her. It was an extremely unpleasant feeling, and another puzzling development—that had been an horrific sensation, and as real as her feet on the floor.

The crowd shuffled into the Great Hall, looking around with astonishment. Students were lining up to be sorted. Hermione lingered at the back. Reality or memory? Even if this was not her own memory, it was a moment of such significance in her life that the detail was written into her soul. Everything was just as she recalled. From the starry sky above, to Harry’s face as she told him all about it.

The Sorting Hat was singing, and then it was roaring: “HUFFLEPUFF!” “RAVENCLAW!”

Then, “Granger, Hermione!”

Young Hermione had been so impatient, perhaps overzealous. The conversation between her and the hat had been private, like everyone’s was. Seconds passed like hours as her fate was decided. That moment truly was a crux - she could have insisted that she was Ravenclaw material. The hat could have seen that streak of ruthlessness, under it all and sent her straight to Slytherin.

How different it could have been.

She could never forget that voice in her head, telling her that she had a surfeit of the wit and wisdom that Rowena Ravenclaw prized, but that it could see the fire that drove her, the courage of her convictions that would guide her.

Sooner or later, it had said, they will all see it too.

The Sorting Hat’s cry of “GRYFFINDOR!” echoed in her mind and across the years.

After a barely recognisable, pre-pubescent Neville was also sorted into Gryffindor, she knew who was next on the block. He walked with such arrogance, like a proud bird of paradise. It was clear that he had an assured sense of the world, and his place in it. She didn’t know why she held her breath and looked around, as if the child would suddenly become the man.

There was no deliberation before the Sorting Hat screamed out the house bearing Salazar Slytherin’s name, sealing Draco Malfoy’s fate just as surely as her own.

There was a knowing smirk on the boy’s face just before the entire world went white.

The frigid void crushed the air out of her lungs. She clutched her hands to her heaving chest, all the while that roaring sounded again, as though she was surrounded by relentless white water rapids, carving their path through earth and rock.

Elsewhere, a door slammed so hard that glass broke.

Her vision returned slowly, as it had on the train. Once the disorientation passed, she found herself standing in the centre of the Hogwarts hospital wing. The ward was awash with golden afternoon light, and the beds lining the walls lay empty, crisply made up with white linens awaiting the ill and infirm. And of course, those mangled by Quidditch.

All empty, but one. In the furthest corner, long curtains were drawn tight, concealing whoever lay behind them.

Homenum Revelio, Hermione thought. Still nothing. This was a memory, surely, just as the Sorting had been. Unlike the Sorting however, Hermione was at a disadvantage. Despite the many days and nights she had spent reposing in one of these beds—petrified, cursed, half-feline, and crying beside Ron’s bedside—she knew it was not her younger self who lay behind those curtains.

She was back to listing her options in her mind, when Severus Snape swept into the hospital wing, sealing the door behind him. He paid no heed to the broken glass on the floor.

Snape’s strides had always been long, his pace brisk, ensuring that his ever-black robes flowed behind him. A bitter and cold man, embodied by his secrets, the echo of him cut the same imposing figure he had in life.

Hermione took a hasty backwards step between two beds as he prowled through the wing, and opened the curtains around the corner bed with a lazy sweep of his wand.

Draco Malfoy lay propped up against a pillow, wearing black pyjamas that emphasised his pallor, as pale as his linens. He looked older, past any of the awkwardness of puberty, but not yet possessing his full adult grace. He looked at the Potions master in distaste.

“Leave me alone,” Draco said, not looking at Snape.

Hermione was immediately transfixed and took several silenced steps closer.

“I have been informed that you were trying to leave the hospital wing, contrary to the advice you have repeatedly been given,” Snape said silkily. He did not sit.

Draco’s mouth thinned in place of a reply. He appeared truly unwell, no more than skin stretched over bones, drawn and terrified underneath his defiant facade.

They exchanged words that Hermione couldn’t hear. She risked moving closer still.

Snape’s lip curled in the direction of a vase full of truly ostentatious pink flowers at the bedside. “I see Nott Junior has been to visit.”

“He is also struggling to grasp the concept that his presence is unwelcome,” Draco replied with less venom than the sentiments demanded.

“It is a strange thing,” Snape mused. “To save someone’s life when it is clear they place such little value on it.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Perhaps next time I shall let you exsanguinate on the bathroom floor.”

Both voices were bitter. Knowing what she knew, Hermione could see before her two people fighting the same demons, the older seeing himself in the younger, misguided and imperilled. The machinations, current and future, that they were inextricably tangled in.

“You should have let me die. As an added bonus you could have laid down and died beside me, since you were stupid enough to make that vow. And maybe if I died, people would be forced to see Saint Potter as the filth that he is.”

“Draco—I can help.” Snape’s tone had changed, quieter, as close to gentle as she had ever heard it.

Draco’s eyes closed and he turned his head away from the man in black. It was clear he did not trust Snape. Perhaps, back then, he hadn’t trusted anyone. “I said, leave me alone.”

They had reached an impasse. Neither would give another inch.

Finally, Snape said, “Do not fall behind in your school work.”

As Draco scoffed, Snape turned on his heel, and left so quickly Hermione had to jump backwards out of his way.

The figure in the bed was now alone as he had requested, but that fact didn’t seem to have given him any relief. He didn’t draw the curtains, and Hermione watched, fascinated, as he whispered, “Speculo,” and conjured a silver mirror into his hand.

He ran a finger slowly down his face. She wasn’t close enough to see a mark there, but as he unbuttoned the top of his pyjamas, her lips opened in shock to see the network of thin red lines like a sash across his collarbone and chest.

Harry had done that to him.

His face remained neutral, and the mirror vanished from his hand. All too soon, Hermione plunged again into icy nothingness.

Chapter Text

Leaping between realities was a ghastly feeling. It was akin to being overcome by the sheer force of an avalanche, before eventually, exhaustedly, tunnelling out of the snow to find an unrecognisable landscape.

Hermione had no sense of what time it was, in any reality. What she did know was that she was depleted, and weariness buried under her skin down to the very marrow of her bones. Her eyes blurred with fatigue, and she rubbed them absently, before looking around, coming to terms with the new setting she found herself in.

It was a room.

Enormous. Extensively and expensively decorated. Above her, high ceilings were hung with ornate chandeliers, pristine and glittering.

They were hauntingly familiar, for there had once been a time she lay flat on her back beneath the crystals, praying to deities she did not believe in. Screaming and screaming.

Malfoy Manor.

Right before this whole mess started she told Harry she didn't want to return to this place of darkness. And yet here she was. If Draco had still lived there, like she had assumed, perhaps she would’ve stayed in her cottage instead of wandering through a treehouse, using complex tracing spells like a woman possessed.

Had that all been earlier that day? Or months ago maybe… perhaps, years from now—somehow? Time was an abstraction. Maybe all roads eventually led here.

Her eyes caught on a creamy rug near the hearth. The plush wool was stained russet with dried blood. Her trembling legs told her to run. Undoubtedly, many awful things had happened in this room. She didn't care to bear witness to any of them.

Carved double doors flew open before she could act, and a tall woman with shining black hair and a Death Eater's robe marched into the room like she owned every inch of it. On her heels, a reluctant Draco followed. Although not in Death Eater’s robes, he too wore black down to his boots and was as white as a corpse.

Older, but still not an adult. Not the Draco she was looking for.

Hermione was so repulsed by the sight of Bellatrix Lestrange at the height of her cruelty, she was not prepared for what happened next. Bellatrix slashed her wand carelessly through the air and a long wooden table, along with all its chairs, careened towards the edge of the room. Directly towards where Hermione was standing.

She cast a shield at the last possible second, but was still thrown against the wall behind her, just beneath the portrait of a haughty blonde witch who scowled deeply at all the commotion.

Hermione's back rippled with pain. The Invisibility Cloak was askew, and she was sure that the lower half of her body had been visible for several seconds. She froze against that wall, ready for attack… poised to make a move. But Draco and Bellatrix gave no sign that they knew they were being watched, or that they noticed the table encountered an obstacle and hadn’t quite tucked itself against the wall as intended.

Nonplussed, Hermione reached out and touched the wood of the table. It was cool and smooth beneath her fingers. Solid. It could have broken her ribs. The impact she had felt up her spine was very real, and it would likely leave a bruise.

How can this be a memory?

In the middle of the drawing room, Bellatrix drew close to her nephew. Far too close. Draco had surpassed her height by this point, but she still seized his chin and drove her wand into his temple.

“Show me,” Bellatrix commanded. A silver dagger materialised in her left hand in a swirl of smoke.

Hermione wanted to get out. No, she needed to get out. There was a door on her left, less than two metres away. Could she risk trying to open it? Would they notice? And what horrors would be waiting on the other side?

“Legilimens,” Bellatrix laughed.

Draco panted, as though in terrible pain.

Hermione's throat was tight. She would have to risk—she did not want to see this.

She lurched sideways, ignoring another agonised sound from Draco. The second unlocking spell Hermione tried worked, and the door sprung open to allow her entry.

She sealed it shut behind her. Relief flooded her system and she leaned against the wood, panting.

She found herself in a small parlour, with mint green walls and a painted ceiling. The walls were crowded with yet more portraits of long dead ancestors, suggesting that vanity might be an inherited trait amongst the Malfoys, alongside those particular stormcloud eyes.

At first glance, the room appeared mercifully empty. A relief, when Hermione had been forced to quickly consider the possibility of opening the door to find Lord Voldemort on the other side. To confirm her assumption, she cast Homenum Revelio.

This time, a glowing light told her she was not alone.

She whirled, instinctively taking a defensive stance beneath the cloak. Figures dozed and blinked in their portraits.

For an eternity she stayed like that, coiled like a cat ready to spring.

The war had been over for some time, but some things embedded themselves in the flesh. She could hear nothing from the other room, and this was causing her exhausted mind to fixate on every tiny noise, to luridly imagine what Bellatrix was doing with that silver knife. Would she—had she truly carved into Draco’s pale skin? Her own nephew?

She moved away from the door, away from the thoughts, and took two slow steps forward.

The ground sparked gold beneath her footfalls.

Hermione gasped.

“Oh there you are Potter,” came a familiar drawl. “Never did grow out of sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, did you?”

Horror-struck, Hermione turned slowly to see the last of a disillusionment charm trickle upwards, revealing a decidedly adult Draco Malfoy. He stepped lightly towards her, wrath leashed for now, sparks flying beneath his own feet. He had set a trap then, knowing that he was being trailed by someone invisible.

He had been waiting. And although she was still beneath the safety of the cloak, it felt like he was looking directly into her eyes.

“Now why don't you take off that cloak so we can have a proper conversation?” Draco said softly.

He took a seat in a silk-covered chair with rolled arms, his legs spread rather wider than was necessary. His wand rested casually on one knee. It was a performance, intended to communicate that he was nonchalant and detached, but Hermione noted that his grip was as tight as his jaw, his knuckles bloodless.

Up close, she also found that Draco was quite dishevelled, which was not a state she had encountered him in before. His collarless shirt was wrinkled, and several days of stubble the colour of Galleons was scattered across his jaw. Most notably, deep shadows marred the skin beneath his eyes.

A word slid above the fray inside her mind, unbidden. Interesting.

“We don’t have time for this, Potter,” Draco scolded, as though speaking to a child. “Don’t make me curse you.”

Would he start hurling hexes if she didn't comply? Would he attack her anyway for being here, for seeing what she had seen?

The debate in her mind of what to do ended forthwith. Truly, there was no other course of action that she could see. She had nowhere to run. The ground would betray her every step.

Once, the boy has been terrified and unpredictable, therefore dangerous. The man on the chair was an unknown quantity. A figure alone under a cherry tree.

It was good, perhaps, that Hermione Granger had a heretofore limitless capacity to learn new things.

She pulled the Invisibility Cloak off roughly, over her head. She knew that she was flushed and that her hair was chaos, but she would not falter.

Hermione stared him down.

Draco tried to disguise his shock at seeing her under something like distaste, but it was plain enough. It was safe to say he had not been expecting her sudden appearance. Such was his confusion, that he seemed momentarily lost for words, his lips slightly open. However, his body spoke for him when his wand arm moved from relaxed to raised.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded of her, enunciating each word. His voice was deeper and smoother than it had once been.

There were so many answers to his question, and none that quite seemed to cover all of the disastrous bases that lead to her standing in front of him now. Ron’s note, Crookshanks’ grave, Harry’s kindness, the beautiful house in the trees, runes written in blood on the surface of a desk…

In truth, even in normal circumstances she wouldn’t know how to simply talk to Draco Malfoy, and it had been over a decade since she’d even considered it. Most of her school years were spent ignoring his sneers and imploring Harry and Ron to do the same.

“You disappeared,” she said eventually, as if those two words could possibly serve as an adequate explanation.

“...And they sent you?” He raised a sardonic brow.

If she wasn’t busy being mortified, she might have been insulted.

“Not exactly,” Hermione admitted.

When she didn’t elaborate his lip curled. “You know what? I don't have time to listen to whatever tosh you're about to come up with. Just get us out of here and then you can tell me all about how Potter still gets you to do his homework for him, hm?”

Dread pooled in her stomach. She shifted on her feet, and the floor sparked once more. “You can't... get out?”

“Would I still be here, if I could?” Draco gestured around the immaculate parlour as if it was a festering rubbish tip, and she a particularly mouldy part of it.

The terrible truth was dawning on her. He was stuck, ergo, she was stuck.

And she would have to confess.

“Malfoy, this place… I don't think I understand it,” Hermione told him honestly, shaking her head. She was finding it difficult to outline her predicament and therefore the fact she was not currently in control of the situation. “I'm not here to get you out. I don't know how to get out.”

Her words seemed to echo around the room. She felt weak and she did not like it. Stuck.

Trapped.

Draco's head dropped backwards onto the backrest of his chair, exposing his throat to her. He took a deep breath and blinked several times, and Hermione wished she knew what he was thinking. She had so many questions on the tip of her tongue, but exhaustion and the palpable wretchedness of the moment stopped her from speaking again.

She was so tired.

A scream from the other room brought his chin back down and his eyes searing into hers. He was daring her to say something. It seemed that somehow, he knew that scream would come.

“These are your memories, aren't they?” Hermione whispered, needing to know.

“No, Granger,” he responded, unfolding from his chair and rising to his full height.

“This is Purgatory.”

And she knew what would come next: cold whiteness. Absence that tore away breath and sight.

Emerging again, Hermione's senses were immediately assaulted by a cacophony of music and merriment. There was a bright green rectangle swimming into focus in front of her, and low lamps illuminated an undulating haze of blue smoke.

She clutched the Invisibility Cloak to her chest like a safety blanket, jarringly finding herself in a crowd of people, quite exposed. She raised her wand, but no one so much as looked at her.

Except him.

Across what was evidently a pool table, Draco Malfoy stood next to Draco Malfoy. One Draco seemed to be wearing a Hogwarts school uniform, or at least the shirt and loosened tie part of it. His hair was shorter, neater. The other was peering at her malevolently, ignoring all the others in the room just as surely as they were ignoring the fact that there were two of him.

Hermione watched as young Draco fired a white ball of light from his wand, aiming at a yellow billiard ball. His aim was true and the ball sank obligingly into a corner pocket… until the pocket made a gagging noise and spat it back out.

Raucous laughter sounded near her ear.

“Lady Luck has abandoned you, Draco!” Theodore Nott's cheerful voice cut through the din.

Hermione looked around. There was Pansy Parkinson holding a black cigarette between two manicured fingers, Theo Nott drinking red wine, and Blaise Zabini with his arm around a beautiful girl whom Hermione didn't recognise.

Where was she?

Pansy bent to line up a shot and Hermione jumped when Pansy's lithe body brushed against hers.

Still nothing.

She took two steps back, making space between herself and the room full of Slytherins. She was confident by this point that the Invisibility Cloak was quite superfluous, and she hurriedly stashed it in her coat’s inner pocket. Draco was still watching her though, and that made her feel visible indeed. It was extremely unnerving.

Well, if he was going to be like that she could ask him the question forming on her lips.

“Where are we?”

He acted as if she hadn't said anything and continued to look at her like she was a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.

Blaise’s beautiful eyes were intense as he sank a ball with finesse. He straightened and his companion kissed him playfully on the cheek. Then the black eight ball teleported across the table, from one end to the other.

“Follow me,” said adult Draco, turning before he could see if she would acquiesce. Like he was confident she would do as he said.

She followed as he walked up a winding stone staircase, but not because he told her to.

They emerged into a cavernous chamber with stone walls and a number of dark leather sofas scattered about. The warm light from a huge hearth was at war with the eerie, green glow of hundreds of glass pendants that hung from the low ceiling.

One only had to note the enormous number of serpentine touches about the place to deduce that they were in the Slytherin Common Room. The pool table must have been located in a basement of sorts (did dungeons have basements?), and was a wholly unexpected feature of Salazar's safe haven. Of course, Hermione would have visited this place once before at age 12, had she not been waylaid by a short stint as a feline-human hybrid.

Draco and Hermione were alone but for two younger girls playing Gobstones in a far corner. The hour seemed to be late.

“Sit,” Draco demanded, having arrived at two bottle green chairs near the fire. Hermione could feel the heat washing over her. She was still wearing a jumper and a coat and the temperature was quickly becoming stifling.

“No, thank you,” she bristled. She would stand forever before she took that invitation.

Draco rolled his eyes and poured himself into one of the chairs.

“Talk,” he then said, lazily waving his hand to indicate she had the floor.

“You first,” she folded her arms.

“I hardly think the one being intruded upon should have to explain themselves to the intruder.”

Intruder. The truth was a Stinging Jinx, but it was truth all the same.

Where to even begin? She thought wretchedly.

“Pool is a Muggle game.”

…Interesting choice.

He didn’t seem surprised at all by her opening comment. “It isn't, and I will not debate you on this point.”

She felt her spine straighten and she tilted her chin up. There was no merit in a prolonged stalemate.

Under different circumstances, Hermione might have enjoyed debating the origins of billiards, but she settled on extending a small olive branch. An olive twig, if you will.

“You've been missing for a week. Maybe more, at this point.”

What little colour was in Draco's cheeks drained away. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back only to have them regroup immediately over his forehead.

“Ah that makes sense,” he said eventually. “If hubby and Potter got put on the case, surely they came straight to you to tie their shoes and wipe their noses first.”

Hermione refrained from commenting about her ‘hubby’, but she didn’t fail to note the acidity of the word as he spoke it.

“Harry let me see your file, yes.” I wanted to help, she didn’t say. She knew the logical follow up to that was ‘why’.

Why, indeed?

“It would seem so. Few missing steps between then and now though, wouldn't you say, Granger?” he looked dangerous. “You were in my house. You found the Pensieve.”

These were not questions. Though she had healed the cut, her fingertip tingled where she had sliced it open. He knew she had bled to uncover his secret. But why was it secret? There was a story here—more, much more.

Footsteps sounded on the stone steps.

Young Draco emerged into the common room, followed closely by Theodore Nott. Theo’s brown hair tousled and pink sat high on his cheekbones—perhaps from the wine Hermione had seen him drinking. She hadn’t noticed before, but the tiny dragonfly badge that marked the students who returned post-war winked on Theo’s chest.

“Come on, Draco,” Theo implored. “Don’t be like that… come back down.”

“I said I was going to bed. Stop following me.”

“Eyes on me, Granger,” said the Draco in the chair, sharply.

Hermione tore her eyes away from young Draco and Theo, even as their conversation continued, rising and falling. She heard Draco order the Gobstone girls to bed.

“You think you have a right to see any of this?” Draco continued furiously. “To walk through my memories like my life is some library book?”

The confirmation of the most likely hypothesis—that these were—was a relief. His vitriol, however, was not.

“I appreciate that this is not an ideal situation, and I did not intend to—” Hermione’s peripheral vision betrayed her when she saw Draco push Theo in the chest. Theo pushed Draco back hard against a wall…

And kissed him full on the mouth.

Hermione’s peripheral vision then promptly proved its worth: she saw a wand movement and heard adult Draco cry “Obscuro!”, before a bang sounded.

Her non-verbal shield was, at this point in her life, nigh impenetrable. She was also a very quick draw. The black blindfold intended for her eyes bounced off her shield and turned into dust.

Draco was standing now, all attempts to reign in his fury abandoned. She maintained her shield, but was very willing to incapacitate him if she needed to. He certainly appeared to be considering further spells. All the while, Hermione concentrated hard on ignoring whatever was going on on the other side of the common room.

Duelling Draco Malfoy at this point would not be productive. If they were truly stuck—an awful revelation that she was currently processing—he had information that she needed.

They were back to a stalemate. Behind them, young Draco quickly crossed the floor and left the common room via the door concealed in stone, out into the castle.

Adult Draco sighed and lowered his wand, even as she kept her shield firmly in place.

“I need to piss before we go to Hong Kong.”

Hermione didn’t even know where to begin, with that statement.

He made to leave, and she made to follow.

“You’re not coming,” he said bluntly.

“This conversation isn’t over,” she protested.

“Well, I no longer wish to be a part of it.” Draco pocketed his wand. “Free advice, Granger, stay here and rest while you can—you look awful.”

And with that, he followed the path of his 18 year old self and left through the stone door.

Hermione finally dropped her shield, and gave up her resistance, sliding into the green chair she’d been pointedly ignoring.

To her right, she couldn’t help but notice the quiet presence of Theo Nott stretched across one of the leather sofas, staring at the ceiling and nursing a fresh glass of red wine.

At school, Hermione recalled that Theo had largely kept to himself. Occasionally, when he was called upon in class, he would give a glimpse of a bright mind, a dry wit, and a talent for complex Transfiguration.

Recent memories of herself drinking wine in the dark sent a tiny spark of affinity stretching across the room from her chest towards the echo of a boy, who had no idea that in some cosmic way he wasn't alone.

She curled her legs up underneath her, imagining Harry discovering that she too had disappeared. Evidently, Draco had been in here for over a week. She couldn't be in here for a week—she had to return to work. She had to be at that hearing! She hoped fiercely for a swift resolution. But it was not Hermione’s way to only rely on diaphanous hope—she would figure this out.

Yet—too tired to operate in entirely rational mode—she prayed that things weren’t as utterly dreadful as they were starting to seem.

Chapter Text

The library in Hermione’s head was open for business and humming with activity, making rest quite impossible. She had stared into the flames, watched as the snakes carved into the mantelpiece seemed to writhe in the firelight.

Inevitably, the choking whiteness came for her.

She sat on a new couch, plush and creamy beneath her. Outside the window, towering skyscrapers lit up the night and a harbour glittered as though strewn with a million colourful jewels. Draco was silhouetted against this sight, enthroned in a dove grey chair.

“Hong Kong,” she said, not knowing whether it was a question or an answer.

“Hong Kong,” he confirmed.

“When?”

“2007.”

2007.

Their opulent surroundings—an apartment perhaps—and that view, were another reminder that Draco was a man of considerable means. As if she needed a reminder after seeing the sodding tree house.

Cutlery clinked gently on porcelain in the next room—a dining room. Through a carved archway between rooms, Hermione could see a stranger’s straight back and dark silky hair set in a neat chignon.

While she watched, the woman's chair drew out by magic, and she swept away from the table. All Hermione saw was a brief glimpse of slim form draped in silver silk, but she felt sure that she had just seen the back of Astoria Greengrass.

A door slammed.

She turned her attention back to Draco, knowing that another Draco sat at the dining table Astoria had vacated, obscured from her view by the sumptuously wallpapered wall.

“We're going,” the Draco she could see announced coldly. “Nothing in this suite concerns you.”

Hotel suite, not apartment, she noted.

Seeing no reason to argue with Draco’s point about what did and didn’t concern her, Hermione nodded. It did not seem likely that he would give her any information if she antagonised or pressed him.

They exited the hotel suite, and stood in a grand golden hallway waiting for the lift to arrive. A Chinese dragon twisted its way through the spiralling clouds on the painted wallpaper, and moved on to the next wall before swirling across the ceiling.

A wizarding hotel, then.

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked, as they stepped into the lift. Forming a ‘we’ with Draco sat uncomfortably in her stomach.

“I'm hungry,” Draco said simply.

“If this is a memory, how do you eat?” she asked, staring at the golden buttons to the left of the lift doors, depicting different animals rather than numbers.

Draco merely tsked at her, as if this was a very irritating question.

The lift arrived at their destination with a merry ‘ting!’, and a soft woman's voice said something in Cantonese.

The doors opened to the sight of a lively restaurant, with deep red carpet and dark wood tables. Between chandeliers, an enormous floral display hovered above the tables, and real hummingbirds flitted around, sampling the blooms.

Draco made a beeline to the buffet. Plump, shining oysters, mussels and prawns sat on beds of crushed ice.

There were no visible staff, and Hermione sensed House Elf magic was at work. She tried to remember where Hong Kong stood on House Elf rights in 2007, which was the year after the landmark signing of Dobby’s Law in Britain.

Draco summoned a plate and piled it high with crab's legs covered in a thick sauce that smelled of ginger.

“Are you going to eat?” he asked, neatly dodging the other diners at the buffet and leading her to a towering display of cakes and sweets. He placed several colourful macarons and a many-layered cream cake on a second plate.

Hermione hesitantly picked up her own dish and selected a custard tart, layered with jewel bright raspberries.

And then they were sitting opposite each other at a table at a magical five star buffet in Hong bloody Kong, and the world no longer made any sense at all.

Hermione bit into her tart. The raspberries were perfectly ripe and spectacularly delicious.

“It's real,” Hermione said, bewildered by the taste on her tongue.

“What's real?” asked Draco, who chased a bite of crab with a bite of cake.

“The food.”

Draco shrugged and continued eating. Hermione found the gesture to be highly irritating.

“You can’t eat food in a memory!” she exclaimed, finding herself quite worked up. Wherever—whenever they were—it defied all logic, even the at times lofty logic of the wizarding world.

Instead of answering, Draco’s smoky gaze fixed on hers and he dug his index finger into the cream on his cake. Unwavering in his eye contact, he raised his finger to his lips and sucked the cream off forthwith.

Point taken.

“There must be rules, Malfoy. A Pensieve will eject you when there is nothing more to see.”

Draco laughed in a hollow kind of way. “Oh yeah? And yet, here I am, in Hong Kong for the 20th time this week.”

Her eyes widened as she took in this piece of information. As she added it to the catalogue, a shimmering hummingbird fluttered down to their table, to visit the vase full of bleeding heart flowers sitting between them. Hermione heard the buzz of its tiny wings, invisible to her eyes.

“Dispense with the idea of rules,” Draco continued once the hummingbird had departed. “I can see you trying to figure it all out, asking why—when the question that really dictates this place is why not.”

She had forgotten she was talking to an Unspeakable. Oddly, Draco was reminding her of Luna Lovegood, of all people.

“But—” she began to protest.

“I’ve tried everything,” he told her flatly.

“What exactly have you tried?” Finally, they were getting somewhere. The process of elimination would be a very useful place to start. Then, if she could only somehow get to a magical library.

Draco sighed and set down his knife and fork. “You want rules, Granger? Here are some: eat when you can, sleep when you can, and definitely piss when you can. You don’t want to be in the toilet during the jump, trust me. Above all, please realise that you are not welcome here.”

He stood up with his plate and returned to the dessert tower. After he had selected several more morsels, he sat at a different table with his back to her.

Hermione finished the marvellous tart, thinking, thinking, thinking.

A different time and place.

The Draco that was by now well-fed, stalked off into a thick forest, and Hermione caught sight of a beautiful man and a woman, their hair shining gold in the sun. She knew very well who they were, but the couple was unrecognisable as they sandwiched a chubby-faced blond toddler between them on an extra-long broomstick. With the broad-shouldered man in the front, the trio zoomed off into the sky, startling a pure white peacock in the process.

They soared over ancient trees that would one day support a house in their uppermost branches.

The flying memory was shorter than the rest. It must have been a joyful recollection from Draco’s childhood, she knew, but seeing Lucius and Narcissa so… human, was deeply unsettling.

With a lurch, Hermione was back on the Hogwarts Express.

The compartment became very crowded when she and Draco arrived to join the three children already in situ—especially as two of them were rather large children. Honestly, Hermione thought, Goyle was only 11 and yet he looked like a middle-aged football fan.

Adult Draco left immediately without a word, as she was learning he was wont to do. Hermione exited the compartment soon after, leaving the three boys excitedly discussing what the Slytherin common room might be like, around mouthfuls of chocolate. She did not go after Draco, as it was patently obvious he did not want to be followed.

She found an empty compartment in the Prefect’s section of the train, and let herself in.

The memories had looped, and she was back where she started, on the train to their first year at Hogwarts. It was, for now, September 1st 1991.

Hermione reached into the pocket of her coat and withdrew a self-inking pheasant feather quill and a leather bound notebook. Next to a page of hieroglyphs—a problem she had solved two weeks before—Hermione began to write.

• Pensieve — pink, unusual runes

• Memory loop?

• Sorting September 1st 1991, Hospital Wing 1997, Malfoy Manor 1997?

What had been next? Oh.

• Slytherin Common Room 1998 or 1999

• Hong Kong 2007

• Flying early 80s

She was quite sure that if Draco saw what she was doing, he wouldn’t approve. She needed to know what he had ‘tried’, since she was utterly sure he hadn’t tried everything. Plus she wanted to retry everything he had tried personally. He could be as cross as he liked—for it didn’t seem like he meant to harm her—and she certainly didn’t think he would complain when she found a way out of the mysterious Pensieve.

Hermione ran the soft feather quill over her chin thoughtfully.

• Memories appear to extend beyond the boundaries of their subject — how is this possible? How far does a memory extend?

• Starting point consistent

• Sensory perception of memories — olfactory and tactile, yet we cannot be seen?

• Food able to be eaten

Finding that her eyelids were becoming extremely heavy, Hermione wrote one last word in precise letters.

• Draco

These were his memories. The Pensieve was in his study. He was a keeper of keys, and she had doors to unlock. She closed her notebook with a snap, and stowed it carefully in her coat.

Sleep when you can, Draco said.

How long had it been since she had slept?

She sealed and warded the compartment door, and conjured a pillow much like the one that lay in her empty bed in her empty cottage, complete with floral pillowcase.

There was nothing else for it, she curled up on the bench seat, and closed her weary eyes, wondering if somewhere, in another compartment perhaps, Draco was sleeping too.

She awoke with a start after a short and disturbed sleep. Her mouth was very dry and she was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. Draco was standing over her. The evaluative weight of his stare unnerved her, and pinned her in place.

And she was in… a bed?

“That’s interesting,” he commented drily, ignoring Severus Snape striding past behind him in a swirl of black.

“What’s interesting?” she rasped. Withdrawing her wand, she summoned a glass and filled it with water.

“You’re in a bed. It usually deposits me on the floor somewhere, when I’m sleeping.”

Interesting, indeed.

“‘It’?”

Draco waved a hand in the sky, as if to indicate a malevolent deity watching over them.

Hermione hadn’t realised it, but as she slept, her brain had started working on the nascent stages of a plan. She sat up straight.

“How far does the memory go? As in, what are the boundaries? We were on another floor of that hotel when it seemed like the memory took place in the suite…” If it wasn't so inconvenient, she would be marvelling at the extraordinary magic at work here.

Draco regarded her with suspicion. “I haven’t found the end, yet,” he admitted.

She blinked at the question answered so easily. Progress.

“How far have you gone?”

“Far,” he responded bluntly. “I flew.”

Of course. She wanted to know more, but now was not the time. “Then I need to go to the Headmaster’s—to Dumbledore’s office.”

“Why?”

“I want to see the Hogwarts Pensieve, up close.” It was a start, she could examine it, study the stones and the runes. Compare them to what she remembered about the Pensieve in Draco’s study. Maybe he would fill in the gaps, in a fit of magnanimity.

“How much time do I have?” She looked to the corner of the room where Snape spoke to the young Draco.

“Not much.”

She leapt into action, fuelled by her less than ideal amount of sleep. Perhaps it was 6am, somewhere.

It was not far from the Hospital Wing to the Headmaster’s office, but several large and uncooperative flights of stairs lay in between. Hermione had no choice but to run along the corridors, dodging oblivious students as she went.

To her surprise, Draco was following, annoyingly only needing to jog next to her as she nearly sprinted. The stairs behaved themselves, and the way was mostly clear. Breath tearing a hole in her chest, they arrived in front of the stone gargoyle.

“Sweets,” Hermione gasped to Draco, doubled over. “Chocolate Frog.”

“Er—Liquorice Wand,” he supplied.

“Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans.”

“Ice Mice.”

“Pepper Imps.”

“Sugar Quill.”

This went on for some time. They ticked off every sweet in wizarding Britain, and Draco suggested several international possibilities too, including Puchi Mochi and Rog Yedinoroga.

“Muggle sweets too,” Hermione recalled when the gargoyle stayed stubbornly stationary. She was only just resisting blowing it apart, at this point. “Parma Violets.”

Draco looked at her like she had lost her mind.

“Oh.” She had forgotten who she was talking to. Until…

“Terry’s Chocolate Orange,” Draco said to the Gargoyle, no longer looking at her.

“How—” Hermione started, those three words and their deeper implications throwing her completely off course. What was Draco Malfoy’s relationship with Terry’s Chocolate Oranges?

“Focus, Granger.”

“Quality Streets, Polo Mints, Blood Pops…” she was becoming shrill. “Sodding Rosey Apples!”

The jump was upon them.

“For shit’s sake,” Hermione cursed at the dissolving gargoyle.

They resurfaced in the dreadful drawing room at Malfoy Manor, and Hermione’s overwrought nervous system, as well as the many sets of painted grey eyes, immediately froze her in place on the wooden floor. She wasn’t under the protection of the Harry’s Invisibility Cloak this time, and Bellatrix would be coming through that door any second. Hermione knew by now that whatever type of shadow that version of Bellatrix was, she couldn’t see her. Bellatrix Lestrange was dead. At the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had watched as Molly Weasley’s curse stopped her pitiless heart in her chest forever.

It had been a strange thing, to watch someone die, even when everything within her believed that Bellatrix deserved death.

A firm hand closed around her arm, and she was pulled bodily into the parlour room with the mint walls.

Draco released her as soon as the door closed. He stalked over to a table bearing a crystal decanter and poured himself a large measure of amber liquid. He did not offer her one.

Inexplicably hot in the place where he touched her, and quite unable to stay still, Hermione began to pace up and down, then frustrated, snapped “Silencio,” at the door to the drawing room. She couldn’t hear much, but she didn’t want to hear him scream.

“Doesn’t work,” Draco told her matter-of-factly.

Hermione breathed through her nose, wondering if she should try again and risk insulting him with the suggestion that she might succeed where he had not. She was still trying to stay on his—well, maybe not good side—whatever side of him was less bad.

She tried to Apparate again. Moving through the motions of Apparition and travelling precisely nowhere was a highly undignified act.

“That was certainly effective,” Draco’s sarcastic voice floated over to her. He had taken a seat again, and was watching her like she was a comedienne who was bombing onstage.

“Well, you could help!” Hermione threw her hands up in frustration, choosing to forget that he had been shouting the names of sweets at a stone gargoyle alongside her moments ago.

“Or, I could drink,” he responded, demonstrating the point.

“This is torture!”

He raised his eyebrows at her poor choice of words, in light of what was happening in the other room.

She had the grace to look sheepish and ceased her pacing, for a moment at least.

“How do you stand it?” she whispered.

He lazily swirled the contents of his glass, in answer.

He had once recognised her, Harry and Ron, in that dark purple room and had defied his parents when they asked that he name them. Hermione had always believed that it was conscience, not cowardice that drove him that day. She had seen his face as Bellatrix tortured her, and before she tried to forget, she had tried to understand. She said as much in the letter she wrote to the Council of Magical Law who oversaw his trial. Harry co-signed. Ron did not.

A tumbler full of the same amber liquid collided with the side of her head, and when she didn’t immediately grab it, tapped quite insistently on her temple.

She grabbed the glass, if only to stop the tapping. When she took a sip, she found the oaky warmth blunted the sharpest of her feelings, and she felt less inclined to frantically pace.

She sat.

“Um—are you alright?” she asked him after a moment. He had been staring into the mid distance, ostensibly at a very handsome Moroccan rug.

He looked taken aback by the question, as if she had disarmed him. Disarmed or not, all he said was a venomous: “Piss off.”

She could take a hint. She allowed the silence to reign, for a few minutes at least.

Surprisingly, it was he who spoke first.

“If I had known I was entering Purgatorio, I definitely wouldn't have given this memory to the Pensieve,” he mused.

“You selected these memories?” she deduced. Why?

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. “The number of women I've shagged, and I didn't even include so much as a memorable blow job.”

“Charming,” said Hermione, having absolutely no idea what else to say to that. Presently, she was rather glad she hadn’t had to witness Draco getting his end away. She'd blindfold herself and save him the trouble.

Of course, she had seen Theo Nott kissing Draco. She wished she could ask about it.

“Hogwarts, next right?” she said. “1999?”

Draco's eyebrow twitched yet again. “Been taking notes, have you?”

Her slight flush confirmed it and he rolled his eyes.

“Once a swot, always a swot and so on. Yes, next up: 1999. Just wait for the scream.”

Well, that was certainly macabre. He’d said it like they were watching a mildly interesting horror film.

“And finish that,” he pointed to her drink. “It won't come with you.”

No matter how strong the urge, she would not take out her notebook in front of him to write down that piece of interesting information. She would not give him the satisfaction. It was fortunate that she had an excellent memory.

The awful scream sounded through the wall. The sound had travelled through wallpaper and wood and was still so piercing. His face forbade her from asking again if he was alright. She wouldn’t. It had been a foolish question—how could he be? How could anyone be?

Perhaps there was merit to finishing her drink, after all.

Chapter Text

Draco hastily departed the gathering of Slytherins in the hazy billiard room, but not before plucking the tightly rolled black cigarette right out of Pansy Parkinson’s outstretched fingers.

Hermione looked over her shoulder, even as she hurried to follow. Pansy lifted her lips to her mouth, as if nothing was missing. She also noticed the intense way Theo’s hazel eyes fixed on Blaise and his companion, and tried not to find it too interesting.

The urge to take notes was nearly overwhelming. Not just on the mysterious Pensieve, but on the details of the memories themselves.

Draco didn’t linger in the Common Room, and strode purposefully down the dark corridors, trailed by coils of smoke. It smelled like cloves, marijuana and something else very familiar.

He wheeled around, causing her to stop dead in her tracks. She had been finding it difficult to keep up with his long strides anyway, not to mention his mercurial temper and generally piss-poor attitude towards sharing information.

“Shall we have another go at the gargoyle?” he asked her mildly.

Momentarily taken aback, she thought about this proposition. In 1999, Minerva McGonagall had assumed the role of Hogwarts headmistress and had a penchant for choosing passwords in Scots Gaelic.

“How’s your Gaelic?” she responded.

“Poor to non-existent. I can offer you impeccable French or some thickly accented Gobbledegook.” He held out the significantly smaller cigarette to her. It was a polite gesture, she supposed, and polite gestures that came from Draco still caused unease within her, even as they intrigued.

“What is it?” she said cautiously, as if she was going to take it from him—which she most certainly was not.

“Spliff wrapped in clove papers then soaked in Euphoria Elixir,” Draco explained. “Pansy’s specialty—we call it Ambrosia.”

Hermione didn’t feel particularly inclined towards anything that Pansy Parkinson specialised in. And it didn’t seem to have induced much euphoria in Draco, besides.

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “So will it be making up things that sound vaguely Scottish or..?”

“Library,” Hermione decided. Her words were firm, as if this has been her intended destination all along.

It seemed that Draco hesitated for a fraction of a section, but he shrugged again and gestured for her to lead the way, as he tossed the last of Pansy’s creation on the stone floor.

“You’ll start a fire,” Hermione protested. A nearby tapestry of a Wyvern fighting a Hippogriff looked highly flammable.

“Good,” he responded savagely. She supposed that no matter what they burned, they would return and Wyvern and Hippogriff would continue their feud evermore.

They climbed stairs and walked briskly down corridors. It was late, and the library was well past closing, but that didn’t matter much in a memory. They entered without the usual fear of the wrath of Madam Pince. Hermione had it on good authority that Irma Pince was still alive and well in her present, older than time itself and fiercer than ever.

Hermione lit her wand, dimming the glow so it was soft and golden. Shelves rose around like a forest all around her and that distinct smell of wood and leather filled her nose. She was home. She ran her hand over the spines of the magical biographies and spellbooks, feeling the magic that lay within like ripples and vibrations on her sensitive fingertips. Knowing she mustn’t linger, she went deeper, making her way to the newest part of the Hogwarts Library.

After the considerable bequests from both Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape had been added to the library, more room had been needed to shelve the extensive collections. The decision was made to keep the books together—except for the many that would be carefully housed in the expanded restriction section—and to extend the library itself. The result was a perfectly circular room with floor to ceiling shelves lining its circumference. When it was lit, warm light poured forth from an enormous central chandelier, shaped like the branch of a weeping willow tree. Books of all ages, colours, and magical permutations were housed there. Rare titles, historical accounts, and books in languages that history had forgotten. The section on potion making was particularly immense, now widely considered to be one of the best archives in magical Europe.

Hermione was sure the book she was looking for had been in Dumbledore’s collection. Sure enough, a quick non-verbal spell sent a heavy tome almost the size of her torso zooming into her outstretched hands. She looked at the cover just as Draco came to stand beside her, the scent of cloves clinging to him. Forgetful Recollections, An unreliable study of magical memory by Myosotis Ebbinghaus.

“Geminio,” she muttered, duplicating the book. She sent the original zooming back to its place on the shelf.

“How long do you think we have?” she asked Draco in a whisper—they were in a library, after all.

At the sound of another set of footsteps, Hermione whirled around. The light of two wands illuminated young Draco Malfoy, who was apparently following them.

A kernel of unease dropped into her stomach. “Is he—er, are you—supposed to do that?”

“Yes, yes never fear Granger.” Older Draco was not bothering to whisper, and sounded quite cheerful to boot. “And to answer your earlier question, I would say we have about thirty minutes, probably less, before we fly to Hong Kong.”

Flying was not the word she would use. Thirty minutes until they were chewed up and spat out—into Hong Kong.

Almost in unison, he and his younger self mounted the short flight of stairs, leading to the other part of the library extension.

It was another circular room. In place of books, the room had no walls, but was surrounded by large sweeping windows. During the day, those in the room could look out onto the lush gardens and the greenhouses beyond. Compared to the dark library downstairs, the space was usually filled with wondrous light. Dumbledore's favoured squashy armchairs upholstered in vibrant floral chintz fabric sat grouped around low tables, and two brass phoenix statues flanked the staircase.

When Hermione had returned for her final year at Hogwarts, the reading room had quickly become her favourite place in the castle. She looked out the windows now. It was very dark, but what little light there was reflected off piles of bright, sparkling snow.

She sighed. Hogwarts was so beautiful when it snowed.

Young Draco sat in an armchair facing the snowy grounds. Older Draco sat down too, watching himself.

“Miserable sort of bloke, isn’t he?” he commented drily.

Hermione wasn't sure if this was an attempt to initiate conversation, but she didn't have the time to find out. She ignored both Dracos and enveloped herself in a soft armchair. By the light of one small glass lamp, she began to feverishly copy notes from Ebbinghaus’ book, which was one of the very few that she knew had a section on Pensieves. They were so rare, she wasn't immediately sure how to pluralise the word. Pensievus? Pensieves? Pensievi?

She stumbled upon a likely paragraph:

… the memories contained in a Pensieve are neither liquid nor gas, and are entirely the domain of the witch or wizard from whom they originate. An individual in possession of a Pensieve may visit recollections as they wish, either individually or in a sequence, however the memories are an echo only, and may not be altered or interacted with. It has been theorised, most notably by Bane Badderley, that it may be possible to create the conditions for memories that are a tangible reflection of the past, but…

The silence was shattered by a purr as loud as a jet engine.

Hermione's head snapped up.

In the deep shadows of the reading room, she saw the impossible sight of Crookshanks, curled up in the lap of an 18 year old Draco Malfoy.

30 year old Draco had noticed her changed demeanour and the direction of her gaze. He watched, confused, as she slowly stood, and slid the book and her notes into her coat pocket.

She carefully approached young Draco, reaching a trembling hand out towards the soft ginger fur…

More footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a rapidly approaching whisper infiltrated the reading room.

“Crookshanks?”

The cat leapt lightly off Draco’s lap and padded across the room, before jumping into an armchair several tables’ distance away—like he was pretending not to know the Slytherin whose crotch he had recently been sitting on...

And a pyjama and cardigan-clad Hermione Granger walked into the reading room. Her wand was lit with a familiar golden glow, and her hair was loosely braided over her shoulder.

Her adult self gaped at her.

“There you are,” she scolded quietly, scooping up Crookshanks, who made a grouchy noise. Then, turning, she spotted Draco and jumped.

“Oh! Oh,” her tone changed subtly when she realised who it was sitting in the darkness. She started explaining herself. “I didn’t know anyone else was here. Crookshanks has been coming in here at night and Madam Pince has been threatening him so—”

“Don’t worry about it,” young Draco said tonelessly.

Crookshanks struggled uselessly in Hermione’s arms.

“Okay, well—sorry.” She made to leave. She'd taken several steps before he spoke again.

“Don’t apologise to me.” It was said with no venom. The words hung in the air.

She looked over her shoulder at him and even in the darkness, without being able to truly see his face, she thought she understood what he was trying to say.

“Granger, stop that at once,” adult Draco said sharply.

Tears were pouring down Hermione’s cheeks.

In Hong Kong, Hermione was once again dragged by her wrist, out into the hallway.

“Let go of me,” she hissed, snatching her arm back from Draco. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.

He wouldn’t look at her, and she wondered if her show of emotion just before the jump had rattled him somehow. She had been entirely unprepared to see herself again—not to mention Crookshanks—especially in the turmoil of Draco’s memories. Remembering that her fluffy friend was gone had peeled all the skin off the wound again.

Without warning, Draco blasted open the door opposite the one that had just closed behind them. The sound, like a thunder clap, reverberated around the golden hall. Even though it was impossible, the wallpaper dragon looked reproachful.

“That one’s empty.” Draco explained. She supposed she must have looked startled. “Do what you need to do. ”

He sealed the door they had come from, hiding Astoria and all of his secrets inside, and jabbed the button for the lift. This time—she noted—he was going up, and he was clearly intending to go alone.

She took the opportunity that was in front of her, and let herself into the hotel suite through the splintered front door.

Dressed in robin's egg blue and brushed silver, the space was opulent and spacious, much like its sibling across the hall. Dark wood furniture sat here and there, and white orchids with flowers the size of teacups seemed to be everywhere.

When she thought about it, what Hermione truly wanted—other than to unravel the mystery of the pink Pensieve—was a shower. There was only so much Tergeo and Scourgify could do.

She found the bathroom through a door in the dining room.

Wow.

A lone bathtub sat before a floor to ceiling window. The view was breathtaking, and she took a moment to stare over the restless, luminescent city.

Hermione located the recessed shower, and was surprised that Galleons didn’t rain down when she turned one of the three silver taps. The scent of jasmine filled the air, reminding her of 2 Twayblade Lane. And Ron.

What would Ron do when he found out she was missing?

She quickly shut that thought down. Realising, as she did, that she'd barely thought about him since she'd descended into this magical projection of Draco Malfoy's hippocampus.

She stripped off, but kept her clothes very close by, especially her lilac coat and its precious cargo. Her duplicated copy of Forgetful Recollections had made it through the jump in her enchanted pocket—that was most certainly a useful thing to know.

The water was perfect, the view was stunning, and she soon figured out a small alcove in the wall would give her toiletries when she asked. She almost cried again when it gave her a toothbrush. She had to wrestle it into submission when it tried to brush her teeth for her—as the daughter of dentists, there were some things she simply could not abide being done by magic.

It was a singular ablution experience, only soured slightly by the nagging fear that she would lose track of time (what was time, anyway?), and be caught out, wet and naked, by a jump. She could almost imagine Draco’s face…

No. She couldn’t, and wouldn’t imagine Draco’s face if she appeared before him naked. That was an odd, unwelcome, and entirely ridiculous thought.

Her tired mind was wandering in too many directions, like spiderweb cracks in a sheet of ice. Sooner or later, something would break.

Having run out of parts to wash, Hermione got out of the shower and stood before an impeccably lit mirror, regarding her naked flesh—her scars, bones, bumps and curves—with a curatorial eye. It was strange to come face to face with those versions of her younger self and to be reminded of the time, vicious and luxurious, that had passed and written itself across her body.

She dressed quickly. The drying charm she used on her hair ended in a disaster of 1980s proportions. The mirror made an appalled noise and a bottle of hair potion appeared on the vanity with a pop.

She smoothed some through her hair, but not because a posh mirror told her to.

Hair shining, she wandered through another door into a softly-lit bedroom, with cascading silk curtains, a behemoth of a bed, and far too many pillows. She sat on the bed, recognising this for a moment of peace that was destined to be short-lived.

Don’t apologise to me, Draco had said to her, over a decade ago. She had seemingly forgotten that moment that he had remembered. Crookshanks had curled in his lap, and there seemed to be familiarity there. Crookshanks was very selective in his affections, and had proved to be a rather excellent judge of character.

Why had he remembered that moment?

She wanted to ask Draco about Crookshanks. Surely she could. But then she would have to tell him that that squashed face was gone forever, and she didn't want to say it out loud again. Not to him.

Hermione hadn’t realised she had fallen asleep on that softest of beds, until she was dumped on the hard ground in a forest and a white peacock walked over her face.

She wanted to go home.

This time, she grabbed a handful of Crabbe's stash of sweets and a pumpkin pastie and was the first to stalk out of the compartment.

She allowed herself a moment to look through the glass at her younger self, reading Hogwarts: A History —a comfort read to rival Pride and Prejudice, to this day. She fought against her own judgmental hindsight—why hadn't someone told her never to brush her curls, for heaven's sake? And was that really what her teeth had looked like?

When she was young, she had been plagued by loneliness, for a time. Until two hapless boys upended the trajectory of her entire life. She put her hand briefly on the glass, heart aching, before finding herself another empty compartment.

To her surprise, Draco (of the adult persuasion) appeared in the doorway moments after she'd draped herself across the bench and taken a bite of pastie.

“Do you want company?” he asked. It was oddly courteous.

“You're asking?” She raised her eyebrows.

“I am asking.” He leaned against the door, filling the space with his long limbs.

Hermione held out a hand to invite him to sit. He did so, mirroring her position, legs propped up lengthways along the seat. He faced her.

There seemed a lot to say, but neither said anything.

Hermione tossed a Chocolate Frog at Draco and unwrapped one herself.

“Merlin,” she said, examining the bearded face while she bit the head off her frog. Merlin scratched his nose.

Draco, unexpectedly, laughed.

She looked up. “What?”

“Ah nothing. Just a cosmic joke.”

“Do go on.”

“Every time, and I do mean every time, I open a Chocolate Frog—” He turned his card to show her and she saw the half-moon spectacles of Albus Dumbledore.

“That does seem cosmic.”

“Gives me the chance to do this, though.” Draco held the card between his thumb and forefinger and set it ablaze with his wand. He used his left hand, she noticed, and she wanted to ask about this more than she wanted to talk about Dumbledore.

“Are you left-handed?”

A ribbon twisted out of Draco's wand into the shape of a tick mark.

“Aren't you going to add that to your notes?”

“No, sorry, not interesting enough.”

“You never know, could be why we're stuck here.” He leaned his head back against the window. “What have you been writing, anyway?”

“I thought you tried everything.”

“I have. I can help confirm that you are wasting your time and we can co-sign on the conclusion that we are eternally wandering, being punished for our sins. Or my sins. I'm not sure you know how to sin, Granger.”

Hermione sighed at this jibe and withdrew her notebook. She also felt for the leathery cover of Ebbinghaus’ book and hauled that out too.

“Do you have a licence for that pocket?” he drawled.

“I'm combatting pocket-related sexism. You'll also note that my pocket was able to transport the duplicated copy of this book through the loop.”

The blatant interest on his face made her feel quite smug.

“There's a reference to Badderley, who was a magical theoretician. I remember looking for any of his publications when I was at school, but they weren't in the Hogwarts library…”

“There's just one book and I'd bet there aren’t many copies out there. It's called An Empty Chair in a Private Universe. It's virtually incomprehensible and the man really seemed to have a problem with his mother—but he believed that a Pensieve could be more than a receptacle—it could be a place where memories became time capsules, they could be manipulated, and interacted with. If someone needed to right a wrong for instance. He was also a trained psychotherapist, you see.”

Hermione had not expected Malfoy to say the word psychotherapist. She had been hanging off his words and all that they implied. His tone was warm and conversational, for once.

Outside their compartment, baby-faced Draco, Crabbe and Goyle walked down the corridor of the train, attempting to intimidate other students who had the misfortune to be in their way, no matter how old or large they were.

“I would very much like to read that book,” she said slowly, eyes shining. It was an understatement.

“Only copy that I know of is in the archives at the Department of Mysteries,” he said.

“Hmm.” Hermione had not been aware there were archives at the Department of Mysteries. They didn't exactly publish a newsletter, she supposed. The only reason she knew anything about the ninth floor of the Ministry of Magic was because she had been a very reckless, Thestral-riding 15 year old indeed.

“Did Baddeley build this Pensieve?” How did one build a Pensieve? Hermione's reading almost seemed to suggest that they were divine objects, placed in the world by ancient Gods.

“It's based on his work, for sure. But he himself went mad, and was found talking to his mother's mummified corpse and making potions out of urine. His own, naturally.”

“That's a bit grim.”

“A few more loops and that will be us, Granger.”

Us. In this moment she and Draco had become an us. She was sure, in the next, he would return to reminding her she was no more welcome than a stranger pressing their face against a window and breathing heavily.

“My corpse looks forward to your musings,” she said.

“Ohh no, I've been here longer. I die first. You will mourn me extensively, but you may rest assured that even in death, I shall be handsome.”

“I have always wondered about the potion-making potential of human piss.”

Unexpectedly, Draco laughed—a deep, delightful sound.

She was extremely far off track, and talking about piss wasn't helping. He seemed to be enjoying their repartee, and she was coming to realise that maybe she was too. Maybe she had bought herself some answers.

“Malfoy… how did you end up stuck in here?” she carefully asked. “Is it something to do with these particular memories?”

Grey eyes sized her up. “Show you mine if you show me yours, Granger.”

“I don't follow.”

“Why on Earth would you want to investigate my disappearance?” He said it, she thought, as if maybe he felt like he didn't deserve to be found.

Touché.

“I had time off work,” Hermione said dismissively.

“A weekend in Paris didn't appeal?” Draco scoffed. He examined his nails. “Well, I fell into a Pensieve, silly me.”

It had been a bewilderingly nice conversation, but it seemed inevitable a stalemate would be reached.

“I need a kip,” Draco announced. As if she wasn’t feet away, he folded his long legs up onto the bench seat, conjured his own pillow—grey linen—and turned his back to her.

And that, she supposed, was that.

At length the train slowed, and then stopped. She and Draco stayed aboard as all the Hogwarts students disembarked.

Hermione wrote some notes about Badderley and underlined the word Draco again.

When Draco shifted and rolled in his sleep, she absolutely did not notice, and she did not take the opportunity to study the perplexing face under the strands of light hair.

If she had been looking, which she was not, she might have noticed the faintest line of silver down the already pale skin, forehead, to nose, to cheek. Sectumsempra.

She wondered if Harry knew Draco still carried those marks.

Chapter Text

Hermione and Draco rode the Hogwarts Express three, then four more times.

The memory loop was ceaseless, predictable, impervious to every spell she attempted, every rune she carved into stone or burned into carpet.

The owner of the memories was inconstant, unpredictable, and very moody. He fed her information like breadcrumbs, almost like he was thinking out loud in her presence, rather than speaking directly to her.

The Pensieve came from the Department of Mysteries. It was a mothballed project. No, he was not supposed to have it. Clearly.

Often, Draco would stalk off in a different direction to her, but when the whiteness came, they would be irresistibly forced back together. Into the drawing room. In a train compartment. In front of a cityscape. In a smoky, laughter-filled basement.

Hermione quickly learned to sleep on the train and eat in the hotel, which turned out to have no fewer than twelve different eateries. Her favourite thus far was a magnificent sushi bar. Hermione was a long time vegetarian at this point, but allowed herself an indulgent slice or two of ootoro tuna sashimi—it was the memory of food, rather than real food, after all. It still felt strange stealing from behind the counter or from other patrons, but her presence went unnoticed. Toilet breaks were timed carefully and taken in haste. She cleaned her clothes as best as she could with spells.

Her notebook filled. Six memories, she wrote, lasting almost eight hours. If time was following a logical pattern, and she had absolutely no proof it was, she had been in the Pensieve for almost three days. If that was true, she was supposed to return to work in two days. She needed to find a way out.

Harry must know by now that she was gone… her stomach twisted. If Harry knew, surely Ron would too, for they were inseparable even after all these years and all this life that they had lived. They would look for her, she knew. If the situation was reversed, she would not rest until they were found.

Draco was right about at least one thing: madness was coming for them both. At one point, Hermione had silenced the train compartment around herself and screamed herself hoarse. Unsatisfied, she had later set the tapestry of the stupid Wyvern and the stupid Hippogriff on fire. Bluebell flames consumed it instantly. Sir Cadogan, long time enemy of Wyvern everywhere, would be pleased.

It was hanging in its place, good as new the next trip around. She burned it again.

Four days passed, maybe. Alone, she pelted passwords at the gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office, wondering if it would move even if she did say the right answer. Nothing made any sense. She felt like less than a ghost. She slid yet more duplicated books into her pocket. A Guide to Medieval Sorcery and Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science brought forth nothing useful.

Draco seemed to notice the change in her. More than once, a passive aggressive alcoholic drink knocked on her head. She ignored them, and ignored him. She had reached the brittle kind of frenzy that she had when she was studying for the OWLs and the NEWTs.

She paid little heed to the memories that unfolded around her again and again.

Again.

Again.

She didn’t try to overhear what Theo whispered to Draco, or to see Astoria’s face. She couldn’t resist stroking Crookshanks though. Just once.

Five days. She was supposed to be back at work. What would Madam Marchbanks say? Would she know the details of Hermione’s disappearance? Laws had been broken—would Hermione's contract be terminated?

Hong Kong again. Again again again…

Draco and Hermione promptly left the suite, as usual. They stood, waiting for the lift.

“Granger,” Draco said, his voice seemed to be muffled, to warp and echo in her ears.

“Granger.” Louder this time.

With a SMACK she was hit with a Slapping Jinx. She staggered and her hand flew to her stinging cheek. Her chest puffed up in fury.

“Did you just—”

Draco’s eyes glittered, his wand was still raised.

Oh, he wants to play.

Levicorpu—

He flicked her attempt away, and traced the pattern for a renewed slap. She parried and sent a slap of her own. She was fast, and her aim was true, his face snapped to the side. She'd hit him hard.

They were both breathing heavily, waiting for the other to make the next move.

“I surrender,” he said, before slapping her again.

He couldn't dodge the Stinging Jinx she sent towards his throat.

“Fuck! Alright alright!” he held up his hands.

“What did you do that for?” Hermione snarled. She didn't lower her wand.

The lift opened between them.

“You need to snap out of whatever this is,” he gestured up and down her body. “I don’t actually want you to go mad, that would be very tiresome.”

Am I going mad..?

The lift doors closed.

“I need to get out,” she whispered, wretchedly.

Draco hit the up button again, and the door yawned back open.

“I know,” he said, voice almost soft with understanding. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”

“But—”

“The problem isn’t going anywhere, Granger.”

To her own surprise as much as his, she lowered her wand and nodded once. She didn’t want to fight any more—for now, at least. With mirrored steps, they walked into the lift together.

In all her trips to Hong Kong, brief though they were, she had not yet been outside. Draco took her to the highest floor, where a small rooftop bar sat amongst lush foliage and colourful floating lights. Though it was night, it was warm and humid. The sky threatened rain, and lightning illuminated dark clouds up in the sky, far in the distance.

There were only a few patrons, not that it mattered. No one would notice them. No one ever had.

Draco stepped behind the bar, neatly dodging the bartender, and she took a cushioned bar stool in front of him. Rows and rows of bottles, both magical and Muggle, were lit from below. Liquor, and potions too.

“What’ll it be?” Draco asked, his hands on the bar. He’d rolled up his sleeves, but on his left side he’d only revealed his wrist. It seemed deliberate, habitual.

This all felt ridiculous.

“Surprise me,” she heard herself say, her heart not in it, trying not to wonder about his forearm.

He smirked.

While Draco moved around, and filled a frosted flute glass using both hands and wand, Hermione stripped off her coat and jumper, stowing them safely on her lap. Underneath, she wore only a powder blue camisole. She rarely bothered with a bra.

Draco presented her with a fizzing golden drink, topped with a sprig of some bright herb. For himself, he poured an extra large measure of pale green liquid from a bottle that had only stark cyrillic writing on it. Smoke rose from it as he poured, and it smelled like tomatoes.

She drank, not asking what it was.

What hit her tongue tasted like orange ice lollies, and invoked memories of sandy knees, and her dad taking too many photos of Greek architecture.

“What… is that?” Hermione asked, entranced.

“Supposed to bring forth a memory of childhood summers,” he explained. “I assume the look on your face means it worked.”

She so badly didn’t want to confirm the exceptional magic of it. “That’s very impressive.”

“Wish I could claim the recipe,” he said, leaning down onto his elbows. “A Potions Master in Capri taught me that.”

She took another sip, tasting gooseberries from her Grandmother’s garden. She thought she noticed his gaze linger on her throat as she raised her glass—but he wasn’t blatant. She could have glamoured the scar from Bellatrix’s knife as she sometimes did, but there was little point. He had been there, that day, and he knew what had occurred. And by now, she had heard him scream over and over.

Perhaps they were even.

“Why are you being nice?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Ugh,” he straightened up, as though the word was a grave insult. “Never call me nice.”

“Fine, then, why are you being… not a wanker?” she revised.

“Would you prefer that I called Weasley poor, or made fun of the violent death of Potter’s parents?”

She stared at him, astonished at what he was saying.

He poured himself another measure of his mysterious and odorous drink, unwilling maybe to make eye contact. “Or perhaps I could suggest that you are an inferior witch due to your parentage… despite all evidence to the contrary.”

Maybe that would make the world make more sense.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you.” His tone was equal parts bitter and mocking.

She didn’t really know what to say. Time had passed. But maybe she could be ‘not a wanker’, too.

Thunder rumbled around them.

“You haven’t,” she said softly, meaning it.

Hermione had two drinks, the world went white, and she set a Wiltshire forest on fire as a happy family flew over it on a broomstick.

“Make. It. Stop,” Hermione shouted into the hospital wing. Every jump was a violation of stolen breath and futility.

It would soon be her 31st birthday. She was going to miss the hearing.

A forest wasn’t enough; she would set the world on fire.

“I’m trying a Freezing Charm again,” she told Draco, who was lying on one of the white beds, idly flicking through Ebbinghaus’ book.

“It won’t work.” He had tried. She had repeatedly tried. “I’ve never found the end of the memory. You might need to freeze an entire continent.”

Freezing Charms were small scale magic. They were not divine pause buttons.

“I will make it work,” she declared savagely.

Hermione closed her eyes. He was wrong; she didn’t need to freeze an entire continent. This wasn’t the past, it was a memory. It simply wasn’t real.

Why.

Not.

It was Draco’s memory. She thought of the boy in the bed in the corner, holding up the mirror to behold his scars. And the confusing man with his nose in a book.

Finally, she thought of the accursed Pensieve, hidden in the immaculate study. She imagined a perfect triangle between them, a golden thread of impossible magic.

She took a breath, drawing every ounce of her magic, from the very tips of her toes. She traced the pattern, exactly, in the air before her. It was meditation, and prayer.

“Immobulus Totalum.”

Silence.

Silence.

Then: “Granger. Fuck. FUCK.”

She opened her eyes. In the corner of the room, young Draco held his mirror. Seconds passed, and he did not blink or breathe.

Long fingers wrapped around hers, and she was pulled out of the hospital wing. In the corridor, Snape was mid-step, his restless robes suspended in the air.

She was pulled again. Students were motionless on the stairs. It was bizarre. And it was beautiful.

“You did it,” Draco said disbelievingly. “How—how did you do that?”

“I’ll explain later,” she said, tiny fizzy bubbles of triumph everywhere within her. “We don’t know if it will stop the jump. Or how far it goes…”

In unison, it seemed, they noticed that their hands were still clasped together. His fingers were cool. She let go immediately, and he didn’t react at all.

“I’ll—fly, as far as I can. Either we’ll get caught out, or I’ll meet you in the library.”

Hermione nodded, trying to balance her expectations and her excitement… but hope, foolish hope threatened to take over.

Hermione conjured a brass hourglass, and had watched the smooth sand flowing as the time rolled by, 10 minutes, 20 minutes, 30 minutes.

No jump.

40 minutes. By now, she was sure.

But, where was Draco?

An hour passed. She turned the glass again.

She wrote notes. She tried to read. Her foot tapped a frenetic rhythm on the stone floor.

How would she know if something had happened to him?

Two hours later, an elated Draco entered the library. By this point, Hermione was so worked up that she was quite ready to start slapping—with magic or plain old hands, she wasn’t fussy.

“Where have you—”

He cut across her, “—Fucking brilliant.”

Hermione had vowed to curse the next person who called her brilliant, yet she found herself taken aback. She felt quite pleased to hear it come out of Draco’s mouth. Even though he hadn’t quite directed it at her, per se…

“You’ve frozen the entire Scottish Highlands. I saw a cow mid-piss. Brilliant.”

She wanted to jump up and down, but she settled for a pleased nod.

“I mean, obviously, we’re still here and it’s pretty eerie out there but…” He collapsed into a chair beside her. “We should definitely celebrate—we need wine.”

The buoyant feeling in Hermione inspired her. She conjured two glasses of water, and transfigured them into white wine. Red was easier, but the library was warm and filled with light, and she thought the end result was a passable sauvignon blanc.

“Settle down, Jesus.”

Hermione laughed, despite herself. She had many questions about Draco’s knowledge of Christ, but simply said: “Carpe vinum, my child.”

Hours, blessed hours, passed in the library. The light did not change. The silence was, at times, strange—a total absence of the many small sounds, that were as much a part of the castle as the suits of armour. The other students frozen in place in the library took some getting used to, too.

Draco transfigured several library chairs into a dramatic chaise longue, and took the opportunity to sleep. Hermione surmised he must lack imagination, or else be very committed to his brand, the chaise was predictably darkest wood, covered with plush silk velvet in a deep emerald green. He had one hand behind his head and now that she had the chance to notice, not that she did notice, rather long eyelashes.

Hermione knew that sleep, potentially uninterrupted sleep, was probably the wisest idea. But she was too wired, too high on her own success to even contemplate rest.

Removing her boots, and stripping off her coat felt like a rare luxury. Having a glass of wine in the Hogwarts Library gave her an illicit thrill too. She thought of Madam Pince’s face, if she could see her now. Hermione knew if she told anyone that, they'd tease her mercilessly—she thought about telling Draco anyway. As it happened, the Pince of this era was frozen at her desk, mid-scold. Her bony index finger was raised, and a chastened third year stood in front of her, his head-bowed.

Hermione set about emptying the inner pocket of her coat, and stacking the different items on the table in front of her. It had been steadily gaining bits and bobs, mostly books, and the odd hair potion, and she had dearly desired to organise what she had.

Stopping the jump felt like the first step. She would get them out, she knew it.

The last items in her pocket were too deep to reach, thus she summoned them. A bottle of perfume, a half knitted mohair cardigan, a spare wand, a paperback copy of The Blind Assassin, and a purple folder.

Hermione had no recollection of putting that in her pocket. She felt her heart thud. Harry's note was still on the front.

Don't make me regret this.

He... might have some regrets.

After a fortifying sip of wine, Hermione opened the Auror file, wondering, terrified.

She was well-acquainted with what had been in the file and it was abundantly clear that the investigation had continued, and expanded. She drew out a piece of parchment, dated 13/09/2010. It was a brief note.

Harry Potter reported Hermione Jean Granger missing, file number created—a rune and a long number followed.

Granger last seen approximately 10pm 11/09/2010, in the residence of D Malfoy. Disappeared while assisting with Auror-led investigation.

The final sentence was underlined, and Hermione felt sure it was Stephens who had written this missive.

Harry Potter to be questioned.

She supposed she should be relieved to know that the Aurors were working on the outside to find Draco and now her. But worry for Harry, and for the cascade of consequences he might face, was eclipsing everything else.

She read on.

DUPLICATED COPY
Witness interrogation 13/09/2010
Participant: Harry James Potter, of Godric's Hollow. Investigating Auror (former)
Investigator: Samantha Angelica Stephens
13/09/2010, interview commenced 9:37am, Sneakoscope not used

S: Explain.

H: Er.

S: Potter this is bad for you, but I am quite ready to make it terrible. Explain yourself.

H: I gave her a copy of the file and I brought her to Malfoy’s—I mean, the subject's house with me, she is very good at tracing spells.

S: And after all of these spectacular judgemental calls, you then left her there?

H: I fucked up.

S: And you waited over a day to report this?

H: I really fucked up. You called us to London and you know enough about her surely—she should've been the Auror—there's no way she couldn’t handle anything that I could. I thought she might come back.

S: And then you would pretend you weren’t a complete fucking idiot unworthy of your position?

H: … yes.

S: And you were aware of Granger's emotional state when you involved her in this investigation?

H: …yes.

S: Potter, this is a colossal cock up. Marchbanks is going to burn this office to the ground. Does this even need to be said? You're off the case, effective immediately.

H: No!

S: Yes, you are. If you disobey me, I don't care who you are or who you defeated, you will never work as an Auror again. Count yourself very lucky I’m not arresting you.

Interview paused 9:41am, 13/09/2010 — Ronald Weasley entered the interview room without authority.

Hermione's heart was in her throat. Or perhaps it was bile and she was about to eject her wine onto the library floor.

She numbly scanned through more interviews, photos. On the 16th of September, the day Hermione had been supposed to return to work and sanity, a specialised team had stripped down Draco Malfoy's entire house.

Hermione held up a photo—a stone basin with pink stones, filled with rose gold liquid, sitting in the middle of a desk.

She gasped, and turned to Draco on his chaise. His shirt had ridden up, and presently his right hand lay across his bare stomach, dark blond hair was scattered lightly across his skin.

Her head tilted, just slightly. Then she scolded herself. No.

“Malfoy?” Hermione prodded. “Malfoy,” she said again, louder this time.

She stood and nudged him tentatively with her foot.

She expected that he would wake immediately and draw his wand, but instead his eyes slowly opened. He blinked and stretched deliciously.

“What is it?”

She thrust the photo at him, and felt the urge to pace start to rise within her.

“They have the Pensieve.”

Chapter Text

Draco peered at the shimmering photo Hermione thrusted at him, and rubbed his eyes. Far from being intrigued, he looked as though he was going to drift off again.

“Where did this come from?” he asked, his voice rusty with sleep.

“I’d forgotten I have your Auror file, it was in my pocket this whole time,” Hermione explained, feeling incredibly foolish as she did so.

That at least, seemed to stir something in Draco. He handed her back the photo of the Pensieve, but then said: “I’m going back to sleep.”

“How can you sleep?!” she demanded of him, becoming maybe a little bit shrill.

“Because,” he replied, his own voice rising in irritation. “I haven’t slept for more than maybe two hours at a time for a fucking long time now. Unless the Dark Lord is rising again or someone attractive is naked, leave me alone. It can wait.”

“No, it can’t!”

Draco whipped out his wand, looking murderous. For a breathless moment, she thought he was going to launch an attack on her, and indeed she was pushed lightly backwards by an unseen force. But he followed this by warding his chaise longue in much the same way she had warded mountainside campsites in another life. Whatever enchantments he had woven around himself did not hide him from her view though, and she could only watch as he rolled over in his bubble of safety, his back now to her.

