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Chapter Text

August 25, 1998
The Three Broomsticks: Upstairs Room

Hermione nearly tumbled out of the floo. Gods, this was exhausting already, and it hadn’t even started. Righting herself too quickly to be casual, she dusted off her jeans, pulled down her t-shirt, and reached to smooth her hair. Absolute lost cause that. Must she simply display how undone, unravelled, flayed open she was? Might as well conjure a flashing sign.

Scurrying from the hearthstone to make room for the next arrival, she chanced a glance at the small upstairs room. Hermione immediately spotted Luna’s blonde hair, where she stood quietly with the Patil twins. Ernie McMillan was piling a plate with tea service meat pies near the sideboard while Hannah Abbot and Seamus Finnigan formed a line like this was a 2-star buffet and not a mandatory meeting.

Susan Bones and Zachariah Smith sat on a decrepit-looking green sofa in front of the fireplace, discussing whether or not they’d be taking NEWT-level potions after all. Susan – yes. Zachariah – no. Comfortingly predictable.

Neville was in the corner and Hermione beelined for safety. When she’d left this morning, she’d opted for a very nonchalant messy bun, but the sagging mass tickling her ears pointed more towards bedraggled guinea pig than casual updo. With hurried fingers, she pulled her hair loose and nearly engulfed the room at large as she scuttled up beside Neville’s tall frame.

“Hi, Neville,” she said in a breathless voice, hands busily gathering her mane and shooting him a distracted smile.

“Hiya, Hermione,” he answered, sounding far away. She knew the Gryffindor didn’t need meaningless chatter and she loved him for it. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said dozens of times in the Weasleys’ living room in the weeks after the final battle. No one had slept in the early days. They’d taken to huddling on sofas, confessing stories of the previous year’s fight. In the end, the war was won. They had not.

She wasn’t the only eighth-year whose insides had been carved out and left to bake in the summer sun, now brittle by late August. Perhaps all her classmates looking to complete their NEWTs by correspondence were in a similar war-torn state of existence.

Tying off the French braid her hair now required, she looked up in time to see the floo light up as three Syltherins stepped into the room as one. Immaculately dressed, pressed, and polished, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and Draco Malfoy, all stood tall and unmoving for a beat in front of the fireplace.

Pansy flipped her sharp bob carelessly, huffed a disgust-filled sigh and strode to the sideboard, platform dragonhide loafers sounding loudly in the room.

Nott sauntered after her, ever the embodiment of generational wealth and bored indifference. Hermione had always been curious about what went on inside that floppy head of hair. Theo had been close behind her in marks during their years at Hogwarts, but he’d been more wraith than snake, never making an impression in class or fighting in the war– on either side.

Where had he spent the summer? In some French villa waiting out Death Eater trials, no doubt. Oh, to buy one's way out of suffering. Prick.

Malfoy hadn’t moved from the fireplace. He was standing tall, much taller than she remembered, but then again, when was the last time they’d been in a room together without inevitable torture looming? Clearly, a year and a half was eons in the life of an 18-year-old boy, as he was now broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall. Merlin, but he was skinny. Pale and angular in a way that was extreme even for him.

She opted not to testify at his trial in July despite Harry’s insistent nagging. Harry, who seemed to be riding a wave of wartime adrenaline, was constantly testifying before the Wizengamot or working late to organise rebuilding efforts in the now-Minister Shacklebolt's office.

Frankly, Hermione could not muster that kind of zeal for any task. Her adrenaline had drained completely in the battle-wrecked Great Hall. It seeped out of her bones, melted into the blood-stained stone, and she’d had no will left to pick it up. She’d given herself to their task, and despite being far too young to know how, they’d won a war. So she’d left all motivation next to old pumpkin juice stains and gone home.

Now she was here, absently observing Malfoy’s arrival and wondering if he’d grown taller in an Azkaban cell. She knew he’d been arrested and held until his trial (which had just concluded three weeks ago if she had her dates right), but how many inches could a person grow on a prison diet?

She shook herself back to the present moment. What was wrong with her? Who cares what he ate in a cell he most certainly deserved to be in?

Eyes refocused, she realised he was staring, still frozen in place, grey eyes cold on her, his lip curling into that too-familiar sneer. How long had she been staring at him, lost in her matrix of useless musings?

Malfoy straightened his already straight robes and joined Theo, who was now elegantly draped over a leather armchair, having secured an ancient-looking tea cup and sipped demurely with Pansy perched on the arm like a protective mother bird.

Malfoy took up residence behind the chair and scanned the room with vacant disinterest.

She should be bothered by his presence…outraged by his ability to waltz into a room, dripping in superiority three weeks after stepping out of Azkaban robes. But caring was too much work. Way too much work.

Everything passed in front of her like a memory in a Pensieve, not requiring her participation. Caring would just make it more exhausting to watch.

Just then, the large wood door creaked open and Professor McGonagall entered with Flitwick close behind. They looked more worn than her memories of them, but Hermione would toss that up to projection if she had the capacity to analyse such things.

“Thank you all for coming,” Professor McGonagall said abruptly in her comforting Scottish bur, clasping her hands in front of her. “I understand most of you have elected to complete your studies by post, as Hogwarts holds memories you do not wish to relive. Believe me when I say that we understand, our unconventional location at present,” gesturing to the shabby sitting room around them and humming as if regretting the decision, “is meant to provide the distance you all hope to maintain while completing your studies. Neutral ground, as they say.”

Padma gripped her sister’s hand discreetly. Parvati looked ready to be sick or sob. Hermione looked away.

Professor McGonagall, pressed on. “You have all been through far too much at far too young an age, and it is our hope to adapt the seventh-year curriculum to best suit these times. The NEWT requirements have been tailored to you individually, based on the varying abilities shown during the war.”

Air was suddenly in short supply. The experiences in this room alone were vastly varied. Death Eater. DA members. War heroine. The girl who asked to deliver Harry to Voldemort’s feet. How had the professors judged such–

Professor McGonagall broke through Hermione’s mental racket, seemingly determined to get her instructions out without interruption. “For example, Mr Longbottom will not be required to sit for Defense Against the Dark Arts as his active role protecting first years from the Carrows was found to be more than sufficient evidence of his capabilities.”

Neville went completely still, holding McGonagall's gaze with an unreadable expression. The professor let a moment pass, and Hermione attempted to pinpoint the exact moment the nervous boy had traded his Remembrall for a backbone. Perhaps anyone who beheaded a twelve-foot snake would walk away changed.

The silence grew heavier still. With a flick of his wand Flitwick produced a stack of parchment on the coffee table. “Here you will find your course requirements,” he chirped, “Recommended reading lists are attached, and the dates you will sit your exams are written at the top of each course packet.” Turning his wand clockwise, a purple Ministry Contract suddenly appeared beside the stack. “You are also required to sign this magically binding contract to ensure the completion of your studies even within this unique circumstance.”

Signalling the end of the briefest briefing, McGonagall said, “Students, please sign legibly on your way out. Don’t hesitate to owl us if you need further assistance.” She called over her shoulder, “Unfortunately, we must be going, much to do before students arrive next week. Good day to you.” The door shut behind her with a click.

No one spoke.

Flitwick hesitated, seemingly unsure how to lift such a weight from the shoulders of weary teens.

“The Hogwarts staff is always here to help. Ple–please don’t hesitate to seek assistance should you so need. We look forward to seeing your work this semester.” And then he scurried after McGonagall in a flurry of robes.

The door clicked much louder, and Hermione jumped. Skin prickling, she noticed several students trying to hide a grimace at the sound, including Malfoy, whose fists were clenched so tightly that every vein in his hands stood out against his pale skin.

Good. He was ruined too.

Gods, she was tired. Making no goodbyes, she moved around Neville, scratched her name down, snatched up her paperwork, and stepped into the floo.

_________________________________

September 6, 2000
Edinburgh

“Oh my god, how long have you been tapping?” Hermione tossed the morning edition of the Prophet on the bed and ran to open the window, profusely apologising to the Ministry owl and scrambling to find the ‘good treat’ stash. She’d completely lost herself to her reading, and Godric only knew how long it had been pecking away.

Exhausted, the little owl dropped onto Hermione’s writing desk, beak first, reminding her of Errol, the old Weasley owl. Rifling through her desk drawers in what one may call a manic frenzy, but which she would describe as considerate haste, she found the treats and set them gently next to the bedraggled bird.

"Sorry, may I?” she whispered. The shockingly large envelope was still clutched in the owl’s talons so she slowly moved to pull it free, hesitating at the light purple coloring and the Ministry emblem stamped on the front.

Merlin’s beard, how had it arrived already? It’s not September, is it?

She dropped it on top of the thick copy of Magical Healing Salves and Their Everyday Uses currently open on her desk. The owl had righted itself and was busy devouring the treats, seemingly forgiving Hermione for her bookish oblivion. Hermione was left with the envelope and her rapidly rising dread. Why had she agreed to this?

She sighed, releasing the good Muggle-born behaviour that was surely nearing its expiration date. Hermione picked up the envelope and unwound the purple string from the button clasp at the top. As soon as the string was free, the flap nearly popped open, revealing a stack of light purple parchment and a plethora of post supplies. Ministry-approved stationery, a stick of dark purple sealing wax, an accompanying MoM stamp, a shiny booklet titled Cultural Reconciliation Initiative (C.R.I.), an Official Ministry Handbook, and a handwritten note on dark purple cardstock. Kingsley. Fucking Kingsley.

This entire situation made Hermione want to C.R.I. but crying was simply not on in the year of our Lord, 2000. 1998 held enough tears to buy at least a decade of perfectly dry and academically productive eyes, so she retied the envelope and tossed the entire thing into the top drawer before slamming it shut.

Future Hermione would deal with Kingsley and his delusions of refined reconciliation, but for now, there were far more pressing issues on today’s docket, such as the wand movement she’d uncovered in an Egyptian runic healing spell book around 1:00 am the previous night, or the Prophet article she’d been reading before the blessed owl broke through her concentration. (Not that Rita Skeeter’s piece Hogwarts To Change In a Post Pureblood World held anything of value.)

Since starting at Edinburgh’s Healer Academy a year ago, Hermione had found comfort in academia. The routine and familiarity of the classroom gave her tired mind a place to retreat, stay busy, and avoid everything she’d packed away in mental boxes labelled To Forget.

Behind walls of dense tomes and strict study schedules, she was finally able to relax. No one needed her anymore; she was free to read until her eyes were burning with every blink, and there was no one to mock her for it or hang their hopes on her abilities.

She was comforted by this version of herself. Swotty Hermione. Bookish Hermione. That girl was familiar and capable (albeit a bit two-dimensional), and the carefully distracted oasis in her mind was the best side effect of the Healer Academy.

Immediately after the final battle, Hermione had slept for a week, risen on the seventh day, and thoroughly thrown herself into the task of restoring her parents’ memories. She managed to get them from their home on the Gold Coast to St. Mungo’s with an elaborate ruse that they would be attending a dental conference, but that was where the success had come to an abrupt halt.

She met with every Memory Healer in the UK over the summer – not just some of them or even most of them. Every. Single. One.

At first, her friends had taken turns going to these appointments with her, and even Molly and Arthur had shown up a handful of times, but after the twentieth, or maybe twenty-fifth, appointment, they had started to lose steam. And how could she blame them? They were all exhausted from years of fighting for every inch of happiness they had, and grief hung heavy over the Burrow without Fred. She simply could not keep asking her second family to join her on another wild chase to save her first.

So she’d kept hunting on her own, swapping horcruxes for a memory specialist with answers, and extended her search to the US and French magical healing communities to no avail. By the time the branches that leaned against her bedroom window at the Burrow were bright orange, she was known in the healing community for her desperate determination, not willing to take no for an answer.

Well, of course, she bloody wouldn’t. She was Hermione Granger, researcher extraordinaire and brightest witch of her age–blah, blah, blah. So she went where she’d always ended up when no one was willing to help. The library.

_________________________________

December 1998
The Burrow

Her first clear memory was of Harry, standing in her door frame in a Christmas jumper she didn’t recognize. He looked at her as if she were a bird about to shoot into the air at the slightest unfamiliar sound.

“Hermione. May I come in?”

“Yes, of course, Harry, but I’m a bit busy right now, so can this be quick?”

She turned back to her parchment and continued writing. “I’m in the middle of this arithmancy problem that I think might connect to that Obliviate counter charm I’ve been reading about in Healers and Their Histories, which is quite fascinating, I might add, but I do need to finish this problem or else I’ll…”

Harry sat down on the bed near where she had spread out on the bedroom rug. She stopped writing at the sound of creaking bed springs and found him looking down at her with a blank expression, taking her in without giving away his intention for interrupting her.

Under his gaze, she felt irritated and defensive, or— self-conscious? She was suddenly too warm in her mismatched pajamas and what must be an impossibly high mass of hair pinned up with her wand. She fidgeted with the hem of her striped pajama pants, looking around the circle of towering texts, parchment, ink pots, and broken quills from her seat in the centre. She really was a flighty bird in a carefully built nest of knowledge.

“Hermione,” Harry started. “I think it’s time for a break. You’ve been looking for a cure for half a year now, and you haven’t left this room but to go to the library in months. I’m worried about you. Do you know what day it is?”

“Oh piss off, Harry. Of course, I know what day it is, and it has not been months. That is simply dramatic, and you’re starting to sound like Ron. I honestly expected more from you, of all people,” she spat back with more venom than she meant, but not backing down.

“What day is it?” Harry asked calmly, expression neutral.

“It’s…well, I’m not exactly sure of the date, but it’s almost Halloween, so the 27th or 28th I’d say. And don’t think I’ll let you take house points for being a day or so off, Harry Potter, so don’t even sta—”

“It’s December 25th, Hermione,” Harry cut in softly. “It’s Christmas, and you haven’t come out of your room all day.” He looked away as he went on. “The entire Weasley family is downstairs, they have been all day, doing presents and Christmas dinner, and we even had a Quidditch match in the orchard like in the old days…” He trailed off, not sure how to follow this list of activities.

Heat bloomed across Hermione’s chest as her defences continued to rise. “Why didn’t anyone come get me?”

Harry looked back at her in surprise. “Molly knocked just before breakfast. Ginny tried before presents. Ron came up after lunch and knocked for a good long while. I think he even slipped a note under the door but when he tried the knob you had a ward up that turned his arm green up to the elbow.”

They both turned to look and found a small piece of parchment lying just inside the threshold that Hermione had never noticed. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she didn’t acknowledge the note or the mention of Ron's now green thumb.

“Ginny came up again just before we all sat down for dinner and…now I’m here.” He shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose, cluing her to the fact that he was just as embarrassed as she was by that reality.

All anger vanished from Hermione’s face as she realised that she’d repeatedly cast silencing charms around her room since beginning her search for a countercharm. If it truly had been months, then her room would be so well-warded that there was no way a knock would ever have made it to her ears.

Her shoulders slumped and she put her face in her hands “Oh my god…Harry, I–” He moved to sit beside her on the floor.

“I said it was almost Halloween…” she whispered to her socked feet.

“Yeah… we’ve been trying to give you space to work through this the ‘Hermione way’. I honestly thought that you would run out of books sooner than this, but I’ve never really grasped proper research, have I?” He said, gently knocking his shoulder with hers.

“I didn't even think…I’ve been in here for almost four months?” she asked, covering her mouth with her hands as tears welled in her eyes “And I haven’t found anything?”

He shook his head and pressed his lips together as if he knew this was the bigger hit, bigger than missing Christmas or losing months to grief. The reality of her family’s fate, the non-existent cure.

“Harry…” Tears spilt over her lashes and ran down her cheeks as she saw the complete disarray of her room through this new lens. Shame crashed in on all sides. She'd let down everyone she loved, and she had absolutely nothing to show for it after months. “What do I do?”

He put his arm around her and helped her to her feet. “I think we’ll start with some dinner…and maybe a cuppa. Everything else can wait until the morning.”

And she took the first step back into the world with Harry’s arm still around her shoulder.

_________________________________

Hermione had opted to complete her NEWT’s by correspondence rather than return to Hogwarts for an eighth year, so even though her search for memory charms had been put to rest, her trips to the Hogwarts library certainly were not.

At the time, she’d hoped to outrun grief with exam preparation, but in the end, she hadn’t needed the whole of her mind to pass with a complete set of O’s. Turned out that scratching the uses of Essence of Dittany with a quill was not nearly as demanding as steadying the dropper over a very splinched Ron. The war had pushed her so far beyond the pressures of a classroom that her attention was hardly required to graduate.

The decision to attend The Healer Academy of Edinburgh was a rational one. The Sequestered Semester of Searching, as she had deemed it, had thrown her into magical healing, where she could scratch an intellectual itch she’d thought was lost, and she assumed she’d want to feel useful again. Someday.

Magical healing needed more witches and wizards with Muggle medicine exposure, and the challenge to bring the two together gave Hermione a familiar academic rush.

So here she was. Standing in her Edinburgh flat on September 5, 2000, with a dishevelled ministry owl (she decided to call him Tiny), a purple packet she could not think about, and a growing need for breakfast before the inevitable onset of a study migraine.

__________________________________

September 6, 2000
Edinburgh

The Healer Academy was tucked into the University of Edinburgh beneath a layer of Muggle-repelling charms and enchanted wards, just inside the New College courtyard. The only way in was a strong revelio just behind the John Knox statue tucked against the Muggle Divinity School. She felt it fitting for the magical world to share space with those seeking their higher power.

Today, Hermione was in a hurry. She sped behind Knox, tapped her wand, and two large wooden doors appeared without delay. Beyond lay the entire magical university, complete with lecture halls, fully equipped potion labs, healer training facilities, and the reason for her current campus visit, the Healer Library.

Gone were the rickety, ladder-back chairs of Hogwarts, replaced by plush, maroon armchairs and long tables. The entire library was lit by three glass chandeliers running down the gothic arched centre of the room, stacks branching off into rows, mimicking the aisles of a cathedral. Two large fireplaces bracketed both ends of the room, keeping it consistently dry despite Edinburgh’s infamous drizzle.

But the grandeur of the library paled in comparison to the centuries of knowledge shelved there. The entire section dedicated to ancient runes had stopped Hermione in her tracks when she’d first found it while searching for a copy of Pict Runes and Their Magical Properties during her first week of classes.

Witnessing the physical proof of how much she had left to learn stacked so neatly in front of her gave her an overwhelming feeling of rightness. She knew this was where she needed to be and that the Healer Academy was the next right thing. Now, finishing her first semester at the Academy, Hermione was thoroughly immersed in the theory behind magical healing. Practical applications would come in the next two years of the program so for the time being, her right hand could often be seen twitching from hours of note-taking.

This afternoon’s library visit brought her to an unfamiliar section, Wands and Wand Movements, where she found a forgotten Egyptian wand movement (completely off syllabi, naturally) that might have potential relevance in her Counter Curse Administration class the following semester. So she’d tucked in and lost herself in the Egyptian theories as the sun slipped down the large window panes at the end of each aisle.

A sharp knock on the table in front of her shook her back into her body. Armchair, library, Padma.

“Where have you been?” Padma asked, dancing on the edge of an angry whisper. Hermione took one look at Padma’s face and squeezed her eyes shut, knuckles rapping on her forehead.

“Oh shit…Padma…did I miss it entirely?”

“Oh, you missed it. Left me to fend for myself, completely out of my comfort zone, as you well know, in a pub I’d never been to with not one but two wizards I'd never met! Honestly, Hermione..”

“I’m so so sor–”

“I only confided in you about this bloody date because I didn’t want to go! It was your brilliant idea to make it a double date to–”Padma took in a sharp breath while raising her hands in equally pointed air quotes, “--break the tension,” her voice squeaking in a righteous Hermione impersonation. “And then you didn’t even show?” she hissed.

“Pad–”

“I know you’re not a ‘goes-on-dates person’.”

The air quotes made another appearance. If dignified Padma was reduced to such first-year antics, this really was bad. Padma’s face flushed and words tumbled out in an avalanche of pent-up emotion.

“You think I don’t fucking know you aren’t a goes-on-dates person? You shared a room with my twin sister for six years, for Merlin’s sake. I knew more about your private life than I could possibly have cared to, thanks to Prattling Pavarti…But it never occurred to me that you would be the one to stand me up on a blind date.”

A breath. Then two. Anger slipped off Padma’s shoulders, falling to the floor like the ink off Hermione’s still-suspended quill. Exhaling out the tiniest sigh, Hermione let her quill fall, smearing the parchment completely, and quietly stood to face her friend across the library table.

“Padma, I’m so sorry. You know my excuse is predictable and completely unoriginal. I’m sure it's entirely unnecessary to clarify because here we are, but I… I…”

“Was in the library,” both girls said in unison.

Hermione tucked both lips between her teeth at that and began to pack up her satchel. Padma just tilted her head back to the ceiling, pressing both palms to her eyes in frustration.

Merlin, Hermione truly was the swottiest swot to ever swot, wasn’t she? Padma brought her focus back to Hermione’s face, lips pressed together in a hard line, arms folding across her chest as she shouldered her own bag in anticipation of their leaving.

Hermione swung her bag over her arm and they started their walk towards the exit. Taking a full breath to avoid sounding like a manipulative mouse of a person, Hermione continued, “I went down into the Ancient Runes section to start researching for that Cross-Cultural Magical Healing paper we have coming up…. I know you already know because it’s so predictably me but–” she grasped for more breath just in case and went on.

“I lost track of time and stumbled upon this old wand movement that I’d never heard of, which got me thinking about that decrepit copy of The Global History of Wandlore we found at that gross flea market in Diagon?” Padma reluctantly nodded in acknowledgement of the book’s existence.

“So I sat down to cross-reference the movement with an Egyptian text, and–” They pushed through the doors and cool, night air rushed over them. She turned to face Padma.

“The pub never even crossed my mind. I completely forgot. I’m so sorry. It was inconsiderate, self-indulgent, and whether I’m a—” she employed air quotes of her own, “—goes on dates person or not is entirely beside the point. I’m a friend person and I should’ve been there. For you.”

With an exaggerated eye roll and her tongue poking the inside of her cheek, Padma stuck her right hand out towards Hermione, palm facing the cobbled ground. Hermione immediately stretched out and took it, their hands swinging slightly between them as the forgiveness settled. Padma hooked Hermione’s arm through hers and began their walk home.

“He ended the evening by asking for my answers to tomorrow’s Counter Curse assignment…” Padma said with a tone trying to hold back her smile.
Hermione let her jaw drop, giving the full reaction she knew Padma needed. “No. He did not ask you out just to needle for a slice of your brilliance?”

“Seems that way doesn’t it,” Padma said with a mocking hair toss and a smirk just as the two tightened their grip and spun.

They landed in Hermione’s bedroom with a light crack and Padma immediately flopped onto the bed. Hermione kicked off her shoes and sat with her back against the fluffy pillows, tucking her knees to her chin. Padma turned on her side to face her as Hermione continued the date debrief, “So how did you respond?”

Padma propped her head on her fist.“I looked him right in the eye and said—” she cleared her throat for dramatic effect, “—your company has not been so engaging as to earn my affection or my help. And then I walked out of the pub.”

Hermione nodded along in approval and said “Absolute goddess. Now I really do wish I’d been there.”

“No you don’t, bookish witch of our age” Padma swatted Hermione’s knee.“You’re perfectly content to be swaddled up in that library with a stack of books we won’t need until next semester.”

Hermione let her head fall back with an amicable scoff. Padma was spot on. The two spent the rest of the evening laughing about the date’s utter failure and eating an entire family-sized bag of crisps in bed. But later, when Hermione was alone, she set her mind free to analyze.

She wasn’t so set in her ways, was she? What would happen if twenty-one-year-old thoughts came just a bit more naturally to her? Merlin, a date was the literal farthest thing from her mind on Friday night, and surely that meant she was damaged or broken, right?

Did that even matter in the grand scheme of all that she'd survived?

_________________________________

September 12, 2000

She’d held out for as long as she could. If she didn’t dive into the purple packet today, she’d be fielding Kingsley’s relentless, horned owl soon enough. She took all the letter supplies and set them on the shelf just to the left of the window where her desk sat. Later, she would turn that shelf into a mini post office assembly line, for efficiency would be the best way to make this horrid exercise move along. The note from Kingsley lay on top of the handbook, and she finally committed to the torture and gave it a glance.

Hermione,
Your endorsement is greatly appreciated by the Ministry.
Be well,
Kingsley

Endorsement is it? Piss off. She cracked the handbook and pulled an insert filled with ministry-approved prompts:

Is the television an adequate substitute for literature in Muggle society?
How are house elves and dogs most similar? How are they different?
After a decade of slow, Muggle transportation, which magical form most impressed you?
What Muggle food did you miss most while at Hogwarts?
If you ever experienced blood status prejudice, how did you know?

And a hundred more, all equally as offensive and lacking inspiration. How could Kingsley be serious…? Hermione was sure Harry’d told her that a task force had been called specifically to develop the C.R.I. materials and now she was left to speculate which mouth-breathing Ministry employees were selected to conjure up such idiocy. Itching to fan her fiery rage, she pushed on:

The Cultural Reconciliation Initiative (C.R.I.)

At the end of the Second Wizarding War, the Ministry of Magic underwent a series of investigations. Months of gruelling Wizengamot trials and testimonies shed light on the corrosive nature of blood prejudice and its prevalence throughout all of Wizarding Britain. It is the official position of the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, that there is no place for blood purity rhetoric or discrimination in modern Wizarding society.

The prosecution of Death Eaters and the many witches and wizards that aided the Dark Lord’s pursuit of power confirmed that extreme Pureblood ideologies led to the justification of terrorism and extreme violence throughout both wars. Let it be stated: Blood status is a baseless distinction, and any act of blood prejudice will be considered criminal as of September 2000.

In the spirit of rebuilding, the Minister has installed The Cultural Reconciliation Initiative, a program designed to deconstruct bias and root out lingering dark sentiments. During a twelve-month probationary period, convicted witches and wizards will be assigned an anonymous Muggle-born for regular correspondence. The anonymity and distance allowed through post assure the security of the Muggle-born volunteers while uniting the most polarised members of the war.

Muggle-born war heroine, Hermione Granger, was among the first to champion this initiative’s mission to rebuild–

Hermione snapped it closed, pinching the bridge of her nose to contain a swell of anger blooming in her chest. Is it not enough that the burden of educating her oppressor had been placed on her shoulders? Why was this initiative propped on the reputation of a teenage soldier? She wanted equity so badly it made her skin ache, but hadn’t she given enough to that pursuit?

Wrung out, she sat limply in her chair and fantasise about a simpler version of herself, a scholar lost in academic goals, tucked away in a secret library. She’d walk down, down, down through winding stacks, parchment rolls under her arm, and a quill just behind her ear. No one would need anything from her, and her mind would be free to unfurl between pages.

Re-centred by a hair’s breadth, she dipped her quill in that quirky Knockturn Alley ink she secretly adored, and bent forward to pen a deservedly unhinged note to the so-called Minister for Magic.

Just before ink touched paper, her eye caught on the last piece of parchment still in the envelope.

Profile:
Correspondent #060580
Sex: Male
Age: 18-35
Education: N.E.W.T. level
Languages: English and French

Nothing but the barest of bullet points. Sterile. Anonymous. Well, that sat just fine with Hermione, she could write some random racist from afar without needing to know a thing about him. Him. Gods, she couldn’t even think about what she was doing or she’d never get through it. Steady on, Gryffindor.

The handbook claimed the prompts were to alleviate the burden of reeducating the oppressor from the shoulders of volunteers… as if these damn prompts would do any heavy lifting.
Picking at random before further spiraling commenced, she changed course, re-dipped her quill, and began.

September 6
Dear sir,
As we are to begin corresponding under the terms of anonymity, I’ve resigned myself to address you formally, despite knowing that you, at some time, considered me, Muggle-born that I am, less than human and therefore do not warrant my formality. Please take my propriety as nothing more than a utilitarian means to what I consider a truly hopeless end.
I am providing the exact same list of facts provided to me regarding your identity, as my convictions surrounding equality are steadfast.

Volunteer: #091979
Sex: Female
Age: 18-35
Education: N.E.W.T. level
Language: English

Prompt: Muggle Studies Curriculum from a Muggle-born Point of View

The Muggle Studies course is outdated, devastatingly simplistic, and lacking any true substance whatsoever. An entire unit of kitchen appliances? I once sat in a class that opened with “This week we will focus on the practical functions of the microwave and the garbage disposal.” Honestly.

The current curriculum is more likened to tapping a tank to see the fish swim than any academic pursuit of understanding. The diversity of Muggle culture, history, politics, art, etc. were all completely overshadowed by the microwave? Furthermore, the class should absolutely not be mandatory learning for actual Muggle-born students as the curriculum is redundant to our entire lived experience predating our Hogwarts letters. It is my unwavering opinion that Muggle Studies is a complete waste of time for all involved and its mention here shows how utterly uninspired this initiative truly is.
Sincerely,
Ms

Not having the energy or inclination to craft a well-planned argument for this 18 or possibly 35-year-old blood supremacist, Hermione folded and sealed the purple envelope with a punch of purple wax in quick succession. Without any more thought for this disingenuous assignment, she tucked the letter into her satchel, making a mental note to stop at the owlery on her way to class in the morning.

Hermione checked her watch. Thank Merlin, she still had an hour before she needed to meet Padma for dinner at their favourite fish and chips walk up, and could catch up on a bit of light reading.

So she snatched up the thick, leather-bound copy of The Healing Applications of Ancient Runes: A Comprehensive Analysis by Shirley Digglesworth, wrapped a ridiculously pink blanket around her shoulders, and dragged it across the floor like a dramatic Victorian gown as she set off towards the kitchen for tea. Lemongrass and ginger would surely cleanse her from the inside out after such abominable correspondence.

September 7, 2000
Dear Ms,
I’ve been told that art is not what you see but what it makes others see. Perhaps the intrinsic beauty of the microwave escapes you.
Cordially,
Sir

Hermione sat and stared. Seconds passed. Minutes? Days? Tiny ran through the last ounce of bird patience and began pecking Hermione’s hand with quickening ferocity.

The letter had arrived two days after she’d sent her own. A rather quick turnaround if you asked her, and since when were Death Eaters allowed to make jokes? It was completely inappropriate given the formal nature of this arrangement. And where did he get off quoting Degas – as if he could possibly be familiar with, let alone appreciate, a Muggle artist?

Pinballs of thoughts began shooting questions from one corner of her mind to the next, without landing an answer. Tiny’s squawking reached frequencies that vanished the pinballs in a puff of owl-induced deafness.

“Yes yes, you poor darling. So sorry. Again.” She plucked out the treats she’d picked up specifically for him while at the Owlery yesterday and dropped them into the bowl on the perch Hermione had conjured after the last fainting owl episode. The bird hopped along the bar and tucked in without giving Hermione any satisfactory commiseration.

Looking back at the note, her temper kicked to life. She reached for her quill.