She made a noise of frustration. How dare he sleep? Harry was in trouble, the Aurors had the Pensieve, Ron knew she had disappeared… and therefore what she was doing when she disappeared. She was missing work, and the hearing was only days away. Circumstances were catastrophic. But, she conceded to herself, Malfoy doesn’t know about any of that. Malfoy wouldn’t care about any of that.

She walked to one of the latticed library windows and looked out at the sun-drenched grounds. A blue butterfly was frozen in the air.

Hermione may have decided that sleep was impossible, but her body took the wheel and exhaustion eventually caught up to her anyway. She awoke with her face cushioned on her arms on one of the library tables, and every bone in her body aching fiercely.

A groan poured from her mouth, and she sat up. The light was still hatefully golden, so she had no way of knowing how long she had slept. It was highly disorientating.

Draco was also awake. He’d vacated his green chaise, and was sitting at a desk with his feet propped up, reading the purple file. He must have snatched it from underneath her, because she almost certainly fell asleep reading it. She didn’t know how to feel about that, especially as her saliva-filled mouth suggested she had probably been dribbling. Great. His face was serious, but he seemed to have spent some time with a mirror and a wand. In the richness of the light his hair was neater, shining like spun silver, his stubble was shorter and his dark shadows had receded somewhat.

He looked up when he noticed she was awake and staring, but he didn’t say anything right away.

She didn’t really know what to do with her body, or what to say to him. They were back in uncharted territory. Truthfully, they’d never left.

“You’ve read this?” he asked, finally.

She sighed with relief that he’d broken the silence, and nodded. The file was incomplete—more information would be in its twin that must have been opened for her own disappearance.

She wondered if her parents had been informed. Her mother would be apoplectic, especially due to her own powerlessness. She hoped Harry at least would be allowed to be the one to break the bad news to them.

“I see that Weasley has requested to be put on the case. Merlin help us.”

Hermione suddenly found a nearby bookcase very interesting, and fiddled with the hem of her soft jumper. She had seen Ron’s written submission and had no idea what to think of it. She traced her finger over his words, and tried to put herself in Ron’s shoes, but it made it hard to breathe.

“He was denied,” she said carefully. Draco thought Ron was her… well, that he was hers. She didn’t know what she thought of that either. As a woman who usually had well-formed opinions on nearly any topic, she was starting to feel rather panicked.

“Some luck at last,” Draco muttered, turning the page.

“They’ve got the Pensieve,” Hermione said again. This fact hadn’t stirred him, but maybe now he was well-rested he might be willing to discuss what that might mean.

“Croaker has requested it back.”

“I saw. Do you think he’ll get it?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. Unspeakables were somewhat of a law unto themselves, this was a well-known fact, and perhaps that was part of why someone like Draco was attracted to the job. It was hard to imagine him in a stuffy Ministry role, otherwise. Regardless, Hermione knew Stephens would fight wand, tooth and nail to not lose authority to the Department of Mysteries.

“They don’t seem to have written anything about the fact we might be in here, and there’s no suggestion that anyone else is going to look at your memories.” This had frustrated Hermione to no end. In her (not at all biased) opinion, the Pensieve seemed like an obvious place to focus. But then again, exercising caution around powerful magical artefacts was eminently sensible—more caution on her part might have stopped her from falling in here in the first place.

“They're too busy having a pissing contest over it,” Draco said drily. “Anyway, could you stop hovering? It’s very annoying.” He kicked out a chair opposite him.

She took it, but not because he told her to.

Hermione picked up one of the photos that were scattered across the desk. The Pensieve swirled in the picture. How was it that an entire universe could be held inside such a thing? They were inside that…

Sometimes magic still astounded her.

“The enchantment that means we can see the newest additions to this folder—does it go both ways?” Draco asked.

“This is a duplicate, so I doubt it. Harry would not have wanted me to put notes in the file, alerting Stephens to the fact that I had it.”

“Well, Potter is stupid, so perhaps he didn’t think about that.”

“Harry is not stupid!” she scolded.

Draco sighed. “Are you going to write something, or should I?”

“Fine.” Hermione snatched up her quill and tore a page from her notebook. “What’s the date?”

“Last note in the file was from the 18th, so probably the 19th.”

Pressing her lips together, Hermione noted the significance of the date without further comment.

19/09/2010

If anyone can read this, we are stuck in the Pensieve. The memories in the basin have looped, and we are unable to get out. Anyone examining the Pensieve should be cautious not to enter the memories lest they also get stuck. We are working on the solution on this end, and are able to read anything that is added to this casefile.

We are safe, and well.

Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger

It was strange to link him to her with the word ‘we’, and to see their names together in her handwriting. It felt irrevocable somehow, like a spell.

“You should add that I could murder a curry.”

“Har har,” Hermione deadpanned. She slipped the letter into the file, like a prayer, and looked seriously at Draco. She folded her hands on the table. “It’s time.”

“Time for… what?” he responded suspiciously.

“For you to tell me what you know about the Pensieve, from start to finish.”

“And why would I do that?”

That she even had to justify why incensed her greatly. “Solving a problem with limited information is exponentially more difficult than when one has all the facts.”

Draco ‘pssh’ed the word facts. “Didn’t you uncover the Dark Lord’s greatest secret using a nursery rhyme?”

Hermione willed herself not to flush. She had no idea how much he knew about her past. Of course, at this point it was virtually common knowledge.

“Are you comparing yourself to Lord Voldemort?” she said acidly.

This was the wrong thing to say. Draco abruptly got to his feet.

“Piss off, Granger. You don’t know me, and you have no right to more than you have already taken.”

This wasn’t the way she had wanted it to go. “Please, Malfoy.” He had turned to leave, and was walking towards the door when she made a gamble.

“It’s my birthday,” Hermione said in a small voice, but loud enough to hear.

He faltered in his steps, but left the library without a backwards glance.

She hadn’t known why she thought that would work. She had started to think that Draco might have become a man who knew how to be kind, against all odds. She had seen little glimpses of it, had wondered what had changed him.

Show me yours, Granger.

Perhaps, she would have to offer something first.

Hermione toed on her boots, and rushed out of the library. She couldn’t see him, but followed the sound of a door closing out into oceans of sunlight.

She caught up to Draco, heading across the vibrant lawns, as if he were going to the Quidditch pitch. Perhaps he was.

“Dense, aren’t you?” Draco said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“Sometimes,” Hermione replied, deliberately choosing not to be offended. She had to walk quickly to stay in step with him, and if she wasn’t mistaken he slowed a little when he noticed this. Humility then, would be needed here. She found it difficult to lower her defences at the best of times, but especially around him. A part of her might never stop expecting him to call her Mudblood with that cold hatred in his eyes.

“I am trying to imagine myself in your shoes, and I admit if you were walking all around my memories… well, it must be strange… to have someone you dislike have such an intimate view,” she said gently.

He appeared to consider this, as if chewing on something bitter. He started to say something and then closed his mouth again.

“So, if I’m asking for an answer, I can give you one—you asked me why I got involved in your disappearance…”

“What if I have a different question?” he cut in.

She hadn’t been expecting that, and she was quite unprepared for the concept of being an open book to him.

He laughed coldly. “See?”

“Ask me,” she blurted. “Whatever you want.”

He stopped. Turned. They were on the flying lawn, where Hermione first discovered there were some magics that she would never excel at. The Quidditch stands were visible in the mid distance. A couple holding hands, an unlikely combo of Slytherin and Hufflepuff, were frozen nearby. There was no breeze, but it was drowsily warm. It was dream-like, she thought.

“Why didn’t you want me in Azkaban?” he asked neutrally. He cocked his head ever so slightly to the left.

She absolutely hadn’t expected that question. Her face must have showed it, since Draco looked like his suspicions that she was full of it were confirmed. But she could answer—she would answer.

“Because Harry told us what happened on the Astronomy Tower, and what Dumbledore offered you then. I wanted the Order to help you, too, and no one did. That was wrong.” It was the truth, in its shortest form. Hermione had always been interested in justice, and had dabbled in giving people their comeuppance. When she had imagined Draco in a dank cell in Azkaban, it did not feel like justice.

Draco’s face was carefully blank, and Hermione wondered if he was doing what she thought he was doing.

“I’m not a Legilimens. You don’t need to block me out,” she said softly and he looked affronted. Although the magic was fascinating and all types of mastery intrigued her, she had never been interested in violating people’s minds. “I hope that answers your question.”

“I never asked for forgiveness,” Draco muttered.

“I never offered it,” she retorted smoothly. Though, hadn’t she? Wasn’t she? Ron had never understood why. After a few drinks, he’d once told her he would never forget the sound of her screaming as long as he lived. Nor would she, she did not say, but that did not mean she laid blame on an altar where it did not belong.

Draco started walking again, as if the conversation was over, and it was very unclear whether she should continue to bother walking with him. Until…

“Are you coming?”

“Are you going to tell me about the Pensieve?” Hermione asked after him.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, and when she caught up he piped up again. “Why did you go into my house?”

She was outraged. “You had your question!”

“I made no bargains.”

“Fine then. What did Theo say to you before he had you against that wall?”

Draco barely blinked. “He said he was gay and that he was in love with Blaise.”

Hermione almost fell over. He had answered so easily, and so frankly. “And then he kissed you?”

He shrugged. “Thought it might cheer me up.”

“Did it?”

He shrugged again and Hermione immediately had to reshuffle her opinion on several people, as well as Slytherins in general.

She had gotten a taste for answers, and she was ready to test him, or perhaps push her luck. She realised she deeply wanted to know.

“What happened in Hong Kong?”

“Ohhh no,” he chided her. “I’m not about to talk about relationships with someone who married the first ginger prat who made a pass at her when he was 11. Just believe whatever you read in Witch Weekly, I’m sure they said I shagged a mermaid or had a Muggle boxing match with Tori's mother. Both, even.”

There was so much wrong with, and offensive about, what he had just said. It was also hard to miss the nickname Tori.

“Ron and I never married,” Hermione said, keeping her tone level, even though she was becoming quite ticked off. She was trying to give him an inch and he was taking many miles. “And besides…”

Say it.

Say it.

Say it.

“We’ve split up.”

Draco’s face did not move an inch. He didn’t break stride.

“Good,” he said.

Good?

Her mind backflipped to a painful conclusion. Did Draco still think of her and feel disgust? A Mudblood and a Pureblood…

“I’m glad you came to your senses,” he finished.

Oh.

Oh, she would slap him.

“Excuse me!”

Draco ignored her new levels of shrill. “I’m hungry. I’m going to go to the kitchens. Would you like to come, or would you like to hex me? I probably won’t stop you, I’m not in a duelling mood.”

“Are you going to tell me about the Pensieve?”

“Still thinking about it.”

Arsehole.

“Meet you back in the library, then,” she grumbled.

Draco returned with quite the bounty from the kitchens. Levitating before him was a platter of bread, cheese and grapes, what looked like an entire ham, and a large bowl of raspberries. He directed them to land gently on the table in front of Hermione—right on top of the notes she was taking.

“Hey!” she protested.

From behind his back floated a single cupcake. He flicked his wand and a small flame hovered above it. It started to hit her gently on the forehead.

He was a very confusing person.

“Better grab it or it’ll set your hair on fire,” he drawled. Then he looked over her hair which she hadn’t thought about for several days. “Then again, you might be better off.”

Hermione scowled and grabbed the cupcake. She tried to extinguish the flame with her wand, but it kept on burning.

“Can only be blown out,” Draco explained. Apparently he had known she would try that. “Make a wish.”

Though he sounded like he couldn’t possibly care less, he waited. So she thought. On top of her desire to escape the eternal, confusing afternoon of the Pensieve, Hermione wished to sit in front of the International Confederation of Wizards, and to tell them it was time to finally acknowledge Muggles as equals. She reluctantly blew out the candle.

“I don’t know what that wish was…” he said. “But I can tell it was really swotty.”

Hermione took a leaf out of his book. “Piss off.”

Draco smirked and started to make himself a ham sandwich. The bowl of raspberries slid closer to her. She hadn’t even seen his wand move.

She had indeed been eyeing them up. She picked up the biggest one she could see between her thumb and forefinger, remembering being a child and eating them off the end of each of her fingers, staining her clothes and her mouth. She popped one between her lips. Then two more.

She found that Draco was watching her with a peculiar expression on his face. There was a muscle feathering in his cheek.

“What?” she said.

“Shall I leave you and the berries alone?” he said in a lowered voice, one eyebrow raised suggestively.

“Only if you’re finished being indecent with that ham.”

Draco laughed again. She liked it.

“Did the password work for the kitchens?”

“No,” Draco said. “I think you’ve frozen the castle’s enchantments too. I had to blast through the door.” Apparently he understood the concerned look on her face, “No immobilised House Elves were harmed in the making of this supper.”

With a little heart pang, Hermione remembered in the timeline of this memory, Dobby would be alive. Then another puzzle piece fell into place.

“You have an Elf!” she exclaimed.

Draco narrowed his eyes, as if he were expecting a lecture. “She’s employed, part time. Don’t worry, I know all about the herpes and all that.”

“H-E-P-R-E-E-S,” Hermione growled. It hadn’t even been her who named that one, and yet ‘herpes’ followed her everywhere. She much preferred its nickname — Dobby’s Law. “It stands for the House Elf Protections Rights and Equality in Employment Statute.”

“I know,” Draco smirked again, sucking a grape into his mouth. “You’re so easy, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes to the Heavens. “That aside—have you called for your Elf?”

“Of course. It was one of the first things I thought of when I couldn’t Apparate. And since she can’t hear me when she’s not working—thanks to you—I’ve called a lot more times since. See? Thor!”

Nothing happened.

“Thor?” Hermione had wanted to ask.

“She picked her own name,” Draco shrugged.

If they ever got out, Hermione would very much like to meet a House Elf who called herself Thor. But she didn’t say this to him.

She once again recognised herself finding Draco’s company mostly pleasant. As confusing as that was, she wanted to see once again if she could push it. She wanted to try something.

“Draco…” she started in a soft voice.

That definitely got his attention.

“If you won’t tell me about the Pensieve, can you tell me why you won’t tell me?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

It wasn’t. She shook her head.

“Really, I thought you were supposed to be bright. Just because Potter regards the confidentiality clauses in his employment contract to be suggestions rather than bottom lines, doesn’t mean I am willing to similarly flout the rules.”

“Oh.” Is that it?

“Really Granger, it’s in the name—UN-speak-able, not Tell-everyone-go-on-able.”

“Point taken.”

He continued. “If you're so desperate to go back to work. What are you working on?”

“It’s confidential,” she said easily.

“Hypocrite thy name is Granger.”

Stale-bloody-mate.

Except.

“You weren’t supposed to be working on the Pensieve…”

“So, what?”

“So maybe the Pensieve came from the Department, but it was a project you undertook independently, ergo, not under the same expectations of non-disclosure,” she reasoned.

“Ugh,” Draco sneered. “No one likes a lawyer.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m right.” She did love being right.

He leaned back in his chair and the light hit his face. It was clear she'd broken him down.

“You have two questions,” he conceded, holding up corresponding fingers. “But I get to ask you a question first. And pour me a wine.”

Triumphantly, Hermione accepted his terms by conjuring new glasses and filling them with water.

“White or red?”

“Rosé,” he requested, with an almost cheeky expression.

Fortunately, Hermione was a gifted witch, and was also partial to rosé. The water turned to light pink wine. She levitated it towards Draco, but he caught it with a smirk before it could start knocking on his head.

“So?” she prompted, glass in hand.

Draco’s question came, and like almost everything else she had recently learned about him, it was quite unexpected.

“Did you really Obliviate your own parents during the War?”

Hermione’s face fell, for she did not like to talk about this topic with anyone, not even Harry and Ron. It was not entirely secret, and had occasionally been brought up in biographies about her as some example of her courage and self-sacrifice, she guessed. But it was not common knowledge, nor was it something that Hermione would have thought Draco would be interested in.

“Who told you about that?” she said peevishly.

“So yes,” he deduced.

“Yes.”

“And did you restore their memories?”

“Yes,” she said shortly, not wanting to tell him that some damage could never be fully undone, even if they remembered everything. At least he didn't offer platitudes about how brave it was. “Now, it’s my turn—who built the Pensieve?” she wasted no time in asking.

“Don’t know,” Draco replied. He didn’t add anything and she gave him a dark look, telling him with her eyes that she would not tolerate an answer that short. She didn’t care that it made her a hypocrite.

“I truly don’t know. There’s all kinds of stuff in the Department, Granger. You have to be very careful opening any drawer or cupboard. All I know is that the Pensieve was Rookwood’s project, and no one wanted to touch it for obvious fucking reasons and it was in a box in a corner. I shit you not, the box had ‘Rookwood’s Pensieve’ written on it. Might be about mysteries down there, but it’s not a very sophisticated operation most of the time. Before Rookwood, Augusta Longbottom worked on it but—”

“Augusta Longbottom was an Unspeakable?” Hermione said incredulously.

“Is that your second question?”

Hermione scowled.

“Fine, I'll give you a free pass—yes, Augusta was infamous. Problem for me is that she wrote all her notes in a language no one has yet been able to identify. I sent her an owl about it to see if she would translate or at least tell us which language it is, but er… she's not my biggest fan.”

Augusta was of a very advanced age by this point, although Neville reported she was quite as spritely and fearsome as ever. Hermione thought that Draco being her beloved Grandson's childhood bully may have not endeared her to him, but she said nothing of the sort. She was getting somewhere and was coming to understand that she was dealing with a hair trigger temper. She chose her next words carefully, trying hard to continue the conversation without posing another question.

“It's interesting—that you say no one was interested in the Pensieve because it was Rookwood's…”

“Well he was a piece of shit, wasn't he? But I agree that it's stupid to assume everything a Death Eater does is dark. That's just impractical.”

“Okay, I have another question,” she said.

“You've already had 2.5.”

“My last question wasn't a question.”

“That makes no sense.” Draco threw up an exasperated hand. “Ugh, Fine. You have 0.5 questions.”

Hermione thought carefully. She wanted to know what he—but the why of it all nagged at her.

“Why did you go into the Pensieve… why these memories?” Astoria, the Sorting… Bellatrix? All specifically chosen, but this wasn't an ordinary Pensieve. What was he hoping to achieve?

“Who taught you to count, Granger? That’s two questions.”

Hermione let out her breath in a long stream. “Allow me to sum it in a single word then: why?”

It was Draco’s turn to sigh. “That bloke, Badderley—he got together with an Alchemist called Mordecai Toth and designed the Pensieve—the idea was that the user would be able to change or interact with the memory—to have a final conversation with a dead loved one, or reimagine a situation where inaction was turned into action. Even to explore a dream or an intrusive thought—think of it like a therapeutic exercise. Anyway, Pensieves are layered; runes, charms, potions and all the materials are very specific and very rare. Whoever built it, whether in the design or the execution, seems like something never quite worked, and Badderley, as we've covered, went mad. Unrelated… at least, I’m pretty sure it was. Then Toth died and most of his possessions went to the Department of Mysteries, including his plans for a Pensieve.”

“That is all extremely interesting,” she said. It was, she was trying not to get too excited for fear of scaring him off. “But you didn't answer my question.”

He swirled his wine in his glass. He'd obviously tried to lead her away from what she'd asked. “Why did I go into the Pensieve?” He paused, deciding on his answer carefully…

“Well, I thought I’d fixed it.”

That wasn't the whole truth, that much was clear. But he'd given her a lot, more than she ever dreamed he would. Setting aside the miracle of the conversation they’d already had, Hermione had enough intuition to know why someone with a complex, thorn-wrapped past might want to have the power to make different decisions…

Even just for a moment.

“Malfoy, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I think the Pensieve is still broken,” Hermione deadpanned.

Draco chuckled. “You're a bit of a laugh, do you know that Granger? It's unexpected.”

Absolutely no one had ever called her a laugh before, and she found it was a compliment she could feel right in her chest, like the liquid warmth of sweet Butterbeer.

Chapter Text

Hermione tried to keep track of time in their immobilised version of 1997. The light never changed, nothing ever changed. The allegory of Purgatory started to feel more and more fitting, and the word trapped echoed around her mind like a curse.

She had several hourglasses lined up, glittering sand slipping through to count the minutes, but a number of unscheduled naps disrupted the chart she was keeping. Draco, naturally, refused to help and stalked off to do whatever it is he did when he could no longer stand her company.

They had created a strange sort of living quarters in the Hogwarts library. Draco continued to sleep on his chaise longue, but Hermione transfigured herself a decent single bed, complete with floral quilt and pillow. Neither made any comment about sleeping in the same room, within a few metres of one another. It just happened.

Once, she caught herself listening to his soft, sleeping breaths. She excused herself to the bathroom, to give herself a stern talking-to in the mirror.

They ate at one table—Draco procured tea and coffee from the kitchens and Hermione very nearly hugged him when he handed her her first cup of steaming Earl Grey. Another larger table served as the research station, and was currently covered in notes, books, knitting (to add to the homely feel) and, of course, the purple Auror file. This was a much more reliable method of locating themselves in time, as new notes were regularly filed and reliably dated.

The latest piece, a memo from Croaker, was dated 21/09/2010.

MINISTER OF MAGIC HAS APPROVED IMMEDIATE RETURN OF PENSIEVE TO DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES, ANY FINDINGS RELEVANT TO YOUR INVESTIGATION WILL BE REPORTED AS SOON AS IS PRACTICABLE. CHEERS, SAUL.

Hermione could only imagine Stephens’ apoplectic face, at that. Draco was quite right when he called it a pissing contest. The figurative piss was everywhere in the file, and it was infuriating, as the investigation was going precisely nowhere. Their note, as predicted, went unanswered.

If Draco and her were inside the Pensieve, this meant that they were now inside the Department of Mysteries. Thinking about it for too long caused a headache.

Hermione hadn’t seen Draco in hours. She’d barely moved, and had read more in one sitting than many people (Ron, for example) read in a year. It was becoming hard to keep her eyes open, and so she transfigured her jeans into pyjama shorts and climbed into her bed, pulling the quilt over her head to block out the ever present light.

Her body was aching fiercely. She would have to add some exercise into the punishing schedule she’d created for herself.

Fortunately, she could read and walk. If pressed, she was sure she could read and run too.

Hermione woke. Perhaps it was 6am. Time had no meaning.

Croaker’s notes had been dated the 21st. Not long after reading it, Hermione had succumbed to her exhaustion. She had given up. The hearing was scheduled for the 22nd.

It might have already been.

And she was fucking stuck in here. Trapped. She had failed.

Hermione didn’t get out of bed. What was the point?

“Granger?”

She ignored him.

Minutes, maybe hours later:

“Coffee, Granger?”

It smelled rich and enticing, but he could piss right off.

“I know you’re awake, you’re not making your sleep noises,” he said. Sleep noises?! Apparently she wasn’t the only one listening in.

“Fuck off,” she said croakily, still in her cocoon.

A pause.

“...I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say fuck before.”

“Shall I do it again?”

“Please.”

“Go fuck yourself, Malfoy.”

Oh, she needed to see his face. She peeked out from under her blankets, and saw him looking almost delighted. She hid her face again. Everything was terrible, he wasn’t allowed to look delighted.

A moment later, a cup of coffee started to knock on the top of her head. When she felt a scalding drop hit her scalp, she sent the coffee flying with a sweeping backhand. It broke against a bookshelf, coating the books, which she only felt a little bit bad about.

She sat bolt upright.

“So you’re allowed to brood 90% of the time, and when I need a minute you can’t help but be a prat?!” she shouted, her vocal range somewhere in the sopranos.

Draco seemed no less delighted by her temper, his eyes roving from her messy hair to her camisole.

“Granger…”

“No.”

“Granger.”

“What?!”

Draco tapped his finger on his upper arm, and then very obviously dipped his gaze down to her chest.

The insubstantial strap of her top had slipped down her shoulder, and a sunrise of pink nipple had revealed itself to the library at large.

Hermione flushed scarlet, and whipped her wand out.

“Obscuro!”

It seemed that Draco saw it coming and she said her spell out loud so as to give him warning—he could have chosen to block but he did not, and a black blindfold wrapped itself around his face.

And all he said was… “Kinky.”

Her anger was electric. Her magic seemed to crackle along her arms and make the fine hairs there stand on end. She leapt out of bed and hit him with a Slapping Jinx.

“Ouch,” he said, rubbing his cheek. She’d failed to slap the grin off his face. “Even more kinky.”

He pulled off the blindfold, just as Hermione summoned her jumper and yanked it over her head.

“Are you done?” he asked mildly.

Hermione nodded curtly.

“Coffee, take two?”

She nodded again. And they ended up sitting around the makeshift dining table, drinking black coffee, with Hermione trying to forget that she had flashed Draco her left nipple and Draco’s tiny smirk suggesting that he most certainly hadn’t forgotten.

“I can scarcely believe I’m about to say this, but, do you want to talk about it?” Draco ventured after their second coffee.

“Talk about what?” She made an effort not to snap.

“The source of your terrible mood.”

It wasn’t lost on Hermione that Draco ‘never call me nice’ Malfoy was again trying to be... benevolent. Even after she’d slapped him.

“Work,” she grumbled, giving him something.

“Ah. There was something important happening… today?”

She felt tears fill her eyes, and tried to hide them behind hair and coffee cup.

“Could you… not do that?” Draco said, screwing up his face.

Hermione sniffed.

“You must really love your job,” he mused.

That wasn’t the right way to look at it. Hermione lived for her work. How many hours had she spent in her office, in this role and her last? How much had she sacrificed, how many events had she missed? Ron had called her a ghost. But her efforts with Dobby’s Law… hadn’t they been worth it? Draco Malfoy had a part-time employed House Elf called Thor, for heaven’s sake.

But how could it ever be enough? The wizarding world was just as rife with inequality as the Muggle world. As long as there was functioning grey matter between her ears, she would help. She had to help.

When Hermione didn’t answer him, Draco prodded further. “Are you going to get us out today?”

She wasn’t prepared for this question. She knew a lot, so much more than she had. Still, she wished dearly that she had anything written by Toth or Badderley themselves. Without more insight about how the Pensieve was supposed to work, or who made it, it was difficult to understand how it had malfunctioned, or if they simply had no idea how to use it. In truth, she was quite stalled in her research.

“I’ll interpret your silence as a no,” he surmised. “And I certainly have no idea what to do. So—fuck it. Take the day off.”

“No,” she said immediately.

“Granger, this interaction is becoming physically painful. It is a permanently beautiful day, and we have all of Hogwarts at our disposal—I insist.”

“Oh, you do?” she raised her brows.

“I do.”

Seven long seconds crawled by.

“Fine,” she huffed. Sometimes, it was quite difficult to say no to him.

She was greeted with another grin, this time not at her expense, which was rather cheering to look at, all in all.

“What shall we do first?”

Their first order of business was to climb a lot of stairs. Together, they blew a gargoyle apart. It was extremely satisfying.

The circular office was empty. This was a blessing, as Hermione knew she would be too uncomfortable to be in the office with even an unmoving Dumbledore. She was sure Draco would feel similarly.

Light poured through the windows, and the mountains were visible in the distance. Draco walked slowly around, and pulled a very small book off the shelf, sliding it into his pocket.

The Pensieve lay placidly in its cabinet, frozen mid swirl.

“Are you going to put it in your pocket?” Draco asked sarcastically.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she did attempt to send the Pensieve to the library. Nothing happened, as she had suspected.

“Do you think we could enter the memories in there?” He came to stand next to her.

“I don’t think so. Probably not a good idea anyway.”

“Probably not. Imagine if we got double stuck.”

“A memory within a memory,” she mused. “Like Inception.” Her dad had taken her to see Christopher Nolan’s latest at the cinema this past Summer.

Draco looked at her blankly.

“It’s a film… nevermind.” She wondered if Draco had ever seen a film. Maybe, if they ever got out, she’d take him to one.

Ridiculous, was her own response to her previous thought.

They were walking along the ramparts in the sun, towards the west tower. Once inside again, Draco nodded his head towards double doors at the end of a wide corridor.

They walked into the choir room, which was empty but for one frozen Gryffindor first year, in an awkward puffy-cheeked tableaux of practising the trombone.

“I never spent much time in here,” Hermione said, looking around at the shining instruments. The windows were latticed, and the glass was stained purple—lending the room a soft lavender hue. It was rather lovely.

She picked up a highly polished silver flute, set up on a table.

“I used to play the flute,” she admitted. “Until I was 10.”

The look on his face dared her. “Show you mine, if you show me yours, Granger.”

She was intrigued enough to move her fingers onto the keys and bring the mouthpiece towards her lips. Draco folded his hands and assumed the role of a rapt audience, as she played approximately one minute of what she regarded as a very passable version of Ave Maria.

When she had finished he gave her a highly offensive slow clap. She was impressed with her recall after 21 years, and crossed her arms.

“Fine then, show me yours.”

Draco made a show of walking around the room, as if selecting which instrument he would play—intimating that he could play any of them. She rolled her eyes at the display.

Finally, he pulled a cello off a stand, grabbed a bow and took a lazy seat in a wooden chair. He put the instrument between his knees. He was kissed by the dream-like light, and it was oddly sensual in a way that she definitely did not notice. Dimly, she remembered there had been a cello in his treehouse study.

Hermione’s arms were still folded when he started to play. It became obvious very quickly that it hadn’t been 21 years since he’d touched an instrument. Draco’s grey eyes became intense, his fingers and bow strokes fluid and ceaseless. Being a showboat, he picked a clearly complex piece and the music rose and fell, while she struggled to figure out what to do with her body, which was inexplicably tingling.

She imagined him practising here in the choir room when they were both in Hogwarts. What would it have been like if she'd seen him playing like this, then? What if she'd stumbled on him with his cello, in their final year—a sequel to their night time encounter in the reading room?

How could she reconcile that hateful boy with something so beautiful?

His eyes had closed by now, he teased the strings with clever movements and the music crested like a wave. All the while, Hermione was holding her breath. She was in the past… she was here… she was nowhere.

He finished with a flourish, and examined her reaction, asking her with an eyebrow what she had thought of his virtuoso performance.

It took her a moment to compose herself, and her voice came out croakier than she would have liked.

“Bach, hmm, a tad unexpected, but very well played I suppose.”

“Why unexpected?” He set the cello aside and folded his own arms, still holding the bow. He didn't seem to have any idea that it felt like he'd grabbed her by the throat.

“You know why.”

“Ah, I see. You think Johann Bach was a Muggle.”

“I have never seen a suggestion to the contrary. Not in anything I have read, and—” she added testily, “—I am rather well-read.”

Draco smirked. “Know-it-all Granger doesn’t know something, I shall alert the Prophet.”

As long as she didn’t think about the hearing, Hermione found that she was having rather a nice day wandering aimlessly around the castle. Draco, surprisingly, asked to see the Gryffindor common room and she, surprisingly, obliged him. She had hesitated when she realised that would mean blasting a hole in the Fat Lady’s portrait, but Draco had no such qualms and made quick work of gaining them entrance to the tower.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

The resulting hole in the wall had enough room for Hagrid with another Hagrid on his shoulders to walk through it. Dust and smoke swirled around them.

“Overkill.”

A shrug.

There was a small scattering of immobilised students in the common room. She wondered where she, Harry and Ron were in this mess of a reality. It seemed to be a weekday, so they were likely in one class or another, paused in whatever stage of attention (her) or inattention (them) they were in.

Draco looked around as if he were an archaeologist opening a tomb for the first time. She wondered what he was thinking, and almost protested when he started walking up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories.

“There’s usually a slide that stops you doing that,” she said.

He looked down at her. “In the dungeons the doors to the girls’ dorms grow a fist and try to punch you when you approach. Blaise copped it in the bollocks once, it was hilarious.”

She snickered, despite herself, and followed him up the stairs.

He let himself into the first year dormitory, and continued his slow perusal. It felt oddly intimate to have him in there.

“It’s very… red,” he said, plucking at the hangings of one of the four posters.

“I suppose it is.”

“The windows are nice though. You can see into the lake, in the Slytherin dorms. Waking up to the Giant Squid’s tentacles sucking on to the window was pretty horrifying the first time it happened.”

He went to look out the window, at the lake and the vista beyond.

“I didn't imagine it to be so ordinary,” he admitted to the mountains.

“So what were you imagining? A cesspit over which we held nightly jousting matches?”

“Nothing so epic—we assumed abandoned 1930s lunatic asylum, with a splash of red and gold.”

“Those who live in glass dungeons shouldn't throw stones.”

“I was trying to say something profound and you’ve ruined it,” he sniffed, but it was clear he was only pretending to be ruffled.

“I’m sorry. Would you like to join hands and sing the school song?”

He ignored this. “I fancy a walk in the grounds—are you coming?”

They sat down by the shore of the lake. Hermione had conjured an armchair, Draco had summoned his chaise longue and was enthusiastically eating a green apple.

“Are you a Legilimens, as well as an Occlumens?” she asked after a comfortable while.

“Wondering if I’ve been reading your mind and discovering how devastatingly handsome you think I am?”

“If you’d been reading my mind you would know I have been thinking of nothing but the pain in my eyeballs, from the constant need to roll them in your presence.”

“Hmm. Might have to amputate, I’m afraid.”

“Exenterate.”

“That too.”

“Then how will I communicate my aggravation?”

“Screeching, foot stamping, arm folding. Truly, you have quite the repertoire, Granger.”

He was dodging the question.

“Could you read my mind right now?” She had some rudimentary Occlumency training, and extensive theoretical knowledge from wide reading on the subject. Yet she wasn’t sure she could block him. Wasn't sure she would feel it if he wanted to poke around inside her head and pull books out from her shelves.

He frowned at her. “Just because I can, doesn't mean I do. I have many other impressive magical talents that are much more fun than reading minds. Legilimency taught me that people are either boring, or fucked up, and there is little in between.”

She absently wondered if she was boring or fucked up.

“Fine then, what are your many other impressive magical talents?” she baited her hook.

“That's an asinine question,” he said bluntly.

“Oh, the showboat who plays Bach doesn't relish a chance to showboat?”

“Alright, I'll bite. Show you mine if you show me yours.” His tone of voice was silky as he said the now familiar refrain. She would ignore it trying to drift over her skin.

Hermione thought. The moment seemed to call for a party trick, but she was no George Weasley. Still. She raised her wand to her palm and brought forth a single sparkling drop of pure water. The drop stayed suspended above her palm as though frozen, and with a tiny circular motion she then shot a needle-thin beam of white light directly into the droplet.

Suddenly, a veritable forest of enormous rainbows burst forth from Hermione's palm and shot everywhere across the lake, through the sky and the gardens and the trees, all the way to the mountains beyond. There was no beginning or end, only colour and light. It was immense in its scale, breathtaking.

And then she let the drop fall into her palm, and the spell was broken as the rainbows glittered out of existence, fading into millions of dancing fireflies, tiny and bright before winking out completely.

Draco seemed momentarily shaken by her display. She couldn't help but track his grey eyes as they watched the last of her fireflies. It was clear he realised she was expecting a reaction from him, but he was taking his time to decide what that would be.

“E at a stretch, but closer to an Acceptable grade, I'm afraid.”

He was goading her and she was fittingly and easily goaded. “I've never got an Acceptable in my life.”

“You can't distract me with rainbows and doe eyes, Granger. I need substance, power. Imperilment.”

Doe eyes?

…Acceptable?!

She contemplated blowing something up in a spectacular fashion, perhaps hexing him, but somehow resisted the urge.

“Show me yours then, Malfoy,” she tried and failed to adopt his seductive tone. His was natural and unforced, hers just sounded... strained.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“So many possibilities, you see. Some gifts may only be shared in a private chamber between consenting adults.” The eyebrow quirked. “Others tarnish the soul.” He smiled a small, cold smile that didn't touch his eyes. “Some magic, however, hypothetically, is rather impressive but highly secret.”

“‘Hypothetically’?” She made air quotes with her fingers.

“Exactly. This is all moot anyway, when we refer to our previous discussions pertaining to being permanently stuck in Purgatorio.”

He stood and brushed himself off.

“Okay, okay, stop begging, you've convinced me. What you are about to see is purely hypothetical.”

“Noted,” she said.

“Write it down.”

“I haven't a quill.”

“Typical.” He waved his wand over himself dramatically.

And disappeared.

This was not Apparition however. Where Draco had been now stood a fierce looking bird, with tawny wing feathers and white markings on its head that mirrored the parting and length of silken blond locks.

“You're an Animagus!” Hermione gasped, nearly leaping to her feet. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not this.

Bird-Draco threw her an exasperated look that said ‘obviously’, and took off over lake. He flew up high in an arc and dived, levelling out only at the last second to skimming his enormous wings and sharp talons over the surface of the lake. Showboating.

“An unregistered Animagus!” she called to him.

Draco flew back to her and, with a flourish, changed back into a human midflight. In an obviously practised move he landed lightly on his feet and stood with his arms folded and legs apart. Waiting.

“Obviously a bird of prey, maybe a buzzard?” she said, once some of the shock had subsided.

“Osprey,” he supplied.

Shock made room for feeling mildly dazzled, which was vexing because this was Malfoy. It was a lot to be vexed and dazzled at the same time, while attempting to play it cool—which was never a strong suit of hers in the first instance.

“Hmm, would've guessed peacock,” she retorted.

Draco smirked sarcastically and resumed his seat on the green chaise in amongst the grass, flexed sideways in a breeze that did not blow.

“I suppose this explains all the flying…” She paused, imagining the freedom inherent in being able to grow wings at will. “But, you could end up in Azkaban,” she finished seriously.

“I'm not unregistered—my registration is not public. It's an Unspeakable thing. There is an Auror too, and there is a mole in the Wizengamot. Not an informer, a literal mole. Guess who?”

Hermione thought of the beautiful bird, sailing across the lake. She was more than impressed: she had been captivated. She had already been looking at Draco with new eyes, but this…

“What does the Department of Mysteries want with an Animagus?”

“Mostly to study me to be honest, which is annoying. But it’s probably what got me the job—having Death Eater on my resumé didn't exactly endear Croaker to me, especially after Rookwood.”

“So… you were an Animagus before you became an Unspeakable. You were unregistered!”

“Gosh, don’t be so boring. I mastered it when I was in Senegal anyway, where there is no such thing as a registration system.”

“Actually, there is a petition before the International Confederation of Wizards proposing an International Registry.”

Draco let out an exasperated sigh that seemed to reiterate that she was very boring, so she changed tack.

“Why an osprey?” She knew Animagus did not choose their animal forms, but their deepest self was reflected in the transformation.

“That’s certainly a question they ask in the Department. What is the connection between one’s ‘soul’, one’s magical essence, and an animal form that they do not select for themselves? What I can tell you, is that osprey are variously described as solitary, territorial, aggressive, but also graceful, powerful and loyal. My most cherished memories are almost all about flying.”

It wasn’t lost on her that maybe, just maybe, Draco had just bared a bit of his soul to her. Still, she said:

“Aggressive. Check.”

“Ospreys also scream and dance in order to mate. Take from that what you will.”

“Hmm, barely an Acceptable,” she goaded him as he had her. “Should have gone with the bedroom magic.”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s ‘day off’ with Draco had been fortifying, in its own way. Yet, all in all, she had been left with more articles to stuff into her brain library than ever. The volume titled Who the Hell is Draco Malfoy? was becoming too large to stay on the shelf, as she filled page after page with new information.

Hermione went back to real books (well, the tangible memory of real books), reading and reading and reading. The book Draco had taken from Dumbledore’s study was a small biography of Mordecai Toth, the supposedly brilliant wizard who had designed the Pensieve. But she found little that was relevant within it, except that Toth’s interests included examining the properties of certain minerals—opals, for example. Also that he had an emu called Aeneas for a familiar. There was a good deal more about the emu than the opals in the small book, which was deeply unhelpful.

She tried hard to concentrate, but she kept thinking: Draco is an Animagus. It was seriously impressive, and something she’d hoped she might be able to do herself, when she had more time, later in life. She’d suspected her otter Patronus would predict her Animagus form—there was often a link. She wondered if Draco had a Patronus, and if he’d cast an osprey before mastering his human to bird transformation.

This ability was a tightly held secret. Yet he’d shared it with her. That was… something. How many other people knew, she wondered. His mother? Astoria? Theo Nott?

A letter from Theo in flawless, honest-to-goodness calligraphy had appeared in the file—dated 23/09/2010

To whom it may concern,

This letter is to inform you that due to a deeply disappointing lack of progress in the investigation of the disappearance of Mr Draco Malfoy and the subsequent disappearance of Miss Hermione Granger, I will be hiring a Private Investigator to conduct my own enquiries. I believe it will be in everyone’s best interest to cooperate.

I look forward to a speedy resolution in this matter, Yours Sincerely,

Theodore Quintus Nott

Draco had sighed deeply, and said “idiot” when he saw this. Hermione was surprised and almost touched to have been included. She wondered, not for the first time, what people would think about the fact that she was missing with Draco. They were an unlikely pair, that much was for sure. The Daily Prophet would surely be having a field day.

Gryffindor Golden Girl and Slytherin Scoundrel Plan World Domination… and Orgies!

She was sick of the endless daylight. When she went to bed after a long day at the desk, Hermione conjured long dark curtains for the library windows. They worked, to an extent, and she fell into a restless sleep.

She dreamed of Barbara Kruger’s exhibition.

Crookshanks was there. With one overly long orange paw, he was trying to swat at an osprey, who was hovering just out of his reach, laughing Draco’s delectable laugh.

“Granger!” the osprey said.

What…

“Granger, what the fuck!”

Hermione’s eyes snapped open.

Draco was standing in the middle of the library, holding his wand in a defensive stance. He was also, she noted blearily, quite shirtless.

She leapt up, holding her own wand. Obviously something was wrong.

“What? What happened?”

He looked around alarmed, and appeared as if he was unsure of his surroundings.

“The library—it changed… we were in a room filled with writing, and your cat… but he had a really long paw..” Draco sounded almost shaken.

Ice trickled down Hermione’s spine. Her dream… had Draco somehow had the same dream? Or, had she somehow fed her dream to the Pensieve, was that even possible?

Shock quickly made room for excitement.

“Why are you smiling?” Draco demanded, as if she was off her rocker. “What in Merlin’s name just happened?”

“Because, I think,” she said slowly. “You just saw my dream.”

Luckily, it was not one of the other kinds of dreams Hermione was prone to having.

Draco sat down on his chaise. “How?” he asked her, obviously sceptical.

“I have no idea.” There was nothing else for it—she started to pace. “Maybe if I—but no, it wouldn’t—how did—”

“Care to share your thoughts with the class?”

She looked back at him, and certainly not at the silvery scars carved down his chest, and the slope of his shoulders. No, she was far too preoccupied to notice something as trivial as Draco’s fine muscles and surprising beauty.

“‘Why not?’” she said, trying the words on for size again.

“You’re barking.”

With eyes tightly closed, Hermione raised her wand tip to her temple and concentrated hard on a moment in her memory—an owl at the window of Grimmauld Place, and an unexpected package…

A silvery thread clung to her wand, like a strand of glowing hair. She imagined it rising into the air—the library melting away, replaced with the dimly lit halls of the former house of Black.

She opened her eyes. The strand dissolved into the air, like water going down a drain… but the library stubbornly remained.

She waited. Draco tilted his head at her.

“What was the plan there?” he said, patronising her.

She sighed heavily. “Nevermind. It clearly didn’t work.”

He pressed no further, and she got back into bed, scribbling notes in the third volume of her notebook.

“I’ve been thinking…” she said, when they were both awake again, and he had reentered the library after one of his solo sojourns. “We should reverse my spell and restart the loop.”

Draco picked up a radish and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully, before saying. “I tend to agree, reluctantly. Explain your thought process.”

“You seeing my dream proves we’ve only scratched the surface of what is possible… if the Pensieve was designed to allow the user to interact with the memories, perhaps immobilising is just one way we can manipulate our surroundings.”

“And?”

“Maybe we can… manipulate a way out?”

Draco finished his radish. “You know, I didn’t understand most of that, but at this stage I’m willing to try almost anything. Also, a change of scenery wouldn’t hurt.”

She hadn’t expected him to agree so readily, to trust her.

“Well then, I suppose we should get ready to leave.”

And thus it was, Hermione filled her pocket and shouldered on her lilac coat. Wand in hand, she closed her eyes—thinking of Draco next to her, Draco in the Hospital Wing and the Pensieve, now requisitioned back to the Department of Mysteries.

“Finite Incantatem,” she whispered. She felt something brush against her fingers, and immediately, the whiteness came for them.

Gone was the sanctuary of the Hogwarts library, replaced with dark purple walls and grey eyed portraits. The dread that engulfed her was swift, and the totality of it, the darkness of it, highlighted the odd peace that they had been existing in, in the frozen library, until now.

There could be no peace here.

The carved doors flew open, and Bellatrix was all she could see. Her cruel mouth. Her heavily-lidded eyes, with nothing human behind them.

“Come on,” Draco said, from beside her. She’d barely noticed he was there.

“No,” she heard herself say. There was steel in her voice and in her spine.

“What do you mean no?” he demanded. “What are you playing at, Granger?”

The table crashed against the wall. They knew where it would land, and it sailed right past them.

“You chose this memory,” she whispered. “You wanted things to be different, and they can be. We can change it. We can stop it.”

“You’ve gone completely mad,” Draco replied. Beneath the ire it sounded like a plea.

In the centre of the room, Bellatrix was approaching her nephew, her face snarling right into his. The knife shone in her hand.

“Show me… Legilimens!”

Hermione had never seen this part before, only heard it. Watching it was so much worse than she could have imagined. It was clear from the agony written across his face, that Draco would have doubled over in pain if his Aunt hadn’t held him up by his neck. Whatever she was doing, whatever she was looking for inside Draco’s mind… it was being taken by force.

“Please,” said Draco next to her, he laid a hand on her arm. It was terrible, to be touched that way, to hear that word he so rarely said, and to ignore what he was asking of her.

“I think you can stop it, Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, as Bellatrix renewed her attack. “Think of yourself there, and yourself as you are now. Think of the Pensieve. Draw a triangle between them in your mind, and then change it.”

“I see your fear Draco!” screeched Bellatrix. “The Dark Lord sees everything you are, and you endanger us all with your weakness.”

Hermione almost gagged as she saw Bellatrix’s curse land, and blood pour from one of Draco’s fingertips.

Bellatrix had pulled out one of his fingernails. Young Draco yelped in pain, took a jagged inhale and faced his aunt again.

“Draco..” Hermione said, wondering if she was asking too much, if she was wrong.

Beside her though, his wand was raised, his eyes were closed but the tension upon him was tight like a bowstring. He shook.

“Don’t disappoint me again, Draco. Legilimens!” Bellatrix cried. Young Draco’s mind was attacked again, but the pain was just as present on older Draco’s face.

It wasn’t working. Nothing was changing.

And then a black curse was flying through the air, aimed by Bellatrix at her nephew, but spilling across the room like the wings of a bat.

Hermione was tackled out of the way, and cold darkness flew over her head. She wasn’t able to see what the intended effect was.

She gasped, finding Draco's weight on top of her, shielding her, his chest heaving with the effort.

“Out the door,” he ordered in a harsh whisper, as though they could be heard. “Right. Now.”

He stood, and blasted the door to the parlour open. Hermione was close behind—hadn’t even considered staying. When she was safely in the parlour, with a clatter, Draco conjured a brick wall to stand in the door’s place. He rounded on her.

“What the fuck was that?” he spat.

She knew she’d pushed him too far, got too caught up in what she thought she knew, and what was possible. They could have practised on any other memory, but Hermione had thought the horror of Bellatrix’s treatment of Draco would be a powerful motivator to summon the magic needed to control the Pensieve.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathing hard. If the curse had hit her, what would have happened? She still remembered the pain in her back from the table hitting her shield. How? How? Shit.

“You’re sorry?” His voice was like a physical blow. “This is not a fucking experiment for a school project. In case you need reminding, that woman tortured you… but you just can’t wait to jump in front of her wand again!”

“I have all the reminder I need, thank you,” Hermione said coldly. She couldn’t comprehend that he was thinking about Bellatrix as the villain in her story, rather than his own.

“Go fuck yourself,” Draco snapped. “I’m done.”

Through another door, he let himself out of the parlour. She heard the door seal behind him, and listened to the sound of his fine boots walking swiftly down a corridor.

When she could no longer hear him, Hermione found her knees were no longer able to support her weight, and she melted to the floor. Sitting there numbly, she turned everything over and over in her mind. Draco had shielded her from the dangerous memory of Bellatrix’s spell. He had put his own body between that horror and her. Why?

As always, the scream came before the jump.

Draco left the gathering around the pool table so quickly that Hermione could have sworn he managed to Apparate.

She had almost forgotten how jarring the jumps were, how the utter absence of the whiteness meant that all subsequent sights and sounds were an assault.

The music was deafening, the smoke choked her.

She didn’t know what to do. Young Draco, in his school uniform, took his shot. The pocket again vomited his ball back onto the table and his companions duly laughed.

“Lady luck has abandoned you, Draco!” Theo said cheerfully.

Pansy took her turn, and Hermione eyed the ‘Ambrosia’ in her hand, wondering if she should swipe it away like Draco had, and hope for a bit of oblivion.

She was trying to understand the dynamics at work between the group here. It can’t have been easy, returning to Hogwarts after the battle, as Slytherins. Especially when it was common knowledge that your family had been in league with Voldemort, as it was with Draco and Theo. Hermione knew what it felt like to be visible, to be constantly reminded of the worst times in your life. She remembered the whispers in the halls, the vitriol they were subjected to.

What was clear was that this little group had each other, for better or for worse.

“I’m going to bed,” Draco announced suddenly.

Pansy exhaled a large stream of smoke, and passed her creation to Blaise. “You’re absolutely no fun anymore, Draco.”

“Yes well—Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné,” Draco said smoothly.

Draco hadn’t been lying about the French, then.

“What did he say, Blaise?” asked Pansy, knowing she’d been insulted in some way.

Blaise was rather busy blowing smoke into his paramour’s mouth, but recited in a bored voice, “Better alone than in bad company.”

As Pansy puffed herself up, ready to start an argument, Draco rolled his eyes and left the table. Theo made a ‘simmer down’ gesture to the others with his hands, and followed.

Hermione too, climbed up the stone steps after them.

Adult Draco was not in the common room and for that she was thankful. She didn’t know what she would say to him, when he decided to speak to her again. Perhaps she would let him slap her.

Without Draco to stop her, she stayed close this time, and listened to the conversation between the young Theo and Draco. He had already told her what had happened, so she reasoned that it couldn’t hurt to observe it for herself.

“Don’t be like that, come back down,” said Theo to Draco’s back. He caught him by the shoulder.

“I said I was going to bed. Stop following me.” But he’d turned and was facing Theo. Draco was taller by a good margin, but Theo had a presence like he did, something that was born into him, that couldn’t be bought or built. Theo was also so pretty as to be almost androgynous, especially around his soft eyes and mouth. His brown hair was meticulously cut, short on the sides and longer on top, tousled just so.

“Is this about this morning?” Theo asked softly.

Draco looked over his shoulder at the two young girls playing Gobstones. “Get out,” he ordered. They didn’t need telling twice. He looked back to Theo.

“What do I care if someone calls me a Death Eater?” Draco said dismissively.

“I think you do care,” Theo moved closer. “I think you care a lot.”

When he got too close, when his face became too understanding, Draco shoved him backwards.

Theo got a steely look in his hazel eyes, and shoved Draco in return with surprising strength. Hard enough to throw him back into a stone wall. The next second, he was on his toes and had fastened his mouth to Draco’s.

Draco, for his part, only looked startled. When Theo pulled away, there was colour on his pale cheeks.

“What the fuck, Theo?” Draco asked, but he barely sounded angry.

“I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you I’m gay, and that seemed like a good idea, a few seconds ago…”

Draco seemed to deflate a bit. His shoulders dropped. “I see.”

“And so?” Theo hid worry under nonchalance. Somehow, Hermione didn't imagine Theo found acceptance from his Death Eater father.

“I know,” Draco told him. After a few seconds he patted Theo on the head. Hermione could scarcely believe the gesture.

“You know?” Theo breathed.

“Of course I know—you are woefully unsubtle. But I thought you fancied Blaise.”

And Blaise was downstairs with someone who wasn’t him.

“Oh, I do.” Theo relaxed, and tapped Draco twice on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I know you’re far too straight to realise how gay you really are. I wasn’t trying to get at the Malfoy family jewels, I just thought you needed a bit of cheering up.”

Draco blinked at the very confusing logic being thrown at him and paused before saying, “Do you… want to talk about it?” He did not sound like he wanted to talk about this, at all. But Hermione could tell he would do it, for Theo. This little window into their friendship was so strange, such a contrast to Draco’s ‘bond’ with Crabbe and Goyle, whom he treated like cronies.

“No no,” Theo chuckled. “You can fuck off now.”

Draco shook his head, and instead of walking towards the dormitories, took himself right out of the Common Room.

And once again, in parallel universes, Hermione and Theo sat in front of a fire surrounded by snakes.

Chapter Text

Hong Fucking Kong.

They never lingered. Draco promptly led the way out of the suite into the hallway, and mashed his palm against the lift button, the upwards arrow illuminating his intended path. Hermione supposed he was going to the roof to transform into his osprey form, and soar between skyscrapers and ancient mountains. In her mind’s eye she could see his feathers reflecting the neon lights. It did seem an excellent way to blow off steam.

Her steam currently had no such outlet. She was not hungry, she had no reason to go up to the roof, and even less reason to try to make peace with the human thunderhead that was Draco. Instead, with a sharp tap of her wand, she blew out the lock of the door to the empty hotel suite, just as the lift doors closed.

Draco treated her like she was any of the other patrons of the hotel, or students at Hogwarts—like he couldn’t see her, couldn’t hear her, like she was nothing more than a decorative plant or extravagant wallpaper.

A droplet of long suppressed curiosity had her lingering in the hallway, looking at the door opposite. It wasn't locked as it usually was, Draco had cast none of his enchantments… perhaps neglecting to in his haste to get away from her. She shifted from one foot to the other.

Perhaps Draco trusted her not to open the door…

She absolutely, positively shouldn’t.

At times, Hermione’s curiosity led her away from black and white, and towards murky grey areas. This was one of those times, when her desire to know eclipsed almost all else.

Her hand closed around the door handle and she opened the door to Draco and Astoria’s suite, entering the dining room for the first time.

A door slammed on schedule, meaning Astoria had left the room only moments before. The Draco of 2007 was sitting at the round table in front of that astonishing view, his white blond head cradled in his hands. The barely picked over remains of a meticulously plated dinner sat in front of him. The second plate hadn’t been touched at all.

The more Hermione watched the defeat settle on Draco’s shoulders, and heard the rawness of his breaths, the more she knew she should walk out of the door, and dunk her head in ice cold water. Perhaps slap herself this time.

Yet she didn’t.

And then Draco stood violently, his chair clattering to the ground. He shoved open the door to the bedroom.

Hermione was a spectre. Watching, detached, as the scene played out before her. The same way it must have all the times before, as she ate noodles and pastries and showered in the suite opposite.

Sitting at the dressing table was Astoria, who was staring at her own regal reflection. Her black hair had been released from its careful setting, and it shone in waves down her shoulders and back. Her skin was olive, her eyes lightest green. A ring with a large black stone surrounded by white diamonds glittered on her finger. Her beauty was intense, almost otherworldly… she was also openly weeping.

Despite seeing her tears, Draco didn’t move to comfort her. Quite the opposite—in the mirror, he looked at her, and snarled, “What were you thinking?”

Astoria whirled and her tears were as silver as her dress, as silver as a knife.

“You know what I want, Draco!” she cried.

“What about what I want?” Draco shouted, his hand on his chest. The low lighting in the room sent shadows everywhere.

“I won’t let you lie and tell me that the two things are different,” Astoria hissed, still quite beautiful even on the verge of hysterics. “You can’t tell me you don’t want a family. You can’t tell me you don’t want a baby—as much as I do!”

Hermione went cold down to her toes. It was too late not to hear, not to know. Without a shadow of a doubt, she knew she had made a dreadful error.

“I do, Tori. Of course I do,” Draco insisted, the volume of his voice reducing as he went on. “But you can’t ask me to watch you wither and die. I won’t do it. I won’t fucking do it.”

“You don’t know that will happen!”

The argument had the flavour of one that had been had many times before. Hermione would know.

What about what I want? You don’t care about anything but your work! I don’t know who you are anymore, Hermione!

In another world Draco spoke again. “How many healers?” he demanded. “How many potions? And everyone, even the most diehard Purebloods who want nothing more than for us to breed like the prize cattle we are—even they say it will kill you.”

“So?” Astoria sobbed.

Draco seemed to be stunned by this response and his volume went right back up. “So? SO? You would leave me to mourn you, and care for a fucking infant while my world falls down?”

Astoria didn’t confirm it, but she didn’t deny it either.

“How can you be so selfish?” He hurled the word at her like a physical blow. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

It was so awful, but how could she look away? Astoria’s wand was out, and Hermione had the completely irrational urge to run in front of Draco, to place her body between him and his fiancée.

A stripe of reddest blood splattered over the mirror, and Hermione echoed Draco's gasp of pain and shock. When he moved his hands away from his face, she saw a deep gash across his nose, from cheekbone to cheekbone. Teardrops of blood began to flow, and yet he did nothing. His face became flat, expressionless. He was Occluding.

Astoria noticed and it seemed to stoke her temper even further. She slashed again, and Hermione cried out as another deep cut appeared on Draco’s chest, it sliced through his white shirt and onto the scarred skin underneath. Crimson blossomed out onto the stark snowy fabric.

Beautiful Astoria's face crumpled as she sobbed, her wand still aloft. It appeared that Draco would stand there, and let her do whatever she wanted to him. Let her take all her pain, and give it to him.

Yet, Astoria didn’t attack. All the fight seemed to leave her body and it was replaced with a deep, palpable despair. She dropped her wand, and moved forward the two steps it took to fall into Draco’s arms. Their bodies collided, and she passionately kissed his bloody face, pressing against his bloody chest. His arms banded around her, and he lifted her, setting her onto the dressing table as if she weighed nothing at all. All the accoutrements of her beauty clattered to the floor. Blood was everywhere, and he didn’t seem to care. On the contrary, he was pulling her dress off, baring her breasts…

Knowing that she had seen far too much, and definitely didn’t want to see what came next, Hermione finally fled from the room.

Across the hall, she splashed her face with cold water, which could not wash away her shame. All she could do was peer at her own inescapable reflection in the mirror, and watch as tears as silver as Astoria’s poured down her face.

What had she done?

She couldn’t stand it.

Hermione tried to forget witnessing what she was sure had been the death throes of Draco’s relationship with Astoria. More crimson soaked through her thoughts as she tried to forget Draco with his face and chest flayed open. Draco covered in so much blood.

Hermione released a shuddering breath and squared her shoulders. She had seen too much and she did not want to see any more. A decision came to her almost immediately—she would immobilise the loop again once the Hogwarts Express arrived at Hogwarts… just after the memory in the Manor grounds.

However, when the whiteness cleared from her vision, they were nowhere they had been before. At least, not in the twisted world of the Pensieve.

Draco hadn’t fled, and was standing steady beside her, the uncertainty of something new anchoring him in place.

They were in a dim bedroom, with a grand wardrobe in one corner and two twin beds made up in clean linens, ready for guests. An overnight bag sat on one of them.

She knew where they were.

Once, this room had been a damp, dusty symbol of hopelessness and fear. In this memory it was simply a guest room. Still dark maybe, but warm and comfortable. On the wall, Phineas Nigellus was leaning against the frame of his portrait.

“Granger..?” Draco said trepidatiously, his wand gripped tight in his hand.

He was talking to her, then, but for how long?

By the small window, a younger Hermione surveyed the steadily pouring rain, unaware that she was being observed. Unaware that this was anything more than a grey moment, not worth remembering. Older Hermione thought she didn’t look too different to her 18 year old self—perhaps her face was more defined, more experienced. Her hips and thighs had softened, and widened. She wore her hair longer, and if one looked closely these days they might find a white strand or two.

As they watched, an eagle owl flew to the window and tapped twice with his beak.

All she knew was this—it had worked.

There was no other explanation: this was Hermione’s memory. The Pensieve had taken it after all, and they were here… at number 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Granger… is this your memory?” Draco whispered as if afraid to scare it away.

She confirmed with a nod, moving closer to what she knew was coming.

Young Hermione opened the window, and the sodden owl hopped inside, shaking rain off his feathers. Without delay, he deposited a long package in Hermione’s hands and departed back into the wet night.

Hermione closed the window and walked to the bed, examining the unexpected package.

Sitting down, she untied the twine, unwrapped the brown paper… and a wand rolled into her hand.

She gasped.

It wasn’t just a wand, it was her wand: 10 ¾ inches, vine wood, with Dragon Heartstring at its core. She had first held it in her hands at Ollivander’s when she was 11, with her parents looking on with their particular brand of bewildered support. She felt champagne beneath her skin and had filled the shop with the golden bubbles. The only explanation of how she felt in that moment. Suddenly everything that had ever felt wrong, the difference she felt but couldn’t explain, everything was… right.

For a few minutes she stood by the dark window, watching the rain and holding her wand in her hand.

A familiar voice was calling her name from down the hallway. Harry. Ron. Once, upon a time they had lived here.

There had been no note with the delivery, but somehow, she knew who’d sent it. After the battle of Hogwarts, so much had happened so quickly—Death Eaters were put on trial only weeks after the dead had been buried. And Draco Malfoy, unexpectedly, had been cleared of all charges.

At last, Hermione waved her wand and the room filled with those same golden bubbles. From floor to ceiling, directly from her heart.

Looking away from herself, from the moment she remembered so well and that she’d now shared with him—she turned, and looked Draco hard in the eye.

When they reemerged in the forest he was still considering her, just as she was inspecting him. There was no doubt he was still furious, and if he’d known what she’d seen in Hong Kong… well, they could live together forever in Purgatory, but he would never speak to her again. However, her memory had served as a weight to balance the scales. They were still tipped, but perhaps equilibrium was possible.

After what seemed an eternity under his stormy gaze, he mercifully looked away. His parents held a tiny version of him safely between them.

“This is a happy memory,” he said mildly. “Perhaps the only one I have.”

They watched Draco, Narcissa and Lucius fly over the trees.

“I didn’t want to change it.” His voice was so quiet as he said this, as if he was speaking to himself. “I just wanted to remember what it felt like.”

The memory did have an untainted quality to it. Bright and simple—the way the world might have seemed through the eyes of a toddler simply delighted to be with his parents.

“There are those who believe happiness is only possible when we are children—though many children are deeply unhappy—just look at Harry,” she told him. “Anyway, the point is, adults know too much to have more than fleeting joy. We are always trying to get back.”

“Well, I did build a house in those trees,” Draco conceded.

“You returned my wand,” Hermione said softly as they lost sight of the flying trio.

“I did,” he said. His words were still little more than breath and he continued to look to the sky.

There was still frost between Draco and Hermione as they sat in an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Hermione kept looking at Draco as he watched the scenery whizz by, imagining blood pouring down his face. Whatever Astoria had done, it had been expertly healed. There was no scar, all evidence was erased.

In a brief, stilted conversation they were able to reach an agreement to attempt to alter the memory, and if that failed to freeze the memory again. They would wait until the Sorting.

“What did you want to change?” Hermione asked. There was no point in being coy now.

“Everything,” he replied, unhelpfully.

Hermione was inexplicably nervous as she and Draco stood quietly at the back of the Great Hall, lit by those thousands of familiar candles and watched over by the stars above. They had opted to travel on the carriages instead of the boats. Hermione could see the Thestrals and clearly Draco could, too. She wondered how, before remembering to wonder why not.

“Remember what I told you,” Hermione whispered to Draco as the first years filed in. “Draw the triangle, concentrate, and then make a change.”

Draco’s face told her to shut up, but as Hannah Abbott stepped forward, he drew his wand and closed his eyes…

The Sorting continued to progress. A bead of sweat appeared on Draco’s forehead.

“Nothing,” Hermione told him after a few minutes, trying not to sound disappointed.

His eyes snapped open, his words snapped too, “You try then.”

Hermione did. She saw herself on that stool, and envisioned with all her might, the Sorting Hat calling out Ravenclaw.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat roared. Shit.

She tried again. Neville—a Slytherin.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat cried again.

Tiny Draco stepped up to be sorted. They were running out of time, and she absolutely did not want to go through another jump. She just wanted to go to the strange refuge of the library, and sleep until maybe she forgot.

She drew the glowing triangle in her mind, and nearly shouted, “Immobulus Totalum!”

Young Draco froze on the stool, permanently poised to be sorted into Slytherin.

This, at least, she could do. For now, she had bought them respite and it would have to be enough.

She lay in her newly transfigured bed later. Draco had gone again, taken flight into the ever silent September night.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Chapter Text

It was October.

October.

Draco had been missing nearly a month, Hermione was not far behind.

She could hardly believe the Aurors and the Department of Mysteries had come up with nothing. She allowed herself a moment of self-aggrandising incredulity. Wasn’t she famous and important? Wasn’t Draco noteworthy and richer than several Kings? Weren’t they both employed by the British Ministry of Magic? In a time of relative peace, what could be higher priority than finding them?

The latest note in the purple Auror file had finally finally suggested that the Pensieve was likely connected to their disappearance. But it also said at this stage it was considered far too dangerous to approach such an unpredictable artefact, let alone consider sending someone in to aid them.

Stephens had written:

Croaker contacted a previous staff member who researched Pensieve. Reported that she laughed and said ‘there’s no way out of that place, Merlin help them’.

Hermione supposed that they were talking about Augusta Longbottom. She showed Draco this note, and he shrugged his shoulders as if it didn’t matter and nothing mattered, any more.

Their… relationship, if you could call it that, had been reduced to cardboard pleasantries and occasional comparisons of notes. They continued to sleep in the library together—he on his chaise, she on her single bed, but the gap between them was three times the size as it had been. Both physically and metaphorically speaking. They were on opposite schedules: she slept while he prowled, and he slept in his warded bubble—now complete with curtains—while she feverishly researched.

Hermione had dreams about being in a tent and looking for Horcruxes. Draco never told her that these extended any further than her own mind, and she didn’t ask. They weren’t nowhere—she could freeze the memory loop, had somehow projected a dream into the Pensieve, and added a memory of her own. Whether that was progress, she wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t… nothing.

There was been something eerie about the eternal sunshine the last time she immobilised the Pensieve. The ever-present night was much worse. It was hard to think of anything positive when one never saw the sun.

Hermione kept coming back to the idea of changing the memories, tweaking them… but she didn’t want to restart the loop, partly because travelling between memories was draining and awful, but mostly because she knew Draco wouldn’t allow it, and she didn’t want to do this without him.

She found herself missing his odd kindness, but was afraid of approaching him while knowing that she’d breached what little trust they'd built. The knowledge of it hung around her neck like a millstone.

But it was the second day of October, and she couldn’t stand it any more.

She took a stroll around the castle and raided Professor Vector’s legendary liquor cabinet—coming out with some very fancy Champagne. It would be a bottle-shaped olive branch.

Hermione showered in the Gryffindor girls’ bathrooms (old habits die hard) and checked her reflection in the mirror rather more than she usually would. She rubbed the last of the hair potion from the mirror in Hong Kong through her damp hair, and tightened the straps of her blue camisole.

Nipples safely ensconced, she wandered back to the library.

Draco was reading by lamplight at one of the desks. His book was about Quidditch, rather than the big bloody mess they were in, she noticed. Hard to blame him. Hermione sent the entire bottle of Champagne (now at a perfect temperature thanks to her Cooling Charm) zooming towards him, and then bade it to politely knock on his skull.

“What are we celebrating?” he enquired with low enthusiasm, grabbing the bottle with a Seeker's grace before it hit him in the head again.

“Absolutely nothing,” Hermione said cheerfully. She conjured two glasses, with hollow stems and shooting stars etched on the side.

“Fancy,” he said drily.

“Do you want some?” she asked. Draco rarely needed persuading in the presence of liquor.

Instead of answering, Draco picked up the bottle and neatly filled both glasses, Hermione's first, then his. All by hand.

She raised her eyebrows.

“What?” he groused. “Wandless manners are very important, Granger. I'm not a troll like Weasley.”

Hermione was trying for peace, so biting back on this slight against Ron would be ill-advised. She grabbed her glass and took a hearty sip.

He tsked. “Champagne without a toast? My mother would weep. Perhaps you are the troll after all.”

She was in a mind to knock back the rest of her glass and burp in his face, but refrained. Instead, she raised her glass.

“To..?”

“To Purgatory, of course,” he declared.

She pulled her wrist back. “I will not toast to that.”

He smirked. “To what, then?”

“To the fact that I'm sorry?” she suggested.

He blinked. “For what?”

For Hong Kong. For Bellatrix. For a lot of things. “For sticking my nose in, I suppose. And bleeding on your desk.”

He seemed thoughtful. “But if you hadn’t, if I was alone, I would most certainly be mad… To company, then.”

Mieux vaut être seul que mal accompagné.

Better alone than in bad company.

That was something, at least.

Their glasses met with an echoing ‘ting’. They drank deeply. Professor Vector had exquisite taste.

Time passed but the darkness never shifted, and never would.

Hermione was nursing her third glass of Champagne. Draco had stopped filling his glass and gone straight for the bottle. The bottle never had a chance to be empty.

“Explain it to me,” he said, eating from a bowl of mashed potato and gravy after a jaunt to the kitchens. “I just don't understand it.”

“What?” she said, also dipping her finger into the mash.

He watched as she delicately sucked the creamy potato off one finger.

“Weasley.”

She stilled. That subject was not open for discussion. “No.”

“I just don't understand how you could be with someone from what… fourth year? That's hardly better than being a... what do Muggles call them—‘nonnes’?”

“I imagine you’re talking about nuns,” she bristled. “We weren't together, then. We got together after my NEWTs.”

Why was she telling him? She didn't want to talk about this. She was hardly ready to explain it to herself, let alone him.

“Oh, so you weren't a nun…” His eyebrow rose slowly with growing intrigue. Damn that eyebrow. “Who rolled you in the hay, Granger?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Go on,” he goaded.

“No.”

“I'll pay you.”

“No,” she said firmly.

“10,000 Galleons.”

“You’re not going to give me 10,000 Galleons.”

“Of course I will. I’ve parted with more for less.”

Cryptic.

“Be that as it may…” She took more mashed potato. “What use is gold in Purgatory?”

“...Was it Potter?” Draco scrunched his face, undeterred.

“Pfft.”

“Oh oh—Krum?”

Hermione blushed, thinking of a weekend long ago, in Sofia. Then she snapped. “No.”

“It's written all over your face. Just Krum then?”

“I don't understand why you're so interested,” she said, in a dignified way.

“20,000 Galleons.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “I am collecting these Galleons, when I get us out of here.”

“Oh I expect you to. I will have them delivered in a handsome chest, with a pink bow tied around it.”

“Fine. Fine. Neville, okay?” she said. Neville… in the Prefect's bathroom after too much Firewhiskey, she did not say. She absolutely did not say the part about Neville being quite well-endowed and the fact that knowing about said endowment made it quite difficult to look at him in the same way, to this day.

There was a pause.

“You and Longbottom,” he repeated disbelievingly.

“What?” Hermione took a nonchalant sip of Champagne. Draco topped her glass off, apparently remembering some manners, while completely disregarding other tenets of basic propriety.

“I mean, he has a face like a slapped arse,” Draco said, seemingly affronted.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am not alone in thinking that he is quite handsome, actually.”

“Well, your tastes cannot be trusted, cohabitating with Weasley for all these years.”

This was a sore spot and he knew it. A sore spot and he didn't care.

“Ron is also handsome,” she replied loftily, as though it hadn't bothered her.

Draco screwed his face up in distaste. “Next you’ll tell me Potter is a sex God.”

“Girls throw themselves at Harry all the time.”

“I did not need to hear that. It’s bad enough that I know he had enough sex to produce two children.”

“Three children,” she corrected.

“Another? Awful news, that.”

“If you are the supreme arbiter of attractive wizards, why don’t you tell me all about the eligible bachelors I should have been pursuing? Perhaps I shall be inspired anew, in light of my changed romantic status.”

He raised an eyebrow. The pointed eyebrow of an eligible bachelor.

“Present company excluded of course, for posterity,” she said quickly, her stomach pirouetting.

“Of course. I cannot be compared to mere mortals.”

“...And so?”

“Blaise,” Draco supplied readily.

“Hmm, yes.” Those eyes. “Beautiful but gay.”

“Bi, actually. Theo.”

“Lovely lips—as you know first hand. Neither of those two are bachelors and Nott is definitely gay. ”

“Urquhart.”

“I see what’s going on here. The best looking Wizards were all in Slytherin, is it?”

“Facts are facts Granger.”

“Maybe I like witches.”

Draco looked intrigued. “Do you?”

Hermione shrugged a bare shoulder.

“Chang then, she’s fit.”

“Ooh switching it up with a Ravenclaw, but God no, Cho is decidedly not my type.” All that giggling. And all that crying. Hermione was nearly perpetually weepy, at the moment. Adding more tears to the situation just sounded… wet.

“Patil.”

“Which one?”

“Har har,” he laughed sarcastically.

“Just because they look the same doesn't mean they are equally attractive. Parvati's dedication to Trelawney is a deal breaker, I'm afraid.”

“This is a shallow and entirely surface level discussion for the purposes of objectification, the most noble of pursuits. You are ruining it with your relentless logic—Fleur.”

“‘Fleur’.” She rolled her eyes. “Don't be a cliché.”

“This is about your proclivities, not mine. You don't even want to know about mine.”

Actually, she did. She would probably hang off his every word. But she shrugged again. She thought she knew why Draco didn’t mention the surpassingly beautiful Daphne Greengrass, and she wouldn't mention her either.

“Wood,” he said.

“Pardon?” she said.

“I thought all the girls fancied him. There is something about the Irish, isn’t there? Except Finnigan, not sure what happened there. Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes should look into it.”

Oliver Wood was most certainly fanciable, but Hermione wasn’t sure anyone would catch his eye unless they were dressed like a Golden Snitch. Or wielded a broomstick suggestively.

“I’m done with Quidditch players. And Quidditch fans,” she added. Ron’s fervour for the Chudley Cannons had permanently ruined the colour orange for her. Even satsumas seemed mildly offensive to her now.

“If that’s the case, I’m afraid to say I think you might be destined to die alone,” Draco said, stretching like a cat.

“Is that so?” She wouldn't let it sting. “And what about you?”

“Not alone. One need not be married to get one’s leg over. And all the better if I can talk Quidditch while a witch has her lips around my co—”

“—Yes, thank you,” she cut in. “Charming image, there.”

Hermione decided it was evening, because some gentleness in the air made it feel like evening. The sparkling wine made her feel mellow, and as close to relaxed as she was ever going to get in their present, diabolical circumstances.

After they’d both excused themselves to the bathroom, Draco draped himself over the green chaise longue with his Champagne, and she transfigured a hard library chair into an overstuffed armchair that looked like a pile of marshmallows. She summoned her knitting and decided to do a few lines by hand.

The bottle floated over to her, and she took a sip and sent it back.

“You sure know how to party, Granger,” Draco’s voice floated over to her too.

She didn’t look up from her purls. “I don’t need to justify myself to you. I’d much prefer to knit than go to some stuffy pub where men consider my arse to be public property,” she stated firmly. “This is quite lovely, actually, except for the whole Purgatory thing. All that’s missing is some music.” She pointed a needle at him. “Now that’s something that the Muggle world does significantly better than the wizarding world.”

“Lies and slander,” Draco retorted from his chaise.

“Oh please, like you know any Muggle music.”

“I do... But definitely not Bach, as we have already established, 100% wizard. Let’s see, a girl once told me about… fuck, what’s the name? Cool… cold…”

“...Coldplay?”

He pointed at her in a wobbly sort of way. “That’s the one! Terrible they were, but she was very pretty so—” he shrugged, and Hermione wondered who the hell had been talking to Draco about Coldplay. A Muggle girl? Surely not. She almost asked, but she was disrupted by a brilliant idea. She almost dropped her knitting.

“Wait here!” she said to Draco, who saluted, apparently unperturbed by her swift and unexplained departure.

A quick barefoot dash around the castle, and she returned to the library, proudly levitating a magical gramophone and holding a small stack of records in her hand.

“Success!” she declared triumphantly.

“Oh.” He looked her up and down. “Here I was thinking you’d found us a way out.”

She shot him a grumpy look, but even this reminder of the terrible state of things didn’t dampen her enthusiasm.

“I knew Professor Burbage had some records! She played them in Muggle Studies sometimes.” She set the magical gramophone down on an empty desk with a bump.

Draco had gone quiet at the mention of Professor Burbage, who went missing during the war and was presumed dead, like so many others. So many were never found. When Hermione looked over at Draco, his face was pale, and he had turned his gaze towards the ceiling.

She knew better than to ask if Draco was alright, so she continued. “Let’s see… we have Fleetwood Mac… The Bee Gees, The White Album… Joni Mitchell, or Led Zeppelin… God, it’s like my parent’s record collection.”

He didn’t respond.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Whichever,” he said, softly.

Confused, but undeterred, Hermione slid Rumours out of its sleeve and music, glorious music filled the Hogwarts library. Sorry, Madam Pince.

Draco didn’t say much more before he eventually nodded off, spooning the Champagne bottle. Hermione sighed at him and transfigured a blank sheet of parchment into a blanket (a very thoughtful green, if she did say so herself), which she draped over him and his friend the bottle. She knitted a little more, switching between wand and hands—especially when she dropped a stitch or two, while listening to Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham sing their hearts out.

Break the silence

Damn the dark

Damn the light!

All the while, the question remained…

Would they ever break the chain?

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, Draco found that Professor Vector’s liquor cabinet and (formerly) concealed wine cellar were quite extensive indeed. Whichever stage of grief or madness or stress he was currently processing, he was enthusiastically self-medicating. Furthermore, after listening to Led Zeppelin III, Draco at first declared it to be ‘loud’, but thereafter played it again and again. And then he played it some more.

Hermione was forced to create her own soundproof bubble in which to read, but had to admit watching Draco enjoy Muggle music tickled her. She was sure it wouldn’t be long until he started claiming John Bonham was a wizard.

In regards to this turn of events—which she felt partially to blame for—the good news was that Draco was generally very cheerful with a bottle semi-permanently in his hand. He had also requisitioned some potion making equipment from the dungeons and brewed up an Anti-Hangover Potion, that blew Ron’s concoction out of the water in terms of effectiveness.

Hermione wondered idly if removing the consequences of the drinking was really the right thing to do, but she did not comment. Draco also started discussing the merits of brewing some Felix Felicis. It might help them find a way out of the Pensieve, he thought, and if not it might just give them a really good time.

Hermione did not want to entertain the idea of being stuck in the Pensieve long enough to brew a potion that took six months to mature. Besides, what form would luck take after all that time in Draco’s dizzying presence?

It didn’t bear thinking about. Hermione held tight to her inhibitions.

After a disrupted sleep—thanks to Draco’s new favourite record—Hermione was sitting in a pool of lamp light, reading. She had almost finished her knitting, and was savouring it as best she could. She had deeply considered unravelling the whole thing and starting again, but that was too symbolic of hopelessness to bear.

Draco, who had mercifully allowed silence to reign, came to join her. He summoned his chaise longue closer and threw his long body onto it dramatically, like a fainting Victorian with a too tight girdle. He conjured his bottle of vintage Champagne from wherever he'd left it, and set about the business drinking of it.

“You're not going to help today?” she asked him pointlessly.

“I am not,” came his haughty reply.

Hermione turned the page of her book and huffed an annoyed breath.

“Granger, it is high time that you accepted the fact that we live here now.”

She would not even entertain, let alone accept this notion, so pointedly ignored him.

Using her overworked and slightly bedraggled quill she scratched down a reference for herself and stood, stretched and strolled down the rows to search for the book in question on a nearby shelf. She had removed her shoes and wore only her socks, the stone floor cold beneath her feet. On her tiptoes she withdrew a scarlet book with a gilded spine. Curly writing shimmered on the cover.

Fantastic Objects and How to Fix Them by Ivan Chinit.

Hermione returned to her table with the new title. Draco watched her resume her seat with a thoughtful expression. He was extremely distracting.

“Haven't you got somewhere else to be?”

“Oh yes, I'll just be nipping over to Theo's subconscious presently,” he said sarcastically.

“I mean, why don't you just go fly around a bit?”

“I do not drink and fly,” Draco said in mock scandal, then grinned at her. They both knew the truth about booze and bird, it was a wonder he hadn’t flown into a window. “Anyway, let's just agree I have nowhere else to be and trust me if I did I would not be in a library with the likes of you.”

She ignored the sting of his comment, whether meant in jest or not, and she hoped he didn't catch the tiny flinch it drew out of her.

“I just remembered something while you were over there getting that book, being short and forgetting you can do magic.”

She sighed. “If you aren't going to help then the least you can do is be quiet.”

“If you aren't going to drink, the least you can do is listen. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was recalling fifth year when I was studying for the Transfiguration OWL, and of course you were there, when almost everyone else had gone because you're an interminable swot. Pince was off snogging Filch or something and it was pretty quiet, all in all. You got up, and started pacing and huffing and puffing like you do.”

“I don't,” she protested.

“You do,” he told her.

She had no idea where this was going and was failing pathetically at ignoring him. Not huffing, nor puffing, she ran her finger down Chinit's extensive table of contents. As far as she could see, there was no mention of Pensieves. Of course not.

“Stop interrupting my train of thought, you callous harpy. So, I can see you over at the shelves and you left your wand on the table, like an idiot, so you climb up the ladder…” He paused to take a swig from the nearly empty green bottle in his hand. Undoubtedly it would replenish itself momentarily. She would say nearly empty and he would say soon to be full.

“...And whatever did I see but Granger's knickers?”

Hermione's quill pushed through several layers of parchment to imbed itself in the wood of the desk. Open mouthed, she rotated her head slowly and stared at Draco who was not looking at her, but rather addressing his tale to the vaulted ceiling. His excited retelling had slowed in pace, and he looked faraway, melancholy almost.

“I think before that moment I hadn't really realised you were a girl.”

Hermione, Neville's right—you ARE a girl…

As predicted, the bottle in his hand was once again full of effervescent French wine and she was utterly lost for words. As she was debating casting her wand aside and punching in his stupid, shapely mouth, the lamps in the library flickered suddenly and the light outside brightened considerably—from definitive night to softest evening.

Movement beyond drew Hermione's eyes back to the bookshelves. There, with colourful works of magical literature towering over her, was a figure in the bare bones of a Hogwarts uniform. A figure who had removed her tie, and her shoes.

And she was up a ladder.

It can't be.

Her disobliging blond companion was still looking at the ceiling, drinking thoughtfully, blissfully unaware that anything might be amiss. A new, crawling sensation had Hermione turning her to look over her shoulder.

A handful of past students, who hadn't been there before, were scattered across several desks in a tableaux of feverish exam preparation. Hermione thought she recognised a young Ernie MacMillan fighting sleep one eye at a time, perched at a far away desk.

Yet one pale teenage face in particular stood out, sleek hair slightly out of place, grey eyes sharply focused on the shelves beyond…

Focused on the girl up the ladder. A girl with curly hair she hadn't yet learned to tame, whose already short skirt was riding up as she stretched to reach a back issue of Transfiguration Today.

Oh shit.

Understanding of what was happening washed over her like a wave. How exactly it was happening was entirely another matter.

“Malfoy,” she whispered to adult Draco.

He rolled his head to peer at her, looking at her from another planet, it seemed.

“Do you want to know what I thought when I saw your pink knickers?” he asked her lazily.

Hermione's cheeks went as rosy as her knickers had allegedly been. “Er Malfoy, I really—”

“I am quite drunk, let me confess. In vino veritas and all that. Right, so glimpsing what was up your skirt caused a war within my young self, you see. The revelation that you had a rather shapely arse caused a retreat by the latent Death Eater inside and resulted in an all out assault, by the part of me that to this day truly appreciates shapely arses.”

Oh, God, she thought.

“Oh God,” she said.

“Exactly. And so I imagined myself approaching you…” he said. “And telling you all about what I could see.”

At his words, there was movement. Hermione turned her head again and watched as young Draco stood, abandoning a veritable ocean of notes on the table. Decisive long-legged strides took him across the library floor towards young Hermione, who was climbing down the ladder.

Horror and anticipation formed a heady combination in her veins. It was enough that he was saying these things, to see them play out was altogether too much.

Still, oblivious adult Draco looked only at her, his gaze dream-like.

“Malfoy, pay attention,” she demanded.

“I am,” he said softly, warmly. What business did he have looking at her like that, now? She was instantly furious.

“You're not!” she leapt out of her chair and marched towards him. Without preamble she put her hands on either side of his head to roughly wrench him sideways and show him just exactly what he was not paying attention to.

“What in the—” he protested, but quickly cut himself off when he was finally able to focus on the scene in front of him.

“Merlin's cock!” he exclaimed.

All at once, Draco leapt up, brandished his wand as though slicing a sword through the air, and planted his body firmly between Hermione and her view of the bookshelves. As she had been kneeling down next to the chaise longue and he was now standing up, this placed her right at the level of his crotch.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Me? What are you doing?” He seemed to notice their compromising position and glared at her, his cheeks slowly turning pink. “Stand up, would you?”

She stood, but certainly not because he told her to. She leaned around him and saw that he'd frozen their younger selves in place. Before she could ascertain much detail about the manner in which they were immobilised, Draco sidestepped into her line of sight.

“You immobilised us!” she exclaimed excitedly.

He was still glaring.

“Step aside,” Hermione said. She very much wanted to see, for a whole host of reasons.

“Never,” Draco said.

“But you've changed it! You froze it! You changed the pattern, changed the thought we were in!” She was breathless. “It's extraordinary. How did you do it? I want to see.”

“You must trust me, Hermione—” A thrill went through her at the unexpected sound of her first name on his lips, as if he’d called her something as scandalous as darling or babe. Had he ever called her Hermione before?

“—if I have manifested the memory of the depraved thoughts of a wannabe Death Eater, who also happens to be 15 years old and horny, you are better off cursing yourself blind,” he said emphatically.

This did nothing except make her want to look even more. What could he expect, wielding a word like ‘horny’? People may credit Hermione as intelligent, as driven, or dismiss her as a swot. But Hermione was always driven by pure, unfiltered curiosity. It was how she ended up here, after all.

Well. That, and avoidance.

Her wand was held casually at her side, but in her mind she was preparing a silent Leg-Locker Curse. She knew these were his thoughts, that this whole time she had been an intruder in his mind, but this was different. These were thoughts about her!

At some point her heart had started beating wildly in her rib cage, and the rapid rise and fall of the chest before her told a similar story. Adrenaline, dopamine.

If she was being totally honest with herself, she truly did want to watch his depraved thoughts continue to play out. Perhaps this also made her depraved, but it was all for science. Magical science. Or rather, in the noble pursuit of knowledge. Definitely entirely rational.

Draco waved his wand and a heavy pair of midnight blue curtains appeared in the air behind him, as though dressing an invisible window. They slammed closed, creating a huge fabric barrier between their adult selves and the youthful projections.

Oh, he shouldn't have done that. Now it was a challenge.

In quick succession she made three moves:

Firstly, she cast a lightning fast Locomotor Mortis on Draco. Unprepared and inebriated, he toppled. She took the opportunity to incinerate his curtains, blue flame on blue fabric. With a bang he built a towering stone wall, complete with barbed wire at the top, curling into the words:

Absolutely Not.

She turned his wall to dust.

Then, she unfroze the couple against the bookshelves, and dared herself closer, close enough to hear—

“Put your hands on the shelf.”

Two Hermiones gasped gently.

And red light hit one of them in the back of her head.

“Renervate.”

She was lying on grass.

She peeled open her eyes and looked at the fuzzy shape of Draco looming over her.

Behind him there was a wall of flame. Malfoy Manor was on fire. Time warped. Fiendfyre blazed through her memory.

Draco knelt next to her, his brow furrowed. He seemed to have sobered up considerably, and replaced that ebullience with something like disgust.

She sat bolt upright.

“You stunned me!”

He didn’t deny it. “It restarted the loop,” he said quietly.

She wore no coat, and only her socks. The books. The files... Harry’s cloak. Everything was left behind in the library. She wanted to vomit.

He had waited to revive her until he’d… carried her away from Bellatrix?

Hermione watched the Manor burn and knew what Draco had done. She could feel the heat from the flames joining in with the slow burn of her anger. It grew and grew, until it was an inferno. She looked at him, rage blurring her vision, and got to her feet.

“If you expect me to apologise you're going to be sorely disappointed,” Draco gritted out once he too was upright.

“You arrogant, pompous bastard!” she hissed.

“Filthy fucking pervert,” he retorted.

“Oh I’m the pervert?” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You're the one who started waxing lyrical about my knickers!”

It was so confusing… so infuriating that she hadn't even noticed that she was pointing her wand at him again, but he certainly had.

“Going to curse me, Granger?” he said in that silky voice that hummed across her bones. “You know you want to—show me what you’ve got.”

“Just stop talking. Let me think.” She wanted to figure out what had happened and how he had finally unstitched part of the loop. Would they, could they return to the version of the library where Draco had made acquaintance with her arse?

You had a rather shapely arse…

None of it had happened. And yet…

She squeezed the bridge of her nose, thinking of her cottage, her bed, Crookshanks. She did not lower her wand.

“Whatever it is, do it. Here.” He moved forward until he was far too close to her, pushing her wand into the centre of his chest. She stared at the spot where the tip of the vine wood met his sternum. “Do it.”

His eyes shone solemnly. She felt his breath on her face.

And she could have done it. She was sick of him giving her glimpses of sunshine, and then drawing the curtains just when she’d started sunbathing. She was sick of him choosing when he could be bothered with her, and leaving her alone even when she didn’t think she could stand it. Sick of him telling her it was hopeless, as she endlessly hunted for an escape hatch.

She couldn’t be here forever—not with him.

“I made your life miserable for years,” Draco said in a harsh whisper. “Told you were worthless, filthy, unworthy of that wand.”

Her lips parted in surprise as he reminded her of all the pain he caused. Did he really want her to curse him while his childhood home burned behind him?

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I am not your redemption, Draco.” She found she was whispering too, but her words held conviction.

Their gazes locked hard for a disconcerting moment. Draco broke the tether between them, snarling. There was a flurry of fabric and wand and seconds later she saw colossal wings and an osprey was launching itself into the air. He flew high over the flames, towards the trees where he one day would live.

Chapter Text

There was nowhere to hide, not really. They would always end up back together.

In a memory of Hong Kong, Hermione was seated on a soft sofa and Draco on a grey armchair in an all too familiar hotel suite. Just one room away, Astoria Greengrass and another Draco sat at a dining table.

Soon, Astoria would slice into her fiancée’s flesh.

When Hermione and Draco both sighed, and noticed their unified breath, they caught each others’ eye for a fraction of a second.

This time, Hermione led the way into the golden hallway, trying to forget that she knew too much. Astoria’s beautiful face floated into her mind, and Hermione wondered about the present version of her and if, amongst being romanced by Slovenian Counts, she ever thought about that bloody moment in Hong Kong. Like Draco clearly had. What had he wanted to find in that memory?

As Draco pushed the button for the lift, she hovered outside the door to the unoccupied suite.

“It can’t keep going on like this, Malfoy,” she found herself saying. The wallpaper dragon looped around the door in front of her. “I can’t keep going on like this.”

Pushed, pulled, torn apart.

His back was to her.

“What happened to ‘Draco’?” he said flatly.

How should she answer that? He, too, had called her Hermione.

“Can we just… stop here and regroup. Please?” she said, she didn’t like the hint of desperation in her voice.

The lift doors opened, and he stepped in without a backwards glance.

When she let herself into the robin’s egg blue suite, she melted onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands. Her curly hair fell about her face, and hot, exhausted tears fell through her fingers onto her lap. The smell of orchids was all around, sweet and cloying. The thick air was difficult to breathe.

All this time, Hermione had been trying valiantly to imagine herself finding them a way out. Day and night, she read until her eyes blurred and burned. Admittedly, she hadn’t dwelled as often on the mess she might find when she went back to her office, to her cottage, and to speak to Harry… and Ginny… not to mention her parents. Hermione sobbed harder.

Most importantly, so far, she never let herself entertain the notion that she might be stuck in the Pensieve forever. Hermione did not do defeat. But her notebooks were gone along with her unfinished knitting. Draco, a very abrasive human being himself, obviously couldn't stand to be around her. All she had left was herself.

And she was starting to think that she might be an arsehole.

The solid rock wall she built between herself and despair finally crumbled, and she howled in anguish at the indifferent memory of a sparkling city.

Tears cleansed away Hermione's turmoil. Or some of it, at least. She lay curled up on the striped sofa, with her hands pressed together as though in prayer and tucked between her thighs. Waiting for a miracle. Waiting for Draco. Waiting for Godot. Or simply waiting to jump from Hong Kong to a Wiltshire Forest. Or perhaps they would return through the whiteness to Grimmauld Place and all her golden bubbles… a time when she was filled to the brim with stupid, bloody hope.

It had been a long time. Or maybe it hadn’t. Once, many years ago, she had stolen a Hippogriff and saved a convict and spent the summer reading A Brief History of Time, thinking about arrows and black holes and her own ultimate insignificance. What was time anyway? And what was the time, anyway?

Hermione hated the entire concept.

There was a soft knock on the door to the orchid-filled suite. This caused her to jerk upright far more dramatically than was warranted. Unless something cataclysmic had happened, it could only be one person. A person who was apparently ignoring the large hole she had blown through the door to gain entry, so perhaps a person who wanted to give her the chance to reject him if she was so inclined.

“Um, come in?” Hermione wiped her tear-streaked face with her sleeve and sat up.

Draco walked in with his usual arrogant gait, levitating a lot of plates in front of him. He directed them onto the dark wood coffee table and Hermione saw colourful sushi, ravioli, an entire glistening roast duck, and an enormous tiered cake with delicate iced flowers blooming all over it. There was a tiny model of a couple dancing on top of the icing.

“Is that a wedding cake?” she asked incredulously.

Draco put a finger to his lips, as if to say ‘shh’. The last bowl landed on the table and Hermione almost smiled at the fat pink berries that he’d included in the bounty.

He dropped into a regal blue chair in front of the window but, apparently unsatisfied, stood and dragged his seat unashamedly closer to the feast.

“I froze the memory,” he said, looking up at her. He looked quite as tired as she felt, but she was mostly glad to see him all the same. “At least, I think I did.”

That explained that.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He shook his head, rejecting her sentiment.

“So is this a peace offering, then?” she asked.

Draco started on the cake. “No,” he replied with his mouth full. “Declaration of war.”

It felt more like a truce, though. Hermione picked up a piece of tamago nigiri with an imperious look. “I will destroy you in battle, Malfoy. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Draco.”

“What?”

“My name is Draco.”

She paused, and chewed on the idea alongside her sushi. “It’s weird.”

“Why? You’ve called me that before.”

“Fine then,” she countered. “Call me Hermione.”

He looked appalled. “Absolutely not. I can't say that without giggling like a schoolgirl.”

“You did before.”

“I was quite drunk.”

Stalemate.

“You know,” he continued, focusing on his food. “I was thinking of changing my name. My surname anyway.”

She couldn't tell if he was joking, but she knew there were many reasons a son may not want to share his father's name. Draco had certainly mentioned his mother, but he hadn’t said a word about the elephant in the room. Lucius. She wondered if she should tell him about his father's parole being denied. That news probably broke when he was already trapped in here.

“What would you change your name to?” she asked him, instead.

“My mother's been using Black, so…” He exhaled. “But she's also worried that if I did that, the Manor might reject me. Not that I particularly care,” he concluded. He blinked once. An awkward silence followed.

Draco… Black.

Hermione still sometimes thought of Sirius, when she looked at Draco. Sirius was the only male member of the Black family she'd known. She thought Padfoot might have approved of the Draco who sat before her now; a man following a different path than the dark one laid out for him. Brick by bloody brick. And suddenly Hermione was reminded of a different member of Draco's family.

“Do you know anything about Regulus Black?” she asked him curiously. She never knew how much of the convoluted story of Voldemort's downfall people knew. Of course, there had been many articles, chapters, and several books published. But she, Ron, and Harry rarely had control over what the authors deemed worthy of inclusion. Harry, being Harry, had wanted Regulus remembered, and agreed to sign the letter that led to Draco’s freedom partly in his memory.

“Death Eater, right?” Draco said, sounding mostly uninterested and very guarded.

“Yes. He joined when he was very young, but he quickly saw who Voldemort truly was and the mistake he'd made. He died trying to bring him down, protecting his House Elf friend as he did so.”

Draco seemed very determined to look at anything that wasn't her. “I don't understand the point you're trying to make.”

“The point is… although it's hard to imagine you as anyone other than Draco Malfoy, whatever you call yourself—I think you might be a Black.”

“Like Bellatrix?” He glumly pushed the cake on his plate around with his fork.

“No,” she said emphatically. Did Draco truly think so little of himself? “Like Andromeda, Iike Sirius. Like Regulus.”

“Where's your proof?”

Hermione didn’t answer with words. Instead, she waved her wand—a wand that was so miraculously returned to her one rainy evening in London—and the room filled with golden bubbles.

Evidently Draco had successfully managed to freeze the memory loop, which was both a great relief and a promising development.

When Hermione asked what was different this time, he simply said, “I knew it was possible, so I did it.”

She knew that heartbreak was the core of this memory, and that perhaps tarrying in Hong Kong would cause him pain, or bring forth that coldness in him. They would have to come up with a plan sooner rather than later, for her own sanity.

However, just for a moment, they could rest. Furthermore, Hermione could finally put that amazing bathtub to good use.

She filled the clawfoot tub to the top, lightly tapping each one of the five faucets until the water was filled with pink foam and smelled lightly of honeysuckle. She sunk into the warm water, and looked at the silent, immobilised city through spirals of enchanted steam.

Nothing, she told herself. Think about nothing.

What if…

Nothing nothing nothing.

Her self-admonishment was almost successful. She thought about gentle waves—swimming in the sea in Summer. She thought about cooking, her skills having improved at least some over the years, proudly serving her parents creamy pumpkin soup and homemade bread.

She thought about her lost books and notes. The Auror file… gone, and they would no longer know what day it was.

“Put your hands on the shelf.”

No.

Think about absolutely anything but that.

A deep breath in and out cleared her mind again, but something sat on the edge… waiting for her.

She finished bathing, and was looking in the mirror, asking for hair potion and a toothbrush when she finally realised.

“Draco!” she called urgently, his first name forming easily on her tongue. “Draco!” she cried again.

The bathroom door opened slowly, and Draco stood in the doorway, looking… well, mostly uncomfortable.

“What is it?” he asked cautiously.

“Come here.” She beckoned eagerly.

“...Why?”

“Just come here,” she repeated, reverting to bossiness.

With a straight spine he walked slowly across the bathroom. In the foggy mirror, she watched him come closer.

“Ask the mirror for something,” Hermione instructed, barely containing her enthusiasm.

“Such as?” He seemed strained, and to be looking at her but trying hard to maintain their mirror-facilitated eye contact.

“Like toiletries, or another cake. Anything!” she urged.

“Er… cologne,” Draco said to the mirror.

An expensive-looking bottle appeared on a silver tray to the left of the basin. Hermione waited for a reaction, but he was still acting like a suit of armour.

“Good, I suppose,” he said. “A wizard must always consider the finer details when dressing for his day.”

“No!” Was he being purposely dense? She slapped him on the arm and if anything he stiffened even further. “Listen! Passwords at Hogwarts don’t work, portraits can’t see us, enchantments and objects don’t recognise us as being there. But this mirror… the food… the gramophone. We willed them to work, without even thinking about it, we just assumed they would—like you said, ‘I knew it was possible’.”

“Granger, this feels very philosophical, and I can tell you’re excited with the bouncing and all, but I really don’t know what you’re getting at.”

She almost stamped her foot. “What’s not to understand? We have been controlling the memories, to some extent, all along! When I arrived here, you could eat the food—the food is a memory! It doesn’t exist. I think that happened because, obviously, you needed food, you knew there was food in these memories and you’re always hungry, so the Pensieve obliged.”

Clarity of purpose. Confidence in the result. Why—the fuck—not.

Where that sat with Gamp’s law, she had no idea, but she was very eager to look into it further.

After the conclusion of her rant, Draco started to look thoughtful. His guard dropped a little, and his grey eyes in the mirror moved down, over her scarred throat and further still. She could feel them like a brush across her collarbone. Could bedroom eyes be used in a bathroom?

It was at that moment that Hermione realised she was wearing nothing but a soft white towel. And that she had indeed been bouncing. She stayed remarkably composed, and any flush that might have coloured her face was covered by her post-bath rosiness.

“Er—anyway, take this.” She awkwardly deposited the cologne in Draco’s hands. “I’ll er—dress and we can talk some more.”

Those eyebrows had never been higher, but Draco might have smiled a secret smile before he left her alone in the bathroom.

After a long, theoretical, mostly one-sided discussion, Draco and Hermione sat together on the striped couch. They took turns to look out at Victoria Harbour and Kowloon beyond, and to try to turn night into day.

It was not working.

Hermione imagined a clear blue sky, with not a cloud to be seen. It was possible. Her will would be done. She breathed in deeply, and saw it with supreme clarity.

It is day time, she thought, it has always been day time.

Draco shifted next to her, and his thigh briefly brushed against hers.

She opened her eyes, and the silent night stubbornly remained.

“Damn it,” she whispered, dropping back against the overstuffed cushions.

Draco appeared to try again, but soon joined Hermione in her rumination.

“What time do you think it is?” he asked.

“I have no idea. Are you about to suggest that it is an appropriate time to start drinking?”

He laughed softly. “I wasn’t. I have decided to take a break from the bottle.”

“I see.”

“Yes… two, possibly even three days. My body is a temple, after all.”

Conversation lapsed, but she wasn’t ready to go to bed. Hermione plucked at her jeans.

“I’m utterly sick of these clothes.”

“You should be,” Draco told her. “Why don’t you just transfigure them?”

“It’s not the same. They just don’t feel clean, no matter what I do.”

“Well…" He seemed thoughtful. "The bottom floor of this hotel is a department store, you know.”

She had not known. “Are you suggesting that we dabble in a spot of shoplifting?”

“This is my memory—no need for kleptomania. Consider it a gift.”

Hermione did not need much convincing.

She and Draco rode the lift down to the first floor, and the doors opened to an enormous, plush department store, as promised. It was busy with shoppers, witches and wizards who looked like they hailed from all corners of the globe. They were all of course frozen in place, and Hermione was bowled over by the surreality of her life all over again.

The store had everything. Or, the memory of everything. A very clean and modern-looking Apothecary, carrying ingredients Hermione could tell were rare and extremely expensive. There were cauldrons made of every type of metal, from matte black, to shining copper. Homewares, sporting goods, games… and finally they came to the apparel section.

Draco seemed happier than usual, especially considering that he was sober (probably) and Hermione developed a sneaking suspicion that he enjoyed shopping. She, generally, did not. But she privately thought she might quite enjoy it if she was with him.

They separated, agreeing to meet back at the fitting rooms.

In stock were robes of every colour, Muggle-style garments, and wizarding wear from around the world. The lingerie section alone was bigger than Hermione’s cottage.

She had an armful of clothes and was already changing when Draco occupied the cubicle next to her. It was lux, like everywhere else in the hotel. Velvet curtains, and a matching chair, with thick carpet underfoot.

The sound of his clothes moving against the silence made her feel oddly breathless.

“Okay, done,” she announced.

She opened the door and walked into the mirrored waiting area. A moment later Draco emerged and they stared at each other. Then they burst out laughing.

They had both chosen fitted grey trousers, white linen shirts and shiny black boots.

“This won’t do. One of us has to change,” Draco said, trying to keep a straight face. He raised his wand, and before Hermione knew what had happened, her trousers turned into a rather short skirt.

“Excuse me!” she spluttered.

He smirked. “Much better.”

In response, Hermione raised her own wand and turned Draco’s trousers into an even shorter skirt.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Jokes on you Granger, I know I have fabulous legs. I’m keeping it.” And he walked out of the fitting rooms as though he were a supermodel on a catwalk.

He wasn’t… wrong. Draco’s legs were long, and shapely with lean, graceful muscles—surely from all the time spent training on a Quidditch pitch. Hermione may not have been a fan, but she wasn’t blind and she knew all about ‘broom thighs’ (thanks Ginny). Draco’s swaying hips were a little too much to process, and she gave him back his trousers. Perhaps they were slightly tighter in some places than they were before, but that might have been a slight miscalculation on her part.

As they were heading back to the lifts, Hermione realised that she had been having actual, genuine fun. They passed by the leather goods section and Hermione selected a small green shoulder bag for herself, and a black bifold—both in a rich Dragonhide.

Once in the lift, she held the wallet in one hand and performed a spell she had many times before. Capacious Extremis. Tap, tap, concentric circle, taptaptap. It had been tricky, at first, but practice had perfected her process.

“Here,” she said, presenting the wallet to Draco. “You could fit your chaise longue in there, if you wanted.

He had been watching her the whole time. The lift doors opened, and they were back where they had started.

“You know, Granger.” He was calm. “Watching you break the law is inexplicably sexy.”

Hermione blinked rapidly. How did she respond to a comment that had struck her dumber than a frying pan to the head?

It didn’t matter anyway… Draco was already walking into the suite, apparently not expecting an answer from her.

No one knew what time it was, but it felt like bedtime. A short argument ended with Hermione taking the bedroom, and Draco transfiguring the couch into a very inviting-looking bed couch hybrid.

Alone in the dark, nestled in an extremely comfortable bed, Hermione could not sleep.

She turned over again, fussing with the sheets, their ludicrous thread count somehow not soft enough. Thanks to the excursion to the department store, she wore a new blush-coloured silk camisole, and expensive French knickers to match. These too, seemed to chafe.

The problem was her skin. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Like all the fabric touching her was intrusive, and nothing could be soft enough.

And all because Draco had implied she was sexy.

Or perhaps her sexiness had been inferred, rather than implied.

Either way, it was ridiculous. She felt ridiculous and she told herself to stop thinking about it and go immediately to sleep. Hopefully she would wake up and be less ridiculous.

It had been a long time since she had felt… sexy. She'd felt powerful, proud, grateful—especially in her work. But sexy hadn't really been on the radar for a few years.

When she and Ron first got together, he made it abundantly clear how irresistible he found her. He considered every minute they weren't naked to be a minute wasted, and was particularly generous about going down on her at a moment's notice. He loved it when she wore skirts, which became habitual. She felt worshipped. It was a wonderful thing, to love someone and to want them too. For a while, it wasn't unusual for them to get off together two or three times in a day.

Things changed, as they are wont to do. Ron found her more resistable than irresistible, and Hermione often came home from work overstimulated, preferring not to be touched or even spoken to.

Now, that was not the case. Draco had said she was sexy, and it had felt sexy.

Hermione's hand idly skimmed over her stomach. Back and forward in a lazy pattern, before travelling down, finding its way beneath the waistband of her knickers.

In quiet moments, in the secret world she kept only to herself, she remembered a snowy weekend in Bulgaria, after the horror of the war and before she and Ron became official. She had needed something life-affirming and she had straddled Viktor in an expensive apartment. He had whispered in her ear, words she didn't understand but whose meaning was clear. There had been freedom in knowing she would leave again. In the end, she cried out his name.

Her fingers gathered the growing wetness and she anointed herself with it. She brushed it over her skin, over her clitoris. She could create waves, suction and vibration with her wand, but today her fingers were all that she needed.

Her truncated breaths were so loud in her ears. All she could think about was the man sleeping on the couch, on the other side of just one wall, hearing her… entering her room, perhaps concerned at first. Yet she did nothing to silence the space, nothing to prevent his entry. This heady thought, of keeping quiet, of him seeing what she was doing to herself drove all memories of Viktor from her mind. Slowly, and then all at once.

While imagining his quick understanding, his admonition, she made circles between her legs. Maybe he would turn her over, use his wand, and slap her—this time in hidden, intimate places. Would it leave a mark? Hermione slipped her left hand under her camisole and tugged at her tight nipple, the one that he had once seen. One and then the other. How would he look at her if he saw her bare again? Would he smirk, finding out that she liked being looked at? By him, at least. Would it be a revelation to him, like it was to her, or did he already know how far he had gotten under her skin?

She dipped and swirled, slick sounds reaching her ears as she continued her ministrations. Her back was arching as her caresses pursued the fantasy of his. Would he be gentle, or rough? Or an exquisite, maddening combination of both?

She wanted him to pull her hair. She wanted to hear his fantasies. She had known, but she had not known.

The trembling rolled up from her toes, and seized her core muscles. She sighed, turning her face into the pillow in pleasure and in shame.

Clarity was an absolute bitch.

The next morning Draco woke to magnificent peachy light dawning over the city. She sat cross-legged before the window, wand in her hand and weary triumph on her face.

Hermione had made the sun rise.

Chapter Text

The list of things Hermione needed to forget grew ever longer:

Firstly, she needed to forget Bellatrix Lestrange hurting Draco—a boy of her blood who should have been hers to love and protect—teaching him to withdraw and close up using force and fear and pain.

Next, Hermione should forget that a 15 year-old Draco, nearly drowning in hate, once fantasised about her and her little cotton knickers, and presumably thoroughly violating the sanctity of the Hogwarts library.

After that, she would stop thinking of the Statute hearing that happened without her and the outrage of having no way of knowing an outcome that might upend the world.

She needed to forget about all of the beloved people she must be disappointing and hurting by still being stuck in this mess. Harry… her parents… Ron… she missed them dreadfully. Hurt bled over the lines of here and there, for she had betrayed Draco’s growing faith in her too, and her guilt ate at her like a parasite whenever she recalled Astoria's agony.

Most of all, Hermione needed to forget that she had completely lost her mind and shuddered with release, while imagining Draco sliding deep inside her…

…She would definitely need to forget that, or she would never be able to look at him again.

Fortunately, in the light of a morning sun that had never been, Hermione found plenty of distraction. Driven by curiosity, she and Draco rode the lift to the ground floor. Once outside, she shaded her eyes, and peered up at the exterior of the glittering building for the first time.

“Looks like a construction site to any Muggles that pass by,” Draco explained.

They wandered further into the silent city streets.

Hong Kong, that lively, heaving metropolis, was at a stand still. The frozen cars and immobilised hordes of people quickly proved too much for them both. The scene was beyond eerie—it was apocalyptic.

They ended up back in the suite amongst the orchids.

Draco spent a long time looking out at the new view, contemplative as a muscle feathered in his jaw. She wondered if he was chewing his cheek and if there was anything he was trying to forget. Then again, they were in a Pensieve filled with his memories; perhaps Draco was the type who wanted to remember.

When Hermione couldn’t stand the silence any more, she broke it.

“I have an idea.”

“That’s unlike you,” Draco replied, turning to her.

“It’s about the Room of Requirement. Er—the Room of Hidden Things…” She predicted that his expression would darken, and she was quite right. A little straight line formed between Draco’s brows. A not insignificant part of her wanted to smooth it away with her thumb.

“What about it?” he said, guardedly.

“Well—when the DA used it as a hiding place after the Carrows took over… they needed a way in and out of the castle, and the room created a passageway for them.”

“And then it burned to the ground, almost taking us with it.” He didn’t mention Crabbe, but it was clear he was thinking of his fallen friend.

“Yes, but not in your memories… I think we should go to the room, and ask for a way out of the Pensieve.”

There was a significant pause.

“Following your logic Granger, the Room will only work if we make it work, which really requires all sorts of mental gymnastics to even contemplate.”

“The enchantments in that room are powerful and ancient. It’s essentially sentient. Perhaps even the memory of it… my memory of it—your memory of it, will be enough to use its magic, or to influence the Pensieve to recreate it.”

In the notes she’d lost, she considered the magic of the room often when she contemplated the magic of the Pensieve. Even Bathilda Bagshot didn’t know about the Room of Requirement. Dobby, the DA, Draco of course, and many other Hogwarts students over the centuries only discovered what was possible through accident, coincidence and experimentation. Wasn’t that the same for them in here amongst the echoes?

“Merlin, sometimes you give me a headache,” Draco sighed a sigh that seemed to be plumbed from the depths of him. Despite a long sleep, he still looked tired.

All of this was like thinking about a Möbius strip, she agreed. A headache pressed in at her own temples. Still, they couldn’t stay here.

“So you’re saying we move again?” he screwed up his face in distaste.

She nodded. What did it matter when either way lay madness?

“Alright. But if this doesn’t work, I’m drinking for a week.”

“If this doesn’t work...” Hermione breathed in hope and breathed out fear. “I will join you.”

Finite. Hong Kong plunged back into night, before dissolving into icy white.

Grimmauld Place rematerialised. Hermione couldn’t look at Draco as he was drawn in, and he carefully stepped towards her younger self. When her golden bubbles filled the room and he held one delicately in his palm, Hermione’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest. As if he were holding it too.

White. Lucius, Narcissa and tiny Draco flew over the forest.

White. Hermione and Draco quietly rode the Hogwarts Express, and bumped along in a Thestral-drawn carriage.

As soon as they entered the grounds, Hermione brandished her wand and immobilised this night-kissed memory of Hogwarts. Her first thought was to return to the library to see if their belongings had somehow survived through the loop. Yet hope or bloody-minded determination made her forgetful, and propelled her forward. Up seven long flights of stairs.

Up and up and up, with him by her side.

They encountered a staircase frozen in the middle of moving, leaving a gap between where they were and where they needed to be. Without a second thought, Draco jumped over the short distance, unfazed by the possibility of plummeting down onto cold, hard stone.

Of course, he could transform himself into a bird of prey with little more than a thought.

Hermione made the mistake of looking down. The ground below seemed to simultaneously move closer and further away from her, and she wavered, her knuckles bloodless as she gripped the bannister tight. All these years, all those perils and heights could still undo her. Perhaps, she could find another way.

Draco watched her closely from across the gap, understanding her hesitation. She expected what came out of his mouth to be a rebuke or mockery. Instead, with conviction he said: “As if I would let you fall.”

A brag and a promise. A strange brand of comfort, unique to Draco. It was enough to get her to release the bannister. He held his wand at the ready, but when Hermione jumped, he needed only one of his strong arms to steady her, holding her waist securely. His touch lingered longer than it needed to, and his fingers blazed a trail along her lower back as he released her.

…But such things couldn’t (and shouldn't) be dwelled upon, or thought about. No. For now, they were on the seventh floor, and a tapestry of dancing trolls marked the spot.

“I hate this place,” Draco said bitterly to the empty wall, as if he was confronting a demon. Perhaps he was. Grey eyes examined the place where a door would appear. At least, where it might appear.

Hermione was sympathetic, but brisk in her response. “Try not to think about it. Try to think about a way out. A way home. There can be no doubt in your mind that this will work.”

She mentally donned ruby red slippers.

We need a way out of the Pensieve. We need a way out of the loop.

We need a way out of the Pensieve. We need a way out of the loop.

We need a way out of the Pensieve. We need a way out of the loop.

A perfect triangle appeared in her mind. She imagined the Room of Requirement, and the confounding sorcery that powered it. It was a tragedy that in their present it was gone and that all that history and possibility was no more. But this was a memory of 1991—the room was here. She would make it appear.

Beside her Draco had his eyes closed. Awareness of his slow, even breaths muted everything else.

Magic rippled and rumbled over her, and she knew the door had appeared before she opened her eyes. When she saw the truth of it, she almost cried with joy.

“Draco!”

His grey eyes fluttered open, and widened at the door before them.

“Well, fuck me,” he murmured. “Should we—”

She nodded, pressing her lips together in anticipation.

“After you,” said Draco, trepidation in his voice. For him this had been a room full of secrets. A room full of fire. A room full of death. Yet, he turned the bronze door handle, and held open the door for her.

She entered, and he followed her inside.

Something had indeed happened—the Room had manifested something, but it was quite clear that it was not a way out of the Pensieve. Draco and Hermione stood side by side, wands in hand, in a large square room with an enchanted, starry ceiling, like the one in the Great Hall. Floating candles filled the room, and the only piece of furniture was a large bed in the centre of the room, draped with soft, mist coloured linens.

“Er—” she began.

What the actual fuck.

Had she done this?

“Well,” said Draco.

Hermione needed the Room to swallow her whole.

“Look,” she said slowly. “We are both very tired.” She’d never felt more awake.

“Exhausted,” Draco agreed.

“Positively shattered. So, let’s leave all this,” she waved a hand at the bed as if it were offensive. “And try again.”

“Right.”

She all but slammed the door.

Next, she paced up and down the hall at a near frantic pace, her new boots echoing on the stone.

We need a way home. We need a way home. We need a way home.

She opened the door again. The room was virtually unchanged. The bedding was floral now, but as luxurious as before. There seemed to be even more candles, and an extensive bookshelf.

Put your hands on the shelf.

Hermione did slam the door this time.

Next to her, when she could finally stand to look at him, he fought it, but Draco's mouth flicked up at the corner.

“What?” she snarled, daring him to say something.

“Absolutely nothing.”

With a gigantic huff, she sat cross legged in the middle of the stone corridor, barely containing her desire to incinerate the door. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite so bad about the Fiendfyre.

But she couldn't really blame the room, now could she?

Draco sat next to her for a while, contemplating the door, but soon grew restless and wandered away. She didn’t ask where he was going, but she needn’t have been concerned as he returned only about a quarter of an hour later, with a dusty green bottle clutched in his hand. He plonked himself down beside her and raised his brows. Possibly at the lack of progress, possibly to ask her if she would like to start drinking.

“Giving up already?” she said glumly.

“Just preparing for a very debauched week ahead.” He shook his wallet gently and Hermione heard the telltale clink of (many) more bottles. “Remind me to brew some new potions before I get too bladdered.”

His lack of faith was highly annoying, not to mention counterproductive, but the prospect of a week of drinking with Draco appealed to the same part of her that once accompanied Neville and his sheepish grin to the showers.

They sat in silence on the stone floor. After a while, Hermione shivered and Draco cast a warming charm over them both.

“Do you want to go home, Draco?” she asked.

“What kind of question is that?” he shot back. “Of course I do.”

“What will you do first?”

“You mean after my mother murders me for having the audacity to go missing? I shall probably spend a day looking at my watch and enjoy the clear distinction between night and day—a thing I never truly appreciated before now. Then probably Quidditch, maybe celebratory drinking in lieu of sorrows drowning. I might allow Theo to flap at me for a minute or two.” It was an impressive list. A thing he’d clearly contemplated. “And you?”

She drew her knees up protectively against her chest, the skirt that she never re-transfigured riding higher on her thigh.

“I don't know.” It was awful, not to know.

“No laws to rewrite?” he prompted. “Elderly bigots to intimidate?”

“Yes I suppose I'll work,” she said with low enthusiasm. “If Madam Marchbanks doesn't fire me.”

“Say it once more with feeling, Granger.”

But she couldn’t say it with feelings that weren't there. Her realisation happened at the same speed as she confessed it to him. “Maybe… part of me doesn’t want to go home. I think my life might be quite fucked up at the moment.”

“Is this because of Weasley?” Draco said with obvious distaste. “You left him didn’t you? That can only have improved your life—man has all the integrity of a biscuit in the bottom of a cup of tea.”

He was so sure she did the leaving. How pathetic would he think her, if he knew she had been left?

She couldn’t tell him. This topic was not open for discussion. Hermione made to stand up, to go… somewhere, but he pulled her back down. Surprise had her sitting once more.

“I—that was probably unhelpful,” he admitted.

“Yes, well. He’s probably fucking Fleur Delacour’s sister and I probably should be angrier or sadder about that than I am.”

If this surprised him, he didn’t show it. Or offer pity or anger on her behalf. “Why should you be anything?”

A simplistic interpretation, but oddly helpful.

“All I do is work,” she admitted in a rush.

“If that’s what you want from your life, then who cares? Fuck everyone else. They shouldn’t point wands without summoning a mirror first.”

Again, simple, and very Draco. Fuck everyone else. Why was something said so flippantly such a comfort?

“And Crookshanks died,” Hermione finally said, since she was telling truths and his eyes were warm upon her. She was trying and failing to keep her voice even; she wanted to know what he would say to that.

“Crookshanks…” he muttered to himself, puzzled. “Ah—your cat.” Then his face finally became serious. “I’m sorry, Granger.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, trust me,” Draco said sincerely. “I don’t usually like cats but I really liked that one. I swear he would seek me out in our last year here. Even got into the Slytherin dormitories once and slept on my chest.”

Oh. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Could see so clearly in her memory of a memory Crookshanks in Draco’s lap. The tears that clung to her lashes now couldn’t be stopped and spilled over onto her cheeks. “H-he was a very good judge of character.”

“Can’t have been that. I think he was keeping an eye on me.”

Hermione found Draco’s hand resting on his knee and dared to squeeze it. “He knew you were finding your way.”

Miraculously, he squeezed back but tempered the sweetness with a rebuke, “Stop crying. Honestly, your crying face would frighten a Boggart.”

She let go of his hand to cuff him in the arm.

They contemplated the door again.

“What are you worried about?” Draco said into the long silence.

“What do you mean?”

“It is difficult for me to admit this, but I have complete faith that you will get us out. Not Potter, or Croaker. You. Even this plan—” He gestured at the door. “May yet work. But..”

His faith felt heavy on her shoulders. “But?”

“But. It’s a question, for you,” he said. “But what?”

Hermione knew the answer immediately.

“I think, partly, I’m afraid of you becoming a stranger again,” she breathed.

“Why?” He matched her quiet.

Both of them continued to look towards the door, for there was terror in looking at each other.

“I don’t know,” she lied. The bomb she dropped hadn't exploded and she didn’t know how to proceed.

Draco moved his body closer, and she felt warmth where he pressed against her arm, and her thigh.

“You know where I live,” he said simply.

In the treetops, under the wild sky.

“You can do this. Let’s try again.”

This time he found her hand in her lap, and pulled it to him. Lacing his long fingers through hers. Her pulse thudded wildly at the impossibility of it. The confirmation of so many almosts. Draco raised his wand, and his face stilled like calm water. He Occluded, pushing out all other thoughts. She mirrored him, emptying her frenzied mind as best as she could.

“We need a way out of the Pensieve,” she whispered.

“We need a way out of the Pensieve,” he joined in.

“We need a way out,” they said together.

Potent magic hummed in Hermione’s veins, like warm water trickled all over her. Like she was a hive filled with bees. More magic seemed to flow from Draco into her, pushing the last inch over the edge. Her power rose up to meet his in a waltz. Hello, it seemed to say, I know you.

She pictured the way out. Walking into their world, and not letting go of his hand. In her mind, there were golden threads connecting them and the pink Pensieve somewhere over the rainbow.

The humming stopped. The door looked the same, but when she opened it with a shaking hand, all she could see was a long, dark, passageway.

Chapter Text

So many feelings flooded her all at once. It was such an assault that she decompensated and went completely numb.

“Granger.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a passage.”

“Yes.”

“Are we going into it?

“Yes.”

There was nothing else for it.

The way forward was black as pitch and attempts by both Draco and Hermione to light their wands proved futile. Further efforts to complete even the simplest spells produced nothing. If it weren’t for a chemical smell and the ground beneath her feet, she would have said they were in a void, a liminal place beyond the rules of magic. Neither here nor there nor anywhere at all. She couldn’t tell if that was an ominous or promising sign.

There was no question that they would enter, and that they would continue until they arrived on the other side… wherever that was.

The passage narrowed, forcing them to separate and walk one after the other. Footsteps echoed on stone. She could hear him breathe in time with her. Hear his fingers running along the rough stone wall just as hers carved the same path. They were walking with blind faith pushing them forward, with hope at their heels.

A hand reached back for her. Even in darkness, he seemed to know exactly where she would be. Their fingers wove again. Draco guided her as if he knew the way.

Just when it felt like they had been in that tunnel for hours, she felt a disturbance in the air, like walking through cobwebs. Everything felt thicker, warmer. The metallic, unearthly smell transformed into an intoxicating aroma of leather bound books, oud wood, and sun-ripened raspberries. It seemed to be coming from inside her, as much as it permeated the air around them.

She let go of Draco’s hand and withdrew her wand.

“Lumos,” she whispered, and dazzling light flared at the end of her wand.

“Lumos,” Draco repeated. The tunnel continued, stretching endlessly out before them. But there, in the distance, a speck of light not of their making told them that perhaps, finally, they were coming to the end.

“Do you smell that?” Hermione asked. The smell seemed to be dark green, seemed to be fingers stroking the column of her throat, seemed to be champagne on her tongue.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I think I know where we are, and if I’m right…” He didn’t finish this portentous sentence.

On and on they walked. In the beam of her wand, Draco’s broad shoulders seemed to have stiffened, as though holding a weight they weren’t before.

Light beckoned from beyond, soft and warm.

“Nox,” they said, as one.

The tunnel ended at long last and they stood before another door, inlaid with tiny squares of stained glass in every shade of pink. Upon their approach, ornate golden grape vines snaked across the wood, coiling before presenting themselves as two door knobs, one on each side.

Draco tried turning the one on the right. Nothing.

“Of course,” he sighed. “Come here then.”

“Me?”

“Obviously you.” He pointed to his right. “Please notice how I am not making a knob joke right now.”

“Telling me about not making the joke is essentially the same as making it.”

“Just grab the knob already. Firmly, if you please.”

She did so, but not because he told her to.

“One, two, three—turn.”

Appeased, the door swung open with a disconcerting lover’s sigh, and Draco led her into the room beyond.

It was a huge rectangular space, with walls made of creamy marble, shot through with veins of black and silver. Thousands upon thousands of candles with flickering pink flames floated below a coffered ceiling, washing the whole space in rosy light. Instead of a floor of stone or wood, soft moss spread out underfoot, dotted with tiny white flowers. A collection of mirrors of all shapes and sizes dominated one wall, further amplifying the glow of the candles.

A small fountain stood in the middle of the room, filled not with water but with an iridescent liquid which caught the glow from the candles, like an opal made fluid. To Hermione’s left, a large bookshelf ran along one wall and she was puzzled to see it held only one tattered black book. The room did not appear to have another way in or out.

A large table was set up for potion making, though the three cauldrons, gold, silver and black all stood empty. There were desks too—mostly empty. Hermione moved closer to one, upon which there was a typewriter writing the same sentence over and over again.

O but my heart is broken.

The sound of a door slamming shut caused her to jump and whirl around, wand at the ready.

When she turned, she did not see the door through which they had entered, but a colossal Roman mosaic of a couple surrounded by fruit and flowers. The figures moved lazily in their frieze: he, shirtless and with fluttering wings on his back; she, draped in yellow silk, averting her gaze and smiling sadly.

“Eros and Psyche,” said Draco, coming to stand beside her.

She looked at him, realising. “You know where we are.”

“Of course. We're in my office.”

“Your… office?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The smell?” He gestured at the fountain in the middle of the room. “We’re in the Department of Mysteries. More specifically, we are in the Love Room.”

She was deeply impressed. “You never said you worked in the Love Room.” Then she gasped. “Amortentia!”

“And they say you’re bright.”

“What can you smell?” she asked excitedly.

He looked momentarily troubled by the question, until he responded blithely. “Bacon.”

It was a blatant lie, but she realised too late that what she asked of him was exceptionally personal. This acknowledgement didn’t lessen her desire to know.

Parchment, grass and spearmint…

Leather, wood and raspberries.

“I can’t believe I’m in the Love Room. Even when we were here with the DA we didn’t… the locked door.”

And searing purple light slicing through the core of her.

“Good thing too, it's a dangerous place. Last time we tested a Love Potion, I tried to shag my workmate Sharma for six days straight before they talked me down. Threatened to skin myself if he wouldn’t talk to me.”

Hermione pressed a hand over her mouth but couldn’t hold back her shrill giggle.

“Lucky Sharma.”

“His wife and grandchildren must have thought so too, especially when I showed up with my cello.”

“You didn't!”

“Oh I did.”

She marvelled at what she saw, looking at her own distant reflection in the mirrors. “So we’re back then?”

It was a wonderful, terrible thought.

“Can't be sure. This is my office, as it were, so we could still be in my head. Though the emptiness suggests it's probably not a memory, more likely it's an ungodly hour or a weekend. I suppose we should try to get to the lifts and then the Atrium to Floo—” He spotted the intrigue she couldn't hide and rolled his eyes. “You want to look around, don’t you?”

“Is that awful?” she squeaked, knowing that she should want to go straight home to reassure everyone that she was alive and well. “It’s just I might never get to…”

I might never get to see you again, her brain finished for her, whispering that fear across her flesh.

Of course she wanted to explore every inch of the Love Room. This room was known to be restricted even amongst Unspeakables. Moreover, now that it seemed the end of her vacation in his world was near, she wasn’t sure she was ready for the carnage of her own life. Mostly she realised that she wanted every second of him, before the lives of others rent their world asunder.

There was a sudden obstruction in her throat and she cleared it away. “So you work with potions?”

“Mostly,” he replied. “But it’s also a larger project on free will, as I see it. The involuntary nature of love.”

She wanted to hear more. Wanted to hear him talk about it for hours. Hear what books he read and make her own recommendations… she wondered if he would read bell hooks.

The thin sound of a baby crying echoed around the room and Hermione startled.

“Ignore that. Totally normal.”

“Creepy.”

“That it is.”

Once she settled down from the baby's cry, she resumed her exploration, running her fingers over the wood of the desk with the typewriter on it as it continued to type type type.

O but my heart is broken O but my heart is broken O but my heart is...

Draco watched her fingers trace their way around the room. Followed her as she took slow steps through the moss. The office was mundane to him, she supposed, but he seemed to find enough amusement in witnessing her wonder.

“What’s in the book?” Hermone couldn’t help but ask. She waited for him to call her a swot.

He didn’t. He answered. “Supposedly names your soulmate, but occasionally also the day you die. Wouldn’t recommend opening it.”

“Have you?” Another very personal question.

“You'll be pleased to know that I am immortal and am a heaven sent gift to all the women of the world,” he said solemnly.

“I'll take that as a no.”

“Take it however you will.”

At length they found themselves by the fountain, watching the shimmering potion dance. The scent was overpowering her thoughts, and she could tell he too was affected by its enchanted olfactory allure. His nostrils flared gently and his brow furrowed under his uncooperative fringe.

Bacon, indeed.

“It's different…” she confessed, wondering if he would ask. “Than that day in potions.”

“I wouldn't know,” he sniffed. “I was too busy stealing Polyjuice and thinking about how to murder Albus Dumbledore.”

If her head was in the clouds, his feet were on the ground.

“Yes, I suppose you were.”

Hermione was quiet then. They were coming to the end and she groped around for a fitting conclusion, if such a thing existed. If they were really here, really back, she couldn’t live in this soap bubble of uncertainty, this aching wonder pulling at her bones. There was a hypothesis left to test. Perhaps that way lay madness but so too could there be absolution.

I am not your redemption, she said to him in front of the burning Manor.

“Before we go, I need to tell you something,” she began with difficulty. “I wouldn’t feel right, otherwise.”

“I’m listening.” He invited her to continue, though there was a caution to his tone and that miniscule feathering in the centre of his cheek.

Hermione took a deep breath and wielded the knife. “I know what happened with Astoria. I opened the door. I saw it.”

He stilled beside her, but didn't speak. She remembered the crimson slice across his face, and its twin across his chest and felt them as though they were wounds upon her own skin.

You know what I want, Draco!

“I'm sorry that I know. And for all of it.”

Dreadful, deep silence followed. The baby cried again.

“You had no right,” his voice shook as he eventually spoke. “This whole mess. I had no choice but to have everything laid bare in front of you, and I asked for one thing. One fucking thing from you—and then… then you watch us in bed?!”

“No, God—no! I left wh-when she kissed you.”

“Good of you,” he spat venomously.

He needed to understand. She needed to make him understand. “I kept hoping you'd talk to me, and tell me what you wanted to find in that memory. Maybe then I'd know what to do when the person you thought you'd grow old with becomes a stranger to you. When you find yourself alone and try to tell yourself it doesn't matter but it does!”

“Don't you have friends for that?” He was so cold. “What do you want from me, Granger?”

Everything everything everything.

“I haven’t told them the full story.”

On an inhale she took the scent of oud, and exhaled sweet raspberries.

Draco looked at her again. There was cold grey fury there, but she thought she could see understanding too. As if he knew. As if he'd guessed.

“Maybe Astoria and I aren't so different,” she continued.

“If you have something to say to me before we ascend into what will likely be chaos, you’d better speak now.”

At first she spoke with her eyes closed, a shield against the memory of it.

“When I was 15 years old, Dolohov cursed me, right here in this fucking Department. Maybe you heard about it? I was lucky to survive and my recovery took months. Only I didn't really fully recover, and the curse worked quite well if his intention was to stop Mudblood filth from breeding. Even if that fact only became clear about a decade later.”

She’d said it. Uncaged it.

“It’s not impossible, the Healers said, but it will probably be difficult at the least, and most certainly complicated, maybe even horrific. And the longer I stayed with Ron, and I knew how much he wanted a baby or even lots of bloody babies, the more ambivalent I became about it. I didn’t want to fight for something I don’t know that I want. I have so many things I want to achieve, it just… just…” She couldn’t finish.

He stared and stared. Light from the Amortentia played across his beautiful face, now so familiar to her. Would she be expected to treat him once again as a stranger? Was he not a friend?

It was impossible to bear.

“Say something.”

“That—shouldn't have happened,” he said in a hollow voice.

“Yes well, it did.”

“You should have—I mean—you could have told me.”

“And you me. About Astoria.”

A wretched pause. “I loved her.”

“I know,” she whispered.

They reached another stalemate, facing one another in this place where so few had tread before. Still guarded, even with their throats exposed.

But this time, he surrendered to her.

“You must know it doesn’t make you less, Hermione. Whatever you want… whatever you do. Nothing could ever make you less.”

Draco Malfoy did not offer platitudes or faux sentiment. His quiet words were filled with conviction and confession and she could never deserve them. Still, it was easy to stretch her hand out to him, to thread her fingers through his when he responded without question. She briefly closed her eyes with the pain and the tenderness of it. She bathed in the echo of his words and his conflicted expression.

“I'm sorry,” Hermione said, meaning it. She was sorry for nothing, and everything. She was sorry that she tugged gently on his arm when he tried to pull away, and that she invaded his space without a second thought. With her wand still in her hand, she slid her arms around his neck, and she was sorry for that too.

She took him in, grey eyes and strong chin tilted down towards her. He did not move his hands from his sides but he did lower his forehead down to rest against hers. The silk of his hair tickled her cheeks.

For an endless moment they shared breath, until his lips parted, daring her.

In the middle of the Love Room, next to a fountain full of the most powerful Love Potion in the world, she kissed him. It was a terrifying thing—a test she had failed to study for, in a language she didn’t know. Yet as soon as she felt the responsive brush of his lips and heard his sigh that sounded like bitter relief, she was compelled to do something she had never done before and she leapt, wrapping her legs around his waist. Blood pounded in her head.

His wand hit the mossy ground as he caught her. His hands spread across her upper thighs, holding her tight enough to hurt. But it wasn't enough. She questioned with a sweep of her tongue and he answered more.

Heat flooded through her like a potion. He was not home, like she was used to, he was adventure. He was crossroads. He was possibility and danger.

It was the absolution she craved in the form of a fistful of blond hair.

And yet, and yet, and yet…

This wasn't supposed to be the end of it, accelerant on a fire and total free fall.

His hands were sure on her arse that he had called shapely, and the pressure was delectable, dangerous. The stage was set for madness, for lowering herself to her knees in the moss, for drinking from the fountain that might change nothing at all.

The card tower would fall, and the result would be him walking out the door. Like Draco had left Astoria. Like Ron’s note on the table. She couldn't. She couldn’t. If she never asked the question, she would never have an answer.

Amongst it all, she clutched a wand in her hand and a word in her mind. The cold clarity of a plan was her rock. It could all go away. That word that she had spoken before so destructively, need only be a thought and her will could be done.

He broke away when he felt her wand at his temple, and there was no mistaking the hurt contorting his face. Once more, he was reading her like a book.

“Don’t,” Draco whispered.

“Obliviate.”

Sharpness dulled to horrific blankness. There was irony in the fact that she would never forget this awful moment of her own making. Could never erase the knowledge of her own betrayal that she must carry alone.

Her feet were back on the ground. She took the last few minutes from him, piece by piece. She took her truth and her desire.

“So we're back?” she said, her voice like shards of glass.

Draco’s expressive mouth tightened into a frown, and he shook his head lightly as if to clear it. When he noticed his wand on the ground, confusion took doubt’s place, and he stooped to pick it up between his fingers. Upright again, he dragged his hands through his hair like a little boy lost. Perhaps he was aware that there was an aberration in his reality, if this was indeed reality.

“Draco?” she prompted when he didn’t speak.

“Hmm? Oh… yeah, it seems so. There's only one way to find out. But let me guess, you probably want to look around, right?” He looked at Hermione, recovering his good humour, or making a show of it. Until he saw her face. “Are you crying?”

“No,” she lied, tearfully. “No. We shouldn't delay, let's go.”

Shaking his head again, this time at her, he brought her to a blank stretch of wall. With a practised hand, he brought his wand to the centre of his chest and brought a golden glow from within him to the wall before him. A door bloomed forth like a flower, and when she didn’t ask, he provided no explanation as to the magic that allowed it to happen.

She barely registered the Department of Mysteries, this place of terrors and intrigue. Still she said nothing, even as Draco led her into a black circular room lit with branches of blue candles. Somehow, the door to the sunken room was open and she glimpsed the veil fluttering on its plinth, and she thought she could hear Fred Weasley’s sunny laugh.

A chill danced along her skin.

Next came the locked door, the corridor. There was no security to be seen, but Hermione heard they cut the security budget—perhaps relying more on the wards and spells in place that would hopefully still recognise Draco and Hermione as employees.

Sticky tears were drying upon her face. She remembered seeing Draco in the lift, years ago. She didn’t know the day, or the date, or the time. Purgatorio was inside her.

After the longest, creakiest lift ride of her life, the cool female voice announced their arrival in the Atrium.

It was empty. The only sound was the water spraying in the Unity fountain, with its two golden hands and crossed wands spraying jets of water into the pool below. Shining golden symbols shifted and transformed all over the dark ceiling, as they did all day long.

And there was the question: where would they go now?

They were before the fires.

“It’s real,” she said, feeling sure. She was fraying like thread.

Draco spoke up. “Granger, I…”

She couldn’t look at him but she heard the rustle of his clothes, and felt his lips brush across her forehead.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised her softly, before stepping into the flames and clearly stating, “Malfoy Manor!”

How could she watch him leave? She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

In front of the empty fire, she walked up and down as she had before the door to the Room of Requirement. Only this time, she had no idea what she needed.

Everything was fucked.

But she knew where to go.

“Finch House, Godric’s Hollow,” she cried, disappearing into emerald flames and swirling chaos.

Just push me a little harder and your world explodes.

Chapter Text

Over the years, Hermione adjusted well to travelling through the Floo Network. It was a normal part of her daily routine. Mundane even. That particular Floo ride, however, was disorientating in the extreme, like it was her first time all over again. She spun through thousands of grates and her mind whirled with her. One thought rolled around and around:

What have I done?

When she eventually emerged from the large fireplace at Finch House, she nearly threw up what little there was in her stomach. Immediately afterwards, she stumbled over a toy broomstick. Then, having narrowly avoided going arse over tit, she righted herself and tripped over another. It must’ve sounded like a very drunk Erumpent had popped over for a visit.

Finch House was built in the Tudor style: a large, handsome home, with four bedrooms and a large garden that was mostly used as a Quidditch pitch by its inhabitants and their guests. Abundant photos decorated every available surface and wall. It was a house that teemed with life, and celebrated every messy second of it.

It was assuredly the middle of the night, so that solved one mystery. The house was dark and very quiet despite her awkward arrival, but there was enough light to see toys and books strewn over furniture and floor. A sign of parents too tired to even wave a wand.

Maybe the right thing to do would have been to return to her cottage and to make a plan from there. Hermione felt very naked indeed without next steps, or even the steps towards next steps, clearly in front of her. But she knew if she took herself to Upper Flagley, then she would have nothing to do but to think about the Love Room. When she'd made her decision in the Atrium, she hadn’t thought of home, or her books or her bed. It had been a friend she needed, and she had thought of Harry.

Hermione felt hollowed out, like the discarded husk of an insect that would soon be taken away by the wind. How would she live with herself? She should throw herself back through the Floo and beg Draco to forgive her on her hands and knees. When the disgust returned to his face, it would be no more than she deserved.

I’ll see you soon.

Her legs would no longer hold her weight. She dropped onto the sofa—the sofa that had rather more bones than a sofa should, as well as a face. The sofa also let out a loud sleepy grunt of pain.

Hermione leapt back up in fright.

“Go back to bed, James,” a familiar voice grumbled.

“...Harry?” she ventured.

“What?”

“Harry… it’s me.”

Maybe she never went missing. Maybe she had been in a magical fugue state, and she was yet to turn 31 and it was still September. Maybe Draco Malfoy remained just an unpleasant, pale-faced bully from her darkest past.

“Hermione?” Harry croaked, disorientated. And then, “Hermione!”

Harry, who had apparently been sleeping on the couch, was rapidly upright and awake, pulling her into a bone-cracking hug. Once she found a way to get air into her lungs, her muscles seemed to relax, just a fraction.

“Hermione,” Harry repeated, coating her name with emotion that made her feel wobbly on her feet. “You're alright.. you're alright.”

“I'm alright,” she rasped, allowing herself a moment to cling onto her oldest friend. “Oh, Harry, you must be so furious at me.”

Delighted, Harry laughed and she was so grateful for the sound, and for him. She clung tighter still, a sob caught in her throat and tears on her cheeks.

“What day is it?” she asked hoarsely. It seemed like a good place to start. Well, as good as any.

“Er… Friday? Maybe Saturday, now. I’ve been so tired I hardly know my own name.”

“The date, Harry.”

“Oh.” It was a loaded ‘oh’. “Friday the 8th of October, or more like early Saturday 9th.” He finally released her and waved his wand to bring some warm light into his sitting room. She could now clearly see that Harry was wearing pyjamas that screamed ‘dad’. They were covered in a pattern of broomsticks, and woollen slippers sat on the floor near his makeshift bed. A tiny smile broke through the wretchedness of it all and curved Hermione’s lips upwards. Just a fraction. Harry. Lovely Harry.

“Will you sit?” Harry asked.

She hesitated. “The 8th of October, 2010?”

“Yep, 2010. Last time I checked.” He looked a bit alarmed, and she tried to project calm back to him. Very fake calm. It was the year it should be—thank goodness for small mercies. The small mercies allowed her to sit.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?” she queried, a distraction before he started asking questions and she started to avoid them.

“Because even in a magically extended bed there isn’t enough room for me.” He stretched and yawned. “Should I wake Ginny, then? She's been beside herself…” He eyed Hermione, as if she might vanish again. “We all have.”

“In a minute,” Hermione said softly, hardly able to believe she was here with Harry. It couldn’t be a cruel joke, or a dream. It was real. It had happened. Harry squinted back at her for a few moments, before fetching his glasses from a side table.

Once, just before Lily was born, Harry had spent several weeks wearing a pair of modern, tortoiseshell glasses. They were an expensive Muggle brand, and he was delighted to find that if he hid his scar with his hair, very few people recognised him in his new frames. There was outrage from people who knew him, though, and Harry soon caved to the pressure and brought back his round glasses. Seeing them on his face now, after glimpses of him on the Hogwarts express, watching him be Sorted into Gryffindor as an 11 year old over and over again—Hermione started crying anew.

A warm, comforting arm found its way around her shoulders. Harry let her make awful sniffling and wailing noises, patiently waiting for her to pull herself together, even though he must’ve been concerned.

“Hermione… I-I have to ask.” She knew what was coming. “Where’ve you been?”