Chapter Text

September 12
Dear sir,
The ministry has decided the volunteers are no longer allowed to choose prompts at random, so here is their mandatory topic in the exact wording I received it.

Prompt: Without House Elves, how do Muggles maintain a standard of cleanliness in their homes?
Answer: With their individual faculties and freedom of choice.
Sincerely,
Ms.

p.s. I’ve attached a brief history of the microwave and its common uses in this envelope. Please familiarise yourself, as I now see that you surely did not attend your Muggle Studies class while at Hogwarts. Perhaps your education predated the invention itself and you are simply too old to grasp the irrelevance of the appliance in the grand scheme of Muggle culture. Happy reading

September 16
Ms,
I said that the beauty of the microwave must have escaped you. I myself saw it clearly for the masterpiece it was all along. Perhaps reading comprehension is not a strength you possess. How unfortunate.
Best,
Sir

September 30
Sir,
Prompt: If you have experienced blood prejudice, how did you know? Fortunately for my borderline illiterate brain, this has a simple answer. I knew I was experiencing blood prejudice the moment a classmate called me a Mudblood to my face. Even I was able to put that one together all by myself.
Exasperatedly,
Ms.

October 3
Ms. Hate is taught. Mull that over in the bath.
Sir

October 10
Sir,
I prefer showers, actually. Bathing is rather a waste of time unless you are in possession of a luxurious tub, routinely cleaned by a well-paid staff. As you are most likely the owner of such a ludicrously excessive item, I will assume that you assume all humans simply mull in the bath. Now on to the prompt: How does your magic differ from your pureblood peers?

Answer: In practice? Mine is, more often than not, significantly stronger. Biologically? Our magic is identical. And to the ministry official undoubtedly reading this correspondence, fuck you for letting this prompt through. Reconciliation my arse.
Ms.

October 11
Ms,
Are they reading these letters? How pro-unity of them.
Sir

October 18
Sir,
In regard to my last letter, I am not actually aware of the validity of my claim. However, I find it best to err on the side of suspicion personally.
Prompt: Is the television an adequate substitute for literature in Muggle society? I wrote the above two days ago and have not yet been able to find the words necessary to finish this god-forbidden assignment. I incendio-ed the parchment upon first reading it, so waiting was my only path forward. In the first letter I wrote to you, I called the C.R.I. initiative hopeless. This prompt proves my initial feelings with punctuated clarity. Is there a single Muggle-born appointed to the C.R.I. task force? Or are ministry purebloods sitting around and having a laugh at the expense of all those made to participate in such a well-thought-out cultural experiment? Television never was and never will be a substitute for books in any society.

Muggle literature is vast, complex, rich, and compelling. You would be hard-pressed to find any Muggle bookshop unable to supply you with something of interest. I was a rather precocious child with an appetite for literature that kept the local library in constant fear of my patronage. I often checked out the maximum number of books on my library card and proceeded to use my mum’s allotted number as well just to get everything I hoped to read the following week. To think that wizarding society thinks itself so superior that Muggles might not enjoy reading, of all things…If I’m quite honest, I found the Hogwarts literature section to be limited, repetitive, and without adequate representation. I say that as someone who read every fiction book available by the end of fourth year and then packed a semester’s worth of Muggle fiction in her trunk for the next several terms just to get by.

So, to conclude, no, telly is not a substitute for literature for Muggles. It is another form of entertainment entirely, one that the Wizarding world is lacking completely, I might add. Exhaustedly, Ms.

October 25
Ms,
What Muggle books would you most recommend if someone were to ask?
Sir

October 29
Sir,
Prompt: What Muggle food did you miss most while at Hogwarts?
Answer: I hate to be the bearer of boring news but the food in Wizarding and Muggle England is the same. Identical even.
Additional Answer: Cheesy Wotsits. Why were we not allowed crisps in the dining hall? Can purebloods not appreciate a crunch now and again? Hungrily,
Ms

p.s. I’ve attached a short list of Muggle literature suggestions. If you read any, tell me.

November 5
Ms,
You consider thirty novels to be a short list? I’m beginning to feel afraid, despite the security of anonymity and distance provided by post. I’m currently reading number seven from your list (Paradise by Toni Morrison) and I’ll admit that the title misled me. I was hoping for a soft entry to the world of Muggle books but it was foolish of me to think this list would contain any books for pleasure.
Sir

November 15
Sir,
If you cannot find pleasure in a poetic dystopia that indirectly mirrors the experiences of the Wizarding world over the last two decades then I’m afraid this reconciliation is even more hopeless than I originally predicted. Perhaps learn to sit in the discomfort of brilliant writing and derive pleasure from the experience of expanding your mind. Moving on.

Prompt: Detail your first show of accidental magic as a child. I’m writing this as it was told to me since I don’t remember myself. But if we are to believe the tale my parents recounted time and time again (and for the sake of this exercise we most certainly will, because they are nothing if not gifted and respected Muggles in their own right), then it would begin with spilled porridge. I was all propped up in my baby seat just next to the window of our sunny kitchen, newly turned one, and babbling in intellectual gibberish to be sure.

My father was adding his usual morning chaos to the scene as the story goes, and he’d just fallen into the chair beside me to lace up his trainers before sprinting to the tube (that’s Muggle transportation as I’m sure you don’t know.) Mum spooned the first bite of porridge into my mouth, making small talk with Dad. After that first bite, the spoon slipped out of Mum’s hand and fell onto my tray. She picked it up and started in with bite two. The spoon and bowl slipped this time and landed on the tray. Frustrated with the mess, but never one to back down from a fight, she spooned out bite three. As everything pulled from her fingers again, it just hovered before her, floating for several moments as we all stared at each other. With a crash the bowl and spoon splattered on the floor. Porridge all over Dad’s work clothes, Mum stunned into silence. Naturally, I clapped with abandon.

They won’t say it now because of the whole “their daughter is a witch” thing, but I know they were frightened back then. I honestly think they tried to put it out of their minds as much as possible in the time before my Hogwarts letter arrived. There were other instances of course, like the time I turned a girl’s hair puke green in Maths after catching her tying her desk mate’s shoelaces together. Or the time I floated a daisy across the yard to Mum during an afternoon of gardening. That one was not their favourite moment of parenthood I don’t think.

But the day my letter came, all three of us were relieved. Finally, an explanation, a purpose, an entire world of people who understood everything I could never explain away. Professor McGonagall appeared on our doorstep that evening, and when my father asked if she was pulling some kind of prank, she turned into a cat on the spot. Seeing her perch on the coffee table was one of the happiest moments of my life. Nothing was, in fact, wrong with me after all. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived at Hogwarts just as “wrong” being Muggle-born as I’d been in Hampstead.

So there you have it. The accidental arrival of accidentally magical Muggle-born me.
Ms.

November 16
Ms,
“I am from there. I am from here. I am not there and I am not here. I have two names, which meet and part, and I have two languages. I forget which of them I dream in.”
Sir

November 18
Sir,
You can’t appreciate Toni Morrison but you quote Palestinian poetry… dare I save a kernel of hope for your character?

Prompt: What did your magical peers assume about you upon meeting you at Hogwarts?
Answer: Being muggle-born means you are starting on a lower level than your peers. Whether this is because you have only known magic exists for three months by the time you arrive at Hogwarts or because you are constantly being told that you lack the intellectual prowess of the pureblood families, I was never quite clear.

Regardless, the sentiment was the same. I was thought to be inherently less powerful, less magical by nature. I’ve always been told I’ve a bit of a stubborn streak and even at eleven, I was driven to defy my circumstances if you will. Unfortunately, outperforming my peers only labeled me undesirable in a more bookish yet equally unlikable way. Being clever, and dare I say correct, in class did nothing to persuade my more traditional classmates of my right to be there at all.
Bitterly,
Ms.

November 20
Ms,
No one likes a swot. Could you have picked a worse personality trait to sway your more discerning peers? Furthermore, have you ever considered the assumptions made about purebloods? Don’t tell me you thought muggle-borns were the only students fortunate enough to experience baseless accusations. Tsk Tsk.
Sir

November 22
Sir, You flatter yourself. The assumption that one is divinely magical and the deserved inheritor of fortunes they did not earn is not the burden we’re speaking of. You’re correct, I could’ve chosen prejudiced arehole instead of swot but I’ve never stood trial at the Wizengamot for being studious.
Ms

November 23
Ms,
Oh, I don’t know. Self-righteousness is what puts most Death Eaters on the stand if you really think about it. More in common than you originally thought? Should we plan a holiday together and swap sanctimonious stories?
Sir

November 23
Sir,
Is it self-righteousness when you’re simply fighting for the right to exist?
Ms

November 24
Ms,
Is it “prejudice arshole” if you’re simply trying to save your mum?
Sir

November 29
Sir,
I don’t know.
Ms

November 30
Ms,
No self-respecting swot could admit that. Lost your edge then?
Sir

December 1
Granger,
Our most recent exchange has brought me to the point where I can no longer correspond under the façade of anonymity. Knowing you have been writing to Draco Malfoy for months will surely anger you in a way that makes me suddenly very glad for the distance provided by owl. Though it is one of the only times I’ve been glad for such a thing since beginning our correspondence.

To answer the question I can hear burning in your mind all the way from France, I realised it was you writing to me since the letter retelling your first signs of accidental magic. I recognized the name of your hometown as where you grew up, and then you wrote that you were rather a precocious child. There was little need for deduction from there. Not to mention your telling of the time I called you a Mudblood in our second year. I was deluding myself with the idea that it could have been a different 18-35-year-old prat and not me being referenced in your letter, because what was the likelihood that I would be paired with the Golden Girl herself?

I know I should have written to the C.R.I. liaison immediately upon this realisation, but please indulge me while I attempt to rationalise my actions. In the early letters, your obvious distaste for the initiative was entertaining. I didn’t care who was behind it because the begrudging wit was so often the highlight of my week, and Merlin knows I needed the laugh. So there I was, serving a year of house arrest in the ancestral manor, with a quippy pen pal for company. Simple joys and all that rot. My self-righteous, comedian of a pen pal soon became a window to a world I (the willfully ignorant git that I am) was just discovering. A summer in Azkaban isolation gave me time to pull apart my past, my Malfoy identity, and boil it down with the intention to choose for myself upon my release.

Even after my trial, I resolved to isolate further, even if I came to see loneliness as an unbearable hell, it was so much better than the masks I’d worn. One mask in particular. So I did the simple-minded thing. I went the opposite way. Over the last year and a half, I’ve read each book on the syllabus for Muggle classics at Oxford, Cambridge, and The University College London. I’ve consumed every Queen record I could convince Theo Nott to buy in Muggle London and owl to me before I was permitted to leave the Manor grounds. I got a Muggle library card for “the experience” and borrowed (yes, I even learned to share) a whole host of books including Shakespeare’s complete works, all the biology and physics textbooks I could find, and eventually, J.M. Roberts’s History of the World. (Don’t you think Muggle Studies should have been based on that particular book? Still including the unit on the microwave, of course.) Once allowed to leave my house, I wandered Muggle London to learn how to be a person instead of an heir. I paid in pounds, rode the tube for 8 hours at a time, observed the art of “commuting,” and ate my first Cheesy Wotsits.

I tell you all of this not to justify my decision to keep writing you or to persuade you to think of me as anything other than the Death Eater I was. I do not deserve the “reconciliation” this half-arsed Ministry mandate aims to bring about. And I certainly didn’t deserve the pieces of you I witnessed both unknowingly and knowingly in your letters. I will end here because I need time to ward my flat against the nuclear fallout that is sure to follow your reading of this confession. I’m sorry for these letters. I’m sorry I treated you as less than throughout our entire childhood.
I’m sorry, Granger. I was wrong.
D.M.

Chapter Text

She’d read the letter three times when she noticed the parchment trembling. She let it fall to her desk and reached behind her for her chair. How in Godric’s name had this happened?

What were the odds? She’d been assured that the Ministry had taken precautions against matching witches and wizards who knew one another? Putting famously acquainted classmates together would be grossly irresp— Oh.

She groaned and pressed her palms to her eyes, seeing Prophet headlines behind closed lids:

GOLDEN GIRL REDEEMS DEATH EATER HEIR

GRANGER GRANTS FORGIVENESS

SCHOOL RIVALRY TO FRIENDSHIP: PROOF OF MINISTRY SUCCESS

Kingsley. Of fucking course. He’d pushed relentlessly for her to not just join the C.R.I. as a volunteer but to publicly participate. Her name in the handbook. Gods, it was so obvious now, but at the time, she’d been too exhausted, too focused on existing to meet every demand with equal resistance.

Pieces started clicking into place: him cornering her to pitch the program, offering to help her heal her parents, his claim that if she wanted Muggle-born equality then she couldn’t leave reconciliation to those who hadn’t fought for it as she had. How had she bought that?

He’d been goading her, and she’d taken the bait so easily, hadn’t she? Merlin, she was a bloody fool, giving him his front-page Golden Girl just to prove herself. Once more around the block for the children of the war, is it?

Well, absolutely the fuck not. She wasn’t golden on demand nor was she the young Gryffindor who couldn’t resist a call for bravery. She’d had enough of that for a lifetime, and Kingsley could eat fucking slugs if he thought she’d take manipulation on this scale lying down.

And none of this to say that Draco bloody Malfoy had been reading her letters for months. Oh God, and he’d made her laugh. More than once. She’d almost looked forward to seeing Tiny at her window because of how snarky the letters had been. As if she wasn’t the only one seeing the complete charade of the C.R.I. And he’d known it was her for months—months of tricking Hermione Granger, infamous Gryffindork, formerly the Brightest Witch Of Her Age, into sharing her inner thoughts with him, the boy who’d taught her her place in society at twelve. He’d probably turned the whole thing into a game for the Slytherins, bringing a stack of letters to Firewhisky nights at the manor. 10 points for the swottiest Granger impression and a shot for every time she mentions the library. She wanted to evaporate.

She rose, her trembling turned to shaking. She was so hot in her jumper and the room was suddenly suffocating. Without letting herself think, she stripped and threw open her closet doors. She pulled on the first set of running clothes she saw, stormed down the stairs, and grabbed her trainers from where she’d kicked them off in the living room. If she didn’t burn this off, she’d start sending howlers to everyone. Anyone.

If she wanted to play the game and win, then she’d need time to process and plan, to think rationally. So with laces tied tight enough to cut circulation, she burst out of the front door and took off up the hill towards Edinburgh Castle.

December 3
Granger,
I’m watching a bird. I don’t know what kind of bird, because who knows anything about birds? But it’s hopping determinedly, furiously even, after a cricket. It reminds me of you.
D.M.

p.s. Rest in peace little cricket.

December 6
Granger,
Pansy came to visit. Longbottom couldn’t stop staring.
D.M.

December 15
Granger,
I’ve just successfully brewed the most potent skin regrowth potion known to the magical community. The recipe has never been recorded and is only taught through word of mouth at the Parisian Potions Academy. Jealous?
D.M.

p.s. I’m a student at the Potions Academy. Have I said? I can't recall.

December 16
Granger,
Is your hair still creating its own gravitational pull? Or have you found your way into some bottle of taming potion by now? Satisfy my curiosity.
D.M.

December 20
Granger,
Do you like art? Longbottom and I went to the Louvre this past weekend. We lost the entire afternoon to the Michelangelo room. That man must have been a wizard. Longbottom agrees. The skill and artistry were captivating, as were the many many marble tits.
D.M.

December 25
Granger,
Happy Christmas.
D.M.

January 3
Granger,
I went to a Muggle bookshop today and asked the clerk for a book to better get to know someone. I’ve come away with ‘If…(Questions For The Game of Life)’ which I think is the stupidest title I’ve ever come across. Absolute idiocy.

I’ve never had to truly “start” with anyone if I’m honest. Pansy, Theo, and I met before we could walk. I’m not entirely sure how to write someone from the beginning and since you won't be reading these letters anyway, I thought I’d try my hand at what the old clerk lady called ice breakers. Steady on now.

Prompt number one: If you could alter any physical characteristic of your mate what would you change?
Easy. Theo Nott is allegedly an inch taller than I am. Yet, I’ve always been at my best when looming over everyone, centre of attention and all. So yes, if the allegedly tall Theo was just ever so much shorter than the incontrovertibly tall Draco, I might finally know peace.
D.M.

p.s. It has come to my attention that the prompt is most certainly referring to one’s romantic partner with the word “mate”… not one’s male friends. I will get the hang of this Muggle book, mark my words.

January 9
Granger,
Prompt: If you could, in retrospect, change one thing about your childhood, what would it be?
Answer: My father.
D.M.

January 19
Granger,
Prompt: If you could be in permanent possession of any object in the world, what would you want it to be?

I’m sure you’ll recall the time I was in possession of the Elder Wand and failed to realise the fact. Perhaps this hypothetical opportunity would be wasted on me. However, since you’re asking, I wouldn’t mind permanent possession of one of those tit statues from the Louvre. Certainly, the value of such a thing wouldn’t be lost on me this time.
D.M.

February 6
Granger,
Prompt: If you could physically transport yourself anywhere in the world at this moment, where would you go?

Answer: I’m sure apparition was not intended when this question was written but regardless, my answer is the same. I’ve been quarantined in a tiny study hall with Longbottom and two other mastery students for the better part of four days. My fingers are spotted with varying ages of dried ink, my head is buzzing with potion ingredients, stir rotations, wand movements, and Longbottom’s incessant muttering.

I’ve consumed so much tea that my knee won’t stop bouncing under this fucking table. None of us have known a bed in days. I’m sure this study hall smells like a quidditch locker room but I’m too exhausted to check. Exams are still two days away. Salazar, there is not enough tea in the world to ensure my modified burn-healing paste stabilises in time for review. Although I’m technically able to transport myself anywhere, I’m completely trapped in this metaphorical cauldron of death. So my answer would be simply, anywhere else.
D.M.

p.s. Fine. I’d choose my family’s vineyard in Provence. My mother’s been living there since the trials ended and I’ve started looking forward to my visits. The wine is excellent and it's so different from the Manor. So much sun and everything feels fresh—like nothing from before really happened. How could it have when such a place exists?

February 17
Granger,
I told Longbottom about the C.R.I. and the inexcusable decision to pair you with me in what I can only assume was a political move of some kind. He mentioned that you’re a student at the Healer Academy in Edinburgh. Didn’t get enough of studying or Scotland in school then? I must admit that the idea of you being a healer feels like the final piece to the Hermione Granger puzzle. It makes sense.

Longbottom mentioned you’re doing research. What kind?
D.M.

March 1
Granger,
I saw you in Paris and I know you saw me too. I’m not going to stop writing so you may as well respond for the sake of argument.
D.M.

Chapter Text

March 3
Hermione dropped her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. What did he fucking want? When she’d been invited to present her research at the International Magical Healers Convention, she hadn’t even considered his mention of the Potions Academy being in Paris.

Leaving the event, she’d been distractedly happy. Her presentation had been so well received and she’d been eager to hear how Padma’s had gone, so they decided to skip the final mixer at the hotel bar in favour of exploring a well-known apothecary in the Wizarding shopping district. Rare potion ingredients were always more available in large cities, and Hermione had been hunting for squill root, hellebore syrup, and dried flutterby blooms for months.

The two had stopped at a cafe to share a celebratory cheese plate and then set off towards the Wizarding District. The apothecary, Pot Et Poudre, looked abandoned from the street view, but behind the slanted door frame was a healer’s haven. Herbs hung from large racks that rotated like ferris wheels, ensuring every item could be viewed from the first floor. Roots were piled high in baskets on a long table that ran down the centre of the room, and the walls were lined with shelves weighed down with fermented goods in jars of every shape and size.

The girls debated over a gallon-sized jar of pickled wormwood for ten minutes and ultimately decided on a pint to start, repeatedly assuring one another that they could come back for more now that they knew where to find it in bulk.

Another thirty minutes was spent with the shop owner, Hexia Herring, an elderly witch with wiry grey hair elaborately braided atop her head, giving the impression of a bird's nest that suited her rather well. One mention of the Healer Academy and the three witches were lost to the world, trading ideas for uncommon moly leaf uses and how to get the most potency from a single mandrake cutting.

Hexia proved to be a deep well of knowledge and grasped both Hermione and Padma’s elbows when they asked if they could write to her with questions in the future. “Oh yes, dears! It would be my pleasure. I’ve always known the world of magical healing could do with more witches.”

By the time they stepped out of the shop, Hermione’s beaded bag had a new shelf’s-worth of ingredients shrunk down and stowed away. She felt satisfied, renewed. Padma recounted her presentation and they debriefed each interesting healer they’d met throughout the week as they walked. Heads together, talking quickly and laughing, Hermione suddenly felt fourteen again. A Hogsmeade street in place of the broad boulevard. A Snape impersonation in lieu of a debate on the Incantation Linguistics lecture they’d attended. 

She suddenly felt the years that had passed. The precocious girl had twisted into a weapon for the Order and then again into a comforting, studious shield to curl up behind.

“But I protect myself, I surround myself with books, their silence does not demand anything.”

And yet she’d stumbled into a bubble of friendship, shared passion, and comfortable companionship. Not just with Padma, but in the world of healing that had grown exponentially at the symposium. What healing she’d found in the discipline of healing others. Ironic. Good.

A flash of white blonde and the pop of that bubble rang in her ears as she froze. Just across the street was a large stone building with dramatic columns and steep stairs that led to massive wooden doors. When they’d come this way an hour before, Hermione had assumed it was the French Gringotts, but scanning it now, she noticed a brass plaque above the doors.

Parisian Potions Academy est. 1136.

And he was there. Draco Malfoy was briskly walking down the front steps, robes unbuttoned and flowing behind him to reveal that signature white button down and black trousers, a leather bag slung over one shoulder. He laughed loudly at something the tall man rushing down the stairs beside him said, and Hermione was stunned to realise it was Neville Longbottom. Padma must have seen Neville at the same moment, because before Hermione was able to stop it, Padma called out.

“Oi! Longbottom! Is that you?”

The two men had reached the bottom step, their heads turning together at Padma’s voice. Grey eyes met Hermione’s. She didn’t move, and Padma took a step towards them to—to what? Say her hellos?

Malfoy raised his arm and waved, shaking Hermione back into her body just as Padma crossed the street. She and Neville began talking animatedly while Malfoy stayed one step behind the pair, eyes still locked on Hermione’s, arm still raised expectantly. Without a second thought, she turned on her heel and apparated.

Two days later, back in her room, she was still mulling it over (just not in the damn bath.)

She’d been so clear with her anger, hadn’t she? Ignoring every letter and then bolting at the sight of him seemed like an obvious way to communicate that they were not friends. Had he known she was there? Could you put The Trace on a fully-grown witch? And what was that stupid wave about?  

Padma had told her afterwards that Malfoy and Neville were coming straight from class when they happened upon them, and the three had only spoken for a moment after Hermione’s graceless departure. Neville seemed well, and Padma didn’t take much notice of Malfoy’s presence. Why would she?

Padma had eventually found her in their hotel room, where Hermione was innocently reading as though nothing had happened. She’d simply remembered she was out of gillyweed and popped back to the apothecary before deciding to lay down for a bit. Travel was so exhausting after all. 

But he’d written again. She was at a complete loss. It’d been three months since he’d admitted to knowingly corresponding with her and he’d kept writing, without a single reply from her. His letters arrived routinely, except for the handful of times he sent more than one in a week. Malfoy was writing to her purposefully, relentlessly, and for what? Her curiosity began to itch so she snatched up her quill and jotted down a reply before she could overthink the urge to scratch.

Malfoy,
I did see you.
H.G.

March 4
Granger,
If you saw me then why did you so rudely leave? I was waving like fucking Hagrid greeting first years, and you know that’s below my breeding.
D.M.

March 6
Malfoy,
Is this the time to bring up your “breeding”?
H.G.

March 7
Granger,
If you were in etiquette classes (twice a week mind you) by age five, you would struggle to forget your breeding, I assure you. One simply does not shout after a witch on the side of the street, especially when that witch is very clearly making a run for it.

Honestly, why leave so dramatically? Longbottom tells me you were presenting your research at the International Magical Healers Convention. The Granger I knew would never pass up the chance to show off her academic reputation to a foul, loathsome, evil cockroach such as myself.
D.M.

March 9
Malfoy,
I’m not the Granger from Hogwarts. She was young.
H.G.

p.s. Did you shout then? How impolite.

March 10
Granger,
Would you tell me about your research if I asked nicely?
D.M.

p.s. I’ve rarely succumbed to such common displays. I don’t care to relive it. Thank you.

March 12
Malfoy,
Try asking and we’ll see if you even know the meaning of the word nicely.
H.G.

March 15
Granger,
You are not the Granger from school. I am not that Slytherin boy either. We’ve seen true horror, lost people we cared about, and speaking for myself, done things I wish I could forget. In a previous letter, I said that I was wrong. About everything. I meant it.

So if you’re willing, I’m very curious to hear what the brilliant Hermione Granger has deemed worthy of her research skills. What have you found to stimulate that brain of yours?

Tell me.
D.M.

Chapter Text

March 19
Malfoy,
“Tell me.” Years of etiquette lessons, and that was your attempt at asking nicely? So you’re still a prat then. I’m unsure if that’s comforting or just unsurprising.

Now, my research. My current focus is the incorporation of Muggle healing practices into magical settings by creating a blended branch of healing.

For example, Muggle doctors treat wounds like gashes and burns in wildly different manners. The process is slow and often extremely painful; however, Wizarding practice is to rely solely on magic, with an unhealthy emphasis on speed of recovery. A great deal of Wizarding healing puts speed above holistic wellness, and I believe it’s a result of lingering blood prejudice that has ingratiated itself into hospital methodology. Lengthy injuries are associated with being Muggle, therefore magical people need not find patience in healthcare.

My aim is to use a combination of treatment methods with a focus on preserving nerve function and skin placidity. Healing external wounds with Essence of Dittany, Episkey or even Vulnera Sanentur stops the bleeding and re-knits the skin. And yet, scars left by curses or splinching remain numb, sometimes aching for years afterwards or never fully regaining function at all. My research shows that it’s possible to preserve impacted nerves and regain mobility using a combination of Muggle wound care standards and existing healing spells and potions. 

So there. Happy now?
H.G.

March 22
Granger,
What is a nerve ?
D.M.

March 23
Malfoy,
If you are truly enrolled at the Potions Academy then I must assume you know how to look something up on your own. Put that Muggle library card to use and check out an anatomy textbook. Must I be responsible for your entire adult education?
H.G.

March 31
Granger,
Ah, so you did read my letters then. I won’t pretend that doesn’t please me.
Do the Gryffindors know you’re this funny? It certainly wasn’t common knowledge amongst Slytherins, but it's quite a nice surprise. I often laugh reading your letters, even when I know you’re being mean to me.

I like your research. I could have used that kind of Muggle hybrid healing in sixth year. The scars Potter left burn rather dramatically every time I take a hot shower.
D.M.

April 2
Malfoy,
In all honesty, you’re rather funny yourself. I never considered you might genuinely be funny when you made Crabbe and Goyle laugh back in school. I always assumed your humour would be at someone else’s expense and not actual wit. Perhaps you’ve been funny all along?
H
p.s. If I’m successful in my research, I might be able to fix that hot shower problem.

April 4
Granger,
Did you mean to sign that last letter H? Are you warming up to me then?
D.M.
p.s. I’m still curious about your hair. Do you wear it like you did in school? Can you sleep without being strangled or do you spend every night in terror? 

April 10
Malfoy,
When I wrote you last, I hadn’t left the lab in three nights. My signature to you was nowhere near the top of my list of concerns. Aren’t you nearing the end of term as well? Find something to study and leave me alone.
G
p.s. My hair is– my hair. Still properly curly but I’d like to think it’s a bit more tame than at Hogwarts. To sleep, I braid it and have survived so far. Any night terror is not hair-related.

April 15
Quick Granger,
Distract me. Tell me something awful.
D.M.

April 15
Malfoy,
Something awful: I often wonder if I should have been a Ravenclaw. What if the sorting hat put me in Gryffindor for Harry’s sake? Dumbledore pulled me aside once in third year to tell me that Harry would need me one day, so what if the hat was in cahoots? Go eagles? Caw Caw?
H

p.s. Distract you from what?

April 16
Granger,
Did Dumbledore really say that? In third year? That’s fucking demented. Did his unknown centuries of life never teach him how to speak to children? Merlin, the old man did have a way with words, though, didn’t he…I’d most certainly be dead if he hadn’t started talking that night on the Astronomy Tower.

But while on the subject, I too have had similar sorting hat suspicions. Am I a Slytherin because I’m a Malfoy? Could I have been a Ravenclaw if I hadn’t grown up taking tea in Mother’s rose garden with my Father’s friends? Daydreaming of Voldemort’s return over their biscuits? Who’s to say?

But would I look good in Ravenclaw blue? Couldn’t possibly be as flattering as emerald green for a man with hair as white as mine… so perhaps I owe that questionably sentient hat a thank you. Could’ve been a right disaster. 

Tell me something good?
D.M.

p.s. I, too, was in the lab with an end-of-term project. Hours of counting stirs can drive a man to madness, you know. But that bit about the sorting hat was just the thing to keep me going. My experimental wolfsbane recipe brewed perfectly. Thank you.

April 19
Malfoy,
Something good: Now that the semester is finished, I’ve had the chance to experiment some myself. I’ve had this pet project of sorts. I’ve been making tea using familiar blends infused with magical properties. So many magical plants have effects that could benefit us in smaller, more regular doses (like the anxiety-reducing benefits of Hellebore that make Calming Drought effective) without needing to brew or obtain complex potions.

Last night, I made my own version of Hellebore syrup (similar to the one used in Drought of Peace but with tea-ish tweaks) and found it paired perfectly with the always-classic Sleepy Time Tea as a replacement for honey. I drank a cup before bed and slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
H.G.

April 23
Granger,
Have you considered drying Squill flowers? Imagine if drinking a cuppa could give you a pinch of luck without the six-month brew time of Felix Felicis?
D.M.

April 24
Granger,
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Madame Hexia dried these with your tea project specifically in mind. She said to tell you hello.
D.M.

April 26
Malfoy,
Thank you for the squill. I’ve included two tea bags of the blend I made with it for you to try. It’s a green tea base with hints of floral from the flowers you sent. Try it and let me know if you feel lucky?
H

April 27
Hermione,
That was the best fucking tea I’ve ever had. I brewed it this morning at 7:45 am at 82 degrees for four minutes. I’d originally planned to rework my Wolfsbane recipe for our next experimental brew but something made me abandon my usual spot in the study hall and voluntarily sit on the quad, which I never do because it feels peasant-like to sprawl on the grass. But there I was with my notebook when my professor walked by and started a conversation about my recipe, unprompted. We chatted for several minutes and he offered me the solution to my exact problem concerning the mandrake juice extraction. All while I was sprawled on the bloody lawn.

You did it. You’ve brought Liquid Luck to the masses on the first try, and my Wolfsbane recipe is bloody perfect. Fucking brilliant, Granger.
D.M.

p.s. I wrote the above with the tea still fresh in my system. The documented exuberance is quite telling of how powerful this brew seems to be. Might want to use less squill in the next batch.

April 27
Ms. Granger,
Thank you for the Squill flower tea. This pet project of yours is a bit of genius if you ask me, which you didn’t, but I can’t help myself. I’m currently growing a new variant in my personal greenhouse and would like to send it to you once it’s dried. I have an inkling that it might interact with the tea in a less powerful way. Would that be agreeable to you?
Your herbal friend,
Hexia

April 28
Draco,
Your last letter is my favourite. I’m sure I’ve never laughed so hard opening the post in my life. Padma will think I’ve gone mad if you keep writing under the influence of the lucky tea.

I have to admit, I’m thrilled with the results. I couldn’t wait to try again, so I’ve enclosed a bag from my second batch as well as a peppermint tea blend with added Shrivelfig skins. The hope is for the drinker to experience a boost of happiness (but not inexplicable levels like the Euphoria Elixir I’m working from) and could be used as a treatment for depressive episodes. 

Let me know what you think of both. Your details of the first attempt were actually incredibly helpful. I’ve recorded your brew time and temperature in my notes. Your attention to such things surprised me, although, given your Potions mastery, I suppose it’s second nature?

Tell me something else surprising.
H.G.
p.s. Giving the second bag of lucky tea to Hexia was incredibly thoughtful. I wouldn’t have even thought to ask. Thank you. 

May 5
Granger,
Something surprising: I’m sure you will find this hard to believe, but being born the sole heir of a lineage spanning one thousand years did not come naturally to me.

Despite my sparkling wit and good looks rivaling Gildory Lockheart himself, I had far more “personality” than my father felt was appropriate for someone of our status. Complete bollocks, that line of thinking.

Regardless, pureblood education begins at a very young age, and the dedication one needs to learn the Viennese Waltz as a seven-year-old eluded me.

Picture the slicked-back Draco of first year. Now shrink him by half. Maybe one more shrinking for good measure? Okay, now put him in perfectly tailored, miniature dress robes. Yes, black. I’ve always had taste. Shhh. Now add a distracting lisp due to the absolute chasm where two front teeth once stood.

That image would be titled ‘A Boy: The Pureblood Paradox’.

Often, my mother would come to retrieve me from our dance instructor only to find I had escaped five minutes into the lesson. She’d find me twenty feet up the apple tree in her garden, book on my lap and eating more jelly slugs than should be possible for seven-year-old hands to carry.

All that to say, my father had his work cut out for him when it came to turning me into a son worthy of the Malfoy mantle. It’s possible I may have overcorrected by the time I met you on the Hogwarts Express. I was simply itching to be the Slytherin prince he could be proud of.

When I’m truly honest with myself, I know I wanted to be just like him. He was powerful, respected, controlled. That had to be a good thing, didn’t it? But then came the war, and the expectations took on a darker shade. I wasn’t just the heir, I was a soldier with a mission of my own. My family relied on me to make it work, but my assignment just made me look at my upbringing more closely. How could the people who loved me most let this psychopath brand their son in their home? How could they ask me to bring Death Eaters into the very castle where I lived? Where their friends’ children lived? What could be worth that?

I must admit, I did think of you during that time. My mind would wander while working on the Vanishing Cabinet and I’d wonder why your presence at Hogwarts was worth a war. If my parents had been in those classes, they would have seen how much more magical you were than all of us in our year, a raw magic that could never have been “stolen” from any pureblood witch.

I finished my task to save my mother’s life. But I left all belief in blood supremacy in the Room of Requirement with that bloody cabinet. I don’t think my father ever forgave me for it. Not even when he knew he would die in Azkaban.

Now I’m wishing I’d kept the humour from my seven-year-old lisp going…Merlin, why am I being so cerebral in a letter to Hermione bloody Granger?

I’ll leave you with this: Thell me thomting thark tho I know I’m not alone.
D.M.

p.s. I have yet to try the new teas you included in your last letter as I’m mere moments away from perishing. The healer referred to it as “the common cold”, although there is nothing common about it. Any chance you have a tea for that? 

May 8
Draco,
You’re rather unexpected, aren't you? When I asked for something surprising, I had imagined “Granger, I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but I think Professor Trelawny is a bit of a genius. Divination is my secret passion.”

And yet, even in your honesty, you made me laugh quite hard. I can picture lisping Draco perfectly; your storytelling is particularly vivid. I like it. Do you read fiction often? Your writing reads like you must. What is your favourite novel?

I’m sorry about your father. I read that he’d passed in The Prophet , but reading your words as his son is a different thing entirely. I can relate more than you may have realised, as I lost my parents to the war as well.

It’s not the same, but I obliviated them before going on the run with Harry and Ron after sixth year. (Did you know we lived in a tent that entire year? Most people don’t, since it’s not the Golden Trio glamour they like to imagine.) I thought my parents would be targeted because I was “Potter’s Mudblood”, so I did the only thing I could think of and erased myself from their memories. I had them pack up our family home and start a new life in Australia to be safe.

After the final battle, I went back for them. I got them to St. Mungos (not a simple task mind you) and met with every memory healer in the UK. We tried everything and nothing worked. I went to the continent and wrote to mind healers in the US. Every healer came to the same conclusion. I went a bit mad after that. I don’t remember much, honestly. But eventually, Harry and the Weasleys held a kind of intervention to bring me back to reality and I had to accept it for now. 

So even though my parents are alive, my family is not. And after your last letter, I think you might understand more than most of my friends.

Well…I think that should count as my “something dark” don’t you? 

On to the tea then? Your fatal illness inspired me and I think I’ve come up with the perfect solution. This is my take on echinacea tea (a muggle staple when feeling under the weather) but I’ve added dehydrated gillyweed. The effect should allow you to breathe deeply even if you’re stuffed up. Let me know how it works. And don’t die.

Hermione
p.s. Tell me something simple.

May 10
Granger,
The gillyweed tea liberated me from my impending end. I thank you. The taste, however, was so horrendous I very nearly lost my breakfast in a public bin. Disgraceful really. Might we consider tweaking the recipe? Perhaps try to mask the aftertaste that reeks of Black-Lake-sludge? Almost wish the common cold had taken me after all. Ghastly tea.

I’m very sorry to hear about your parents. There is something uniquely awful about the dissolution of an entire family. I can offer you no solutions, as I don’t know any myself, but you’re right. I do understand. And if it makes any difference at all, I think what you did saved their lives and possibly yours as well. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Dark Lord planned to use them to lure you and Potter out of hiding. Games like that were exactly his way. You made the right choice.

Something simple: A pair of well-fitted trousers can solve more problems than not.

The house elf who handled a large portion of my upbringing, Mippy, taught me that, and I’ve found it to be a profoundly accurate truth. Besides the obvious benefit of looking dashing at all times, proper clothing gives you control of any room you enter. Confidence is key, or whatever Hufflepuffs say.

Also, of course I think Divination is ridiculous. Doesn’t everyone?

Draco
p.s. I didn’t know about going on the run with Potter and The Weasel King. Sounds fucking awful.

p.p.s. I’m attending a seminar in Edinburgh this weekend. Have dinner with me.

May 15
Draco,
I’ll meet you in St. Andrew’s Square at 7:00 pm on Friday. I’ll be in red.
Hermione

The moment the owl took off with her reply, Hermione ran from her desk into the hall.

“PADMA. ARE YOU HOME?”

She hadn’t told anyone about her correspondence with Draco after his initial admission to being her C.R.I. pairing and now she was in over her head. 

“IN THE KITCHEN. NEED SOMETHING?”

“CAN YOU COME UP? IT’S AN EMERGENCY.”

Hermione heard Padma jogging up the stairs and darted back to her desk to pull a stack of purple envelopes from the bottom drawer. By the time Padma rounded the doorway, Hermione’s bed was covered in purple and she was standing nearby, sheepishly. 

“Hi. Thanks for coming”

“What the fuck is this? What’s wrong?”

“Right. Well. Um. Okay, remember when we ran into Neville in Paris and I acted a bit strange?”

“Obviously.”

“Okay. Well, the thing is tha—”

“Oh my God, are you and Longbottom together? Like dating? Is that why he’s coming to town this weekend?

Hermione was flapping her hands like miniature Thestral wings, trying to quiet Padma when her head whipped up. “Neville is coming to Edinburgh, too?”

“He’s coming for some Herbology symposium on Friday. Just wrote me about it this morning so we could meet up for drinks with Luna since she’ll be in town as well for some reason that didn’t make sense to me. But what do you mean “too”? Who else is coming?”

Hermione absently wrung her hands, letting them fall to her sides with a sigh. “Draco.”

Padma’s face was completely blank, mouth slightly open, “Malfoy?”

“Yes. He’s coming for the symposium as well. He and Neville are in the Potions Mastery together, although Draco is in the brewing degree, not Herbology and he’s—”

“Draco, is it?”

Hermione held up her hand in response, “Can you please let me just get this out Pad? I’m out on a limb right now, and if I don’t get through it all, I’ll implode. I actually need your help, so will you listen or not?” She ended the rant with her hands on her hips like this was fifth year prefect patrol and not an appeal for dating advice between two grown women. Dating? Never mind, not that, surely.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Carry on, headmistress, I’m all ears.” Padma said sarcastically as she edged onto the only corner of the bed not drowning in letters. “What’s all this then?”

Hermione chose to ignore all references to McGonagall in favour of the letters, reaching out and picking up the first one she’d ever received. She’d never mentioned the C.R.I. or Kingsley's promise to help her parents, and she’d not mentioned Draco’s name to anyone.

Over the next hour, she told Padma everything that had happened with Kingsley–the arrival of the Ministry stationary and handbook, her initial suspicion that Kingsley was tracking her correspondence, and eventually Draco’s confession letter. Padma read that particular letter through three times before she was ready to hear the rest. Hermione showed her every letter he’d written without reply and explained her dramatic exit in Paris.

Hermione was still standing at the end of the bed as Padma set down the last letter and said, “Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione pulled in her lips and nodded slowly, “I know.”

“Well, he’s cheeky as fuck, and we both saw him in Paris. He’s turned out quite fit, hasn’t he?”

“Padma!” Hermione reached to knock the last letter out of her friend’s hand, but Padma blocked it perfectly.

“Oh come off it. You were there…kind of.” Hermione rolled her eyes and Padma continued “He’s bloody gorgeous! Even if he is the biggest prat I’ve ever met. And for some reason, he’s developed quite the knack for letter writing it seems.”

Padma stood abruptly and walked to the wardrobe, throwing open the doors and continuing to talk over her shoulder at Hermione.

“Friday at 7:00 pm you said? And where are you taking him?”

“The curry place, right off the square. The food’s great, the drinks are strong, and I won’t be far from home if it’s all some elaborate ploy to make fun of me somehow.” Hermione came to stand next to Padma, who was shuffling through hangers loudly and felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at the realisation of what they were doing.

“Hmmm.” Padma hummed as she ran her fingers over Hermione’s old jumpers and practical trousers. “None of this is it. We need to make an impression. You’re a grown woman, a literal war hero, a published researcher, and a genuinely kind human being. You are not some bookish rival he can bully over chutney.”

Hermione winced slightly and Padma playfully bumped her shoulder “And since we don’t know his intentions exactly, we can’t play it safe.” She waved her wand, the wardrobe snapped shut, and she started out of the room.

“So what do I wear then?” Hermione called after her.

“Absolutely nothing in there. I’m getting Ginny.”

Between all three witches, a plan was hatched. Ginny passed several of her own clothing selections through the Floo and Padma brought several options of her own down to the living room fireplace for Hermione to try. They appraised and magically altered pieces until finally settling on a shortened version of one of Ginny’s shift dresses. Black and thin-strapped, the newly mini dress settled around Hermione’s curves without hugging them too tightly. It was so far from anything she’d ever owned, but she felt completely herself, the pleased looks on her friends’ faces furthering her confidence.

“Oh God! I told him I’d be in red!” Hermione suddenly realised.

Molly Weasley grade scolding erupted from the green flames “Why on earth? Hermione, you don’t own a single red dress, and this fits so—”

Ignoring Ginny’s outburst, Padma stepped forward and lightly tapped her wand against the strap on Hermione’s shoulder. The dress morphed into a dark, red wine colour, and all three women took in a breath. It was perfect. The colour warmed Hermione’s tan skin, making her look more herself, accentuating her freckles and the gold in her eyes. A pair of well-fitting trousers if she did say so herself.

“Well, thank Merlin that’s settled,” said Ginny as Padma began scooping clothes off the floor to toss back through the fire to Ginny. “Keep me posted on every single detail, Hermione. I’m more than invested.” And with a flash of green flame, she was gone.

The rest of the week passed against Hermione’s will. She went to class, to the library, and to a room of complete denial in her mind. By Wednesday, the red dress had cracked her door of denial to the point of insomnia. She got out of bed and padded to the kitchen with every intention of putting the kettle on when her eyes caught on a cluster of mandrake root drying by the window.

By 5:00 am, she set down a steaming cup of mandrake tea as relief flooded over her churning thoughts. Mandrake root was most often brewed for petrification, but a night of tweaks and portioning had produced a blend that lessened the mental paralysis of her anxiety. Crawling under the covers, she wondered if Draco would think the tea tasted like Madame Hooch’s compost bin just before sleep found her.

Chapter Text

May 19
St. Andrew’s Square was bustling with people making the most of a sunny Scottish evening.

At 6:59 PM, Hermione walked the circular path around the park, hunting for an open bench and promising herself she only had to wait a maximum of fifteen minutes before bolting . Trying to look at ease, as though she often strolled the park in strappy gold heels, she brushed little whisps of hair out of her eyelashes. She’d managed a rather pleasant bun at the nape of her neck but the gusts of wind weren’t doing it any favours. She was tucking errant strands of hair behind her ears when she caught sight of him.

Draco sat alone on a bench ten feet in front of her, reading a paperback book. He’d yet to look up, so she took the opportunity to observe everything she’d missed in Paris. 

He was tall and lean, with one ankle resting on a knee–the picture of ease. He wore a white oxford with dark trousers, and black dragonhide penny loafers instead of the typical dress shoes he’d always worn with his school uniform. His hair, white as ever, fell messily over his forehead. Had he been charming it straight under that helmet of hair gel? The once-very-pointy boy was now a strong-jawed, high-cheekboned man, wearing round-rimmed glasses on a perfectly straight nose. 

She knew she was staring. She should say ‘hello’ at the very least. But had he been this bloody gorgeous while sneering around the castle?

“Did you always wear glasses?”

She hadn’t meant to say that. Certainly not as the first words spoken to him in almost five years. He looked up, shutting his book quickly and stood to face her.

His voice was deeper than she remembered when he spoke, “Not always. But I have always been nearly blind. Just couldn’t stand the thought of matching with Saint Potter in school.” Now that he stood, she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. Gods the top of her head wouldn’t even reach his shoulder if she weren’t teetering on these bloody heels.

Before she’d thought of a reply he continued, “By the time I was studying for NEWTs, though, I was holding books three inches from my face to read clearly,” he smirked, “Mother insisted, else I fail my exams and become a simpleton on top of the enviable status of convicted dark wizard .”

She could see the joke in his grey eyes, so she smirked back. “Well, they suit you. Sort of rounds out the whole ‘off-duty aristocrat’ thing.” She gestured to all of him and he let out a chuckle.

Mimicking her gesture, he said, “This suits you as well. I had imagined a Gryffindor jumper when you wrote you’d be in red.”

They fell into step beside each other, heading towards the restaurant. “Actually, I’ve stopped wearing my Hogwarts uniform altogether. Kicked the habit during the whole NEWT by post arrangement,” she said, biting back a smile.

His eyes were bright, head turned down to see her expression as they walked. “Not even just to bed? Fuck Granger, you really have changed. I’d have thoug—”

Her heels made a scraping sound on the pavement as she stopped short and raised her brows at him. 

“Oh, it’s Granger again, then?”

His expression wavered for a single second and then split into a smile she’d never seen on him. He bowed ever so slightly without breaking eye contact and drawled, “Apologies… Hermione.”

They were shown to a quiet table in the back of the Indian spot Hermione had chosen, and when Draco pulled her chair out, the absurdity of the situation crashed around her. She sat and painstakingly unfolded her napkin, raking her scattered thoughts off the restaurant floor for something to say. Anything. Should he speak first? Would he sound like the mocking boy from school, or the witty man from his letters? 

“Do you live near the square?” His question interrupted her whirling thoughts and she narrowed her eyes at him.

“I do. Looking to start stalking me since our Paris encounter was such a disaster?”

“If anyone is recreationally stalking, it's you. I was merely leaving class, the way I do every day when Longbottom and I ran into you and…whichever Patil that was.”

She responded with a roll of her eyes, “It’s Padma. And how was I to know where your school was located? I simply came to the city for my research and snuck in some personal shopping. Next thing I knew, your hair was blinding me from across the street.”

“Well, you hid your shock gracefully. I’m sure no one even noticed you apparate away at the mere sight of me.” He looked away and she wondered if there was a hint of embarrassment under that joke. 

He caught the waiter’s attention and ordered a bottle of red wine for the table, while Hermione added an order of Samosas Chaat.

Pouring her glass, Draco asked, “Do you come here often?”

“I’ve been a few times. You’re right, I do live just a few blocks from here. With Padma, actually. We come here when we’re celebrating because we both have a samosa addiction of sorts.”

“I must admit I have no idea what a samosa even is.”

“Impossible.”

“Truly. My mother’s elves rely heavily on the French palate at home and Longbottom and I have a tendency to eat cafeteria food more than I’d like to admit. Half the time we’re eating while running to class or lab. Adventurous dining has fallen by the wayside since starting in Potions, I’m afraid.”

“You were adventuring before?”

“Oh yes. It was one of the main pillars of my Muggle education. Didn’t I write you about my time in Muggle London riding the tube and such?”

Hermione nodded as she took a sip of her wine, watching the easy way he held the stem of his own glass. He talked so much more than she’d imagined.

“Right. Well, eating Muggle food in Muggle restaurants was number three on my list of things to immerse myself in that summer.” 

She laughed as the appetiser was placed between them. Draco looked bewildered, but she saw his throat bob and knew the smell alone had his attention.

“Shall I tell you what’s in them in exchange for hearing what numbers one and two on your Muggle list were?” she asked, forking some onto her plate.

“I actually don’t mind surprises,” he said, meeting her eyes, smirking, and cutting off a large bite in a single motion. As soon as the fork left his lips he closed his eyes and hummed.

“Gods, Muggles know how to cook, don’t they?” He sighed. 

Hermione laughed again. “Can you believe you lived your whole life without knowing what pizza tasted like?”

His eyes lit up. “Yes, exactly! How did you know about my thing with pizza? I didn’t write about that, did I? Merlin, pizza…should we get some after this, do you think?” he said quickly looking toward the door as if to hunt down a pizza shop from where they sat.

He was so earnest she had to cover her mouth to keep in a laugh. “No. You never mentioned it in your letters. I just had a feeling pizza might shock you, what with it all messy and cheesy and you all…perfectly posh. Felt like a match made in Muggle heaven, honestly.”

“Well, it was– is . That first night, I passed a pizza shop totally by chance and stopped in for a slice as an experiment. But one slice became a whole pie almost immediately, and now I can’t get enough of it. Why don’t they have pizza at Hogwarts? Don’t you think it’d be the perfect food for a dining hall of starving teenagers?”

“Yes!” She exclaimed much louder than she’d intended. They both looked around nervously and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, embarrassed. Draco’s cheeks were slightly pink but his expression looked oddly pleased.

“Sorry,” she laughed. “I’ve just been saying that exact thing for years. I used to complain to Harry and Ron about it all the time.”

The bottle of wine was empty before she’d realised she’d had a second glass. He must have refilled hers at some point, but his focus was so intent on her every word that she hadn’t even noticed.

Waving down the waiter, he ordered a second bottle. He looked confused when she ordered three entrees, but she waved him off and continued asking about his time in Muggle London. He told her of getting stuck in a Tube turnstile, and she was caught between fits of laughter at his frantic miming of pushing on a locked gate and watching his hands as he spoke. They were large and graceful. He gestured freely, animatedly; so unlike the calculating stillness he’d carried himself with before.

He asked her about the Healer Academy, and she lost herself in the retelling of a recent Eastern Arithmancy lecture, drifting into what Ron would have deemed Professor Granger territory. Draco, however, seemed interested in the differences between Chinese spellwork and the incantations they’d learned at Hogwarts. He pushed back on her idea to grow gillyweed in greenhouse tanks, bringing up environmental elements that may impact magical potency that Hermione had never considered. Intriguing, really.

They finished a second bottle with the main course, sharing each dish with:

“Do you taste coriander in this?”

“Why is it so orange, do you think?”

“Merlin, try this bit here?”

“No, with the rice too, and the green sauce!”

“Do you like this much garlic?”

“Which one’s your favourite?”

“Do you think they serve dessert here?”

Afterwards, they stumbled out onto the street, warm from wine and smelling of garlic. Hermione’s cheeks were burning with laughter when the sudden openness of the night left her nearly tripping over her anxiety where it’d dropped her off at the restaurant door. Silence snagged on the warmth they’d woven as each step away from their table grew louder. Watching her shoes hit the pavement she said, “I had to invent a new tea this week.”

“Had to?” Draco said, voice a bit more guarded than a moment before.

She nodded, “After I agreed to dinner. With you. I thought it might be…a game that I had yet to figure out.”

“I’ve hardly given you reason to think otherwise,” he said shortly.

“So I steeped wormwood in ginger to calm my stomach. Took three batches to get the ratio right but I cracked it in the end.”

Silence. She could see the bench where she’d ogled him and as they passed it he stopped abruptly, turning to face her.

“I’d like to keep writing you.” He hadn’t said it as a question, but the need to answer hung in the air as she searched his eyes for the joke. His expression was closed, but his grey eyes held so much sincerity her chest tightened.

She nodded once. “Alright, then.” She paused, debating how impartial she wanted to sound, and then, “As long as you’ll keep sending me honest pet project reviews. Good feedback is so hard to come by when you’re the fucking Golden Girl .” She let her smile show in her eyes, hoping to encourage him. She considered asking if they should hunt down that pizza, if just to see his amusement one more time.

“Death Eaters are immune to such pedigree.” Draco’s voice trailed off and she could see tension in his jaw as he stared past her across the park. He squared his shoulders, “Thank you for a lovely dinner. I have an early morning seminar to prepare for. Goodnight, Granger.”

She blinked and he was at the street corner. 

Blinked and he was jogging over the crosswalk as the signal turned red. 

Blinked and he was gone.

Nothing made sense. The way he’d left without preamble. The way he’d leaned toward her when she spoke, or the sound of his loud laughter when she confessed to thinking he had been the heir of Slytherin. Then the awkwardness that doused them the moment they stepped outside. 

What the fuck just happened? Landing in her room with a crack she turned on her heel again to begin pacing. Still in her dress, she tossed her heels aside and pulled free her wild hair as she carved a trench of overthinking into the floorboards. 

Lovely Dinner. Death Eater. Granger.

This was childish. They’d known each other since they were actual children, for Merlin’s sake. And hadn’t they just spent the better part of a year baring their souls in ink? Accidentally, of course, but he certainly knew her. And gods, was he funny. She hadn’t laughed that hard since before the war. 

She’d just ask, that’s all.


Draco,
Why did you leave that way? 
HG

Sunday, May 21
Malfoy,
This is my final letter as I’ve still not heard from you. I’ve replayed that night over and over, yet cannot make sense of your silence. Either tell me what’s happened or consider this the end of our correspondence. I will not be part of any game you’re playing.

Hermione 

Monday, May 22

Ms. Granger,
I write today out of a professional courtesy of sorts, as well as respect for the formidable Order member I knew you to be. 

Last Friday, Draco Malfoy was arrested in Edinburgh by a team of Aurors. I understand you were aware that he was your assignment in the C.R.I. campaign. We believe he was in Scotland to meet Blaise Zabini, the known leader of the current Death Eater resurgence in France. Our intelligence informed us of Mr. Zabini’s intention to secure Malfoy funding later this year and that this meeting was to finalise a transfer.

There were concerns that he may have been in Edinburgh with the intention of finding you, due to your ministry-mandated connection, but you need not worry. Your safety has been assured by the Scottish Aurors on-site.

Mr. Malfoy will be taken to Azkaban, so your participation in the C.R.I. is suspended as of this letter. The Ministry appreciates your efforts over the last year, and perhaps your cordiality with Mr. Malfoy allowed us this break in the case. I will call on you if we need further assistance with this matter. Once the resurgence has been handled, we may discuss the details of our previous agreement.

Best wishes,
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Minister for Magic

Monday, May 22
Hermione, 
No, Draco never showed after your dinner. I assumed he was blowing off the conference with you and figured I’d hear from him before our scheduled Portkey back to Paris. If you're right and he’s been in a cell for the past three days, I want to help. Owl me your address and I’ll floo to yours.
Neville

Monday, May 22
Hermione,
Yeah. He was here. Edinburgh DMLE brought him in late Friday night to interrogate him.
Harry

p.s. He’s still a right prick. Complete shite that you were paired with him for that C.R.I. thing.

Tuesday, May 23
Ms. Granger, 
I must ask that you do not involve yourself in this matter of Mr. Malfoy any further. Our sources and the DMLE aurors are fully capable of handling the situation from here. Don’t trouble yourself.
Minister Shacklebolt

Tuesday, May 23

Draco,
The Ministry believes you are funding a resurgence effort in France and that your connections to Blaise Zabini are your foothold.
This cannot be true. Tell me it isn’t true. Neville and I are coming.
Hermione

Tuesday, May 23
Draco,
They won’t let me see you. Neville and I have been at the Ministry all day.

Here’s what I’ve pieced together:
Zabini has been leading a resurgence in France using one of his family’s vineyards as a front. That much I believe is actually happening. The Ministry had a spy within their ranks and it seems Blaise really was pushing for your recruitment and funding. There are several eyewitnesses confirming that point.

Now here is where the facts meet my assumptions. I think you saw Zabini in Edinburgh after our dinner and that’s why you left so abruptly. You were caught with him, weren’t you? I’m still not sure how he’d know to find you there, but I don’t believe a pizza fanatic who quotes Muggle impressionists could also fund a militant hate group.

Am I close? Write back.
H

Tuesday, May 23

Ms. Granger,
Your appointment is confirmed for Wednesday at 9:30 am in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with Auror Robards and Minister Shacklebolt.
From,
The Office of the Minister

Tuesday, May 23

Hermione, 
My portkey is scheduled for 8:00 am. Meet in the Ministry atrium by 8:30. 
Neville

Three days. They’d had three days to compile some sort of evidence on Draco’s behalf. After receiving Shacklebolt’s letter implying that she might spy for the Ministry, Hermione had given herself one hour to debate Draco’s innocence. She’d reread all of their correspondence, combed over their dinner conversations, and deconstructed her own bias from every angle. If she took Kingsley’s word, was it lingering Order deference? If she thought the Ministry was wrong, was it because Draco wore glasses and now she was somewhat undone by the thought of him?

Tossing a stack of Magical Law books onto her bed, she penned Neville back, agreeing to meet him first thing in the morning.

Chapter Text

Friday, May 26

Draco,
Neville and I’ve been in the Ministry for the past three days fighting to get you released. We were just informed that you are being moved from DMLE custody to Azkaban.

This is completely unlawful and barbaric. I won’t stand for it. Know that we won’t give up.

Harry tells me that unprocessed prisoners do not receive letters reliably, so you may only see this if you’re truly in Azkaban. I hope they never reach you. 
Hermione

Monday, May 29

Hermione,

It would seem Saint Potter was correct. Once I was put in a cell, a small stack of letters appeared on the rickety wooden table in here. I’m very tired and don’t know how to communicate about any of this properly. Forgive me. 

Your assessment was correct. I saw Blaise watching us just before I left you in the square. He’d been trying to contact me for nearly a year, hunting down financial backing. He’s been relentless, even going to my mother’s estate last fall. Luckily, I’d hired a brilliant ward specialist and security for the vineyard. I am not careless with my mother’s safety. He’s a fool to forget that.

When I saw him after our dinner, I acted without thought. I was afraid he would recognize you and mark you as a new avenue to get to me so I left to confront him. I’m not sorry I did. He’s become a dangerous wizard since the war, and I won’t let him near the people I care about. Do not underestimate him Hermione.

The moment I reached him, aurors closed in. We were arrested on the spot and immediately separated. They took me to the Ministry and haven't seen Zabini since. I’m not sure what they did with him. The DMLE interrogated me for a long time. Maybe several days, but I can’t be sure. Lights always on, no real meals, no sleep.

I told them everything I knew, which unfortunately or perhaps fortunately is very little. The possibility that I might actually be a potions student with a newfound love for Indian food and a brilliant pen pal was not considered plausible. My Mark is evidence enough to the contrary it would seem. 

Will there be a trial? If so, I’ll hire a solicitor so you and Longbottom can go back to your lives. I do not want either of you mixed up in my family’s lingering consequences.

D.M.

p.s. Tell me something warm. I’m freezing.

Tuesday, May 30

Draco,

You have no idea how relieved and devastated I was to see your letter. I cannot believe they’ve put you in Azkaban without trial. Kingsley and the DMLE aren’t giving your sentencing the objective care it deserves. They have conceded to my endless berating and set a trial date. Two months from now.

I’m so sorry. When that notice arrived I honestly cried. How can they possibly hold you without cause for months? There is no substantiating evidence that you have any involvement in the resurgence. They have absolutely nothing on you. I’ve checked.

This is every bit as prejudiced as the war we just fought, and I won’t allow it. No one is inherently guilty, and Kingsley will be reminded of that. I won’t leave you alone.

Something warm: Neville and I spent the week at Grimmauld Place so we could keep pressure on Kingsley and hear nightly debriefs from Harry’s DMLE intel. This meant we had quite a bit of time together with nothing to discuss but you.

Neville speaks rather highly of you. He told me about your reconnection in Paris and how “refreshing” it was to see the person you’d become since the war. He told me you sat down beside him on the first day of classes and just launched into your opinions on A Potion Master’s Guide to Mushrooms and Moss without even a hello. He quite liked that I think. Did you know about Neville’s mushroom obsession beforehand or was it simply fate?

He says you're the most natural potioneer in your year and that if you took your Herbology studies more seriously, you might become one of the best in the world. He also mentioned how often Pansy Parkinson visits and the intense blushing during that bit made me more curious than I’d like to admit. I think you mentioned it once in a letter, but I’m surprised by how obvious he is. Does Pansy fancy him too? He called you his best mate and said I should trust everything you’ve told me. He seemed to know an awful lot about our C.R.I. correspondence… 

I hope that warmed you a bit. I’m including socks with this letter. Tell me if you get them.