Purgatory. It was on the tip of her tongue.

“The Pensieve,” she told him wearily.

“The Pensieve!” he exclaimed, as if he was about to jump up and march to the Department of Mysteries right now. “Like… in it..?”

“Yes,” she confirmed heavily. “At least, I think so.”

“All this time? How is that possible?”

“I don't know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I have theories, but saying them out loud makes me feel like Luna Lovegood, without the strength of her convictions.”

Abandon all reason and rationality, and live by two simple words: why not?

Harry exhaled a breath he seemed to be holding. “And Malfoy?”

Barbed wire wrapped around her diaphragm and she welcomed it. She let it squeeze tighter and tighter while a cruel slideshow of all the beautiful iterations of Draco’s face flickered through her brain.

“He should be home, by now,” Hermione said, hoping Harry wouldn’t hear her bitter regret. Draco was probably with his mother at the Manor. Thinking what? Feeling what? It took all her willpower not touch her forehead where he’d kissed her goodbye—just like Harry would have.

“And did he—did he do this? Did he hurt you?” Harry asked, with caution. He had been the first to suggest that Draco wasn’t as he once was, but the old suspicion lurked under the surface.

“No,” Hermione said flatly, with more force than she had meant to include. Draco had not hurt her. All his kindness had been repaid with her cruelty.

“Okay,” Harry replied, blessedly accepting what she'd said as the unassailable truth. “I'll do us a cup of tea, yeah?”

While Harry was in the kitchen, Hermione examined her own hands in her lap, noticing that they shook slightly. She felt like she needed to sleep for a week.

Harry returned and handed her a cup of tea in Harpies mug, curling with steam. It was hot and astringent and the only thing on Earth that made sense anymore.

“D'you think you can tell me about it?” Harry asked gently.

And Hermione did. It poured out of her like water from a vessel. She omitted large portions, crocheting the story together like a mismatched blanket made of scraps of leftover wool. She told Harry that she found Draco trapped within his own memories, and that she became caught in the loop alongside him. She said the Pensieve was from the Department of Mysteries and had powers far beyond the Hogwarts Pensieve that he had plunged into alongside a scheming Albus Dumbledore. Haltingly, she said that she and Draco had come to an… understanding, worked together, and found their way out by controlling the memories. Harry raised his eyebrows at that, and they crept up even higher when she talked about the Room of Requirement.

She said nothing about what she saw in Draco's memories, or him making her a miraculous cocktail on a roof in Hong Kong with one sleeve rolled up, or that he always remembered she loved raspberries, or about the osprey soaring into the sky and skimming across the lake, or Led Zeppelin echoing throughout the Hogwarts library. Or their laughter… and the comfortable moments of silence where she felt almost complete in his presence.

Or what it felt like to hold Draco's hand.

She definitely said nothing about the Love Room. She would never talk about the Love Room.

There was so much left unsaid. Even though Harry would try to understand, and rarely showed the hot temper that had dogged his youth, she kept her cards pressed against her chest.

As she spoke, Harry nodded here and there, looking shocked or intrigued when he should’ve, and asked very few questions. When she stopped answering him with more than a word or two, Harry shuffled up the stairs and returned with a flabbergasted, sleep-mussed Ginny. Hermione was wrapped up in another hug and Ginny said so many breathless things so quickly that she didn't hear a word of it.

Hermione found she was too drained to tell even her incomplete story again. Couldn’t bear to call Draco ‘Malfoy’ again as if he didn’t matter. As if he wasn’t the story. Ginny draped a soft blanket over Hermione and Harry repeated what she'd told him. It was unbelievable to hear it, even though it was her own tale. Over time she slumped further and further, until she was curled up on her side.

“I have to tell Stephens,” said Harry, with a dutiful grimace.

“Harry, I'm sorry,” Hermione said, tearing up again. “I'm so sorry. You must have been in such trouble.”

“Stephens knew you disappearing on my watch was worse than anything she could do to me.” Hot sticky guilt made Hermione squeeze her eyes shut. “‘Specially when she banned me and Ron from even talking to Zamfir about what was happening. I've pulled a lot more nights than I'd like, and some truly disturbing cases… but I definitely got off lightly. I shouldn’t’ve… you were… upset, and I shouldn’t’ve…”

“All of that can wait until morning,” Ginny said firmly. Hermione loved her for it. “Have you been home, Hermione?”

She shook her head and tried to keep her heavy eyes open. “Came straight here.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged a significant look. She didn’t have the energy to ask about it.

“I'm sorry about your cloak, Harry,” she whispered. Hindsight was blinding: she should’ve gone to the library first and found it, but she'd been foolishly single-minded.

How was she to know that it would all come to such an abrupt end? Every action was an impulse. A reaction. All that endless, bewildering time, and suddenly it ran out. Ten extra minutes, and she could've gone to the library… found the cloak… and told Draco that he was her friend. After everything. She was sure of it.

And now…

Anything else that Harry or Ginny said to her was lost to impending sleep and sweet-smelling dreams.

When Hermione woke to a different kind of dark, she knew it was early morning. There was a chill in the air and something was scuffling ominously around the sitting room. She hadn’t had the chance to grope for her wand, before a pair of startling green eyes appeared and bored into her own eyes, from about two centimetres away. Hot breath wreathed her face.

“Hermy,” a little voice chirped. A book was placed unceremoniously onto her chest. “Hermy, hello.”

“Lily,” Hermione gave the chubby cheeked toddler a watery smile. “What are you doing down here alone?”

“Book,” said Lily.

Hermione sat up and pointed her wand at the fireplace. There were embers there, and she stoked them back to life. Warmth washed over them.

“Alright,” said Hermione, patting the spot next to her. “Come on then.”

Hermione opened the book, recognising the stubbornly still illustrations—the book had been a gift from herself to baby Albus some years ago. Her own name was written on the inside cover in wobbly child’s script. Trying to clear some of the fog from her brain, she began to read:

“...Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not…”

After one and half dramatic reenactments of The Lorax, Lily fell asleep across Hermione's lap. She absently stroked her soft ginger curls with an ache in her heart.

Unable to return to sleep, she covered Lily with her blanket (and a protective charm or two), wrote a short note to Harry and Ginny, asking them to meet her when they woke up and stepped back into the Floo.

“2 Twayblade Lane,” she said, ready to face reality. Whatever that was.

Hermione stepped into her kitchen like she was taking her first steps on the moon. The foremost thing she noticed was a single candle burning on the windowsill. A vigil… for her, she supposed. The room smelled as it should: like wood, jasmine, books. Maybe there was a hint of dust in the air too. She took a deep, slow breath and tried to find the relief she should be feeling.

As though she had never left, she started to make herself a cup of tea.

The clock on the wall told her it was 6 o'clock in the morning and that the moon was waxing.

At the exact moment she lowered herself down to down at the kitchen table, thunderous footsteps sounded on the stairs. The sound placed her back on her feet. She pulled her wand out of her dragonhide bag.

She lowered it immediately when a tall, familiar frame filled the doorway—just as he had when the agent first showed them this cottage, talking about heritage and enchantments and the famous Purebloods who had lived there. The man’s red hair needed a trim, but his crystalline blue eyes shone through the shadows. He looked her up and down in disbelief.

“Ron,” she breathed, unable to comprehend the sight of him.

Ron crossed the cramped kitchen towards her and swept her up into his arms, lifting her feet off the floor. Seeing his face was confronting, and touching him was agony—exquisite in its conflict and its comfort. She was home and he was home and he was covering her face with kisses, and she cupped his cheeks with her hands.

Their lips met and she loved him, she loved him… but she couldn’t forget the smell of Amortentia. Ron’s scent was as lovely as ever—clean and warm and minty. But.

He is not for you.

No.

No.

None of this was right. What the hell was she doing? She pulled away, breathless.

“Sorry,” she muttered. He set her feet back on the ground.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Ron said then, his large hands on her shoulders. It wasn't a demand, really, relief was abundant in his face and in his posture.

“It's a long story,” Hermione sighed, resuming her seat at the wooden table. What else could she do? “I’m sorry, if you worried about me.”

Ron took an incredulous seat opposite her. “‘Course I worried about you! You’ve been gone almost a month, and the Unspeakables, the nutters, they won’t tell us anything. And Malfoy—”

“Don’t,” Hermione didn’t think she could stand to hear Ron talk about Draco. “I’m fine, really.”

There she was after coming full circle, sitting in her little cottage, telling someone that she was fine.

Fine fine fine.

Fortunately, a Post Owl delayed the conversation a few minutes further. Ron fetched the Prophet and tossed it carelessly on the table. Hermione eyed it like it might bite her.

“I suppose I’ve been in the paper…” she said slowly.

Ron grunted in assent. “‘Course, been nasty. At one point that Hornby bloke suggested I might have done you in for shacking up with Malfoy.”

“Oh.” Hermione took a very large sip of too hot tea, and the resulting flap provided an excellent distraction from the need to comfort Ron about this, or comment. She made a mental note to go through the newspapers from when she was gone. It was the first glimmer of a plan, and it was something.

The moment nagged at her though, and she looked out the bay window. She couldn’t quite see Crookshanks’ grave, but she knew it was there. The days would be darker, but dawn would come soon… she didn’t even have to will the sun to rise.

“Why are you here, Ron?” It slipped out and the words flapped between them like a dying fish. She simply didn’t have the wherewithal to gently approach the topic.

He looked taken aback—as if he’d hoped she’d forgotten that he’d left, or that she’d ignore it. “I… well, you were gone and I-I realised that living without you…” he trailed off, his ability to articulate his feelings was patchy at the best of times. His ears glowed red.

She looked inside and found empathy. “If it was me, I would have been frantic. I understand.”

“You understand?”

“I do.”

Yet she could almost hear herself yelling in the bedroom upstairs. Flinging the door open with a sweep of her wand, watching it crash into the wall and almost break off on its hinges.

The door’s open, Ronald! If I am not enough for you, you only have to walk through it!

She reached across the table and took his hand. It could wait.

“I know you must have a million questions, Ron, and I will tell you what happened, I will… but right now, please just tell me what you told my parents.”

Stephens had capitulated to Harry on one aspect of the investigation into her disappearance: he had been allowed to communicate with Hermione’s parents, and she was immensely thankful for it. They had obviously been distressed, and she realised again how often they had been sheltered from the peril she had found herself in over the years. Not only when she modified their memories and made them the childless Wilkinses (and she did not want to think about that, at all). When Hermione had been Petrified, they’d received only a letter saying that she would be unable to write for some time, but her condition was completely reversible and that everything was under control. Later she’d found out they were discouraged from visiting her. This was ostensibly due to concern for their safety. With the Chamber of Secrets open, and its monster loose... Dumbledore, as a responsible Headmaster, did not want Muggles walking around the castle.

How had her parents ever let her return to Hogwarts? She could only be grateful for their epic levels of tolerance.

While she and Draco were lost in memories, Harry told Marie and William Granger that their daughter was most certainly alive and assured her that she would be found. Also, that there was virtually nothing they could do. Unsurprisingly, her mother had not liked that one bit.

With Ron hovering nearby, Hermione located her mobile and made the call.

Marie picked up, and when Hermione said a tentative greeting, her mother went dead silent. In the background, she could hear her father asking what was wrong.

Then, “Hello?” William said into the phone.

“Hi, Dad,” Hermione murmured.

On the other end of the line were two more beloved people she had stolen from. Finally, finally, with her parents whispering her name through the phone, she broke into pieces and sobbed her worthless heart out.

Chapter Text

Within seconds of hearing her daughter crying, Marie Granger snatched the phone back off her husband to demand that Hermione come over. Immediately. The word immediately was repeated seven or eight times for emphasis, but was ultimately unnecessary. Truthfully, Hermione was desperate to see her mum and needed no convincing at all.

Ron, however, did need convincing to let her go alone to her parents’ house in London. She didn’t want to start a fight, but she also didn't budge. His presence would only bring more questions than the Spanish Inquisition’s worth there was already bound to be. Usually laid-back by nature, Ron seemed very reluctant to let her out of his sight, and even tried to come into the bathroom with her before her pointedly cleared throat had him realising what he was doing.

“Ron, I’ll be fine,” she told him, exasperated. “It's highly unlikely that I will run into any volatile magical objects at a home owned by dentists.”

Briefly and hurriedly, she had told him enough to confirm that the Pensieve was involved in her disappearance. This got him swearing and raving about Croaker and the Unspeakables all over again.

Eventually, Ron backed down, and agreed to pass on the message to Harry that Hermione could be found at her parents’ place.

Even so, he was still lingering in the doorway of... how could the room be quantified? Her bedroom? Their bedroom? Whoever's bedroom it was, Ron was standing in the doorway when Hermione was about to change her clothes. Her fingers were on the top button of her white shirt, and she could feel the unbearable weight of his blue eyes on her.

“Could you give me a minute?” she asked, too casually.

He seemed reluctant, and perhaps a little offended, but the bedroom closed with a soft click.

She wouldn’t think about not really wanting Ron to see her unclothed body, and she wouldn’t think about still being swathed in clothing from a department store in Hong Kong, that she had only ever been to in a memory. That those clothes had travelled out of the Pensieve with her.

Impossible, but it happened.

She removed the miniskirt that used to be trousers, and found herself sitting on her bed, wearing only silky underthings and hugging the grey fabric to her chest. As if she could press the lingering traces of Draco’s magic that she understood like a song played on an enchanted gramophone.

When she’d successfully berated herself for being very silly, she cast Scourgify on everything she’d taken off. The clothes were then carefully hidden in the back of a drawer, where she wouldn’t have to see them. In their place she donned a tight black wrap top and black trousers. Finding the result to be a little too black, she added a blanket-sized blue plaid scarf and braided her hair to the side. Her little green bag almost got banished to the back of the drawer too, but at the last second its strap found its way over her departing shoulder. Perhaps she didn't want to think about certain things, but that didn’t mean she wanted to forget.

At a quarter to eight, Hermione apparated alone into her parents' little tin shed. She skirted around the garden, hidden from nosy neighbours by high holly hedges and an old hazel tree. Her feet felt heavy as she walked towards the front door of the detached brick house she grew up in. Something about visiting her parents always made her feel like she was a child again. Bright and bossy, yes, but also a little bit lost.

She rang the doorbell and several sharp barks echoed in the hallway. Her parents had adopted an ironically toothless schnauzer by the name of Charles five years ago. Charles was nice enough, but he spent most of her visits trying to brazenly hump her leg.

The sun was rising on a grey London day. The front door flew open and Marie Granger pulled her daughter bodily across the threshold into her arms, as if she were practising Judo. Her own curly hair was cut shorter, and was almost entirely white. Hermione had inherited her mother’s warm skin and the freckles across her nose—and her same brown eyes. Marie let go only when William cleared his throat, and the embrace moved into his custody.

They didn’t say much. Marie hung up Hermione’s scarf and William went to fetch tea and toast. They moved to the Grangers’ recently renovated sitting room, which was bright white and still smelled of paint.

Charles the schnauzer sat down next to Hermione’s feet, plotting his approach.

Hermione’s parents kept looking at each other, having long conversations using only their eyes. Both wore spectacles in their older age, and looked rather owlish as they blinked. It was a very familiar scene, nostalgic almost.

Hermione took a bite of Marmite toast and a sip of tea. “Should I talk, or listen?”

“Talk,” replied her father, while her mother said, “Listen.”

All three smiled. Charles made his move at last and Hermione shooed him off, to have a tryst with the soft toys in his posh little dog bed in the corner instead.

She cleared her throat. “What do you know?”

“You were helping Harry with his magical detective work,” said William gravely.

“Yes.”

Marie gave a disapproving frown. Hermione wondered if her stellar opinion of Harry had lessened any. Her mother took up from where her father left off. “And you went missing when he left you in the house of a man you went to school with, whose disappearance you were investigating,”

That was one way to frame their relationship to Draco Malfoy. Accurate. Dispassionate. “Yes, er—right so far.”

“And Harry said the man is some kind of secret agent, so he didn’t know about some of the investigation, but that you were definitely alive, and he kept saying he was sure you would come back. You would solve your own case before anyone else did.”

Hermione smiled again at Harry’s faith in her and imagined him saying that to her parents. Audacious, but probably just the right thing to say. She also thought that Draco might quite like being called a secret agent.

“I’m fine. I’m completely healthy. It was an accident, that's all,” she emphasised her words, not really knowing how much to explain to her parents. She couldn’t simply say ‘I was stuck in a Pensieve’, since the first step would need to be explaining what a Pensieve is.

The day grew lighter and lighter, and Hermione did end up explaining what a Pensieve was… and that the pink Pensieve was something over and above any other she’d heard of. In doing so, she told her parents even more than she had told Harry and Ginny. The weight sitting on her chest eased, just a tiny fraction. Her parents gave her two belated birthday gifts, a very nice bottle of sloe gin, and a pair of wireless headphones. Her father excitedly told her how they worked, and she promised she would start working on her magical reverse-engineering process post-haste.

William offered to walk Charles, if only to tire him out and temporarily thwart his amorous attempts on Hermione's leg. Mother and daughter then relocated into the shining kitchen to make an omelette. Quite unable to stop herself, and needing to release some of it… something, Hermione found herself telling her mother an edited version of seeing the memory of Astoria and Draco fighting in Hong Kong. Her version didn’t contain any blood or kissing, but she did include the information that they had either separated then, or soon after.

She had taken away her confession from Draco. If she told her mother about that part, she knew the warm love her mother was radiating would turn to ice and stay that way. Marie would never approve of taking choice away from someone else, like when she'd been sent packing to Australia.

Hermione didn’t want to defend herself. She couldn't. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.

As Hermione concluded her tale, Marie looked at her daughter shrewdly, but instead of directly answering she asked. “This ‘Draco’—did you get on at school?”

If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in.

“Er—not especially.”

“Hmm.” Egg mixture was poured into the pan and started to sizzle. “And now?”

Draco is gone. And somehow it appears Ron and I are back together even though it's not what I want. I don’t want any of this. Everything is completely fucked.

Words sat souring on her tongue. Her mother could be exceptionally sharp, sometimes.

“Yes, I suppose we found a way to see eye to eye,” Hermione said because she needed to say something. Her tone stayed guarded. It was true too: she and Draco did get on, quite well. Slapping Jinxes were surely fundamental in many relationships, working, family or otherwise.

“Hmm,” her mother said again. ‘Hmm’ meant she had a strong opinion or perspective that she was not sharing. She served up two plates, and Hermione was sitting at the kitchen island, cracking black pepper onto her plate when Marie spoke again. “Hermione, has anyone—any witch or wizard opted to… live as a.. Muggle?”

Hermione knew well that her mother didn’t like the word Muggle. She chewed on it like gristle. Hermione thought about this before she replied. “There must be, in fact I’m sure I’ve read about people who have, or at least who lived what amounted to double lives. It’s complicated of course, because it is very difficult for those who have magic not to use it. It builds up, and can be destructive.” Hermione’s own instances of accidental magic had set a pair of curtains on fire, turned every single item of her clothing bright purple and (probably) caused a mean classmate’s beautiful blonde hair to fall out.

“...Why do you ask?” Hermione knew why she asked.

“Darling, you know we’re proud of you. Very proud. But have you ever… thought about it? You could be anything—you more than kept up with your A-levels. You could even keep doing law or diplomacy like you do now, or train in medicine like you wanted to before starting at Hogwarts. Maybe darling, maybe… it would be safer.”

Of course Hermione had thought about it, but her bones told her without a doubt that she was a witch and masquerading—for that would be what it was to live as a lawyer at some Muggle firm—could never be enough for her. She just wished it didn’t feel like a mutually exclusive choice.

Fortunately, Hermione was saved from having to answer by the cheerful chime of the doorbell. Marie surveyed her daughter over her glasses and bustled off to answer it.

She returned momentarily, with a sheepish Harry on her heels. Marie’s lips were pursed, perhaps answering the question regarding her current opinion on Harry.

“Hi Harry,” Hermione greeted.

Marie can’t have been too cross, because she set a plate and cutlery in front of Harry and served him up the last piece of cheese omelette. God forbid he go hungry.

“Says he has to take you into his office to make a statement,” she said testily.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Yes I would imagine Stephens would… yes.”

“And it can’t wait?” Marie looked at Harry, gimlet-eyed.

Harry had unfortunately just taken a bite of omelette and needed a minute to chew. “It can’t, I’m so sorry—my boss wants her in as soon as possible and I don’t have a lot of wiggle room with her, at the moment. Sorry.”

Hermione gave her mother a look telling her to go easy on Harry.

“You’ll be back after?”

“No mum, I’ve just—” she huffed a breath. “I want to be at home, figure it out.” Top of the list: what to do about Ron.

Marie was wholly not pleased, but made Hermione promise to text every day, and to come for dinner on Tuesday night. William arrived home, and they both stood at the door and waved as Hermione and Harry walked down the garden path and out into the street.

“D’you fancy the Tube or shall we apparate?”

For once, especially after her mother’s question designed to provoke an existential crisis, Hermione felt like embracing the hot, cramped… genius Muggle Underground.

Waiting outside Samantha Stephens’ office, on a austere wooden stool was a new kind of torture. Hermione's knee jiggled up and down endlessly and a clock on the wall ticked loudly. The cubicles were quiet, with only one older wizard, with a long sandy coloured beard and a cowboy hat, in the office today. Hermione thought his name might be Collingwood. He had tipped his hat to Harry as they walked past. Aurors often worked weekends, but rarely at their desks.

Stephens was certainly at her desk behind her closed door, and Hermione suspected she may not be busy at all, but the type to always allow those she was meeting to lather themselves up into a state before she deigned to see them, as a matter of course.

Eventually, they heard, “Potter!” and entered her office.

It was almost empty, but for a black desk, a single photo frame she could only see the back of, a dark wood cabinet and the woman herself. She was wearing a white dress patterned with teal flowers, heavy black boots, and of course her black eyepatch. Her blonde hair was parted to the side and sat just above her shoulders. Hermione had only seen Samantha Stephens in passing before, excepting of course her delightful vulture Patronus. Her killer housewife vibe was undiminished.

“Sit,” she ordered, and they did as they were told. “Granger, are you well?” It was a pleasantry, she supposed, but it had been barked as though she was being accused of high treason.

“Er—yes. Thank you.”

Stephens stood behind her desk. This seemed to be only to place herself higher than Harry and Hermione, in their admittedly low tub chairs.

“Is this going to be recorded?” asked Harry, looking around the room as if some recording equipment was missing.

“No,” Stephens’ lip curled. “Before I ask Miss Granger any questions, I must warn her that in light of her and Mr Malfoy’s good health, and the fact that no major crime was committed, that she should not divulge anything to me regarding the ongoing work of the Department of Mysteries.” She said all this as if she was reciting it while swallowing something extremely bitter. “She may only be questioned by an approved staff member of the Department of Mysteries, or in the presence of Saul Croaker, who requires three working days to approve of any questions I may wish to ask.”

Hermione was surprised that people who had appeared to work so slowly in their pursuit of finding her and Draco could work so quickly. She hadn't even been back a day. Had they questioned Draco already? A mad urge to look around gripped here, as if a third tub chair containing Draco would sprout up somewhere.

“In light of that, Miss Granger, I have one question for you.”

Hermione didn’t find herself intimidated often, but could only nod while feeling like a school pupil in serious trouble with the headmaster.

“They tell me you are of superior intelligence, but I am not convinced. How could an intelligent witch be so monumentally stupid as to interfere in the work of this office, jeopardise the employment of her close friend, not to mention her own safety—all for what I can only assume was shits and giggles?”

Hermione pressed her lips together.

“So I ask you, Miss Granger, is this going to be a problem in the future?”

“No,” Hermione said honestly, only managing to bear meeting Stephens’ vicious eyeball for a moment before looking at her lap.

Stephens brightened considerably. “Jolly good. Potter, if she tries to get at one of your files, you have my leave to curse her. Granger, if Potter asks for your help, owl me or curse him, whatever you fancy. Weasley too.” She resumed her seat and flicked open a file on her desk. “Now off you fuck, Marchbanks wants to see you.”

Harry and Hermione scarpered.

From sitting in front of one intimidating woman, to another. Hermione sat, without Harry this time, in a different chair, looking at Boudica Marchbanks and the portrait of her mother behind her. The junior Marchbanks was wearing extremely frilly red robes and a tall red hat with a wide brim.

“Granger, may I say, it is excellent to see you hale and hearty,” she said, warm and considerably less business-like than usual.

“Thank you… I’m very glad to be here,” Hermione replied, taken aback once again. Was her boss simply being kind before she inevitably fired her? Even if that was the case, all Hermione wanted to know about was the hearing. She was only just stopping herself from squirming in her tiger print seat.

“Relax, Stephens has briefed me inasmuch as I can be briefed.” She pursed her lips and it was clear words had been exchanged between the two women. “Your employment is not under threat, I’m thrilled to have you back and the rest of the team will be too.”

Well, okay then. “And the hearing?”

Marchbanks smiled a rare, satisfied smile, as if Hermione had said exactly what she expected her to say. “Well of course nothing in the world could convince Bulstrode, Husain supported it like we knew he would… and we got Luckenbill.”

“They’re adopting it?” Hermione’s voice threatened to become shrill—with excitement for once.

Marchbanks nodded. “The Confederation meets on the third of December, in Edinburgh.”

“I can’t believe it.” She was over the moon, over the stars, over Jupiter. A tiny but not insignificant part of her mourned that she wasn’t there to bask in the initial moment—and that everything hadn’t fallen down without her… but she was here now. She was ready.

“We need to be ready,” Marchbanks said. “I want you there.”

“I’ll be at my desk first thing Monday,” she said firmly. She felt adrenaline fill her. There was a lot to do.

They discussed a few more details, until Marchbanks dismissed her, her warm manner giving way to prim efficiency.

“And Granger,” she said as Hermione was closing the door. “Next time I tell you to take a holiday, take the blasted holiday.”

An unbidden memory surfaced while Hermione walked towards the lifts. Afternoon sun and laughing with Draco down by the lake. Laughing until her sides hurt. At times, being in the Pensieve had felt like a holiday.

And that was maybe the most fucked up thing of all.

Chapter Text

That afternoon, Hermione accompanied Harry back to Finch House. They somehow escaped unemployment and Ministry blacklisting, not to mention further censure from Stephens (of the creative, violent kind). Harry declared that this alone was a cause for celebration.

Before they Apparated, they stopped by the London office of the Daily Prophet on Diagon Alley to request twenty seven back issues of the newspaper: all the news Hermione missed while she was in the Pensieve. The tetchy old witch at reception seemed very unwilling to help, but after Harry stepped in and gave her a winning grin, she softened and summoned what they'd asked for. It was quite the pile. Hermione twirled her wand so that the papers would weigh no more than a feather, and then she stowed them in her tiny shoulder bag that most certainly shouldn't have been able to hold their bulk. Harry looked at the bag and raised his eyebrows in a conspiratorial sort of fashion.

When they arrived at the Potter-Weasley house through a gate made of emerald flames, James was delighted to see his Godmother and jumped straight into her arms. Albus was slightly more reserved but eventually encircled her legs in a nervous half cuddle, half tackle. Lily arrived with another stack of picture books.

Hermione compromised between her desire to pore over the pile ofProphets and the chorus of “loook Hermy!”, “watch this Aunty Hermy!”, by reading edited excerpts of the paper to the Potter children.

Hermione Granger Confirmed Missing Days after Disappearance of Malfoy Heir

“Er—Aunty Hermy was gone for a while on an unexpected adventure, but she came back.”

ICW British Seats Agree to Support Radical Amendments to International Statute of Secrecy…

Missing witch Hermione Granger was pivotal in the development of the proposal, but there is currently no evidence to suggest her disappearance is connected to what some see as diplomatic mutiny…

‘Nonsense’ said Madam Boudica Marchbanks…

Chosen One Harry Potter Bungled Investigation into Malfoy; Best Friend's Disappearance…

James disappeared by the time Hermione was halfway through the papers. Several found their way into the fireplace by this point, and Albus and Lily blinked at her, awaiting the next story. “Um, your dad and I work hard to help each other make the world a fairer and safer place...”

War Heroes and Long Time Lovers Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley Separated, Granger Still Missing…

Scarlet Woman? Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy's Love Fest…

Hermione almost burnt that paper too, but something made her tear the article out, fold it carefully and stash it in her pocket. She thought of a certain cocky smirk directed at her, mocking the suggestion that Hermione ‘ensnared men with her wanton exploits’.

Hermione absolutely did burn the page that sported the headline: War Heroine? Muggle-Born Princess Shacks Up With Death Eater Who Escaped Justice.

“Jilted and Jaded! Auror Ronald Weasley A Suspect in Disappearance of Ex-Partner and Her New Lover?”

“Hermione! For heaven's sake, don't read that rubbish to the children,” Ginny cut in, reentering the sitting room. “And please don’t teach them your awful habit of setting things on fire. I’ve enough to worry about after visits to Uncle George.”

Hermione was so incensed, to the point of puffing up like an angry bird, that she hadn't realised she'd started reading verbatim to the children. Lily and Albus were still on the rug in front of her, blinking their big eyes. Ginny apparently took issue with the words ‘bizarre sexual proclivities’.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione demurred. “But did you see this?” She shook the paper as though she were throttling it. The picture of her and Ron on the front page looked affronted.

“Unfortunately,” Ginny put her hands on her hips. “And they call that journalism. You'd think old Skeeter was writing again.”

“You would indeed,” agreed Hermione darkly. Her long-held suspicions about Edwin Hornby deepened. The Prophet was the paper of national record in wizarding Britain; it was disgraceful that it was being used like a dumping ground for salacious, unsubstantiated gossip. Hermione would not stand for such utter tosh. In her head she started composing a strongly worded letter.

But—Unspeakable. How could one set the record straight when it was becoming clear that one was expected to keep their mouth shut? Once again, she desperately wanted to know what Draco was thinking and feeling, what he was hearing… and whose dinner table he was sitting at tonight.

You have no right.

“Come and help me with dinner, Hermione,” Ginny said in a tone that confirmed she was having dinner with them and there was absolutely no way out of it.

“What’s a homewrecker?” asked Albus cheerfully.

If looks could kill, Ginny might have just cast the first ever non-verbal, wandless Avada Kedavra and murdered Hermione.

When Hermione was setting the table, with reluctant and inefficient help from James, a loud crack from the small Apparition foyer announced the arrival of another for dinner.

Loud footsteps sounded on the small stairs and Ron appeared in the kitchen, the tip of his nose pink from the cold. He’d always had a knack at arriving wherever he was visiting just before dinner time. Hermione used to find this endearing… but she did not know Ron would be coming for dinner, and she found herself unprepared for him all over again. She regarded him as she would a stranger.

James pounced on his uncle. “Uncle Ron, did you see the Falcons lost again? Did you?”

“Hello kiddo, hi Gin.“ Ron didn’t greet Hermione directly, he just nodded at her and she nodded back. He nodded once more and she put considerable effort into keeping her head perfectly still, lest this awful farce go on until they both perished. RIP Hermione Granger, 1979-2010, politely nodded herself to death.

Ginny levitated an enormous shepherd’s pie onto the table, plus a smaller vegetarian variety for Hermione—followed by a dish of minted peas and cauliflower with cheese sauce.

“You weren’t invited,” Ginny said to Ron. Her tone said that of course she would feed Ron, but also that she wasn’t entirely thrilled about it. “Dinner!” she called to the rest of the house.

As always, dinner was a lively affair. By the light of a haphazard line of floating candles, Albus asked if there was any pudding after eating a single pea, Lily was covered head to toe in minced beef and currently mashing cauliflower into her hair, and Harry and Ron were discussing what happened with Stephens earlier in the day.

Hermione subconsciously avoided sitting next to Ron, but ended up sitting opposite him instead. He wouldn’t stop throwing inscrutable looks at her while he shovelled in mouthfuls of his dinner, so she looked determinedly at her food and ate very fast. Ginny sat at the head of the table, looking around with narrowed eyes, surveying her domain. And finding it wanting.

Their plates were clear and the children started a game of Exploding Snap in the sitting room by the time Ginny lost her patience:

“Ronald, did you tell Hermione you moved back into the cottage?” she piped up, lava bubbling up in a crater.

He hadn’t, but she’d known.

“Ginny…” Harry said warningly.

Ron looked up, outrage and confusion at war on his face. Redness connected the dots between his freckles.

“Stay out of it,” he growled.

“Sort your shit out, Ronald. Another owl from Lille came yester—”

“Why can’t you just leave it?” Ron’s voice was getting louder. There was only seconds before there was a figurative or literal explosion.

“Ron…” Harry tried appealing to a different sibling.

“Stop it, Ginny,” Hermione said quietly. She couldn't do this. Everything was happening so quickly. Time made no more sense here than it had in the Pensieve.

At the sound of her cool interjection, all the oxygen left the kitchen. Hermione stood slowly, out of her seat. She felt one hundred years old.

“Thank you for dinner Ginny... and for today Harry." It was time to go. "Ron, we should be going. Please say bye to the kids for me. I'll—see you all, really soon.”

Ginny looked defiant, while Harry raised an awkward hand in farewell. Ron offered no arguments as Hermione led him to the Apparition foyer. They Apparated separately, rather than holding hands like they always used to.

And didn’t that say it all?

With a crack and then another crack, they arrived in the dark garden at Twayblade Lane, and silently entered the house they’d shared for seven years.

Hermione didn’t know which room to go into, so she lit the lamps and plonked herself down on the stairs, facing Ron as he lingered in the hallway.

Neither of them spoke as they sized each other up, and examined the shape of the problem. The forked road ahead.

“Hermione… Gabrielle, she knows I came back to help look for you, even though I wasn’t supposed to. I did everything I could. I tried to get put on your case, I read so many of your ruddy books. I had three meetings with Croaker where I almost socked him ‘cause he wouldn't say anything. Gabby, she knows I came back to be with you, when you—and now you’re here and so am I.”

Gabby.

This would have been so much easier if Ron stayed away. Hermione put her head in her hands. He’d left her, and all but confirmed that he went straight to Gabrielle—and now she was going to have to break up with him? It felt like a final act of doing his homework for him. Damn him.

Hermione thought of last Christmas, of Gabrielle visiting and laughing brightly as Ron tried to show her how to use a Beater’s bat in the orchard that served as the Burrow’s Quidditch pitch. George and Charlie had flown around the pair, unbothered, but Hermione had seen everything from her conjured chair below. Ron had always resented her for showing no interest in flying, but she had always been there, hadn’t she? Hurricane or hail, she attended friendlies and unfriendlies and Ministry league games. Yes, perhaps she brought a book with her—but one game Ron had played in had lasted seventeen hours! And all the players and most of the spectators seemed thrilled by this!

But he was here now, for peril had always brought them together. She could let it go on. They could sleep in their bed together, for one night… for a few months. For the rest of their lives.

Nothing could ever make you less, Draco whispered to her in her head.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Hermione said, though it was muffled by her hands.

“What?”

Whether he hadn’t heard or didn’t understand, she had to go on. “Ron, you left. It’s okay that you did, maybe the note wasn't the classiest move…” Understatement, but she didn't want him to start yelling. If she thought too much about the note she might start yelling too. “But… I think—I think it was the right thing to do.”

Ron looked as if someone had hit him with a solid Petrificus Totalus.

Since he didn’t speak, she went on. She used a version of her mother’s words, which it seemed like she had heard a thousand years ago. “I've had a very strange month, but I have thought about it. It was always there in my mind, no matter what else was happening. I think that I am not the one for you, Ron.” Breath shuddered out of her. “I can’t believe I’m saying that. And I think you’re not the one for me either.”

“But,” Ron protested, slumping against the wall. “It’s us.”

“Yes, and we were friends, once, maybe we can be friends again.” Someday, somehow. Hermione felt like she hadn’t seen the best bits of Ron in some time, maybe she hadn't been able to see them… maybe in time, she could again.

But could she see him with Gabrielle and not dissolve into heartbreak or escalate into rage the colour of blue fire?

Could he see her with Draco, and…

Absolutely. Not.

“Will you say something, Ron?” she whispered.

“You burned my clothes.”

“Yes.”

“I slept with Gabrielle.”

“Yes.” Her tone did not change, though the truth hurt like a whip crack. She knew she was angry somewhere inside the mess of her current self, but she was too tired to feel vindicated or to ask when. To ask before or after?

“When you were gone… thinking maybe I might not see you, y'know?” He swallowed. “I really bloody love you, Hermione.”

“I know. I love you too.”

It didn't change very much at all.

Ron left, again. He had looked at her for a long while as she mindlessly tidied. Eventually he approached and she allowed him to kiss her. His lips barely touched hers and it was soft and bitter and ended almost as soon as it began. Hermione released the front of his t-shirt. She hadn’t realised she had been clinging to him.

She didn’t ask where he was going, but flinched as she heard the sound of his departure penetrate into the endless quiet.

Finally alone, she resisted the siren-like allure of the wine rack, but indulged in a long shower sobbing session before surrendering herself into the embrace of her own bed.

Tomorrow, she would start again. Tomorrow, she would rid herself of the cracked shell around her being and emerge anew, strong and in charge. She reminded herself that she was a feminist and she would absolutely not think about men any more (or ospreys for that matter). Unless they were the pompous, close-minded men sitting on the International Confederation of Wizards.

Those men… oh, she was coming for them.

Chapter Text

For many people, returning to work after any sort of absence is nothing but a source of teeth-grinding stress and a major inconvenience. This, perhaps unsurprisingly, was not the case for Hermione Granger.

Her in-tray was absolutely overflowing on her, and there was a leaning tower of files on her desk when she first stepped foot back in the International Magical Office of Law. One file appeared to be glowing red, which was not a good sign, and often such a colour served as a precursor to loud, continuous screeching. Hermione was the first one in that morning, and that alone was enough to make her feel like everything was as it should be. Almost. She breathed in the smell of the fifth floor, and smiled at the light rain falling outside the enchanted window.

Soon, Susan and Penelope arrived and hugged Hermione, gushing over her and asking where on Earth she had been. They were not particularly satisfied by the answer she had decided on (the truth, mostly): that her sudden disappearance was connected to the Department of Mysteries and she was very sorry, but she couldn’t talk about it. Er, sorry. There was a certain shifty look on Susan's face, that told Hermione the Malfoy part of it all had been the source of intense gossip. A boring resolution to such a scandal was decidedly unwelcome, even if they were happy to see her.

For two weeks Hermione worked, and when she was done working, she worked some more. Six days a week, for around ten hours a day she could be found at her desk, or in the archives. Madam Marchbanks did not comment, but Hermione left hurriedly one Saturday evening when she saw Marchbanks tap on her wrist and shake her head sternly. It would not be wise to test her magnanimity.

There was comfort in it all: the routine, the deadlines, and the goal so much bigger than herself.

Any free time she had she spent with the Potter-Weasley clan, or her mother. By mutual agreement no one mentioned Ron. There needn’t be an agreement about Draco, for no one mentioned him at all and Hermione found herself wishing that they would. When the anger inevitably returned, or the guilt invaded her every thought, she reorganised her books or walked in Howarth or the green hills, wrapped in woollens and a warming charm as the season slowly changed. The leaves turned orange on the trees and crunched under foot, and she walked until her knees hurt.

It was a Tuesday when Hermione saw Draco again.

Until it happened, she hadn’t realised how much she had been anticipating the moment—how it was a thing both longed for and dreaded.

She had been in the Department of Magical Law office, and was carrying a stack of dusty files back to her desk to add to the Everest she needed to conquer by that evening. The lift doors opened on level two, and there he was, wearing those understated black robes and a bored expression.

A cloud of memos was circling above his head, and a curly haired junior from the Department of Magical Transportation stood to his right. The young woman wore truly enormous spectacles and was reading from a ledger of some kind, whispering to herself. She seemed quite unaware of anything else going on around her.

Hermione did not step into the lift. At the delay Draco’s grey eyes focused, and he noticed she was there. When he saw her, his expression did not warm, or even shift into recognition. If anything, it neutralised and faded into a bland kind of calm. However, as the door started to close, he reflexively held a hand up to allow her entry.

With no other recourse, she tottered into the lift and turned as the grills creaked shut. She couldn’t see him, but she could absolutely feel his presence behind her as they moved between floors. On level three, several more people crowded into the lift, talking loudly, and Hermione stepped backwards to give them space. She knew exactly where he was without looking, and she would do everything she could not to touch him. She felt sure that if she brushed against him, if they collided—something terrible would happen.

This isn’t how it is supposed to be, she thought. Yet… how was it supposed to be? What possible other scenario did she imagine here?

He was back at work, then. She had heard as much. What she hadn’t heard about was where the Pensieve had ended up. Was Draco somehow allowed to continue to experiment on it, even though it had been an unsanctioned project? Surely what they had achieved, what might be possible—there were infinite applications and possibilities… or maybe it had been destroyed, or taken out of his hands for his own good. If that was the case, was he going to the Love Room to further contemplate free will?

Free will. Hermione believed in choices and her own power, even as she felt his breath near her ear and it melted over her. Even as so many of the things he had said lapped over each other like waves. She wanted to lean her head to the side, and slide her hair away from her neck…

Was he casting some sort of spell? They were in a lift for goodness sake!

She had never wanted to be a Legilimens, but at that moment she felt she would give almost anything to hear what he was thinking. It had been so easy to relegate him to the back of her mind when she was drowning in work, and therefore convince herself that it was all for naught. But here she was holding her work in her hands—with him there, everything disappeared.

If they were in the Pensieve, she would draw a triangle and change everything. Stop time. She would get rid of the horror of other people and shake him and shake him until she made sense of him in this world.

The doors opened and closed, and opened again. The voice sounded again but her ears were ringing, and Draco’s arm was around her.

Wait.

What?

He was holding the door ajar. She looked up at him—his face was very close to hers, but still so unenthused. She could see his eyelashes, the barely there silver of his scars.

“Your floor, Granger,” he told her; one distant, unfriendly colleague to another.

She compensated for the embarrassment that made her want to hang her head, by holding her chin high and marching out of the lift.

When she was sure the doors were closed, she stood for a moment feeling ridiculous. She didn't realise she was standing right in front of Penelope's desk, or that Penelope herself was peering at her.

“You alright, Hermione?” she asked curiously, brushing a blonde curl off her face and behind her ear.

“Yes, quite alright. Got the case files!” Hermione flapped the files in her hands to demonstrate.

“Yeah right you are. Was that Draco Malfoy in the lift with you?”

“No,” Hermione lied flatly.

“Oh. Jolly good then—is it the canteen with us for lunch today or will you be at your desk again?”

“Desk,” she said. Hermione needed to be at her desk and filling her head with important things, so the idiotic things could fall out. Then she remembered that she was being rude and that she really did like Penelope, even if she suspected her of fishing for gossip. “Canteen tomorrow?”

“Yeah, go on,” Penelope smiled, revealing the delicate gap between her front teeth, before returning to the letter she was dictating to a sky blue quill.

It was a Sunday, it was raining steadily, and it was also Halloween. Most years, the day would be marked by a group of DA survivors and their rapidly expanding entourage of partners and friends. Converging on a pub or a restaurant and swapping stories about careers and children and ill-advised new hobbies. Seamus' foray into hang-gliding to impress an adventurous Muggle girl had not gone well, but had been a great source of mirth for the wider circle.

Is that an owl?

Nah, surely a Pixie.

Oh no, it's a flying Irishman!

Flap harder, mate! Yer going down!

Hermione had seen Harry briefly earlier in the day and made her excuses. Still, she hugged him tightly, knowing that even after so many years, on Halloween he still thought of his parents’ deaths, and mourned that they would never know their grandchildren.

The planned meet up was to be at The Naughty Mermaid. Mostly known as ‘The Naughty’, this pop up pub quite literally popped up in a new location once a week. She knew Ron was going, and she knew the news of their separation had travelled far and wide. Everyone would either assiduously avoid the topic, or someone (probably Seamus) would say something loud and awkward after two pints. Either way, she wasn't in the mood.

It was early evening, and Hermione was eating a poached egg on grainy toast, and reading Them and Us, 300 Years of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy for the third time. She had modified her quill to add glowing yellow highlights to certain sections—but some pages were so fascinating there was little white left and the yellow was near blinding. Her leftover nervous energy was being dedicated to the floating knitting needles clicking away as they formed an icy blue sleeve that would soon belong to a cardigan. Perhaps she would give it to Penelope—the colour would suit her.

Three short taps on her door roused Hermione from the trance-like state she often entered when she was reading. She huffed a sigh, imagining Ginny at the door, here to drag her out to The Naughty, whether she liked it or not.

Then again, Ginny didn't usually wait to be let in. Hermione walked down the hallway, puzzled when didn't see anybody through the frosted glass. She opened the door, and it became clear why that was.

A House Elf stood on the threshold. She was wearing what appeared to be a vintage children's ballet costume, with a beaded velvet bodice and stiff tulle skirt. However, her flamboyant outfit was overshadowed, as Hermione's eyes were immediately drawn to the Elf's face. It was extensively scarred, as if repeatedly clawed by a horrifying creature. She had a button nose, and one thickly lashed ocean blue eye—the other eye was missing—leaving only a hollow where it would have been. She was missing one large ear on the same side. Hermione had seen scars on Elves before and they were almost always the result of the cruelty of wizards. Before Dobby's law, most had relied on Elves to punish themselves, but some had taken sick pleasure in doing it themselves.

“M-miss Hermione Granger?” the Elf squeaked.

“Yes, that's me. And who might you be?” Hermione enquired kindly.

“Th-Thor forgot the name her mother gave her, and was allowed to choose her own name, so she chose the name Thor.” Though she stuttered, the Elf had confidence in her voice and posture.

Recognition dawned over Hermione: Thor, a part-time employed Elf, working for Draco.

“Draco sent Thor to deliver this to Miss Hermione Granger.”

Hermione somehow hadn’t noticed that Thor was standing in front of a wooden box bigger than she was. A box from Draco.

Her pulse quickened. Surely it couldn't be the Pensieve.

“That's very kind of you, Thor. Will you come in?”

Thor smiled widely, her scars stretching grotesquely, and nodded. Hermione led her into the sitting room. The wooden box hovered slowly behind them, and Hermione bade her to set it on the octagonal side table.

“Er, do you know what it is?”

“Yes M-Miss, Draco told Thor that he owed Miss Hermione, and that she could help him repay his debt. Thor knows that Miss is a great friend to House Elves and is p-pleased to help. Thor is very happy to meet Miss Hermione, Draco's friend.”

My… friend.

“I'm very happy to meet you too, Thor. Truly.”

Thor jerked a little, as if suppressing the urge to bow. After a pause, she again smiled broadly.

It occurred to Hermione that the Malfoy family’s mistreatment of Dobby had been a catalyst for a great many important things. Dobby had saved her life and lost his own. And now Draco had sent Thor to meet her. Nothing made sense. And amongst it all a suspicion buried itself into Hermione like a tick. She reached out a hand, and when she came within a fingertip of the wooden box it melted into glittering silver stars.

In its place stood a small wooden chest, inlaid with intricate brass patterns, and wrapped in a curling pink bow larger than the chest itself.

He didn't.

Thor watched with her wide blue eye, as Hermione untied the silky bow and opened the small chest.

He absolutely did.

The capacity of the chest was much greater than it appeared from the outside. Inside, a great many Galleons shone.

A conversation, millenia ago, echoed through her:

“I don't understand why you're so interested.”

“20,000 Galleons.”

“Fine. I am collecting these Galleons, when I get us out of here.”

“Oh I expect you to. I will have them delivered in a handsome chest, with a pink bow tied around it.”

Hermione's intake of breath was akin to a gasp. At this stage in her career she was comfortable—she would soon offer to buy Ron out of his half of their cottage. But she was not so comfortable that a chest full of gold didn't stun her.

There was a note on top, written in flowing handwriting on a crisp, bone-coloured card.

I trust you'll excuse the illegal extension charm.

D.M.

She could hear his voice, velvety as he teased her. Longing for the real thing trickled through her capillaries.

“Thor… I cannot accept this.”

“Draco s-said you would say this, Miss. Thor is not to return with this chest,” she squeaked.

Hermione said sharply, “What will happen if you do?”

Thor looked a little confused. “Is Miss asking if Draco would ask Thor to punish herself? Draco is not like her one time Master. Draco says Thor may disregard anything he says, but Thor always wants to help.”

“Then please take the chest back to Draco.”

“Th-Thor will n-not,” came the stern reply.

Hermione was both surprised and delighted by Thor's aplomb. “Um, alright… I can return it myself, I suppose.” The thought was both terror and thrill. “Would you consider bringing something else with you… back to Draco?” An idea had formed in her head, and she itched with it.

Thor nodded enthusiastically, her single ear flapping.

“Lovely, I need a few minutes. Can I make you a cup of tea?”

“A coffee, please. Black with no sugar,” Thor said.

Hermione smiled. “Have a seat. Coming right up.”

While Thor sipped at her cup of coffee served in a mug the size of her torso, Hermione jogged upstairs.

In her study the butterflies and birds flitted across the wallpaper, seeming to watch as she withdrew a small blank notebook, duplicated it and traced a practised series of charms over the cover.

Considering her work, she changed the cover of one from tan to the green of an ostentatious chaise longue. She opened both covers, took out a quill and scratched one word on the first page of the tan book

Hello.

As she wrote, the five letters simultaneously appeared on the page of its twin. Hermione felt like a magical, feminine Steve Jobs.

She quickly pondered whether she could make them chime when they were written in, but remembered Thor was downstairs. She added a finishing touch: a silver bow around the book, and hurried down to the Elf.

Thor promised to promptly bring her gift to Draco.

At the cottage door, Thor jerked again, but managed a polite nod. “It was a great p-pleasure to meet you Miss Hermione Granger, Thor hopes to see you again.”

“The pleasure was mine, truly. See you again.”

When she closed the door and heard a crack, Hermione felt pride that an Elf like Thor could exist in a world where she had rights as she should. It wasn't enough to take away what had been done, and there was more to do. But with a select group of Elves now advising the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (including ancient Kreacher and brave little Winky) there was a lot of hope.

Hermione wondered if Thor would consider a future as a politician.

For the rest of the evening, Hermione read about the long history of the Statute of Secrecy and kept her eye on her notebook.

Hello.

Nothing.

Hermione put herself to bed, and called herself pathetic for leaving the notebook open next to her. She reminded herself that she was a wretched person, and considering that Obliviation was illegal, a criminal to boot.

Hermione woke, with no idea when she'd fallen asleep or what time it was, though from the grogginess she would guess that it was well before 6am.

She lit her bedroom lamp and looked again at her notebook.

Hello in her writing.

And below that, her heart leapt.

Hello, Granger.

Two little words had her wide awake, pulling up the loose neck of the t-shirt she slept in. She felt like a teenager, like she was a balloon filled with too much air. Should she write back? It was so late… She had no right, she had betrayed him so badly.

And yet, and yet…

She summoned her fountain pen without a plan, and wrote.

I cannot accept the gold. It is a ludicrous amount of money.

The comparison to Tom Riddle's diary was not lost on her, but still she held her breath and watched as his fluid script flowed across the page. Somewhere out there, perhaps in his treehouse, propped up in that enormous bed, Draco was also awake.

She imagined being next to him, engaging in the type of verbal sparring that spanned hours in the Pensieve. Teasing jabs and acidic rejoinders across overstuffed pillows.

I paid what was owed and I will not take it back.

A second passed, and he added:

Donate to homeless Nifflers or impoverished Hags if you have no use for it.

Hermione grinned.

Yes, those poor hags.

For several minutes there was no reply, and her heart fell—anticipation toppling into rubble within her.

Then,

You should sell these notebooks, Granger.

Or wizards could finally realise that Muggle technology has not only matched much magical innovation, it has frequently surpassed it. Then they can finally adopt the mobile telephone.

With any luck, after the convening of the International Confederation of Wizards on the first of December, they would realise it. Hermione knew Draco had progressed a long way from his poisonous hatred, but many a progressive wizard had been confounded by something as simple as a potato peeler.

I will die before I touch one of those abominations.

Says Led Zeppelin's number one new fan.

If by some ill-advised miracle she and Draco kept talking, maybe even saw each other in future—Hermione would try her hardest to get a mobile phone into his arrogant, Pureblood hands.

Doesn't count. I now have it on good authority that Jimmy Page is a Wizard.

Hermione scoffed, and then found herself laughing. She didn't want the notes to end, was enjoying looking at his handwriting and imagining his sardonic eyebrow—maybe that characteristic curve to his mouth.

Now that she had his attention, she wanted to use it. To ask how he was or about the Pensieve, or what he'd told Croaker.

She settled on: Why didn't you say anything in the lift?

Because those who talk in lifts are uncivilised.

Alright, she wrote. She was prepared to believe it was that simple, but she also wondered if he felt any of the shellshock she did, seeing him in the ‘real’ world. Like everything that came before had been nothing but a dream.

‘Alright’ wasn't enough to move the conversation on. It was his move.

Several minutes passed again. She had work in only a few hours. She should sleep. She was about to extinguish the lamp with her wand, when:

Thor is quite enamoured by you.

Her heart was overreacting. She was 14 again, passing notes to Viktor Krum.

And I by her! Can I ask — do you know what happened to her?

She worked for Walden Macnair.

He added below.

Macnair was a sadist.

The Death Eater who was gleefully ready to execute Buckbeak, who died in the chaos of the Battle of Hogwarts. She asked no more, knowing Draco might shut down. Even though she wanted to know everything.

Her heart broke for the Elf who had such character. How had she come to work for Draco?

No. She couldn’t stay up all night talking to Draco. A woman in control and focused would not do such a juvenile thing.

I should sleep, she wrote. It was nice… she started writing and then scribbled it out.

I saw your scribble.

She couldn't think of a cover for what she was going to say. It was nice to talk to you. And it was, it really was.

I'm serious you should sell these. Seems like a wonderful medium for dirty talk.

Goodnight Draco.

Such a prude. He wrote. Then more words appeared before they were slowly, facetiously crossed out.

What are you wearing?

It was replaced with. Goodnight Granger.

She extinguished the glow of her lamp. When she awoke again, it was ten minutes past six and at some point during the squirmy, latter half of her slumber her hand had found its way under the waistband of her pyjamas and between her legs.

Well… fuck.

Chapter Text

There was a dark green notebook in his back pocket.

Like many who have pasts that they ceaselessly run from, Draco Malfoy often found himself wide awake in the middle of the somber night. He'd built windows to the sky so that he could gaze up, and to stop the feeling of being endlessly submerged underwater with no way up to the surface. Usually, he would stare at the stars or the ghostly branches or the clouds until sleep finally took him back. When he did sleep, nightmares came often. He bore them silently, and the very few who'd stayed overnight since Astoria knew nothing more than the pleasure of his company.

But for the past several nights, his torments were of a different kind. He had opened that damned notebook and read the words within it more times than he cared to admit, even to himself. Twice he had gone further and held a quill in his hand, turning opening lines over in his mouth.

Draco was unaccustomed to being lost for words.

“Darling, your tea is getting cold,” Narcissa's clear voice brought him back to the present.

They were sitting in a white gazebo, set amongst a dazzling display of white hydrangeas. The late afternoon was mild, but a warming charm further dulled the breeze into nothingness. Draco had removed his dark jacket.

His mother surveyed him. Her blue eyes were bright and calculating as always, and weighed him as if he stood on a teetering golden scale. She sipped her tea with poise, even with no one but him to see her.

There were chinks in her armor though, if one knew where to look. When he'd returned from the Pensieve, his mother had taken him into her slim arms and she did not cry… but she shook from head to toe.

He sipped his tea irritably.

“Won't you stay for supper, Draco?” Narcissa entreated. “Bitsy is making bisque.”

“I can’t, I'm expected in Brighton.” And I hate this house. In a memory that doesn't exist, I razed it to the ground.

Narcissa was no Legilimens, and his face remained impassive. She could not guess his thoughts.

“Oh yes. How is Theodore?”

A peacock called in the distance.

“In fine health,” he informed her, then deliberately added: “As is Blaise.”

Narcissa blinked a slow blink. Draco knew it was more complicated than disapproving of his two friends’ cohabitation—Narcissa didn't care a fig about sexuality—what she couldn’t abide was wasting a fine bloodline.

“Lovely.”

Mother and son were comfortable in silence. Silence was their ally through many horrors. The hydrangeas nodded their heavy heads in the breeze—bigger and brighter than anyone could find in a Muggle garden. They were luminous like snow in the sunlight.

Bitsy the House Elf arrived with a silver tray. She knew not to announce herself and simply set her burden down, before walking a polite away distance to Apparate.

Draco glanced down at the tray and found his spine straightening of its own accord. Tiny tartlets of darkest chocolate, each topped with a single bright berry.

...Raspberries plucked off clever fingers into a clever mouth…

“Draco, what's wrong?”

Legilimens she was not, but Narcissa's eyes found every detail—and Draco had spilled tea into his saucer.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. His mind could empty—mirrored water, a barren field, a windowless room. Occlumency had been brutally forced on him. Yet any thought he might have once had to relinquish it had long gone by now.

The quiet was his salvation. And no one would take his secrets from him.

With a breath, his faux-nothing became real nothing. “I should be going,” he announced flatly.

“So soon? Well, darling, if you must. Take a sweet, won't you?”

He regarded the confections as if they were incendiary devices. He and his mother stood in unison, and he kissed her smooth cheek.

“I'm not hungry,” he murmured.

Draco Malfoy was a very good liar.

For he was positively ravenous.

Chapter Text

There was just over a fortnight until the meeting of the Confederation and Hermione was frazzled, to put it mildly. Under her quill, epic amounts of preparation work took shape. Day after day, she passed documents and discussion points to the three British members to put their name to. She dreaded any conversation she could not avoid with the ornery Bancroft Bulstrode, but she and Faisel Husain were having high-speed, excited discussions about what could be if the amendments passed.

All in all, Hermione was much too busy to think about the notebook that stayed stubbornly stuck on one conversation. She didn't think about it at all.

Except when it was all she could think about.

Hermione warded and hid the chest of Galleons in her wardrobe, promising herself that she would find a way to give it back after the meeting. She would also write to Ron and propose to buy his half of 2 Twayblade Lane. She would not use Draco’s Galleons to pay Ron, and any tiny part of herself that liked that idea was wrong and bad and she simply didn’t have the time to contemplate her lack of morality.

Midweek, at breakfast, an oddly flirtatious owl arrived bearing a small square envelope. Inside, Hermione found a folded paper star, which gently unfurled itself into a letter.

Hermione,

Please accept this invitation to luncheon with Blaise and I this Sunday, 14th November at 1pm sharp. Our address is enclosed below. Bring only yourself and your swimming costume, if you are so inclined.

With admiration and anticipation,

Theodore Quintus Nott

The address was in Brighton. Hermione hadn’t visited the seaside city in some time, but she was willing to bet a chest full of Galleons that Theo and Blaise's address belonged to a giant house directly on the waterfront.

Well.

Should she?

Curiosity fluttered all over her. She was busy, but she could spare the time for one lunch, couldn’t she? One hour, perhaps two, maximum. In her mind, a boy with full lips stared up at a low stone ceiling, a glass of wine in his hand.

Theo hadn’t asked for an RSVP, as if he knew she would not refuse.

She was not going.

Well, maybe she could. She should. They were curious, she was curious—where was the harm?

No, she was miles too busy and could not afford distractions.

Unless…

She was going.

Hermione paced up and down in front of her fireplace. Small wonders never ceased, as her hair curled calmly down her back, with only a minor amount of Sleekeazy’s required. She reminded herself to track the potion from Hong Kong down, for it was vastly superior. Today at least her hair behaved. Even so, she’d changed outfit three times, which she never did, and ended up wearing head-to-toe cream, which she never did either. It was virtually guaranteed she would spill coffee on herself within minutes, if not seconds. The only item of clothing upon her person that was not cream was her small green bag, and even that she considered charming into colourless submission.

Why was she nervous? She stared down politicians for a living. Under her imposing glare, more than one grown wizard had been reduced to tears. Theodore and Blaise were classmates, that was all. Surely as curious about her as she was about them.

Hermione sprinkled Floo powder into the flames, hoping somehow her clothes would remain soot-free.

“79 Marine Parade, Brighton,” she declared, and she spun away into the unknown.

She arrived into an immaculate Floo parlour, painted royal blue. The tiled fireplace she came through depicted a peacock and gold accents were everywhere. A door straight ahead opened as she syphoned the soot off her clothing—she was off to a bad start.

A crisply dressed older wizard stood looking her up and down, in a respectful but appraising way. His outfit was a cross between a Muggle suit, and a wizard's robe, all in black and white.

“Good afternoon Miss Granger, my name is Sinclair. Please allow me to show you upstairs where Masters Blaise and Theodore await you.”

“Er, um… thank you?” Hermione muttered, having been entirely unprepared for an honest-to-goodness butler.

Sinclair led the way out of the Floo parlour, into a truly astonishing house. A sweeping, swirling walnut staircase wound its way up four stories. They walked through a masculine living area with sandy coloured plaid carpet, and olive walls. Up, past carved ceilings and doors, and finally to the third floor—where double doors opened into a spacious room. Through tall windows draped with cherry coloured curtains, a blue ocean and a serene sky were visible. There too, was the long stripe of Brighton's famous pier. The floor was of dark polished wood, the walls the colour of smoke. It was a house of fabulous wealth, to be sure, but what was immediately apparent and interesting to Hermione, was that there was no outward sign that this was the home of two adult wizards.

At one end of the warm room, clearly a salon of some sort, Blaise and Theo were seated on a creamy Edwardian settee. Both reading: Theo the latest novel by P. Nesbitt, a wizarding crime writer and Blaise, unexpectedly, a Muggle wine magazine. Soft music that sounded like jazz floated around, seeming to come from nowhere in particular.

“May I present to you, Miss Hermione Granger,” Sinclair announced. Hermione had scarcely felt more out of place in her entire life.

“Hermione!” Theo exclaimed, like she was his oldest and dearest friend.

In unison, Theo and Blaise set down their reading material, and stood to greet her. This involved a light bumping of jaws that Hermione felt she managed well despite abhorring the practise. Maybe she preferred forehead kisses.

Don’t think about bloody forehead kisses. She was definitely thinking about forehead kisses, and not the lovely friendly ones from Harry. The bittersweet, heart-stabby Draco flavour of forehead kisses.

“Thank you, Sinclair,” said Theo. “Please bring up the ‘94 Château de Chasselas.”

“Of course.”

When the butler left the room, Theo motioned for Hermione to sit on a couch mirroring theirs and his entire demeanour changed.

“Blaise, you owe me 50 Galleons,” he said gleefully. He caught the look on Hermione’s face and explained, “he bet me you wouldn’t come.”

Not a bad bet, she would admit.

Blaise spoke up. He wore a white shirt striped with light blue, unbuttoned one button more than a different man might have, showing off a silver chain around his neck. On long legs he wore slim olive green trousers. He looked good, and he knew it too.

“Theo said you would be curious. I had my doubts.”

Hermione couldn’t help but look at Theo. He wore a dark blue robe over khakis and a white t-shirt. He’d allowed his hair to grow past his ears, but it was as deliberately tousled as ever. His lips, soft and pouting, curved into a smile. He looked at Hermione as if he knew her very well indeed, inside and out. Yet Hermione couldn’t remember them ever speaking a word to one another.

“Well, I for one am very glad you have come, Hermione,” Theo purred.

She couldn't think of how to sugarcoat the question she wanted to ask. So she asked it. “Why did you invite me, then?”

If her brashness bothered them, he did not show it. “Many reasons, foremost to thank you, for rescuing our Draco.”

Hermione’s suspicion had not entirely abated, but she was here. “Well, thank you for the invitation. You have a beautiful home.” An understatement, but she would not gush.

“Lovely, isn’t it? We spend most of the year at the vineyard in the Corbieres Mountains, but a change of scenery is always good for the constitution, don’t you agree? Of course even though we bought it on the Muggle market—would you believe—there was a rather foppish Poltergeist in residence. The only way we could get him to leave us alone was by giving him his own room and decorating to his exact specifications. Blaise outdid himself.”

“A lot of mirrors,” said Blaise. His slanted eyes smiled, but his mouth barely moved.

“Yes indeed. So if you do a wander later, avoid the smaller bedroom on the top floor. Or don't—Julian's a riot.”

Sinclair reappeared. He withdrew a thick wand from his sleeve with a practised flourish, and a round table with three chairs and elaborate place settings materialised in the centre of the long room. A number of beverage options appeared on the sideboard.

“Shall we?” Theo gestured, as Sinclair melted back downstairs. Blaise poured drinks—wine for he and Hermione, sparkling water for Theo.

They took their seats, with Hermione facing the view through glass French doors that opened onto a wrought iron balcony. Cloud threatened on the horizon.

A small plate appeared before each of them, bearing a blini topped with something whipped and a parchment thin slice of pear. There was a sprinkling of caviar on top of Blaise and Theo's portion that was absent from her own—as if they knew she was a vegetarian. Somehow. So far, their version of hospitality was slightly unnerving.

Growing up, Hermione enjoyed a comfortable childhood free from the spectre of money troubles, which included travel abroad and expensive music lessons (a poor investment, as it transpired). This was another level of affluence. Ron would be appalled. Hermione was a tiny bit appalled, but she also really wanted to eat the blini.

Theo popped his into his mouth in one bite and she followed suit. It was predictably delicious.

“So, Hermione. Your career trajectory of course is practically common knowledge. Setting the House Elves free was a stroke of genius. Before that I would have never considered human employees, but Sinclair is a revelation. Of course we had a maid too, lovely thing, but she fell in love with Blaise after he boffed her and tried to poison me—but all's well that ends well, Blaise knows very well how to identify poisons thanks to that fabulous mother of his. And Angelique, our former maid, still sends me postcards from Finland.”

It was a breathless anecdote, accompanied by much gesticulation, designed to provoke. Hermione was absolutely sure she was being tested. She did not react other than to sip her wine, which was spicy with a hint of cherry. Blaise rolled his eyes and did the same. If the story was true, apparently him ‘boffing’ maids was par for the course in their relationship.

“So saving the wizarding world by day… Tell me—what do you do for fun?” Theo asked.

Hermione did not particularly like these types of questions.

“I immensely enjoy my work, and it is a busy time for me at the moment—I'm afraid my idea of fun is knitting, reading and swimming, when the English weather permits.”

Theo didn't seem disappointed. His smile was ever-present.

“And solving mysteries, would you say?” Theo folded his hands and lightly rested his chin on them, attention wholly on her.

“Not something I intend to pursue further—as strongly suggested by the Head Auror.”

“The one who looks like a doll with an eyepatch?”

“That's the one.”

“Terrifying. Ah well, after such success with this case you can retire on a high. I confess Hermione, Draco's tales of the Pensieve were thrilling. It was fascinating to hear which moments he chose to revisit. His memories of me, especially.”

Hermione was taken aback. The Unspeakable spoke? She supposed Draco had friends, connections, confidants. She hadn’t been able to say very much at all to anyone, yes because of the clear warning not to—but also because Draco's stories were his, and she'd taken enough from him. But it would be so good to talk to someone about what she'd seen—even better, here was someone who knew Draco, and what made him tick.

“...I didn't know about the billiard room,” she confessed.

Blaise and Theo exchanged a very quick look, the kind that could only be shared between people who knew each other very well indeed. Oddly, it reminded her of her parents.

“Yes,” said Theo. “Many diverting and debauched hours were spent down there.”

“Pool is a Muggle game.” She'd said this to Draco and now shared it with Blaise and Theo. A test of her own.

“Pssh,” Blaise interjected. His only contribution thus far.

Slytherins. She contained her derisive snort.

“How did you all get hold of the wine then?” she asked. The older Gryffindors tipple of choice was Firewhiskey, supplied with a nudge and wink by Aberforth Dumbledore, who’d developed a fondness for Neville and Seamus after helping the DA undermine the Carrows.

“Oh, the lovely little kitchen House Elves would never ask why I wanted endless carafes of vinegar. Was quite a dab hand at turning it into wine from third year onwards.”

Hermione found herself smiling. “Wine, billiards and Ambrosia—Slytherins have hidden depths.”

Blaise and Theo exchanged another look. “You tried Ambrosia?” Blaise asked.

“Er… no.”

“Would you like to?” Theo added.

It was another test. “Perhaps after lunch.”

“Perhaps, indeed… so, what did you think of the common room?”

“A bit on the nose. A lot of snakes.”

Theo barked a joyful laugh. “I apologise for my behaviour, in that memory.”

Hermione was trying hard not to blush. “I'm sorry… for intruding on that moment. I know coming out can be very personal.”

Theo was growing more and more gleeful and Hermione couldn’t understand why.

A tiny bowl of perfectly white soup dusted with truffle shavings appeared in front of the three of them.

“Theo…” Blaise said warningly, just as Theo was about to speak again. Theo closed his mouth and patted Blaise’s hand in a mollifying way.

Theo looked back to Hermione and sighed. “Oh darling, you are so clearly not a Slytherin.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Don't be sorry, you're perfect and I'm a devil. It's just—Draco didn't tell us anything about your misadventure—he never tells us anything about any-thing.”

Ah. She’d fallen for this most obvious of ruses. She only just resisted bringing a hand to her mouth, but found that a spoonful of the smoothest cauliflower soup ever created did just fine to cover her chagrin.

“The greatest tragedy was that he wouldn't tell us anything about you —a woman who spent a month wandering around his head. In a spectacular twist of fate, the same woman who defeated the Dark Lord—and don't you dare try to tell me it was Potter—setting both Draco and I free from inherited and unwanted fates.”

“Draco certainly didn't mention that you had become quite so beautiful,” Blaise added, and his eyes were upon her, making her jumper feel hot and too tight on her skin.

“Beautiful and recently single,” Theo agreed. “Draco certainly withheld many very interesting tidbits. He didn’t even deign to tell us that you are someone who doesn't care for the laws requiring witches and wizards to hide their gifts.” He winked meaningfully.

“How do you know about that?”

“Milly Bulstrode likes to drink our wine and complain about her daddy, doesn't she Blaise? Please know I support you wholeheartedly, in the name of my dear, prejudiced father. I have always dreamed of being a village Wizard, living in a cave and helping the local Muggles with their trials and tribulations.”

“Theo, stop talking,” Blaise said softly.

Hermione's memories of quiet, thoughtful Theo were blown away in a hurricane.

Theo appeared chastened, but Blaise gently stroked his jaw with one finger. A tiny intimacy, but notable in its simplicity.

“Accept my apologies, Hermione. Please tell us more about your work. Spare no detail.”

Lunch lasted almost the full two hours that Hermione budgeted for, and the afternoon showed no signs of stopping there. After the soup, three more courses arrived: sesame crusted tuna for them and a delicate risotto for her, finished off with a silky flan and several refills of thick red wine. Blaise never let her glass go empty.

Theo suggested a house tour, and further showed his gift for endless wittering, telling stories about Muggle Dukes and actresses who once visited the house. He waxed lyrical about soft furnishings and pieces of art. They worked their way downwards, and though Theo credited Blaise with much of the interior design, Blaise himself was mostly a quiet presence—tall and bemused, with glass in hand. He stood close to Hermione and as Theo pointed out the in-built 1920s bar, he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“Give me a signal if you need to escape.”

Hermione gently shook her head, genuinely finding Theo's anecdotes captivating.

“I wasn’t lying about you being gorgeous,” the honeyed whisper darted across her ear like a tongue.

Hermione looked at Blaise. His gaze belonged in a bedroom. This was another test.

“When did you decide Mudbloods were worth looking at?” she asked him with a tilt of her head.

Blaise did not flinch. However, she did when he unnecessarily tucked a curl behind her ear.

“When the dogma of assured youth melted away, and I found a garden filled with beautiful people begging to be ravished.”

“...Not just Theo?”

“Theo is one of a kind. Amore con amor si paga—love is paid with love.” It was said with such quiet passion, it told her everything she needed to know about shared history, and understanding. “But yes, I found my cock didn't care about blood status, in the end.”

When she’d nervously paced in front of her fire, Hermione had not anticipated Blaise whispering in her ear about cocks, his or otherwise. Probably a good thing, because if she anticipated it, she never would have come. And Blaise was awaiting her response, in regards to cocks.