Hermione

Tuesday, May 30

Dear Ms. Granger,

Thank you for writing me about Draco’s arrest. I came to London as soon as I received your letter and have been staying at the Savoy to be close to the Ministry. I’ve met with the Minister and the head of the DMLE but they have refused to answer any questions reguarding why Draco is in Azkaban. I’m not sure what help I may be as my name brings many limitations these days, but I will do anything to get him out of that awful place. 

I would like you to join me for tea so I may understand how you’ve come to be involved in this case and how I may be of help. 

Warmest regards, 

Narcissa Black Malfoy

Thursday, June 1
Hermione, 

Several classmates have volunteered memories for the trial. I’ll collect them over the next two weeks. Pansy too of course. She’ll be with me in Paris leading up to the trial, helping to gather our end of evidence as I keep up with classes. 

Have you decided on a letter yet? I get it if you don't want to present any into evidence because the fucking C.R.I. dragged you into this in the first place, but I really think they’re the strongest evidence we have available.

Has he written back? Pansy’s worrying herself sick.

Neville

Sunday, June 3

Hermione,
So you’ve been to see my mother. She likes you. Thinks you’re “shockingly pretty and just as clever as they say.”

Thank you, Hermione. Whatever you said to her at tea has shifted her from panic to purpose and I no longer have to read a barrage of “Oh Draco what will we do? How can they do this to us after all the reparations we’ve paid? Draco I checked into the Savoy but it’s terribly Muggle. Why would you recommend this hotel to your mother of all people? How much longer can they keep you Draco? London is so grey and dull.”

Do all Malfoys have a predilection for the dramatics then?

I’d write to tell you that I’ve hired a solicitor called Jeremy Barnett but I’d wager he was chosen by you and secured during this blessed Savoy tea. Again, thank you. We’ve been in contact already and he seems competent if not a bit cutthroat. I like him.

Your stories about Longbottom were unexpectedly warm. I hope to never again dwell on our friendship so tenderly but it served its purpose. I actually miss that dirt-stained tosser and his endless muttering.

The socks you sent made it to me, thank Merlin. I alternate wearing them as socks and as mittens. It’s as if the cold has been charmed to seep out of the stone here. Do you think that's possible? Intriguing charm work, that.

I didn’t know about Longbottom’s “mushroom obsession” as you called it but trust me, I am very aware of it now. How dark must one's childhood be to form such a deep spiritual connection with fungi? The man won’t shut up about it! But if I’m honest, he’s a bit of a plant genius so perhaps it's not all rotting forest dung. He’s saved our potions projects more than once with obscure lichen no one but he has ever heard of.

Speaking of Longbottom.
Does Pansy fancy him: With Pans, everything is cryptic insults and pointy edges. But in my opinion, she’s downright besotted. Practically obsessed even. She’s never said because of course she hasn’t, but there's no other explanation for her near constant dawdling around our flat when she’s in town. Her fashion line is taking off a bit so she’s planning a move to Paris this fall, and before all this prison business, I was dreading the inevitable uptick in Parkinson time that lay in my future. Seems a stupid thing to dread now but the truth remains the same. I think it's probably love, the poor sods.

Now back to you. I doubt you will listen to reason, as you are the most stubborn witch I’ve ever encountered, but I will ask again. Let the solicitor handle my case. Go back to your research and Padma and pet projects. There is nothing but centuries of hatred and corruption here, and I’ve more than enough galleons to pay whatever legal team is needed for however long it takes. Do not let me take more from you than I already have. I’m asking nicely. 

Draco

Monday, June 5

Draco

I will not leave you in there. Don’t ask again, nicely or otherwise.
Hermione

p.s. I’ve sent along a pair of gloves to give your socks a much-deserved break. Happy Birthday, Draco.

Monday, June 5

Mione,
Zabini escaped custody during his transfer to Azkaban. The floo in my office is open. Come through as soon as you get this.
Harry

Hermione found time to drop her bag and change out of her thick lab shoes before nearly running through the floo into Harry’s DMLE office. The room was small and cluttered, the way most of Harry’s spaces seemed to eventually end up, with a too-large desk and too-small chairs sitting opposite. Harry stood behind his desk, hair standing on end like he’d been running his hands through it all night, while a crumpled Neville sat in the chair farthest from the fireplace.

She threw her questions into the room before she could fully step out of the hearth herself, “What happened? Where is he?”

Harry didn’t even look up, exhaustion colouring every word. “We aren’t sure. Ron was the auror in charge of Zabini’s transfer, completely routine. He would never have been assigned if the department had suspected anything at all. Malfoy’s transfer was seamless, so it seemed reasonable to assume–”

Hermione’s vision turned red, the volume of what she said next was none of her concern. “OF FUCKING COURSE IT WENT SEAMLESSLY. DRACO IS INNOCENT. Gods, Harry how could you let this happen? Ron, of all people? Assigned to the Death Eater Resurgence case? Have you learned NOTHING ?”

“Hermione, that’s not fai–” Harry tried to interject, but Neville cut him off.

“She’s right mate. No matter how simple a task you lot thought this was, no one in their right mind would let Ron Weasley near a Death Eater case. The entire bloody world knows he hasn’t let the war go. Always in The Prophet about harsher sentencing and giving them what they deserve.” He emphasised with oversized air quotes but kept going. “You said it yourself Harry, Ron’s obsession is what got him demoted. What is he now? Some glorified security guard all because he can’t be trusted to follow DMLE protocol whenever a Death Eater's involved?”

Harry’s eyes bore a hole into his desk, shoulders hunched as if the admission would sting. “Yeah. Technically he’s the Interdepartmental Magical Law Enforcement Officer but… yeah. He’s a security guard.” He ran a hand through his hair for the three hundredth time and looked up.

Hermione was unmoved by Harry’s secondhand embarrassment and anger boiled under her skin. Stomping her foot she pushed, “Then why would you ever let him near Zabini? Are you still so bound to him that Won Won gets a turn with the Death Eater if he asks?”

“Stop! That’s not fair and you know it!” Harry leaned forward on his desk, hands pressed hard into the wood. “I know he’s not who he used to be. Trust me. I fucking know he’s stuck in the past. He thinks being in the DMLE is his chance to get revenge for Fred, but part of his job has always been to escort prisoners from interrogation cells to Azkaban. It's a simple Ministry portkey, for Merlin’s sake. It's not like we let him take Zabini for a ride in the fucking flying car.”

“No, you just let Ron lose him.”

The room was silent as Harry and Hermione looked at Neville. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, head hanging between his forearms. The words were so sharp it was hard to believe they’d come from him, but as he lifted his head to meet Harry’s gaze, Neville’s eyes were black. He stood slowly, straightening robes Hermione recognised as a potions lab set. He must have come without going home to change.

“Since you refuse to treat this case with the professionalism and care that it warrants, you will find I am no longer a cooperating member of this investigation. My energies will be better served to help Draco’s defence, as he does not deserve this level of warped incompetence. You’re keeping an innocent man in Azkaban because of schoolyard bias and letting an actual dark wizard escape to appease your friends.”

Neville was now at the fireplace. As he reached for a handful of floo powder, he said, “You’re Sirius Black’s godson. I thought holding an innocent man in that fucking place would turn your stomach. Bye, Harry.” A flash of green flame and Hermione was left facing Harry’s desk.

“Hermione, I just want–”

“Harry, stop. What you want is not important to me right now. I want Draco out of prison. I want you to find Zabini. I want Ron to be punished. Focus on that, okay?” She turned towards the fireplace without waiting for a response and called out for home.

Back in her flat, she let herself fall apart.

Thursday, June 8

Granger,

Longbottom has like, six exams or whatever, so I’m on memory-collection duty as he mentioned. I have vials from two professors, a potions mastery student, three from Longbottom, two from myself and Theo Nott, and one from Headmistress McGonagall. No clue what that old bat wanted to share, but Longbottom was insistent we write to her and she sent the vial back the next day. Always prompt, that one.

Tell me what to do next. Chop Chop.
Pansy Parkinson

Friday, June 9

Ms. Granger,

Please send all materials you and the others have obtained to my office by the end of next week. This includes memories, letters, and a list of witches and wizards willing to testify on Mr. Malfoy’s behalf.
Your help has been instrumental in my research for this case and I’ll begin litigation strategy as soon as I have said evidence. Validating his character is the difference between a life sentence and freedom.

Best,
Jeremy Barnett

Friday, June 9

Hermione Granger,

Ronald Weasley has been called in for questioning as the Ministry employee to lose an unknown Death Eater previously in custody this past week. We at The Prophet are most curious and want nothing more than to hear from our favourite Golden Girl on the matter. Is he so hell-bent on revenge that he lost sight of his professional obligations? Or is Ronald a Death Eater sympathiser, aiding a rescue mission? My readers are dying to know and only time will tell. I’ll look for your owl!

Rita Skeeter

Friday, June 10

Hermione,

These gloves are fucking fantastic. Warmest gloves I’ve ever worn. Did you put a warming charm in the lining? I’m probably going mad in here, but I swear there’s the slightest bit of a warming charm.

I wish you could have seen my face when I first put them on and realised you’d put a jelly slug in each finger. I LOVE JELLY SLUGS! The food here isn’t actually food at all, and I must be getting freakishly thin already. Salazar save me, but next time I see you I’ll be as gangly as a bloody Weasley.

I ate one glove’s worth immediately because I’m forever a spoiled prat with an insatiable sweet tooth, but then I vowed to save the other five and only eat one a day. That was yesterday…the slugs are now gone. I ate the slugs.

My mum sent a book, so now I have warm feet, warm hands, and entertainment of a sort. Don’t work yourself up into needing that wormwood anxiety tea. I’m fine.

Is it strange to say I miss you? We’ve spent all of a few hours together in five years but I’d like to think I know you. I hear your voice when I read your letters and I miss how much we used to write before all of this. I had a lovely time on our date. It was a date, wasn’t it? I think it was, and you can’t say otherwise because I’m in Azkaban and that would just be mean. Let a man have this one thing.

Anyway, I really enjoyed it. Your humour is only enhanced by all your expressions and little mannerisms. I especially like when you talk with your hands like they’re getting away from you the more excited you are about a topic. You’re so animated, it makes me feel excited too. 

Admittedly, I think I stopped breathing when I first saw you again. You’re so bloody beautiful. I guess I’d imagined you as Hogwarts Hermione all that time in your letters. Logically, I knew you weren’t still fourteen, but somehow, fourth year Hermione was the only one in my head. All hair and hands on your hips, telling off the Weasley twins about an ageing potion. And then you were there, still in red of course, but new. 

I admit that I spend quite a lot of time thinking of you and that dinner. If I get out of here, I’d like to have dinner again. I’d like to kiss you if you’d let me. Too much? Perhaps I’m inventing things to ease the endless grey of this cell, but I think you had a nice time too. Tell me to stop, Granger.

Draco

Chapter Text

Hermione hadn’t felt lonely in ages. After years of sharing a room in Gryffindor Tower, then a tent with Harry and Ron, she’d found a rhythm all her own in Edinburgh. She wasn’t lonely– she was just alone, studying what interested her, thinking quickly and wildly without parsing her thoughts into neat pieces for others.

She’d given herself over to the impulses she’d repressed to keep Harry alive and leaning into breakneck academic consumption. Reading over every plate of food, using a quick quotes quill to keep track of her thoughts when she cooked, cleaned, showered. A constant stream of devouring.

But now, she was lonely. Rereading Draco’s letter for the umpteenth time made the ache in her chest grow. She missed him. One minute, she’d been content in her mind, and the next, he’d swept in with his startling hair and loud laugh and now she was lonely.

The grey of Edinburgh rain only added to her feelings of detached isolation. Hermione hadn’t left her flat since her meeting with Harry, opting to catch up on classes she was teetering dangerously close to falling behind in and finalising her contributions to Draco’s case.

She sat in front of a large chronological grid of CRI letters, trying to select pieces that would humanise Draco the man to a Wizengamot hunting Malfoy the Death Eater. Looking at his familiar scratchy handwriting, her mind flipped through every pro and con; yet, each choice felt incomplete. The thought of purple-robed politicians deliberating over his honest words made her stomach turn. They'd both given so much of themselves away for this war, left to pick up the pieces of their childhood and carve new lives from rubble left behind. And now the wizarding world wanted this shred of connection too.

June 10

Draco,
It was a date. Absolutely a date. I’ve actually dreamt about it a few times. Nothing particularly meaningful, just sharing food and hearing you laugh. I very much like the sound of your laugh. I’ve reread your last letter four times and I’m still smiling.

Seeing you again shocked me a bit as well. I still can’t believe you’ve needed glasses all this time. Shame you didn’t wear them in school or I might’ve saved you all this letter writing and asked you out between classes. If you wear them again, I think I will let you kiss me. Probably even if you don’t.

What book did Narcissa send? She’s a formidable woman who desperately loathes the Savoy. I like her very much. You were right in your assumption that the solicitor was my recommendation, but you’re completely mad if you think your mother didn’t do her own thorough research (read: investigation) of him. Rest assured, you have at least two witches determined to see you out of Azkaban.

I wonder how young Hermione would react if she saw me at tea with Narcissa Malfoy, warmly discussing your sense of humour. Better yet, what would younger Draco have thought? I shiver at the thought.

No Jelly Slugs this time, but I’m including a bag of wormwood tea for you. They must give you water each day, so add the bag to whatever cup you have, regardless of temperature, and let it steep for as long as you’re able. The calming effects should help a bit. I’ll keep thinking and try to send something better next time but between classes and your case, I’m afraid my after-hours creativity has stalled a bit.

Hermione

p.s. Shall we get pizza next time? You pick.

June 11

Mione,
I messed up. I’m sorry.

There’s been a sighting. I’m leading the team and won’t be back for a few days.
Ron’s on a temporary leave of absence, pending a full review. I think he feels bad.

Harry

June 16

Hermione,
I don’t want to be here. It’s starting to get to me, I think. The guy in the cell next to me thinks he’s being tortured every night as soon as the sun goes down. It's like a timer goes off and he’s reliving a memory over and over and over. The sound of his screams...he’s begging someone for his life but there’s nothing here. I don’t think he remembers doing it by the morning.

They took our entire hall out into the courtyard yesterday. I hadn’t been allowed to wash since arriving. I’m honestly not sure how long I’ve been in here, but it seems too long to go without bathing. I wondered if there were showers, but it turns out they just line us up against a wall, shout until we undress, and then spray ice-cold water at us all at once. I think it was salt water. I smell sour and my skin is tight and dry. If I grip this quill tightly, my knuckles bleed a bit with the cracked skin.

That was the only time I’ve seen the other people in the cells around me. Turns out Crabbe Senior has been three cells down from me all this time. The man who screams at night is very thin. I didn't recognize him, but I don’t think he will last much longer in this place. There is very little of him left.

I’ve so much time to think during the hours he’s screaming. I’m so angry with my father. He sold me for fucking parts, and my mother just watched. After all the doting and never wanting for anything, when I actually needed them, they gave me to him the first time he asked. I spent years hoping not to die while doing the Dark Lord’s bidding. And one day, I woke up to find the man I was would have terrified the boy I’d been.

I thought I could change. Read Muggles books and eat Cheesy Wotsits, atone in some way. But in the end, I’m in this cell, and the Wizarding world thinks it’s justice. Maybe they’re right.

D.M.

p.s. I wrote this letter last night. The sun is up now. Please don’t think I ever believed a Cheesy Wotsit would erase everything I’ve done. I do know better. 

p.p.s. I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach much cheese at first. But once I’m myself again, I’m taking you out for pizza.

June 19
H,
I’m back at Grimmauld. We didn’t find him. The public nature of Malfoy’s case may be encouraging the resurgence to move faster than anticipated. Be careful.
Harry

June 20
Draco,

I know I can’t begin to understand what you’re going through. But you listen to me, Draco Malfoy. You don’t deserve to be there. This is not justice. Sea water is not a bath. That prison is inhumane no matter who you are. If you feel as though you’re losing yourself, let me remind you who you are.

It’s been a month since you were arrested and there’s a month left before your trial date. I’m not sure if telling you that will be helpful or harmful, but I want to give you every piece of information possible. Being kept in the dark is its own form of punishment. Please tell me if it’s too much.

Your solicitor is very good and your case seems strong. I do not work in Magical Law, of course, but I have done a bit of research in the last month, and the strategy he and his firm are employing is sound. Neville and I have collected a fair amount of evidence, including written testimonies, a few of your C.R.I. letters, and twenty or so memories. All voluntarily given by people who know you for the man you’ve become and not just the boy you were.

You aren’t alone. No visitors are allowed before a trial, otherwise I would have come to see you. Your mother mentioned you’ve trained quite extensively in occlumency. Remember you have everything you need even without a wand. Fortify your walls and trust us to do the rest.

I’m sending along a second pair of socks just in case. Enjoy the lining of these, take a close look.

I miss you.
Hermione

June 22

Hermione ,

“Enjoy the lining” indeed. Only Hermione Granger could successfully smuggle medicine into Azkaban. Wrapping this ointment in parchment was genius. Clever witch.

Your instructions said to just smear it on the cracked skin so I really went for it. Absolutely slathered my split knuckles and lips. Did you make whatever this is? Is there dittany in there somewhere? I keep flexing my hand as I write this and the line where the skin was split an hour ago is hardly visible. I know everyone says it, but you really are bloody brilliant.

My mother sent an Eastern potions recipe book. I have entire chapters memorised at this point, I’ve read it so many times. Perhaps I should ask her for an Herbology book so I can be the best potions master in the world after all of this.

The occlumency is helping. With my magic suppressed, it’s not a long-term solution but I can manage it on and off until the trial. If I build my walls properly in the hour or so before sundown, my neighbour's screams become more like distant thunder. I can sleep through thunder.

I try very hard not to think about my trial. I could drown in guilt if I let myself dwell on how much you and Longbottom are doing on my behalf. I’ve been making lists of ways to repay you. Would you accept mountains of galleons? I know how to convert it to pounds too if that’s preferred. Hell, I even have a muggle bank account you can draw from. Actually, I’ll sign it into your name. Take it.

Gods, I don't want to be indebted to you Hermione. I want to debate the importance of viscosity in an effective Skele-gro brew over dinner. I want to wrap one curl of your hair around my finger. I want to close my eyes and listen to you read about fucking anything at all. I do not want you to keep doing for me.

Tell me how to repay you.
Draco

June 23
Hermione,
Hope you’re hungry, I’m bringing home fish and chips for dinner.
Padma

p.s. I think I found something you and Longbottom can use.



Stuffing Padma’s note in the pocket of her robes, Hermione quickened her pace, huffing up the hill towards their flat. Involving Padma in Malfoy’s case had been a risk, but it had already proven worth it, as she came by pureblood gossip most naturally. A quick floo to Parvati’s flat in London had armed Padma with all the she-said-she-said of the Zabinis, along with a list of their many estates. How useful an hour of sisterhood can be when the game is afoot.

Hermione’s hair was sticking to the back of her neck from her hasty walk home, and it was starting to drizzle. Her hair would be a mile high soon enough. As she reached her front steps, she noticed a tall, slender woman leaning against the railing.

“Pansy?”

“Ah, Granger. There you are,” said Pansy as she brushed small rain droplets off the shoulder of her knee-length trench. Chic as always, then. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for nearly half an hour, and the dampness of this city has never agreed with me. Why anyone would live here when France exists is beyond me.”

“I find the rain to be quite comforting, actually.”

“Well, of course you do. A drab climate for the shabbily dressed. Which, coincidentally, is exactly why I’m here.” Pansy said as she tossed her sharp black bob in emphasis.

“I beg your pardon? I don’t know which part of that sentence to be offended by first.”

Pansy’s entire head rolled with her eyes as she sighed, “It’s come to my attention that you’re in need of some touching up. So I’ve come to do it.”

She stared at Hermione as if this declaration was justification enough for this sudden appearance and her first-ever voluntary conversation with a Gryffindor. Just then, the front door swung open to an exasperated Padma.

“Oh good,” she said. “You’re home. It’s about to pour, so hurry up. Pansy, let’s go.” She turned on her heel, and Pansy followed her right in. 

Hermione must have missed a vital piece of information that would make this make sense. But regardless, she stumbled into the entryway after them, shaking off the rain and robes as she went.

“Padma, did you actually pick up fish and chips, or was it all just a ruse to hustle me home?” 

Padma’s sheepish answer met Hermione in the door frame. “I lied about dinner. But I knew you’d have made an excuse if I’d told you the real reason why you needed to hurry. Fish and chips and the trial were my best bet.”

“And what is this real reason then?” Hermione asked with her hands on her hips.

Pansy spoke first, examining her bright red nails, boredom personified. “I already told you. Do try to keep up, Granger. Everyone is always going on about your brilliance, so let’s not make things more difficult than they already are.” 

“Pansy, do shut up, will you?” Padma said with a roll of her eyes. “Hermione, I know you’re invested in Malfoy’s case and you’ve volunteered to testify for his defence. You have my full support. You know that. I get why you’re doing it, and I think this entire situation is completely fucked up. But when you asked for my help with the case from the pureblood perspective, I– well, I wrote Pansy. The next month is going to be a lot . There will be quite a bit of press with going on the stand and–”

“For Merlin’s sake, Patil, now you shut up.” Pansy said, bob bouncing as she turned on Hermione. “Granger, look here. You're the actual brightest witch of our age, a literal war heroine celebrity, and yet, you look like you’re playing dress up in McGonagall's hand-me-downs.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide as she shouted, “Padma, this is not what I meant by help for Mer–”

Pansy raised her voice over her protests ,“But , you’re also helping my best friend get out of prison, so I’m going to fix you. Got it?”

Anger flooded her cheeks, but when Hermione looked down at her striped t-shirt and long brown skirt, she felt embarrassment sweep in. She hadn’t given much thought to her wardrobe since leaving Hogwarts. Most of what she’d owned had been ruined during their year on the run, and everything she’d gotten since had been completely utilitarian. Good for harsh weather, functional for the lab, comfortable hunched over a desk. When she looked up, she met Pansy’s eyes and held her gaze.

“Fine.” She lifted her chin. “Fix me.”

June 25

Hermione,
Please join me, Ms. Parkinson, Mr. Nott, Mr. Longbottom, and Mr, Barnett for tea this Sunday at the Emerald’s Cafe in Diagon. 11:00 am sharp.
Warmly, 
Narcissa Black Malfoy

June 28

Draco,

You owe me nothing as my motives are hardly selfless. I want you free so I can learn how you take your tea instead of knowing how your mother takes hers. Not that she isn’t engaging company. She simply doesn’t have the same effect on me. Probably for the best, that. But if you insist on payment, teach me how to brew that skin regrowth potion they only teach at the academy. I’ve wondered about it ever since you mentioned it. I’m asking nicely.

I think this next bit will make you laugh so I’ll try to include as much detail as possible. Pansy Parkinson showed up at my flat three days ago and declared I was in such disrepair that she’d had to portkey from France to “fix me.” I’ve never had much interest in fashion, but I’ll admit things had gotten a bit out of hand even for me. Pansy used words like “dishevelled house elf” and “The Three Broomsticks’ lost and found bin” to sum up the state of my closet.

Truthfully, I think I forgot to be a whole person after the war, like my body wasn’t real at all and my ever-rushing thoughts were my truer self. 

“I didn’t realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.” Yet another time Fitzgerald found the words for my crisscrossed musings.

It's embarrassing, but I’m not sure I’d have noticed how mismatched I’d become if Pansy hadn’t shown up. I’ve always thought her to be cruel and self-absorbed. And don't get me wrong, she won’t be winning many house points for tact anytime soon, but she is profoundly kind in her own way. 

She took me to several Wizarding and Muggle shops across the UK. She’d set appointments so when we arrived they were not only expecting me, but had a private room waiting, sorted to my measurements. (If this is what mountains of galleons can buy, then perhaps I will reconsider your earlier offer.) When I finally landed back in my flat, I was in possession of an entirely new wardrobe that’s more me than anything I’d ever bought myself. 

I’m not sure why but I’m just dying to show you. This is quite possibly the stupidest letter to write someone wearing prison robes and yet, I just know you’ll be glad to read it. In a strange way, being involved in your case has introduced me to the people who love you and now they’re caring for me. I’ve been paid in full by your lovely friends so I take back my earlier galleons comment.
Yours, Hermione

p.s. I’m thrilled the salve worked. Of course, I made it. It’s a beeswax base with muddled aloe, dried nettles, and three drops of essence of dittany. I’ll send more in a few days just in case there's another barbaric spray before your trial date. 

p.p.s. Your mother hosted another tea, this time with Pansy, Neville, Theo, and your solicitor. It felt less like tea and cake and more like a battle strategy meeting but given that your trial is less than two weeks away, I found it fitting. You’ll have a meeting with your solicitor within the next day or so. Do everything he asks of you. It will work. It has to.

p.p.p.s. Theodore Nott is an absolute heathen. I’m in love with him. I’m almost angry with you for not sharing him sooner.

July 3

Hermione,

Now I’m desperate to see this Pansy-approved wardrobe. You’re so incredibly lovely and Pansy really does have a unique talent for finding the “well-fitted trousers” if you will. She’s a bit forceful, so I hope you weren’t bullied too black and blue. Rich coming from me, I get it.

I saw my solicitor yesterday. Is it bad luck to say it sounds like this might go my way? I gave him the memories he requested but now I’m just terribly anxious. Could this actually be over in a few days? Perhaps we should all drink lucky tea before heading in. Wait. Is that illegal? Fuck, I’m a mess.

As happy as I was to read you’ve met Theo, I must ask that you restrain yourself from falling ass over tea kettle, even if the rumors of great stature turn out to be true. I’ve every intention of thoroughly wooing you, and fighting my best mate for you would be rather unbecoming of a newly released convict. I’d do it though, believe me.

I won’t write much more. I’m vibrating with nerves and writing about it is only making my stomach twist into knots. Being sick in my cell makes the whole place smell for days so I do my best to avoid that. Okay, now I really am a mess, absolutely too much detail. Fuck, I hate it here.

Tell me something. 
Draco

p.s. Perhaps I’m so wound up I’m overanalysing a simple end to a happy letter but I can’t stop looking at it. Are you mine?

July 7

Draco,
I’ll see you in the morning.
Tell you something: I’ll be in red.

Decidedly yours,
Hermione

Chapter Text

Hermione took her seat next to Neville, three rows back in the Wizengamot chamber. Pansy was already sitting on his other side, and Hermione noted the fierce grip she had on Neville’s hand. Does Pansy fancy him back? Yes, she does. Draco would love to hear about this.

A pang shot through her at the thought. If today didn’t go their way, she may never get the chance to tell him in person. She may never hear his voice again.

Just then, Theo dropped down on Pansy’s other side. “Morning. Everyone lose their breakfast, or just me?”

“I can’t eat,” Pansy said absently, never taking her eyes off the tall wooden seat in the centre of the room. 

“Me neither. Took a calming drought though so my hands don’t shake on the stand,” Hermione said as she straightened her skirt over her knees. 

“Well done Granger. You actually pulled it together all on your own,” Pansy said, gesturing to Hermione’s new ensemble. “I brought a bit of makeup because of course you’d try to go without. Get up.”

By the time Hermione understood what was happening, Pansy was already halfway out of their row, making towards the hall. “Best follow her. I’ve never seen her quite this prickly,” said Neville.

Hermione shuffled out from the bench and followed Pansy out of the slowly filling courtroom. The two women made their way to the washroom, and Pansy wasted no time emptying the contents of her purse onto the counter, gesturing for Hermione to stand in front of her.

“Good girl,” she said, swinging the end of each word an octave higher to drip sarcasm on Hermione’s upturned face. “You even remembered the heels I perscribed. You follow directions rather well for a stubborn Gryffindor.”

“I’m nothing if not a teacher's pet, Pansy.”

Brush half lifted to Hermione’s eyelid, Pansy stopped and stared. “Oh, she’s funny now. Fine Granger, you get an Acceptable for showing up to Draco’s trial looking something other than destitute. Now shut up. I need to work. We have five minutes until those dickheads call for order.”

When Pansy finished the tenth swoop of mascara, both women had more control. There wasn’t room for jitters today and they both knew it. Looking in the mirror, Hermione had to admit the tenth swoop actually did do the trick. She was suddenly polished, yet still warm. 

“Thanks Pansy. It’s quite nice.”

“Don’t thank me. Just get him out,” Pansy snapped as she pushed open the door and strode out.

Narcissa and Harry had arrived, now tucked into the row behind Theo and Neville. The rest of the courtroom was nearly full of Wizengamot members and the ever-present press. Hermione took her seat just as the Chief Warlock called the room to order. Looking up the wooden benches, Hermione could see Kingsley whispering to his mousy-haired undersecretary. He must have felt her eyes on him because he gracefully turned her way. His exaggerated calm looked like false promises to Hermione, and anger began churning in her stomach. Fuck you, Kingsley.

Someone somewhere was speaking, but her mind was busy cataloguing every person of influence in the chamber. Steeling herself, she squared her shoulders and looked towards the double doors that led to the holding cells. A minute later, they swung open as Jeremey Barnett, both his legal aids, and Draco walked into the room. Two deputy aurors escorted Draco toward the stand. He was significantly thinner than the last time she’d seen him, custom black robes hanging from his shoulders as if tailored for someone else. They must have allowed him a proper shower and shave, the absolute hypocrites. Never let the public see how they really keep prisoners. 

When he reached the chair in the centre of the room, Draco sat straight-backed, facing the Wizengamot members without wavering. He never took his eyes from them. Not when the Chief Warlock began reading the charges or when Barnet began his defence. Draco was startlingly focused, and Hermione realised he must be occluding. Good. This would be challenging to sit through for all of them, but especially him.

She, however, could not tear her eyes from him, appraising every part of him she could see. His hair was longer and more dishevelled than she’d ever seen it. His skin was sallow, and patches of red, flaking skin were visible where his knuckles gripped the chair. Hogwarts Malfoy would have fainted at the sight, but she was mesmerised by his self-possession, even in chains. 

Barnet must have finished his opening statements because Neville was being called as the first witness. Hermione had the order of events memorised from all of their preparation, but still startled when Neville rose beside her. She noticed his hand tighten briefly on Pansy’s as he stepped in front of her to exit the row. Hermione looked back to Draco and found him looking at her for the first time. As their eyes met, her breath caught, and warmth spread across her chest. Her lips parted just a bit and she mouthed, “Hi.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and she thought she caught the slightest dip of his head. He cut his eyes away and turned to watch Neville confidently approach the stand with a similar calm to Draco’s since entering the chamber. The commanding Gryffindor really had grown so much since those early bumbling years in school.

With no clear focus, Hermione’s thoughts began to spin. She knew each question Barnet would ask and she’d helped Neville craft every reply. They’d spent multiple nights in her flat reworking their answers, rehearsing their deliveries over cups of the most recent Hellebore syrup tea. Now that the time had actually come, she had no patience for it, as there was only the man sitting in the centre of the room and the coming verdict. A sudden desperation made her skin itch. This would work. They were ready. He was innocent.

Neville patted her knee as he sat back down and Hermione looked up to see Theo casually sauntering towards the stand. Always the Slytherin showman. He answered Barnet about Draco’s upbringing and everything Theo had witnessed in sixth year. Theo was deliberate and casually arrogant all at once in a way Hermione would never be able to pull off. She looked to Draco and saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he fought a smile. His allegedly taller mate still pushing for a laugh, even at trial. A love story for the ages.

Pansy’s portion was polished, bordering on snide. Harry was collected. He’d been in these chambers countless times since the war and as usual, the entire Wizengamot leaned towards him as he recounted intel gathered in Draco’s interrogation as well as the intelligence they’d uncovered through their network inside the resurgence itself. Thank Merlin Harry was with them. He’d sharpened that legendary bravery and now easily wielded the power of his reputation.

Hermione was the last testimony before the deliberation recess would begin. Barnet called her name as Harry stepped down from the podium, and she stood on shaky legs. She straightened her back and lifted her chin. There was no place for fear. This was wrong, and it was simply time to set it right. Without ever looking in Draco’s direction, she stepped up to the stand and cleared her throat.

Looking over the rim of his glasses at a handful of papers, Barnet began, “Ms Granger, you’ve entered several letters from your C.R.I. correspondence with Mr. Malfoy into evidence, is that correct? Ms Granger, can you please elaborate on your experiences of Mr Malfoy over the past year both by post and in person? Did you ever have reason to believe Mr Malfoy was being dishonest in his letters? Was there any mention of Mr. Zabini in your correspondence?”

Question and response, just as rehearsed. The words poured out with a growing confidence and she steadied herself with the strength of her own voice. She did not grip the wood of the podium or fidget with the curl that escaped her bun as it tickled the side of her face. Everything she needed was ready and waiting on her tongue, leaving her mind free to micromanage her body. Squared shoulders, loose arms, soft face, steady ankles, eyes on the Wizengamot members.

The gavel rang out and everyone stood for the recess. The two aurors were on Draco in a second, walking him back to the holding cell. Hermione made her way back to the group as they huddled together, passing assurances and twisting their hands. Narcissa and Pansy talked quietly, Neville — slightly closer than necessary — at Pansy’s side. Harry, Theo, and Hermione debriefed with Barnet, trying to predict each Wizengamot member’s leanings through the hints of body language. After nearly an hour of anxious chatter, Theo turned to Barnet and loudly blurted, “How long can this take? If they don’t get out here with a fucking decision, I’m going to be sick again. And I do mean that quite literally.”

Barnet ran a hand through his cropped hair and sat down hard on the bench. “It could be the rest of today and into tomorrow. They have to review every memory, as well as the letters Ms Granger provided before they can even begin deliberating. There’s no way of knowing what the Wizengamot will do on any given day.” He let out a deep sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But regardless, you all did brilliantly. Everything is out of our hands now.” 

Hermione knew he meant to be comforting, but she couldn’t think of anything worse than everything being out of her hands. She was opening her mouth to say so when the doors to the Wizengamot chamber abruptly opened and members began filing in. Everyone rushed back to their seat, and when the gavel sounded Draco was quickly brought in and pushed towards the centre of the chamber.

His hair was standing on end now like he’d done nothing but run his hands through it for the last hour. He swallowed hard and looked right into Hermione’s eyes. The icy walls of occlumency were gone, replaced by grey storm clouds. Her chest nearly split in half at the raw desperation, and she knew it was her turn to offer calm. She held his gaze and dipped her head just as he had done, hoping to send every ounce of composure she could to him. Something flicked in his eyes and she saw him set his jaw.  He turned back to meet the Chief Warlock’s address, Slytherin mask firmly back in place.

Shuffling papers on the lectern, the Chief Warlock began, “This case was very strange indeed. Mr. Malfoy, it’s no secret that your reputation precedes you, and your family history leaves little room for doubt. You are Lucious Malfoy’s heir and a marked Death Eater at that.” He stared down his nose at Draco in obvious disgust. Kingsley, however, sat to his right, looking the picture of bipartisan neutrality, giving away nothing in posture or expression.

Hermione felt nausea roll through her as the Warlock continued. “Yet, the memories provided today and the testimonies of your peers are equally steadfast.” Hermione’s eyebrows shot up and she felt Harry tense beside her. “It would seem that you have either cloaked your darker leanings so expertly that even a magical investigation cannot uncover them, or you have truly shed the ideology of your youth. I’m not one to be convinced of such a change of heart, for lack of a better phrase, but there seems to be no evidence strong enough to uphold your arrest. I hope your friends have judged you well Mr. Malfoy– for your sake.”

He picked up his gavel one last time, dropping it with a bang. “Draco Malfoy is acquitted of all charges and shall be discharged from Azkaban by end of day. Court dismissed.”

Air rushed out of Hermione’s lungs and before she realised it, she was moving.

Weaving around faceless bodies, she ducked out of the row and flew down the steps to the chamber floor. The Wizengamot forbade cameras inside courtrooms, but that didn’t stop reporters from swarming like quilled vultures. The raised platform was already surrounded. Shouts of, “Mr. Malfoy, why are you protecting Mr. Zabini? How did you convince auror Potter of your innocence? How long have you been obsessed with Hermione Granger?” rang out around her.

Draco remained blank-faced as an auror removed the bonds from his wrists. He rubbed his reddened wrists and looked up just as Hermione cut between two greasy-haired reporters, nearly leaping onto the platform just in front of him. She stopped short, suddenly shocked to be this close to him. Gods he was tall. And thin. And blond.

“Hi,” she said so quietly she wondered if he heard her.

“Hello.”

Well, now she’d done it. Flown across the room to him, only to be struck down by her own awkwardness. She scrambled for something normal to say in the circumstance and landed on next steps. Planning: a universal comfort.

“I’ll come with your mother for your release.” 

“I’d like to wash it all off before I see anyone,” Draco said in a tired voice.

“Narcissa will make a plan then. We’ll handle it.”

“You’ve done everything already.” He looked away and ran a hand through his messy hair, sighing as he said, “‘Thank you’ just sounds idiotic, doesn’t it?”

She smiled softly and stuck out her hand. “See you tomorrow?”

He looked down at her offered handshake and made a choked, scoffing sound. “Granger, please.” He slid his palm against hers and pulled her into a hug. His touch was tentative, his hands light around her waist as she squeezed his. He leaned into her ear and whispered, “Thank you.”

Then the aurors were pulling him off the platform, ushering him past the press, hurrying him from the chamber. Yet, Hermione was rooted to the spot, her ear burning where his whisper had just been. The door swung shut behind him and the noise in the chamber reached a new pitch. 

What was she doing? Having an on-stage hug with Draco Malfoy in front of every Wizarding news outlet in Europe? Cerci save her. Looking back towards the group, Hermione was met with curious stares. Harry, Pansy, and Theo looked utterly bewildered while Neville and Narcissa seemed oddly amused. 

With nothing else to do, Hermione hopped off the platform, dodging shouts of, “Has Minister Shacklebolt chosen your next C.R.I. partner?” and, “How many galleons were you promised to testify today?”

Honestly, would someone just Avada these birds? Reaching the rest of the group, she heard Narcissa and Pansy coordinating a dinner at the Savoy to thank everyone for testifying. They all started shuffling towards the atrium in a fog of relief.

When they stepped off the lifts, they were swept into the flow of witches and wizards streaming out of work. A queue at every floo –the magical rush hour– cascading over every frayed nerve. The group joined the nearest queue, having settled on the Wizarding pub across the street from Savoy as their best destination. When Narcissa and Pansy stepped through, Harry turned to Hermione with a serious expression.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, tone inching towards accusatory. Hermione turned sharply to see his green eyes fixed on her.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“About you and Malfoy.”

“What about me and Malfoy?”

“That you’re certainly more than penpals at the least, and possibly involved at worst?”

Heat flashed through her chest. “What a way with words you have, Harry. I’m just dying to share every little detail. Shall we chit-chat until dawn?”

He didn’t look away, didn’t fidget with his glasses, didn’t push a hand through his messy hair. Harry knew her well enough to know she was being directly indirect but she wasn’t about to have a heart-to-heart about letters she’d written to fucking Azkaban .

“Something else to ask, Harry?”

Finally, he looked away and sighed. “Fine. Let's just go eat with the bloody Slytherins then.” Harry gestured for Hermione to step into the fireplace. Moving confidently, she called out for the pub, whirling into the flames with thoughts of Harry discovering her most recent letters.

Two hours later, she was on the far side of tipsy, bursting with roast duck, and buzzing with anxieties. She knew she needed to head home and take the night to sort herself out. She’d run across a packed room to get to Draco today. Certainly, that little display required some of her attention. She made her goodbyes– polite waves for the Slytherins and awkward side hugs from Harry and Neville– and stepped out a side door into the alley behind the hotel.

With a crack, she apparated into her bedroom and stumbled her way to a sober-up potion. Downing the vial in one go, she sat on her bed to wait the thirty seconds for it to take effect. 

Just then, her door banged open, nearly ripping from its hinges. Hermione bolted upright and locked eyes with a massive dark-haired man she didn’t recognize. Lunging for her wand, she felt, rather than saw, the man raise his own. Panicking, she shot out a wildly misaimed incarcerous just as the full force of the cruciatus ripped through her.

Chapter Text

Harry hadn’t been this sleep-deprived since the war. He figured he was nearing thirty-six hours without sleep as he wandered the halls of St. Mungos. He needed a cup of tea. Or six. Anything to keep upright. And of course, this was all Malfoy’s doing. The ferret had always been a fucking magnet for the dramatics. Seeing a coffee cart at the end of the hall, Harry shuffled along the white-washed corridor, losing himself in images of the last twelve hours.

After a final round at the Savoy with Neville and the surprisingly witty Theo Nott, Harry had apparated to Grimmauld Place. A vial of sober up, a kettle charmed to boil, and a quick change of clothes later and he had settled in for the night. He’d managed to rework his telly despite all the Black family magic soaking the house. So with a tap of his wand, he’d started flipping channels.

A minute later, he felt the wards tingle in the way that meant someone was standing just outside the front door. Old habits die hard and all that rubbish, he crept towards the door, wand outstretched.

Staying hidden, he flicked his wrist and tossed open the door from behind a marble bust of some grotesque Black ancestor. Rain was coming down in sheets, the empty doorstep only illuminated by the lone street lamp a few yards away.  He stepped out from the bust, eyes snagging on a wet heap of robes on the ground. Curls twisting in puddled water. Running into the rain, he splashed to his knees and pulled out his auror badge.

“Auror Potter requesting backup at Grimmauld Place immediately. Repeat, backup at Grimmauld Place. Hermione Granger has been attacked.” 

The healers said it was extended exposure to the cruciatus, most likely an extremely close-range attack. Aurors combed the street in front of Harry’s house. A team of five found no sign of a struggle, so they believed she was unconscious when deposited at the door. Hermione hadn’t woken, and once at St. Mungos, the healers enhanced her sleep with potions, not wanting her to wake before her body could process the pain. 

Just remembering those first few minutes at the hospital made Harry’s stomach turn and he took a sip of coffee to steady himself. Hermione had been seizing in his arms when he’d apparated in, shouting for help and rushing her towards the nearest trauma bed. Everything after that was a whirlwind, but he remembered sending pratonuses to Neville and Narcissa, informing them of the attack and asking them to warn Theo and Pansy. The team of aurors working the case hadn’t established a clear motive, but Harry’s hunch said it was related to the Resistance, and Draco’s trial was the instigator.

Now, the sun was rising through the nearby wall of windows as Harry staggered back towards Hermione’s room. Merlin, he had to sleep soon or he wouldn’t be any use to anyone. He looked up and nearly tripped. Draco Malfoy was standing at the foot of her bed, hair wet, posh robes draping off his angular frame. Narcissa must have told him just after his release. Gods, he could’ve only been out of Azkaban long enough to shower and apparate here. No matter what Hermione said, something was going on if he was rushing to her fucking bedside.

Harry watched through the glass as Draco began to move around the bed, sitting as gracefully as a man that many inches over six feet could manage. The mattress dipped slightly and he winced, casting a quick cushioning charm with a wand fresh out of Ministry custody.

Draco looked Hermione over and Harry knew he was searching for injuries that couldn’t be seen. Then Draco reached forward and slowly pulled her limp form into a sitting position, propping her upper body against his chest. Harry twisted the wand in his pocket, stunner poised on his lips, but Draco’s touch was almost tender as he angled her head to rest against his shoulder. He moved his arms around her back until he could gather all of her wild, damp hair into his hands. Her breathing was steady and Harry knew from the last healer that she would be unconscious for at least another twenty-four hours.

Harry watched on in confusion as Draco carefully ran his long fingers through her tangled curls, smoothing them down her back. He moved quickly, and soon there was a loose braid where a bedraggled hippogriff’s nest had been.

Draco gripped her shoulders lightly and lowered her back to the pillows. Tucking the sheet around her, he slipped off the bed to stand and pulled out a small object from his pocket. With a tap of his wand, it returned to its rightful paperback book form. Draco Malfoy, reading Muggle paperbacks… interesting.

He softly lowered himself into the chair next to Hermione’s bed, never taking his eyes off her. Harry suddenly felt like he shouldn’t be here like this moment was somehow too intimate. Before he could decide whether to hide or burst through the door demanding answers, Draco crossed one leg over the other and opened the book. He was here. Harry should go.

The next morning was a different matter entirely. The quiet stillness of the night before was replaced by witches, wizards, and Weasleys. Harry found himself playing the role of hospital host, ensuring everyone had a turn to stroke Hermione’s hand, pepper the healers with questions (Molly and Padma respectively), and fill the room with freshly conjured flowers. Malfoy hadn’t been in his chair when Harry had returned that morning, but the healers told him Malfoy had been there all night and only just popped out to find a cup of tea. Harry glanced towards the bed and noticed Hermione’s hair was still neatly plaited. 

After lunch, the last of the visitors trickled toward the floo and Harry had a moment to find that coffee cart from the night before. When he rounded the corner, he was face-to-face with Malfoy’s book. It hovered just in front of the wizard as he wandlessly flipped the page with a twitch of his finger. 

“Still looming in the shadows then?” Harry asked as he made his way to the cart, his back to the tall man as he fiddled for a paper cup.

“I never loom, Potter, I’m just not one for Weasley theatrics, as I believe you know.” A pause, and Harry heard the book close. “The healer said she’d be awake tomorrow. Is that still the expectation?” Malfoy’s tone was short but without its usual edge.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “Tomorrow morning is what they’re saying. Are you planning to stay the night again?” Harry asked as he turned to face Malfoy, blowing the steam from his coffee and levelling the wizard with a raised brow.

If Malfoy was surprised Harry’d seen him the night before, he didn’t show it “Potter, you’re not my mother. I needn’t run my evening plans by you for approval. Perhaps you haven’t seen the Prophet, but I was acquitted this week, so your powerful, auror-given authority is of no use here in this hospital waiting room.”

“Come off it, you git. I actually think she’d want you here, Godric knows why if you ask me, but no one did, so I’m not going to tell you to leave or make some possessive claim to her bedside. Stay or don’t.” Harry bent to take a sip when Malfoy’s answer immediately cut in. 

“I’m staying,” he said, his eyes firmly on Harry’s.

“Fantastic. Shall we go back then?” Harry gestured towards Hermione’s room and started walking when Malfoy called, “You’re staying as well?”

Harry’s never stopped, just called back, “Indeed. Chalk it up to decades of friendship if you want, but I’ll be here until she wakes up. Just in case.”

Just before reaching the door, he heard a rustle of robes and then the click of Dragonhide. A Slytherin sleepover. Fucking fantastic.

The next day passed much the same. Visitors and vases of flowers arrived from all corners of the wizarding world, and Harry received each of them with feigned appreciation of equal measure.

Greet, grin, goodbye.

By late afternoon, Malfoy still lingered and Hermione still slept. Harry thought Malfoy’s corner chair vigil to be quite dramatic, but what else had he expected from the Prince of Slytherin? Malfoy only acknowledged newcomers with a perfunctory nod, returning to his novel and sipping a ceaselessly steaming mug. It was driving Harry fucking mental.

Thirty minutes before visiting hours ended, Ginny hurried from the hall straight into Harry’s arms. They’d opted to keep things casual since Ginny signed with the Holyhead Harpies the year before, but when Harry was honest with himself, he knew he was anything but casual about her. They wrote obsessively, despite Harry’s infamous habit of ignoring owls whenever possible. With Ginny, it had always been different, and he found he quite liked writing her about his days at the Ministry, stupid pub nights with Ron, and the odd run-in with Professor Slughorn a few weeks back. He’d even started keeping a running list of things he wanted to remember to include when he chicken scratched his letters over a Firewhiskey.

The smell of her hair filled the small hospital room like she’d brought open air from the pitch for him. She pulled out of his embrace and reached for Hermione’s slack hand, whispering, “Hiya friend. What’d you get into this time huh?” The tenderness in her eyes yanked Harry from thoughts of Ginny in that red knicker set he fancied and he stepped closer to the bed and the two women who meant the most to him in the world.

“Harry told me how he found you. You’re the strongest woman I know, and if you don’t wake up tomorrow when the healers want you to then I swear to God, Hermione, you’ll not be getting an Outstanding in Hospital Recovery. Do you hear me? An E at best, but I could even see an A as a possibility. Think on that.” Ginny gave her hand a quick squeeze and turned back to Harry, only then noticing the lanky man in the corner.

“Malfoy? Why?”

Malfoy hadn’t moved since her entrance, head down as if reading, but his eyes were fixed on Ginny. He’d clearly been caught watching the entire exchange, and yet his expression was completely blank. What the bloody hell was he still doing here? Honestly, whatever point he was trying to convey had been thoroughly made. Harry wanted some time with Ginny. There had to be a way to get the tosser to leave for Merlin’s sake.

“Weaselette.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Azkaban?”

“Don’t be coy, Ginevra. We both know you can read and have certainly put the skill to use in the past forty-eight hours.”

Without missing a beat, Ginny answered, “Oh, no. Woe is me, exposed by your cunning and ambitious ways. I’ve no choice but to confess, I’m predictably illiterate and newspapers elude me.”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth lifted for an instant, and Harry wondered if he was about to concede a laugh to a Weasley. But as he lifted his chin and drew in a breath to reply, Ginny barreled on before he could get out the first word of a retort.

“Shut it, Ferret. I know you were released, just as I know why you’re here. I’m simply surprised, to be honest.” Tossing a long red ponytail over her shoulder, she stood from the edge of the bed.

“Understandable. I, too, am surprised.” And with that, Malfoy snapped his book closed and abruptly stood. “I’m sure you have much to catch up on with Potter. I’ll take my leave.” He nodded as he stepped towards the door.

In a near-perfect imitation of his drawl, Ginny said, “Oh, by all means, my good man, take thy leave.” Harry swore Malfoy’s shoulders twitched with a laugh just as the door swung closed behind him.

An hour later, Harry turned the corner towards the tea cart and a pair of long legs stretched into view. Was there no night of peace to be found in this place? 

The next morning, the healers deemed enough was enough and decided on a potion to bring Hermione out of her sleep. Harry and Malfoy had spent a second night in side-by-side silence and Harry was in no mood for games. He could not figure out how Malfoy was allowed to stay all hours of the day and night without any healer attempting to throw him out, though Ginny had been tossed out promptly at visiting’s end.

By the time the potion was brought in, the hospital room was packed. Padma had shown up at 8:00 AM on the dot, followed by Molly and Arthur, then George, Ginny, and Ron, and lastly, Neville with Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott in tow. Harry was too exhausted to dwell on the Slytherin-to-Gyriffindor ratio of it all and tried to focus on the healer’s prognosis.

“Once she takes this potion, we expect she’ll wake almost instantly. There is no way to know what kind of state she’ll be in mentally or physically. Her body may have recovered from the worst of the tremors, but it’s equally possible her muscles will begin spasming as soon as she regains consciousness. She may have no idea where she is or what happened. This can be a very difficult transition for both patient and family. We find it best to let patients wake up to a single familiar face and go from there.”

A beat passed while the unspoken question wove through the room. 

Molly broke the silence. “Harry dear, it should be you. You’re her legal next of kin, and you’ve been with her this whole time. If she wakes with questions, as I assume she will, the sweet thing, you’ll be best to answer.”

Nods and muffled agreement dispersed with the group. The room felt much larger as Harry moved to the head of the bed opposite the healer pouring a dark green potion into Hermione’s mouth. The healer whispered something about muscle relaxing salve and the click of the door deadened the air. 

A heartbeat. Two. Then the ear-splitting scream of an unforgivable sent the room into chaos.

Hours later, Harry set his glasses on his knee and pushed his palms into his eyes, hard. He needed a moment to come to terms with everything that had happened. He was so sick of worrying about the people he loved, sick of hospital beds and preparing for attack after attack. He tried to steady his roiling thoughts, but exhaustion unsettled him. It always had.

Images of Hermione flashed behind his closed eyes. Her body convulsing in the bed. Healers magically restraining her limbs, forcing down potion after potion. 

Once she was unconscious, the healers moved quickly, casting diagnostics Harry’d never seen before. The floating orbs had revealed an even more sinister reality.

The entire group– Harry included– had been moved down the hall at the first sign of seizing. The narrow passage strained to contain their panic during the thirty minutes that passed before a healer emerged.

“ – muscles in shreds –” 

“– administered a regrowth potion – ”

“ – the bruising on her ribs is extensive – ”

The healer motioned towards the room’s viewing window, and both Molly and Malfoy inhaled sharply. In the room, healers lifted Hermione’s shirt, revealing deep purple bruises across her ribcage. A thick paste was magically spread over the skin, and they all stared silently as the bruising began to fade.

It was then that Malfoy appeared to reach the edge of his pureblood restraint. He turned on the healer in charge, his voice a low growl, and accused St. Mungos of malpractice and neglect. He demanded to know why in-depth diagnostics hadn’t been cast when Hermione was first admitted, and how such severe bruising was passed over and untreated for days. Harry half expected him to tag “my father will hear about this” to the end of any one of his accusations. 

Malfoy’s anger filled what little space was left in the hallway, despite him never raising his voice, and the healer stammered for an explanation. His intensity reminded Harry of Hermione’s particular brand of tyrannical justice and the thought stirred something in him. He looked at Malfoy then, taking him in for possibly the first time since Hogwarts. 

The man stood impossibly tall, towering over everyone but Nott, and scowled down at the healer. Theo and Pansy exchanged a glance that Harry assumed was the Slytherin equivalent of open mouth gawking at Malfoy’s emotional display. 

Before Harry could consider further, all attention turned to Molly Weasley as she stepped to Malfoy’s side, raising her voice at the healer. “Do you not know how to care for the sick, then? Because I have never, never let any of my children sit in that kind of agony. Not ever . That girl is not just some picture in The Prophet for you to ogle on your lunch break. She is my daughter, and you will do your damn job.”

Finishing her tirade, she looked up at Malfoy with the same motherly protection she reserved for her own children and punctuated with a nod. 

Malfoy nodded back.

The whole exchange nearly sent Harry to an early grave. The healer stumbled through promises and procedures that Harry hardly heard and then dismissed themself swiftly.

Visiting hours were cancelled. Harry swore to send a patronus with any news. He eventually found himself seated by Hermione’s bed, finally alone, but only briefly. The creak of the door dragged him away from his thoughts and he didn’t need to lift his head to know who it was.  

“Bunk mates again then?”

The click of Dragonhide. A whiff of tea. 

Harry raised his head and came face-to-face with the steaming cup being held out to him. Malfoy’s expression was blank but his posture was unguarded. Was he truly delivering tea service?

Reaching up quickly, he took the paper cup and fought back any and all quips, opting instead for, “Thanks Malfoy.” The blond wizard waved him off and returned to the chair farthest from the bed. Neither man spoke, Harry’s slurping sips the only sound between them. 

Fucking pureblood manners. Was the man using some ancient spell just to sip without a sound? 

Between the warmth of the tea and the intensity of the afternoon, Harry’s eyes grew heavy. He leaned back, settling in to rest until the next healer came through. 

He thought of Ginny and the smell of her hair, reminding himself to write in the morning. There was a soft click somewhere far away, but the heaviness of the week felt too warm, too inviting. He could just slip away for a bit… 

Jolting up, he placed the clicking sound and charged for the door. No way was that ferret weaselling his way out of this now.

Harry caught up to Malfoy just before he reached the apparition point. Out of breath, he spat, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Draco turned a haughty look on Harry and sneered for old-time's sake. “Do you not have everything in hand then, Potter? I’d think even you can play babysitter to a sleeping witch for a night by yourself. I’m sure a redhead or three will turn up by morning to share your burden.”

“Malfoy, enough ! I didn’t chase you out here because I need you. Just…why leave? After waiting here for days and nearly stunning that healer in the hall earlier. Seems like you had a reason for lurking about.”

Malfoy’s posture stiffened and Harry prepared for the vitriol that was inevitably clawing up Malfoy’s throat.

But it never came. Malfoy’s shoulders sagged, exhaustion tugging arrogance to the floor. “I’m sure to regret this by morning, but I’m too tired to think of a clever lie.” He scrubbed his face and Harry could see white stubble along his jaw. “This afternoon…When she woke...It’s my fault she’s in so much pain. Zabini’s Death Eaters came for her after he saw her with me . I never thought the fucking C.R.I. would be enough to– for the resurgence to– Merlin…that scream.”

“I know,” Harry said, looking around for something to ease the weight in his chest.

Malfoy’s hand rubbed the back of his neck in frustration, voice rising, “Her screams have haunted me since the war and– and now she’s in there fucking screaming because of me. Again .” His fists were clenched as he let out a long sigh and met Harry’s eyes. “I shouldn’t be here when she wakes up. I’m not family. I’m hardly even a friend. It’s fucking selfish to be near her when I’m knowingly putting her in danger.”

“It is selfish.” Harry nodded.

“As I said. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m just on my way out–”

“It’s selfish to leave, Malfoy,” Harry cut in. “I’m not sure what’s between the two of you, but I know Hermione, and if you aren’t here when she wakes up she’s going to rip herself out of that bed and come find you. She’ll assume they’ve kept you in Azkaban before she thinks you’ve just scuttled off.”

“I do not scuttle –”

Holding up a hand to cut Malfoy off, Harry said, “My point is, this is who she is. She stands by the people she’s chosen, no matter the cost to herself. If she is in danger because of you, it’s not your fault, it’s just your turn. Merlin knows I’m happy to pass that mantle off to someone else..”

“How poetic,” Malfoy said, his tone snarky.

“For fucks sake, I need to sleep, why is this happening to me… Just– listen. Leave and she’ll track you down. Stay and… and at least she won’t have to be angry with you when she inevitably finds you, yeah? Angry Hermione is not of this world if you know what I mean.”

Draco tapped the side of his nose with a finger and said, “I do, in fact.” 

Harry huffed a laugh at the memory of Hermione’s right hook and ran a hand through his wild hair. 

“Right then. Let’s find food. I’m fucking starving.”

Chapter Text

The rustle of paper and the smell of steaming tea brought Hermione to the surface. Her eyes fluttered open and immediately spotted Harry, rifling through a stack of parchment. Had she fallen asleep studying? If Harry was copying her essays again she was about to have words–

“Potter,” a familiar voice said from somewhere nearby, and Harry’s head shot up to see her watching him.

“Hi,” she said warmly and reached for her friend. 

He took her hand and squeezed gently. “How are you feeling?” 

It was then that Hermione remembered lime green robes, bright lights, and screaming. 

So much screaming.

She swallowed, tasting the remnants of dreamless sleep down a raw throat. She released Harry’s hand, attempting to push herself up to sit, the movement making her wince, an involuntary groan slipping past her chapped lips. 

There was a flurry of motion in the far corner and her eyes widened as black robes swished to her side.

Draco.

Thank the Gods. He was here. 

“You’re free,” she whispered, her arms wobbling under her own weight. Draco reached forward and gently held her up while he adjusted her pillows. Once she was fully upright and settled, she looked into his grey eyes.

“Better?” he whispered. 

She nodded, immediately missing the warmth of him as he released her and stepped back. She scanned him for injury, noting how much thinner he was than he’d been in Edinburgh. Even more so than she’d realised at his trial. 

Was no one serving food in this damn hospital? 

Harry’s voice from next to her made her start. “The healers said you’ll be allowed to leave tomorrow if the diagnostics look clear today.” 

She’d forgotten he was here.

“That’s good. I don’t remember much, but I can feel the tremors. How long do they think I was held under?”

“A long time,” Harry said steadily. “Longer than anyone should be. You had some torn muscles from the strain of it. You’ll need to rest for a week or so before the potions fully knit you back up.”

“Knit her back up?” Draco cut in from where he leaned against the wall. “Don’t hurt yourself, Potter. I’m sure Hermione knows more about healing than either of us.”

“Piss off. I’m just trying to explain what’s been going on while she’s been out.”

Hermione felt like she’d been dropped into another dimension. Had these two been squabbling at her bedside the entire time she was unconscious?

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione cut in. “I’m sure the healers will be able to fill in the gaps. Does your team know who it was?”

“No. Too hopeful to think you might have recognised them?” 

Hermione shook her head. “I have no idea who he was or how he got through my wards. But you’re welcome to my memories if it’ll help.”

“No. After that kind of exposure, memories aren’t considered…reliable. I promise we’ll find him though, ‘Mione.” He gestured to the messy stack of papers now on the table. “The DMLE has a task force on it as we speak.”

“Good.” Hermione yawned as she sunk back against her pillows, “Could you bring my healer in, Harry? I’d like to read through my chart a few times before nodding off again.”

When the door clicked shut, Hermione turned her attention to Draco. She didn’t say a word, but the air between them tightened like a cord pulling him to her. His step forward was tentative, so she patted the bed beside her. He sat facing her but didn’t meet her gaze, staring at the hands clasped in his lap.

“Hermione, I know this is my fault,” he said, throat bobbing with the effort. “The resurgence would never have come for you if Zabini hadn’t seen us in Edinburgh. I swear I had no idea he was following me. I never would have asked about dinner if—” 

Hermione shifted slightly, placing her hand on his forearm. “Draco, stop.”

“But you could have been killed. I saw you seizing yesterday–”

She tightened her grip on his thin arm and his words stopped short. He looked down at her small hand and reached to cover it with his own.

“Shh. None of that. It’s not your fault. It’s not Harry’s fault. It just is. I told you I have a reputation for being a tad brave from time to time, and you’re just going to have to get used to it. I’m fine . Or I think I am, if Harry would just get back here with that damn chart…” She glanced at the window to see if Harry was headed back, but Draco squeezed her hand.

“Promise you’re alright?” His eyes were intent on her face, hand still resting over hers.

She nodded. “Are you? How long have you been out of Azkaban? Sitting up all night in here can’t be good for anything. You’re skin and bones, Draco!”

He let go of her hand and huffed a laugh as she sat back into her nest of pillows. “Yes, I too am fine . This room is quite the improvement from my recent accommodations if you must know, and I knew I couldn’t sleep a wink with you in here anyways,” he said with a sniff, picking nonexistent lint from his robes.