“I'm sure your cock will be receiving some sort of humanitarian award, any day now.”

She'd forgotten to whisper, Blaise was properly laughing and Theo was striding over.

“Honestly. It's like I'm Professor Binns over here and you two are naughty school children,” he chided. “Hermione, I would have expected better of you. Come, the basement awaits, and we can continue discussing cocks to our hearts’ content.”

On graceful feet, Theo led the way down the stairs. The basement they arrived in could hardly be described as a basement. It was one long room, lit by hidden magic that conjured forth warm daylight. It streamed everywhere even though they were underground. Corinthian columns and arches surrounded an ovular swimming pool. The walls were painted with friezes of Nymphs and golden grape vines—some previous owner's recreation of a Roman bath. It was completely over the top, but at least it explained the request that she bring her swimsuit. The blue sky outside the house had given away to misty drizzle, hardly weather for the beach. Theo and Blaise's basement was balmy however, and she'd bet the water was too.

“This is where we found Julian the Poltergeist, of course.” Theo led the way to three loungers, already set up with towels and a tray of drinks. He waved his wand over himself, and with two flicks he was wearing swimming shorts and a silky haori over his bare, smooth torso. One final twirl of his wand and music again started to echo throughout the room.

Hermione had stayed much longer than she intended to by this point. There didn't seem any polite way to excuse herself… and most of her didn't want to go.

“There is a changing room there,” Blaise pointed to an arched door in the wall nearby, interpreting her hesitation for shyness. “You can change there. Or here.”

Blaise dispensed with magic and started unbuttoning his shirt. Hermione took this as a cue to excuse herself to the changing room—a plush, deep pink powder room with a central blue velvet ottoman and lots of potted palms.

She changed into her black one-piece that Ginny once called ‘very Hermione’. In a gold framed mirror, her reflection piled her hair on top of her head and in a fit of daring, transfigured her sensible suit into a bikini. Still sensible, high-waisted—but she dispensed with maybe a third of the material to show strips and lines of warm skin. She was reminded of Draco's miniskirt and caught her own smile in the mirror, which she quickly doused. Quietly, she thought that Theo probably would have loved that story.

What would Theo think of her theft of Draco's memory?

Hermione wished she could steal that memory from herself. She blew out a long breath and emerged.

It was difficult not to stare at Blaise with his defined obliques, deltoids… and trapezius on display. Naming the muscles in her head surely made it an academic exercise. It was only fair; Blaise was most certainly watching her as she walked back towards them, as she knew he would. Ron tried to enter her mind, and she bashed his phantasm away. Hermione put little stock in being looked at, but sometimes it was nice to be reminded that warm blood ran through her veins.

“Blaise, honestly,” Theo scoffed, seeing this. Hermione sat on a lounger. “I may go on, but you are incorrigible.”

Blaise shrugged a shoulder, and with three steps and a beautiful dive—entered the turquoise water.

Theo, missing nothing, caught her watching with a Cheshire grin. “Oh, if you wanted to, I wouldn't stand in your way. Well, I might—but only so I could watch. You're not my flavour Granger, but you are patently delicious.”

Hermione was a single woman, as Theo had reminded her. Single. The world felt foreign, but perhaps… not bad. If all parties consented, Blaise could rise up out of the water, peel away her bathing suit, and take her hard on the edge of the pool while water still beaded on his skin. She imagined Theo's hazel eyes glittering as he watched intently from his lounger. It was a filthy thought, but alluring all the same.

Hermione was hauled out of the gutter as Theo leaned across the gap between them, distracted by something near her left ear.

“You've got a little—” Theo's arm reached out, and she frowned as she felt a warm finger stroke over her skin. He held out his palm to her, and a tightly rolled black cigarette laid there as if he'd pulled it out from behind her ear.

A Muggle ‘magic’ trick.

He raised his eyebrows. Draco once suggested that she possessed doe eyes, but she had nothing, nothing on Theodore Nott.

“Go on, then,” she found herself saying. Who was she and where was the real Hermione Granger?

Theo positively glowed. “Ironically enough for a man who owns a vineyard and regularly fucks an enthusiastic vintner, I no longer drink. But Ambrosia is for the Gods, after all.” He took a long inhale, and expelled a blue plume.

Hermione took his offering.

When in Rome…

In a cloud of smoke, Theo and Hermione giggled at nothing and everything. Theo loved Hermione's theory about Snape charming his own robes to billow, and told her it was two years, tops, before Draco did the same.

All the while, Blaise swam fluid laps through the pool.

Hermione arrived home at midnight. After Theo clutched her hands in the Floo parlour, she admitted to herself there was something about him, something magic beyond the fact that he was a wizard. One of a kind, Blaise said.

“You will visit again.” He prophesied. “And you simply must come to the vineyard this Summer—I will not hear a refusal. We will swim naked and sample the late harvest and eat nothing but cheese and bread. We'll even invite Draco so he can be moody and laconic in the sun for once. Well, the shade. There is no charm strong enough to shield that wizard from a sunburn.”

This thought had been dancing in the back of Hermione’s mind throughout the strange day. She could see it—could see how Draco was friends with Theo and Blaise. They fit. Theo seemed to be saying she might fit, too. The strange acceptance clogged her throat.

“And I will invite you to our New Years Party, forthwith.”

Blaise didn’t kiss her forehead, but he kissed her cheek, and it was a lot more sensual than their morning jaw bump.

Three days later, Hermione was up to her eyeballs in work, but smiled when she received a piece of black card via Owl Post. In front of her eyes, a white butterfly rose out of the paper and flapped away into the sky. Silver writing scrolled across the blank note, detailing a New Year's party, sure to be extravagant. At 8pm on the 31st, the invitation would become a Portkey.

Later that night, her silent tan notebook finally bore four new looping words.

Theo got to you.

Chapter Text

The word tired was no longer sufficient to describe the way Hermione was feeling. She spent the week leading up to the meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards finalising the proposal, the draft of which had already been sent to all 300 members of the Confederation. Early unofficial indications were mixed, and considering that they would need a 75% majority to pass the amendments to the Statute, this was an ominous sign.

After a day of vigorous pacing, Hermione took herself to bed early and didn’t sleep a single wink. She couldn’t wait for her usual 6am, so he untangled herself from her sheets at 5am, drank a coffee, dressed, and then drank another coffee. She’d been surviving on plain crackers and tea and coffee—one after the other—for most of the past two weeks. Everything after her visit to Blaise and Theo was one greasy blur, and that was the last time she’d truly been able to appreciate food. When she wasn’t drinking tea or coffee, she was peeing—both from the diuretics and the trepidation. The text of her speech was stuck up on her toilet wall.

Nevertheless, she’d agreed to let Harry come over to cook her a full English for good luck, before she took the Floo to Edinburgh. At half past six, she was putting the final touches on a light application of makeup (a rusty red lip always made her feel more powerful), when she heard the sounds of her kitchen being used downstairs.

It was indeed Harry, unpacking sausages from a small basket. Pork for him, vege for her.

“Hi,” he said, grinning. “You look, well…”

“Like a Muggle-born witch?” That had been her intention. She wore a grey pinstripe robe with a strong shoulder, over matching trousers that clung at the hip and flared at the ankle. Her hair was pulled back in a low tidy bun, and she wore the small gold hoops her parents had given her for her 30th birthday in her ears. Beneath it all, she wore blush pink lingerie that had been plucked from something akin to a dream and retrieved from the back of a drawer. For luck.

“Yeah, exactly,” Harry agreed. “Ginny said I wasn’t to offer you a coffee, so I brought pumpkin juice.” Harry hovered a glass of the orange liquid to Hermione, and she sat at the table as he cooked. Her leg jiggled incessantly under the table.

“She sends her love and absolute confidence in you,” Harry said, holding both his wand and a spatula. “And I promised Ron I would say ‘good luck’ from him too.”

Something stuck in Hermione’s throat that prevented her from replying.

The smell of bacon wafted through the kitchen.

What can you smell? She had asked Draco.

Bacon. He had lied.

“Harry, I don’t think I can eat,” Hermione rasped.

“Just try,” Harry said, in his calmest dad voice.

He was serving up food and Hermione was sure she would die from the jangling of her nerves. She was a houseplant dropping all her leaves. She was a tapestry unravelling.

Harry put a plate in front of her, and sat down in front of his own.

“What can I say to help you feel better?” he asked.

“Wizards can cure cancer,” said Hermione, her voice just above a whisper. “And the Statute of Secrecy means they can’t tell Muggles how. They let children die… tiny, lovely children like Lily.”

“Right,” said Harry, his face serious. “Imagine me saying what you just said. You’ve done impossible things before, Hermione. It’s just another day.”

Hermione almost smiled and resisted the tear threatening her mascara.

“Now, try to eat? If you don’t eat at least half a piece of toast you know I’ll be in trouble.”

Hermione took the Floo to the Ministry at 7:30am, and she and her colleagues at the International Magical Office of Law stood in a circle, oddly like they were a sports team ready to start their final match.

Their captain apparent, Madam Marchbanks, was wearing blue fur robes and large pearls at her throat. Being almost hysterically tired, Hermione was reminded of her childhood watching Sesame Street. Marchbanks looked just like a tiny Cookie Monster.

Marchbanks eyed her employees at the end of their stand up meeting and said. “We have done all we can do. The rest, my dears, is politics.”

Time was a blur. Hermione and her colleagues travelled together in the lift, past the hands in the Unity Fountain, to the Atrium, and under the ever-changing ceiling of the Ministry—they walked into the awaiting flames.

They emerged into a grand building, that appeared to be a theatre ready to host an opera or an awards ceremony. Luridly dressed witches and wizards were everywhere; they emerged from the endless line of fires along one wall, or apparated into a grand entrance hall—many spun into place holding golden discs. Portkeys that had brought them from the furthest reaches of the globe.

Hermione knew that the lavish cherry wood, velvet seats and boat-sized chandeliers were just what was inside—outside, the building was a nondescript brick warehouse in an industrial area of freezing Edinburgh. The building next door refrigerated meat for export.

Hermione had been to two of these meetings before, and had marvelled, and wondered—reading everything she could before and after. This time she could only focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and she let the sounds of so many languages roll over her like rainwater.

Hermione took her seat next to Penelope and Madam Marchbanks, directly behind the official British Seats—three gilded golden chairs that looked much like thrones. Three tiny white winged balls akin to Golden Snitches hovered in the air, ready for use. These would provide live translation to Bulstrode, Husain and Luckenbill—the staff behind them either had to understand the language, or follow along as best they could.

Hermione felt she was going to pee or vomit, she wasn’t sure which first. Perhaps both at the same time. She hoped outwardly she was projecting calm and serenity.

The meeting started. The Supreme Mugwump spoke at length in English, Hindi, French and Mandarin. The agenda was agreed to—including the introduction of proposed Amendments and the subsequent time for debate.

Hermione had been less nervous riding a Thestral to London.

Banking regulations, peace treaties, monitoring of the dragon population, a break where Hermione peed and took steadying breaths inside a toilet cubicle. And then…

She was walking up to the stage behind Faisel Husain. It was a long, lonely march, as if to the gallows. There were so many people. A thousand—maybe more. Up the steps. She was going to trip over her silly heeled boots. She would die. She would die. She would die.

Hermione touched her wand to her throat. Sonorous.

The rest is politics.

Her voice rang out across the chamber, a miracle of serenity and confidence. “Good morning, distinguished members of the International Confederation of Wizards, my name is Hermione Granger.”

A ripple of recognition went through the crowd. She allowed a moment of chatter and scanned the people she could see in the lower levels, members of the press, diplomats, politicians, businesspeople and… a head of white blond hair next to a Japanese wizard in the third row.

It couldn’t be.

Draco. Draco. Draco.

There he was, but she couldn’t think about it. Hermione, not an Occlumens, blocked out absolutely every lancing thought in her head except for the short speech she knew so well. She had not wanted to distract from the process, but Marchbanks and Faisel had agreed that in this case a light touch from one of the most famous Muggle-born witches of all time was more likely to help, rather than hinder, their cause. She was there to be seen and there to be heard.

“I am honoured, and humbled to stand in front of you today to introduce my esteemed colleague Faisel Husain. But also, always and ever as the proud daughter of two Muggles,” Hermione began. “My parents and I knew nothing of the magical world before I received my invitation to study at Hogwarts when I was 11 years old. For us, magic was only in stories. Witches ate children who wandered into the forest. And then I held a wand in my hand, and I became complete…” Her memory filled with her golden bubbles. The truth of her. And Draco held one in his hand. Draco returned her wand…

“...All at the expense of leaving the only world I'd ever known behind me.” Hermione gazed around the room, her voice growing stronger as she noticed smiles, and a few nods from the crowd. Not all the faces were friendly, but she had never expected that for a second.

She went on, deep in her convictions. “Many of you here share your lives with Muggles. Perhaps like me, your parents are non-magical folk, or just your mother, or your father… your spouse… your friends or your neighbours. We share our lives with them, and so often, we create double lives in the guise of protecting ourselves. Since 1689, the ostensible protection of our lives and our liberties has resulted in a callous disregard for the suffering of our fellow human beings. We who share this beautiful, complex planet, we who have been given gifts that allow us mastery over many torments, we stand and watch as wars rage, children die, seas rise and forests burn.”

There was nothing but her words. Nothing but her purpose.

“Today you will be presented with an opportunity to amend a law that is over 300 years out of date. In the name of justice, this should be done—but also in the name of progress, of trade, of commerce, this should be done. Only fear and our own arrogance can hold us back.”

Hermione paused. Took a breath. “It is now my great honour to introduce Faisel Husain, long time member of this Confederation, on behalf of Wizarding Britain, and champion of the underserved. Mr. Husain will outline the seven proposed amendments, and open the floor for debate before the vote takes place. I urge you, I beg you to vote in the affirmative for peace and possibility and unity—values that this body lives by.”

Hermione waved her wand at her throat, and retreated to a seat at the back of the stage as the stout, dark-haired Faisel stepped forward. He gave her the tiniest of fatherly winks. There was murmuring and scattered applause across the chamber.

Hermione could breathe again. She listened to Faisel’s amplified voice read the familiar words years in the undertaking. Now there was only hope.

In the crowd, she looked for Draco, wondering if she had imagined his face in that moment of terror.

One, two, three rows back and there he was. His face was curiously intense.

When she found his eyes, he gave her a small, epochal nod, and then moved his focus onto Faisel.

The International Confederation of Wizards apparently didn’t care about peace, possibility and unity. They cared about secrecy, secrecy and more secrecy.

152 delegates had voted for the Amendments—a majority—but not the kind that they needed to change the law. It was framed as a conscience vote and in the end the rotten, spineless Bancroft Bulstrode had voted against his two colleagues. Hermione wanted to hex him until he was nothing but a walking, boil-covered tentacle. Conscience vote? What a joke when many of the empty robes in that room had nothing of the sort.

After the day’s proceedings, the silent British delegation made their way back to the Ministry in London. Marchbanks had instructed everybody to go home for the weekend, and do whatever it was that they needed to do to let their hair down before regrouping Monday morning. 8:30 sharp. But she’d also charmed three desks together in the main office and summoned a large bottle of pricey brandy for anyone that might like to stay. Hermione, Penelope, Bo and their boss all sat around the table, quiet until one of them started swearing about the arrogance and cowardice that led them here.

Hermione was numb, but not nearly numb enough. Everything she’d worked for. Everything she’d dreamed of, and it came to nothing.

She hadn’t realised she’d shared her thoughts with her colleagues. Penelope put her hand on Hermione’s.

“Granger, over half of the ICW is not nothing,” Madam Marchbanks scolded her. “That is a tour de force, a coup—today is not the day, but tomorrow may well be.”

“They’re not meeting tomorrow,” Hermione said, taking a glum sip of brandy.

“A figure of speech,” Marchbanks replied loftily. She looked at her watch. “It is now 8pm. I don’t care where you lot go, but you can’t stay here.”

There was movement. The finishing of drinks, the donning of coats and cloaks. Bo farewelled his colleagues with a dejected, alcohol-reddened face. Hermione warned him not to apparate, lest he be splinched from here to Leeds. Marchbanks nodded at Hermione and Penelope, and strutted out of the office and into the lift, as if the day had only been a minor setback and not a total disaster.

Hermione turned to Penelope. She had shed a few tears after the vote, and Hermione liked her immensely for it. The shadows under her eyes told a familiar story of sleeplessness, but perhaps the old cliche was true—did misery love company?

“I don’t want to go home,” Hermione confessed.

“I want to drink,” Penelope readily agreed. “...The Naughty? It’s in Brixton this week.” The pub would have ‘popped up’ in a new location the day before.

“Yes, sounds good,” Hermione said. “Can you Apparate?”

“Better Floo. Marchbanks’ brandy has me a bit squiffy.”

The Naughty Mermaid was packed and noisy with chatter and upbeat music. The exterior today looked like a closed down Muggle coffee chain, while the interior looked as it usually did: like a traditional, nautical-themed English pub. With the additional touches of floating liquor bottles and candles in orange glass jars, and the enormous painting of a topless, winking mermaid behind the bar.

The Bartender was a handsome 40-something werewolf named Maxim, all dark curls, dark eyes and carved pectorals. He spotted Hermione and Penelope at the bar and hurried over to them, ignoring several other patrons to do so.

One of Hermione’s first projects at the Ministry had been aiding in the creation of werewolf anti-discrimination laws and widening the availability of the Wolfsbane Potion. It had been one of Kingsley’s primary agendas as Minister for Magic, in memory of Remus Lupin. Hermione had been more than glad to help, and she had not been forgotten for it. Maxim would not accept a single Knut from her.

“Hello, stranger,” Maxim greeted warmly. “What can I get for you?”

Hermione ordered a gin and tonic, and Penelope requested a chardonnay using a voice a tad different than her usual. Higher, breathier. Maxim passed the glasses across the bar, showing off forearms corded with muscle. He winked roguishly.

“On me.”

Drinks in hand, they took over a recently vacated booth. If they’d cared to look around, they would have definitely found friends and colleagues to drink with, but they did not care to. They barely spoke through the first drink, and Penelope offered to get the second. Hermione imagined her companion might quite like it if Maxim winked at her again. Maxim also might quite like it if the curvy and vivacious Penelope winked right back.

Penelope, more tipsy and depressed than vivacious at present, plopped herself back down, her ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. She slid another G&T to Hermione, this one garnished with cucumber and black pepper.

“My mum is going to be so upset,” Penelope said morosely. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I told her all about this. She believed there would be potions in every Boots by this time next year.”

Hermione had only alluded to her current work with her parents. Marie Granger had still been steadily petitioning for Hermione to rejoin the Muggle world, rather than thinking about integration in the other direction. This involved passive aggressive sighing, and sliding some university brochures under Hermione's plate the last time she'd gone for dinner. It was well-played; Hermione had not forgotten the breathtaking libraries at the University of Oxford…

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said miserably.

“Why?” Penelope demanded. “Not your fault a bunch of old wizards are scared of rice cookers and combine harvesters. Did you see how many men were in that chamber? Say what you want about division—wizards and Muggles are firmly united in patriarchy!”

Penelope knocked back a considerable gulp of chardonnay after sharing this depressing truth.

Hermione had definitely noticed the many elderly male wizards who held seats at the ICW. All too many of their support staff looked exactly like them too.

More than any of them though, she had noticed a younger wizard who seemed to be only there as a spectator. Generally, ICW meetings were not open to the public. However, she was sure Draco would be horrified that she had considered him for even a second as something so common as a member of the public.

“What's next?” Hermione mused, drawing patterns in water rings on the table.

“Another drink!” Penelope declared. “I know you mean in the greater diplomatic sphere but really… shit, what was I talking about?”

“Diplomacy,” Hermione said morosely.

“Ugh. You know, Hermione,” Penelope pointed a wobbly finger. “I like you. We should do this more often.”

“You mean drown our sorrows after spending the best part of two years working towards a better world, only to find that many wizards don't really give a toss about billions of people?”

“Hm…” Penelope paused. “Just the sorrows drowning part.”

Hermione liked Penelope too, and was flattered by the proposition of deepening a collegial relationship into a friendship—even if the warm feelings may be somewhat influenced by alcohol. “I'd like that.”

“Excellent, oh and we can do Muggle things! I miss the cinema!”

“And skiing. And concerts,” agreed Hermione enthusiastically. “I'd love to go to Glastonbury.”

“Absolutely, let's! I'm booking us tickets. I’ll Confund someone if I have to.” Penelope drained her wine like it was water. “Drink up, I’ll get us another.”

“You go, I’m still working on this one.”

Penelope grinned. “Okay, but do let me go when you want one.”

“Of course,” Hermione grinned back and watched her walk to the bar, watched over by an excited, bouncy mermaid portrait.

By the time Penelope finished her third generous glass of wine, Hermione had only finished her second gin, and had fished out a piece of cucumber from her glass to chew on. Penelope was saved another trip to the bar by Maxim, who arrived at their table to take away their empty glasses. He had apparently seen Hermione’s empty glass too, and had rectified the situation with another gin. Hermione could smell elderflowers.

“What are we celebrating?” Maxim asked in his rich voice.

“Total, abject failure,” Hermione replied.

“Ah. My ever faithful friend.” Maxim put the last empty on his tray.

Penelope seemed lost for words, or perhaps unable to speak, and could only flutter her eyelashes at the bartender who laughed heartily. The effect was still coquettish, if a little lopsided.

“I think Penelope might need to go home.” Hermione joined in the laughing.

Penelope vehemently shook her head and then, immediately looking woozy from the movement, nodded sagely.

“Well there’ll be no apparating on my watch, there’s another Floo connection for departures—in the back. I’ll show you.” He offered his arm, and Penelope practically flew to take it.

“I’ll come too,” offered Hermione.

“No! You stay, finish your drink,” Penelope’s eyes said she wanted to steal however many minutes alone with Maxim as she could. “Honestly, the wine’s done me in. Don’t leave on my account.”

Hermione had no intention of spending the rest of her evening alone at The Naughty Mermaid, but she could take a hint. Sometimes.

“See you Monday, then.”

With a sort of wonky wink, Penelop allowed Maxim to put his hand on her lower back and lead her through the crowd, to the wooden door behind the bar.

Hermione watched the mermaid behind the bar giggle and brush her hair over her large bosoms. The new drink Maxim had bought her was the best yet, but was going down far too easily. Her face tingled. Perhaps she was going the same way as Penelope. She tested a blink. Her eyes still seemed to be working as a team.

Another blink, and a figure slid into the booth in front of her. He wore a fine dark green jumper, a long black coat, and his unmistakable hair had been cut back and styled meticulously so as to look effortless and undone.

And he was beautiful, so beautiful, and that was a thought she’d had a million times that she’d always wrestled into submission but now it exploded like a firework inside her ribcage.

“Draco,” Hermione breathed his name like she was in a church, then realised that was probably weird. Maybe she was hallucinating. Honestly at this point she wanted to talk to him so badly she'd accept a hallucination.

May as well go with it, then.

“Um, hello.”

“Evening, Granger,” he greeted, gracefully shrugging his coat off his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Was he there for her? She didn’t want to hope for that, she shouldn’t be allowed to hope for that.

“Drinking.” Draco held up a half empty pint glass filled with dark beer.

“A pint?” Draco and beer didn’t seem to add up, but she watched as he took a deliberate sip and ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip.

“Well it was warm sake up until now,” he explained. “And Potter said you might be here.”

“You spoke to Harry?” Hermione said disbelievingly. To ask after her? She wondered what Harry had thought of that.

“Yes, I saw him earlier in the lift at the Ministry. I survived the ordeal, just barely. Mind you, I asked you first, but I suspect you aren’t carrying your notebook.”

She was, actually, in the little green bag sitting next to her on the leather seat. She would not tell him that though. She resolved to find a way to charm the notebook so it would alert her when he had written.

“So you were in Edinburgh today.”

“I was,” he said simply.

“I’ve never heard of them allowing spectators into ICW meetings before…”

“They don’t. I am exceptionally well connected.”

She rolled her eyes, though it could only be the truth. “Why did you come to the meeting?”

Say it was for me.

“I have my reasons,” Draco said, taking another casual sip of beer. He would not be elaborating, then.

A pause.

“Out with it,” she prompted.

“What?”

“The gloating.”

“I do love a good gloat,” he admitted. “But I’ll need to know the topic at hand before I get started.”

“The vote didn’t carry. We lost,” she said.

He looked bored by this. “And?”

“Wizards are superior to Muggles, etcetera.”

“Why, Granger, I never thought I would hear you say such a thing.”

Hermione made a grumpy noise, and Draco frowned at her, thoughtful. “Nakagawa—the wizard I accompanied today—thought you were insane, and he wasn’t the only one…”

Hermione breathed through her nose.

“I obviously could not vote—though I would strongly argue I would make a better representative than fucking Bulstrode.” His face tightened with distaste. “However, if I could have cast a vote, I would have voted in favour. Without hesitation.”

He may as well have stood at the table and bellowed this at her. It was a confession. It was a hand held out…

“Really?” A single valiant butterfly flapped in her stomach.

“Really.”

“I don’t believe you.” The butterfly promptly died.

Draco only blinked. “That’s unfortunate, but many who tell the truth are not believed.” He noticed her empty glass. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“No need,” she replied. “Maxim is keeping me well liquored.”

“‘Maxim’ is it?”

Hermione nodded at the bar and Draco’s eyebrow rose looking at the masculine figure there, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of a romance novel. Hermione decided to keep playing her hand, and stood up. “I, however, can buy you a drink. Same again?”

“I have a feeling I am going to need something stronger,” Draco muttered.

Hermione walked to the bar, putting as much confidence into her walk as she had left within her. Truthfully, she felt shaky all over again, for a completely different reason. She felt doom coming for the second time that day.

“I see you have gained a new companion, Hermione. Is he welcome?” There was a measure of menace in Maxim’s tone, and Hermione knew The Naughty needed no bouncer with him around.

“Yes, he’s a… friend,” Hermione reassured him. “Is Penelope alright?”

“Your lovely friend is home safe,” Maxim smiled with white teeth that seemed just a little sharper than average. “I hope you bring her again.”

“I’ll be sure to.”

“Excellent. Another gin for you?”

Hermione nodded. “And for the gentleman?”

“The same. I’ll pay for his,” she said.

“I won’t hear of it,” Maxim said firmly, pulling out two lowball glasses. He tapped his wand on them and they filled with sparkling crushed ice.

When Hermione returned to the booth, she felt sure that Draco had been watching her speak to Maxim, and had seen the smiles he’d been carelessly tossing at her.

Good.

When she passed Draco his drink, she didn’t try to avoid touching his fingers. She wanted to touch his fingers. She flicked her eyes up—imagining it was true that she had doe eyes—and then away again when it became too much after less than a second. It was a conversation without words, especially when his lips kicked up in time with a brow. Beautiful. Shit.

The day had been long, but the night was young, and Hermione was filled with daring.

Chapter Text

Without a shadow of a doubt, all three of Hermione’s sheets were to the wind, and it felt marvellous.

She had in no way forgotten the ICW’s decision to continue being as progressive as mouldering gargoyles. As the hour grew later, and the gin to tonic ratio increased under Maxim’s hand—she didn’t care.

Anyone who saw her would’ve seen a witch at ease—she’d shed the robe with the power shoulders, and was wearing a scooped white t-shirt with her business trousers. Apparently overworked, her hair tie broke at some point, and her hair tumbled free, spilling down her shoulders.

Draco was still with her, showing every sign that he wanted to be. There were soft points of colour on his cheeks and his eyes were shining like mercury. He too, was drunk. They’d been speaking easily, about everything, but nothing of substance. They were together, and that was substantial enough. She felt like they were in the Pensieve again; a place where they were real, and everything else was just an inconsequential echo. The background to their story

So, she asked a question that had been on her mind for weeks. She dropped her voice low so they could speak about Unspeakable things, and Draco leaned in to hear. He was close enough to sniff but that was a drunk thought that she would ignore.

“What happened to the Pensieve?”

Draco paused, and then with a superior smirk he tapped his straight nose with his index finger.

“All in time,” he said cryptically.

Annoyance had her leaning back and scrunching up her nose. Maybe she would ensure he indulged in a few more drinks, and she would ask again… if she was capable of asking after that much liquor. She was already wobbly enough that her mind easily distracted her with something else.

“I’ve been meaning to show you something.” Hermione started this new topic of conversation, stifling a hiccup. She dug in her bag, and eventually summoned what she was looking for. A piece of paper fluttered into her outstretched fingers like a butterfly. She smoothed the Prophet article, and slid it across the table towards him.

“Did you see that?”

Draco’s eyes scanned the page and widened ever so slightly in delight.

Scarlet Woman? Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy's Love Fest

“Clearly not. If I had, I would have framed it immediately.” He started to read. “‘It is well known that Miss Granger has left a number of wizards desolate and destitute after she used her considerable magical gifts to seduce them for influence and information…’. Granger, you dark horse, I never knew.”

“You did,” Hermione tapped her finger on the paper. “It clearly states you were my next victim.”

He kept reading, in the manner of a child opening a Christmas gift. “So it does. Everything makes sense now, I’ve been under your spell this entire time.”

Draco can’t’ve just said what she thought he said. Offhand. Nope.

“Don’t know where I found the time for all that seduction with the six days a week, ten hours a day schedule,” she snorted.

“One can always make time for seduction, Granger.”

Hermione still had enough wits to completely disregard Draco’s flirtatious voice, but it was a near thing. She looked at the flickering candle in the orange jar rather than at a face that was too beautiful to cope with. What was the time? Once they had nothing but time, and maybe she’d wasted it.

But. “What am I going to do now?” she asked him, feeling wretched all of a sudden. Her often volatile emotions were scattered like leaves in the wind.

“Hmm, unsure. Career decisions are not best made on a Friday night at the pub.” Draco sipped thoughtfully.

“I disagree,” said Hermione. “But okay.”

“Can I keep this?” He waved the article and was already tucking it into the wallet that was a gift from her.

“Of course.” Seeing that he was carrying the wallet made her feel a tiny bit giddy, but also reminded her of Hong Kong which was... complicated.

Hermione was just contemplating another drink, when a tall figure stood over them holding a full pint.

“Dean!” Hermione greeted excitedly. Dean Thomas smiled widely at her. His hair was styled into twists and he'd not bothered to look like anything but a trendy Muggle. He wore a royal blue bomber jacket over a hooded sweatshirt and brand new shiny trainers on his feet.

“Alright, Hermione?” Dean's eyes irresistibly moved across the table to Draco. It was immediately apparent that Dean approached both to say hello and to check on her. Draco, for his part, looked peaceable enough except for his raised eyebrow.

“Thomas,” Draco nodded.

“Malfoy,” Dean said, with considerably more ice in his tone.

“Sit, sit!” Hermione patted the booth next to her. “I haven't seen you in ages.”

Dean sat in the perfect position to stare down Draco. He turned his head to Hermione and his smile lit back up.

“You're looking fit! Why weren't you at Halloween?”

“Working,” Hermione grimaced. And Ron. “Did anything interesting happen?”

“Luna's back in town. And George spiked Seamus with a Love Potion that made him start singing Greensleeves to Daphne.”

“Greengrass?” Draco cut in. Astoria's sister.

“That's right,” Dean replied curtly.

It was uncomfortable to say the least. Dean had of course been imprisoned in the cellar-cum-dungeon at Malfoy Manor, which wasn't an easy thing to forgive and forget. Hermione wondered if Dean read the Prophet.

Draco, to his credit, stayed as calm as an empty cathedral.

Hermione made an attempt to clear the heavy, acrimonious air hanging over the table. “Dean, I hope that you understand I would not be sitting with Draco if I believed he would curse me the moment I turn my back on him. That he is choosing to sit with me at all should also tell you about where his beliefs sit now.”

“Run out of Pureblood girls, have you?” Dean remarked.

A tiny spark of anger flickered over Draco's face but it was extinguished by the blandness of Occlumency. Ah.

When Hermione glared, Dean appeared to back down. “Yeah alright mate, Hermione's the understanding sort and who am I to argue?” He sighed a bit. “Just weird seeing you together.”

“We're not together,” Hermione said quickly.

“I mean in the same booth,” Dean looked at her, confused. Her denial was more incriminating than saying nothing would have been.

Draco blinked, and then said, “Can I buy you a drink, Thomas?”

“I've got one here.”

Draco was definitely squashing down his irritation. “A shot then.”

“Fine,” Dean said.

Draco looked at her. “Granger?”

“Er probably should… water.”

Draco returned with a round on a tray—amber liquid in bulbous glasses instead of shots. There was also a tall glass of water, set off to the side like a mildly offensive afterthought.

“They had Ogden's 25 year old, so I got that. Your bartender friend made me pay though.”

“You must not be his type, mate.” The ‘mate’ from Dean was around 10% more friendly than before, as he accepted the aged Firewhiskey from Draco.

“Wear your miniskirt next time.” Hermione grinned into her drink, which was not even close to water. “Show off those gams.”

Dean looked between the two of them, eyebrows raised. “Sounds like a tale.”

“Confidential, though,” Hermione said.

“I think it's safe enough to tell Thomas that you came second to me in a sexiest legs competition,” said Draco.

“Ahhh,” said Dean. “Only ‘cause I didn't enter.”

The conversation started to drip, then flow. It was strange and wonderful. Dean was hardly a gossip, but it was impossible that the story of this interaction wouldn't spread. It wasn't like The Naughty Mermaid was a private place, regardless. After a very long day, Hermione found she didn't much care what people thought of their trio.

Draco was plying Dean with drinks, Dean was telling Draco about football and Draco seemed torn between interest and derision.

“...And then what?” Draco asked.

“Ball goes into the back of the net and that's a goal, innit?”

“Does it explode?”

“Come off it!”

“What?”

“Why would it explode?” Dean spluttered.

“Well it would add some excitement to an otherwise dry spectacle, wouldn't you agree?”

Dean was fascinated by Draco's job as an Unspeakable, but even alcohol didn't loosen his lips. Dean sheepishly shared that he recently opened a tattoo studio with another Muggle-born artist—‘Ink Wizard’ was not far from The Naughty's current location, catering to both magical and non-magical folk.

“Dean that's… that's really… beautiful,” Hermione found herself saying, mortified as she needed to wipe away a tear.

“Oh um… cheers,” Dean said uncomfortably. “You don't need to cry, or nothing though.”

“It's just that you're living so beautifully in both worlds.” She grabbed his hand and wrung it. “I'm so so glad you don't have to choose.”

“She's had a rough day,” Draco explained when he saw Dean's confusion, and concern for her mental acuity. He patted her hand patronisingly. “So, you said your shop was close, Thomas?” He was obviously changing the topic, and Hermione was glad to steer her thinking away from the meeting and the vote again.

“Near the market, yeah. Come check it out sometime.” He seemed thoughtful. “We can probably go there now, if you like. I was just thinking of heading out for a kebab.”

It was very nearly midnight.

“Ooh yes, can we?” said Hermione readily. She felt adventurous and didn't want the night to end.

“Kebab or studio?” Dean asked.

“Kebab then studio,” Draco clarified, pointing a decisive finger gun at Dean, and another at Hermione.

“Sound.”

Maxim winked at Hermione as she left as part of her unlikely triad. Outside, winter had well and truly arrived, and they all bundled back up in their warm clothes to head into frigid midnight. On his third try, Draco wrapped the three of them in a near-tropical warming charm. They emerged into Muggle Brixton, under pools of street light. Being Friday, there were people about engaging in Friday night type activities.

“Shall we walk?” Dean asked. He was on a bit of a lean. Or maybe Hermione was the one on a lean. He seemed to notice she was slightly more angled than she might normally be, and offered his arm for her to take. She gladly slid her arm through his and pinned herself to his side.

“Marvellous idea, Thomas,” Draco agreed. On her other side, Draco became another link to their strange chain.

They walked about 10 minutes. A crowd of smokers outside a Muggle bar wolf whistled at them, and Draco wolf whistled back. Soon after, they walked through the middle of some sort of lovers tiff involving a girl with hula hoop-sized earrings on one side of the road, and her beau who looked like a tiny Hagrid bellowing on the other.

“‘Ere ya mate, you were ‘aving a proper look at ‘er baps you were!”

“I never, babes, I never. Tha’s me cousin, innit! Swear on me nan's grave!

“Tha's well twisted, that is. Come over ‘here, I'll bang ya right awt!”

Hermione dragged a scintillated Draco away before the fierce girl with the hoops widened her threats to include them.

Finally, they were standing in front of a small red shop front.

Abrakebabra — Home of the Magic Falafel.

Draco read the sign and made a choking noise that quickly became uncontrollable laughter.

Inside the shop, the fluorescent lights throbbed through Hermione and she decided she was quite drunk, especially when she realised that she’d been staring at the menu board for approximately a millenia.

It would be rude not to order the falafel.

“Thomas,” said Draco in an audible stage whisper. “Order for me. I’ll pay you back.” It wasn’t said as a demand, more as an SOS. Dean grinned and ordered two lamb shish kebabs with garlic and hot chilli sauce.

On white plastic chairs in the window of the shop, they ate their feast. There was the quiet, drunk contemplation of those who are experiencing something salty, greasy and flavoursome.

“This is the best thing I've ever eaten,” Draco said reverently.

“I don't think these falafel have any magical properties whatsoever,” remarked Hermione.

“I’m getting another,” said Dean.

Full to bursting, they braved the cold again, with Dean promising his shop was just around the corner.

True to his word, they arrived outside a small corner shop, part of a larger ugly brick building. The shop front was painted glossy black, with swirling white letters spelling out ‘Ink Wizard’ across the windows. A neon sign of a traditional style wizard with lightning coming out of his fingers hung in the window.

Dean opened the shop door with a key, and they all entered the space. It smelled sharply of disinfectant and warmly of vanilla. Dean flicked the lights on and illuminated the walls of meticulously drawn flash framed in black. The walls were painted teal and there were hot rod flames drawn in silver on the floor. There was also a glowing pinball machine in one corner. There was a lot to look at, but overall it was just as cool as the man who owned it.

Dean raided a mini fridge in the corner and bottles clinked as he withdrew three beers and handed them around. Hermione took the lager, knowing she absolutely did not need it. Barely drank the stuff.

“What do you reckon?” Dean asked, popping the cap off his beer with his wand. Draco was studying the pinball machine with rapt fascination.

“I've never been to a tattoo studio before… but I like it. A lot,” said Hermione. “How do magical folk know how to find you?”

“Mostly word of mouth, I'm doing a bit of marketing around the place. I do magical tattoos later at night and Muggle pieces during the day.”

“So they're different then?

“Yeah,” Dean grinned sheepishly. Off a shelf he retrieved a black album. There were photos inside—little windows showing backs and ankles and biceps… and the tattoos were moving across the peoples’ skin. A phoenix burned and rose again. A peony closed and opened. “Quicker. Proper indelible. Painless, if you want.. though some people like the pain.”

“Wow,” Hermione breathed, looking at Dean's work.

Draco wandered over and was looking over her shoulder. Close, nearly pressed against her back. Without thinking, she tilted her head back, and to the side—closer still.

“Dare you, Granger,” he purred in her ear.

“You first,” she scoffed so she wouldn’t shiver.

“Are you saying if I get a tattoo, swotty Granger will get one too?” Mock-disbelief in his voice. “Thomas, your thoughts?”

Dean took a swig and decided to play along. “I'm game.”

“How much?” asked Draco.

“A bottle of the oldest Firewhiskey you can get apiece.”

“Deal. Granger?”

“What?” she turned around.

“Thomas here is going to tattoo me, and then you,” Draco announced.

“Is that right?” she responded sarcastically. “‘Zeppelin Rules’ across the buttocks?”

“True…” Draco drawled, tapping a finger on his chin. “I suppose I will have to decide what to get.”

Dean looked mischievous. “I have flash.” He waved his wand and the static framed flash flipped over, revealing hundreds of animated pieces of inspiration on the hidden side. “Or, perhaps Hermione could choose for you?”

“Dean, are you sober enough to tattoo?” Hermione responded to this suggestion.

“Are you sober enough to ask me that question?” he said flippantly.

“Granger can choose for me if I choose for her.” Draco took hold of the idea and started running.

“Image and placement?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” said Draco.

“No,” said Hermione.

“Surely.”

“Absolutely, positively, not.”

“Coward.”

“Oh, am I?” Hermione said silkily.

“Yes. I knew you wouldn't do it. You wild-haired, utterly gutless… coward.”

Hermione's expression turned dangerous. She whirled around to stare Draco down. “I once broke into Gringotts.”

He waved a hand. “Old news.”

“I brewed Polyjuice Potion in my second year at Hogwarts.”

“Still a coward.”

Hermione hated playing to stereotypes but being called a coward inflamed her Gryffindor sensibilities.

“Fine,” she hissed.

“Fine?” Draco was surprised, even though he deliberately aimed his arrow.

“I said fine.”

“Say it again.”

“Fine. I accept—but only if you get it the Muggle way. And you don't get to look until it's done.”

“Deal.”

Unable to believe that this whole situation was happening and that the whirlwind of her day had flung her in this direction, Hermione found herself going with the inexplicable flow of life. Said flow may have been the flow of alcohol in her veins, but it still had her whispering to Dean.

Ideas ran through her mind: a red heart advertising how much Draco loved his ‘mummy’, a bouncing white ferret, ‘I love Muggles’, until…

With fluid fingers on the keyboard, Hermione used the shop computer to perform an internet search and showed Dean a picture. He bent down to hear the extra details she whispered into his ear, then used both pen and wand to draw a design. In an astonishingly short amount of time he'd come up with exactly the image that was in Hermione's head.

“It's perfect,” she told him, astounded. He winked at her.

Meanwhile, Draco was already draped over the leather table, like a lounging figure in a Greek mosaic. At some point, he had magically replenished his beer. It had to be said that Draco was a very agreeable drunk. Hermione remembered Draco and the champagne and the chaise longue and put your hands on the shelf.

“Ready,” Dean said to Hermione, rescuing her from dangerous thoughts about shelves. Needles and ink were neatly aligned on Dean’s workbench.

“Ready?” Hermione said, pointing her wand at Draco. He looked at her and she heard him say ‘Don't’ in a dark part of her mind.

In the present, he said, “You know it.”

“Obscuro!” Hermione shot a blindfold over his eyes so only his curving lips were visible. While Dean disinfected using his wand, Hermione gently took the beer bottle out of Draco’s hand and started rolling up his right sleeve… her fingertips brushed warm, pale skin. His hand twitched, his fingers spreading wide at her touch. Without him watching her, she could linger on his beautiful wrists.

“As kinky as ever,” he said in a low, saucy voice. She didn't know how he knew it was her rather than Dean touching him. “I expect you to feed me beer whenever I ask.”

“Not a chance,” she shot back.

Dean placed the stencil, and when Hermione gave him the thumbs up he got to work. The buzz of the machine filled the shop.

“Ouch, Thomas, you brute!”

“Stay still. Figures you'd be a baby, Malfoy.”

“People pay you to do this to them?” Draco asked incredulously.

“My books are full until June,” Dean said, with a hint of pride.

Draco was silent for a while, as the buzz became a hum and the piece took shape. Hermione saw tension in his jaw that she wanted to smooth away, it faded as he made an effort to appear more tough.

“Lager,” he said to Hermione. And she fed him some, probably because he told her to. She didn't watch his lips, and certainly not his tongue when it flicked out to catch a stray drop. She caught herself licking her own lip.

“How did you two start being mates, anyway?” Dean asked.

“Don't you read the Prophet?” Hermione replied.

“Fuck no. But I gathered enough to know you were missing together. We were dead worried… about Hermione, that is.”

“We were in Hong Kong,” Draco said simply. "Lost track of time.”

Dean accepted the lack of an explanation. “And when did you stop being a cunt? Or less of one, anyway?” he asked, wiping away excess ink and blood from Draco's arm.

“It was a multitude of things, probably… Not probably, definitely.” The machine started up again. “Ow! I’m sorry it wasn't sooner.”

Dean grunted in acknowledgement, and then Draco grunted back and all seemed to be well. Men.

At length, Dean finished. There was now a truly beautiful tattoo on the top of Draco’s right forearm.

“Now this is done the Muggle way—but I can use magic and heal it right away, and make it proper permanent so you can't remove it.”

“Do it,” Draco said without hesitation. And Hermione understood then that this was about a lot more than being drunk. Was he making amends to Dean, in his understated way, just as he did when he sent her her wand?

Dean traced his wand over Draco's forearm. And it was on his skin forever.

“I propose we cover it until Hermione has hers, yeah? Then you both can see them together?”

“Right you are,” Draco rolled down his sleeve and removed his blindfold. Hermione handed him his beer, which she'd kindly added a cooling charm too. She was slowly realising that backing out (which she had half planned to do) would be exactly as cowardly as Draco had accused her of being. She had just chosen something that would be on his skin forever.

The word forever echoed through her head, circulated in her veins.

“Well, Thomas,” said Draco, holding out his hand to shake Dean's. “You are a much better tattooist than Lord Voldemort.”

At this pronouncement, Dean choked on shock and lager, and started immediately coughing. With watering eyes, he managed to shake Draco's outstretched hand. Hermione too reeled at this flippant reference to Draco’s faded Dark Mark.

“Now, we have very important business with Granger. Obscuro.”

It took a lot of self control to not block Draco’s spell.

“And…”

Hermione yelped as her legs suddenly bared. Her trousers became a short skirt which she felt with her fingers.

“A little warning!”

“Needed to see the canvas.”

Dean and Draco spoke in an undertone while Hermione nervously sipped beer. What the fuck was she doing? What the fuck would Draco put on her body? Surely Dean wouldn't allow him to do anything too risqué… but Dean seemed quite caught up in the joke.

A body came closer to where she was standing nervously, and guided her gently to sit and then lie on the leather table. She didn’t need sight to know that the hand on her lower back was Draco's. She’d know his presence, not to mention his scent, anywhere.

“Lie on your front,” Draco murmured in her ear and she shivered everywhere, but obeyed.

“This won't take long, Hermione,” Dean reassured her. “Magic for you.”

“Who taught you how to do this?” she asked.

“I taught myself,” Dean said. “Not many wizards out there trying to do what I am. Ready?”

No. “Yes.”

Prickling heat spread over the back of Hermione’s thigh. It hurt, like she was being momentarily scalded. For the next five minutes, Dean's wand gently tapped on her skin, creating tiny hot prickles wherever it landed.

“Done,” Dean announced. “Let me get a camera before you look. I need a record of this because fuck me I'm much more drunk than I thought… I can't believe you nutters let me tattoo you.”

This was not a comforting statement. Hermione got off the bed, but bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, still blindfolded.

“Okay, go,” Dean said.

Hermione pulled the blindfold off her face and watched as Draco rolled up his sleeve. In the mirror Draco looked at the tattoo on his forearm—black lines and clever shading forming an osprey in flight, skimming across water. Droplets and spray dancing around him.

On the back of Hermione's leg, a full colour osprey preened his magnificent feathers and started stretching his wings.

Their faces mirrored each other's blank shock. A pair of ospreys. Then, Draco and Hermione absolutely melted into laughter.

“Did you both know?” Dean was snapping photos on a compact magical camera, he had given no hint.

“No,” Draco nearly couldn't speak. He gasped for breath. Hermione could only shake her head, doubled over as she was.

Dean lowered the camera, grinning widely at the scene in front of him. “Hermione I know the you and Ron shit is pretty fresh ‘n I swear I’m not judging—but you sure you two aren't shagging..?”

The fact that Draco and Hermione had unknowingly chosen matching tattoos was almost immediately accepted as normal by everyone involved.

Of course it did strike Hermione, in a drunken philosopher kind of way, that the osprey was Draco and Draco had tattooed himself on her, and she had tattooed him on himself. If Animagus were manifestations of one's soul…

It all became too deep. Probably because she was well off the deep end.

Dean checked his mobile and realised he had a number of missed calls from the person he'd been seeing. He sheepishly left to make a call and when he returned said he'd better get over to see ‘Alex’ asap. He grabbed his bomber, and showed them to the Floo he'd had installed in the back. They were all far too sozzled to apparate all their appendages to the right place.

Dean went first, after a warm hug and a warm handshake that became a back-slapping hug.

“Thanks for a truly bonkers evening,” Dean farewelled, before supplying an unfamiliar Bristol address to the Floo.

As soon as Dean left, Draco quickly said: “I want to see your house.” The words were blurted out, as if she were about to swan dive into the fire without him.

Hermione turned to him, taken aback. His bold declaration reflected in a bold chin.

“Alright,” she said. Not knowing why, and knowing exactly why.

She sprinkled powder from a old ‘World's Best Nana’ mug onto the fire and looped her arm back through Draco's, to take him to…

“2 Twayblade Lane.”

Chapter Text

The cottage at Twayblade Lane was very dark. At this point it was past three in the morning—the time of day where even sober thoughts play tricks, and decisions should not be made.

Decisions like pulling Draco with her out of the flames and into a whole other kind of fire.

Hermione waved her wand and lit several select lamps, upstairs and downstairs in one flick. Not too many—it didn't feel like a time for bright lights. It felt like a time for secrets and lovers. There was just enough luminescence to light their way, and lend the walls and low ceilings of the cottage a shadowed golden glow. Draco was looking slowly all around.

“Drink?” she offered.

“Seems unwise,” replied Draco. “So of course.”

Hermione peered into her sparse wine rack, self-consciously evaluating the cheap green bottles that she’d picked up on a Tesco special offer last week. Looking over her shoulder at the advent of a strange gushing sound, she found herself momentarily distracted by Draco squirting water into his mouth from the end of his wand.

It was oddly… sexy.

He caught her eye and smirked after swallowing. His lips were still wet.

“My mother used to tell me not to do that when I was young. ‘Oh Draco, don't be dreadful, use a glass’.” He put on an imitation of a high-pitched, posh voice.

Hermione didn't answer—couldn’t—and busied herself with pouring wine.

“I want the full tour,” he said as she passed him his glass. “It is very small, but I am sure it has hidden depths.”

It was a truly surreal thing—Draco in her house. Draco Malfoy in the house she used to share with Ron Weasley.

Draco made quite a few more references to the smallness and tinyness and minisculeness of her ‘I suppose some would call this a house’, but all in all she was reminded of his inspection of the Gryffindor common room. Anthropological, interested, and only slightly derisive.

When he started looking at the books in the sitting room she let herself watch him tilt his head to read the spines and smile secretly to himself, maybe coming across a title that also graced his shelves. She drank him in, and found that although she was still full of falafel… a different kind of appetite demanded to be sated.

She led him out into the small garden, with soft golden light at her wand tip. Their breath misted on the air and the last of the blooms that hadn’t succumbed to winter glowed valiantly all around them.

Draco spotted the small stone Hermione had carved with Crookshanks’ name. Wordlessly, he withdrew his wand and under his hand a riot of orange flowers bloomed—unseasonable nasturtiums, tiger lillies, poppies and marigolds. They were so bright they seemed to light up the dark garden.

It was all too much, absolutely too much.

She practically fled into the house so she didn't have to see, or think. But she was climbing the stairs and he was behind her and she robotically showed him the bathroom, and then her study.

He examined her gallery wall as though he were in an actual art gallery while she sat behind her desk.

“You haven't said anything in a long time,” Hermione said.

“What would you like me to say?” Draco said.

Tell me you understand.

“Something profound.”

“Matching tattoos not profound enough for you?” he replied. “Me standing in your study? Our entire friendship?”

“Are we?” she asked.

“What?”

“Friends.”

“More like associates,” he drawled. “Rivals.”

“Draco,” she warned, folding her arms.

“Hermione,” he responded, imitating her tone and gesture.

His rare use of her first name was exceptionally jarring. Still, she stared him down from behind her desk.

“We can be friends as long as I never have to call you Hermione again,” he said.

“No deal.”

“Then I am no more than a reluctant well-wisher. Anything interesting in here that we've missed? What would happen if I bled on your desk?”

“You’d make a mess.”

“I shall refrain, then. I assume your bedroom is through there?” He pointed.

Hermione would not blush. There is nothing about the word bedroom that should mean her heart started drumming a military cadence. She nodded.

This time Draco audaciously led the way and she was the one who followed, leaving half a glass of wine that she did not need on her desk.

It had to be a dream, for he was in her dim bedroom with its cream walls and sloped ceiling, bisected with very old wooden beams. There was her pile of books. The cosy bed with its curly wrought iron headboard and crocheted blanket. She drew the curtains with her wand.

There was virtually no sign of Ron in here now, even his smell had finally faded with the help of a few spells, yet it was still strange to have another man in her bedroom. Draco leaned against her chest of drawers, perfectly at ease, while she stood awkwardly near the foot of her bed.

“The end of the tour,” Draco remarked, looking from the bed to her.

“Yes. Probably not the most exciting place to end, to be honest.”

“That depends,” came his reply.

Depends on…

What should she do with her hands? Her entire body? Why did she abandon her wine? Why did she say Draco could come to her house?

“Where do you end the tour at your house?” she asked nervously.

“I don't give tours,” he said simply.

“Would you give me one?” she tested.

“Seems unnecessary, showed yourself around, didn't you?”

“Yeah I guess I did. Sor—”

“If you apologise, I will slap you,” Draco cut in.

“If you slap me, I will slap you right back,” she promised, fanning the sparks between them.

The eyes upon her became smoky with focus, perhaps reacting to her brazenness. He pushed off the drawers and stepped towards her, as if he would make good on his threat, but his wand was not in his hand. Almost a pity. Hermione's hands itched to do something. Anything. Her index finger stroked the side of her thumb.

“I'm glad you did,” he said in low voice. “All of it. I hope you'd do it again. Fuck the rules.”

Everything she had seen, and intruded upon—and he said this.

I would do it again. She realised. In spite of everything. Except she'd never have kissed him. Never trespassed in that bloody room in Hong Kong. She would never have taken his memory.

She would have let the unknown future before them play out. She wouldn’t have let go of his hand.

She had meant to keep her distance and look how that turned out. Now, he was tattooed on the back of her thigh.

Hermione hadn’t realised how close he was, and that she was considering telling him everything there was to tell. That would be tantamount to casting a Bombarda right where they stood. She had unconsciously moved and found herself holding onto his jumper as if she was going to shake him. Or perhaps it was for fear of falling, her feet seemed to want to tangle together.

Distraction. Distraction. Her head was a bubbling cauldron.

She found her Gryffindor courage. “Before all the slapping starts, I think it's time.”

“Time for what?” Draco said, obviously having some idea about what he wanted.

“I want to finally hear about the bedroom magic,” she said. It was said. It was in the air.

“Oh you do?” Draco's voice dripped with honey.

“I do.” She definitely did.

“Show me yours, Granger,” he dared her. “That is if you have any—I imagine with you it’s mostly stern missionary with the lights off.”

This comment offended Hermione and her face—which gave away her every emotion—must have shown it.

“Please don’t be insulted, I love stern missionary.” He brushed an errant curl off her face with one finger. Oh fuck, he touched her hair. Was she dying? Was he suggesting they should do stern missionary? …She could be stern. No. No. Fuck.

“Being scolded is hot. I bet young McGonagall was a firecracker.”

At this (blessed or cursed?) distraction, Hermione did let go of his jumper, if only to cover her eyes with her hands, as if that would protect her from the mental image her brain had served up: McGonagall and some very tall leather boots. It was only when she let go that she realised his hands were around her waist, his fingers spread across her lower back.

“You can tell me,” he whispered.

At this stage proving him wrong seemed the most important thing.

“I—can show you, if you like.”

Draco’s smirk viewed through the gaps in her fingers served as an enthusiastic ‘yes’. “Shall I remove any clothing? Mine or yours.”

“No, that won't be necessary,” she said steadily.

This was starting to feel like an extended game of chicken.

“Pity.”

After a deep breath that helped with nothing, Hermione looked shyly in his eyes as she stroked her index finger over her throat, and then touched it gently to the tip of her tongue. She felt an electric zip of magic in both places and knew her will was done.

“Wandless,” she explained, and Draco’s eyes widened. Wandless magic was not easy, or common. Hermione's use of it perhaps spoke to her own nature as a latent showboat.

Draco released her and took a step back as if to take a better look.

Hermione turned her head to the side, and was observed intently as she took her index and middle finger, and slowly pushed into her own mouth and throat as if she were trying to make herself sick.

Absolutely nothing happened. She pushed deeper, well past her knuckles.

She then withdrew, and two clear strands of saliva clung to her fingers as she did.

Draco was transfixed on her mouth. She wiped away the spit as classily as she could, and touched her throat again.

“Explain,” said Draco, his voice hushed as though he’d just seen a miracle.

“It’s called a Sword Swallowing Charm, believe it or not.” She blushed a little as he chuckled. “It deactivates the pharyngeal reflex, and I used another charm to stimulate the salivary glands…” she said clinically. “I suppose you can imagine the application.”

Inspired by her tryst with Neville and his hidden depths and… lengths in the Prefect’s bathroom in another life. Much like her—the trick was pragmatic, before it was sexy.

“That is filthy, Granger,” he declared reverently. “And genius, but that's not a surprise. Who would have guessed? Of course learning these things about you I have to imagine Weasley was the sole beneficiary. What a horrendous thought.”

“You don't know anything about me,” she bit back. All the different emotions she was feeling were giving her whiplash.

“I want to know everything about you,” Draco confessed, baring something of himself to her.

Hermione glowed inside. She should stop this. She had to stop this. She had fucked up so badly, she couldn't let it go on just because they were drunk and she wanted so very badly to touch him and to be touched by him.

“Yes, well,” she cleared her throat ever so slightly when she found her voice cracked. “Show me yours, Draco.”

“Show, or tell?”

A dare. “Show.”

“You’ve inspired me to try this wandlessly post-haste, but—” Draco handled his wand with his right hand for once, and tapped each finger on his left hand. A tiny spark flared at the end of each finger. And then he stashed his wand in his pocket.

“Hold out your hand.”

She didn’t hesitate.

When Draco touched his index finger to hers, a tiny sizzle of electricity travelled up her finger and forked like lightning up her arm. Everywhere it travelled hummed to life. He touched each finger tip to hers and her arm was alive with his touch and it spread across her chest, running over bones and sinew.

She gasped and Draco touched his thumb to the pulse point on her wrist.

Her eyes were wide as he let one finger wander down from her ear, down her jaw. She felt whatever it was in her lips, and in her tongue. She was copper wiring and he was the charge.

For the briefest of milliseconds he did touch her lower lip with his thumb, and the current took over her brain.

He moved closer, and whispered in her ear, holding her face firmly in his static fingers.

“Imagine where else I could be touching you… I can make you come, like that.” He snapped his fingers softly near her ear.

Her knees became insubstantial and meaningless. Perhaps the only reason she could stand was because he held her face with such certainty and promise.

Her senses were overwhelmed.

“I… have to go the bathroom,” she whispered. It was not a lie, but she needed to breathe just as much as she needed to pee.

Draco released her with a satisfied smirk. As if she had failed his test, or performed only at an ‘Acceptable’ level.

“Shall I be going then?” he asked neutrally.

She didn’t want that at all. “No,” she said. “Stay. Stay. I'll be right back.”

He nodded, and then shook his head derisively at her. Presumably because she was the most ridiculous witch to ever bring him into her bedroom.

Don’t think about how many witches there have been. Do not.

When Hermione came back from peeing, hurriedly cleaning every inch of herself from teeth to toes and taking 20 (30) steadying breaths, Draco had removed his shoes and was sitting comfortably on her bed, thumbing through Pride and Prejudice.

“Any good?” he asked.

“It is good. You can borrow it, if you like.” It was an early edition, with a beautiful yellow fabric cover. Precious.

Draco nodded and kept reading, apparently waiting for her to make a decision about what she was doing.

“Just sleep,” she said to him. “We should sleep.”

“Yes, sleep. Vital.”

“I'm just going to…” Hermione mimed changing her clothes, and Draco gave no sign that he intended to look away.

So she shed her robe alongside her rationality, her trousers dropped to the floor as well as any thoughts of the future. In the end, she stood in lingerie she'd put on a thousand years ago when she had been feeling lucky.

Draco didn't compliment her, but she knew enough to know he was enjoying what he saw. That muscle feathered lightly in his jaw, and his chest rose with a deep, anticipatory breath.

Hermione extinguished most of the light, but left a single lit candle floating in the corner of the room. In its glow she and Draco traded positions—she lay on her bed with the covers peeled down to her waist, and he stood, struggling with buttons, and transfiguring his dress trousers into something softer and made of grey cotton.

Liquor and fatigue took hold, and Hermione eased back into her soft pillows, hovering in a state of floating semi-consciousness, watching Draco like she did in some of her dreams. It would be impossible to stay awake much longer, but she wanted to be in this moment, unsullied by regret, or logic. She knew that would come later. It always did.

Shirt successfully removed, Draco stood over her and practically preened as she took in his bare torso.

“Can't wait for all the sleeping,” Draco said.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if it could help her. “Just get in.”

With no further hesitation, he burrowed under the covers. He didn't rest his head on the pillow as she might have suspected. Instead, he tucked himself under her outstretched arm, his head on the mattress next to her chest. He slung a careless leg over her, like he was intending to climb her. If that was the case, she was a willing tree.

And there they were.

The word bliss came to her in the mystic dark. The shining question of what would be next lay in the bed with them.

Draco's fingers stroked over her stomach in curious patterns, and it was like it always had been, certainly that it was supposed to be. Inevitable.

She felt a tug near her shoulder, and opened her heavy lids.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

Draco continued to fiddle with the strap of her camisole. “I've been ever so rude. I haven't said hello to your tits all evening.”

Oh.

Hermione played it cool and said sleepily, “We're supposed to be sleeping.”

“In a minute.” Apparently he retrieved his wand from under the pillow he was not using and whispered. “Diffindo.”

Her camisole obligingly ripped up the middle.

“Draco!” she sat up a little, clutching the scraps of fabric to her chest. “Don’t drink and Diffindo!”

He pulled her back down and stashed his wand again. “Don’t worry, I have excellent aim.”

“Yes, well, I liked that camisole.” She wouldn't tell him quite how sentimental she was about it.

“I'll fix it. Or let's go shopping. I'll buy you a hundred others,” he dismissed her. “Now where was I?” He nodded at her hands which hindered his goals. “Granger, if you please.”

Right. Okay. Yes. Hermione dropped her hands obediently and Draco opened the split silk like the pages of the much anticipated conclusion to a beloved series of books.

“There they are,” he said fondly. Draco would not have been able to see much in the flexible shadows created by a single dim candle, but he drew a line across her ribcage with his thumb.

Hermione muttered something that sounded like ‘small’.

“Granger, apologise to your tits,” Draco said sternly.

“What?”

“The first adjective you should use to describe them is ‘perfect’.” He underlined each one along her ribs. “‘Magnificent’ would also be acceptable.”

She almost giggled, but the laughter was in her voice. “I didn't know you were so fond of my tits.”

He was watching the rise and fall of her chest, which was steadily deepening, quickening. Draco was watching her and touching her and they were having a conversation about her breasts. Everything was completely normal.

“How not? They are fond of me too. Since one escaped that day in the library—she desperately wanted to be seen and appreciated.”

“Hmm… you remember that?” It had been mortifying.

“Of course I do. It's indelibly printed in my memory. I could use it to cast a Patronus,” he said.

It was an offhand, silly comment, but it caught her by surprise in its fondness. Then she pictured it, and it ripped her down the middle.

“Is your Patronus an osprey?” She wanted to know.

He nodded. And then: “Granger?”

“Mm.”

“I'd like to touch you.”

God yes. “Alright.”

He was already touching her but she knew what he meant.

They hadn't even kissed.

Draco's caress moved from her ribs to the underside of her breast, warmth met warmth and he tested and explored, lightly massaging her. Drunk he may have been, but he deliberately avoided her nipples which had immediately tightened—she was sure he would think they were pleased to see him. Maybe she should tell him that they were.

“They're the perfect size, actually,” he declared, cupping her left breast with his right hand, and new lightning seemed to go through her at the brush of his palm. “Like a scoop of ice cream.”

“You can't see, but I'm rolling my eyes right now,” but her voice came out needier, breathier than the dryness she had intended.

“In pleasure, I assume.” Draco finally took hold of her nipple and rolled it between his fingers. “And the cherry on top.”

She didn't try to speak. He shifted and enlisted the aid of his other hand. He rested his head on her collarbone and was rapt as he tweaked, lightly pulled, and teased with one finger.

Her own hand found purpose stroking his hair, soft and silky. She had touched it once before, and she would never get enough. Of that, she was sure. It was comfort, as she forgot how to breathe and speak and let out sighs that came from her hungry bones.

She wondered if she… she tugged on the longer lengths of his hair and he pinched her pebbled nipple tight, for the briefest of seconds, as if he were a marionette. She did it again and this time she reacted to his pinch as it sent sensations directly between her legs. The lightest of kisses echoed across her collarbone. They used no magic, but this desire was magic, as ancient as breath and water and earth.

“May I?” he murmured, kissing her again, over her heart. His tongue touched the same spot, his meaning clear.

“Yes.”

Draco slowly drew her left nipple into his mouth, and suckled on her with lips and tongue and warm saliva wetly coating the hardened peak. He withdrew for breath, and cool air felt like heaven.

Against her thigh, his fabric contained arousal was impossible to ignore. She wanted nothing more than to touch him, except perhaps to taste him, but he seemed content with lavishing attention on her chest and it felt like sex all by itself.

“Bite me,” she whispered, the liquor gave her no reason to be coy. His teeth closed around her and she cried out. He softly sucked away the pain but not the pleasure, and served her the same treatment on the other side. There was friction against her thigh, and wetness where the tip of his penis met his pyjamas. Her own knickers were sodden.

There were no more words between them. The enchanted candle never burned out, and the wax never melted. Hermione traced the lines of the osprey on his arm, and with excruciating care and lowered inhibitions she touched the faded scar of darkness on his left arm. Just once. His gaze found hers in the dark, for a brief, mad moment and she felt like maybe she understood him and that all the things that had happened were simply stepping stones to bring them here.

But soon exhaustion and alcohol overcame them, and Draco fell asleep with his lips around her breast, like she was divine and was all he would ever need.

They hadn't even kissed.

Chapter Text

Hermione was a witch with an excess of highly specialised, as well as completely superfluous, knowledge. For example, in magical Britain the law stated it is legal for a human to marry a merperson, but illegal for them to marry a vampire. In magical Germany, the opposite was true.

In her bedroom filled with filtered light, she half woke, and knew only three things.

One, it was plainly not 6am.

Two, brandy, gin, beer, wine, and repressed feelings did not mix.

Three, Draco, Draco of the Malfoy persuasion, long as he was, was acting as the little spoon.

Maybe if she kept her eyes closed and focused on the warm skin she was pressed against, she could stay suspended in this place where nothing mattered. His scent filled her nose and even the note of day old liquor did not dampen its strange power over her.

It was a good thing she was feeling quite terrible, otherwise she might have licked him, and who knows what chaos that might have created. She cracked her eyes open ever so slightly, and the first thing she saw was Draco's gracefully muscled arm, adorned with a winged tattoo that hadn’t been there even 24 hours ago.

It happened.

It hadn’t been some unhinged fever dream.

The ICW voted to keep the Statute in its current form, she had gotten shitfaced with Penelope, then Draco… then Draco and Dean, Dean had showed them his studio and a what should have stayed as a simple pissing contest, had escalated into permanent adornments on their two bodies.

Then Draco had asked to see her house, and had gotten into her bed, and had brought her almost to climax by simply touching her breasts.

Like scoops of ice cream.

Her humble breasts that were currently pressed against his strong back.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The memory was not crystalline, but she remembered everything. His breaths remained deep and slow as hers sped up. She lay there, close to panicked, head spinning but still clinging on to the lifeline that somehow was Draco.

“Granger,” his voice was croaky, yet sensuous. “That tickles.”

She made to pull away and he held her arm in place.

“No,” he said. “Stay there… I know what you're doing.”

“What am I doing?” she asked.

“Thinking.”

Understatement.

“Um.”

“See? There you go again... shhhh…” he stroked the back of her hand soothingly.

She tried to stay still, but her body was tense in all ways.

“Fine. I guess we’re waking up then,” he opened one eye and then promptly screwed it shut. “Ugh, do you have any Hangover Potion?”

Should she offer to make him Ron’s concoction?

Too weird.

“No.”

Draco sighed and sat up ever so slightly. His hair was mussed up and his face had a pillow mark on it.

“Where's my wand?” Draco dug through the bed for a moment and located his wand under the pillow. “Accio watch.”

His surprisingly understated watch—black dragonhide strap with a silver face—flew into his outstretched fingers and he read the time.

“What time is it?” Hermione asked from her pillow. She’d put more space between their bodies and had pulled the covers over her shoulder, as if they might start functioning as an Invisibility Cloak.

“Five minutes past three,” Draco replied, unruffled.

“In the afternoon?!” “The sunlight would suggest that that is indeed the case.”

“What?!”

“Shhh,” he cringed at her exclamation.

Hermione did not sleep in until 3pm. Had she ever? Her instincts told her to leapt out of bed, but her body told her if she tried any sort of leaving her stomach would join her in evacuation.

“Relax,” he said soothingly, as if any man, even Draco, telling her to relax had ever relaxed her before. “This is good news—it's within Thor's working hours. Thor!”

Crack! The one-eyed, one-eared Elf appeared at the foot of the bed, wearing a different pink tutu and a children's cable knitted cardigan with buttons in the shape of love hearts. Apparently she had quite the wardrobe.

Hermione pulled the blankets even higher.

“Draco.. and Miss Hermione. Hel-hello, Thor did not expect to greet you this way...” Her high, sugar-spun voice trailed off. But Hermione had spent a bit of time around House Elves by this point, she was clearly tamping down delight.

“Thor, you'll have to excuse us—you look lovely by the way—we had rather a lot to drink last night. Can you fetch two vials of Hangover Potion, and some coffee—Granger also takes it black. Granger, are you hungry?” He didn't wait for an answer and continued. “Food too, don't worry about cooking—just raid the Manor, Bitsy will be thrilled that someone is eating her creations besides maman.”

Thor nodded, and smiled, “Thor will be back momentarily. Should… should Thor knock before I enter the room once again?”

Draco looked at Hermione, and gave her cringing form a once-over and a brow raise. She wasn’t projecting ‘ready for round two’, or even ‘let’s finish round one’ vibes.

“You may enter without knocking, Thor. Thank you.”

Thor disappeared again, but Hermione could have sworn she looked smug before disappearing again.

“That isn’t necessary,” she said.

“Of course it is,” said Draco, lying back down on his pillow. “Why would you choose to remain hungover like a Muggle?”

Hermione bristled at this comment. It was all too soon. Would Hangover Potions ever be in Boots, as Penelope’s mother had imagined? She thought about biting back at Draco, but also very much did not want to remain hungover.

Thor was gone for about 10 minutes. During that time Draco dragged himself off to the bathroom, and after he returned with perfect hair but still no shirt, she followed suit. She had already hastily repaired the Diffindo split in her camisole, yet still felt considerably less confident parading around in naught but lingerie in front of him compared to last night. Draco didn't appear to have a single qualm. Hermione had all the qualms.

Hermione's own bathroom trip was an extended one, she craned around to see her osprey—he had made himself quite comfortable and built a nest, it seemed, and was currently sleeping on the back of her thigh. It was a lot to process. She had transfigured her knickers into silky shorts and back three times before deciding it was more conspicuous to change them, than to accept that the curve of her arse was on display.

Thor had been and gone. Draco was recumbent on top of the covers, drinking coffee and reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy, which Hermione’s father had recently lent to her. A large tray hovered over the bed, laden with fresh fruit and pastries.

Draco in her bed was an image equal parts mundane and divine, like a Vermeer painting.

A vial of purple potion levitated over to her, hitting her gently in the forehead only once. So polite.

“Down that and then open the curtains, would you?”

She swallowed the bitter liquid, and drew the curtains on a crisp winter's day—but not because Draco told her to. There had been a frost, and the sky was a perfect azure. The potion almost instantly brought energy and clear-headedness and awful, intrusive clarity.

Then she didn't know what to do.

Draco watched her for a moment, and then read her like she was the book in his hands.