They fell silent, scanning each other over to assure themselves they were both, in fact, fine. Hermione realised it’d been several minutes since she’d spoken, but their quiet felt comfortable. Steady. 

With a bang, Harry burst into the room, healer in tow, and waved her chart like a trophy over his head. Draco stood and moved back to his corner chair without a word.

“Found her! Let’s get you sorted ‘Mione.”

The following morning, Padma came to escort her home. Hermione hugged Harry goodbye, thanking him for everything he’d done as both a competent auror and her next-of-kin, respectively. Malfoy stood nearby, robes wrinkled, eyes shadowed with sleepless nights. She wasn’t sure what to say but felt compelled to thank him just as thoroughly. She took a shaky step towards him and he took two to meet her where she stood, catching her elbow lightly.

“Draco, thank you for staying, I–”

“May I write to you? Say no if this has run its course. I won’t push.” 

She nearly laughed, but stopped at his sincere expression and hurried to put him out of his misery. “Write if you’d like. But I was going to ask if you’d like to come to Edinburgh. In a day or two that is. I’ll be sleeping round the clock at first, but I’ll be bored out of my mind soon enough. Come and sit with me for an evening?”

“Yes,” he toppled out on a shaky breath. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, that would be better than writing.”

She pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “Good. Look for my owl then.” 

Padma was at Hermione’s side, reaching for the elbow Draco still held. Draco looked down and quickly pulled away, as if he hadn’t realised he was still holding her. A moment later, Padma eased Hermione into the floo. As the green flames lit, Hermione saw Draco staring as though she were the only thing to save a starving man.

Malfoy,
She’s sleeping. I’m administering her potions, but she’s yet to eat any solid food. She’d be horrified if she knew you were left waiting for two days so I’m owling to avoid haranguing. Neville has our address. I’d rather not send such details by post given recent events. I’m sure you’ll agree.

Come through any time after 4:00 PM. I’ll have the floo open. Bring a book.

Whichever Patil that was,
Padma

Hermione knew she was home before she opened her eyes. The feel of her sheets and the familiar scent of vanilla in her room eased the tension in her body. Stretching each limb, she assessed her pain and decided to fully surface into consciousness. But the absurdity she found there had her questioning her wakefulness entirely.

Draco Malfoy sat across the room, looking positively ridiculous with his crisp oxford against her overstuffed orange armchair.

He was wearing his glasses. Reading. In her room. 

He didn’t look up, so she knew he’d been there long enough to fall into the pages, which now that she looked, appeared to be her copy of Lord of the Rings . Well, there was motivation enough to break the silence

She softly cleared her throat and his eyes jumped to hers. One side of his mouth quirked up and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he flipped the book shut without marking the page. Blasphemy.

“How do you feel?” His voice was unobtrusive and soft. 

“Sore,” she grunted.

“Mmm,” he hummed knowingly and stood, slightly ducking his head as it nearly touched the exposed rafters where her ceiling slanted downward. He reached for the potion vials on her nightstand. 

“I’m under very specific instructions from Healer Patil. You’re to take both of these upon waking and then the last after you’ve kept down one full serving of the terrifying bone broth she’s left for you.” He handed her one vial at a time and checked each to be sure it was fully drained. “I put it under a stasis charm once it looked like you’d be extending the sleep a bit longer than she predicted. Hungry yet?”

On cue, Hermione’s stomach gurgled. She rolled her eyes as she blushed.

“Loud and clear Ms Granger. Please hold.” He walked to her desk, retrieving a tray with a bowl of broth, a thick slice of bread, and a cup of tea. She moved to sit up, but her arm slipped from under her. He muttered a wandless levitation charm on the tray, moving to assist her. She glared in mock annoyance to cover her stained cheeks. 

“Thanks,” she huffed.

He sat on the edge of her bed and twisted to pull the floating tray towards them. His voice was chipper as he said, “You are so very welcome. It’s my duty as a gentleman to serve such a decrepit witch.”

She slapped his arm and he laughed. The sound alone might heal her.

He handed her the bowl and she started in on the broth. She and Padma had co-authored a paper on the benefits of magical herbs in recovery the semester before, so she knew what was waiting for her before she lifted the spoon. Sadly, holistic healing was far more tempting on parchment than in this bloody bowl.

Draco quietly set out the next round of vials, then sliced the bread into smaller bits with the wave of his wand.

On her last bite, the spoon clattered into the bowl, her hand twitching and spasming in place. She hurried to cover the stiff fingers with her other hand, but Draco was faster. His long fingers covered her hand and his eyes held hers. 

“It’s not a big deal Draco,” she started, but without looking away, he turned her palm up to rest in his and started stretching the muscles in her fingers as they continued to twitch.

“Thank you,” she managed.

“My mother used to do this for me during the war,” he said.

“Did it happen often?”

“The tremors? Oh yes. Sometimes still if I’ve chopped or stirred too long. I think they’re with me permanently at this point.”

“Did the torture happen often, I mean,” she asked, voice quiet.

Her fingers were no longer frozen so he moved to her palm. She watched his hands move gently over hers and felt her stomach flip at his touch. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and she watched his forearms tense as he added pressure into her palm. 

“Mhmm,” he hummed and looked up with steady grey. “By the time I was marked, the Dark Lord was not too pleased with House Malfoy. I think he thought torturing me would be easy revenge on my father.”

At the mention of his mark, Hermione’s eyes drifted to his left arm and she caught sight of the now-faded tattoo. She’d never observed the Dark Mark up close, and the raised skin made her wonder, for the very first time, if it had been painful to be marked.

“Well, you’re quite good at this bit,” she said, nodding her head toward their joined hands. 

He chuckled and gave her fingers a final squeeze before letting go. “I’ll do it again in an hour. It’s most effective in sessions, I’ve found,” he said, then he stood and made his way back to the fluffy chair across the room. 

The sun was setting through the window, the light making his hair glow white as he settled in to take up his vigil. Hermione relaxed into her pillows, eyes growing heavier and heavier as she watched him flip the pages of her book with just a flick of his finger. 

When she next woke, she knew it was late, probably after midnight, if the dim candle was anything to go by. Her cheek was incredibly warm, almost hot, and she realised she was no longer nestled into her bedding. She was lying against Draco’s chest, rising and falling with his steady breaths. She pushed up slowly, unsure what to do or even think, but she risked a glance and found him smirking down at her. 

“I came to tend to your hands,” he whispered, “but when I’d finished, you… you sort of tugged me down and curled up like a cat.”

Fully awake now, she realised there was a spot of drool on his shirt, and his arm was stretched beside him as though he’d been holding her while she slept. Before her mind could process what a domestic Draco Malfoy looked like, he was swinging his legs off the bed and making to stand.

“Stay.” The word was out before her mind could catch up.

He stared back over his shoulder at her, eyes wide.

“Please?” she added, looking up at him with wide eyes of her own.

He didn’t answer, but she heard his shoes hit hardwood, and then he was sitting against the headboard, long legs outstretched. He slowly extended his arm towards her. Without hesitating, she burrowed into him, resting her head on his chest and twining one leg with his. He tightened his arm around her and she felt him playing with the end of her braid where it lay across her shoulder. He smelled like cedar and spice with the familiar scent of dried herbs that always clung to potioneers.

“Will you stay until tomorrow?” she asked into his shirt.

“If you’d like.” 

“I’d like,” the smile audible in her voice.

“Then I’ll see you in the morning, Granger,” he said with a soft tug to her braid.

And at that, she closed her eyes, not minding his use of her surname when he was tucked into her bed.

Hermione,
We got a tip. I’m leaving London for a few days with the team. Write soon.
Harry

H,
Ran into Malfoy in the kitchen at 6:00 AM. We will be discussing this when I get home from class. Stay in bed and take your potions or I’ll hex you blonde to match him.
Padma

Hermione,
Brewed you the anti-inflammatory potion I’ve been tinkering with this semester. Its mushroom base makes it a tad slippery going down but just ignore that and I think you’ll appreciate the effects.
Nev

p.s. Pansy says to expect her this evening at 7:00 PM sharp.

Hermione,
My shirt smells like your shampoo. Stay in bed.
D.M.

Bloody fuck, Neville,

A tad slippery was it?? I gagged for ten minutes straight! I would decidedly rather be inflamed, thank you very much. Tell Pansy to stay home. I’m fine.

Hermione

Draco,
My sheets smell like a posh potioneer. Which I know because I’m in bed, bossy boy. 
Hermione 

H,
Running late but bringing fish and chips, for real this time. 7:45 at the latest. Get back in bed.
Padma

Hermione set down Padma’s letter on the kitchen counter, huffing in irritation at the thought of spending another minute in her room. She was weighing the equally beneficial qualities of reading on the couch to reading in bed when the floo sounded to life, followed by a familiar staccato tapping.

Stilettos to a sick visit… unnecessary.

“Granger, I know you’re out of your fucking bed. I can hear you wheezing like a pug.” Pansy’s voice grew louder as she rounded the corner, arms crossed, staring down Hermione’s wilted frame. Hermione rolled her eyes, and without saying a word, started pivoting around towards the stairs, images of pegged-legged pirates floating behind her eyes.

“Good God, is that actually full speed? Is this your attempt to walk away from me? Patil was right, you do need to be back in bed. I honestly can’t even believe you made it down the stairs on your own.”

A firm grip on Hermione’s elbow allowed her to right herself against the wall. She couldn’t bring herself to thank Pansy, but she softened her glare and let her guide her back towards the staircase, admittedly wheezing just a bit. 

“I thought Patil was joking when she asked me to babysit but clearly you cannot be trusted. Do you even want to get better? I mean–”

Hermione stopped at the top of the landing, sweat on her temple, openly panting as she said, “Pansy. No one wants this to be over more than I do. Shut up and get me back to my bed or fuck off. As you can see, I’m kinda going through something.”

Pansy’s expression didn’t waver, but she nodded once and reached for Hermione’s hand, gripping her more gently as they made the last few steps into her room.

“Draco mentioned you were in rough shape, but I thought he was just being overprotective.”

“Since when has Draco Malfoy ever been overprotective? He’s a professed self-preservationist.” Hermione tossed back, sharper than she’d meant due to the pain shooting down her spine as she lowered herself to the mattress.

Pansy was bent to lift Hermione’s legs into the bed when she stopped and stared straight into Hermione’s tired eyes. “Malfoy men protect their women with their lives. And honestly, after everything Draco witnessed during the war, his protective streak probably outdoes Lucious in his hay day.”

Hermione opened her mouth to deny any and all “Malfoy women” inferences but Pansy held up a hand. “Whether or not you’ve defined what you are to each other is irrelevant. I saw him at the Ministry and then again in your hospital room.” Tucking Hermione’s legs into bed, she stood. “He’s yours, Granger, and you’ll have his protection whether you need it or not.”

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, burning away any reasonable reply she might have had. She barely knew Pansy for Godric’s sake, and if she answered now, her voice would sound either all too pleased or all too defensive.

“What are you doing here, Pansy?” she asked, looking up at the witch who was now towering over her slumped form in a rumpled bed.

“I’ve come to settle my debts. You got Draco out of prison and I’m just ever so grateful or whatever so I’m here to pay up.” Pansy’s black bob bounced as she turned to the door with her wand outstretched. “Accio parcels,” she said in the same commanding voice Hermione remembered from school.

Two large packages whizzed into the room, stopping to hover just before Pansy’s red-painted fingers. 

“Right. As I’ve said, Draco is important to me—and to Neville, for that matter—and you got him out.” Hermione made a sound of protest but Pansy’s voice only rose. “Don’t deny it. Your chivalry bores me. Just shut it and let me finish.” 

Hermione closed her mouth with an audible click of teeth and Pansy tilted her head in a mock appreciation.

“Growing up, Draco deserved a protector, an adult to look out for his best interest above all else. But instead, he was thrown to the wolves over and over again in the name of duty. Your consistency and commitment saved him from paying the final price of that duty.” She cleared her throat, the only outward sign of emotion Hermione could see. “So I’ve brought you two gifts. One you’ll love and one you’ll need.”

With that, Pansy plucked the brown package from where it was still floating and handed it to Hermione. She knew it was a book from the weight of it in her hands and carefully pulled the paper away, revealing faded leather cover with a large “B.B.” in swirling gold letters.

Hermione looked up at Pansy curiously, but the witch just raised her eyebrows expectantly, urging Hermione to read on. Turning back the cover, Hermione was struck by the elegant handwriting titling across the page.

Bathilda Bagshot, 1970-1980.

A small gasp escaped her lips and she gently turned through several pages to see detailed notes, sketches, and hand-drawn maps of Hogwarts castle and grounds. 

“It’s the original outline. The one she kept when she was researching for Hogwarts: A History. The historian I sourced from said the old crone carried it around while exploring the castle, detailing everything she later used in the published book. Profoundly boring stuff, but I was told the final version is your favourite book so hopefully this–”

Hermione’s hand shot out and grabbed Pansy’s where it hung at her side. Voice too thick to speak, she just stared down at the book in her lap and squeezed Pansy’s hand once before letting go. 

“I told you you’d love it,” Pansy scoffed, tossing her hair to ward off any sentiment.

Without waiting, she grabbed the second box and tossed it down in front of Hermione, “This is the one you’ll need. Open it when I’m gone and thank me later. Now, I’m off. Neville asked me to pick up some gnarled root from Edinburgh’s fungi specialist before my portkey back to Paris. Stay in bed or I’ll kill you myself.”

And with that, she was gone, stilettos clicking down the stairs. Hermione gently set Bathilda’s journal to the side and tugged the satin ribbon from the second, far more elegant-looking box. Lifting the lid, she felt red-hot embarrassment running up her neck and cheeks.

Tucked into delicate tissue lay nothing but forest-green lace. Hermione carefully lifted it with two fearful fingers and took in the scrap of fabric in disbelief. The teddy had a high neckline that was offset by a plunging back. The fabric slid against her skin in a way that reminded her of Harry’s invisibility cloak; yet, the lace was incredibly intricate.

Hermione remembered Lavender and Pavarti talking about a Magical lingerie shop in Paris that was known for impossibly sheer teddies, charmed to feel like butter to the touch. But it was another thing entirely to hold one in her bed. 

Pansy fucking Parkinson.

Chapter Text

By the fifth day of bed rest, Hermione decided she was the picture of health. She’d spent countless hours catching up on course work, even managing to stand long enough to brew a rather wicked tonic for a Minor Injuries: Internal and External assignment. Inspired by the Wiggenweld potion Snape taught them in first year and using what she’d learned developing teas, she tweaked the recipe to keep its potency while rendering it down to an oil. The healing world was used to gulping cups full of a sludgey brew, so a redesign was definitely in order. By the end, her potion was just as effective in a few drops as the traditional dosage. Sterilisation and minor healing in a mere dropper.

If she could avoid further calamity, she would be on track to graduate from the Healer Academy in less than a year, though – the thought of leaving academia made her stomach hurt. Hermione Granger without homework? Unnatural.

Hermione,
Trail went cold. I spoke with Robards and there’s talk about your memories. I remain convinced that anyone who’s suffered that level of pain should not be relied upon for testimony, but the DMLE is getting desperate.

Nothing is set in stone. Just a heads up as you deserve any comfort in all this mess. Are you resting?
Love,
Harry

Pansy,
This original journal is one of the most profound pieces of magical history I’ve ever encountered. I’ve read it through four times and I’ve begun cross-referencing each Hogwarts: A History edition I own to pick out which details are included in which. There is no better bedrest activity than this. Thank you.

As for your other gift… I’ve yet to process your forwardness, but it’s an objectively stunning garment. I will say thank you, but know that it comes with a healthy dose of side eye.
Hermione

By the sixth day, Hermione was on edge. She’d been shut in for nearly a week, her assignments all submitted and returned (with high marks, thank you very much) and she hadn’t had a letter from Draco in days. Each time she’d woken, she turned to the orange chair, hoping to find him, book in hand. Had she been too forward in asking him to stay? In drooling on his expensive shirt?

Her stomach sank with delayed embarrassment and she let her mind flip through their most recent interactions. Surely she hadn’t imagined the pull between them; the way he sat by her bed at St. Mungos? Ginny had mentioned how he’d verbally ripped the healers’ heads off after her seizure. She even thought she had a vague memory of him running his hands through her hair, and – even though it was probably a potion-induced dream – the point stood. Draco couldn’t be avoiding her.

He was absolutely avoiding her. Hermione was convinced of it by the following morning. She’d hardly slept, reliving the memory of curling into his chest while he was still in pressed trousers.

He’d only come to her flat because she’d asked him to, he’d taken care of her on Padma’s orders, and he’d stayed the night because she’d practically pulled him under the covers. Godric, was he avoiding her because he felt sorry for her? Best not let her embarrass herself further so might as well tuck away to France, is that it? Well, that just would not do.

If he’d decided they were better as pen pals, that would be just fine. She didn’t need it to be more, and she certainly didn’t need him to protect her from embarrassment. Sliding into a loose dress to avoid any unnecessary pressure on her ribcage, she laced up her trainers and stepped into the Floo, calling out for the Edinburgh Embassy.

P,
Stepped out for a bit. I took all my potion doses with me. Everything’s fine. See you for dinner. 
H

An hour later, Hermione dropped the taper candle that served as an Embassy-approved Portkey into her beaded bag and stepped onto the busy Parisian boulevard. She’d never seen Draco and Neville’s flat, but Pansy had sent over the address during the trial just in case evidence had to be gathered without warning. 

Thank Merlin for Slytherin paranoia.

Tapping her wand against her palm, she muttered cogito et partem, followed by the address. Her wand instantly warmed under her touch. As she walked, she felt compelled to turn right and her wand confirmed the decision with a short pulse. No muggle GPS was as acutely accurate as the Take Me There spell, and she thanked whatever gods were listening that she’d been born a witch.

She was unprepared when not even five minutes later, she was standing in front of a townhouse, her wand announcing the arrival with a one long vibration. The lack of ornate grandeur of the townhome surprised her. Not that it wasn’t positively posh, but the overall impression was a far cry from austere.

She rang the bell and squeaked when the tiniest house elf she’d ever seen appeared behind the open door.

“Oh Merlin, I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered as she caught her breath, clutching at her chest. “I’m here to see Draco Malfoy. Do I have the right address?”

“You is correct, Miss Granger,” the elf pipped, bouncing on her tiptoes when she said Hermione’s name. “Master Draco and Mr. Longbottom is both at home. Shall Mippie take you to them?”

Hermione followed the elf down the warm hallway and asked, “Were you expecting me Mippie?”

“Not today, Miss. But Mippie has wondered when Miss Granger would find her way here.” Mippie squeaked over her shoulder.

Hermione didn’t know how to respond so instead she pivoted. “I didn’t expect Malfoy to have manor elves with him at school.”

“Oh, he doesn’t, Miss. Master would be quite cross if he knew Mippie was here. But when those boys have exams… Mippie can’t take the state of it.”

“The state?”

“They forget to eat anything proper. Just empty bags of crisps and transfigured tea mugs everywhere,” Mippie tsked. “Mippie comes when they is busy, restocking the kitchen and tidying up where they can’t see. Master Draco and Mr. Longbottom are good boys and Mippie cannot leave them on their own.”

“You take care of him… even when he doesn’t ask?”

The elf stopped in her tracks, an ear flicking in irritation. “Mippie has taken care of Master Draco since the day he was born. And Mippie will keep doing so until she dies. Young Master is in here.” She touched a dainty hand to her heart and Hermione felt the elf’s sincerity burn in her own chest.

“That’s quite lovely, Mippie. Draco is lucky to have you.” She looked around then, realising they had stopped just outside a tall set of double doors.

“Just through there,” Mippie squeaked. “They have not been out in days. Do not hold the state over Mippie’s head. Master Draco never abides by Mippie’s standards, Miss Granger.”

Hermione smiled and nodded as she pushed open the door to peer into a dim library. The room was in the centre of the townhouse, leaving much to be desired in the way of natural light. If she hadn’t just been standing on the sunny street, she might have thought the sun had set by the hazy feel.

Parchment was scattered everywhere. A large blackboard levitated next to the fireplace, every inch covered in arithmancy and runic theory. Five different cauldrons bubbled on surfaces around the room and she noted the source of the haze as the steaming, simmering pot in the far corner. Several scales lined the back of a sofa table, herbs and cutting boards covered the coffee table, and the smell of spilt ink lingered beneath the scent of burnt root.

Neville was kneeling in front of a tiny cauldron, closest to the fireplace. His hair was standing straight up, thick goggles suctioned tightly to his face under a layer of char from what must have been a Seamus Finnegean-worthy explosion.

She found Draco bending over a scale, deliberately adding one dragonfly wing at a time to the stand. With his head lowered, she could see platinum hair matching Neville’s own electrocution status. Draco’s goggles were shoved up, pushing the spiked hair even higher.

She didn’t dare move and break whatever spell was allowing her such an uninterrupted viewing window. She watched as these two deranged-yet-brilliant men worked diligently side-by-side.

“Longbottom, you ready?” Draco called across the room.

“Three more stir rotations. Don’t mess up my concentration, dickwad.”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay…it’s ready. Make sure it’s exactly seventeen and three-fourths of a wing. I’m sure last time it was—”

“I know.” Draco cut him off. “It’s right this time, I swear.”

Shoving his goggles back down, Draco walked the small bowl of wings over to Neville and slowly tipped them into the cauldron. Both men watched the surface of the potion with bated breath. Hermione had to cover her mouth so as not to laugh at the absurdly tall wizards carefully perched over such a miniature brewing station.

Whatever they were hoping to see must have appeared because suddenly, Neville jumped to his feet and both men began shouting incoherently. They slapped each other on the back in the most boyish display Hermione had ever witnessed from either man, nonsensically whooping like they’d just won the Quidditch World Cup.

A smile burned her cheeks, and she realised a giggle slipped past her lips when Draco’s eyes shot to her. His celebration morphed into surprised laughter and he nearly shouted, “Hermione! You’re here!”

Instantly, he was closing the gap, stepping around the stacks of books and beakers that littered the rug between them. He pulled his goggles off with one hand and threw them to the floor as he took the last few steps into her space.

In one quick motion, he snatched her off her feet and swung her around, yelling, “We fucking did it, Granger! Did you see the wings go in?”

“I saw! It’s amazing!” She had no idea what was amazing but didn’t dare pop such excitement with follow-up questions.

He set her down on the tips of her toes, steadying her wobble with warm hands as she clutched his arms for balance. When she looked up to meet his eyes, his lips met hers. 

For a single heartbeat, they both stood frozen, lips barely touching. The shock of such sudden intimacy – with Neville Longbottom undoubtedly looking on from some plant-filled corner – seemed to startle them both into stillness. But the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with all manner of magical herbs overrode self-conscious thought. She pushed up onto her toes and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him down to meet her.

His response was immediate, snaking one arm around her waist and the other into her hair. She was flush against him, every nerve sparking at his touch. She ran her fingers along his jaw and tugged at the cropped hair at his nape. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she parted them without thinking, tasting spearmint as his tongue found hers.

They were both breathless when she pulled back, leaning her forehead against his. He slowly lowered her down until her feet were firmly planted on the rug once more. A breathy laugh escaped him as he dragged the backs of his knuckles up her sides.

Neither one of them pulled away. They just stared, smiling. More giggles slipped out as she traced the indented skin around his eyes from the goggles and he smiled, biting his tongue playfully. He reached between them and pulled a stray curl that had fallen over her eyes and twirled it around his finger.

“I fucking love your hair,” he whispered.

“It’ll be as poofy as Hagrid’s if we spend much more time in this steam room,” she joked, still trailing her fingers over goggle lines.

A creaking sound made them both turn to see Neville leaning against the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle. A man at his leisure. 

Hermione’s cheeks flushed as he nodded towards them. “Hermione,” he said in greeting, his low voice hinting at amusement.

“Hi, Neville,” she said as she stepped out of Draco’s arms. “Um, sorry to interrupt the study session,” she squeaked, only half an octave too high as Draco caught her hand and laced his fingers through hers.

“Oh no,” he drawled, “Draco will be much more use to me now that this has finally happened.” He waved at their still joined hands. “Might actually remember how to count wings and everything.”

“Fuck off, Longbottom. The potion’s bloody perfect,” Draco shot back good-humouredly, while Neville gave a mocking scoff.

“May I see this perfect potion then?” Hermione asked.

Draco smiled down at her. “Oh, the pretty swot wants in on the experiment does she?” He squeezed her hand before leading her across through the wreckage towards the still simmering cauldron. 

The experiment turned out to be a rather brilliant bit of potioneering. After being assigned an everyday potion, they were asked to use entirely different ingredients to reach the same end. Neville’s extensive knowledge of eastern herbology put them at quite the advantage, but they’d managed to not only recreate the everyday bumps and bruises potion but improve it to the point of a new healer-grade invention. Patent worthy, in fact. 

Hermione found herself looking up at a wildly gesticulating Draco as he reenacted Neville’s first attempt that had led to the explosion still painting his cheeks. Neville shoved Draco hard into the arm of the couch and took over the telling, showing Hermione the neatly written recipe of the most recent batch.

Despite the academic intrigue, Hermione’s mind kept being pulled to Draco; the boy who had sneered at her teeth and made her question her place in the magical world was now willingly making himself ridiculous in the hopes of making her laugh. She looked at him over the simmering cauldron and thought he looked like the sun.

Neville’s voice brought her back to the moment as he said, “I’m off to meet Pans for dinner. It was really good to see you feeling better, Hermione.” Neville scooped up a leather bag from the floor as he made his way to the door, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t forget about tomorrow, Malfoy. Ingredients don’t collect themselves.” And then the door swung shut behind him.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at Draco and he rolled his eyes. “We’re picking mushrooms in the Forbidden Forest at dawn. Luna Lovegood has some secret patch she’s been growing out there for reasons only Neville understands, but we need them for the final version of the potion. Honestly, it’s a lot of herbal woo-woo in my opinion, but Longbottom’s known for sourcing above all else. I daren’t question the man.”

Hermione sat on the couch, feeling all the excitement begin to leave her freshly healed body. Draco transfigured a beaker into a water glass and cast an aguamenti , handing it to her without a word as he sat down beside her.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way… but why are you here, Hermione? Surely there was a closer option than France for your maiden voyage from bed?” His voice was gentle, but she knew concern hid around the corner.

She sighed loudly. “Well, if you must know, I was rather put out that I hadn’t heard from you.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “I got it in my mind that I’d made a right fool of myself by forcing you into my bed, so I popped down to the embassy for a portkey and came to let you off the hook, if you will.” A piece of hair broke under her nervous twisting and she flicked it to the floor, “Just to tell you that if you were avoiding me there was no need because I‘m completely capable of taking a hint.” She finished in a rush but when she looked over and found him smirking at her.

“So you crossed the channel to ensure I knew that you knew that it didn’t have to mean anything when we slept together.”

“Draco Malfoy, we did not sleep together!”

“ But then upon arrival—”

“But then upon arrival, you picked me up and I snogged you on sight. Yes, I know. Those are the facts.”

Draco nodded seriously, barely holding back a full grin, “Those are the facts, yes. But…” He reached down and pulled her legs into his lap, resting his hands on her calves. “But those aren’t the only facts.”

“Oh?” she asked innocently.

“No. Shall I list the others?” His thumb rubbed circles on her ankle. 

“I’m listening,” she said coyly, wiggling into the cushions to get comfortable.

“Fact number one: I haven’t a clue what day it is and no idea how long it’s been since our night in bed together.” She slapped his arm playfully and he laughed.

“I wasn’t avoiding anything, simply trapped in this room with a plant addict. Fact number two: I’m very”—he squeezed her calf—“ very ”—he squeezed just above her knee—“pleased to see you.”

She blushed, but held his gaze.

He held up three fingers this time. “Fact three. I liked being forced into your bed. Shocked, to be fair, as I hadn’t anticipated ending the day with a very frail witch curled around my leg but—“ 

Hermione opened her mouth to defend herself but he squeezed her legs again to stop her.

“ But , please feel free to continue such things. I’m available every single day, in fact, which leads me to fact number four. I’d like it very much if you’d do it again. Tonight. In my bed.”

Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck and across her chest. She looked down at his hands still on her bare legs, not sure how to respond.

“Please?” His voice was soft.

Hearing please from the lips of Draco Malfoy was so unexpected that she answered faster than she’d meant to.

“Yes.”

He smiled until a dimple she’d never noticed appeared on his right cheek. “Lovely.” he said, slapping her legs playfully and helping her up to stand. “Let’s eat. I’d bet the entirety of my vault that Mippie’s here somewhere.”

P,
Nevermind about dinner. Staying over in Paris.
H

p.s. Shut the fuck up.

Falling asleep wrapped up in Draco’s arms in his absurdly large bed was easier than she’d ever admit. He’d insisted they just sleep, quoting her discharge paperwork back to her repeatedly with dramatic emphasis on the “limited physical activity” portion. 

So instead, she’d once again fallen asleep curled into him as he read a book on cauldron metal makeup.

She was awoken all too early in a darkened room, the sheet trembling at her shoulder. The pitch of Draco’s muffled cries had her fully awake in seconds. He sounded so… young.

She ran her hand down his arm, softly reassuring him – never using his name or adjusting the pace of her touch so as not to startle him into consciousness. “You’re safe. This is your bed in your flat where you live with Neville Longbottom. You’re not alone. Your mother is safe. You’re safe.”

She knew the instant the memory released him as if a current flashed across his skin and into her fingertips. He slowly turned over, tilting his head to face her, and blinked her into focus.

“It’s you.” His voice was rough.

“It’s me. We’re safe.”

“Tell me this is real.”

“It’s real. It’s 2003, we’re in your bed, and I’m pretty sure we’re uh—together.”

“Oh, thank Salazar.” The end of his words was muffled into her hair as he pulled her tight against him. She smiled softly and burrowed further into his arms, tangling their legs together and tracing runes over old scars.

Protection. Comfort. Trust.

Avoiding the ridged Sectumsempra scars that burned in the shower, she wondered if he remembered Ancient Runes homework enough to recognize what she was doing.

“Tell me. Don’t protect me from it,” she whispered into his chest. 

He took a breath. Held it.

She didn’t want to push if he wasn’t ready, but added, “People never shut up about how brave I am, you know.”

He choked out a laugh and tightened his hold on her for an instant, letting out a long breath.

“It was night I was marked. That’s the memory I dream about most often, probably because it was so early on in the war. Young fear is so different, you know?”

She did know, and nodded against the smooth skin of his chest.

“Later in the war, I was pretty numb to feeling afraid. Living in the manor with him, hearing Greyback’s pack in the woods where I used to build forts... At a certain point, I had to turn it off—occlude, or die from the fear alone.” 

He took a few breaths, but his racing heart still thudded under her ear. “But that first night, I was barely sixteen, the summer before sixth year, and the Dark Lord was furious with my father about the Department of Mysteries disaster. He wanted to punish the Malfoy name, so he turned me into a ritual. 

“Nearly every Death Eater was summoned to the Manor in the middle of the night. They marched me out into the grounds where a circle of masked Death Eaters was waiting. The Dark Lord was standing at the centre, smiling at me. I’ll never forget that. They’d lit fires, and his eyes glowed so red it made me shake. I was stumbling over my feet and everything.” 

Hermione heard the strain in his voice and started tracing runes again to soothe him.

“I wanted to seem collected,” he said, “to prove that my father’s missteps weren’t an inherited trait, and that Malfoys could still serve with honour. But when it came to it, I was out of my mind with fear.”

His arms tightened around her slightly and she hoped the feel of it grounded him.

“Most Death Eaters are marked in secret. No fanfare. But I was to be the youngest ever, and my marking was a symbol of the Dark Lord’s return, the future army to finish the war he’d started before we were born.”

Draco grasped the hand Hermione was tracing over his chest and held it in his, placing it over his heart. “He raised his wand and forced me to my knees. I never heard him cast a spell, but I was paralyzed. My arm stretched out without my doing. I could do nothing but watch.

“My father was there. I recognised him of course, wearing the same fucking mask he’d let me play with as a boy. He didn’t even flinch when I started screaming. I honestly thought that much dark magic would kill me. Blood was running down my arm by the time it was finished.”

Hermione’s hand ached, and she realised she was squeezing his fingers as tightly as she could. She let go and used it to wipe a stray tear before it could fall. When he sucked in a breath to continue, she wished there wasn’t still more to tell.

“I learned later that none of it was necessary. Marking wasn’t traditionally painful. But that performance burned my mark into the bone.”

He held up his arm in the low light for her to see what was left of the scar.

“It faded like everyone else’s after the war. But the burning never stopped. I still wake up needing a cold shower. I think that’s why I’m there in my dreams so often, like the pain in my body is a portkey to that circle.”

Neither of them spoke as the story stretched out between them.

“I’d do anything to change that night. Fucking anything ,” he whispered.

She held back the sob trying to force its way from her throat, not wanting to add her pain to his. Merlin forbid he try to comfort her in this. She hadn’t dared move while he spoke, and now tears pooled in her ear and ran down her neck.

Protection. Comfort. Peace.

Eventually, the tension in his muscles eased, and the heaviness of the dream rearranged just enough to be shouldered by two instead of one. She thought he was drifting off when he whispered, “My mother saw it all.”

Hermione listened without breathing. “Greyback and another Death Eater dragged me back to the manor when it was done. I wasn’t fully conscious, but I saw her draw her curtains. We’ve never spoken of it or my mark. But I know she watched from that bedroom window.”

Hermione held him until he fell asleep, tracing rune after rune until she knew rustling sheets couldn’t wake him. Untucking herself from his arms, she shimmied to the edge of the large bed and felt for her wand on the nightstand. She cast a silencing charm over her feet and slid to the floor. 

Rationally, she knew Draco, and Neville for that matter, would never live anywhere unwarded. He’d probably hired a specialist, the rich prat, but she couldn’t stop herself from checking. Starting by the door, she raised her wand.

“Repello Inimicum. Protego Maxima."

She paced the entire length of Draco’s room, casting and layering symmetrical ward lines like the spokes of a wheel, his bed the centre axis.The need to watch over him hummed through her, strengthening each spell. Fortifying his flat was a productive way to pass hours she knew she’d never find sleep.

“Fianto Duri. Imperturbicum Maxima”

Completing an invisible hedge around his room didn’t satisfy the itch, so she started down the hall, pacing up and down the living room, the kitchen, even the pantry with the same deliberate steps she’d memorised while living in the tent with Harry and Ron.

Hermione didn’t dare open Neville’s door for fear that she’d find a naked Pansy, so she settled for warding his door… and then also stuck her wand under the crack and cast towards his bed. Constant vigilance, as they say.

By the time she’d finished the library and the walk-out garden, sweat was running down her neck, the thin cotton of her sleep shirt clinging to her back. 

A shower seemed the next logical step, and thirty minutes later she was towel drying her hair when Draco stepped into the steam-filled bathroom.

 Their eyes met in the mirror. “Oh no! I’m sorry if I woke you. I got a bit warm in your fluffy bed and I—“

“I scared you.”

“What?”

“You can’t sleep. Because of what I said.”

“Oh please, Draco, I’m a grown woman—“

“Hermione. My room is vibrating with your magic. You spent the night warding.”

“The house actually,” she said faintly, looking down at her bare feet.

“The entire house?”

“Just to be safe, of course, but mostly in your room. I should have asked before adding my own wards, but I was already awake.”

“Why?”

“You were sleeping.”

“And?”

“And…and I was just awake.”

She tried to turn back to the mirror, but he caught her elbow firmly, forcing her to face him. His voice was strong when he asked, “Hermione. Why did you ward my entire house?”

“Warding has obvious benefits, Draco.” Her defenses were grating, even to her own ears.

“You know I can hire specialists. That I have hired specialists. I’m certain you felt the wards perfectly well on your own when you arrived yesterday. So tell me why you spent hours rewarding my house?”

“Because I need you to be safe.” The words tripped over one another as they rushed out, her eyes shooting up to meet his. “That night. You were pushed into an army against your will”—her voice caught—“and your parents just let him have you.”

She lifted her chin, letting determination show in her expression. “You’re safe now. I’m quite good after the time in the tent, so no one will ever come into your home if you don’t allow it. You deserved a choice and now you have one.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, his voice barely audible “But why couldn’t you sleep?”

“I keep watch over the people I care about.”

Chapter Text

Art by saintmlfy

“Wake up, Granger!”

Heart racing, Hermione shot up and frantically scanned the room, only to find a predictably glamorous Pansy Parkinson in the doorway.

“For Merlin’s sake, Pans—”

“No, No. I’m talking, you’re listening. Shh,” the witch said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Hermione threw herself back into the pillows wondering how Draco could leave her defenceless with a prowling Parkinson in the flat.

“I’ve just run into Draco in the kitchen and heard you were here. Not to say I’m surprised honestly, but it is terribly convenient for me, so, I thank you. Now, get up. We’ve a lot to do today.”

“In what possible way is my being here about you ?”

“Darling, nearly everything is about me. But the crux of the matter is this: the samples for my fall line have arrived and I need someone hot to put them on while I stand nearby and think. Theo does the men's lines for me, but I’m so sick of my dreadful assistant, Amorette—” She put air quotes around the girl’s name, making Hermione wonder whether the girl or just her name was questionable.

“Pansy, I’m not really here. I didn’t plan to stay the night, so I’m heading back.”

Pansy didn’t bother to look up from appraising her nails. “Please, no woman ever plans to stay the night, the night just…gets away, as it were.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling. 

“I need you downstairs in ten.” She made for the door, only to turn back, “And Granger, I’m sure you’re one of those holistic healers, but if your legs aren’t perfectly hairless I will hex them bare myself.”

And with that, she was gone. Hermione didn’t move a muscle, just laid on her back and sighed loudly at the empty room.

“Sorry. She caught me making two coffees.” Draco’s voice was warm as he walked into the room, a mug in each hand. They’d done nothing but sleep, and yet seeing the ‘pureblood prince’ in a t-shirt and sweatpants was enough to make her cheeks burn. 

“Good morning, traitor,” she said as she sat up and reached for the coffee.

“Good morning,” he drawled.

“Did you hear what she’s making me do?”

“I did, but it won’t be half as bad as it sounds. Theo’s going to be there of course, and Pansy can only bully one person at a time. You’ll share the load.” His tone was sickly sweet and she couldn’t help the laugh bubbling out of her at his optimism.

“I’d stay and save you, but I’ll be hunting for mushrooms with Lovegood in a half hour.”

“Oh, the mushrooms,” she laughed again. “How could I forget?”

“Wait til you see my new wellies,” he said with a cheeky grin, walking backwards towards the dressing room.

When he disappeared into the closet, she called out, “You know, modelling isn’t exactly what I put down on that Embassy Portkey paperwork.”

“Oh really? So what did you put down then? International wanker hunting? Mission ‘punch a poncy git for forgetting to owl ’?"

She slipped off the bed and made her way towards the closet. “Hardly. Reason for visit: Ministry-mandated reconciliation.”

He laughed loudly. “You did not put that.”

“Oh yes, I did. Shacklebolt started this, so he can fucking pay for my Portkey to end it.”

As she peeked in the doorway, she saw Draco standing in the middle of the dressing room, pulling on black trousers. Shirtless. He didn’t notice her as he tugged on a black long-sleeve shirt, nor when he slid on the wool socks she’d owled him in Azkaban. She’d never seen him in anything remotely casual, let alone outdoor gear. At Hogwarts, he wore cufflinks to class, and he still brewed in dress pants.

She wanted to touch him. A lot.

“Hermione.”

“Mmm?”

He looked up from pulling on a thick boot, and smiled at her glazed expression. “Told you you’d like the wellies.” 

Gods, she could eat him like this.

He stood and held out his arms, spinning in place. “Think I’ll out-forage Longbottom? He finds all the good stuff but now I’ve got the wellies, I’d wager the competition is about to be on .”

When he’d turned back she was standing right in front of him.

“You’ll be King of the fungi. I’m positive,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck to press her lips to his.

But instead of deepening the kiss like she wanted, he pulled back and looked quizzically at her. “Is this a turn-on for you, Granger? I was kidding about the wellies, but perhaps I’ve unearthed a kink–” his words faded into a grunt as she slapped his shoulder.

“No, I just like a competent man,” she said, running her hands down his chest. “This looks very nice on you.”

Leaning his head back, he said. “Salazar, if I’d known the way to seduce you was to dress for manual labour, I’d’ve just bought a fucking farm.”

She used both hands to slap him this time. “Stop. This is very…archaeologist. Not farmer, you prat.”

“I don’t know what the fuck an archaeologist is, but I’ll forage anytime you want me to,” he whispered against her lips. Sliding one hand into her hair, he pulled her against his mouth with a satisfied hum.

She pressed herself into him, revelling in the taste of his morning —spearmint, coffee, honey— losing herself in the feel of long fingers in her hair and the warmth of him through his shirt. She let her hands wander, tracing the shell of his ear, running her fingers through the soft waves of his hair. 

Something vibrated against her hip and he broke the kiss with a sigh, resting his head  against hers. “Seems like foraging might be a turn-on for you as well,” she teased, looking down to find his wand holstered to his thigh, buzzing an alarm.

“Oh, let me assure you…Longbottom's mushrooms have absolutely nothing to do with it,” he said, dropping both hands to rest on her hips.

She laughed sheepishly and tucked a fuzzy curl behind her ear, noticing for the first time how dishevelled she must look.

Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun held in place by her wand, and she donned only his offered shirt from the night before. It hung loose to her knees and her bare feet looked so small against his wellies.

“Merlin, I should get dressed,” she said, mostly to herself.

He reached for a backpack from the floor. “That shirt’s never looked better, actually. Keep it.”

She smiled to herself and watched him clip the pack’s chest strap, adjusting his wand holster once more before he stepped back into her to take her hand. “Be here when I get back?”

“If Pansy has her way, escape will surely be impossible. But once you’re back, I really am leaving. I’ve got classes of my own to catch up on.”

“Then I better think of something to entice you to stay while I’m gone.” He squeezed her hand, winked and apparated with a crack.

An hour later, Hermione was standing on a pedestal in what was her third evening gown. 

Pansy’s designs were inventive and objectively stunning, if not a bit revealing. The final dress was forest green satin that draped over Hermione’s curves without clinging, swayed without swishing, and was altogether quite perfect. Hermione could hardly take her eyes off her own reflection in the three-panelled mirror Pansy conjured in the centre of the sitting room.

Theo stood on his pedestal a few feet away, meticulously inspecting the midnight blue sleeves of a suit jacket. He seemed as invested as Pansy in each garment, so he was two wardrobe changes behind Hermione, agonising over stitching details she thought he must be inventing in real-time.

“Pans, this needs pick stitching. There’s a texture element missing, I feel it in my bones.” When he didn’t get an immediate acknowledgement he snapped his fingers. “Parkinson, listen to me when I’m talking to you, this is critical!”

Pansy knelt at Hermione’s feet, pins sticking out between her red lips.“For fucks sake Theo. You’re literally just the mannequin. Get your own fucking line if you need pick stitching ,” she mumbled.

Hermione laughed and shrugged one shoulder at Theo as he scoffed to the room at large. Everything Theo did seemed to be a performance for an audience only he could see.

“You asked me to be here because I’m a wizarding fashion icon. Take it from me when I say—”

Pansy pulled the last pin from between her teeth and expertly threaded it into Hermione’s hem as she cut him off.  “And that's where you’ve got it wrong, Nott. You’re here because of your nice plump arse. A proper fitting trouser makes all the difference, and if this fabric fits your bum, it’ll work for the average wizard just fine.”

“Oh well, it’s good to see all our etiquette lessons really stuck with you Parks. Best wash that mouth with soap, or I’m telling Narcissa.” Theo said, turning to check out said arse in the mirror.

“As if Narcissa doesn’t know the word arse ,” Pansy mumbled under her breath.

Theo’s meticulous appraisal had morphed into a very arse -centric dance move and Hermione threw her head back in a laugh.

Pansy turned to hide her own smirk and waved Hermione off the pedestal, dismissing her with a swift motion and turning to focus on Theo’s suit sleeve. 

“Is the well-fitting trouser a pureblood thing?” Hermione asked, trying to sound casual.

“It’s a Mippie thing,” Theo answered.

“She’s the reason I started Parkinson House,” Pansy added.

“Oh?”

“Mmmm,” Pansy hummed around a new set of pins as she tugged on Theo’s sleeve. “She used to stock the Manor sitting room with fashion magazines, Magical and Muggle, when she knew my mother was coming for tea. Draco and Theo would play Exploding Snap on the rug, and I’d tuck into some stuffy armchair with Vogue contraband.”

She turned Theo and looked him over in the mirror, seeing what Hermione couldn’t with a practised eye.

“She has a sense about that kind of thing with kids. She knew who we were before we did and didn’t try to stifle it. If anything, she fanned the damn flame,” Pansy said as she shoved Theo off the pedestal to signal the end of his services.“All of us—me, Draco, Theo, Blaise—were mostly ornamental in pureblood society, to be seen but not known by our parents.”

She waved her wand and discarded clothing began floating and folding into neat piles on the settee. Hermione watched as a witch who was never meant to have a career took detailed care of her profession.

“Mippie raised Draco as her own son, but she treated all of us like family. I don’t know what she did, but clearly, she did something right, because three out of four side-stepped the wrong side of a war.”

Theo stepped out from behind the changing screen, sans bum trousers , and came to stand next to Pansy. He threw his arm over her shoulder so heavily that her knees buckled, and she shoved him off.

Rubbing his shoulder in mock injury, he said, “We owe it all to Mip. If she hadn’t told me I had a knack for inventing, I might have joined Voldy’s ranks. Who’s to say.”

“NOTT. I’M DONE WITH YOU. OUT!” Pansy shouted, pointing at the door.

Theo threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder and gave Hermione a salute. “Love you, Granger. Kiss kiss, doll.”

The door clicked shut behind him just as a white stag shot through the window, Harry’s strained voice filling the room.

“Hermione, we lost an auror. We need your memories. Come through when you get this.”

In just a few hours, she'd gone from traipsing around in floor-length satin to waiting outside a Memory Testimony room with Harry and Head Auror Robards. Her hurried trip to London had left her hair in complete disarray, so she took advantage of the wait to tame the fray, opting for two French braids. There comes a time in every curl's life when the braid is all that’s left. A Proverb, probably.

“Sorry about this again Miss. Granger,” Robarbs offered for the third time as she tied off the last braid.

“It’s really quite alright. I want to help, just don’t know how much use I’ll be, honestly.”

“Hermione, there's a bit more to it than a typical memory retrieval,” Harry said, eyes on his shoes.

“Harry…” she glared at him with expectation.

“I’ve done everything to avoid this because I know it will be traumatic and you of all people should be able to walk away from this kind of hate crime without looking back,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. She hadn’t seen that tick in months. 

So, this would be bad then.

“The unspeakable doing the retrieval is going to try to bring you back to… the moment. It’s a hypnosis of sorts that allows the memories to patch any pain-induced holes that might have occurred.”

“How’s it done?” she asked bluntly.

This time, Robarbs answered first. “Using the senses. You’re not going to be asked to recall the event. The unspeakable will magically recreate the event based on prior knowledge and extract the memory your mind brings forward.”

“They’re going to Crucio me? For evidence?” she nearly shouted, rounding on Harry.

He stumbled back a step, scrambling for the right words. “Not physically. Your body will not experience the curse in any way. But mentally…yes. You will think you are under the curse.” 

“I see.”

“I’m so sorry, Hermione. If we had any other lead, I swear—” 

“I get it, Harry. Get it over with then. I want to go home.”

The unspeakable was an older man with a crooked nose and sharp eyes. There was no announcement when the session began and yet, within seconds, the reality of the room started darkening at the edges. 

She knew she was still standing in the Ministry, but she felt the bedroom of her flat all around her. Some untouched part of her consciousness theorised that the Unspeakable must be a Legilimens , enhancing the skill with the science of memory magic. She should research the technique later to see if there might be a healing angle for such a skillset. Could it be used instead of sleeping droughts? Keep a patient in another memory entirely while undergoing procedures in the physical realm? The amount of saved resources in potion ingredients alone would be—

BANG .

The door to her mental bedroom slammed open, shaking her from her academic musings.

The pain was no less intense as a memory than the curse itself had been. Her mind brought the physical memory back into her body with such vivid clarity that she had to fight to stay conscious. And then, she felt herself let go.

When she eventually opened her eyes, the dark tiles of the Ministry were moving quickly underneath her.

She heard Harry’s voice calling after her. “Malfoy, she won’t be hurt. We had to try!”

Malfoy ?

“I’ll be sure to mention that when she wakes up screaming from the nightmares then, yeah?” a man's voice shot back from close to her ear.

“Draco?” she coughed out.

“I’ve got you, Granger.”

“Malfoy! Listen!” Harry shouted, sounding closer this time.

“Go fuck yourself, Potter,” he said, and they whirled into green flame.

Hermione,
I’m so sorry. I know it doesn't fix anything but your memory was intact. Your attacker has been identified and we’re strategising now. I can’t overstate the value of what you’ve provided.
Harry

Draco tossed the letter down on the bed between them. He’d brought her back to his flat in Paris and, with the help of Mippie, gotten her to sleep through the night. When Harry’s letter arrived at dawn, Draco nearly hexed the owl out the window but Hermione convinced him to at least bring the post to where she sat against the headboard.

“To be clear, that doesn't change a thing.” he said, aggressively pointing at the fallen parchment. “I’m still going to hex Potter’s balls off when I see him next.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. “Do what you must Draco. But know that  Harry’s quite the duelist himself.”

“Fuck dueling. I’m not above cursing him the back. Or better yet, I’ll invent a potion to shrivel his balls. The wanker deserves a good shock to his system.” he grumbled, moving to his desk for parchment and quill.

“Owling him to set a date for the surprise curse, then?”  she said, grinning at his slight mania.

“No,” he drawled, “I’m telling Padma where you are and to expect you this afternoon…”

“So you’re my secretary—”

“—If we must label it—”

“Draco—”

“—Yes?”

“Look at me.”

He sighed dramatically but looked over his shoulder at her. 

“Thank you for coming for me.”

He came to stand by the bed and she reached for him. He took her hand, squeezing her fingers.

“Are you doing it on purpose, love?”

Hermione’s stomach flipped at the endearment and attempted to fight the losing battle against a deepening blush, “Doing what?”

He leaned in to whisper. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were seeking out danger just to get me to your bedside.” He smirked.

She laughed and pushed at his chest, knocking him back. “If that was my motive, I can think of far more effective ways to get you to my bed, Draco Malfoy.”

“Is that so?” he said through a laugh, “Go on then, let’s hear em’”

A pop interrupted them and Mippie’s small voice said “Sir, the Minister of Magic is in the library.”

Chapter Text

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood tall in the centre of the library, royal blue dress robes hanging thickly to the floor. He turned at the sound of the wide double doors opening, eyes widened slightly at the sight of Hermione at Draco’s side… in a Parisian Malfoy residence. 

“Mr Malfoy. Miss Granger.”

“Kinglsey.” Hermione said curtly at the same time Draco drawled, “Minister Shacklebolt.”

Amusement shimmered in Draco’s eyes when he glanced down at the sound of her casual and dominant opening. His voice remained aristocratically neutral when he asked “To what do we owe the honour of a visit from the Minister of Magic? Surely you don’t often make international house calls to ex-convicts?”

Now it was Hermione’s turn for amusement. Draco’d become such a self-possessed man since Hogwarts, and she loved watching him like this. There was comfort in knowing he could hold his own and match her intensity in the face of an opponent – something she’d never felt in the brief time she and Ron had made a go of it. He’d always defaulted to second fiddle, and almost encouraged her to outpace him. 

Looking back, she saw the traditional values for what they were—false incompetence to sidestep difficulty. Looking up at Draco, she knew by the set of his jaw that she would not be left to fend for herself, whatever this mystery visit might mean.

“Too right Mr Malfoy. This visit is not merely a social call. I must admit, I am surprised to find you here, Hermione. I’d assumed your involvement in Mr Malfoy’s trial was motivated purely by your insatiable need to carry out justice.” Kingsley offered, lacing the words with condescension. “It had yet to occur to me that the relationship had become… personal .”

“Perhaps I have other insatiable needs, Kings–” Hermione’s high-pitched anger was cut off when Draco stepped in front of her, his voice even and controlled. 

“Her business here is none of yours, Minister. Since you were not aware of her presence, I’ll assume your actual business is with me.”

Kingsley only nodded and gestured to the sofas, inviting Draco to sit in his own home.

Draco turned to Hermione, abruptly blocking her from Kingsley’s view. “I think it’s best if I take this meeting alone. Use the floo in my room to get to the embassy. You should be able to get a Portkey back to Edinburgh within the hour. Patil should have potions ready if my owl made good time.”

“I’m not leaving you with him,” Hermione hissed. “What if he arrests you for interfering with Harry’s investigation? I don’t trust him, Draco.”

“Well, unless he’s got hidden aurors under Potter’s weird cloak or wishes to perform a civilian’s arrest himself… I very much doubt that’s on the table. Although I’ll be sure to owl you from Azkaban if it does. I can handle this. You need to rest. Go home.” 

And with that, he turned and went to sit opposite the Minister. An ankle crossed over his knee, he was the picture of elegant ease.

The dismissal burned Hermione’s stomach and angry energy drove her up the stairs and through the floo without another word.

Harry,
Who was the attacker? I’ve not yet forgiven you.
Love,
Hermione

Herms,
Heard you’re back in Edinburgh. I’ve an engagement there tonight. Shall I come for dinner? Say 7?
Theo

Granger,
Theo mentioned dinner. I’ll bring wine.
Pansy

Pad,
Thanks for the potions last night. Woke up right as rain today. Also, the Slytherins are coming for dinner. I don’t know why and I can’t make them stop. 
Hermione

Hermione, 
Definitely don’t want to miss that. Be home by 7.
Pad

H,
I stopped by the Healer Academy library today for a rare aquatic herbs text and Pans mentioned dinner. Hope you don’t mind one more?
Neville

Hermione,
Shacklebolt was here for hours. I apologize for my delay, but I was too tired to owl last night. Apparently, my dramatic return to the Ministry to “forcefully remove” you from a “completely voluntary” memory extraction was another tally in the ‘Worrying Death Eater Behaviour’ column.

The Minister wished to warn me personally that such interference would not be tolerated by someone with my “colourful history.” He questioned me briefly on my relationship with Blaise, but when my responses mirrored my trial he got bored, pivoting gracelessly to our “unexpected involvement.” It would seem you were right from the very first letter. The ministry was reading our correspondence through that fucking purple stationery.

Fortunately, if memory serves, every letter beyond my confession took place on boring, and blissfully private, parchment. Kingsley asked if there were letters the ministry could use to “further improve the C.R.I.”

Naturally, I declined. (Does he think me a fool or is he one himself? A riddle I may never solve.) Before leaving, he requested access to my wand and yes, I can hear your outrage already.

“Absolutely barbaric! Priori Incantatem requires a warrant!”

You are, of course, correct. But guess who else knew about that bit of legality? Me. However, since I’m just an honest potioneer these days, I let him check. My last spell was to detangle your hair. The effort he put into controlling his face was truly noble. He looked like he was coming out of being Polyjuiced, all twitches. Rather unbecoming if I’m honest.

I believe they plan to question you as well; rule out an Imperius for good measure. I’m sorry my intervention is causing more of a stir.

Tell me you’re feeling better. Heard from Longbottom that dinner’s at yours tonight. Tell me I’m invited. I miss that obnoxiously orange chair of yours. 

Draco
p.s. If I’m invited, may I take a few of your ingenious tea bags home? They comfort me.

Draco,
I knew he was reading those letters. Gods, the nerve of him! Forcing me into the program just to breach my privacy? You know there was a time when I actually respected him as an Order member? I voted for him to become Minister, for Merlin’s sake! But between this and his endless promises about my parents, I doubt I ever really knew the man behind the Minster of it all.

And he came all the way to your flat to interrogate you? I need to think on it more, but something isn’t right. It’s making me feel itchy.

About tonight: I’ve no idea how it happened but I’m somehow hosting Theo, Pansy, Neville, and Padma for dinner without sending a single invitation. Please come. Everything is more bearable with you present, even an unexpected Theo and Pansy. Putting together the tea bags now.

Hermione
p.s. Tell me you’ll stay the night. 

Hermione,
I will stay.
Draco

The doorbell rang at exactly 6:45 PM and Hermione yanked it open with Theodore Nott-flavoured reprimands on her tongue.

Hermione fumbled in surprise at seeing a Malfoy house elf on her doorstep, “Mippie! I wasn’t expecting you here. Er, will you be joining us tonight as well then?”

“Miss Granger!” pipped Mippie. “Mr. Nott has asked Mippie to bring dinner so Mippie has done so!” Without further explanation, the tiny elf skipped passed Hermione’s legs and headed towards the kitchen.

When Hermione stepped into the room, she was met with complete magical mayhem. The small wooden island was now hidden behind an elaborate display of knife work, as meats and cheeses were sliced and piled, seemingly without order. Splashing from the sink drew Hermione’s eye, where mounds of berries were being rinsed and sorted into serving bowls that Hermione nor Padma owned. Walnuts, almonds, and cashews zipped by at Hermione’s eye level, clinking into a line of tiny bowls. Mippie stood in the centre of it all, little arms outstretched like a commanding orchestra conductor.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the elf’s enigmatic warmth. Mippie’s unique magic filled every corner of the room and Hermione’s throat caught as it swirled around her. A gratitude she’d felt three billion times before fluttered inside her ribcage. She’d been born a witch for no good reason at all and now she stood in a magical flat with a brilliant being she’d never have believed existed. What were the odds?

The hum of food prep only added to the emotion and memories of Hermione’s mum swam into focus. Hermione had spent her childhood evenings propped on the kitchen counter as her mum worked through a dinner recipe, recounting her lessons in minute detail. Her mum would chop onions and peel potatoes, all while asking after Hermione’s friends, her teachers, and the books Hermione had undoubtedly borrowed from the library.

The sting of tears brought her back to the present and Hermione realised Mippie was watching her. The elf had conjured a step stool and was now leaning over the island, meticulously arranging sliced meat by hand. She smiled softly at Hermione but continued folding Prosciutto into delicate roses without a word. 

With a very brave sniffle, Hermione stepped forward to observe Mippie’s creation. Magically, the chaos hadn’t been the haphazard whirling it appeared to be but an intricately designed charcuterie spread ready to feed an entire quidditch team.

“Oh, Mippie…this is too much! It’s so lovely,” Hermione gasped.

“Pish! Mippie thinks this is just right. Miss should get the sitting room ready. Mippie will finish here.”

Hermione knew a dismissal when she heard one and hurried to make space for Theo's guests, charming the coffee table to accommodate Mippie’s masterpiece of a meal.

An hour later, Mippie was in Wiltshire and the sitting room was swimming in red wine and conversation. Theo was sprawled near the coffee table on a pile of pillows, animatedly telling Padma about the “stupidly sexy library man” he’d seen with Neville that afternoon. He’d had nothing better to do in the hours before the party he was so graciously hosting at Hermione’s so Theo’d opted to fill the void with Neville’s errands. Which was how he’d found himself at the pointed end of a handsome professor’s scowl. Hermione would wager ten galleons it was Theo’s trademark speaking volume that had gotten him into trouble. His voice would be inappropriate on a pub crawl let alone in a learning institution.

Pansy sat on the couch beside Padma, Neville at her feet leaning against her legs. Hermione would never have imagined the pair, but the way Pansy looked down at Neville made Hermione’s own cheeks blush. They spoke softly, as though the only two in the room. Eventually, Neville turned to face her, propping an elbow on the cushion and placing his broad hand on her thigh. The intimacy was surprising for two purebloods raised between wars; yet, the familiarity felt almost beautiful.

Hermione watched from her armchair, fighting the urge to glance at the door for the twelfth time and wondering what had kept Draco. When the mantle clock chimed 8:00,  she freed her worry from the chains of rationale.

What if Kingsley had sent Aurors to the flat? What if Draco’d forgotten her address somehow? Had he scorched his eyeballs in some experimental brewing accident? 

The curl she’d been twisting was nothing but frizz by the time Theo’s elegant hand touched her knee, making her jump. His eyes were soft when he said “He’s coming, Granger.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Yes, you are and understandably so. He’s got his prickish reputation, not to mention the last time he stood you up he turned up in Azkaban. It’s reasonable to worry.” His long fingers tightened on her knee. “But if he told you he’d be here, he will be here.”

Hermione tried to laugh it off as she uncurled her legs to stand. “Anyone need anything from the kitchen? I’m just going to gra—” 

Just then, the fire lit green and Draco stepped out of the hearth. He was hurriedly brushing soot from his trousers when he found Hermione halfway through the door jam. Without hesitating, she closed the distance between them, rushing into his chest. She squeezed his waist hard and felt his breath in her hair as his arms encircled her.

Theo’s voice came from the pillow pile, “Would you like my I told you so in writing, Granger? Or shall I just say it now?”

Hermione laughed into Draco’s soft sweater letting relief flood her conscious thoughts.

“Theo, we’ve endured decades of your anxious mania,” said Pansy, flicking her wand. Theo was suddenly flipped onto the hardwood, perfect arse in the air.

“Be a good boy and leave them be,”  Pansy said.

Laughter erupted at Theo’s muffled, “Yes mum.”

The rest of the evening passed genially. Mippie was, predictably, correct, and every morsel was gone by the time Theo and Padma stood to announce they were heading to the pub for trivia night.

Pansy and Neville left a short while later by Portkey, leaving Hermione and Draco alone in the cosy sitting room, surrounded by cracker crumbs and empty glasses. She turned to tell him she was too tired to clean up when his hand found her low back.