He sighed. “Come and eat Granger. There's croissants.”

When she didn't move or reply, he started to look a little perturbed. And that was not what she wanted at all. Could he just go back to being relaxed while she figured herself out?

“Please,” Draco added. The word seemed to be difficult for him to say.

“Why?” said Hermione.

“Because the food is excellent, food stolen from my mother always tastes better.”

“No,” Hermione stated. “Why..” she pointed her finger between herself and him and then swished it back again.

Draco sighed again and looked at the brown beams on the low ceiling, as if the conversation was enormously burdensome. “I find myself wanting to be around you,” he said, peevish despite the sentiment. “Why does it all have to be thought about so much?”

“Because it does!”

Hermione should not, would not, could not change her entire personality and say fuck it, no matter how tempted she was. Saying fuck it had resulted in getting stuck in the pink Pensieve and receiving her first tattoo.

“Enjoy ruminating, then,” he said simply. “I’d prefer to stay in bed.”

Stalemate.

She didn't know what she wanted, lies, but if she pushed it, she knew he’d leave and a dominant part of her did not want that.

Stubborn and shaken up, she shifted on her feet several times, but eventually got back under the covers. Quietly, with sun pooling on the blankets—Crookshanks’ favourite—Hermione and Draco read, ate and sipped at hot coffee and cold water. It was bizarrely domestic.

Neither made any attempt to touch each other but the possibility never left the room. The air was thick with it, amongst bare limbs and occasional stolen glances. Draco did not bring up the subject of her breasts again. And yet, she kept expecting him to say something, to help her understand why he had asked to come with her, why he had put his lips on her skin.

But she had encouraged it, hadn’t she? She had wanted it. She could try to tell herself it was only because she wanted him in a carnal sense, but the universe was laughing at her attempts to prevaricate. All the while, there was a painful ache in her chest.

At half past five, he vanished the evidence of their hedonism and dressed himself as she watched. Buttons came together over scarred skin, and she still hadn’t figured him out.

“I have a prior engagement,” he told her. She couldn’t tell if he was lying, and he didn't elaborate. Wondering if it was a date would do no one any good.

Did he want her to ask? Draco looked as though he might be chewing on his cheek, waiting. His grey eyes were calculating.

“I—” he began.

Gripping the floral duvet in her fingers, she braced herself for something. Anything. Tell me.

He stopped the words before they came. He shook his head slightly, and said,

“Sort it out, Granger.”

He Apparated, right out of her bedroom. Hermione did not care to know much about Pureblood propriety, but she knew this was quite the faux pas.

There was no more sun coming through the window, and Hermione felt a chill.

He had said he wanted to be around her. The feeling was overwhelmingly mutual. But she’d stolen from him, and she couldn’t keep building on a broken foundation. Even mutual well-wishing between her and Draco was complicated beyond measure, what about a friendship… or more?

No.

Sort it out, Granger, she said to herself this time.

It was Sunday, and Hermione was in her comfiest and ugliest clothing, sitting at her desk with a fountain pen.

She wrote a heading on a new page in her notebook. Definitely not the tan one.

Sort it out Granger.

She tapped her foot, then her pen, then her foot again.

Option 1 — Tell Draco what you did in the Love Room. When he asks why, jump out the nearest window.

Hermione scribbled this out, and started again.

Option 1 — Tell Draco about the Obliviation, restore his memory and accept that it is his right to feel however he feels about it, including if that means he never wants to speak to you again

Subclause: if by some miracle he does want to speak to you again, tell him you did it because he is sunshine and you are a plant.

Sidenote: Draco unlikely to know about Photosynthesis.

Option 2 — Suggest some sort of friends with benefits arrangement, pretend everything is fine.

Option 3 — Never talk to Draco again. Move countries, to somewhere where the Malfoy family doesn’t own a palazzo or a penthouse or a small island.

Option 4 — Tell Draco maybe you want to sit in bed with him and drink tea just as much as you want to be naked with him, never tell him about the Obliviation and hope that everything is fine forever.

Option 5 — Do absolutely nothing, never mention the drunken tattoos and suckling again, and pretend that everything is fine.

Hermione, a Gryffindor and a very brave woman, had a battered heart sitting in her chest. She knew what she should do, but she couldn’t. She would chalk what happened up to inebriation, like the liar she was, and if Draco was content to not mention it, then neither would she.

A sigh pulled from the depths of her soul flowed through her lips. And it was selfish, so selfish, but she didn’t think she could stay away.

The fifth floor of the Ministry of Magic was a sombre place come the Monday morning after the IWC meeting. Hermione arrived, her fists clenched at her sides and found a bunch of hellebores in a vase on her desk. They were from Faisel, and came with a small handwritten note.

It will happen.

If she had anything to do with it—it would. But not today. Today was for trade agreements and preparing for tariff negotiations. Not her favourite work agenda, but interesting all the same.

Monday ended, and Tuesday too. Hermione heard nothing from Draco and returned to the Herculean task of trying not to think about him. In actuality, he sauntered into her mind every few minutes, usually preening, occasionally shirtless.

On Wednesday, ignoring the intrusions went from difficult to impossible.

It was past lunch time, and she was closely examining restrictions on medicinal potion ingredients originating in China (outdated and xenophobic as per usual), when Madam Marchbanks called crisply from her office.

“Granger, come in here.” Her voice carried effortlessly across the large room.

Penelope locked eyes with her across the office and grimaced sympathetically, as if Hermione was about to be in trouble with the Headmaster.

Hermione was quite surprised when she entered Madam Marchbanks’ office that she was not alone. In one of the ornate, tiger print chairs in front of her desk, there sat an older wizard in black Unspeakable robes. He wore a beret as if he were an army major, and sported a neatly shaped beard—black streaked with white. He was built like a brick wall and though he smiled, he was plainly not a man whom people crossed.

He stood cordially when Hermione entered the office.

“Granger, have you met Saul Croaker—Head of the Department of Mysteries?” Marchbanks, dressed all in lavender today, introduced.

“Not in person, no,” Hermione’s pulse increased its tempo and she shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Croaker. I have read your work.”

“The pleasure is mine, Hermione Granger,” he said this with a firm grip, and his dark eyes told her he knew about her and the Time Turner, including its use to rescue Sirius, he knew about her and the DA’s unauthorised access to his Department, the havoc they wreaked, and he knew about her time in the Pensieve.

Maybe she was in trouble.

“Saul and I have just been having a discussion, Granger,” said Marchbanks. “And he has a rather interesting proposal for you, should you be willing to hear it.”

Hermione was once again on the edge of her seat—if she wasn’t careful, she would fall off.

“Oh, um, yes of course.” She turned her body towards Croaker and gave him her full attention. Marchbanks looked on with interest. Croaker didn’t seem thrilled that she was witness to this conversation, but Boudica Marchbanks would not be kicked out of her own office. Even suggesting this would be dangerous.

“As I’m sure you are aware, Granger, you have been privy to more of the secrets of my department than most other civilians.”

Hermione opened her mouth and Croaker held up a meaty finger. She did not like men holding up fingers at her, but knew it would be unwise to argue or agree.

“In the context of my offer, I am considering this an asset. Indeed, if that was not true, there would be little chance of a secondment—”

She couldn’t stop herself. “I’m sorry—a secondment?”

“Yes. You have recently had experience with a powerful magical object that is the subject of continued study on level nine. Unspeakable Malfoy has informed me that although your presence was unauthorised, your prodigious grasp of the magic at work was what brought you both back.”

Draco’s presence wasn’t exactly authorised either… Hermione thought. But she nodded modestly.

“I have authorised six months of further research, and I tend to agree with Unspeakable Malfoy’s suggestion that you would be an ideal candidate to assist him. Should you accept, you would start in the new year.”

Draco had not told her he was working on the Pensieve.

Croaker was asking her to work with Draco on the Pensieve.

Her chest seemed to swell, as if a balloon was expanding inside her rib cage. Hermione looked quickly at Marchbanks’ typically assessing gaze. “But my work…”

Marchbanks cleared her throat. “Granger, I am reluctant to part with you, but your job is not in any kind of jeopardy. I do not believe the work we have been doing on the Statute will be able to be progressed for at least another two years or more. As your superior, I wish you to reject this offer… on the other hand, as a fellow professional witch, I encourage you to take it. As far as I am aware, the Department of Mysteries has never allowed a secondment. It is quite the opportunity.

“There will be contracts, of course,” Croaker added at this point. “And they will be binding.”

The word ‘binding’ came with a certain level of menace.

“Would I be employed as an Unspeakable?” Hermione asked.

“Temporarily,” was his response.

Wow.

Hermione, a level-headed, rational witch—knew the right thing to do was to mull this over. To write an extensive pros and cons chart, and seek further opinions from her friends and family.

Six months in the Department of Mysteries… where Dolohov cursed her and Sirius fell through the Veil.

The beautiful glow of the Pensieve.

The fountain filled with liquid insanity mistakenly referred to as a Love Potion.

Draco. Every day.

“Professor Croaker, I am honoured by your offer,” she said. “Allow me to think about it, and I will have an answer to you within 24 hours.”

Croaker nodded curtly, stood, nodded at Marchbanks and swept out of the office.

Hermione found it hard to turn toward Marchbanks again, but she looked at the tiny woman with the portrait of her mother looming behind her. “You have my support, Granger. I know you are not finished with your work here, and you will do so much more in your life—on top of what you have already contributed. Too many older women stand in the way of those younger. I have experienced it myself.”

Hermione found herself nearly overwhelmed by the sentiment her superior was expressing. “Unspeakable Granger does have a certain ring to it…”

“That it does.” Marchbanks agreed with a nod and a sort of squint that could have been her version of a smile. “Now, I have another appointment, far more tedious than this one. Let me know what you decide.”

Hermione left the office and went back to her desk. Penelope eyed her curiously and Hermione mouthed ‘later’.

She got out her white quill, and memo paper. She found she did not need to think about it at all.

I accept your offer, she wrote, and sent the paper plane to the Department of Mysteries.

There were golden bubbles inside of her.

Hermione had expected to hear something from Draco, and she kept her two-way notebook nearby. It stayed stubbornly silent, which was vexing. Of course, she could easily have written to Draco, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

The end of the week came, and Hermione returned home from work, changed into her pyjamas immediately and ate a dinner consisting of prawn cocktail crisps and takeaway noodles. She had invited Ginny around for a glass of wine after 8.

It was closer to 8:30, and Hermione was sitting by the fire in the sitting room when Ginny’s knock sounded. The front door admitted her, and Ginny called down the hall.

“There’s a box on your doorstep, should I bring it?”

“Yes please!” Hermione called back.

Ginny arrived, levitating a large box in front of her.

“Hello,” Hermione said, standing to hug her.

“Hiya. I brought wine. Where should I put this?”

Bless lovely, reliable Ginny and her uncanny ability to predict the dire state of Hermione’s larder (and wine rack).

“Oh, just on the floor.” The box touched down near their feet. “Thanks for the wine, I thought we were going to have to open Seamus’... vodka?”

Ginny sat on the couch, removing her cloak and procuring a bottle of Merlot. “I think it’s rum.” She made a face. “Last bottle we cracked almost blinded Neville.”

“Could be useful?” Hermione suggested.

“Sure, have you got any enemies?”

They laughed, and Ginny poured them generous glasses of wine.

“What’s in the box?” she enquired politely, which Hermione took to mean ‘open the box right now’.

Good question.” Hermione knelt on the floor, and slit the box open with her wand. As it transpired—there were a number of things in the box.

On top, there was a folded black garment, and a small cream card with familiar handwriting on it.

I look forward to seeing you in black.

The note had been in Hermione’s hands for less than a second before it was snatched away with Quidditch-honed reflexes.

“Hermione, you’ve been holding out on me.” Obviously, Ginny had interpreted the note as flirtatious. Which it might have been. Slightly.

Hermione picked up the black fabric. It was an Unspeakable’s robe.

“Er, yes, I should tell you about my temporary career change…”

And she did. Hermione had signed a contract with Croaker the day before, and would be starting work on the 3rd of January. Ginny’s eyes were wide by the end of the tale.

“What else is in there?” Ginny asked of the box. She sounded enthusiastic about getting a glimpse of what Hermione would be doing. Ginny had of course helped to storm the Department of Mysteries aged only 14. Thinking about that with an adult perspective was uncomfortable—14 was so very young. At 14 all feelings come in extremes and consequences are for damning.

Underneath the black robes there was a spectrum of books. Familiar notebooks filled with research and observations Hermione thought had been lost to the Pensieve. A black leather volume that bore the title An Empty Chair in a Private Universe written by Bane Badderley. Hermione was exhilarated reading the cover, and grew even more so when she opened a worn, messy notebook filled with Arithmancy, illustrations (including a portrait of a stoic-looking emu) and coffee stains—the name written in spidery script on the inside cover was Mordecai Toth.

At the very bottom of the box was a beloved lilac coat, an almost completed knitting project that still served as an apt metaphor and, miraculously, Ignotus Peverell’s shimmering cloak.

Thank God. Losing the cloak had weighed on Hermione. This heirloom of James Potter, supposedly reckless Marauder, lost by Hermione Granger, supposedly sensible Golden Girl.

Endlessly relieved, overwhelmingly grateful, Hermione pulled the cloak out and presented it triumphantly to a very confused Ginny.

This surely meant Draco had reentered the Pensieve. Carte blanche. Draco could have returned the cloak directly to Harry, played the saviour, but he sent it to her. A gesture both smug and generous.

Ginny piled the cloak in her lap, stroking the fabric. “Harry will be glad.”

“I had a feeling he was more upset than he let on.”

“You know Harry – blamed himself, fretting like he does etcetera. Anyway, you seem very excited by a box of old books and clothes. Are you going to explain?” Ginny asked with wry amusement. “Or shall I make up my own story involving that suggestive note and the balls of wool?”

“I shouldn’t really say much… it’s probably okay to say that I’ll be helping to research the Pensieve.”

“The one you got stuck in?”

“That's the one.”

Ginny only said. “Hmm.”

Hermione wondered how mad Ginny would be if she started reading books while she was here. Probably quite mad. She reluctantly closed the box and sat back thoughtfully with her wine, giving most of her attention to Ginny. This allowed Hermione to notice what she should have straight away—Ginny was dressed up, looking radiant in a blue and white dress and rosy lipstick.

“You look nice,” Hermione commented. “Were you out somewhere?”

“Yeah, been thinking about retiring so I had dinner with Aisling Moran, you know—from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She reckons the Prophet needs a new Quidditch correspondent.”

“Ginny, that's great!” Hermione gushed.

“Yeah, I’m sick of being away from the kids. There’d still be some travel, but they could come with me. Bless mum, she always takes them, you’d think she’d be well over children at this point but no… I think if you asked her to cook for just her and dad she’d roast him two chickens because she’s forgotten how much one person actually eats. Still, the Prophet… ugh.”

The firelight danced over them, the wine deep red in their large glasses. Hermione waved her wand to increase the volume on the music she had been playing—Florence + The Machine poured out of her recently modified speakers.

Her and Ginny spoke about everything and nothing until…

“I heard a rumour…” Ginny said slyly. “From Dean Thomas.”

Hermione froze.

“Harry and I went to see his new studio, and he let slip that he’d had a drink with you and none other than Draco fucking Malfoy…”

“Er, yeah, after the ICW meeting…”

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Did anything else happen? Dean said you were absolutely trollied.” She said it as though she knew, but Hermione couldn’t be sure she wasn’t fishing. She made a non-commital noise and looked at the wall, the ceiling… anything but those accusing brown eyes.

“Show it to me,” Ginny said, finally.

Ah.

She met Ginny’s gaze, but Ginny was smiling.

It prompted her to roll her eyes and stand, enabling her to drop her pyjama bottoms and show Ginny the bird of prey on her thigh. He was currently in flying acrobatic loops around her skin… he appeared to have a magical perimeter he couldn’t breach.

“Merlin’s beard, it’s true.” Then Ginny was laughing so much that she couldn’t speak, and Hermione was joining her in her mirth because it was an absolutely ridiculous state of affairs.

It took Ginny a moment before she was able to wipe the tears away from her cheeks and look at Hermione a bit more seriously. Ginny was fierce, yes, she'd stoked that fire to a blaze growing up with all those brothers, but intuition was the fuel beneath.

“Malfoy,” Ginny said, question and statement.

“I was drunk,” Hermione said, not untruthfully.

“Yes, and as we’ve covered I wholeheartedly approve of liquor fueled recklessness and rebound shags. But Malfoy?”

“We’re not shagging. We’re just…”

Unquantifiable. Doomed. Defying of logic and reason. Experimenting with nipple play.

“Just getting matching tattoos,” Ginny finished for her.

“That was a coincidence and unlikely to be repeated. We might be best described as colleagues, now.”

Ginny ‘hmm’ed again. Then, “Why the bird?”

In her mind, an osprey flew over the Black Lake, grandiose and improbable.

Hermione shrugged a shoulder, it was a secret not hers to tell. And if Ginny knew the whole tale. She'd probably say Draco had branded her.

…Had he?!

“Thought it looked nice.”

“Oh yes,” Ginny agreed sarcastically. “You both randomly chose a highly specific bird because it looks nice.”

Hermione shrugged again, downed some wine and hoped that Ginny would grow bored of asking questions. And yet, something niggled at her… she needed to give voice to a fear. “Does Ron know… about the tattoos?”

“No,” said Ginny. “But Seamus does and you know he’s the biggest gossip in London. I hope Ron does find out—he’ll implode.”

It was Hermione’s turn to ‘hmm’. Did she want Ron to discover her and Draco’s continued… whatever it was? She didn’t want to hurt Ron.

That wasn't entirely true. Perhaps, a small part of her wanted to remind Ron that she would not play the part of the jilted, while he dated an anthropomorphic ego stroke.

“Are you coming to the Burrow for Christmas?” Ginny asked, sounding as if she already knew the answer. Hermione was a friend, but she was not a Weasley.

Hermione’s heart broke a little as she said, “No.” She would be spending Christmas in France, skiing with her thrilled mother and father. It had been some time since they had had a Christmas together with just the three of them. Usually the Grangers were invited to the Burrow, but both Marie and William found the magical chaos a little much to take on the chin. The compromise had been attending as near-sideshows only on alternating years... Now they wouldn't have to go at all. The bittersweet end of a sweetbitter era.

Ginny found Hermione’s hand on the couch and squeezed. “I’ll make sure George slips Ron something highly experimental.”

“Don’t,” Hermione half-laughed, half-scolded.

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.”

“I’ve been invited to Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini’s New Year party though. I think the invitations are illegal Portkeys so it’s bound to be extravagant. Do you want to come with me? I think I’ll need moral support.”

“Sounds Slytheriny,” said Ginny. “I’m extremely curious, but I can’t—Harry and I are alone, just the two of us, first time in forever.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Eat sweets without hiding them and go to bed at 9pm, I expect,” Ginny sighed, but it was clear that New Years Eve was hotly anticipated at Finch House. What a life they lived now—so far from what could have been.

Surely they wouldn't have a fourth child?

It didn't seem polite to ask, and Hermione despised it when anyone dared ask about the status of her womb.

Later, Ginny got into Hermione’s bed with her, the same way she sometimes did when they were flatting together. She pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and looked at the beams on the ceiling. Lily, James and Albus were sleeping at the Burrow and Harry was still being punished for giving her an Auror file with endless night shifts. It didn't really seem fair that Hermione on the other hand had been offered an exciting new job, but she would call it payback for him getting top in sixth year Potions.

In the dark of the little cottage bedroom Ginny mused, “It’s hard to imagine Draco Malfoy being alright, you know. Harry said he’s a posh git, but in a posh git kind of way, not dark like he was.”

“Yeah,” agreed Hermione. She saw Draco in her mind, lit by perpetual, unchanging afternoon light, his blond hair aglow as if he’d made a pact with the sun.

“Do you have feelings for him?” Ginny asked then, showing her prodigious talent for cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

Hermione thought carefully about her answer. “I have been trying not to think about my feelings.”

“And how is that working out for you this time?”

“Not… well.”

They shared a quiet laugh. Hermione put her hands over her face, shoulders shaking against the mattress.

“We talk to Albus about ‘big feelings’ sometimes.”

“What do you tell him to do about his big feelings?”

“Read. Talk to me. Take deep breaths. If you're not rage biting anyone, you're doing great.”

“Noted.”

Quiet.

“Hermione?”

“Yeah.”

“Do any of your big feelings start with l?”

A terrifying question.

“I don't know.” That answer was acidic in her mouth.

“Guess I should meet him, then,” Ginny decided, dropping the matter there. “Again.”

Contemplating such an improbable social occasion—which was bound to be replete with hexes—could wait for another day. Presently, Hermione was immeasurably glad not to be sleeping alone. Love for Ginny nested in her chest, a contented bird with its head under its wing.

Chapter Text

A bead of sweat ran down his chest, carving a slow path over scars and muscle.

Soft fingers were at his ribs, stroking his flesh. He opened reluctant eyes, and took a deep breath of air that smelled like cedar.

“Stop that.”

“But I want to.”

“No.”

“They’re broken.”

“They’re not.” It felt like they were, but he would not admit that.

“I saw that wince.”

“Theo, we are in a sauna, there is absolutely no need for you to sit so close.”

“Draco, let Theo heal your ribs,” Blaise interjected lazily, from his position lying on the lower bench. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes as he spoke.

There would be no peace if he didn’t capitulate.

“Fine,” Draco sighed.

Theo smiled like he’d won something—competitive git—and the tip of his wand replaced his fingers on Draco’s ribs. The skin there was an angry, mottled red and breathing was not entirely comfortable. But Draco had sustained worse—such was Quidditch. Bole’s aim wasn’t always stellar, but when he found his mark it was like receiving a roundhouse kick from an Abraxan.

Still, Draco’s team had won their annual Boxing Day match. They had been unstoppable, even as icy rain blighted the first half, and it was a very good day. A good day had been sorely needed, because Christmas had not been a good day. After the second course (of nine) his mother decided to start strongly suggesting that he visit Lucius again, despite the fact that she hadn’t visited him in over two years herself.

Spending time with Lucius was mind-numbingly boring at best. At worst, Draco would be reduced to panicked fury that only subsided after thousands of beats of an osprey’s wings.

Something told Draco that if his father used the word Mudblood in his presence—which was almost guaranteed—even Severus Snape levels of prodigious Occlumency couldn't stop him from attacking. Draco would be disarmed and that claustrophobic room would be warded, of course, but that would not stop him. He would rip Lucius limb from limb.

Thus, Draco would not be visiting.

By now, Theo’s sultry mouth was moving in a healing incantation and tingles spread all over Draco’s injured ribs. His skin felt cool, as if touched by the winter breeze outside their haven. It was a stark contrast to the heady embrace of the sauna’s heat.

“Done,” said Theo, satisfied. He then pressed his lips to Draco’s healed ribs, like a mother kissing a child’s skinned knee.

Draco, inured to this behaviour, flicked Theo on the nose.

“Back on your side.”

There were three double-tiered benches in Draco’s sauna. Enough room for one each. They were all long past wearing towels around each other, but that did not mean Draco was here for a sweaty cuddle.

Theo moved to where Blaise was lying, and Blaise gracefully moved his long legs to allow him to sit, all without opening his eyes. Blaise knew where Theo was at all times.

There was mischief on Theo’s face. Mischief as he whispered, “Aguamenti,” and poured more water from his wand to sizzle and steam on the sauna stones.

“So, now that it’s just the three of us… I’m dying to ask, how’s our Hermione?”

Draco thought of a clear blue sky. Endless. Cloudless. Calm.

Years ago, when circumstances were dark indeed, Draco had worried for his friends. In a fit of uncharacteristic magnanimity, Draco had made the colossal error of teaching both Theo and Blaise some of the tenets of Legilimency. He did this without using any of his Aunt's motivational techniques, but Theo brought him close to Unforgiveables on several occasions.

They were no match for him, naturally, but Blaise especially could be very quick when he wanted to be, peeling away thoughts like the outer petals of a rose. Draco had meant for him to be able to protect himself; Blaise used it only for wickedness.

Blue. Sky.

“No,” Draco said. He would not think of her. Parts of her or the whole of her or that he had arranged for her to be by his side again. Oh, he had plans. When she came to the Department he would call her his assistant, rather than his colleague, and watch her scowl—but he wouldn't think of that now. Better to think of that scowl later, alone, when one could safely think of facial expressions meant to chastise, that served only to intrigue.

While he was emptying his mind of the plague of Granger, Draco would also not be thinking about the carefully glamored tattoo on his arm.

“Who said I was asking you?” Theo said smoothly. “Blaise?”

“She's well. She's in France,” Blaise replied.

Draco knew exactly what was going on here, and it wouldn't work. Theo had tried to get him to beg for details of their little luncheon and Draco had not obliged—even when Theo said Hermione had told them about his memory of the Slytherin common room. If she had, it was because Theo dug it out of her like a splinter.

Theo and Blaise had many virtues. But at heart they would always be vipers.

Still, he hadn’t known Hermione was in France…

Blue sky. No breeze. The first star at twilight.

Theo lowered his voice, but it was a stage whisper. To Blaise, but intended for Draco's ears as well. “I saw the way she looked at you, my love. When it happens… I want to watch. Maybe Draco does too.”

Draco's sky turned black with an incoming tempest. He would not react. Theo would happily take a hex or two for the satisfaction of riling him up, but Blaise was very protective. Draco did not feel like a naked, two-on-one sauna duel.

He opened his eyes. Blaise had risen to a seated position, and was holding Theo's face, properly whispering something into his ear. Draco could not hear what was being said this time, which was worse.

“If you two start being handsy again I'm throwing you into the lake.” He'd built the sauna close to his Quidditch Pitch and the lake with the swimming dock. Convenient, if one desired a rejuvenating cold dip, or for tossing meddlesome, so-called friends into.

“Try it,” Blaise dared him. To make a point, he licked Theo’s neck like it was an ice cream, but lay back down after Theo answered him with a soft peck.

What Theo and Blaise had together was too chaotic for Draco to feel much envy, but he preferred not being constantly reminded that his best friends were a beautiful couple who loved each other passionately. Especially when the reminder involved tumescence. Draco was not a spare part—not to himself or to them. He could've gone and sat in either of their laps and they would've carried on unsurprised and enthusiastic, like he always did that. There'd certainly been overtures.

Conceptually, intriguing. Practically, hmm, no.

Blaise and Theo behaved themselves so Draco relaxed enough to close his eyes again. This turned out to be a mistake.

“Finite Incantatem,” Theo sang after barely a minute. Then, “Draco, what is that on your arm?”

The glamour was never going to fool Theo for long. But if Draco didn't open his eyes, then he wouldn't have to see that fucking shit-eating grin. He kept still, and didn't move his arm from where it rested next to him on the wooden bench.

“A tattoo, obviously.”

“Obviously. And I might be mistaken, but I seem to recall that you once declared,” Theo cleared his throat and put on his ‘Draco voice’. “‘No one shall ever mark my skin again’. It was a very poignant moment. I shed tears.”

For someone who talked a lot, Theo had a very impressive ability to remember things said a decade ago, verbatim.

Draco did not respond.

“Who did it?”

“No.”

“So help me, I will spike every drink at New Years with Veritaserum.”

He would, too.

“I won't drink.”

Blaise snorted.

“I won't come,” Draco revised.

“I will rain Veritaserum down on you like a vengeful God,” Theo threatened.

Draco hadn't noticed he'd opened his eyes, but he'd needed to stare Theo down. Blaise's feline eyes watched him too.

“An expensive and wasteful stratagem, easily thwarted by a simple Impervius.”

“Yes, you're right,” Theo tapped his chin. “I shall have to dose Hermione then. Lovely, trusting Hermione.”

Draco considered his next move. Furnuculus, seemed reasonable. To the face, or to the bollocks, though?

“Think of what must be stored in that big, beautiful brain of hers. Thoughts, feelings, secrets… fantasies.”

“Dean Thomas,” Draco said, as if it didn't matter.

“Hermione and Thomas?” Blaise asked, sounding slightly less bored.

“No.” No. He did not like that thought at all. “He owns a tattoo studio. He did it.”

“Self portrait, perhaps?” Blaise said.

“Granger chose it.”

“Did she, now?”

“We were drunk… she has one, too.”

Theo was a cat and he had found the cream.

“Oh. Oh. Draco,” Theo crowed. “I had no idea it was that bad. I thought you just wanted a gobble. You love her.”

Lightning cracked across Draco's calm sky.

“Get out of my sauna.”

“Shan't. We’ll help you, won't we Blaise?”

“No,” said Blaise. He spread his lithe arms out along the bench and sighed.

“What can I do to make you stop talking?” Draco said to Theo.

“Do a sexy dance.”

“Or, I could murder you.”

“If you were capable of it, I wouldn't have lived past 16,” Theo preened. “But this is excellent. She is so righteous and dignified—it's spectacular. Bring her to everything.”

Draco could. When he thought about it, she fit somehow. Well maybe not in the sauna, unless he had her all to himself, sweaty and slippery…

“...Do you think she loves you though?”

And there it was.

Draco had thought about writing many words in his two-way notebook, had found words on the tip of his tongue.

But Draco would prefer to gouge his own eye out than to say ‘we need to talk’.

Draco Malfoy did not chase.

“Langlock,” Draco pointed his wand at Theo's mouth.

Undeterred by his tongue being glued to the roof of his mouth, Theo started using hand gestures. He pointed to his ring finger, then mimed exuberant fellatio, then something that seemed to be about a castle.

“Finite,” Blaise intervened.

“Thank you, my love.”

“I'm leaving,” Draco said. Even though it was his bloody sauna, he'd reached his limit. Both in terms of heat, and in terms of Theodore Nott.

“Love you, darling. See you at the party.”

Draco walked out into the frigid night, and dunked himself into a lake.

Chapter Text

“What do you think?” Penelope asked Hermione’s contemplative, and perhaps slightly apprehensive reflection in the mirror.

With wand, potion and a practised hand she had straightened every inch of Hermione’s mishehaving hair. It was now an unfamiliar silky sheet hanging down to her waist. Singing to herself, Penelope artfully mussed her creation, just slightly, to go with her smoked eye makeup.

“It’s strange,” Hermione ran her fingers through—a comforting, compulsive gesture usually unavailable to her. She looked like a completely different person—new year, new hair, new her? Hopefully. “But very nice. Thank you, Penelope.”

Penelope’s own curls were intact, her make up dramatic, and her long sleeved black dress hugged her curvy body tightly. Talented and intelligent in her work, Hermione had discovered that Penelope was also in her element when working all kinds of beauty magic. It made sense—her older sister was a notable make-up artist in the Muggle world.

Penelope had been nearly giddy when Hermione had invited her to join her in attending Theo and Blaise’s New Years Eve Party. Hermione hadn’t known that the couples’ events held near legendary status. She supposed she was about to find out why.

The Portkey would activate in 10 minutes. Hermione shouldered her small green bag, and when she couldn’t find a complimentary coat or cloak, she cast a warming charm over her bare arms and legs. Her dress was a recent Christmas present from her mother, bought in a fussy Parisian boutique, where the sales assistant tutted over Hermione's thighs and Hermione just held herself back from making hair grow on the woman’s teeth.

The dress was short and silky, black, with grey and white printed flowers scattered all over. The neck was high and the hem was very short. Such a hemline was for balance only, and was not donned with any potential gaze in mind.

Hermione noted that Penelope also forwent outerwear, and extended her charm over her. Penelope smiled and moved to loop their arms together.

“Thanks for coming too,” Hermione said, picking the black invitation up from the table. She was more than grateful for the moral support, and tried not to think about the term snake pit.

“Are you kidding?” said Penelope eagerly. “Wouldn’t miss it… two Muggle girls and all those Slytherins! Now that’s a party.”

Hermione loved that Penelope had called them both Muggles without diluting it with a suffix. Flowers, made of anxiety and excitement, bloomed inside her as the seconds ticked down towards eight o’clock. At last, with Penelope's sure hand in hers, she felt the swooping hook behind her navel, and her bedroom in Upper Flagley was no more. They spun and spun and hit the ground.

The ground was wooden, and undulating… up and down, up and down.

The reason for that quickly became clear: they were on a boat. The word boat, perhaps, undersold the size of the vessel. They were on the deck of a small ship, in the middle of a dark calm ocean. Merlin and Jesus only knew where. Overhead, there was a clear sky and billions of stars winking like polished diamonds. It was winter, but a large magical field stretched over the boat to keep the guests warm—it was likely that such a field would prevent them from overindulging and plunging overboard, too.

There were luminous snowdrops and tiny glowing glass orbs absolutely everywhere. Finely dressed witches and wizards were appearing out of thin air all around them, evenly spaced out across the deck, like they would soon begin an elaborately choreographed dance. Greetings were called and cheeks were kissed. Round silver trays started to move around the gathering crowd. The glasses on the trays were empty, and of all different shapes and sizes. Hermione watched as a nearby witch selected a flute glass and whispered ‘champagne’ to it.

Hermione and Penelope plucked up their own glasses, Hermione murmured, “French 75.”

The glass and the magic behind it obliged, filling with pale yellow fizz, then punctuated with a curl of lemon zest.

“Whiskey sour,” said Penelope into a crystal lowball tumbler. When her glass filled and topped itself with white foam, she grinned. “Classy.”

There was no sign of Theo or Blaise yet, nor of Draco, but Hermione wasn’t looking for him at all. A stage was set up at the far end of the deck, and a five piece band—including a striking looking fiddle player—struck up an energetic beat.

It was plainly time to mingle.

Hermione and Penelope were no strangers to small talk. Through their work at the Magical Office of Law they had to liaise, and occasionally wine and dine, with VIPs and LIPs (less important people) from all around the world. There was a fine art to getting one’s point across and leaving room for further dialogue, without causing offence or an international incident.

Unfortunately, the first person that spotted them was Cormac McLaggen.

“Hide me,” Penelope hissed, holding her drink in front of her face.

“Hide you? Hide me!” Hermione whispered urgently back. She'd only seen McLaggen twice since Hogwarts and he was as lecherous as ever. The man had a prodigious talent for finding her when she was in a corner with no escape route. He spat when he talked and he was a flick-er—his eyes constantly flicked from her boobs to her face. No, thank you.

They hurriedly wandered away, melting into the now large crowd, and concealing themselves behind an enormous gossamer curtain.

“Ugh, did we lose him?” Penelope exhaled. “Shagged him once, worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Hermione gaped at her friend.

“Just keep an eye out,” Penelope continued, shamelessly. “You let your guard down and then poof he appears. It’s impressive, really. God, that face is wasted on him. Never again—would prefer to get off with a Chinese Chomping Cabbage.”

When the coast seemed clear enough, they began to wander again, keeping an eye out for Cormac in their peripheries.

After a lap, a figure made a beeline for them. He was wearing a dark brown silk suit with wide black lapels, and matching velvet trousers. Once he was closer, Hermione saw that it was Theo, looking fresh and alluring. His outfit shouldn’t have looked good, but it was as if he had just stepped off a catwalk in Milan—pout and suit combined.

“Hermione! So glad you came.” He kissed her cheek joyously. “And who might this be?”

“Penelope Clearwater,” Penelope supplied, receiving an exuberant peck for her troubles.

“Of course! Welcome, I’m Theodore Nott—but you may call me whatever you wish,” Theo winked. “Come, come. I’m introducing you to everyone.”

And he very nearly seemed to—the old, the young, and the restless. At one point Theo whispered in Hermione's ear, a confession of sorts. “Some alliances are pleasurable, some strategic… and some are about keeping one’s enemies closer than one's friends…”

Hermione and Penelope nibbled at tiny delectable morsels off floating platters, and were introduced to half of the party by the time Theo was called away again. From the other guests there were some blank looks, some cold surveyances, and many interested glances. This included one from Pansy Parkinson, who was wearing a silky black sheath dress. Her hair was cut so sharply it could have been used to slit a man’s throat. She looked Hermione up and down before tilting her head to the side. A question. Hello, who are you, now? Hermione gave her a slight nod, sharing her curiosity while half-expecting an insult and a cruel laugh to whip her way. It did not.

Maybe Theo’s approval carried a certain kind of magic of its own.

Hermione didn’t recognise many people as more than faces or names so far, less even than Penelope—but she did register several of the people who had protested vehemently against House Elves gaining their deserved rights. One particular sour-faced, fur-wearing wizard had been so opposed to his Elf, Cookie, having holidays, he had sent Hermione 100 Howlers at once. She and Susan's ears had to be healed, after the expletive-filled crescendo damaged their hearing. She wasn’t sure how successful her wandless magic would be at this distance, but she sent an Itching Jinx laced with all her malice his way all the same. Directly to his pants.

Penelope stopped to talk to a tall wizard she appeared to know, who smiled toothily at her. Hermione tried to listen to their conversation, but lost interest when she found no way in. Quidditch was mentioned by the wizard, and Hermione took this as her cue to leave them to it.

She asked her glass for another drink, and moved to the railing to marvel at the sea and the stars. The magic that belonged to no wizard. Alone, she could take a few deep breaths and contemplate the arbitrary end of things, and the ambivalent beginning of others.

Of course, It was only a matter of time before someone found her.

“You seem lost,” said a velvet voice in her ear.

Blaise.

She didn’t turn to him, which was her first instinct, but continued to gaze out at the water. She felt his presence settle beside her.

“You know, I think I might be,” Hermione replied. If she was lost, it wasn't so bad. “I imagine this party is all your doing… it’s breathtaking.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” he said, sotto voce.

“Why aren’t you out in the middle of it all?” she looked him over. He was dressed in crisp white, and looked and smelled like the word expensive.

“That’s Theo’s game, I just make the playground. Personally, I couldn’t imagine anything worse.” He took a lazy sip of red wine. “Besides… I like wallflowers.”

“This isn’t a wall.”

“The view’s spectacular though.”

Hermione had rarely met a person as flirtatious as Blaise. It seemed to ooze from his very pores. She had a feeling he turned it on and off as often as a kitchen tap and there was much strategy imbued in the act. But his low voice still hit its mark with precision.

“Did you bet Theo I wouldn’t come this time?” she asked, her own tone lowering.

“No, I knew you would. Draco is here,” said so simply, as if he knew that she had been half looking for white blond hair all evening, despite her struggle against admitting that to herself. Was she so obvious? Hermione did not answer, but took a mouthful of her drink, sweet citrus blooming across her tongue.

“If you like,” Blaise continued, his fingers spreading on the railing like it was a lover’s limb. “I could arrange for him to find us in a compromising position.”

Hermione wondered what Draco would do if he found Blaise nuzzled into her neck, or with one hand underneath the hem of her Parisian dress. It was certainly intriguing, but she shook her head gently at the offer of subterfuge. Circumstances were messy enough.

“One might think you were looking for excuses to be compromised, Blaise.”

“Certainly not. Being seen with you would be nothing but a pleasure.” He picked up a silky lock of her hair and let it slide through his fingers. “I do miss the curls, however. Always looking like someone has been rolling you through the sheets. This makes you look like a Slytherin.”

“Maybe I do the rolling.” Hermione tried on flirtation for size.

She was rewarded with a raised brow. “Oh, I bet you could. You could make people crawl for you, if you wanted.”

What was the correct response to a statement like that? Hermione had always been much more focused on brains than wiles, but she couldn't deny that she liked his suggestion that she had other arrows in her quiver.

She turned to look at the crowd, leaning her back against the railing.

To their right, there was a large cream loveseat, draped with plush sheepskin. Blaise summoned it closer to them, and offered for Hermione to sit, correctly guessing that she was growing tired of standing in her heels. She sat down, and crossed her legs.

The loveseat was big enough for three, but he sat near enough to her for their thighs to touch.

“I feel like last time we met I didn’t learn a lot about you,” she said after a while. “I’m afraid Theo and I talked too much.”

“Be assured that I was well entertained.” Blaise’s tone totally changed, and his voice was nothing but genuine. “You two seemed to get on well.”

“Yes, but… what do you do?” Hermione asked. “What are you about?”

Blaise thought about this for a moment and then counted on his fingers. “Theo, sex, wine, and making things beautiful.”

“Succinct,” she observed.

“I try,” he said.

“No hidden depths then?”

Blaise winked. “That's between me and my therapist”

“You see a therapist?”

“Of course. You will find that most of this crowd does, though many just pay to talk, talk and keep talking. Myself, I see Healer Varsha Patil, she's private but I do believe does two days at St. Mungo’s. She has a gift.”

“Padma and Parvati's mother?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “The wizarding world is very small.”

“It needn't be.”

Blaise smiled knowingly. What would he have voted if he had a seat on the ICW? She remembered his comments about his egalitarian penis.

Hermione wondered what magical talk therapy was like, but decided not to pry further. She would find books on the subject, instead. She had been reading Toth’s notes on the Pensieve and Badderley's An Empty Chair in a Private Universe, but it was every bit as hard to follow and mummy-centric as Draco had suggested.

Blaise crooked a finger to a plate of canapes featuring goat's cheese and tiny edible flowers that was floating by them. He carefully picked one up and looked at her with clear mischief on his mind. Hermione allowed him to feed it to her, even to the point of brushing his finger, just barely, with her tongue. Such brazenness was very unlike her, but perhaps her New Year's resolution was to be a bit less like herself. Or something. Possibly just to try to enjoy being single after all this time. Work on those wiles.

Blaise chuckled. “Draco saw you do that.”

Hermione spun, and couldn’t help performing a deeply unsubtle scan of the crowd. She couldn’t see Draco anywhere, but believed Blaise had known exactly where to look, and had known very well what he was doing.

Snake pit.

“You have no concept of subtlety, do you?” Blaise remarked drily.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she shot back.

He sighed as if she were a small child refusing bedtime. “Stand up, kiss me on the cheek and excuse yourself to the bathroom. If you want an Outstanding mark, toss your hair over your shoulder and move your hips as you walk. Just a little. See what happens.”

Hermione frowned deeply at Blaise whose eyes sparkled.

“Or stay here with me, perhaps you can lift your skirt and show me that lovely tattoo of yours.”

There had been no hope of that staying secret for long. Just how far had the story travelled?

“I suddenly have to go to the bathroom, but I'm sure it's much too unladylike to actually use the toilet,” Hermione deadpanned. “So, I'll try not to wee myself while I powder my nose.”

Blaise’s laughing eyes were joined by a laughing mouth. “Draco said you were a laugh. Now go, before I decide to keep you all to myself.”

Hermione stood, but did not kiss Blaise on the cheek. She glided off to the bathrooms. If she swayed her hips at all it was not because Blaise told her to. She was ‘a laugh’ again, which seemed contradictory to being a sex goddess—but what did she know? Draco had told Blaise she was a laugh, and that was miraculous. Mother Mary on a slice of bread, Baby Jesus in the ceiling cracks… Granger is a laugh.

Inside the lavish, moody bathroom, Hermione found she very much did need to wee. When she emerged from the stall and washed her hands, another stall opened and an ethereal figure emerged. She had impeccable black waves of hair framing her face, and was wearing a metallic beaded dress that was practically painted on her.

Green eyes caught Hermione's in the mirror and she smiled indulgently. Hermione’s stomach dropped through the decks and the hull directly into the ocean.

In a memory of a memory, a stripe of blood splattered across a hotel mirror.

“Hermione Granger, right? I thought that might be you,” the beautiful witch greeted. “I’m Astoria Greengrass.”

“Hello.” Hermione managed to sound normal enough, despite the air raid sirens sounding in her head.

“That's a lovely dress,” Astoria said, genuinely. A high compliment when Astoria herself looked like a galaxy made flesh.

Hermione could not talk to this woman—could barely look at her. She knew she had betrayed Draco when she peeked into the suite in Hong Kong, but it had only just occurred to her that she had also taken from Astoria, herself a person… a terribly glamorous person who had just paid her a compliment.

Astoria could not be real—she was a symbol, a spectre—she was certainly not allowed to be nice. Hermione shouldn't know what she knew.

“You too,” she got out.

Astoria smiled and started touching her wand gently to her face to touch up her light makeup. It was a typical, pleasant women’s bathroom exchange, and Astoria seemed to think no more of it. Hermione wondered what she had thought of all the Prophet articles breathlessly suggesting that she was seducing Draco…

With as much dignity and subtlety as she could muster, Hermione fled.

She had just closed the door to the bathroom and walked a couple of steps when she felt a hand close around her wrist. She was irresistibly pulled sideways into a flower-filled alcove.

It was Draco, of course. Arresting in a fitted midnight blue suit with a collarless black shirt underneath. A sharp inhale filled Hermione’s nose with the heavy scent of Christmas lilies and of… him. Grey eyes roamed all over her and he forced a disquieting closeness between them.

He didn’t release her wrist.

“Granger,” he said gruffly.

“Astoria,” Hermione warned him.

“...What?” he responded, eyebrows drawing together in slow confusion. Draco’s cheeks were tinged lightly pink, a sure sign he had been drinking with abandon. Drunk Draco in her experience was a genial fellow… but he could be unpredictable.

“Astoria is in the bathroom, and will be coming out of the bathroom any second.”

Confusion gave way to indecision, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to move away, or to stay and let Astoria see him standing with Hermione. If the latter was the case, that was something, but Hermione would not play along. She was not, and would never be, any version of the other woman. She slipped her wrist out of his grasp, and held his hand instead. She’d never forgotten him holding her hand in the Pensieve, and she realised she’d missed it.

“Come on,” she whispered.

As she walked away from the deck, deeper into the boat’s interior passageways with Draco, it occurred to her that Blaise may have been on to something before. She hadn’t seen Draco all night, and then with a swish of her hips he had suddenly appeared.

They wound through a rabbit's warren of opulent halls, mammoth floral arrangements, art—made by the hands of Muggles and wizards alike—and many closed doors. One door was propped open, and she led Draco into an empty sitting room, with wide windows and a low, u-shaped sofa. She dropped Draco’s hand, and immediately felt the loss of it.

It must’ve been nearly midnight. The room was in shadow, lit only by the spillover from the hallway. The sentinel stars outside were astonishing.

She sat, and Draco did too. Not nearly as close as Blaise had—there was room enough for another person to wedge between them. Room enough for sanity.

“Your hair,” Draco uttered. “Is it permanent?”

She ran her hand through the unfamiliar gloss of it. “No,” she admitted.

“Good.”

Maybe it should be. Maybe she should cut it into a razor sharp bob like Pansy’s, and suffer even fewer fools than she did now. She had a feeling that she might get the same kind of reception Harry did with his designer glasses—her curls were an emblem; the essence of Hermione Granger.

Draco opened his jacket, and withdrew a tin from his inner pocket. The silver caught the light and shone like the moon in his fingers. Four neatly rolled black cigarettes lay within.

Hermione watched closely as he lit one with his wand, and brought it to his waiting mouth. Smoking was not sexy, so why did that work on her like a Summoning Charm? Suddenly aggravated, thinking about the grace and… sensuality of Draco's movements, she looked away. Further study would be tantamount to leering. She only looked back when she realised his hand was in front of her, two fingers extended. He had leaned over to offer her some Ambrosia.

It was of the Gods, after all.

After her time indulging with Theo, Hermione's qualms were more distant. Their fingers brushed together like flint to make fire. Unabashed, he watched as she put her lips where his had just been, and breathed out a plume of hazy blue smoke.

Throned on this couch, on this nowhere ship, they could be Gods of the sea and stars.

“Enjoying the party?” Draco asked lazily, when she passed back to him.

“It’s certainly an experience,” she replied. “Like a dream, almost. Lost Penelope, though.”

“Found Blaise, instead.”

Oh. I see.

She raised her eyebrows at him and he raised his back. A challenge.

After a proper look, Hermione wondered if perhaps Draco had had rather a lot more alcohol than her, and whether he was now layering more substances on top like cake icing.

“I did,” she replied neutrally.

“Didn’t know you two were friends.”

Hermione wasn’t sure they were, exactly… she wouldn’t even know where to start with befriending someone like Blaise, but she replied in the affirmative all the same. “We are.”

“Did you sleep with him?” Draco asked then, as if it didn’t matter to him in the slightest.

Hermione almost fell out of her seat, but she worked very hard to exude coolness, calmness and collectedness. It was difficult, as the Ambrosia started to float through her senses, pulling her in every direction. Was her face always this numb?

“Did you?” she shot back.

“Not directly,” Draco shrugged. That sounded like a story and she burned to hear it. “Answer the question.”

“I can sleep with whomever I like.” Hermione folded her arms.

“I know you can.” But don't, she half-expected him to say. He seemed to be chewing on words again.

“First I was a prude, now I’m sleeping with your friends—is that right?” she said waspishly. If that was suspected… how quickly did Blaise work? Or was it her that he believed to be so promiscuous? She'd been in a relationship for 12 years for goodness’ sake… not that had stopped her from rubbing her nipples across his face…

Stop it.

Her nipples seemed to remember too, rising up underneath her silky dress. Hello, lover.

Draco shrugged again and Hermione found herself ticked off rather than pleasantly stoned. She didn’t much enjoy jealousy, if that’s what this was.

“I didn’t sleep with Blaise.” I don’t want to sleep with anyone but you, she didn’t say. “Not that it’s any of your business. Stop being weird.”

Draco vanished the last of the Ambrosia, and carded his hand through his hair.

“Sometimes, you mess me up.”

The feeling’s mutual, you petulant arse. A jolt in her chest told Hermione that if she asked, if she pressed, she could peel back these words and find the heartstrings at their magical core.

“It’s probably the alcohol,” she said calmly instead, and stood. “I’m going to find Penelope.”

“Granger…” he murmured, stopping her as she was just about to walk through the door. On one high heel, she turned. The Ambrosia painted him in beautiful deep colours. She beheld him spread across the couch, that miraculous hair catching what little light there was. His halo. Beyond, a window that looked to the Milky Way.

“Happy New Year,” he said, in the voice of one kneeling in a confessional.

Hermione huffed a breath, if only to stop herself jumping into his lap. It was getting harder to stay mad and she needed to hold on to it for dear life. “Happy New Year, Draco. See you at work.”

Sometimes you mess me up.

She was the worst person on this boat. If they were snakes, she was a flea carrying the bubonic plague.

Hermione finally found Penelope and rescued her from a close encounter with Cormac.

“I think I just saw someone snorting white powder,” she said covertly into Penelope’s ear when they were shot of him. “Do you know what it is?”

“Probably just cocaine sold as powdered Doxy arsehole or something.” Penelope gave a derisive snort. “Purebloods.”

Penelope seemed to be having a brilliant time, and her exuberance was quite infectious. Definitely the perfect balm against puerile Slytherin masculinity, and fleaness.

“I'll miss having you in the office,” Penelope confessed.

“I'll miss you too,” Hermione said honestly. “But it's definitely temporary.”

“I'll send you memos filled with my longing for you. I'll even sign them from ‘Pietro’ in case you need to make anyone jealous.” Penelope winked a dramatically lined eye at her. “Pietro the Italian Beater with the huge… bat.”

Hermione giggled and put her arm around her friend.

On the stroke of midnight they toasted with fine Champagne and Penelope gave Hermione a smacking kiss right on the lips. Technicolour fireworks that had Weasley written all over them screamed and hissed into the sky—gold, green, pink and purple. Bang! A Hippogriff made of stars flew through the sky and was joined by a sparkling Pegasus. Another Bang! four numbers wrote themselves across the sky.

2011.

The last of the fireworks fizzled out, reflected in the flat, shining sea.

Hermione felt like stardust.

After the show, she allowed herself to be dragged to the dancefloor where she and Penelope, and eventually Theo, danced until dawn.

Chapter Text

“Department of Mysteries,” the disembodied voice in the Ministry of Magic lift announced, as placid as a frozen lake.

The golden grilles clattered open to reveal a torch lined corridor. It was medieval, even by the Ministry's standards of decor. Hermione stepped out of the lift and immediately noticed the figure leaning against the wall like an effigy.

He wore all black, as did she. She'd tightly braided her hair back, and flicked her eyeliner out at the corner of her eyes. All in all, she thought she looked quite fierce, and it was hiding her nervousness nicely.

Draco pushed off the wall and nodded approvingly at her appearance, his fringe falling across his forehead. Hermione reminded herself that touching a colleague's hair would be highly inappropriate.

“Welcome to the Department of Mysteries, Unspeakable Granger,” he said with a hint of mocking. She'd take it anyway.

“Good morning, Draco,” she said crisply. She had come early. He seemed to have predicted that she would.

“I thought I would offer to show my new assistant around on her first day.”

Assistant? Should've seen that one coming.

“I'm not your assistant.”

Draco had started walking towards the black door at the end of the corridor. It swung open to admit him into a black circular room.

“Strange. I did request you as an assistant.”

Hermione stood beside him, surrounded by 13 black doors and flickering blue light. Déjà vu crept over her like ghostly fingers on her flesh. Any second now, Death Eaters would sprint down the corridor. Curses would hiss and scream past her ears… sear into her chest.

But there was a former Death Eater beside her. Not murderous, but beautiful. Steadfast, and curious like her.

“Croaker assured me we were co-researchers. I made sure of that,” Hermione said smoothly, shifting her feet on the marble floor. “Quite rightly, without me you'd still be stuck in a memory loop. I'm sure you'd be quite mad by this point.”

Draco smirked, enjoying the fact that he’d gotten a rise out of her. “Excellent work, Granger, I like my subordinates to be direct with me.”

“If you ask me to bring you a cup of tea I’m quitting on the spot.”

“Noted,” Draco said lazily. “This is the Round Room — if you're expecting profound names, you're going to be disappointed. You're essentially an Unspeakable, but you have limited clearance so you’ll only have access to four doors—don’t touch the door that smells like Trou du Cru cheese, trust me. The doors you’re allowed to use will come when you call. Love Room.” The room spun and a door appeared in front of them. Hermione swallowed, knowing she would have to face the fountain soon enough. “It’s always locked, I’ll show you how to open it soon. Croaker’s office.” The room spun again. “Lunch room—and our office.”

Draco waved his wand at the last door and it obligingly sprung open. He led Hermione inside a dark, cramped office, full of boxes. The office's most notable feature was a plinth made of white stone, atop which sat the Pensieve. Its inviting, rosy glow reflected onto the walls and ceiling.

“It's a little underwhelming.”

“I encourage you to lower your expectations. Didn't I tell you I found the Pensieve in a battered box labelled ‘Rookwood's Pensieve’?”

That made more sense now, looking at this mess.

“We can spend today sorting this shit out,” he offered. “Magical Maintenance aren't allowed down here, which is highly annoying.”

“If the Pensieve was found in some random box, does that mean these other boxes could also be concealing the meaning of life or a parallel universe?”

“Precisely. Now you’re getting it. Also at least one Boggart.”

“Got it.”

Behind them in the Round Room, two black-robed figures emerged from the corridor to the lifts, talking and laughing. They spotted Hermione near the open door to the shambolic office and hurried over to her enthusiastically.

She received a firm handshake from a Grandfatherly Indian man who introduced himself as Sharma. Hermione suppressed a nervous giggle when she recalled Draco's story about his dogged attempts to seduce this man with his cello. Next to Sharma, a tiny Witch with short black hair and heart-shaped face — going by the name of Cara. She looked about 13 years-old. Perhaps she was really 300 years old, and there was a filing cabinet somewhere in the Department that contained the Fountain of Youth.

“What an honour to have you here, Unspeakable Granger,” Cara purred. Her voice was unexpectedly deep.

“Er—Hermione, please.”

Cara disappeared into a clock filled room. Before the black door closed, in Hermione’s peripheral vision she saw what she was sure was a stock of Time Turners… which officially did not exist.

*

Draco and Hermione planned to tidy and rearrange their office, and then Draco agreed to bring her up to speed on his work so far.

He surprised her by handing her a mug of tea after an hour of gingerly handling boxes and being liberal with cleaning spells. One box was extremely heavy, but when they opened it, it appeared to be completely empty. Draco’s solution to the box situation was to transfigure one whole wall of the office into storage — drawers and cupboards.

“That really seems like just shifting the problem around,” Hermione said, tapping her wand gently on a ominously rattling credenza. Draco tutted, sipping his tea and not currently helping. “The secret to neatness is ample storage space.”

“Boggart,” Hermione said in answer, her spell telling her that was what lurked in the old wooden drawer.

“Let me have a go at it,” Draco said, rolling up his sleeves. At some point he’d let his guard down—both faded Dark Mark and osprey were now visible.

Hermione stood aside, but still held her wand aloft. She hadn’t encountered a Boggart in a long time… but she was sure her fear would no longer be McGonagall expelling her from Hogwarts. Truly, there was a list of things it could be. Hermione was brave, but smart enough to know one should never take peace and safety for granted. A Muggle-born Registration Committee pamphlet rose to the forefront of her mind. She had kept one deep in her desk drawer at home. A reminder.

Draco seemed to be confident however, and unconcerned about Hermione seeing his greatest fear out in the open. She tried not to watch too closely as the credenza opened with a band and out rose…

Draco himself. Another Draco, anyway. A horribly familiar mask was pushed up to reveal his face — deathly white, with tears streaking down his cheeks. He stared numbly at his hands. Hands which were violently shaking, and completely coated with dark red blood. There was a gentle drip drip drip as droplets hit the office floor like gentle rain.

Hermione held her breath. Boggart or not, she wanted to wipe the tears away from Draco's face.

“Riddikulus,” wizard Draco said neutrally, and the next thing she knew, Boggart Draco was licking chocolate sauce off his fingers in a very naughty kind of way. They watched several flicks of his indecent pink tongue, and then Draco sliced his wand upwards. The Boggart disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Silence reigned for a moment after this. Hermione fiddled with her own wand in her fingers awkwardly before saying, “...Do you want to talk about that?”

Blood on his hands.

“I do not,” Draco responded.

And they got back to work.

By lunchtime, their office looked a lot tidier and about as cheerful as a dark stone office without windows could look. Most of the boxes had been boring and harmless enough but when one screamed in agony, despite containing only a fancy witch’s hat, Hermione decided the rest could go into the cupboards to be investigated another day.

In the end, they had two desks angled towards the Pensieve on its plinth. Draco had added a green chaise longue along one wall, and Hermione a floral wingback chair next to the bookshelf — quite empty for now, but not for long.

Draco told her very clearly that he didn’t mind a working lunch, but he did not skip lunch.

“I don’t skip lunch,” Hermione retorted.

Draco’s eyebrow told her he did not believe her for a second. Indeed, when she was very focussed on something she would often subsist on crackers or biscuits, before eating through her entire larder of an evening. It was a blatant lie and he smelled it right away.

So they sat in the very ordinary lunch room, and ate sandwiches with several other Unspeakables, who, after greeting her pleasantly, were having the kind of conversations that would make no sense if they weren’t all sitting in the Department of Mysteries.

“...Had a natter to William Shakespeare the other morning, usually only see him around in the summertime…”

“...Croaker says it’s impossible, but I was reading about a bloke who said he went back and turned out to be his own Grandfather. It’s plausible, I tell you…”

“...’m tellin’ ya lad—not a word of a lie—we opened ‘er up and ‘er brain was packed with Wrackspurts…”

Back in their office, Draco faced Hermione, looking business-like all of a sudden.

“We should definitely talk about what I have been doing, but I think the most expedient method to start that discussion will be to provide a practical demonstration.” He held a hand out, indicating the Pensive.

“You mean… enter the Pensieve?” She had of course known that they might be exploring the possibilities of the Pensieve’s magic — but not so casually, so quickly.

“Of course.”

“Is it safe?”

“A lot safer than many of the things you and I have done in our lives,” Draco said matter-of-factly. “Do you trust me?”

It was an innocuous question, but also a deep meditation. She answered though, from her gut, whispering something she had known for some time. A truth that brought her here.

“Yes.”

Business-like or not, Draco's smoked gaze intensified on her face. The moment, if it was a moment, ended and they approached the Pensieve. Draco summoned a vial from the top drawer of his desk. Countless others glimmered on a stand within.

“I have been working on no more than three memories at a time, 10-15 minutes in duration. Makes the recording easier.” He tipped the vial into the basin and the swirling began — rose gold liquified. Hermione had forgotten that the Pensieve had seemed to draw her in, like it was a pollen laden flower and she was a bumblebee.

“Wands out,” prompted Draco. “On three… one, two, three—go.”

The whiteness came. The crushing, all-consuming whiteness. Once again she felt the sensation of being nothing, and then the disorientation of rematerialisation.

Sight and sound returned to her, and they were at the back of the Hogwarts Great Hall, on a clear starry night. Déjà vu after déjà vu. A group of first year students that included Draco and Hermione were led to the front of the hall, where an old hat and a stool awaited them. Sheep and shepherdess.

“It’s like you said,” Draco said, his wand and his hand raised. “Threads. Absolute clarity of purpose and confidence in the result.”

Everything appeared normal. Draco’s long eyelashes were on his cheeks, his brow clear. Candles floated and flickered, the Sorting Hat sung its song. Older students whispered and shuffled, impatient for the feast.

Hannah Abbott approached the stool and was sorted into Hufflepuff.

Young Hermione, under her angry cloud of hair, approached the stool. Ravenclaw… Gryffindor… the conversation under the hat was still for her ears only.

“SLYTHERIN!” the Hat roared, as if it always had, and always would.

Young Hermione looked serene, as she walked towards the Slytherin table and sat down next to Daphne Greengrass.

Older Hermione looked open-mouthed at Unspeakable Draco, who was of course smirking at her. So easily, he had changed their history. Neville was Sorted into Hufflepuff.

It was young Draco’s turn on the stool. Hermione wasn’t sure what would come next — would this version of the Sorting change history for him too? What would Ravenclaw Draco have been like? Certainly, he had wits and then some.

Compared to the milliseconds the hat sat on his head in her recollection, the hat deliberated a long time. Perhaps Draco, upon reflection, had wanted the Hat to see that he was more. And then…

“GRYFFINDOR!” cried the hat.

…where dwell the brave at heart…

“Oh,” said Hermione. And Draco’s smirk widened, before his face went completely still and he waved and swirled his wand through the air. Tiny Draco was frozen on his walk towards the applauding table of Gryffindors.

A moment later, a door in a door frame appeared in the middle of the stone floor in front of them. The door was very plain, and looked as though it led to nowhere at all.

“Open it,” Draco instructed.

She did so, and although the door was set against nothing but air, when she opened it, she could see a dark tunnel as if it was set into solid stone. Or it was a portal to another universe. That was certainly one way it could be interpreted.

“Ah yes, this is the awkward part. Usually I transform and fly down the tunnel, but unless you’re secretly able to turn into some sort of honking waterfowl, walking or brooms are the only way down.

“Walking it is,” Hermione said firmly.

“I’ll lead the way. It’s around an hour, but feels longer, I’m afraid. You may remember.”

She certainly did. “Every time?” she asked.

He nodded grimly. “Haven’t been able to do anything about it, but I’m certain you will come up with something. Or— refer to previous discussion regarding brooms.”

With Draco in front and Hermione following, they made their way through the absolute darkness of the tunnel. Hermione’s nose tingled with the odd acrid smell. She felt the absence of magic, or anything… she remembered so well the last time they walked through this unknown.

It was no longer an unknown. She knew what was waiting on the other side.

“I’m buying you a broom,” said Draco, his voice echoing across cool stone. “This walk is very tedious.”

“No, thank you.”

“A very safe one. Lots of features. Every feature.”

“Still no.”

“I can fly and you can just hold on to me.”

Quite tempting, but, “No.”

“This aversion to a simple broom is very un-Gryffindor of you, Granger. This will seriously compromise our productivity.”

She did not comment. She didn't want to let Draco know he had hit on his strongest argument yet. The glacial pace of Wizarding bureaucracy had made her despise inefficiency even more than she already did.

They walked through the thick air and the temperature rose. Draco lit his wand, and Hermione followed suit.

“Halfway,” Draco explained. He needn’t’ve, the smell would have told her all by itself.

Warm leather… reading in a sun-filled library, sharp wood, tart raspberries. Champagne on her tongue. Soft, expensive fabric. Rich laughter. Hermione tried desperately not to breathe through her nose. She was not ready for the Love Room. The end of the tunnel finally came into sight, and with tired feet she found herself next to Draco in front of the door with the pink stained glass.

The two knobs made of golden vines formed themselves.

“What do you do when it’s just you in here?”

Draco’s smirk was back, awash in pink light. “There’s only one knob to tend to when I’m alone.”

“How many knob jokes are you going to make in the next six months?”

“No comment. Now… one, two, three—turn.”

The door swung open with that weird human sigh she had forgotten all about, and Draco led her into the room beyond.

The smell of the Amortentia was so overpowering that she almost covered her mouth with her hand. Pink light washed over them and the mossy ground was soft beneath her feet.

Don’t, he said in her head.

Maybe she would become numb to it. Or maybe she was a latent masochist and the stab of pain was something she would grow to relish. Maybe she could Confund him and restore his memory by force and act like everything was completely normal, which would probably require a lot more Confunding, perhaps also self-Confunding.

Maybe she should revisit the ‘Sort it out Granger’ options list and just tell him that she’d made a series of ridiculous errors that she could barely explain to herself, and hope desperately that he kept wanting to be around her.

It was the fear that he would walk away that kept her mouth shut. The same fear that made her a thief in the first instance.

Her Boggart was painful irony.

Mercifully, Draco didn’t seem to want to linger, and there were several other Unspeakables present in the Love Room, unlike before, dictating notes and generally looking like they could be working in any other Ministry office. Draco took her directly to the blank stretch of wall where the door would materialise.

Looking at her, he started to explain how to summon the door. “You have to think of someone you love: lover, child, grandparent — it doesn’t matter, and hold your regard for them in physical form right in your chest. Then—” He brought his wand to his sternum and held a transfixing shining golden light on the end of his wand. He fed this light to the wall in front of them, bringing forth the black door.

Hermione thought it was the kind of magic that Albus Dumbledore could have conceived of. She didn’t voice this thought aloud.

They came to the round room, and then the doors spun and they reentered their now tidy office.

Draco sat on his chaise, so Hermione took his commanding, high-backed desk chair which was closest to him. She was exhausted from the journey and her mind buzzed with questions and possibilities, all the while processing what she had just seen.

Draco was taking notes in a notebook while she attempted to work herself out.

“What happens now?” she managed to ask after five solid minutes.

“I write notes every time I exit the Pensieve—a task which I am happy to delegate to you.”

Hermione would be writing notes whether Draco told her to or not.

He continued. “I am trialling different memories, including unreliable memories, and also dreams. It will be excellent to use someone else’s for comparison too.”

“You mean mine?”

“Of course.”

Interesting. The shoe was moving to the other foot. Although, she had been having some dreams recently that she absolutely would not be sharing with the class.

“So you went back to the library and got the cloak… and to the Sorting… did you, go back to any of the other original memories you put in the Pensieve?”

Bellatrix, Astoria, Crookshanks.

The tell of the twitch in his cheek told her he was thinking about how to reply. “...I spoke to Snape.”

Oh, she wished she could have been a fly on that wall.

“About what?”

“Mistakes.”

Significance filled the air.

It wouldn’t do to reach out to him—to wrap him in her arms, so she stayed safely on business.

“And what’s the end goal? Why are we doing this?”

Draco laughed humorlessly. “That’s not really how the Department of Mysteries works, for better or for worse. My thoughts are to work towards using the Pensieve in the way that Badderley intended—to help people confront experiences that they struggle to accept. To help people through the darkness, and their fears. Possibly also with Oedipal issues, in honour of Badderley and his delightful-sounding mother. I suspect that’s all years away though—can’t have a bloke who’s a few Knuts short of a full Sickle strolling through the Love Room at his leisure. And honestly it is quite dangerous in there, at times.”

Listening to Draco Malfoy talk about helping people confront their demons stirred her like a cauldron. She said excitedly, “Draco, this could have so many applications. For survivors of the war, for children who experienced abuse… it could be a tool for St. Mungo’s! We could replicate it!”

“Slow down, Granger. At the moment it’s mostly that fucking tunnel and taking lots of notes.”

“Still.” She was almost breathless and she thought she saw fondness in his gaze, which didn’t help with the whole breathing thing. “One must think of both the fine details and the bigger picture.”

“That’s why I needed you,” he said. “You’re going to make a great assistant.”

Probably wouldn’t be wise to slap a colleague so she glared at him instead. “It's like the three Ds,” she then mused. “Clarity, confidence… we need a third c word.” As soon as she said it she regretted it.

“I can think of a few.”

“Right.” Fine, she'd play along. “Clarity, confidence… cunts.”

Draco's lovely laugh filled the office.

Later, when the day was nearly over and sheafs of note-filled parchment littered her formerly neat desk, another hot cup of Earl Grey tea appeared next to her.

Chapter Text

Hermione had been an Unspeakable for approximately a month, and the work had taken on its own rhythm, like all work eventually does.

Working with Draco was surprisingly smooth, perhaps due to their month stuck in the Pensieve, but possibly also due to a comfortable professional compatibility that had emerged between them. Draco did not miss a chance to goad her, but he was mostly dedicated and fastidious. Not quite at her level, of course, but few wizards were. He called her his assistant at least twice a day, but he always made sure that she had some kind of beverage, and Thor started making extra lunch for Draco to bring to her. Flirtation was minimal to non-existent.

Good, Hermione tried to tell herself. Pretending everything was fine was easier without the smirk reminding her of the madness that was Draco in her bed. They were Unspeakables living up to their title by definitely not speaking about things. Twice, Hermione could’ve sworn Draco was about to say something significant to her. The first time, he had coughed then deviated quickly into a lecture about how safe brooms were, concluding by calling her a broom fascist. The second time, he had spontaneously changed into osprey Draco and perched on top of the cupboards to stare balefully at her while she wrote notes.

At home, Hermione was gradually growing used to living alone, and mostly missed Crookshanks more than she missed human companionship. Though she sometimes imagined she could hear Ron's laugh, she enjoyed the quiet and the lack of compromise.

Sleeping alone was fine when she slept. When she couldn’t sleep, she thought about telling Draco everything.

She and Draco had not seen each other outside of work, and neither had suggested it, but spending the working day together mostly scratched her itch for Draco's company.

Mostly.

The Pensieve was an incredibly complex magical object that defied logic and categorisation at every turn. One of Hermione's first acts had been to write to Augusta Longbottom and ask if she would meet with her, or at least answer some questions via owl. As yet, she had received no reply.

She and Draco had a list of memories that they were working through, early, recent, intoxicated. They looked at strong and weak memories. Hermione suggested that observing a memory they shared from different perspectives might be very enlightening, not just for their research but in the sense of the subjective nature of memory in general. But they ran into a problem trying to find memories that directly included both of them that didn't also involve something awful being said or done. When Hermione sheepishly suggested the memory of imposter-Moody turning Draco into a ferret (she reasoned he had cursed her first), he gave her the silent treatment for the rest of the day.

Hermione wondered whether they could visit memories from when they were together in the Pensieve? Memories from within memories? She wrote herself a note and also mentally reminded herself to make Draco watch the movie Inception.

Another difficulty in choosing memories to work with was that a great number of Hermione's memories involved Ron, and thinking about Draco seeing any of these was very uncomfortable. There was nastiness in her memories of Ron, of course, but also lightness and laughter and kisses. It felt wrong to trudge through their shared past, like muddy boots on carpet. She supposed that was why Draco asked her not to watch him and Astoria's fight in Hong Kong. She understood. If she could take that back, she truly would.

Draco was also right about the tedium of walking down the passageway back to the Love Room over and over again. He implored Hermione to learn to become some other bird ‘maybe an owl—they're swotty’, or to ‘grow some balls and get on a broom’.

Hermione told him that she could have the world's biggest balls and still wouldn't get on a broom. Flying down a tight, dark passageway did not appeal to her in the slightest. Draco asked her to repeat the part about tight passageways.

She was very close to punching him in the jaw, or getting on his broomstick.

Literal, broomstick. Capable of flight. With acceleration and turning and a shaft…

No.

The (not at all sexy) tunnel conundrum was taking up a lot of her time. She started reading extensively on the subject of magical doors, windows, and liminal spaces. This brought her back to the stalwart Hogwarts, A History and she combed through Bathilda Bagshot's reference list to find likely sources. The Hidden Passageways of Magical Europe had been extremely interesting; most secret tunnels were built for the purposes of trysting or murdering, sometimes both at the same time.

The tunnel's magical signature was extremely strange. Nothing Hermione could think of changed it in any way, and she was cautious about damaging it too much — lest they get stuck in Purgatory forever. Properly this time. It was extremely vexing. Draco was right (also vexing)… the Pensieve would never be able to be used outside of the Department if the only way out was through the Love Room.

Hermione and Draco had just returned from her memory of her first time skiing at Meribel in the early 1980s. Hermione had been very little — four or five years old, the clothes were neon and the weather was perfect. Draco watched, and she wasn’t sure if he was appalled or fascinated as tiny Hermione slid along between her dad’s skis, the blindingly pink pom pom on her hat bobbing around as she did.

As it turned out, he was incensed by the Granger family’s choice of holiday activity.

“Completely ridiculous,” he had decreed, walking out of the snow, briskly down the dark corridor.

Back in the office, he still wasn’t over it.

“So you won’t fly, but that’s just fine?” Draco had said disbelievingly. “Planks of wood on your feet, no magical failsafes whatsoever?”

Hermione did not dignify his comments with a response.

It was almost 5pm, the usual end of their working day, when Draco piped up from his desk.

“Granger.”

“Yes?” she replied. He had the ‘I want something’ voice on, and a face to match.

“I need a favour.”

Her interest was piqued, but she kept looking at her book. “Go on…”

“I need you to have dinner with me and my mother. Tonight.”

Well, she wouldn't be concentrating on her book anymore. She turned to him, incredulous.

“And why on Earth would I do that?” was her response.

“Because I told her you accepted her invitation and would be delighted to come.”

Did he, now?

And why would Narcissa Malfoy invite her to dinner in the first place?

“If that's the case,” she said haughtily. “I'm compelled to tell you I will not be attending.”

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist,” he said.

“And what does insisting involve?”

He seemed to cast around for something. Hermione wondered if she ought to reach for her wand.

“A trade.”

“A trade,” she repeated. “Dinner for..?”

“20,000 Galleons.”

“No deal.” The first wooden chest was still stashed in her wardrobe.

“Fine. What do you want?”

You know what you want, said a sly inner voice.

Dinner in exchange for six orgasms, the first to be served up immediately, over the desk here… then two post-coital Ambrosia cigarettes and some spicy dumplings, after.

Her fantasies were getting more and more specific.

She almost said it. She was quite positive Draco would say ‘alright’, and shuck his shirt over his head.

Instead Hermione folded her arms. “A traumatic memory in the Pensieve. A shared traumatic memory.” This had been a bone of contention between them. Hermione did not want to watch a repeat of anyone's death, but felt that if the Pensieve was designed to confront darkness — then that was what they should do. There was only so much that her recollections of enjoyable skiing holidays could tell them. Draco had nixed this suggestion before she'd even presented her argument.

“No.”

“No dinner then. Be sure to tell your mother that you lied when you said I would come, and then tried to bribe me. As ever, your Pureblood manners are unimpeachable.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, stuck between a rock and hard place. Narcissa being the rock, Hermione being the hard place.

“Which memory?”

Hermione pointed to the scar on her neck, just visible and he swore under his breath.

She waited.

“Fine,” he sighed.

“Excellent.” Hermione gave him a saccharine smile, feeling like she’d come out the victor until she realised that she’d just agreed to have dinner with Draco’s mother. “Details, please.” She hoped and prayed he wouldn't say they were going to the Manor. This wasn’t a memory, and arson was generally unacceptable dinner guest behaviour.

“Dinner's at seven at a restaurant in Oxford. You can Floo to mine first, I'll get us there.”

“Should I be pressing my finest dress robes?” she mocked.

“If you like, but a dress will be fine.”

Hermione waved her hand down at the plain linen shift she was wearing under her Unspeakable's robe.

“...Maybe something else.”

She scowled.

“I am very interested in why your mother wants to meet me. I am probably the most famous Mudblood there is.”

Draco stiffened. “Don't call yourself that.”

She threw up her hands. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Draco! It's not like you've never heard that word before. Don’t act all prim.”

“Look, my mother isn't my father, alright?” He seemed exasperated by her, even though he was doing all of the exasperating. “She never took the Mark, hated the Dark Lord, and did whatever she could to get us through it.”

That was fair. How many people would be dead without Narcissa? Hermione thought.

Draco wasn't finished. “—First and foremost, she knows how to survive. Surviving is adapting. She’s proud of being a Black, like my twisted Grandfather taught her to be, and that comes with some shit that I wish that it didn't. But she’s far too well-bred to start insulting you at the dinner table. Overtly, anyway.”

“I am reassured,” she said sarcastically.

“Relax, Granger, she just wants to intimidate you, and you are frustratingly difficult to intimidate.”

Hermione was somewhat mollified, but still suspicious. The question was on the tip of her tongue and she got it out before she could think about it too much. “She knows we're not together, right?”

“Any witch in close proximity to me would get the same treatment,” Draco said placidly. How many witches had there been, exactly? “And she hounded me for weeks about the Pensieve and our joint disappearance. I may have credited you as our saviour.”

Hermione supposed the disappearance of one's son entitles one to a certain amount of hounding.

“Right. Fine. When should I be at your house?”

Draco visibly relaxed. “Half past six. We'll have a drink first.”

She had a feeling she was going to need it.

*

Hermione stood in her kitchen, with Floo powder pinched tightly in her fingers, seriously considering standing Draco and Narcissa up, and going back to bed to read and knit. It would serve them right.

Curiosity and her ‘trade’ with Draco drove her grumbling into the grate.

“Draco Malfoy’s… treehouse!” she said, hoping her hesitation wouldn't land her somewhere else entirely. What was his address, anyway?

She emerged out of the large white hearth in Draco Malfoy’s living room. There were stars overhead, but she couldn't see him anywhere in the downstairs area. It was strange to be in his house again. It was just as sophisticated and ridiculous as the first time she'd been there, and she liked it even more now that she… liked Draco more.

Footsteps sounded on the floating stairs, and the man himself walked down in well-fitted greys, with a rich green coat over his arm.

“Thought you might stand me up.”

“I considered it…” she admitted. “It would serve you right”

“Drink?”

She nodded. “Wine.”

“White, red? I have an excellent malbec.”

“Rosé.”

Draco smiled at this throwback and his liquor cabinet supplied them with two glasses of rosé.

Hermione was halfway through her first glass when she remembered Draco telling her he didn't give tours of his house. So she blatantly asked him for one. He made a face that suggested it was a monumental bother, but obligingly led her through the rooms. She asked him about books and he lent her a copy of a very old spellbook, alleged to be a direct translation of Baba Yaga's own Grimoire. If Hermione was one to swoon, she might have done it there and then. She wondered how her cottage would look with chicken legs.

Then, it was only minutes away from seven o'clock. They stood in front of Draco's fireplace, and he looked her up and down. She had clipped her hair back and wore a nude pink long-sleeved dress, sheer black tights and heeled ankle boots.

Draco brandished his wand at her and her tights disappeared.

Incensed, she jerked her wand upwards and restored them.

“If you do that again, I will confiscate your trousers and see how you like it.”

He smiled a slow bedroom smile at her.

Dinner with Draco's mother: Trousers not optional. Trousers essential.

“Later,” he said, promise in his words. He sprinkled powder from a beautiful ceramic bowl onto the flames. They transformed from orange to green, and he pulled her with him to: “Makaria, Oxford.”

On the other side, they emerged into a dim, elegant restaurant with pale stone walls and black wooden tables and chairs. Everything was staged around a huge central golden tree, growing from the floor. In the tree were hundreds of fairies, glowing bright.

Fairies were living creatures, not decorations. Hermione did not like fairy lights.

A smiling wizard wearing a hybrid of a suit and robe, quite the style these days, stepped forward. He was handsome, but his meticulously curled moustache made it hard to look at any other aspect of his face.

“Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger — welcome to Makaria. My name is Benson. If you'll follow me, Ms Black is waiting at your table.”

Ms Black, is it? Very interesting…

It was a small restaurant, and they were the only ones there. Hermione had a suspicion that such a circumstance had been paid for, and was not due to the restaurant's lack of popularity.

“Darling,” Narcissa greeted, standing up to kiss her son on the cheek. She was resplendent in silver robes, her hair swept long and blonde over her shoulder. Her face was perfectly smooth, her eyes an angelic blue. Hermione knew there must be enchantments at work on her face — fine genetics or not, she looked barely older than her son. Hermione found herself looking for Draco in her face, and there he was in her cheekbones and her straight nose.

“Miss Granger, what a pleasure to meet you.” ‘Pleasure’ was said as if it could be easily swapped out for the word ‘horror’. Hermione knew the cheek kiss was coming. She got away with kissing the air not very close to Narcissa at all.

“Hermione, please,” Hermione said, because she knew she was supposed to. She assumed her seat when Draco did.

“Hermione,” Narcissa repeated. “A lovely name. Do you know the origin?”

“Shakespearean. Muggle.” Hermione said deliberately, looking for a reaction.

Narcissa's smile didn't move an inch, and a very convenient sommelier appeared, floating a bottle of Champagne towards Narcissa with her wand. Narcissa tasted, nodded, and three bubbling glasses were poured. There were no menus. The pomp so far didn't give Hermione any hope that this dinner would be a brief affair.

“Santé.” Narcissa held up her glass and Draco and Hermione followed suit. They caught each other's eyes and Hermione only just managed not to attempt a wandless attack on him when his lips started to curve. She was almost certain she could Transfigure his Champagne into vinegar. Or urine.

“Now, I know well not to enquire about any work that takes place at the Department of Mysteries, Hermione,” Narcissa looked sideways at her son. “But Draco told me you were working with the International Magical Office of Law, before now, as a Policy Advisor. That is very impressive.”

“Senior Policy Advisor,” Hermione corrected, not interested in engaging in simpering or faux-modesty.

“And do you enjoy your work?”

“Immensely.”

Narcissa’s nails drummed once against her glass. “I was having lunch with Bancroft Bulstrode not two weeks ago and heard about the vote at the Confederation meeting. Such a shame...”

Hermione was saved from an immediate reply by the arrival of Benson and his moustache. He came to the table empty handed, indeed, with both hands clasped behind his back.

“If you'll pardon the intrusion, I can present you your first course: fresh baked focaccia with bone marrow butter, asparagus, and abalone salami.” Benson gave a very subtle flick of his wand behind his back, and three large plates appeared in front of them. The food was so dainty it hardly looked like food.

“Enjoy.”

Draco spoke up before Hermione could. “Maman—Granger is a vegetarian.”

Narcissa looked up, and although her face remained placid, her eyes narrowed just slightly—shooting sharp arrows at her son.

“Benson,” Narcissa summoned the moustachioed man back. “My son forgot his manners and did not inform me that our guest is a vegetarian. I trust that will not cause a disruption?”

“Not at all.” Obviously a consummate professional, Benson flicked his wand and several items were subtracted from Hermione's plate, and more added on. “Devilled quail egg and seaweed butter for you Miss Granger, as well as the bread and asparagus. My apologies.”

It was so smoothly done by both Narcissa and Benson. Molly Weasley had always fussed about Hermione not eating meat, but Narcissa seemed much more concerned about the dreadfulness of not catering to a guest.

I am a terrible person, Hermione thought. There was no world in which she should be comparing Narcissa and Molly.

The food was predictably delicious. Draco was unpredictably quiet, he seemed like a scientist observing a volatile chemical reaction that could blow up in his face at any second.

Over their second course—scallop ceviche for them, watermelon gazpacho for her—Narcissa asked. “What's your pleasure, Hermione? I imagine your work means it is difficult to be sartorially-minded…” Narcissa looked Hermione's outfit up and down.

She could have sworn Draco mouthed the word ‘tights’.

He had said his mother wouldn't insult her… directly. Well, she was insulted. Maybe she should say her pleasure was ‘sex and wine’ like Blaise had at New Years, just to see what would happen.

It was so tempting.

“Knitting,” Hermione said instead, trying not to think about sex and her nightly libidinousness at the dinner table. “...Reading. I dabble in gardening when I can. And Music.”

She sounded approximately 70 years old, even to her own ears. Narcissa seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“Granger is a virtuoso on the flute,” Draco said, helpfully.

Hermione could easily stomp on his foot and she wouldn't even need her wand to do it.

“Draco,” Narcissa said sharply. “Are you some kind of brainless sportsman? Why are you referring to Hermione by her surname as though she were some lout in a changing shed?”

Draco stopped his eye roll, but it was a very near thing. “Hermione is a virtuoso on the flute.”

“Lovely. It’s a beautiful instrument,” Narcissa simpered. “I have a friend who breeds Boreray sheep with curse-proof fleece. I will send you some wool.”

Did Narcissa expect Hermione to be imminently cursed? Hermione imagined herself wearing a woolly suit of armour. “That's—not necessary.”

“Nonsense. And you must take a hydrangea cutting too. The ones we grow at the Manor are one of a kind — truly stunning. Draco, bring one to work.”

Draco didn't respond, it didn't even seem necessary, but he smiled into his wine.

The next course came. Wild garlic and chanterelle mushrooms, plus or minus duck confit. Glass domes sat over their plates, and magical plumes of steam emerged and spiralled into ephemeral fern fronds when Benson levitated them away with his wand. Hermione could smell hay and heather and thyme.

“What do you do to keep yourself occupied, Ms Black?” Hermione asked, after Narcissa had told a questionable anecdote about Bitsy the elf breaking a priceless jug. She also noticed Narcissa did not suggest she use her first name.

She waved a polite hand. “Oh this and that. I am on several governing boards — both philanthropic and commercial, and I'm the President of the Opera Society of Magical Europe, of course.”

“Oh, are there many magical operas?” Hermione enquired.

It became immediately apparent that this was a very uncultured question to match her uncultured hosiery choices.

“Many,” replied Narcissa, swirling her glass

“And how do they compare to La bohéme or Carmen, would you say?” said Hermione, sickly sweet.

“I couldn't comment.”

“Pity.”

Draco was having to drink an awful lot to hide his facial expressions.

When the mains came — venison for them, for her a cheese soufflé so light it floated in the air—literally—Draco finally entered the conversation. This allowed Hermione a moment’s rest from the dialogue that had been going from magnanimous to icy every few sentences. The conversation was layered — subtext, double entendre, body language. It was a duel all of its own.

Hermione observed mother and son as they discussed the state of disrepair Narcissa had found the Tuscany house in. Setting aside the inevitable existence of a Tuscany house, Hermione saw enough to witness the deep affection flowing between them. It was tightly held, like a hand of cards. Narcissa hadn’t really saved the wizarding world, Hermione knew—she had saved her son.

For one moment she allowed herself to remember that Narcissa had watched as she was tortured. In her home. At her sister's hand. She had somehow allowed her son to suffer through those same torments. Then Hermione shut those memories away.

Hermione tuned back into what was being said when Draco put down his fork with minor force.

“Don’t start,” he said to his mother.

“It’s yours by rights, Draco. You should be living in the Manor.”

“And popping out heirs to wander around the halls too I suppose, Maman?”

“I wasn’t going to raise that at the table, but yes, you have neglected those duties for long enough.”

“Duties,” snorted Draco. “To what? To whom?”

“To your name.”

“A name you don’t even want!”

Narcissa did not chide Draco for raising his voice, but lowered hers until it was almost a whisper. “Do not draw false equivalencies.” She straightened her spine, in a very Draco-like gesture. “Do you plan to have children, Hermione? Or are you a modern career witch?”

Her last three words may as well have been ‘pile of dung’.

“Er…” Hermione was not expecting this, and her usual comeback of ‘that’s absolutely none of your business’ didn’t seem to want to form in her mouth.

Draco sounded fierce when he next spoke. “Hermione and I could have a thousand children together—”

Excuse me? “—now hang on—” interjected Hermione, trying not to betray her sense of alarm.

“—Or separately. Or none at all, and it wouldn’t be your concern, Maman.” He looked towards the counter area. “Benson, please bring dessert.”

Narcissa’s face was very calm, but she looked from Hermione (red in the face, and neck) to Draco (Occluding). Then she took a slow, knowing sip of her wine. “Lovely idea, Draco. The desserts here really are sublime.”

On this, she wasn’t wrong: rhubarb sorbet, and mascarpone curd, “Sprinkled with freeze dried Joy Elixir, especially brewed by our Sous Chef,” Benson flicked his wand behind his back, and in a flurry of purple sparks, dessert arrived.

The Joy Elixir worked wonders on the quiet table. Small smiles were on all three of their faces at the end of the meal, when they were escorted to the Floo area by an obsequious Benson. Hermione was mildly gobsmacked, but the food had been excellent. When she dared to offer to pay, Narcissa seemed inclined to jinx her.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner, Ms Black,” Hermione said with questionable sincerity, even as she still grinned, sticking out her hand rather than going for a cheek kiss.

Narcissa used her hand as leverage for a cheek kiss.

“How illuminating to meet you, Hermione. I hope we shall see each other again soon.” It could have been a benevolent statement, as its surface suggested it was. Equally, her words could have been the gravest of threats.

Hermione, as guest, was invited to Floo home first. She barely even nodded at Draco.

Back in her kitchen, she flopped down into a kitchen chair, laughing to herself while the potion wore off. Her clock informed her it was past ten o'clock, and she wiggled her wand, muscle memory tracing the patterns needed to make herself a cup of tea.

Her fire flared, making her jump, and Draco walked into her kitchen through emerald flames as though he visited frequently.

“Um, can I help you?” Tomorrow, she would ward him out. They would be nasty wards—arse boils nasty.

“Cup of tea would be great, actually,” he responded.

“I don’t remember asking you back with me,” she sniffed, not looking at him. She wasn’t annoyed at him, really, the dinner had just been a lot and Draco had watched like she and Narcissa were doing elaborate performance art.

“Could hardly in front of my mother, now could you?”

“Probably wouldn't've regardless.”

Hermione’s tea landed in front of her, and she definitely would not make Draco one, so he whipped out his wand and helped himself, disregarding her.

“Relax, I’ll leave soon.”

Stay, purred that rebellious inner Hermione. Trousers now optional.

Draco was talking and she wasn't listening. “...I didn’t think she’d bring up the old ‘where are my grandchildren’ thing in front of you, so just… yeah.”

If that was an apology, it left a lot to be desired.

Hermione bit her lip. She deeply needed to end this conversation. She could not talk to Draco about this topic when it was entirely made of thorns.

Draco picked up his cup of tea and held it in his hands, elbows on the table. “I’m not going to be uncouth and ask you about why you didn't have yourself a ginger baby or five, and my mother can mind her own business too… She never really forgave me for ending things with Astoria, or at least for not doing my stud duties before I did.”

Hermione summoned her knitting and grabbed the needles by hand, just so she could look at something other than Draco. She didn’t say anything — she didn’t want to encourage him to tell her things she already knew and absolutely shouldn’t.

“What are you making?” Draco asked.

“Blanket,” Hermione replied. She would be able to cover her whole house in her knitting soon, she had been so industrious lately. It was almost definitely something to do with sexual frustration.

“You should knit me something.”

“We’ll see.”

He watched the rhythmic movements of her fingers and the wool for a while, finished his tea, and left through the Floo.

But he kissed her before he did. Soft lips and the bittersweet scrape of stubble on her forehead, where her hair met her skin. Every atom of her longed to move her face, and kiss his mouth, long and deep.

Her guilt was a flesh-eating parasite.

Two days later, she laid a light grey scarf on his desk before he arrived at work. She had made it by hand and by magic, infusing it with her sorrow that she couldn't be his confidant. It was ribbed and soft and perfectly executed. Of course, she hadn’t made it because he told her to—she simply had some spare wool.

Five days later, after the weekend, she arrived at work to find a potted cutting of an iridescent white hydrangea sitting on her wingback chair.

Chapter Text

The Pensieve shimmered and glowed on its plinth, drawing them in as it always did. By now, they knew many more of its secrets, but it still felt fathomless, unknowable.

“This is an appalling idea,” Draco said. He had been agitated the whole morning as Hermione quietly went over notes and made tiny annotations on top of other annotations. At lunch, out of the corner of her eye, she saw he didn't eat the golden, feta-filled couscous Thor had packed for him — and that was very unlike him.

“An appalling idea,” he repeated.

“You've said,” she replied calmly.

“Truly the worst.”

“Second only to blindsiding me with your mother.”

“How many Galleons to forget this plan and skive off for the rest of the day?”

“You can't afford it,” Hermione smiled sweetly, and caught his gaze that said ‘try me’. “Shall we do this?”

“Well — I’m not here to fuck spiders,” he replied.

Distracted by this ridiculous statement, Hermione looked at Draco incredulously.

“I had an Australian colleague once, it's a saying—nevermind, yeah, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Into the Pensieve, she poured her libation — a vial containing her memory of the day the Snatchers brought her and her companions to Malfoy Manor. Draco, reluctantly, followed suit. Their drawn wands touched rose gold and then their senses knew nothing but whiteness.

Compared to the quiet of their office, the scene that materialised around them was complete pandemonium. Her younger self was tied to Ron, Dean, Griphook the Goblin and an unrecognisable Harry. His face was swollen to a grotesque degree, and his hair had grown to his shoulders. They were all unarmed. Their faces were pale and terrified. She remembered feeling it would be the end, resigning herself to her own death and thinking only of protecting Harry.

Narcissa, Lucius, Bellatrix and Fenrir Greyback were gathered around, nearly as tense as their prisoners. Bellatrix in particular looked livid, her dark eyes wide and wild. A cornered animal. She held Godric Gryffindor's sword in one hand, and her dark wand in the other. Hermione could almost feel the blackthorn whispering in her hand, she loathed that wand.

Draco’s younger self was not currently in the large room.

Narcissa spoke up, crisp and direct. “Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.”

“Wait,” Bellatrix piped up. “All except… except for the Mudblood.”

Ron started yelling, straining, fighting. Next to her, Draco inhaled deeply. His breath seemed to shudder, but she couldn’t worry about him, and refocused on the scene in front of her. Bellatrix had her silver knife now, was dragging young Hermione into the centre of the room by her hair — like she was to be the entertainment. Or dinner.

She had been so young.

Hermione looked at Narcissa, who was looking away like what was happening was a mere vulgarity. Lucius had a hard set to his jaw and a glint in his eye — Hermione couldn't see the son in the father's face at all. Not the son she knew.

She knew what came next. Bellatrix walked in a slow, graceful circle around her, forcing her to her knees with her wand. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and almost carelessly whispered, “Crucio.”

Pain like that could not be truly remembered or forgotten. Pain that didn't slice or burn but became. The Hermione under Bellatrix's wand screamed and fell to the ground, onto her back. Her fingers clawed the wooden floor—she remembered splinters under her nails, later. Her back arched impossibly. No other pain had ever come close.

It was over, for now. She could feel every inch of Draco next to her, but she would not look at him. She couldn't.

From far away, Ron started screaming her name.

“That was a taste, Mudblood, a taste. This can be over quickly, if you tell me what you know about this sword.”

Curled up the ground, with her hair scattered over her face, young Hermione could not speak. She cried silent tears.

Bellatrix knelt down next to her, smoothed her hair out of her face, in an almost motherly fashion, and then pointed her wand. “Crucio.”

“Granger, that’s enough,” said Draco next to her. She ignored him.

Ron was still yelling, louder and louder. There were noises in the basement. The door to the drawing room opened and Draco reentered. His steps faltered when he saw who was beneath his Aunt's wand, but he looked down, and walked quickly towards his mother. His fists were tightly clenched at his sides.

“Granger, for fuck’s sake. If you don't act, I will.” Her Draco was in her face, with a bloodless countenance and his eyes pleading. So close and she'd barely even noticed, like he was yelling from the end of a long hallway. Her own screams were echoing in her ears. Over and over, deafening.

No. She would not succumb to the screaming, or the death knell of her pulse. She sidestepped Draco and raised her wand. Her hand was shaking violently. Threads. Threads… threads.

You got out. Bellatrix is dead. Things didn't have to be this way.

…All monsters are human.

The scene changed. Dramatically. Where three adults had stood, three very small children dressed all in black wobbled about on stout legs. Two golden-haired toddlers blinked as they looked around the room. A girl with black curly hair in pigtails sucked her thumb.

From her place lying on the floor, younger Hermione sat up. With supreme calm, as if she had been at leisure, she stood.

“Looks like nap time is over,” she cooed. From thin air, she conjured a wooden chair, setting it on top of a fine rug. A slim book appeared in her hands in a puff of white smoke, and she beckoned the three children to sit in front of her with an inviting smile.

Young Draco — still 17, just as he had been, walked cautiously forward. He too, sat on the rug, and pulled the grumpy faced blond boy, who looked to be about three, into his lap. He pouted and chubby cheeks puffed out.

“This is seriously weird,” adult Draco chimed in.

“Shush,” she told him.

There was no longer any noise coming from the basement. There was peace and anticipation in the room, and then Hermione on the chair started to read.

“Where The Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak…”

The children and young Death Eater Draco listened intently.

“...And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be somewhere where someone loved him best of all…”

The story ended and so the whiteness came, marking one memory down — one to go.

The drawing room disintegrated, churned, then reemerged from the nothingness. Once again, there was dark purple, there was chaos and there was pain.

All too soon, a familiar tableaux was in their view. Bellatrix kneeling over a prostrate Hermione… young Draco was entering the room and striding over to his mother…

So much screaming.

Thinking about it now—thinking about Neville’s parents—how close had she come to total insanity? How close to losing her precious intellect and all the fires that burned inside of her? Her passion and her love and her very self…

Ron was screaming her name from the basement. The love for him that would never leave her heart throbbed painfully.

“I'm going to ask you again—” Bellatrix shrieked. “Where did you get this sword? Where?”

From the ground Hermione screamed and begged. Bellatrix straddled her contorted body, pressed her wand into her temple and the tip of her knife to her throat.

“...Crucio!”

They had been watching forever, surely. How had she lasted and lied through this horror? How had the Malfoys watched this all happening? Draco had watched Voldemort, his Aunt, his father and so many others torture and kill. Sometimes she looked at him, knowing this, and couldn't believe that he had the ability to throw her mocking smiles and laugh when an expletive slipped past her nets. He had been used for those same ills, and still stood with her today. Tender, she thought, good. Against all odds.

Young Draco hadn't watched as Bellatrix took her close to the edge of death and madness. She surveyed him now, turned away as he was. Once he looked back, and Hermione remembered… she remembered seeing his flat grey eyes from the ground. She had seen that they held intolerable pain, but also that he was frozen.

And then Lucius told young Draco to bring Griphook, and he was leaving as fast as he could.

Next to her, adult Draco had been still. He had blocked everything out, cut himself off from this world. Yet he was present enough to be raising his wand, closing his eyes — making changes to this awful reality.

He made no move to follow himself to the cellar. The moment hung suspended, like a guillotine was about to fall. Footsteps, and inaudible shouts sounded.

Young Draco burst back into the drawing room, tall and fierce, not a shred of fear on his face as he held his wand high. At his back were Harry, Ron, Dean, Luna and Griphook… even Ollivander. They were his allies; all ready to fight.

Bellatrix only had time to turn her head and bear witness as Draco stunned his own parents. Blinding red light soared over her head. Bang! He sent an Impediment Jinx at his Aunt that blasted her off her feet, away from the limp Hermione. Bellatrix’s body sailed into the wall, portraits scattering out of the frames, and glass shattering with the impact.

Immediately, Harry and Ron ran to Hermione who was stirring on the floor, but had her brown eyes open. Bellatrix leapt to her feet, and held her wand aloft. In her left hand she wielded her silver dagger, shining bright in the glow of the chandelier.

“I know your every thought Draco,” she purred poisonously. “Traitor. Traitor. I will put you down like the dog you are!”

She sent a curse that he deflected. Another. Another. Glass rained down. A whip of intense fire hit Draco's shield. He had difficulty maintaining it under her relentless attacks. Still, he held up a hand so everyone else would stay back.

Adult Hermione almost felt like she was watching what really happened. It was so unsettling that she wanted to bite her nails like she used to. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and looked on.

Bellatrix screamed a war cry as she sent a hateful purple light at her nephew, and at the same time threw her silver knife with precision towards his heart…

Young Draco dived, but not before whipping his wand towards his tormentor. The silver knife turned in the air, nearly faster than the naked eye could see, and sped towards its owner…

Sinking deeply into her throat.

Hermione gasped, and couldn't help it when she clapped her hands over her mouth. When she looked wide-eyed at the Draco beside her, he didn't seem to be Occluding, but he barely even blinked as they saw the whites of Bellatrix's eyes, and the sound of her choking on her own blood gurgled into the otherwise silent room.

“Alright. Time to go,” she whispered. When he didn't respond to her she pulled on his sleeve, then stood in front of him, as he had for her. “Draco.”

She gently cupped his face with her hands and finally he focused on her, as if emerging from a sightless, soundless place. From Purgatorio. He breathed deeply into his nose, raised his wand and froze the not-quite-memory.

Hermione took two steps backwards. She'd seen more than enough. She dug deep for the threads she needed and summoned the door to the tunnel in one of the long, crowded walls of the drawing room. The door swung open at her command.

Draco finally said something. It was: “Fuck walking.”

She turned back to him to find that he had a gleaming racing broom in one hand, and was sliding his extended wallet back into his pocket.

She looked at him a moment, and then nodded her assent. He beckoned her closer and wordlessly bade her mount the broom while he held it, which she did as gracefully as she could. He was soon behind her, his arms around her waist and gripping the broom in front of her, just between her knees.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered in her ear.

And he flew them down the cramped, dark tunnel. It was terrifying, and nausea-inducing, like the bastardisation of a theme park ride.

But he had her. He was pressed up against her — strong chest to back, her bottom practically in his lap. And it felt intimate and vital and like all she needed to face this fear and all her others.

The flight took less than five minutes versus the hour it usually took to shuffle through the acrid dark. They arrived at the sighing door and dismounted. The smell of Amortentia, which usually annoyed, grounded her.

They crossed the Love Room. Sharma waved cheerily from behind a gold cauldron, as if everything was normal.

They were back in their office and somehow she was sitting on Draco’s chaise longue, stroking the velvet with her fingers as Draco paced back and forth in front of the Pensieve. Minutes passed like that. Unable to help it, she tore off half her thumbnail with her teeth before going back to the tactility of the chaise.

He seemed to want to say something, but never opened his mouth to spit out whatever bitterness he chewed on. He just walked back and forth. Back and forth, like her fingers on velvet.

She should be writing notes, pondering it all. The truth was… she wasn't really thinking. All she could hear were her own screams piercing her eardrums. She nearly reached up to rub the scar on her neck, to feel the line of Bellatrix’s blade, the line between her life and death. She wanted to claw at it. This had been her idea, and she had done as she had planned, but she had thought she could be clinical, analytical. Not so — she had felt as if her present self and her memory self merged. There was no time or space between her and the pain of the Cruciatus Curse.

And then a knife had sunk into Bellatrix’s neck.

Really, she thought, she ought to have seen it coming.

“Draco,” she said softly, after she couldn't bear to watch him pace for a single second longer. “You know usually I ask if you want to talk about things, but I insist we talk about this.”

Draco stopped his pacing, but only to move toward his bottom drawer and withdraw a bottle of clear alcoholic spirits. “I’d prefer to drink.”

“Accio bottle!” Hermione cried before he could raise the bottle to his lips.

He looked murderous.

“Don’t be a cliché,” she said, holding her wand defensively in case he decided to summon the bottle back. He didn’t, so she vanished it.

“That was an absolutely appalling idea, Granger.”

“I’d call it a success.”

“Then you’re fucked in the head,” he snarled.

She sighed. “You’re angry.”

“Yes. No… I don’t know.” He ran his hands through his hair and then left them resting on top of his head.

“Did killing Bellatrix make you feel better?”

He was silent for a moment and Hermione thought he wouldn’t answer her.

“No,” he admitted. “Because nothing can change what really happened. I stood by—I let her hurt you.”

“But don't you see? That’s exactly it, Draco,” Hermione said. “Nothing can change what happened.”

“You deserve better,” he said.

Deserve — present tense.

“Your parents were in that room. You deserved better too.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked out of their office.

*

Hermione finally found the will to write notes, and had written quite a lot—even for her—including a personal reflection on the exercise and her impression of Draco’s choices. In what happened today, she felt they had proved that there was great potential in the idea of the Pensieve being used by a witch or wizard who also understood the magic of the human mind on a higher level.

One day, she told herself. One day.

Draco was gone a long time, but he returned, looking slightly more himself. In his hands he held a mug of steaming tea that seemed to be for her. It was just after four o’clock.

She wondered if any Muggles had seen an apparently lost osprey, flying through the London fog, or skimming along the Thames.

“I’m going home,” Draco announced after setting the tea beside her.

“You can’t,” she found herself blurting out.

He raised that brow.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” she explained.

“I’m a big boy, Granger.”

For the love of all that is holy, don’t look at his crotch.

“I’m serious,” she said.

“As am I,” he said, leaning on her desk.

“You can come home with me,” she offered. “We can… watch a film.” An ill-advised plan was forming in her mind. She didn’t want to be alone either.

“Are you offering to leave work early?” he said in mock awe. If he was mocking her, that had to be a good sign, right?

“Er—no, I was hoping to finish—”

“Goodnight,” he said, turning towards the door.

“No, wait… yes, we can go home early. Let me… get myself sorted.” She restacked her notebooks into piles that only made sense to her and slung her little green bag over her shoulder. “Ready.”

He held out a hand, indicating she should take the lead. He seemed mildly stunned that she would compromise the ironclad boundaries of the eight (nine, ten) hour workday.

“Um, we’ll just have to make a stop, on the way...”

“Sounds thrilling.”

They made their way to the Atrium, and rather than using the line of fireplaces under the ever changing symbols on the ceiling, Hermione held her hand out to Draco in the Apparition area. There was no one to see it, and had there been they would comment at their peril. He took it gently and they vanished.

In their new location they stood in the auspicious company of a rake, an axe, and a leaf blower. It was dark, cramped and smelled of grass clippings.

“Where are we Granger?” Draco asked slowly.

“In a garden shed.”

“Of course,” he said. “One might be tempted to ask why we are in a garden shed, though.”

“Habit, mostly,” she said dismissively. “Come on.”

Draco was looking all around, as they passed a holly hedge still dotted with a scarlet bounty. Hermione noticed Draco's hand stray to where his wand was stored in his pocket and she whispered: “No wands.” Then she added, “we’re safe.”

This seemed to be good enough for him, and his hand relaxed.

Once they were at the front door, newly painted a glossy blue, Hermione used her own wand from beneath the folds of her robe. With a whisper and a thought, she unlocked the door and told the wards (that her parents had no idea she had put on their house) that Draco was not a threat.

Frantic barking and skittering claws greeted them in the hallway as Charles the schnauzer bounded towards them. For once, he completely ignored Hermione, even the siren’s call of her unguarded leg, and went straight for Draco.

He leapt with the agility of a much younger dog, and kept leaping.

“Er—what is that?” Draco asked, unimpressed.

“Charles, my parents’ dog.” This served as confirmation of where they were too.

“Ah.” Many things wrote themselves across Draco's face and she couldn’t quite read them. He squatted down to pat Charles who squirmed in delighted circles.

“Be careful, he... er… humps.”

“Excuse m—oh.” Charles made his move, on Draco’s knee. It was vigorous. His eyebrows shot up.

“Charles — to bed!” Hermione scolded. Charles looked at her like she was old news and a total prude to boot, and trotted back down the hall.

On his feet again, Draco looked around with a new interest at the white walls, the photos, the art… the Muggleness of it all.

“Why are we here?” Draco asked.

“Just five minutes, need to collect—”

“Hermione?” she froze with her foot on the top bottom step of the handsome staircase as Marie Granger appeared at the top.

It was not yet five o'clock on a Friday afternoon. No one was supposed to be home.

“Hi… mum,” she greeted, wondering how much flack she would have to endure if she just snatched up Draco's hand and Apparated right back out of the house.

“What brings you here, darling? And with..?” She surveyed Draco through her glasses, clearly noting the black wizard’s robes they both wore.

“Draco Malfoy,” Draco supplied, not missing a beat. He seemed supremely unconcerned that she had now continued his trend and sprung her mother on him, even inadvertently. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Granger.”

Her recognition of the name was abundant on her face. “Draco, is it? Well dear if we're being fussy it's Doctor Granger, but Marie’ll do just fine.”

Hermione interjected. “—Dad left me a memory stick… on his desk…”

Draco’s face gave a tiny twitch at the mention of ‘a memory stick'.

“Oh,” said Marie. “Let me find it and then we can have a cup of tea. Or a glass of wine — it is Friday after all. Please make yourself at home, Draco.”

Draco gifted her a charming smile that Hermione had never seen on his face before, and her mother disappeared back upstairs. Hermione led him to the sitting room. By the wrist. Of course she would bring Draco into her Muggle parents’ house—nerve-wracking enough as it was—and her mother who never came home early would be home early.

She felt fractious already and couldn't sit still. Her foot bounced up and down. Draco was doing a slow perusal of the room, without commentary, stopping to closely examine mundane things like the lightswitch and television remote.

“We're not staying,” she whisper-hissed at him.

“Relax, one cup of tea… or a glass of wine, perhaps. It's unclear.”

“Stop telling me to relax.”

“Then stop being so tense. I'm good with mothers, Granger, trust me.”

“Muggle mothers?” Hermione retorted.

His smile fell a fraction, but then he tossed whatever he'd felt aside with a tiny headshake. “I thought your argument was that we are the same and divisions are false.”

Hermione turned her eyes up to the ceiling as though it could help her with this mess.

“Hermione!” her mother called from the kitchen. “Come and help.”

In the kitchen, Marie had three glasses of pinot grigio poured, and cheese and crackers laid out on a wooden board. She handed Hermione a small flash drive and, once it was pocketed, directed her to pick up the cheeseboard.

“He is exceptionally handsome,” her mother whispered as they walked down the hall.

“Mum…” Hermione whined. “Don't even start. And don't you dare tell him that you think he's handsome.”

“That man knows he is handsome, darling.”

Charles was sitting peaceably next to Draco on the couch. Marie passed him a glass of wine and the smile was back.

“Charles seems taken with you,” Marie commented, taking a seat in an armchair opposite. Chosen for best view of Draco (well lit, as usual). Hermione sat with him on the couch.

“He’s a good lad,” Draco said, patting the dog’s head. How had he stopped the humping? Did he charm him?! Or was Draco one of those men who professed not to care much for animals, while every animal in his vicinity was drawn to him like he was the Pied-bloody-Piper?

Of course.

“Why are you home, Mum?” Hermione didn't want to sound accusatory, and she failed spectacularly.

“Double cancellation. I notice you left work early yourself…” Mother knew this was unusual for daughter, so shrewdly threw the accusation back.

“Long day,” Hermione said. Draco nodded in agreement.

“And you two are…”

“Colleagues,” Draco supplied. “Hermione and I are working on research together.” Draco knew calling her Granger would draw another mother's confusion, and potentially her ire.

“Hmm.” Marie sipped her wine thoughtfully. “That's interesting… because we were told you're a secret agent and Hermione certainly didn't suggest that her secondment would involve throwing her lot in with some kind of magical MI6.”

Draco almost certainly didn't know what MI6 was, but continued smoothly. “Please be assured that the majority of what we do is paperwork and putting boxes into cupboards.”

“I see. And what are you researching?”

“We can't—” Hermione started.

“Memory,” Draco supplied.

Hermione could have killed him. Marie looked like she could’ve killed Hermione, too.

“So interesting.” Marie miraculously seemed to drop the matter there, but Hermione knew there would be a phone call. “So, you came to pick up the memory stick before 5 on a Friday, am I to assume you are intending to watch one of the ludicrous number of films your father has downloaded for you?”

“Inception,” said Hermione.

“Did you see it at the cinema, Draco?”

Draco shook his head. Hermione was quite sure Draco had never seen a film, but he seemed disinclined to admit that with her mother right there. A past version of Draco might have been proud of his lack of knowledge, but then again, a past version of Draco would have seen her and her mother as disgusting. Sometimes it was hard to forget.

But he'd sent the silver knife into his Aunt's throat.

Marie went on. “I didn’t much like the film, all the putting ideas in people’s heads… well, it was uncomfortable for me to contemplate that.” As her mother spoke, Hermione felt the wine churn in her stomach. “But I won’t spoil.”

She should've Apparated them off the stairs the minute her mother appeared. Consequences be damned.

As it was, Hermione kept trying to make subtle gestures and movements to leave. At one point, she stood up, stretched, stretched again and was forced to go to the loo when neither of them paid her any attention. Draco gave no sign that he was unfamiliar with Muggles or out of his depth. Hermione was terrified Draco would ask for a tour which her mother would be delighted to give… and then, inevitably, the photo albums would come out. It took an hour before Draco, who clearly knew what she was getting at, said:

“Thank you for the wine and the conversation, Marie. It was lovely to meet you but we really must be going.”

“You must come back for dinner and meet William sometime,” Marie said warmly.

Draco looked sidelong at Hermione, and smiled charmingly one more time. He almost fluttered his absurd eyelashes.

“I'd like that very much.”

Chapter Text

“Told you I was good with mothers,” Draco bragged, smirking at her just before she Apparated them out of her parent's tiny garden shed, to the hallway of 2 Twayblade Lane.

She didn't reply. She would not give him the satisfaction. But she knew, she knew…

Out of curiosity, she checked her mobile phone when they arrived into the kitchen and started making tea.

And there it was.

I like Draco, her mother had written, You seem happy xx

Then: Dinner soon!! xxx

The ‘or else’ did not needed to be added, but it was implied.

So, Hermione seemed happy after watching herself get tortured? She seemed happy… as long as she ignored the fact that all signs pointed to Draco being good, and her being the rotten one?

She was not allowed to be happy.

Tea made, she opened her almost completely empty larder and grimaced. She turned to Draco. “If I leave you here for five, maybe ten minutes to run to the shops… can I trust that you will behave yourself?”

“No,” he said simply. Then came the smirk. “Rela—”

“—Say relax and I start slapping.”

“Take a breath.”

“Hardly better.”

“Just point me in the direction of your knicker drawer and I'll be a very good boy while you're gone. You know—nevermind, I’ll just summon them.”

Hermione flashed two fingers in the air at Draco, to his delight. Directly from her kitchen she Apparated to the Asda with the very handy thick bushes nearby, where a witch in need of groceries might safely appear without breaking one archaic statute or another.

*

Hermione brought an absurd amount of snacks home in several bulging cloth bags stuffed into one very small green bag. She could admit that she had become somewhat overexcited in the aisles buying things for Draco to try.

She found him in the sitting room, in the leather armchair reading Burning For Truth: The Salem Witch Trials. He had the fire going, and had lit a line of candles along the mantelpiece. He looked native to the space, small and modest as it was.

Hermione set to work around him, Transfiguring the sofa into a nest type apparatus. She floated the food on trays around them, poured wine. She summoned her laptop, and he watched over his book as she activated protective spells around it, and inserted the flash drive.

“A memory stick,” he said, clearly downplaying his interest. “And just where are you going to stick it?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Shan’t.”

With utmost patience, Hermione explained. “A memory stick stores computer files. Could be documents, music, photos. In our case - a film. You stick it into the computer.”

She found the file she wanted, amongst a large number of others her dad clearly thought she’d enjoy. Inception.

In the candlelight, their couch nest surrounded by snacks looked very intimate indeed. With a distant thrill of horror, she wondered if she'd asked Draco on a date without even realising it.

There was no way to back down now. Except maybe vomiting. Should she start vomiting?

No, their day had been harrowing. Malfoy Manor and Marie Granger? They were here to keep each other company, to enjoy the simple pursuit of watching a film.

“Er… ready,” she announced. When Draco stood, she added: “I might change out of my robes… something comfortable…”

Draco seemed ready for this and waved his wand over himself, swapping dress black for soft black cotton. Her fingers flexed wondering just how soft his loungewear really was. Just like everything else he wore it was made of only the most inviting of luxury fabrics and fitted him to perfection.

Hermione couldn’t immediately think of any comfortable clothes she had that were not hideous, so she told him she needed the loo and ran upstairs to comb through her wardrobe.

You should not be concerning yourself with looking attractive.

Being stern with herself was not working. She put on a soft stretched t-shirt that she often slept in, as well as old, loose trackie bottoms. Then she decided that being deliberately unattractive was also not the way forward. She compromised with soft cotton shorts that showed off her legs — not that it mattered. It was not a date.

When she caught sight of him in the mirror, the osprey on her thigh seemed to be judging her tribulations. She tied her hair up in a high ponytail and ignored his tiny beady eyes and clicking beak.

Back in the sitting room, Draco had assumed prime position in the nest, to the point of pulling one of her crocheted blankets over his lap. Her heart squeezed, remembering that Crookshanks loved that one, and that her strange, insightful cat had also befriended Draco.

His gaze travelled from her bare legs to the glimpse of shoulder exposed by the distended neck of her t-shirt. Earth Day 1990, it said on the front, We've Only Got One Planet!

“These are disgusting,” Draco said, apparently prepared to accept her outfit without mocking. He brandished a packet of Twiglets.

She settled beside him. Well, not settled, she situated herself beside him. “Why are you still eating them then?”

He shrugged.

“Have you ever seen a film before?” she asked then.

He shook his head, still munching on Twiglets.

She started to explain. “It's a story with actors and music… sort of like the theatre, but really wizards haven't got anything quite like—”

“I trust you with my life, Granger.”

Her heart squeezed again. It might have been an even more moving sentiment if he wasn't still groping in a bag of Twiglets and smelling vaguely of Marmite.

She hovered the laptop and played the movie.

From the moment Leonardo DiCaprio’s Dom Cobb washed up on a beach in the film's opening scenes, Draco was beyond riveted. For the first hour, he barely ate and drank, but every so often would whip his head sideways to look at Hermione, awestruck.

She barely looked at the screen, finding much more entertainment in the act of watching Draco experience a first, than in the dramatics of the story. He was leaning forward, entranced by something made entirely by Muggles. It was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. The swelling soundtrack thrilled through her, and he gripped her arm during the climatic action scenes.

Oh, she had to take him to the cinema. If this was his reaction to a film on a laptop, a large screen might make him spontaneously combust. She wanted to watch him watch everything.

The film ended, with a close up on the enigmatic spinning of Cobb's totem.

“Wait,” he gasped. “It's over? Was it real? What happened?”

“I think it's supposed to be ambiguous,” Hermione suppressed her grin. But it was hard when Draco was looking at her like she was some kind of Goddess.

“That was the best thing I've ever seen in my life. Comparable to Quidditch.”

This was, she knew, the highest praise he could give. She couldn’t help herself, she gave him a radiant smile.

“100% Muggle made,” she proudly declared.

He didn't even try to claim Christopher Nolan must be a Half-blood at the very least. He looked down, away. “I wish I’d seen this when I was at Hogwarts.”

“It only came out last year.”

“Not for the story. For the, y’know…”

She knew.

“I know.”

“Can we watch it again?”

“Really?” she asked, surprised and delighted.

He nodded fervently. And there was no question of her denying him.

*

She was awoken by the heady cadence of her own breath. She couldn't remember finishing Inception for the second time. She opened one eye to see her laptop sitting safely on a side table. Her eye closed again. When had she fallen asleep? She couldn't recall—she hadn’t meant to—but she could remember feeling heavy and relaxed and not wanting to move upstairs even though she should… she should…

Their bodies had converged in the night, twisted and entwined like climbing vines. Deep sleeper that he was, Draco breathed slowly against the back of her neck… yet his arm encircled her, and his hand was under her t-shirt. Against her skin, his fingers were flexed as though at one point he had been stroking the softness of her belly.

As she slowly roused herself, she became aware of sensations sparkling through her body. Between her legs she could feel a pulse, as her heart brought blood to the place her brain decided she needed it most. Her shorts were bunched and clinging. Behind her, Draco was hard and thick beneath his soft trousers. Apparently she'd been rubbing against him in her sleep. Her subconscious hadn't received the message that that was the wrong kind of thing to be doing, and was already working overtime to ignore the other time they shared a bed.

For just one moment, she allowed herself to acknowledge her desires. How much she wanted to gently wake him, and whisper in his ear that she wasn’t sure she'd wanted anything more than she wanted to fuck him. Quick and dirty they’d collide, and, before their sweat had dried, they'd make slow, confusing love to each other. Then she might tell him other things, other things that required carving one’s heart out of one’s chest and leaving it to another’s undeserved mercy.

Hermione’s arousal was becoming physically painful, and she stopped allowing herself such licentious yearnings. As quietly as she could, she untangled herself from Draco, and climbed the stairs on guilty feet.

Against the bathroom door, she used frantic, messy fingers and then her wand to bring herself to orgasm within mere seconds. Then, she traipsed into the shower. The water that ran over her fevered skin was almost as cold as the snow that had started falling on Upper Flagley.

*

She awoke again, groggy in her own bed, wearing the ugliest, most demure pyjamas she owned. They were rather inappropriate for February, rich red and covered in a pattern of dark green Christmas holly. The cherry on top was the addition of frilly broderie anglaise at the high neck and cuffs.

It was 9am, rather than 6am, indicating that she had descended into total anarchy. Once the curtains were open, she saw the world outside the cottage was blanketed in snow, and as picturesque as a postcard. The sublime beauty—the romance—of it all was very annoying.

She wanted to run downstairs, and also to hide forever. Curiosity, the angel and devil on her shoulders, had her descending the narrow stairs.

She peered into the sitting room. Draco was still there, fast asleep. He was sprawled under the crocheted blanket, his light hair fell over his face and there was an empty Twiglet packet next to the cushion he was using as a pillow.

He was very lovely in the morning light. In every light. She wondered if he was still hard, and his feelings on the subject of heavy frottage.

No, she didn't. No, she wouldn't. Tenderness and desire were warring factions inside her and it was enough to make her dizzy. She vanished the mess, and made herself a coffee so strong it was a wonder the spoon didn't stand up in the cup.

She was sitting at the table, staring at the Prophet without taking anything in when Draco rose. He walked into the kitchen, stretching like a cat. She could see a strip of stomach, the top of hip bones. She did not look. She was in control.

She looked.

“Where did you go?” he said, voice gravelly with morning.

Her kitchen clock helpfully spoke up before she could do or say anything permanent or untoward, “Brunch at Finch House in 30 minutes.”

She was startled. She had completely forgotten.

“What’s a Finch House?” Draco asked, picking up her coffee and taking a sip.

“Harry and Ginny's house in Godric’s Hollow,” she explained.

“I see.”

“I forgot about brunch.”

“Ah well,” he said. “I see you've dressed for the occasion. You might want to cover up though, I think I just saw a flash of ankle.”

There hadn't been any chance he would let the pyjamas be without comment.

“...Do you want to come?” her mouth invited him of its own accord, perhaps to distract him from her festive nightwear.

Draco looked at her like she was raving on a street corner about the apocalypse. “To the Potterses?”

“Yes.”

He laughed dryly.

“Ginny said she would like to remeet you.”

“Mmhmm… and just so I can be prepared—would you say she duels more offensively or does she wait for her opponent to strike first?”

“Fine. Don't come.”

“I didn't say I wouldn't,” he said, because nothing made sense any more. “I just thought I should ready myself for the inevitable. And perhaps…” his voice dropped, becoming less cocky. “You'd like to warn them.”

“Warn them?” she repeated incredulously. “Why? Are you dangerous?”

Draco rolled his eyes and finished her coffee. “Fine. Have it your way.”

He waved his wand and was wearing clothes again, a navy blue turtleneck perfectly selected for brunch. With a jolt of her own delight, she didn't miss him wrapping a grey scarf around his neck too, one that came off her very own needles.

When she dressed, she barely noticed that she too had opted to wear a soft grey turtleneck, layering it under her lilac coat.

*

They Flooed to Finch House, and were greeted by the usual detritus in the sitting room, as well as a wide-eyed six year-old with messy hair staring at them.

“Muuum,” he called. “Aunty Hermy brought a blond man with her.”

James didn't hug Hermione as he usually would, continuing to stare openly at Draco.

“What was that, James?” said Ginny, striding into the room and then doing a double take. “Malfoy?”

“Potter.”

“Weasley,” she corrected.

“My mistake. I hope I'm not intruding.”

A door opened on their right and Harry entered the room, carrying Lily and with Albus on his heels. He froze.

“Malfoy?” Harry said, confused.

“Potter,” Draco nodded.

“Malfoy.”

“Enough with the surnames!” Hermione exclaimed. “I brought Draco for brunch, alright?”

“Yeah… er ‘course,” said Harry diplomatically. He walked over and offered his hand to Draco. Draco shook it. Lily buried her head into her dad's shoulder. “Don't suppose you've met the kids. Lily here, Albus the barnacle attached to my ankle and James… over there. Don't leave your drink unattended.”

“Got it,” Draco said. “You three can call me Draco if you like, but your dad can't.” It was a wink wink nudge nudge, and it broke the tension nicely.

“Excellent, I think I'd faint if you ever called me Harry. Too weird.”

“Hermione? A word?” said Ginny, pointedly nodding her head to the kitchen.

Hermione confirmed via glance that Draco was okay to be left and that he didn't intend to disgrace himself or challenge a father of three to a duel to the death.

Ginny was baking soft bread rolls and the intoxicating smell wafted throughout the kitchen. She put her hands on her hips, holding a spoon in one hand, her wand in the other. Both seemed as threatening as the other.

She didn't speak, but her eyes said: what the fuck?

“You said you wanted to meet him,” Hermione said carefully.

“Yeah but I meant like… a pint or six at The Naughty so I can make him uncomfortable and threaten his manhood. I just didn't realise you were together together.”

“Shhh…” Hermione chided her in case Draco heard. “We’re not!”

“So you just happened to arrive together, from the same place where you just so happened to both be, on a Saturday morning? Happenstance.”

“He came to mine first. This morning.”

Ginny's unimpressed face told her she was an abysmal liar.

“Fine. Draco just… slept on the couch. We watched a movie..?”

“And where did you sleep?”

“My bed! But… a little bit... on the couch.”

“Hermione!”

“Shh!”

“Is that the first time?”

“Not really.” God, it felt good to say something to someone.

“You’d better start talking… Ron could be here any minute.” Ginny said then.

“What?” said Hermione, alarmed. “You invited him?”

“Of course not,” Ginny said, turning to start scrambling a mountain of eggs. “But you know what he’s like.”

She did indeed. She would have to pray that he was busy or disinclined to visit that morning. But Ron and Harry were as inseparable as always, more than a few hours apart and one would start getting withdrawals.

“Look, it’ll be fine, alright? Nothing more to say,” Hermione soothed. Fine fine fine. “Do you need help?”

“Under control,” Ginny sniffed, obviously accepting this as a pause in the conversation only. “Harry could use another coffee though, poor sod. Make a pot.”

Hermione did as she was told.

By some miracle, Harry and Draco were engaged in a deep discussion about Quidditch, as James watched on intently. Harry was explaining that the Harpies would most certainly take the league this year, but Draco said his bias was blinding him to the miraculous rise of the Wasps. Both agreed that the Cannons were dead in the water, and then they laughed together and Hermione felt herself get a bit choked up.

Harry excused himself to look for Albus, and Lily tottered over to plop a picture book into Draco's lap.

He looked at Hermione in surprise, and perhaps for help, and she nodded encouragingly. It was another Muggle title about wayward dogs, Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy.

As Draco started to read, Lily clambered up to sit beside him.

“Out of the gate and off for a walk, went Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy…”

Hermione might ask Draco to read her picture books before she went to sleep.

After all the sex, of course.

She mentally scheduled another cold shower.

Ginny called them for food and they gathered happily around the long table. Everything was so easy and going so well. Ginny joined in the Quidditch chat, roundly dismissing the Wasps’ chances: “...couldn’t find the Snitch if it was the size of the Quaffle!”

Crack.

Someone Apparated into the foyer and Hermione closed her eyes dreadfully, knowing that, despite the size of the Weasley family and the amount of friends Harry and Ginny had, it could only be one person. It served her right for thinking incendiary thoughts such as: this is going so well.

“Mornin…” Ron greeted cheerfully, entering the room. He stopped dead, but let out an ‘oof’ as James cannonballed into him. “Wait. What is he—what are you doing here?” He addressed Draco directly, accusingly.

Before Draco or Hermione could speak, Ginny did. “I invited him, Ronald. But as usual, I did not invite you.”

Ron looked outraged between Ginny and Hermione. When he looked at Harry for help, Harry held up his hands in surrender.

“But—he—Slytherin!”

At this, everyone seated at the table seemed to blink at the same time, even the children.

“For shit's sake Ron, you're 31 years old and we haven't been under the tyranny of the house system in well over a decade. You can sit down and be civil, or you can piss right off,” Ginny said menacingly.

Ron hesitated, grumbled, and then summoned a plate. Amongst his mutterings Hermione heard ‘Death Eater’ ‘definitely charms his hair blond’ and ‘bellend’.

The ease was gone. Draco was Occluding. Hermione was reciting Pride and Prejudice in her head:

My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.

For a while, the children were the only ones talking. Lily was asking over and over again for more ‘bana’, when there was still a whole banana in her bowl.

“Tell me Malfoy, what are your thoughts on Muggles?” said Ron, feigning a light, conversational tone.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Draco replied, deathly calm, cutting up a fried tomato. “Food, literature, art… music? Politics, perhaps?”

Ron looked as if he didn't believe Draco could speak on any of those topics, which Hermione thought was tantamount to a kettle calling the cauldron black. Ron's heart was almost always in the right place, but he had never made much of an effort when it came to Muggle things. He regarded her laptop like it was a Horcrux.

“How about… Muggle rights?” Ron prodded.

“Strongly in favour,” Draco said, his voice now taking on a hard edge.

“And where do you stand on their equal rights..?” Ron leaned forward.

With a breath through his nose, Draco started speaking as though it was Lily asking him these questions, rather than Ron, “Weasley, last night, I saw something made by Muggles that convinced me that on some matters… we wizards have been surpassed.”

Harry—keen to steer clear of the conversation up until this point—asked with great interest, “what did you see?”

At the same time, Ron scoffed. “Bullshit.”

“Ron, what is this?” Suddenly, Ginny had her wand out, angled offensively at her older brother. “If this is your version of civility, then I need to tell you that it looks a lot like you being a complete tosser.”

If there weren't children present, Ginny would have replaced the word ‘tosser’ with the word ‘cunt’. Probably would have sprinkled it in a few more times too, as punctuation.

“Bat Bogey, Bat Bogey!” cheered James.

“Ron, Gin… bring it down a notch, yeah?” Harry intervened before things got out of hand. “Er—Hermione, Malfoy… you carry on.”

His words had no effect. Ron jumped to his feet and Ginny did the same. Lily threw her breakfast onto the floor.

“That’s it!” Ginny shouted. “Outside!”

“I told you there’d be a duel,” Draco said, in an undertone that everyone could hear.

“Not a duel,” said Ginny. “Warm clothes. Brooms. I will destroy you, Ron. Let’s fucking go.”

Ginny had forgotten not to swear. Or, she had stopped caring and given in to her true nature.

*

What was supposed to be a grudge match between Ginny and Ron, somehow was reorganised into a two-on-two match in the snowy garden Quidditch pitch. Ginny and Ron ended up on the same team, with Harry and Draco as their opposition.

“First to 150,” Ginny decreed.

Hermione was charged with wrangling the children, which really wasn't too hard. She conjured a couch nest for them all, on a slope overlooking the pitch, and added blankets and warming charms on top of their woollen clothing. Lily played in the snow, while Albus and James attentively watched the action in the air. Hermione had never found herself so interested in Quidditch.

Draco and Harry made an exceptionally good team, each anticipating the other's movements and moving fluidly into clear space or to cover the other. Almost every shot they were able to take, soared right through the hoop. In one memorable play, Harry performed a harrowing dive, as though off a cliff, and threw a long vertical pass to a perfectly positioned Draco. Draco feinted to pass a snarling Ron, and scored 10 points with dizzying speed. Hermione stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle her undiplomatic cheer.

No matter their skill, Ginny was an unstoppable force. In truth, she probably could have beaten the three men one-handed. She was nothing but a blur of flame on the wind. Precision in every movement and burst of acceleration. Ron too, did some solid keeping in front of the single ring at their end, and scored a few goals of his own. From all players, there was a lot of yelling, swearing and a near brawl - surprisingly that was between Ginny and Harry.

The final score was 150-60.

At the end of the match, Draco held his hand out to Ron, even after they'd had an exchange that was along the lines of ‘Pureblood arsehole’... ‘if there were two cunts in town, Weasel, you’d be both of them’. Amazingly, the planets governing humility and reason aligned, and Ron shook Draco's hand. Hermione thought that it was well done by Ginny, if Ron had also lost, she doubted he would have given an inch.

“Weaselette,” Draco said to Ginny, as they were all walking back toward the house. “You are a phenomenal flyer.”

“Always nice to meet a fan,” Ginny winked at him, taking the nickname in good humor.

*

After a cup of tea, Draco begged his leave, citing plans in Brighton that afternoon. Hermione walked him to the Apparition foyer.

“Give Theo my best,” she said.

He smiled a true smile, and before he left he kissed her softly on the cheek, very close to the edge of her parted lips.

Ron was in the living room, entertaining the children by growing various different kinds of neon coloured facial hair. As she walked by, he stared at her with a glowing green moustache and old wounds in his eyes, before turning back to his niece and nephews.

Ginny went upstairs for a lie down and she and Harry were charming the last of the dishes away.

“You’re thinking loudly,” Hermione said to him.

“Nothing but Doxies up here I'm afraid,” Harry tapped on the side of his head. “Just struggling with a world in which Malfoy might be alright. Do you know what he was talking about about the Muggle thing he saw? I'm struggling… was it a helicopter or something?”

Hermione laughed. “A film. Inception.”

Harry shrugged, not recognising the blockbuster title - his feet were both firmly in the wizarding world these days. “Your doing, I assume?”

“Yeah,” she admitted.

“Who would have thought?”

Harry closed the cupboard when the last cup placed itself neatly in its spot.

“Did… did Malfoy ever tell you how he got his wand back off me?” Harry asked.

“No…” And now come to think of it, how had she never asked?

Harry made a thoughtful noise.

“I assume you're about to tell me.”

“‘Spose I have to now… well, I thought about snapping it, but that wand cast the spell that defeated Voldemort once and for all… hard to explain but it felt like a friend, yeah? And I knew what he did for you, sending you your wand back, and all.” Harry scratched his neck awkwardly. “Anyway, I sent an owl to Draco and we met in the middle of nowhere at midnight, because you know, duelling is illegal and an arrest is a bad start to a career as an Auror even when you're the Chosen One.”

“You duelled Draco!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Shh—Ginny doesn't know and I snuck out to do it so keep it together, alright? Couldn’t just give him it, yeah? So we went at it, proper disarming only. And we went for over an hour, Hermione. Ridiculous it was. And I was just thinking about giving up, I was knackered… and he got past my shield.”

“And he had the two wands in his hands, and said: ‘thank you’. And he was gone.”

She could imagine it. Harry, righteous and good, wanting to be the bigger man and choosing to trust. Draco, shellshocked and disillusioned, offered this quintessential part of himself by one he was told to consider an enemy.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Hermione asked.

“I dunno. Seemed kind of private, I guess. I know Ron wouldn't have approved.”

Hermione looked at the wand in her hand. The Phoenix wand in Harry's.

“Draco saw you defeating Voldemort as his second chance,” she said quietly, as sure of this as she had been of anything in her life.

“Yeah,” said Harry, looking through to purple-bearded Ron and his giggling children. “I’m glad.”

Chapter Text

How did one scratch an itch that was underneath the skin?

Draco had spent most of his Sunday at home in the treetops, surrounded by spiralling clouds of smoke, doggedly trying to empty his mind. He had leaned on Occlumency as per usual, but it was very hard to think of still waters inside his head when a naked woman swam lazily through them.

She floated on her back, this woman, with hypnotising tendrils of hair swirling all around her.

He wanted to watch films and eat disgusting salty twiggy things and let her wriggle against him.

He didn’t really sleep. He dreamed of death and screaming. And then more wriggling. The kind that involved eye contact, heavy breathing and not a stitch of clothing.

His morning wank barely took the edge off, and he took his cock in his hand for a second time in the shower. Thinking of a darkened room, with a sloped ceiling and the swell of breasts under his tongue.

There would be no rest for the wicked, no relief for the condemned. A blackbird he could see through the skylight seemed to be judging him harshly.

Even with your prick in your hand you still can't locate your balls, the bird seemed to say. Is today the day you declare yourself?

Today would not be the day. As covered in previous stern inner-monologues, Draco Malfoy did not chase. Draco Malfoy had simply regressed to the temperament and onanistic habits of his 15-year-old self—minus the appalling bigotry. So things weren't all bad.

He arrived at work even earlier than Hermione, still on edge. He absolutely forbid himself from a work wank. He was not yet ready to dive headfirst and splatter himself (pun intended) all over rock bottom.

Think about work things. Work things like… Granger bent over a desk, her lovely round arse bared and ready for me and… mail.

There were two letters in their external mail tray, one was addressed to Hermione Granger, one to Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

He opened the latter letter.

Dear Hermione,

It was a pleasure to receive your letter.

You and Mr. Malfoy are most welcome to examine the Hogwarts Pensieve. You may use the Floo Network and enter through the staff room fire. My office is free in the afternoons while I am teaching - the password is ‘Geamhradh’.

Please do advise me of a time you are free for a drink at The Three Broomsticks. I would be delighted to see you,

Take care,

Minerva McGonagall

…Take care? Draco didn’t know McGonagall was capable of such sentiment.

He was just about to open the second letter, ignoring what was written on the envelope, when the addressee herself walked through the door, huffing in that adorable way of hers.

She had really taken to wearing black, and today it was fitted to perfection. She had left her hair down, and it was everywhere, because she was a cruel woman and he was a depraved man. When she tied it up, he would sometimes send a non-verbal Diffindo to break whatever tie or clip she’d dared to tame it with.

“Are you opening my mail again?” she said suspiciously, placing her green bag on her unforgivably messy desk.

Draco passed her the letter innocently, and she opened it. She read faster than lightning, and he didn’t have nearly enough opportunity to look at the lovely freckles scattered across her nose.

What he really wanted was to stand over her and cover those freckles with his—

He cleared his throat.

Her lips parted in surprise at what she was reading and he had to look away before he accidentally immolated something. “Augusta Longbottom has agreed to meet,” she said.

Draco raised his eyebrow.

“Meet me, that is.”

“Of course,” he sat down at his desk chair. “I believe the letter she sent me told me to kindly curse my own bollocks off, to save her the trouble.”

“Ah well,” Hermione was trying to stifle her giggle and he wished she wouldn't. “We’ll make sure to shield them well if you decide to accompany me. I'll make you an enchanted cup.”

Draco Malfoy had faced many perils. Talking about cupping bollocks with Hermione Granger rated highly amongst them.

“There was another letter, from McGonagall,” he told her. “Fancy a field trip this afternoon?”

“To Hogwarts?”

“To Hogwarts.”

*

Outside the castle, the Scottish weather was decidedly Scottish, and whipped and whistled around them in a frenzy. It was dark grey and utterly miserable. Hermione's hair was like a living thing, dancing freely in the wild wind.

Draco had endured Hermione’s giddy excitement at encountering Neville Longbottom in the staff room. She had thrown her arms around him, and Draco had folded his own arms impatiently, trying to forget that he knew that young Granger and young Longbottom had had some sort of tryst. He would not admit (even to himself) that these days Longbottom looked like the kind of man best described as ‘rugged’. Herbologist or no, covering him and his frankly perplexingly sculpted pectoral muscles in some sort of fungus would be unsporting, so Draco resisted.

A word had rung through Draco when Hermione had nestled her sleeping body against his, only days before. When she slept while the perfect snow fell outside their haven, yet he could not. It was a word that he knew she would hate. Knowing that only made his mind yell the word even louder.

Mine.

Neville looked at him, friendly but puzzled. Draco did not smile.

“Do you think I’m rugged?” he asked Hermione after they’d the staffroom and started walking up the stairs.

Hermione’s loud derisive snort in response was highly offensive, but he was mollified by her patting him on the cheek and telling him: “Don’t worry, you’re very pretty, Draco.”

Soon after, they stood in front of a gargoyle, and Hermione did her best Gaelic accent: “Geamhradh.” There was a lot of unnecessary ‘r’ rolling and when it took three tries, he laughed at her. She scowled back at him. He wanted to snog her senseless.

The stairs appeared.

As soon as they entered the circular office, Draco’s eyes alighted on the portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He smiled serenely at the pair, his intelligent eyes knowing behind his half-moon spectacles. Over the years, Draco had burnt innumerable card versions of that face… probably best not to burn anything in McGonagall’s office, though…

Yes, me and Granger, you ancient twat. What do you have to say about that?

Dumbledore blinked and Draco was on a tower. In his mind, he always ended up on that tower.

Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.

Ugh.

Hermione had started examining the Pensieve, and Draco was in a staring competition with a dead man.

He had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed the portrait of Severus Snape. He was painted in the dungeons, with a cauldron bubbling in the background. Same jet black hair, same jet black robes. His lips were unsmiling but his dark eyes glittered with deep understanding.

It was altogether bewildering.

“Shall we try a memory?” Hermione said, looking at him over her shoulder.

“Sure,” he shrugged, her voice enough to bring him back to the present. “My place or yours?”

Pathetic.

“Your turn.”

“Yeah alright,” he agreed. “Any requests?”

Something filthy, something filthy, something filthy… his inner voice chanted, his inner fingers crossed.

“You said… my cat, Crookshanks once slept on your chest… can we… would that be—?”

He was a Flobberworm and she was goodness personified. He nodded and let the memory of her weird, squash-faced cat surface. Out of his mind and into the basin.

“Here we go,” she said.

The room dissolved. It was a doddle; a soft breeze next to the hurricane of being squashed into nothingness and then shat back out again. And then they were in his memory. Compared to their Pensieve it contained only whispers and shadows. There was no smell, little colour.

Their Pensieve. Yuck. What was another word for pathetic?

They were standing amongst the dark stone and proud green of a three bed dormitory—empty until the door opened.

Young Draco stalked in, loosening his tie. There was a small dragonfly badge pinned to his chest. Theo and Blaise were elsewhere, perhaps engaging in bacchanalia in a smoke-filled billiard room. Timeline wise, there was almost certainly fellatio involved. For a while there, there was... a lot of fellatio. Draco had seen more than he ever cared to.

His young self saw something on the other side of the room, and stopped in his tracks.

“And what are you doing here?” he asked.

Crookshanks, sitting upright on his bed, meowed loudly. He kept going. The sound lasted for an astonishing eight or nine seconds before fading out.

“Honestly.” Draco held the door open. “Off you go.”

Crookshanks did not move. He blinked very slowly—he was a Romanov and Draco a lowly serf. Draco's life and death were at his whim.

Hermione made a little sniffling noise and Draco would not look at her. Because noises like that made him feel like he was made of something soft and squishy, something that had no spine whatsoever.

Draco went to his bed, sighed, and unceremoniously picked up Crookshanks. As soon as he’d put the cat’s paws on the floor outside the dormitory door, Crookshanks trotted back in, leapt, and curled up on his pillow.

Young Draco sighed again, and closed the door. He put on pyjamas, and slid under his covers. Bested.

“I want to make it clear that this is a one-night stand,” Draco said, waving his wand to extinguish the green lamp beside him.

It was almost impossible to see Crookshanks crawling onto Draco’s chest and lightly sinking his claws in, but they could most certainly hear it when he started to purr.

Hermione had grabbed his arm and had tears shining in her big caramel doe eyes. The memory ended, and the Hogwarts Pensieve helpfully evicted them back to McGonagall’s office. For the briefest of seconds, he had his hand on her back and she pressed her face into his chest, right over his heart.

“You knew he was mine,” her muffled voice flowed into him. “And you let him sleep with you.”

Fuck having a spine, he was content to be a hopeless pile of mushy peas.

Chapter Text

Something didn't feel right.

With a strange sense of foreboding, Hermione opened the door to the small office, finding Draco reclining in a chair with one black dragonhide boot propped up on his desk. An eagle feather quill before him took feverish notes as his instruction. Nearby, the Pensieve sat placidly on its plinth, lending the room its romantic hue.

They usually left together, but earlier that night he had said he had something to finish and she shouldn’t wait for him. Perhaps she was about to find out what that something was.

He looked up at her, and she couldn’t name the expression on his face as he scanned her up and down, yet for some reason pinpricks of dread ran over her bare arms. For a second, she had allowed herself to think he had his mind on pleasures—but this thought drained away like dirty dishwater.

Suddenly, she was cold.

“What are you wearing?” Draco asked accusingly.

She pointedly ignored the question. He was the one who had suggested through their enchanted notebooks—now with added helpful chiming sound—that she needed to come post-haste… she didn’t stop to apply mascara.

“What’s the emergency?” she asked him, sitting down in her floral armchair.

“That jumper.” Pink and white stripes, stretched and riddled with holes. A favourite, too-well-loved true handknit, made using absolutely no magic. Just to prove that she could.

Hermione stood, and turned to leave, finding herself in no mood to be mocked on a Friday night.

“There’s an anomaly,” Draco said to her back.

She turned again, folding her arms and raising her brows expectantly. “You’re working very late, haven’t you got Friday night plans?”

Last Friday, he’d been with her. He’d slept warm and hard against her back. She’d wished he was there every night since.

“I do,” he said.

“It’s almost midnight.”

“They’ll wait,” said with the confidence of a person whom people waited for, but it was impossible to ignore the undercurrent of agitation in his smooth voice.

“So—an anomaly?”

“We’ll have to go in.”

“Must we?” Entering the Pensieve necessitated the long walk down the passageway back into the Love Room. Frankly, she couldn’t be bothered; it was Friday night after a long week of work and denying her feelings. She was very tired, probably hormonal, and filled with unending guilt.

“—If you would just fly down the passageway like I suggest every time, we would be exponentially more productive. You saw it for yourself last week.”

“No, thank you. A walk will be fine. Last week was a one-off.”

Draco unfolded himself from his seat and the quill signed off with a flick.

“Are you coming?” he said.

“Fine,” Hermione sighed. Friday night or not, Draco had baited his line well with a word like anomaly. He also seemed as moody as she felt, and that was a curiosity in itself.

In unison, they stood before the swirling contents of the basin and touched their wands to the surface.

They became horrid white nothingness, before coming to land on mossy ground, studded with tiny white, star-shaped flowers.

As always, the aroma of the Love Room smacked her over the head, begging her to notice, to surrender to champagne and raspberries and making love slowly on a Sunday morning. Sometimes she could ignore it. Tonight was not one of those times.

Draco and Hermione, standing near the wall of mirrors, faced Draco and Hermione standing side by side near the mosaic of Eros and Psyche.

Hermione’s heart dropped into her stomach acid.

“You know where we are,” said Hermione from the past.

“Isn’t it obvious? The smell? We’re in the Department of Mysteries. More specifically, we are in the Love Room.”

“Amortentia.”

“And they say you’re bright.”

“What can you smell?”

Watching the scene unfold, present Hermione thought she might vomit. There was no way she could look at the Draco who brought her here, so she stared hard at the one from the recent past, declaring that love potions smell like sizzling meat. Months ago, she hadn’t appreciated that the look on his face was one of confusion, as if he too found the smell of the room to be confrontational. Perhaps different than it had been before their time in the Pensieve.

Buzzing filled her ears. Past Hermione laughed.

“Lucky Sharma.”

She didn’t know what was coming but she froze, anticipating it, realising that the Draco of now might be studying her reaction. How should she act? What should she say? What did a modified memory look like in the Pensieve?

Perhaps it looked like an anomaly.

“—His wife and grandchildren must have thought so too, especially when I showed up with my cello.”

“You didn't!”

“Oh I did.”

Abruptly, in the space of an eye blinking, past Draco and Hermione disappeared from the spot they were standing in and reappeared, approximately three metres from where they’d been before as thought they had silently Apparated. They’d been side by side, but now faced each other. Past Hermione’s face betrayed utter devastation as Draco stooped to get his wand. Next he carded his hands through his hair, a gesture of comfort and puzzlement.

The scene froze.

“I think I have illustrated my point,” present Draco said flatly.

She would do anything but look at him. Her pulse thundered, as though she had been running for her life.

“My hypothesis is that something is missing.” His voice sounded cold, and dangerous. She wanted so badly to explain, or lie, but her tongue felt like a ship’s anchor. “Or perhaps… something was taken.”

When she barely reacted, he moved away from her, and sat at the desk with the typewriter, as if casually sitting down to watch a new, scintillating film.

O but my heart is broken

“I see that this problem has also stumped Granger’s superior intellect!” he said with faux-heartiness. “Never fear—our successful experiments adjusting memories to better understand and engage with them mean that we can delve deep into this mystery.”

Draco’s wand moved rapidly. As he had a thousand times before, he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. The scene played backwards and stopped.

“Oh I did,” said past Draco, once again.

And then he and the Hermione in the short skirt energetically leapt to action, performing some truly astonishing feats of gymnastics:

A front handspring. A round off, a back handspring and a full twisting layout.

They finished, facing each other, Draco’s wand on the ground and tears in Hermione’s brown eyes.

Hermione in the horrible jumper felt like she was watching not only a car crash, but also investigators meticulously piecing together what caused that car crash. There was a bleak comedy to the scene that had just played out, she knew, but nothing had ever been less funny.

Looking closer to bored than amused, present Draco manipulated the scene to begin again, somehow managing to Occlude while fury emanated from him like an antarctic breeze.

Then, past Hermione turned herself magnificently into an otter, and was chased by osprey Draco around and around the room.

“Stop,” Hermione whispered, walking over to the typewriter.

The scene froze and grey eyes pinned her in place, appraising her and finding her wanting.

“I would have thought…” Slow silky words. “Such a mysterious occurrence would thrill you, and that you would want to get to the bottom of it immediately.”

“Please—”

He held up his index finger, silencing her. “I have one more theory.” He closed his eyes once more and Hermione braced herself for pain.

“Oh I did,” said past Draco once back on his starting mark.

Past Hermione walked slowly towards the bright fountain, looking around in wonder. Somehow she was more beautiful, her clothes cleaner, her curls at their best, coiled and shining. She was dutifully followed and watched with fondness.

“Will you tell me what you can really smell?” said October Hermione, softly, flirtatiously.

“Show you mine if you show me yours, Granger,” quipped October Draco.

She looked down, and when she raised her eyes back up they were nervous, but soft. Doe eyes, he had once said.

“I smell you,” she confessed

Supple leather, rich wood, tart raspberries. Sun drenched mornings, Champagne, and impossible things. It was him. None of this had happened, but it didn’t mean that truths weren’t being spoken.

“Walking back in here was like pressing my face into your hair,” he admitted. “Like fucking Earl Grey tea, books and fucking berries. Like you are everywhere.”

The Hermione who never was gaped.

“If we’re truly back,” Draco said, squaring his shoulders as though for a fight, looking down at her with an excruciating earnestness that she had never seen before on his lovely, pale face. “Whatever’s next, it’s not alone, alright? It’s you and me.”

You and me.

This may not have happened, but this was Draco’s world, his narrative.

“Alright,” Hermione smiled with all her teeth, hearing what she never hoped to hear from him.

When Draco dropped his wand and seized her face between his hands, she gasped in surprise. He lowered his mouth to hers, and there it was: a searing, spectacular kiss between two people clearly besotted with each other.

Another Hermione gasped, taking a backwards step into the sharp corner of the desk. Pain erupted but she couldn’t look away. Behind the desk, grey eyes looked on, as though they were still witnessing all the wonder of paint drying on a fence.

By the fountain, the couple grew frantic. The kiss was deep and desperate and messy. He was pulling her gently, exposing her throat to his tongue. She fumbled with his buttons and he slid his hands under the hem of her matching shirt. Whatever he was doing with his hands elicited breathy sounds from her pleading lips.

Moments, seconds, minutes later he started unbuttoning her too. When it was done, without a second thought, he pulled the straps of her camisole—that camisole—down to bare delicate breasts, pink nipples hardened.

“I want you, Draco,” half-naked Hermione moaned. “So much. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Stop this right now!” fully-clothed Hermione shouted, finally finding her words. She couldn’t watch for another second.

The scene froze, which really didn’t improve things much.

What on earth was happening? Was she losing her grip on reality? Was he? None of that happened, and yet… what did he know? Was he confessing something? Why was he looking at this memory in the first place? All at once, she was exhilarated and nauseated and disgusted with herself.

She took a leaf out of Draco’s book and conjured giant curtains. She couldn’t look at the scene before them, especially when those were, accurately, her breasts. He had seen her like this—thought about her like this. It was more than too much, it was a sword through the gut. And that he was so close to the reality of the memory he did not have, did nothing but twist the blade.

“Perhaps more plausible than backflips,” drawled Draco, apparently unperturbed.

He stood again, walked around the desk to place himself in front of her, too close for any kind of comfort. She had nowhere to go and had a moment of appreciating how tall he really was, and how he could weaponise his size against her in an instant.

Draco reached into the pocket of his black robes, and slowly drew out a folded piece of paper with a frayed edge—a page torn out of a book. Carefully, he unfolded the page and held it in front of her face.

She only had the opportunity to see the first sentence before he let the paper go:

Sort it out Granger.

It danced down through the air and settled at her feet.

The keys of the typewriter tapped and clicked.

“You went through my things?” she rasped, horrified.

“You went through my head!” His face twisted, and he was that hateful boy she once knew. Then he was gone again. Cold. “The way I see it, we have two options. We go down that corridor and then we take a little trip into your recollection of these events—compare notes, as it were.” Again, that menacing whisper. “Or, you can give me back my memory.”

She felt dirty. Like a despicable, disgusting human being. She knew he was furious at her—she had never seen him so angry. But some part of her knew that the whole truth might mean he would never smile at her again and call her a laugh.

When she didn't speak he continued. “—All this time together, and you knew. When I touched you, you fucking knew. What was your plan—to let this go on forever? Until I finally broke and took you to bed or spilled my guts to you, then you have the chance to humiliate me?”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said miserably, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Draco, I’m sorry.”

The sound of his name appeared to incense him, he almost looked like he might curse her, but his wand stayed at his side. “Always with the crying—don’t bloody cry. I don’t want an apology. I—I didn’t ask for any of this, I didn’t ask for you to be inside my head all the fucking time.” He tapped his finger hard against his temple. “I’m going fucking mad here. Thinking I did something, or hurt you—”

Nothing could stop the tears now.

“You didn’t,” she choked.

“Well you hurt me!” he roared, making her jump both at the noise and the revelation. His free hand was fisted on his chest, knuckles bloodless. “Yes, I was an awful, cowardly, fucked-up teenager. Mostly because I spent every single day terrified out of my wits. It isn't an excuse, and I may not have spent the time since then grovelling on my knees—but I have tried to be better. I thought that somehow, maybe, there seemed to be some divine justice in you finding the Pensieve and us being forced to help each other. In our… whatever it is we’ve been doing since then.” He took a furious breath. “—But I will not be treated like some prop in your fucked up life.”

“You’re not a prop. Never.” That she had ever led him to thinking that made her despise herself even more.

“Give me the memory,” he demanded.

“I can’t,” she sobbed.

“Can’t… or won’t?”

She couldn’t find the words to explain, could barely draw breath and he turned away in disgust. With another sharp breath and wave of his wand, the tunnel appeared on a blank space of wall. The tunnel that would lead her away from the memory of the Love Room to the reality of it.

“I need you to go,” he gritted out. “Now.”

Leaving felt exactly what she needed too, but it still hurt that it was him saying it. She needed to make sense of all of this without his eyes on her. Yet, she wanted him to look at her—to see her. To understand. She wanted to ask if he meant the you and me comment, if he had really wanted to tear her clothes off then.

She needed to know if this was the end.

“Go.”

Sobbing silently, she fled, running into the tunnel without looking back. All the while hearing Draco say words he never said.

It's you and me.

You and me.

In the true Love Room, after one of the darkest walks of her life, Hermione thought only of Draco. She pulled beautiful, violent golden light from her chest, and summoned the door to the round room.

She knew what it meant.

Chapter Text

Draco lied.

That was nothing new; lying profusely had kept him alive. Pureblood children learned to spin pretty lies many years before they learned that honesty was regarded as a superior virtue by most in their extended world.

Draco had lied to Hermione about having plans. There was no one waiting for him, because he had been waiting for her. With abounding hypocrisy, he was always waiting for her to say fucking something, as if maybe she could make it all make sense. It didn’t make sense. No—it did. It made more sense than anything else he’d ever felt or indeed tried not to feel.

He sat in a chair in the Love Room contemplating a pair of curtains, fury still running over him like fingernails.

Maybe he hated her. He had, once.

No, he didn’t. I can't. I can’t. He couldn’t slip back into that mask, or even think it for a moment. Lying to himself, Draco had found, was an art he’d never truly been able to master. He’d lied to himself to try to love his father and keep Astoria and nearly Occluded his brain into porridge trying not to see what was right in front of his face.

He wanted to smash the stupid typewriter writing about heartbreak, but it quite possibly carried some sort of curse that would cause ironic cardiac distress so he resisted.

O but my heart is broken

Draco glared.

…Stupid fucking typewriter.

He desperately wanted to leave the cloying, torturous scent of the room, but she would still be walking down the tunnel because she was stubborn, and deceptive and the worst best thing that had ever happened to him.

With a flick of his wand, Draco summoned the torn page that started all this into his hand from where he’d discarded it at her feet. No, he shouldn’t’ve been going through her desk, but he was genuinely looking for something—though wand to his head he couldn’t now remember what that was—he’d opened her notebook, and he’d seen his name.

He’d read it a thousand times over a few short hours. Duplicated it, so he could set at least four copies on fire. Hadn’t he said those words at the foot of her bed, with her a beautiful mess wrapped up in blankets? Sort it out, Granger. So she’d taken his comment and made a list as if it was a dictum which was so fucking typical he could slap her… and just hope that she slapped him back. In a fog of disbelief and fury he’d accidentally memorised her list, tattooed it onto his brain like he’d tattooed an osprey onto his skin; neat, swotty handwriting that he could read clearly in her voice. He is sunshine, and you are a plant.

Draco had looked up the word photosynthesis in the comically enormous Encyclopaedia of the Muggle World that Hermione had insisted on bringing in to the office for his reference. The gist of it was that plants needed sunshine to live. Insulting, really, that she’d thought he didn’t know such a thing despite it being covered in first year herbology, or by his mother lecturing him about hydrangeas at age four.

And Hermione was wrong anyway: she was sunshine. She was streaming shafts of it blazing in through library windows. She was perfect Quidditch conditions. She was a ball of too-meaningful golden light pulled from his chest to summon a hidden door.

She was a manipulative, memory-stealing, mindfucker.

What was she hiding from him? No matter what she said, Draco could not help concluding that he’d hurt her. He’d hurt her before, after all, directly and by association and by bitter inaction. Maybe he’d taken it too far. Maybe… maybe he’d done something truly horrible. But if that was the case, would she have continued to see him? To roll her eyes and smile her little exasperated smiles at him? Draco remembered how he’d felt on the day they escaped his memories—dazzled, reluctant to let her go… bowled over by the realisation that leaving the Pensieve would mean he had to share her. They were so far beyond that now, only somehow, they were nowhere at all.

Draco summoned an hourglass to count down the minutes until he could leave the fucking Love Room and not encounter her and her hair and her scent and her arse and—

Just in time to interrupt the pathetic thoughts still deeply rooted amongst the betrayal, he remembered the Godlike powers of the Pensieve, manipulated the hole-filled memory just a little more, conjuring himself a bottle of champagne. Holding the cool green glass aloft, he made a toast to the frozen couple on the other side of the curtains. To what he knew deep within should have been. May they have a long and happy imaginary fucking life together.

*

Draco tapped his beak on what he sincerely hoped was the right bedroom window. He was not in the right frame of mind to flirt his way out of an encounter with Julian the Poltergeist.

It had been an extremely ill-advised and twisting flight from London to Brighton. Draco had narrowly avoided collision with a muggle flying thing—for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the name of it, though he was sure it had featured in Inception… but he didn’t want to think about that. Then he’d hit rain and wind, and now he was wet and drunk and still very cross at the world, especially Hermione Granger and her lovely doe eyes and her newly-revealed penchant for brain robbery.

Curtains drew open, a lamp flared on, and a fully naked, sleep-mussed Theodore Nott appeared at the window, wand in hand.

Theo’s face soon cracked into a grin. He immediately accepted whatever circumstances had brought Draco to him and waved the window open to admit a very soggy osprey.

Draco transformed in mid-air and landed with an unsteady thump on a rich Persian rug.

“Blaise?” was his first question. It always paid to know where the wizard was, lest he appear armed and angry out of the shadows.

“With Milly, so I imagine he’ll be back in a day or three with a black eye and a wicked experimental potions hangover.” Theo’s beady eyes caught Draco wavering on the spot. “Oh, you’re drunk. What’s happened then?”

Theo flopped himself onto the large bed, with its rich rust coloured linens and enormous carved headboard. There was a space pointedly left for Draco, so thinking what the fuck, he pulled off his boots and followed suit to lie down next to Theo.

Theo had a black Ambrosia cigarette out and lit before Draco could even ask. Ah, Theo, he proved his worth sometimes.

“So I’m assuming this is about darling Hermione, if it merited a predawn drunken flight to Brighton.”

“I’m not here to talk,” Draco replied, smoking.

“Oh so you’re here to fuck?” Theo concluded thoughtfully. “I’ll have to Owl Blaise, then.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Really?”

“Honestly Dray, non-negotiated polyamory is not the way,” Theo admonished him. “Of course—if I Owl Blaise then he’ll probably want to come, and then Milly might come too. Hmm. Might become quite the event, I’ll call for some Replenishing Potion and some Pepper-Up, shall I?”

Draco looked into his friend's mischievous eyes. He was always joking until someone took him up on his offer; Theo went with the way the wind blew. It was admirable, when it wasn’t irritating as all fuck.

“Are you alright?” Theo said, his voice one percent less naughty and two percent more soft.

Draco told him to fuck off, and then started mumbling something that seemed to—Merlin’s bollocks—contain the words ‘photosynthesis’ and ‘humiliated’. He could tell Theo everything and Theo would listen but… Draco could not talk about a memory he did not have.

“...Did she Apparate you while you were shagging and leave you in the middle of a field?”

“What?” Oddly specific. “No.”

Theo looked shrewd. “Happens more than you’d think.”

“To you, maybe.”

There was a beat of smoky silence and then Theo asked, “are you going to forgive her?”

“I don’t even know what I’d be forgiving her for!” Draco shouted, with much gesticulation. He was saying too much, Theo collected words like arrows to slide into his quiver.

“Ah well, she probably doesn’t know all the things that you’ve done, and it seems like she forgave you, hmm?” Theo took the Ambrosia out of Draco’s fingers and took an elegant drag.

The memory of the reading room, the warm cat on his lap, and the light of her wand surfaced in his mind. Things should have been different; he should’ve apologised then. He should’ve held her hand. They should have talked and fucked and talked some more and then fucked some more.

Was it too late?

Until he had that memory, he couldn’t face her or know what the fuck to do with his bleeding fucking heart. He had some pride left staunching the flow. It was a shred, maybe, but he would cling to it or he would perish. You’re a Malfoy, his father said in his head, before Draco told the echo to get fucked and wondered how a Black would solve this problem.

I think you might be a Black, she’d said in Hong Kong. Like Andromeda, like Sirius. Like Regulus.

“Can I stay here?” Draco asked Theo, knowing he would never deny him.

“Of course,” Theo replied. “But fair warning—I’m going to spoon you.”

“No.”

“That is my price. Or I’m throwing you back out the window and blood warding you out.”

Draco sighed, drunk and tired. “At least put on some clothes.”

“No deal.”

Draco didn’t want to fight with Theo too.

“Fine.”

Thus it was that Draco was thoroughly spooned—it was quite comforting, all-in-all, but he would transfigure himself back into a ferret and bounce himself against the ceiling before admitting that to Theo.

In the morning, Theo force fed him crepes and hangover potion and told him that he was a pathetic twat, but that he loved him in spite of it… and always would.

Chapter Text

Considering how she had reacted when Madam Marchbanks told her to take a week off, it might have been surprising how quickly Hermione decided to write to Croaker and ask for the same. A week, at least. She knew he wouldn't deny her. For one, she was Hermione Granger, known workaholic. Secondly, he was about as hands off as it was possible to be as a supervisor, and was unlikely to care what she did, as long as he had results at the end of her secondment. Croaker spent most of his time, ironically enough, in the Time Room. Hermione did not have clearance to be in the Time Room. They barely saw each other, except for occasional nods when making a cup of tea at the same time.

When Hermione arrived home at her cottage after Draco confronted her in the Love Room—quite how she had managed that, she couldn’t have said—she sat at her desk and immediately wrote the letter to Croaker. She resolved to send it at the post office the next morning, and wished that wizards would sort out their shit and develop better methods of universal, instant communication.

She had a tan notebook, for that, and she blinked numbly at the conversations within it. She looked at the way Draco wrote Granger, the neat loop at the bottom of the second g.

That fucking g finally pushed her over the edge she had been clinging on to, and she dissolved into hysterical sobs. She could barely breathe as she pressed her face into her hands, stifling the howls coming out of her mouth. Every single thing piled on top of her at once. Ron, Crookshanks, her ambivalence towards motherhood, the Statute vote, and Draco.

Draco.

Draco.

Draco.

I will not be treated like some prop in your fucked up life!

Everything was on fire all around her. There was nothing left to burn.

*

Time took on a strange, stretched quality. Hermione didn’t eat much, and though she spent a lot of time in bed, she didn’t sleep much either.

An owl from Penelope arrived.

Hermione,

Why aren’t you at work? Are you dead?

If you’re not dead, lunch soon. Miss you dreadfully,

P x

P.S. Here’s my mobile - owls are so very 1900s.

At the end she’d written a phone number. Hermione badly wanted to send Penelope a message. But she didn’t.

Outside her window, the weather had the audacity to be beautiful. The colours were bright and crisp, Spring was in the air. She shut her curtains tight.

She had been being dishonest with herself for quite sometime by this point, and letting the honesty in by degrees was excruciating.

She missed Draco so much it was like a rock had settled in her stomach, and nothing that she could do would move it or make it lighter. She wanted to see him. To beg him for… what? She thought again and again about writing in the notebook that lived under her pillow. But he had always hated her apologies and there were no other words that she could put on paper or parchment.

Her mother sent her a text message, when are you bringing Draco for dinner? xx

Of course she couldn’t reply.

She tried to knit and created a Gordian Knot. She tried to read Pride and Prejudice and howled in anguish at two people so clearly in love wasting time and wounding each other. She had slightly more success with Hogwarts, A History, but Draco was everywhere at Hogwarts too. Down corridors, and in the reading room. Astride his broom, wearing tight, emerald green kit, circling high over the Quidditch pitch…

And in the library, of course. Their one time sanctuary.

When she tried the tactic of remembering everything horrible he’d said and done, the sneers and cruel laughter, it served only to make her heart ache at how far he had come, and at the beauty of change and growth and second chances. In her head, she could hear his laughter transform, from mocking to delight in her. Draco’s affection for her had been abundant and so apparent, and she’d pretended to not see it.

She was her own lost cause.

After three and half miserable days, she found a scrap of herself and sent a magical slap to her own face. She finally took a shower, and came out with the only plan that could possibly make sense.

Into a small glass vial, she placed her memory of kissing Draco in the Love Room. Of confessing that she had seen Astoria cut him open. Of telling him what really broke her and Ron. She walked through a calm Upper Flagley to the post office again, a condemned woman, and selected a greater sooty owl to ferry the small parcel to Draco in the trees.

She had included a note, and agonised over the words she would write. In the end, she settled on not many more words than Ron had managed when he left her.

Say the word, and I will give you back your memory. Until then, you can have mine.

Yours…

Yours. The truth in shining ink. She added a parenthesis.

…(Truly),

Hermione

When the memory had gone, the rock in her stomach became slightly smaller and lighter. Still there, but she bore it more easily.

The next day she went to Gringotts with a wooden chest tied in a pink ribbon, and changed 20,000 Galleons into approximately 100,000 British Pounds. This, she then deposited into her Muggle bank account. A startled teller called her manager over, and Hermione had to sign several pieces of paperwork to say she wasn’t laundering money. She was almost entirely positive she wasn't.

Once she was home from her errands, she finally stuffed a scone she had bought herself into her mouth, and started doing some research on her laptop.

After an hour of evaluation, in the name of Black, she donated every penny of the money Draco had given her to the conservation of birds of prey in the United Kingdom. There was a text box where she could write a message to accompany the donation.

Her fingers were fluid on the keys as she typed:

For the ospreys.

And it was done.

*

It was Wednesday, and Theodore Nott arrived at her door with perfect, windswept hair (there was no wind), carrying a little basket. She had no idea how he knew where she lived, but she could guess, and she let him in when her door did not.

“Hermione—your cottage, your garden! They are so cute, it’s disgusting,” he gushed as they walked down the hallway. Then, “Oh! Your kitchen!”

He sat himself at the table like he was assuming his position on a throne. He placed two glass bottles of fresh red juice on the table and a small basket full of: “Kalitsounia, freshly baked by Sinclair.”

“So,” Theo began brightly, as she cautiously sat down with him. “You look like you slammed your nipples in the front door.”

“Wow.” Was all she had to say, to that. To be fair to Theo, she was still quite splotchy and no spell or shower seemed to be able to depuff her sad eyes.

“Come now, tell old Theo—no, tell young, ravishing Theo, what you did.”

“How do you know I did something?” she said redundantly—her guilt stuck out like a sore thumb. Or a flaming beacon.

“Draco got drunk and I am very persuasive,” Theo explained.

“Can’t be that persuasive if you don’t know what I did.”

Theo pouted. It was a practised facial expression and Hermione was sure it would be very effective on a more susceptible party.

“Blaise reckons you’re shagging someone.” He changed tactics.

“I’m not,” she said flatly.

“—Is it that lush blonde with the lovely jubblies you brought to New Years?”

“No!”

“Oh, pity. I can see it. I know it isn’t Blaise, he’d’ve said…” Theo wrinkled his nose delicately. “Not Weasley again, is it? Unless… another Weasley? The battle-scarred one, I hope. Hermione, you slag!”

“Theo, I haven’t shagged anyone!” Hermione protested.

“Not even Draco?” he said, apparently surprised by this revelation. “Well, there’s your problem.”

“That’s not the problem,” Hermione huffed. Fine, she would tell him. Some of it. Yes, fine. It would be a relief. “I… said and did some things — and then I Obliviated him.”

There was a short pause.

“Is that all?” Theo asked, as if he had been holding space for her to say more. “Oh Hermione, everyone’s done that. Most Purebloods call that Christmas.”

She glowered. “Draco doesn’t seem to think so.”

“So, like I said, shag his brains out and he won’t care a shrivelfig.” As though that resolved the matter, Theo moved right along. “Anyway, I came to tell you we’re going back to the vineyard and you only need to send me an owl and you can visit any time, okay? Or perhaps you'll be so kind as to make me one of your special notebooks.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I absolutely insist you visit. If I don’t hear from you, I will be bereft. I will recite loud, tearful poetry and send it to you via Howler.”

Hermione looked at Theo, another person who had extended the hand of friendship to her. She very much liked him—it was impossible not to—but unlike Penelope, she simply wasn’t clear on why such a wizard would want anything to do with her.

“Theo, why are you making such an effort with me?” she asked because it was a time for truths. Because she had fallen in her own esteem enough to wonder about such things.

His face grew serious for a moment—more serious than she’d ever seen it. “I love Draco,” he said, as if that explained anything. “I especially love when Draco is scared of his own positive emotions. Besides my efforts to balance both supporting and fucking with my best friend, I must tell you that you are witty and sophisticated—yes you are—and you defeated the fucking Dark Lord and got my father sent to Azkaban so that he may never darken my door again. I think if there was another Dark Lord you'd probably defeat him too. Hermione… why wouldn’t I want to be your friend?”

She grew mortified when she started weeping, but Theo didn’t shy away. He gave her a very kind hug and smoothed her hair away from her face.

“Hey, hey. Less crying, more shagging, hm?”

*

Thursday brought with it new trials. Hermione had ignored the Prophet for days now, until she opened the paper in bed and found the front page to be covered in something quite unignorable.

Wild Granger’s Night of Sin and Ink by Edwin Hornby.

“Now, really!” she growled to herself out loud.

The article was beyond rubbish, featuring accusations involving a menage-a-trois with Dean, and an illicit duel with Astoria. But there was truth in the photos that they had included with the story. Photos that could only have been taken by Dean, and that she knew he would never share with the Prophet.

In the picture, Draco was rolling up his sleeve and Hermione was removing her blindfold to confront a mirror. At the same time, they registered the subject of their new body art, gaped at each other and then became paralysed by their laughter.

Draco looked to the mirror, and the inebriated Hermione continued to look at his face for a fraction of a second longer, as though she could drink him too.

That moment where they looked at each other… Hermione felt that like a physical blow. She watched it again and again and again.

That moment was not for public consumption. That was theirs.

…How dare they?

Then she leapt out of bed, dressed in a tight black dress and her highest black high heels, and started on the warpath.

Through the Leaky Cauldron, down Diagon Alley, into the offices of the Daily Prophet.

The unhelpful elderly receptionist was unhelpfully at the desk.

“Edwin Hornby, please,” Hermione said sweetly.

The receptionist looked her up and down. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I’m here to give an interview. Tell him it’s Hermione Granger.”

The receptionist looked suspicious, and inclined towards being unhelpful but slipped through the door behind her desk.

She returned with a slim, smiling wizard with slick black hair and thick eyebrows. He was much younger than Hermione had anticipated. 25, if that.

“Miss Granger!” he greeted silkily. “What a pleasure. Do come to my office.”

“No no, here will do,” she said. She put her hands on her hips. “Rita, I know it’s you. You’ve moved on to Polyjuice now? Tsk tsk, another crime to add to your list.”

Hornby’s dark eyebrows drew together.

“Miss Granger, I’m afraid I—”

The next second, Hermione had drawn her wand and the temperature in the room seemed to drop alongside her voice. Magic sparked in the air. “Rita, publish another word of your filth and I will not just reveal your secret… I will crush you like the insect you are.”

Hornby’s smile was painted in place. “Darla, be a dear and summon the DMLE, will you?”

“No need. I’m leaving.” Hermione stared daggers at Hornby, and her heels clicked as she swept back into the alley outside the Prophet office.

*

Friday’s Prophet was almost gleeful in its headline: Deranged Granger Threatens Unsuspecting Prophet Reporter. Notably, the piece was written by Lottie Gottman, not Edwin Hornby. Oh dear.

She had no idea who had taken the photo, but her choice of outfit had been very dramatic (as intended) and she couldn’t help but give a tiny smile, and wonder what Draco would make of the spectacle.

Of course, Draco may well ignore it… and he wouldn't be the only one to see it.

Harry knocked and came through her fire around lunchtime. He handed her an egg and cress sandwich, perhaps to pacify her before he put his concerned face on.

“Let’s have it then,” she sighed, guessing as to the purpose of his visit.

“I assume you have a reason for threatening to kill Edwin Hornby,” Harry said, with endless patience. “Stephens is sympathetic, but all together… not amused.”

“Edwin Hornby is Rita Skeeter.”

Harry sat down and looked serious. “You’re sure?”

“About… 80% sure.”

Harry’s ‘hmm’ was foreboding. “Are you okay?”

“Why?” she demanded, mouth full of sandwich. “—Do I not seem okay?”

“Is there a way for me to answer that question and not be yelled at?”

“No.”

“You look lovely and filled with rationality and tolerance,” Harry shook his head. “I’ll look into the Skeeter thing. In the meantime, please don’t threaten anyone else with death.”

*

It was Saturday evening, and she was starting to think she would have to write to Croaker again. Telling him she was very sick indeed, quite contagious, perhaps dying—beyond the help of the healers St. Mungo’s—and that she would be away indefinitely. For how could she return to the small office with the chair and the chaise and the dawn light of the Pensieve? The work she and Draco had been doing was more than fascinating, and the potential was massive… but since she was being honest with herself, the number one reason she took the secondment was to be around him, and to feel the intoxicating way he made her feel.

Draco surely had her memory by now, and he had not written or visited… there was only silence.

It was 7pm, and she wanted to go to bed.

7pm wasn't too early for bed when you were a pathetic arsehole, she reasoned.

She tossed herself face down on her pillow, sliding her hands underneath. Her fingers encountered something cool and flat, and drew out the tan notebook.

Sure, she could indulge in a spot of masochism. Why not?

She looked through the words, heard his voice in her head… and on the last page, two new words…

Come over.

Chapter Text

Come over, the tan notebook said in his beautiful handwriting. She had no idea when it had been written and she checked three times to see if she was imagining the words, closing the book and opening it again. There it was—a shimmering lifeline to Draco when it ached to think about him. He was a thousand splinters in her lips and in her fingers and in her lungs.

Now? she had scribbled in fountain pen as soon as she had decided that it was miraculously real.

She got out of bed and went downstairs. To stop herself from fidgeting, she tidied away the dishes and started dusting the picture frames by hand. There was catharsis in the mundane. Maybe no reply would come.

But a reply did come. One word: Yes.

Okay. She wrote back, her skin buzzing with nerves.

She inhaled and exhaled deeply. She wanted to Apparate to the Wiltshire Forest that very second—threadbare t-shirt, joggers and all. But there was something to be said about taking a minute to evaluate and prepare.

She evaluated as she detangled her rebellious hair and slipped on a light blue shirt dress and a long cardigan—before removing the cardigan and shortening her dress with her wand. She tied the waist belt and slipped on some heeled boots. She looked a bit like she was trying on a very large man’s business shirt, but wasn’t there an allure to that? The short hem was overkill, and she was showing rather a lot of thigh, but maybe Draco still liked the flare of her soft hips. Maybe she could distract him from her betrayal like Theo had said. Maybe it was all that simple.

She shouldered the comfort of her little green bag, an impossible item somehow possible, and summoned up all her Gryffindor courage. In her mind's eye she could see the balcony of the tree house, with Draco waiting inside. She spun on the spot, hoping.

Night was caressing the forest when she appeared with a crack. Stars twinkled valiantly through gaps in a blanket of cloud, and the trees were musical in the breeze. Light spilled invitingly out of the house’s large windows. There was air everywhere and yet she could barely fill her lungs. She knocked anyway, and the glass doors accordioned open to allow her entry. Her heels echoed on the wooden floors, sounding more commanding than she felt.

Inside, Draco was sitting in one of the brown armchairs by the fire. He wore a fitted white long-sleeve, and dark linen trousers. He looked good as he always did, devastating even. But such devastation was probably her own, brought on by the coldness she sensed in him. When she approached, he stood up. Long strides took him to the liquor cabinet.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked, making a generally polite offer seem rude.

“Oh. Er—no, nothing,” she replied, deciding sobriety was the most sensible state to be in. If this went poorly, she promised herself she would get rip roaring pissed and eat nothing but soft, pungent Époisses cheese for a week. Perhaps she would Owl Theo. He would surely be supportive of her new venture.

In the recent past, Hermione was sure Draco would’ve passive aggressively sent some beverage levitating across to her, and it would’ve started knocking on her head, demanding to be sipped. Yet Draco collected his own tumbler filled with something oaked and made no comment about her lack of one.

Next, he crossed to room again, and stood tall at the kitchen bench. She perched tentatively on one of the stools lined up along the opposite side. The cold marble bench between them served as a metaphor, she thought, and she might have laughed but on the whole it wasn’t very funny. Her skirt had ridden up as she sat, and she could feel the chill of the wood on the back of her thighs. She’d probably have to peel herself off and it was all for nought—he didn't even seem to have noticed the skin on display.

They looked at each other a moment, giving no quarter. Could a stalemate be reached before a move was even made?

“Saw the Prophet,” he said, without revealing which article he saw, or how he felt about it.

So all she could say was: “Er—yeah.”

More intolerable silence followed.

“I went to Azkaban,” Draco said eventually. “To visit my father.”

Shit. Apparently the Prophet missed that one. Perhaps they had been too busy covering her on the warpath. “I see.” She didn’t see at all. “Um… How is he?”

Draco rolled his eyes, knowing she had no interest in how Lucius was faring in his stony cell. “Ask me why.”

“Alright,” said Hermione, not enjoying standoffish Draco, but knowing she could expect nothing more. “Why?”

“He knows the curse that Dolohov used on you.”

For Hermione, everything devolved into slow motion. The possible meanings of such a gesture layering on top of each other like sedimentary rock. She looked at her lap, her small hands resting on her too bare thighs, the white marble of the bench top.

“I see,” she said to her legs, not knowing where Draco was going with this, or what that conversation with Lucius fucking Malfoy would have been like. Was her name mentioned? She wanted to know everything and to close down completely.

From his pocket, Draco pulled a folded piece of parchment. He slid it across the bench to her. An impersonal gesture.

“On that parchment is written the name and address of a Swiss Healer who can help you with any damage Dolohov’s curse might have done. If you ever find yourself wanting to be helped.” Draco was speaking so tonelessly, he could have been speculating about the bland weather in Derbyshire, or choosing between carpet samples. “The man is a Pureblood sycophant, but he is the best, and it won’t cost you a Knut.”

Hermione did not open the parchment. And she certainly didn’t look at him. What should she do with all of that information? What did he expect her to do?

Most of all, she wanted to know what drove Draco to do that.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because it wasn’t right,” he said.

“Why?” she demanded again, turning up her volume.

“I loved someone, once. And I couldn’t help her.”

Astoria.

He swallowed, and continued, “—you should have choices. The rest is up to you.”

“No,” she contradicted, finally looking at him even though it was agony. Her voice was quite loud now. “Why would you want to do that for me… after what I did to you?”

“Madness, probably.” Draco took a sip of his drink, the hint of Occlusion bleeding in around his edges, as if he couldn’t resist the pull. “Maybe I’m still stuck in the Pensieve, rocking back and forth. Maybe you were never really there and you're not really here, either.”

Hermione didn’t laugh and after a moment she retrieved the slip of parchment from the bench. She put it safely in her bag, treating it as she would a dragon’s egg: precious, and volatile.

“Draco, I’m so so—”

He held up his hand irritably. “Don’t start with that shit.”

“I wanted to take it back as soon as it happened,” she blurted out, not letting him brush her off. “From the second I decided to look through your Auror file I just started making crazy decision after crazy decision. It was like digging a hole and being stuck in it and then still digging as if that would get me out.”

“Why?” he threw that fathomless word back in her face.

“Because… because I’m fucked up, and… because—”

“—because you could never be with someone like me.” He filled in the gaps that she had left, and she saw even more clearly than ever how cruel she’d been leaving him to think he might have wronged her when the opposite was true.

“No. That's not it. Draco, I see you, alright? You're... good,” she insisted, her hands spreading across the counter. “There’s no explanation that can justify what I did… but I think I was protecting myself because giving in to what I was… what I am feeling…” The words wouldn’t cooperate and his eyebrow was raised, but he was listening. Why couldn’t she say something that would make it right? All those brains and she was tripping over her stupid tongue. “Look, you said I mess you up—you mess me up!” She gesticulated wildly and then put her face in her hands. “I got a fucking tattoo for you.”

When she looked up again, she saw him run a hand through his hair. It stuck up here and there, and the mess of it squeezed her foolish heart.

“I’m really fucking angry with you,” he told her, though he sounded more tired than angry.

“I know,” she said wretchedly. “You have every right to be.”

“After we got out, all I could remember was wanting to kiss you and I'd just—left and let you go. It didn't make any sense… why would I do that when I wanted you so much? But my brain felt like cake batter every time I thought about it. And then I found that list and I remembered your parents, and suddenly it was all crystal fucking clear.”

She couldn't speak because the only word she had was sorry. His hand was on his heart and she stared at it. Over and over, she screamed her remorse in her head.

Draco rubbed his jaw. “It’s one thing that you did it, it’s another that you kept it from me. Let me get closer even as you held me at arm’s length.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” he demanded. “Do you know what it’s like to be told growing up that you can't rely on anyone except yourself, and then you learn that you are capable of terrible cruelty? Do you know what it feels like to have to learn how to trust yourself and your mind again, after years of people diving into your head and taking whatever they wanted?”

“No,” she admitted bitterly.

“No, you don’t. So tell me, in my position, what would you do?”

It was an awful question, especially because she knew the answer to it. “I would never forgive you.”

Pain clouded his gaze before he blinked it away. “Right. And I’m supposed to forgive you because you’re the Golden Girl? I need to be perfect because I’ve had my full life’s quota of fucking up, and this is a first offence for you so fair play?”

“If you won’t let me apologise, I can’t ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it, anyway. So.”

“So.” Back to stalemate.

“What can I do?” she asked.

He shrugged. A hopeless, bleak gesture.

She was lost amongst his words. She was lost full stop. She wanted to cry but she would not. After a minute, a kind of fever gripped her, and forced her out of her stool. She stood, as straight-backed as him, as proud as him.

She was not giving up. Sometimes there was nothing left to do but fight.

“Hex me,” she prompted him.

His eyes widened slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Hex me. Slap me. Come on.” She held out her arms, an open shot. “As hard as you can.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Draco dismissed her. “I’m not hexing a wandless witch.”

Provoke him, a knowing inner-voice told her. Make him come out to play.

“It’s the only way you’ll ever best me, Malfoy. C’mon.”

“Leave off.”

“Do it!”

Without a wand, she sent a mild Stinging Jinx at the hand holding his drink. He dropped it, and it shattered into a thousand sparkling pieces across the wooden floor.

“Ouch!” he gasped, shaking his hand vigorously in the air. “What in Merlin’s name are you playing at?”

She gave him the cockiest grin she could—it was as fake as a plastic rose. “Wandless, never defenceless. Slap me… if you can.”

Another Stinging Jinx hit him in the throat, and Draco’s face flooded with colour. This was a sure sign he was outraged, but maybe, just maybe, he was a little bit intrigued too. His wand was in his hand, as if he’d pulled it from nowhere.

Hermione moved further into the middle of the room, and when he pointed his wand to cast a spell, she dropped quickly into a squat. The intended slap hit a painting on the wall, which dropped to the floor with a loud crash. The glass broke and the ancient Samurai gathered in the picture ran and dived for cover.

She stood back up, grin still in place. Duelling wasn't all in the wand, and they both knew it. He lowered his brows, feinted a swirling movement, then tossed his wand into his right hand. The resulting slap hit right on its mark…

Directly on her backside.

She jumped almost a foot in the air.

“Draco!” she shrieked. Her breath quickened when she properly registered what he’d just done, and the triumph that tilted his chin up and brightened his gaze. He was definitely ready to play.

“What?” he said, tilting his head innocently. “You’d been bad, and you asked me to slap you. I assumed that’s what you meant.”

The air in the room seemed different. No more denying it, no more nonsensical distance from the things that she wanted. From his magnetic north.

Yes, she said to herself. Fuck, yes.

Even though he had used his wand, and it was over clothes, she felt the sting on her arse and it seemed to heat her blood almost to boiling point. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. He had a wand and she did not, but she would not be docile.

Lift your skirt and ask him to do it again.

Draco was poised, ready and waiting. She bit her lip, plotting her next move, anticipating his. Until…

Ping! The top button of her dress flew off and clattered along the wooden floor.

“Oh,” she murmured. Oh.

He raised a brow and took a step closer. When she didn’t say anything more than ‘oh’, and made no move to stop him, ping! went another button.

He was less than two metres away, holding his wand like a promise. Two more buttons were severed. By now she was a button too, tethered to nothing, hurtling through space and bouncing to nowhere. Her waist tie was unceremoniously sliced open and fluttered to the ground like a streamer. Beneath there was only skin. Draco's stormcloud eyes caught on a freckle between her breasts.

“I’m afraid your bad behaviour means you're no longer entitled to buttons.”

The rest of Hermione's buttons hit the floor like hail. There she stood in Draco's living room, near that enormous sofa, in a dress with no buttons, and her black knickers on show.

“...What a pity,” he finished in a soft, dangerous voice.

Hunger for him started to claw at Hermione's stomach. Her sense of reason tried to intervene; they should be having a conversation… sorting it out. Giving in to whatever was in the air now was no guarantee that they'd be okay on the other side. There was no just once between them. This she knew. She had run from it.

Draco didn't need to tell her that she thought too much, because she was quite preoccupied with telling it to herself. She had very rarely let lust make her decisions for her, but it wasn’t too late in the new year to make resolutions. She didn't think Draco would back down and suddenly want to have a deep and meaningful discussion… not after what he'd already confessed. Not after spanking her.

So she would not back down either. She lifted her chin to stare at him defiantly.

“What else can I do to make it up to you?” she said sweetly. She meant the offer; she would do almost anything. It was trust, the thing that she felt inside her; she was the untrustworthy one.

“Hmm.” Another step closer. “I saw a captivating demonstration once—a witch who couldn't choke and who seemed to have a very dirty, wet mouth indeed…”

Hermione squeezed her knees together.

“But you see, at the time, the witch didn't ask for volunteers for a true test of the technique—” he continued. “A terrible oversight, wouldn't you say?”

With her body helplessly responding to him, Hermione already felt the tingle of magic at her fingertips. Her mouth seemed to water without help, and her eyes lowered to the front of his trousers. She wanted to taste him.

“Truly negligent, and very unscientific. Would you like to help her rectify her mistake?”

“I suppose I must,” Draco breathed.

Before Hermione could touch her fingers to her throat, he had eaten up the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. His hand tangled into the hair at the back of her head and as she went to say his name, he covered her mouth with his. It was all at once, deep and desirous. Her eyes fluttered closed and she allowed her tongue to meet his, sweeping. It was hot and breathy and he tasted like brandy. Against his body she was flooded with sensation and emotion, and more desire than she knew what to do with. It was as easy as breathing, as miraculous as dawn over Hong Kong.

They broke apart, stunned. It was a new first kiss, one she could never erase. It was a kiss to take to the grave.

He waited. Her move.

Slowly, she touched his bottom lip with her index finger, and then brought it back to the tip of her tongue and the top of her throat.

Then she lowered herself to her knees.

Draco contributed by encouraging her buttonless shirt to fall off her shoulder. He stroked her hair as she unbuttoned his trousers and drew down his dark boxers. It was apparent that he had been enjoying their tête-à-tête as much as she had been, and a shiver went through her to finally see him in the flesh… swollen and substantial.

A small smile curved her lips when she took him in her hand and his mouth opened with a silent gasp. His skin was velvet soft as she stroked experimentally. More than anything, she wanted to drive him as wild as he drove her. It would be both revenge, and apology.

He cupped her chin and made her look up at him, his gaze like liquid metal, both trusting and daring. With their eyes locked, a brave and driven Hermione slid her very wet mouth over the head of Draco's cock.

His answering groan was a sonata. She sucked lightly, and his breathing became uneven and ragged. More music to her ears. His hand lingered in her hair, as though for comfort, but when Hermione truly tested the effectiveness of her charms and took him deep in her throat, he wrapped her curls around his fist and pulled. She loved it more than she could tell him with her mouth occupied.

She withdrew, shining saliva coating him thickly, and focused on darting licks, fleeting sucks and firm strokes, listening to the delicious sounds he made to understand the effects. To feel unsure and powerful all at once was dizzying, and as she tried to give pleasure, she took it too, rubbing herself over the bones of her heels as she knelt, feeling wetness spread. It barely took the edge off the ache.

Draco did not urge her, or push, but she could tell he was holding himself back. The air was intense between them as he watched every second of her taking him. When she had imagined what kind of lover he would be—what kind of lover she needed him to be, she had wanted him to demand things of her that she couldn’t and wouldn’t deny him. She didn't want him to hold back. Politeness be damned.

She looked up at his tense face and took him as deep as she could once again, holding herself there using one hand wrapped around the back of his thighs. But he was still tethering himself to Earth and sometimes only words would do.

“Don't hold back,” she pulled her mouth off his cock and whispered, toying with his soft, most tender flesh—tightening under light fingertips.

He gave her a lazy smirk, but the edge of it was honed like a blade.

“Sting me if you need to stop,” he whispered and ensured that she nodded. And then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pushed himself into the back of her throat. She was overwhelmed by him sliding roughly in and out. Saliva ran down her chin, but she could still breathe through her nose with relative ease. She watched his eyes close tight.

He groaned and whispered. Guttural French mixed in with swear words, and dirty promises that she half caught. If she could talk, she would tell him that she would listen to him talk absolute filth to her all night.

“Fuck, Granger,” he whispered harshly. “I'm going to come down your throat.”

She felt the building tension and the last rolls of his hips, and finally his release spurted at the back of her throat. He held her in place until he was done with her. The heady taste of semen coated her palette, as he dragged himself twitching across her tongue and out of her mouth. An overflow dripped from the corner of her lips, and he caught it with his thumb. She suckled the liquid off for him, triumphant.

With hands cupped around her face, he drew her up to him. She went to reverse her spells, but before she could, he claimed her mouth again. Heedless of his own spend and her mouthful of clear saliva, like he couldn't wait and didn't care. The kiss was wet and primal and she felt it everywhere, especially when Draco slid long fingers up her ribs and clamped onto her nipples.

“Hard,” she whispered into his mouth. He didn’t need telling twice.

She drew back for breath, and touched her tongue and throat.

He held her by the waist, his erection still at half mast and impatiently beading at the tip. He was panting, punchdrunk.

“Saint Granger, if only they knew you save the world by day and suck wizard’s souls out through their cocks by night.”

She tried not to look too pleased with herself and chose not to make a sexy Dementor joke.

“Do you feel better?” she asked, daring to make light of their situation in light of the… new developments. She was pressing lightly against him, if only to feel that he was there with her, and to brush sensation against her aching nipples.

“No, I am furious.” He didn't sound furious. He pulled her hair back lightly and she exposed her throat for him to lick. “And bereft.” He sucked on the side of her neck while she sighed.

“That simply won't do. Tell me how to ease your ills.”

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

“Take off your knickers and get on the sofa,” he said sternly into her ear.

There was no question of her disobeying. Plain black knickers dropped to the floor and she settled into the soft cushions of his expensive settee. She was still wearing her shirt dress like an insubstantial robe. Like a life jacket. Draco stood over her in a wide stance, his trousers refastened, fully clothed and powerful, while she reclined in virtually nothing.

He ran one hand down her calf, lifted her leg, and removed her boot, and repeated this on the other side.

“Now, feet up.”

She obliged, biting the inside of her cheek, mostly to keep herself sane.

“Good,” he praised her. “Open your legs.”

She did, with more confidence than she felt, baring her other curls to him, damp and glistening.

“Show me how you get yourself off.”

“Wand, or fingers?” she whispered, her pulse a wardrum in her ears.

Without hesitation. “Wand.”

“My wand is in my bag.”

Without a word, Draco held out his own to her. She took it with parted lips. It was a hugely intimate thing to do. She felt its warm power in her hand, proud and calculating like him. Like Harry said—this wand had defeated the Dark Lord.

She was as wanton and depraved as the Daily Prophet accused her of being. If they only knew.

Horny Hermione Uses Hero Wand for her Perverted Pleasures!

With his ruthless eyes on her and imaginary headlines running through her mind, she turned his wand in her fingers, and wordlessly activated a gentle sucking sensation made of warm air. She held back soft layers of her skin and made contactless circles over her clit.

“What do you think about?” he asked. She didn’t miss his hand gripping his own thigh.

“You,” she said without hesitation. He wanted to hear it and it was an absolute truth. In her head he had used her for his pleasure, fucked her every which way. She screwed her eyes shut and rose-coloured heat rose to her neck. She couldn’t hold his steely gaze anymore.

“Since when?” he asked, still in that rough voice. His hand was on his crotch now.

“The first time was in Hong Kong,” she gasped. “—when you told me I was sexy when I broke the law.”

“I stand by it. I think you like being a bad girl, Granger. I think you always have and no one knows a fucking thing about you.”

“Do you… about me…” she started to say, but then couldn't go on. She panted and shook.

He understood what she was asking. “If we don't count my depraved wet dream in fifth year, when I first saw you eat a raspberry—” There was a rustle of fabric as his trousers were opened again. “Fuck. Not long after we got out of the Pensieve my mother served these tarts… and when I looked at the tray of the things, I had to excuse myself so she wouldn’t see that I got a raging hard on because of a sodding berry.”

Hermione whimpered even as she smiled, closer and closer…

“Look at me when you come.”

Hermione tried. She wanted to watch him too. Badly. She would never tire of it. But she was overwhelmed, and scrunched her blushing face up tight. The wand tip was brushing over her skin directly and she didn't care. Wetness flooded out of her, onto the expensive fabric of the sofa. She let out needy, high noises.

When she climaxed, but for the clear transcendence in it, it almost sounded like she was sobbing her heart out again.

He looked smug when she sheepishly put her knees together and handed back his wand.

“Draco,” she said, a note of hysteria wobbling in her voice. She tried to convey everything she needed from him in the next word. “Please.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, and vanished his trousers and pants without a second thought. Finally, he stood, tall and naked over her.

“I didn't say you could close your legs,” he said.

She parted for him again, and he made a deep noise in his chest.

“Sorry about your sofa,” she murmured, with a drop of embarrassment.

“I don't give a single fuck about the sofa,” Draco said. He whispered a contraceptive charm over himself, and a superfluous lubrication charm on both of them, before dropping to his knees before her like a penitent. He rubbed himself over Hermione's slick skin, patient. For now.

“Please,” she said again.

His thumb skimmed over her tingling clit. She writhed, still sensitive, and he followed the line of her slit—dipping the head of his cock just barely inside, stretching her open as he did.

“Perfect,” he whispered, finally entering her halfway, looking at her face and testing the depth further. Inside she felt puffed up, waiting for him.

And then she was filled completely and he was fucking her and she couldn’t believe it—she had barely let herself think about this thing—this joining—this maddening, pleasurable thing that she wanted so badly. He smelled heavenly—like a whole fucking fountain full of Amortentia and—oh—he knew how to roll his hips over her flesh to create music in her bones.

He pulled out suddenly and grabbed his wand to vanish her now invasive shirt.

“Do you like it from behind?” he asked in a throaty whisper.

Hermione nodded. She didn't say she wanted it from him every which way. She didn't say she'd follow him anywhere.

Smirking, he flipped her over like she weighed nothing.

Hermione was clutching the sofa, and could no longer see Draco’s face. He was running reverent hands over her arse and hips. Over the tattoo on the back of her thigh. She wanted. She wanted…

“Slap me,” she begged.

“Have you been bad again Granger?” he gritted out.

“—Diabolical.”

A slap stung her arse cheek, and she couldn’t tell if it was from wand or hand, but it didn't matter one bit because it set her alight. She moaned her approval, quite unable to communicate in any other way. Soft strokes and then slap, a twin blow struck the softness of her other cheek. She hoped there would be a mark on her skin, to match the mark on her ridiculous heart.

Sweet, cool air from his wand flowed over the heat, and Draco nudged into her again and he was all she could think about. It was loud as their bodies collided, messy. But he slowed down the madness, using a firm grip on her hips to draw her up to him, playing her with his fingers like she was his cello. Vibrato, pizzicato, continuous, until Hermione was an entire symphony. Her muscles clenched around him and she called out his name like it was the only word she knew.

The late winter wind whistled through the oaks, accompanying them.

He withdrew and they sat side by side on the sofa, with sweat drying on their bodies and hardness dark and still jutting up between his legs. They did not touch. An interlude. A gathering of everything that was scattered.

It felt like confirmation, like culmination as Hermione leaned over and kissed Draco gently. Her curious fingers wandered over scars and muscle, over soft just gold hair between his nipples. She catalogued his sensitivities, his sounds. Experiments would need to be performed and repeated. For science.

She found herself moving astride him, breathing his air. There was stillness and snugness before she ground her hips once. Twice. They had no more words for each other. Only the miracle of pulling his soft hair back—her only anchor as she rode him slowly, then rose to let him thrust up into her. And he was coming apart too. Shaking as he dropped his head back onto the cushions.

She could only hope he was as thoroughly undone as she was, otherwise none of this would make sense. He had shredded her apart and thrown the pieces in the air like confetti. His arms were around her and her hair was everywhere like a cloak. In shock, they only moved to breathe.

When Hermione regained the ability to form thoughts, she mentally added ‘good in bed’ to her extensive volume on Draco Malfoy. Or more accurately: ‘good on sofa’.

Bed to be investigated at a later date.

She was loose and warm. A rippling feeling originating in her chest undulated out along her limbs. The tension that was there lifted and a plush giggle escaped her, building until she was laughing quite hard. She was caramel melting over pudding.

Draco's voice sprinkled chocolate over top.

“I think I've fucked your brains out.”

This made her giggle harder, and he held her tight, adding the sound of his own delicious laughter to hers. At length, calm settled over them like the wings of a bird and she swept her hair back over her shoulder.

“Water,” Hermione rasped eventually, and she slid out of Draco's lap, sticky and slippery between the legs. Draco located his wand, and held the tip out to her in offering. Obligingly, she opened her mouth, and water poured as if from an ewer. Spent as they both were, he appeared rapt watching her drink, especially when he ‘missed’ and she jerked as clear cool water ran down her chin and over her breasts.

After she’d finished, he helped himself too, before vanishing the drying evidence of what they'd done off their naked bodies.

“Two options,” he whispered, as if his voice could somehow puncture this moment. “Pass out here, or brave the stairs in order to sleep in my bed—added bonus—we could shower.”

“You want me to stay?” She was standing now, feeling as exposed as an early blossom in a snowstorm.

Draco tossed his head around to look at her, frustrated. “Honestly Granger, what kind of question is that? You think you can just leave after all that? I forbid it.”

She thought about insisting, to test the strength of his conviction, but she was glowing head to toe and simply said. “Alright then.” The relief on his face undid her all over again, and she drew close. “I have been meaning to sample your sheets.”

They walked upstairs, starkers. Her hand in his hand. No matter what they’d just done, Hermione found herself wrestling with her feelings of vulnerability. Draco, however, seemed a very comfortable nudist.

In his cavernous shower, water rained from the ceiling as if it was a natural phenomenon originating in the sky above. He kissed her softly against the cold tiles. It was languid and without expectation. When they were clean and smelling of soapy oud he wrapped her in a plush towel. She got to experience a behind the curtain glimpse of him charming his hair into perfection—a true thrill—but when he approached her with his wand to attempt a drying charm, she blocked him with her hand.

“Relax, I’m an expert.”

There were many ways to show trust. She lowered her hand, and with a flourish her hair dried into loose ringlets, tumbling around her face and down her back.

Hermione examined herself in the mirror, liking the way she looked next to him. “You missed your calling as a hairdresser.”

Draco snorted and led the way to the bedroom. “Theo said the same.”

“Pyjamas?” she asked.

“Absolutely not. They will interrupt your enjoyment of the linens and my enjoyment of your arse.”

The bed was comically large, but when they both got under the duvet, they found their way to the middle, winding their bodies together like rope. Draco extinguished the lights. Hermione hadn’t dared to hope for this scenario when she arrived to be chastised. She wondered if she should tell Theo he was right. It seemed unwise. But there she was, with ludicrously soft sheets surrounding her, and his smell in her nose—feeling safe enough to leave her wand in her bag below. A slip of paper lay there too.

She thought about saying words into the gentle dark. Overhead, dark branches danced across a patchwork sky.

Draco turned over, letting her curl against his back.

“Draco?”

“Granger.”

“Please let me say sorry.” She needed to.

He sighed. “Alright.”

“I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.”

Silence.

Then, again, “Draco?”

“Hm?”

“It's very hard to turn my brain off.”

“I’ll make you a potion in the morning,” he murmured. “Or we can smoke Ambrosia all day and eat chocolates.”

“No. What I mean is…” she exhaled in a rush. “I think a lot. And lately, all I do—no matter what else is going on—is think about you.”

He realised she was waiting for him to say something, but he didn't oblige. That left her no choice but to light the fuse, to stand back and see what came tumbling down.

“I think that I might love you. Quite a lot.”

Draco's breath was still for a thousand years, her pulse was thunder.

He recovered, and patted her hand patronisingly, as if to mollify her. “You've been Confunded by the sex. You’ll feel differently in the morning.”

“I’m not Confunded!” she said hotly, sitting up. He rolled to face her, covered in shadows. “I took your memory because I was terrified of what I was feeling so soon after Ron and the way it was making me behave. It’s no excuse, but it was the only thing that made sense at the time. I’m still terrified that you will laugh at me or that you’ll…” Her voice cracked, like icy puddles underfoot. “...walk away. I know you know I find you attractive, and maybe you’re prepared for me having a crush—but not for the fact that I adore you. So what are you going to do if I wake up and I don't feel differently?”

“Well,” he said slowly. “I’ll make you a coffee and tell you I love you more than you can possibly imagine, obviously.”

His words echoed as if he’d shouted them at her.

“I'll tell you that I wish I'd spoken to you after the war but I was still a fucking coward. I chose that memory of you and your weird cat in the reading room, thinking maybe I could change it, and see what it would have been like to talk to you like I fucking should have. But it didn't matter because suddenly, like some sort of valkyrie—there you were.”

Draco would probably not appreciate it if she cried, so she stayed suspended in a sort of surprised stillness, concentrating only on what he was saying and sending dry thoughts about drought and sand dunes to her tear ducts.

“I'll tell you to avoid Theo because his smugness is going to be absolutely intolerable. In fact, I'll contemplate never seeing him again myself. I'll probably swap coffee for something stronger at that point, because I haven't quite processed the fact that you just told me something ridiculous about loving me.”

He picked up her hand which she willed not to tremble, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“I'll say I'm so sorry for the pain I caused you. I don't care that I was young, look at Potter—don't tell him I said that.” He took a breath. “I'll thank any deity that will listen that the Dark Lord is dead and I get to live on and see you smile.”

Finally, he tucked a hand behind his head and she saw his smirk in the dark. “I'll say all that, and then hopefully you will find it in your Confunded heart to give me another blow job.”

Hermione would have to start believing in impossible things. He came through many tempests and landed in her arms. They found each other in memories. And he loved her. He loved her.

With all she was, she kissed his mocking face, and his taunting lips. When she could no longer fight the weariness, she rested her head on his chest and slept on his Sectumsempra scars.

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke curled against Draco’s back. When he felt her stir, he rolled them over so his body surrounded hers.

A deep sigh into her neck and then words she almost couldn't hear.

“Thank fuck it was real.”

Yes, the night before had been the province of dreams. The sky was blue overhead, and the linens melted over her, as soft as promised. There was a luxuriousness to the moment—she didn't care what time it was or about constructing a plan, for her lack of a plan brought her here, to this place of peace she was sure she was supposed to be. There were certain magics that didn’t need to be named or understood.

There was merit surely, in allowing herself to just be sometimes. To listen to her more hedonistic inner voices. Perhaps the task would be easier after a string of orgasms.

The morning held no darkness, and dared her to attempt to define it. Past, present, and future lay with them in the sanctuary of the bed.

A sleepy hand snaked around her, and the pad of his thumb found one nipple. With touches so light as to be barely there, he stroked her. It was slow and patient, and her eyes fluttered closed once more.

His hips shifted, and when she felt the reason why, she tilted her pelvis towards him. Without words, for there were none, they created lazy friction together, with experimental touches and shivery breathing.

Draco started to kiss her neck and she pressed her lips to his fingertips. She drew his index finger into her mouth, tasting her own arousal, and he ground into her with a new pressure, making a noise that made her feel powerful indeed.

He was coating himself with her moisture, but hadn’t made any attempt to enter her yet. She wanted everything that was happening to last forever, but she also wanted to be stretched and filled with him immediately, like she was last night.

“Say something dirty to me,” she requested in a voice both high and quiet.

“Good morning to you too.” His dark laughter anointed her skin like holy oil. “Do you have a preferred term for any body parts?”

“Cunt.”

“Really?” he seemed surprised.

“What would you prefer?” she asked. “Muff? Minge?”

Draco’s laughter kept coming. “Did you just say minge, Granger?”

“No.”

“Well, if it means I get to fuck you again, I’ll call it a squish mitten if that’s what you want. But, I digress—I also like cunt. I really like cunt. And?” He ground into her, as if to illustrate the next subject of the naming convention discussion.

“Cock.”

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“Cock.”

“Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“What are your feelings on being called a good girl?” he asked mildly.

“Recent evidence suggests I think I might like being called a bad girl.”

“Noted.” Draco dragged his tongue up her neck and took hold of her left nipple between his fingers. In her ear, his voice had taken a new timbre, low and rough and fuck. “Does anyone know how dirty you really are, Granger? Touching your wet little cunt, night after night, thinking of me.”

When she didn’t answer, Draco seized her other nipple. He wasn't gentle about it and she hissed through her teeth.

“I should have known you like it rough.”

He would bruise her and it wasn’t enough.

“Yeah,” she sighed.

“Tell me.”

“I need you.”

Draco tsked, and shamelessly ground into her again. “Passable. We’ll work on it—I know how filthy your mouth is, Granger. We’ll put that vocabulary to good use.”

Hermione made a whimpering noise when he withdrew and located his wand. He muttered charms against her skin and his own, and then she watched as he touched his wand to imbue a spark into each of his fingertips. She knew what would come next—she had thought about it often enough.

“Okay?” he asked gently.

She nodded.

“Sting me, if it’s too much.”

She nodded again.

Previously, with that charge clinging to his fingers, he had touched her face and her lips, lighting her up like a livewire. Now he took hold of her nipple, and that had been nothing. Nothing. She was a river delta and he was monsoon rain.

It was too much—oh god—but she did not want it to cease.

She would fall apart, she would become nothing more than dust… then he reached between her legs and her whole body convulsed, her toes curling in the sheets. He knowingly withdrew just before she came and she was on fire, making greedy noises she never had before. He kissed down her body, his hand carefully positioned away.

He paused. “I want to taste your cunt,” he said.

“Yes,” Hermione breathed.

He tutted. “Manners, Granger. Yes what?”

“Yes, please.”

With his other hand, he spread her labia open and he feasted. With long licks and then short, he sucked and he delved and he flicked. He lapped at her skin, tasting the sharp droplets that rolled down her like rain on rose petals. He brought his enchanted fingers back to her skin, and slid one, two inside her and she was unravelled like knitting, wet and shaking and crying out.

He touched his wand to his fingers to undo his spellwork. Arrogance touched his features, and she decided to recategorise it as a virtue.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, shivering. Currents skittered over her skin.

“Now say you love me,” he said in the same stern tone.

She had been languid, almost drowsy, but this had her sitting up, pulling him to her. He obliged, covering her body with his. She opened her legs and positioned the head of his cock at her opening, letting it rest just inside her, where she could feel the beginnings of that delicious stretching. She looked at him.

“I'm going to swear,” she warned him.

“I'm going to enjoy that,” he countered.

“I fucking love you,” she said.

“Likewise.” The smirk, that smirk rose on his lips, and she was bathed in sunlight.

Whether she tilted upwards or he surged forwards, it didn't matter. They joined and she was filled with him in every way it was possible to be.

*

After a two o'clock breakfast courteously delivered by Thor (Hermione swore she winked, but it was hard to tell with a one-eyed Elf), Hermione sat on the cream couch wearing a shirt of Draco's (black, naturally). Her legs were folded underneath her and her heartbeat was steady in her chest. He was opposite her, calm as she brushed his light hair back and pressed her wand point into his temple.

That he would allow this spoke of a deep trust he placed in her. If he let her, she would spend her days trying to understand that trust and to be worthy of it.

“This might feel strange.” She felt the enormity of remorse like Atlas’ globe on her shoulders, even as she was about to put things right.

“Do it.”

His eyes closed as her magic flowed into him… reminding her of her parents… her mother remembering again that she had a daughter… a keening cry of betrayal. Her mother telling her in a hollow whisper she would never understand what she took unless she had a child of her own. It was not a memory, but a piece of her soul.

Hermione, then, truly was a Dementor.

It took around four minutes. Her lashes were wet but she didn't let her tears go.

She had kissed him, first. Had jumped into his arms in the Love Room, knowing he would catch her. She should never have kept that from him.

Nothing could ever make you less.

Draco's eyes moved rapidly behind his lids. The muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together. His memory settled back into his brain, as if it had never left. But he would not forget that it was once gone.

His eyes opened. She was pale as she looked at him.

“Never do that again,” he said.

“Never,” she vowed.

He kissed her.

*

After he forbade her from leaving, Hermione stayed at Draco’s house the whole weekend. He suggested he send his eagle owl to Croaker and say he had also caught Hermione’s very real, very dangerous mystery illness. With folded arms, Hermione point blank refused to miss another day of work. She only had limited days in the Department of Mysteries, after all. He offered her multi-thousands of Galleons (and orgasms) to stay home with him for a week.

“Thousands of orgasms, Draco? You think a lot of yourself, don’t you? I’d wither and die.”

“Facts are facts, Granger. 20,000 Galleons and you can write notes here while you sit on my face.”

“Tempting, but no. I don’t want your Galleons, I gave the last lot to the ospreys.”

A brief silence followed this pronouncement.

“To… the ospreys…”

She kept her face straight. “—Habitat restoration and breeding programmes.”

She regretted the words ‘breeding programmes’ as soon as they came out of her mouth. But his smirk was affectionate before it went feral.

“Did you know ospreys pair for life?” she casually recounted this fact she had learned in the course of researching charities. “After all the screaming and dancing and nest building, of course.”

“Say the word, Granger. I will bring you so many sticks.”

Smiling so much was hurting her cheeks.

She got her way, in the end, and on Monday morning they took the Floo to the Ministry together. Her stubbornness only went so far. When Draco closed the door to their small office, he first locked it, then silenced and warded it.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it,” she told him sternly.

“Shan’t.” He crossed the room and picked her up off the ground. She squeaked as he tossed her onto his green chaise longue. She whipped out her wand, thinking to cast a shield charm that would rattle his bones. Instead she vanished his shirt.

The closest they got to notes that day was rolling around on top of them.

*

For sanity, and through necessity, Hermione decided to return home to her cottage that evening. Her mobile phone predictably was full of messages from her mother, and a reply from Dean (bless Muggle-borns). She had messaged him regarding the Prophet article.

Twat stole my photos when he was looking through the album. Didn’t twig who he was. I wasn’t going to advertise in the Prophet but the photo of you two was a fucking lightning rod. I’m booked up for a year. Couldn’t have asked for better publicity mate — hope you’re not sweating it.

He added. Pint and a kebab soon. Bring Malfoy x

Hermione spent a night alone in her bed, and slept like the dead.

*

The next day, after almost running through the round room to get to him, Hermione accepted a passionate kiss of greeting that ended with her back against the office door and her hand down the front of Draco's trousers. She was beginning to realise she really loved this particular part of him, and she was quite sure he'd enjoy hearing about that.

“So nice,” she murmured, stroking him.

A quiet laugh tickled the shell of her ear. “Tell me more, Granger.”

“You have a very nice penis,” Hermione said. Her sexy voice and sentiment was coming out much more business-like than she intended. She punctuated by spreading the droplet of fluid at his tip around in a teasing circle with her thumb, hoping he wouldn't notice.

He noticed.

Draco's pressed his forehead into her shoulder, gasping with the sensation and shaking with silent laughter, entirely at her expense. Until finally he couldn't hold it in any more, and he was fucking giggling.

“Th-thank you,” he gasped, seemingly on the verge of hysteria.

She wiped the smile off his face with her tongue. His trousers moved further down his thighs and her grip tightened on him.

“Lubrico.” She had no wand, but managed a Lubrication Charm. It worked perfectly, and the deep groan that Draco let out suggested he approved of the slippery new way of things. With the ghost of his laughter still on his lips, he stilled at the last second. Her wrist moved diligently, and he came, hot and thick into her hand. Mesmerised, he watched as she licked it off her fingers.

After that she came to her senses and put nasty wards around her desk, ensuring that she also couldn't hear whatever off-topic suggestions Draco might have for her.