“Come on, little witch,” he said, tugging the end of her braid and reaching for her hand, “Let’s go to bed.”

She wanted to fight him, to stop him from taking care of her, to push him onto the couch and climb on top of him. But exhaustion ran through her limbs, weighing her down.

She felt him just a step behind her on the stairs and when they reached her room, a long arm moved over her shoulder to push the door open ahead of her. He followed without a word, and she marvelled again at how comfortable the silence was between them. They moved around each other effortlessly. He flicked his wand, dimming lamps and lighting the candles on her desk, while she floated books to their respective shelves and conjured two water glasses on her bedside table. 

Heading for the bathroom, he trailed soft fingers across her back as he passed. The sound running water and brushing drifted in as she cast an extension charm on the bed and tracked down an old sweatshirt to transfigure into a pair of joggers. 

When he slipped back into the room, she smiled and nodded at the joggers without a word. He brushed his fingers against hers as he stepped to take them. There was no hesitation or embarrassment between them as they silently discarded the day's clothing.

Hermione unlaced her trainers. Draco tugged off his sweater. When she pulled her own turtleneck over her head, she felt large hands pulling the end of the sleeves, helping it the rest of the way off. Her hair popped out of the clingy fabric in a whoosh, and they both laughed.

He made everything warm; she could sunbathe in his light. 

Draco lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed the inside of her palm before levitating her discarded shirt to the hamper. She reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged until he lifted his arms. When he was shirtless, Hermione gently traced a finger along his collarbone, following the thickest scar across his chest. She saw him shiver and she bit back a smile. 

She loved being with him this way, seeing him this way, speaking only in touches and glances. Reverent in a way she couldn’t put words to.

He reached around her and unclasped her bra yet made no move to pull it off. A second later, he’d summoned her favourite sleep shirt and held it out without a word. Instead of taking it, Hermione slid both straps from her shoulders and let her bra fall, leaving her in just knickers and socks.

She watched as his gaze slid down her body, pupils dilating, lips parting slightly. Draco was frozen, still holding out her shirt, so she gently lifted it from his fingers. Thawing a moment later,  he ran the back of his knuckles slowly up the side of her breast. 

She felt instantly alert and completely dazed, all at once. She needed to touch him.

Every nerve tingled under his stare, and she knew the moment her nipples peaked by the sharp inhale of his breath. His eyes snapped to hers in surprise.

“What?” she laughed, “It feels good when you touch me.”

Relief flitted across his face before it was replaced with low-burning hunger. She tugged at his belt playfully to get his attention and asked “Will you be taking these trousers off? Or shall I perform the entire show tonight?”

“Salazar. Fuck. Sorry.” He tried to rip his trousers off while also stepping backwards; tripping as they caught around his knees.  

He looked up with a grin that doused her in sunlight. “You’re so perfect you’ve literally knocked me off my feet, Granger.” He righted himself, trousers pooled at his ankles and continued. “But for the sake of my dignity, might you turn around for just a moment so I can get these off without hurting myself?”

She laughed freely and spun around. A moment later, Draco had snatched her waist, carrying her until they fell into bed – a laughing heap of tangled limbs. Rolling away, she caught her first glimpse of him. He was in nothing but black briefs, stretching luxuriously in the now-spacious bed. Not a hint of shame to be found.

Taking some of his confidence for herself, she stretched out to lay facing him. He scanned her face, eyes drifting to her mouth for one heartbeat before they moved together in the same breath. Her hands were eager and desperate on his skin. He kissed her temple, her eyes, her cheeks before finally finding her mouth. 

When his lips finally met hers, she opened for him, savouring the taste of her muggle toothpaste on his tongue.

Snaking an arm around her, Draco pulled her flush against him without breaking the kiss. Still, it wasn’t close enough. She threw a leg over his hip and he groaned, rolling his hips into her, letting her feel how hard he already was for her. 

Feeling proof that he wanted her as much as she wanted him gave her new energy.

She pushed him onto his back and rolled on top of him, straddling him to grind herself against him. The sensation of Draco’s cock pressing against the increasingly wet fabric of her knickers dragged a moan from her before she could even begin to move in earnest. 

She looked down to see him watching her, his mouth slightly parted as he gripped the crease of her thigh. His eyes darkened when she rolled her hips forward and she felt his fingers dig into the soft muscle of her arse.

“Gods, Hermione. You’re…I…Fuck.” He managed as he met her heated gaze.

The crack in his voice lit a familiar bravery in her. She wanted to tease him. Trailing a hand over her collarbone and down to her breast, Hermione slowly grazed her nipple until it peaked under her touch. She thought from his earlier reaction that he’d like the sight but she wasn’t fully prepared for what it did to him now.

Instantly, he snatched her wrist and pulled her down to his lips. He met her with open mouth kisses, tongue meeting hers without restraint. She shifted to straddle his thigh where she felt his cock straining in his briefs and rocked hard against him. 

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, using his hold on her arse to move her up and down his length. She felt him get harder and knew her pelvic bone would bruise from how hard she was grinding against him. The thought only added to the tightening in her core. 

He grabbed her behind the knee and yanked until it rested alongside his ribs. The position pushed his cock right where she wanted him, the wet fabric between them increasing the friction and causing them both to speed up.

His touch set her on fire. He caressed every inch of her he could manage, palms spread wide over her low back one minute then roughly pushing curls back to cup her face the next. But no matter where they wandered, Draco’s hands kept coming back to squeeze her arse, and she felt a sudden surge of pride in knowing how much that part of her pleased him. 

Eventually, she felt his hand slide down her bum along the seam of her knickers. His hips jolted when he brushed the now-soaked fabric between her legs, hesitating just above her centre. She needed him to feel how wet she was, for him to know she’d hoped their letters would lead them here for far longer than she’d admit. So without thinking, she gripped his forearm and guided his fingers under the drenched cloth. He breathed in sharply and she hitched her knee higher to encourage him.

That was all he needed. Long, slender fingers explored her centre until she thought she might die from his light touch. They’d stopped kissing at some point, mouths hovering over one another, drinking in each other's ragged breaths. He dragged a finger up her slit and she gasped into his mouth.

“There?” he whispered.

“Yeah. Right ther–” She lost the rest when he repeated the motion. Merlin, he was a fast learner, circling her exactly the way she did when she was alone.

“ Gods , you’re so wet.”

“For you,” she gasped and that little bit of praise had him pushing a long finger inside her.

She quickly pushed up and moved to straddle his lap. He waited eagerly, as though he knew what she needed and instantly slipped his hand between them to fill her again. She tilted her hips to take him deeper, nails digging into his skin as she slowly rode his hand. Her head had fallen back at the depth of the new angle, but she raised it to watch him pump into her over and over. When she swirled her hips, she clenched down and watched as his mouth fell open at the sight of his finger disappearing inside her.

She wouldn’t last long once he added a second finger but she wanted him close too. Sliding her hands down his chest, she brushed her thumbs over his nipples, watching them harden under her touch. His hips bucked under her again and she knew he needed more.

She slid back down the length of his body, laying against his warm chest and pushing her tongue into his mouth at the same moment she rocked over his cock. They both groaned at the sensation. She laved against his tongue, letting him feel every ounce of desperation as she rocked into him over and over and over, pushing them both to their peak. 

Eventually, he pulled her knee up again, easily sliding two fingers inside her. She instinctively pushed back into his hand, wanting him as deep as possible. 

“Oh my Gods , you’re fucking perfect,” he breathed, clutching her hip with his other hand.

“Deeper, Draco,” she panted. “Touch me.”

He curled his fingers and a groan ripped from her throat as she continued to rock her body against his, exactly as she would if it were his cock inside her.

“Fuck, Hermione. I’m gonna come.” His voice sounded frantic.

“Thank Merlin.” She breathed to herself, “Don’t stop.”

And he listened, keeping the perfect pace and pressure until her mouth fell open as she shattered into nothing but golden light. She thought she might have said his name into the side of his neck, but the next wave crashed before she could dwell on it.

His thigh had begun to shake as she returned to her body, and she was vaguely aware of him thrusting against her when warmth streaked down her inner thigh. She collapsed onto his chest as they both breathed out the last of their orgasms.

They lay there panting for several minutes. His fingers stroked up and down her spine, as she played with the cropped hair behind his ear.

“Hermione… that was… you are—” Draco breathed.

She laughed and felt his chest rumble under hers. He rolled to the side, resettling them both on the bed and tangling their legs together.

“Give me ten minutes and we can go again.”

Chapter Text

Draco managed to secure a Portkey the following morning, needing to get back for class and experimental brewing with Neville. Hermione and Draco said goodbye in the sitting room, kissing softly and smiling sheepishly before Draco called out for the Magical Embassy, spinning into harsh green flames.

When the soot settled, Hermione fell back onto the couch and let out a sigh so alarmingly girlish she blushed with no one to see. That man had turned her decades-old bookish brain into nothing but pink fluff overnight. She permitted herself one more dramatic exhale and then stood abruptly, tucking her hair behind both ears. Fickle fantasies contained, she marched toward the kitchen for a glass of water, hoping to smother the lingering flames flicking up the sides of her belly with each intrusive image of the night before.

Two full glasses later, she was back on track. The day’s to-dos were bouncing behind her eyes as she scurried to pack a cheese stick and a tangerine into her bag and yank on her worn leather boots. Tapping at the kitchen window yanked her from the foyer, and she immediately recognised one of the Weasleys’ owls hovering just outside. Hope swatted at irritation as she unfurled the parchment.

Hermione,
After your stint at Mungos, I assumed you’d see reason. But your embarrassing entanglement with Malfoy continues. As your friend, I’m asking you to leave it. There is more at stake than you realise.
Ron

Anger flooded her cheeks at the implied threat and condescension that was so typical of Ron these days. Cramming the parchment into her bag, she flicked her wand to shut off the lights and lock the flat. She stepped into the brisk Edinburgh fall and breathed in a calming breath. Ron could stuff it for all she cared. She would not be leaving it.

Hermione’s morning was unexpectedly busy, starting with a skin regrowth lab assignment and ending with a dense lecture on the theory of organ regeneration. Hermione penned Harry over her cheese stick and tangerine lunch.

Harry,
I’ve just had a letter from Ron. It’s barking…even for him. Think you’d better take a look. Come through when you get this.
H

Something about the letter kept niggling at the back of her mind throughout her time in the library as she searched for literature on the similarities between Muggle sutures and epidermal healing wand work. Her nose was practically touching Herman Babengurg’s 12th-century physician's diary when a paper plane soared over the nearest bookshelf and stuck into the puffiest part of her hair. Rude.

Hermione,
Tell me you’re free on Friday. I’m suffocating in Longbottom.
Draco

Draco,
Something’s come up, actually. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to come through to mine today instead? There’s something you should see.
H

Smiling, she creased the paper down the middle (the Healer Academy’s no owl’s indoors policy had led to the invention of charmed paper planes in 1831, according to Edinburgh’s Magical Healing: A Complete History, which she’d read twice before ever stepping on campus) and folded her own miniature version of the paper plane that she’d pulled from her frizz. She knew the paper plane would fly to a communal owlery, places ever so far from the library, mind you, where postmasters assigned available owls to take the missives the rest of the way. Frankly, Hermione thought Macgonogal ought to adopt a similar system and skip owl droppings in the dining hall altogether. A tad prehistoric even for Hogwarts.

That evening, Harry met Hermione at her flat. Ron’s letter had nearly burned a hole through her school bag all afternoon, and given the state of Harry’s hair, she knew he was just as anxious to dissect it..

Harry’s Auror training proved to be quite useful in the event one needs to “magically dust” for fingerprints. His wandwork was steady, and each incantation came easily to his lips as he checked for layered enchantments. Hermione was trying to wrestle the hints of surprise off her face when the floo lit green and Draco stepped gracefully into the room, Neville at his heels. The pungent smell of a burnt apothecary billowed out of their robes. 

“Malfoy. Neville,” Harry greeted in his Auror Potter voice, stopping the newcomers in their tracks.

Neville braved speaking first. “What’s happened, Harry?” stepping out from behind Draco to examine the parchment that hovered at the tip of Harry’s outstretched wand. Draco came to Hermione’s side, squeezing her fingers tightly before shifting his focus to the letter. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to hide a completely inappropriate laugh from escaping her throat and discreetly wiped Draco’s dried potion crumbs from her hand. Glancing down, she saw that both Draco and Neville’s forearms were speckled in gold globs and mentally noting to ask about how their research was coming along.

Harry’s briefing pulled her gaze up to the floating letter. “This came to Hermione’s flat this morning via a known Weasley familiar. The identity of the owl has been confirmed, but the use of said owl was not directed by any member of the family that we know of at this time.”

“Enough Auror babble. What’s it fucking say?” Draco cut in.

“Malfoy, this is how it’s done when—”

“Oh my god, I’ll read it myself,” said Hermione, reaching past both men and easily snatching it from the powerful point of Harry’s wand. “ Hermione, after your stint at Mungos, I assumed you’d see reason. But your embarrassing entanglement with Malfoy continues. As your friend, I’m asking that you leave it. There is more at stake than you realise. Ron. ’ The end.”

“Well, we know Weasley didn’t send it,” Draco said abruptly.

“It’s way too soon to rule that out. I haven't been able to corroborate his version of events since—”

Auror Potter was cut off by Draco’s air quotes as he said, “ Your embarrassing entanglement. Really let that roll around behind those nonsensically thick glasses and tell us when you’ve heard such an eloquent comeback from Ronald Billius Weasley, renowned boy genius.”

Neville huffed a laugh and slumped into the nearest armchair to scratch at the potion specks sticking to the hair on his arms. “I’m with Draco. Ron’s a lot of things, but well-spoken certainly isn’t one of them” he tossed out, not bothering to look up from his primate-like bathing as he asked, “But if it isn’t him, who has access to a Weasley owl, knows about Hermione and Draco, and has something to gain?”

“Exactly,” said Hermione, turning to pace in front of the fireplace. “I’m not ruling Ron out completely because he may have just asked someone else to write for him. He’s been known to pawn his homework off, as I recall.” The last part came out mumbled as her mind untangled memories from motives.

“I’m less concerned with who wrote the bloody thing and more interested in the ‘whole lot more at stake than you realise’ bit,” said Draco as he watched Hermione walk the rug and hearthstone tightrope.

“Mmm,” she hummed, “yes, that is concerning as well.” Her eyes unfocused as she sorted possibilities.

“Do you think he’s found his way into some dirty Ministry stuff?” Neville asked no one in particular, hissing as one particularly stubborn splash tugged the hair from his skin.

“I was wondering the same—what if he’s involved in some unsanctioned Death Eater hunting?” Harry asked in Hermione’s direction.

“What makes you think it's unsanctioned?” asked Draco.

“You think the Ministry is authorizing Death Eater round-ups while also launching the largest reconciliation initiative in Wizarding history?” sarcasm slicing through Harry’s professionalism.

Draco rolled his tongue against his cheek and levelled Harry with an unwavering glare that seemingly shrunk the room by half.

Before anyone could say a word, Harry let out a breath and nodded. “Right–they just sent you to Azkaban for fraternizing with the enemy, didn’t they?”

“They did,” Draco said calmly.

“So we all agree it’s more than possible,” added Neville, now leaning forward to rest his pink but potion-free forearms on his knees.

“What if it’s related to Kingley’s visit?” Hermione jumped in.

“Visit where?” asked Harry.

“Kingsley came to Paris the day after my memory retrieval,” Hermione answered quickly. “He showed up at Draco and Neville’s flat to personally question Draco for hours about his involvement. I tried to stay, but Draco felt it was best to let the Minister hear him answer his own questions since I have a tendency to–”

“Interrupt,” all three wizards said in unison. 

“Okay, relax. Yes, I sometimes interrupt.” She admitted with a distracted smoothing of her hair, “I left them to it obviously, but I was terrified Kingsley would find a way to arrest Draco again. He eventually ran out of buttons to push, though. Thank Merlin.”

Draco was watching her ramble, a smirk just visible behind the loose fist covering his mouth. She liked when he looked at her like that.

Her voice cracked when she started again. “Anyway, what if Kingsley lured Ron into some kind of scheme? Maybe offering him his old DMLE job in exchange for discreetly pushing this agenda?”

“That’s certainly motive,” said Draco flatly.

“And it explains how the letter writer would know about you and Draco,” added Harry. “If Kingsley just saw you at his flat and all.” His cheeks flushed at the implication.

“And it certainly explains the Weasley owl,” finished Hermione. 

“But who wrote it?” Draco asked as he reached for the parchment from where Hermione had tossed it onto the coffee table.

“Not sure yet…” Hermione answered, picking up her pacing, “We might be thinking too hard. Maybe it’s as simple as secretary delegation.”

“You think Kingsley’s assistant wrote the note, and Ron just supplied the owl?” asked Harry.

“Travelling abroad to check in on Draco himself is far more improbable, Harry and yet, here we are,” Hermione snapped.

Harry stood and stretched out a hand to Draco for the letter. “Fine,” he said, folding and tucking it into the inside pocket of his robes. “This is enough to start some internal digging. I’ll need to be deliberate. Don’t want to ruffle the wrong feathers, but I think there’s more than enough evidence that something’s actually going on.”

Stepping over Draco’s outstretched legs, Harry kissed Hermione’s cheek and spun into the flames.

At that, Neville slapped his knees and stood to his full height. “I’m knackered. Draco if you’re back tonight, wake me up, and we’ll keep working on the potion.” He reached for a fistful of flu powder, adding, “If not, be at Hogwarts at 8:30 AM. Don’t be late. Brilliant witches like Luna don’t wait on gits like you.”

When the flames dissipated, crackling energy lingered in the few inches that separated Hermione and Draco. She knew they ought to discuss the possible Ministry threat, but when his hands reached for her waist, she met him with equal force. Hermione cupped his face in her hands as she kissed him, pulling on the collar of his button-down. Instantly, Draco’s arms wrapped around her, walking them back until his legs hit the sofa. She pushed on his chest until he fell against the cushions and looked up at her, lips parted and eyes focused.

He snatched her hand and tugged until she was climbing onto his lap, shins pressed against his hips as she straddled him. His chest was warm as she kissed his lips, his eyes, his neck. Draco ran a slow hand up her back until he gripped the base of her neck, tilting her head to meet his lips once more. Hermione hummed into his mouth when he pulled her hair just enough to arch her into him, pushing her tongue into his mouth. Wanting more than his lips, she ground against his lap.

“Fuck, Hermione” he whispered against her neck. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Mmm.” 

“Tell me what that sound means,” he whispered, reaching for the hem of her sweater. She raised her arms, and Draco tugged it over her head, tossing it to the floor. Arching into him again, she unclasped her bra and threw it into the armchair. 

The silver was nearly gone from his eyes when they met hers again. “You know what that sound means,” she whispered against his lips, starting on his shirt buttons.

“Go easy on me, Granger,” he mumbled between kisses, shrugging off his button-down. “I might be the dark wizard here, but you have complete power over me.”

“You have just as much power over me,” she breathed into his hair as he kissed across her collarbone and up her neck. Rocking against him, her need tightening when he stopped behind her ear and sucking the tender skin into his mouth. Her knickers were a lost cause.

Seemingly riding the same wave, Draco stood, lifting her and turning to place her bare feet where he’d been sitting. Standing on the couch like this, she was nearly eye to eye with Draco, and she revelled in how tall he’d grown to be since the war. He lowered his gaze and tucked his fingertips inside the waistband of her leggings, pulling them down until she could shimmy and step out of them easily. Mentally batting away flies of embarrassment, she let his gaze travel across her bare body as her feet sank into the plush cushions.

She reached for his zipper, and Draco didn’t look away when he stepped out of his trousers, kicking tailored wool under the coffee table and meeting Hermione’s darkened eyes with his own.

“Sit,” he commanded.

She sat.

When she looked up from the couch, he was lowering himself to his knees, kneeling between her legs. Her knees brushed his shoulders, subconscious shame swelling before realisation found footing. Draco placed a hand on each of her knees and squeezed, bringing her back into her body as he guided her legs open with warm palms.

“Please,” he said, eyes so intense she lost any thought beyond yes, please, yes .

Only a nod came to the surface, but it was the permission he needed. Draco’s head dropped to place a kiss on the inside of her left knee while Hermione fumbled for a pillow, stuffing it behind her back to be helpful somehow. Draco pulled her hips the rest of the way until she was all but hovering in front of him. 

In every previous moment of Hermione’s life, just the idea of laying herself bare in her living room would have stained her cheeks for a week. Staring intently at a water stain on the ceiling, she tried to focus on the facts: He was safe. She can want this.

She squeezed her eyes shut when she felt his lips touch the inside of her thigh as he ran his hands down her legs to just behind her knees and tugged her forward an inch or two more. She felt him nudging her legs wider, gripping her with strong fingers. Gods, that was working. Every firm touch brought her down from the ceiling stain until she could lift her head and watch as his lips reached the top of her thigh.

He met her gaze and smiled lazily. As if this were the most natural place for him to be. Maybe it was. She knew she’d be dripping, and when his hand left her knee to spread over her stomach, she fought back the gasp, clutching at her throat—the urge to sit up or apparate to a different country felt inevitable until Draco spoke. 

“Hermione. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

“See me, then.”

She blinked and breathed in.

“Good.” Draco’s voice was steady. “Now, tell me you want this.”

“I don’t know how.” The words hit her ears before she’d consented to their escape.

Draco tilted his head to rest his cheek on her thigh, never lifting his hand from her belly.“Okay, well, I’m not going to move until you can.”

He shifted to sit between her feet, hands in his lap, eyes lowered. It was the reprieve she needed to hear her voice.

Addressing the water stain, Hermione tried to reach into the anxieties swirling behind her eyes. “I’ve never done this.” she said, gesturing between her naked legs and his flushed face, “ And, I think I’ll be quite bad, if I’m honest but I don’t know how to say that in a normal way.” her sentences tripping over themselves as they rushed passed her lips.

Draco’s voice was soft, and his gaze stayed trained on the rug between them. “That was a normal way,” he said, “You and Weasley never—”

“God, no. Things with Ron ended before any of my clothes were coming off.” She chanced a glance at him then, only to see the slightest twitch of his lips at her admission. “I think—I think I don’t know how to let you,” she finished. He tilted his head to look at her, and she could see the smirk breaking through his patience.

“Do you want to let me?” 

She nodded, blushing at the truth.

Draco’s fingers wrapped around her ankle and squeezed. “Then let me.”

He moved to right himself, and Hermione released the breath she’d kept locked in her chest since the moment Draco had dropped to the rug. Now, he was steady on his knees again and lowered his mouth to her bare leg, starting with a soft kiss to one knee. He moved patiently, squeezing his fingers into her thighs, her hips, and eventually sliding his palm back over the bare skin of her low belly. His mouth of firm, sucking her skin between his lips with each kiss until he reached her centre. Without any hesitation, he gently kissed her core and looked up to meet her stare. Hermione held every muscle completely still, cataloguing how she might ruin this if she lost focus. 

Before she a fool proof solution could solidify, Draco slid a finger up her swollen skin, brushing her clit slowly until he found a rythm that made Hermione’s abdomen clench beneath his spread palm. Her mouth opened on a sigh, and Draco leaned over her until she could feel his breath on her cheeks. His pupils were so dark she felt like she was falling into them, swimming in the last man she’d ever imagined being with like this.

He was circling her faster, and she arched into him on a breath, realising how hard her nipples were the moment they brushed against Draco’s bare chest. His lips were parted too now, and Hermione felt pleasure swell at the realisation that she was doing this to him just as much as he was undoing her. Draco’s touch dipped, and when he pressed a long finger inside her, she saw the grey spark in his eyes at the sound of her moan filling the room.

Hermione’s hips lifted as Draco’s finger curled, finding her in places she didn’t know existed between her legs. He pulled in and out until the sound of his slickened finger met Hermione’s ears. The sound made her tighten around his hand.

“Fuck Granger. Do that again.” Draco’s voice scratched as he sat back on his heels and watched himself add a second finger. 

She gasped at the feeling of being full of him, and her head fell back into velvet, all embarrassment burned off like fog in the sun. Draco’s curled fingers pulled another moan from her stretched throat as she arched away from her frantically placed pillows..

Hermione’s eyes shot wide when she suddenly felt the heat of Draco’s mouth on her. Looking down her stomach, she found him slipping his fingers out and watched in shocked awe as he sucked them into his mouth before dropping his head back to where she lay completely open to him. 

Draco’s earlier tentativeness was gone, replaced with a starving determination she’d only seen during the Quidditch matches of their early years at Hogwarts. A raw and unhindered hunger to win.

He moved in a way she hadn’t imagined possible, tongue warm and pressed so firmly into her that she vaguely wondered if he could get oxygen. She let her knees fall completely, hoping to give him breathing room, but instead, he filled the space, pushing a finger back in and out, this time in sync with the movements of his mouth on her.

She hadn’t realised she’d arched her back again until his other hand spread over her low belly, gently pressing her into the couch. Tangling her fingers in his, she squeezed just like he’d done to her, and his hum of satisfaction went straight through her core.

When he pulled his finger out, she whipped her head to look at him, gasping her dismay. His eyes were black as he held her gaze, sinking a second finger into her. 

“Gods, Draco,” her voice breathier than she’d ever heard it, “Do not stop.”

His grin was instantaneous and greedy.

“Fuck me, Granger,” he laughed.

“No,” Hemrione smiled, “ You’re fucking me Draco.”

His laugh was muffled by her as he swiped his tongue up her again. She let go of his hand in favor of lacing through his blonde hair, and soon she was holding him to her, moving against his tongue in time with his fingers.

Pavarti and Lavender used to throw themselves across the Hogwarts’ four posters, dramatically complaining about boys who “do too much” with their tongues. But Draco merely offered himself to Hermione, letting her pull his hair and move any way she needed. There was symbolism in that, but someone else would have to work it out, as all logic was finally eclipsed by desire.

All at once, everything inside Hermione’s centre tightened to the point of snapping, and her eyes darted to Draco’s for—assurance? Instruction? But she found him already watching her, a smile revealing teeth, tongue still stretched out for her. 

“Come on, Hermione.” His whispered encouragement hit her sensitive clit as he bent to her again. She hoped she drowned in him.

But instead, she grabbed at his arm, tugging him off his knees to crash against her lips. Clutching at his shoulders, she pulled until he fell beside her on the sofa, and she instantly straddled his now very visible erection. They’d sat this way just minutes before, but now Hermione knew what she wanted. Reaching between them, she slid her palm firmly over his length, preening at the deep, guttural groan he confidently breathed out between them.

Taking hold of that power she had over him, she slipped her hand beneath the band of his briefs, freeing his cock between them, pumping him as his head fell back onto the same pillows she’d writhed on under his touch. The urge to drag the head of his cock through her centre was all consuming, and without questioning it she slid him through her wetness. 

The second she did, they both gasped loudly, locking eyes in shared surprise.

“I-you feel–” she stammered.

“Do it again.” 

They both dropped their eyes, watching her hand grip him. Academically, she knew she was wet, but the sight of his cock glistening had her walls clenching around nothing.

It wasn’t enough. She needed more. 

She moved him to her entrance and looked him in the eyes as she breathed, “Tell me I can.”

“Hermione, I am begging ,” he rasped before cupping her face and sliding his tongue into her mouth. 

Lost in his kiss, she stilled, but when his cock twitched against her palm she pushed herself up on her knees, angling over him. Lowering just an inch, she felt the stretch of him as he pushed into her. She let go of his cock and placed both hands on his shoulders to give herself time to adjust. His thighs hitched beneath her, and she knew he was holding back for her comfort with every ounce of strength he had. 

Slowly, she rolled her hips to take him a little further, and he swore, hands squeezing her hips and head falling forward to rest against her chest.

“Draco.” 

“Yeah?” he gasped, head still hanging between her now aching breasts.

“Watch me.”

He snapped his gaze to her and she lowered herself fully onto him, slowly sucking in air to ease the stretch. 

“Fuck—” His grip on her bordering on painful. “So bloody perfect. Look at you.” 

She blinked, breathing through the new sensation, and opened her eyes to see raw wonder painted grey.

Draco’s kiss was searing as he swallowed her gasps. They moved together, rolling their hips as she felt him inside her and losing herself completely in the motion. This fullness and connection pushed her past any peak she’d reached on her own, her movement becoming frenzied. Draco slid his hand between them and pressed his thumb over her, circling again until she cried out his name.

Draco rocked into her again and again. Hermione heard nothing but his sharp intake and her deep exhale. When he clutched the hair at the base of her neck and cried out her name, she felt their splintered magic hang like shards of glass, frozen in the air around them. They moved together, rolling through wave after wave as shattered flecks fell into place. 

Hermione swam to the surface and found herself forehead-to-forehead with a very out-of-breath wizard.

“Can you believe,” Draco huffed, pushing her wild hair off her face, “you thought you would be quite bad at that?” 

Chapter Text

They stayed together on the couch for some time. Hermione brushed her nose back and forth over Draco’s forehead, their heartbeats slowing under burning skin until they fully melted into velvet cushions. Draco wrapped his arms around her back and rolled until they lay across the sofa side-by-side. Snagging his wand from the coffee table, he cast cleansing charms over them both and kissed her forehead before reaching for his wrinkled trousers.

Hermione stayed put, naked and content to watch as Draco wordlessly charmed the wrinkles from the wool and tugged his shirt over mussed hair. Soon he was fully dressed and looking down at still very undressed Hermione, languidly stretching like a cat. 

“Shall I make us some of your tea?” Draco asked with mock formality.

“Mmm, yes,” Hermione answered. “Kitchen, big cupboard, basket near the bottom”, she managed while pushing up to a sitting position.

“Kitchen, big cupboard, basket.” He said, walking out of the sitting room.

Left to herself, Hermione started her clothing scavenger hunt. She found her sweater across the room and, after some searching, her leggings stuck between the couch cushions. She had to yank twice to free them and was thankful no one was around to witness her Victorian childlike strength. Did everyone feel this wobbly after a romp? Surely she’d acclimate over time. This was not sustainable.

Fully dressed once more, her attention turned to mane maintenance. When Draco reappeared with steaming teacups, She’d managed a loose French braid and had summoned a pair of fuzzy socks when she heard Draco’s footsteps in the doorway

“Which tea did you choose?” she asked as she pulled on the last sock.

A teacup floated into view, hovering under her nose, mismatched saucer at her elbow. 

“Mandrake blend for you. And Gillyweed blend for me.” Draco answered, lowering into the armchair and casually crossing a posh ankle over a posh knee.

Lifting the steaming cup to her face, she breathed in the earthy scents of Mandrake root and the hint of honey she’d come to like in her herbal teas. Brewed to perfection. Thank the gods for potioneers.

Hermione’s gratitude was interrupted by the saucer, now bumping against her elbow with increased ferocity. Her exasperation sounded more like a frightened mouse than righteous annoyance as she flicked the tiny plate away. The sound of Draco’s chuckle reeled her in just as she noticed the wand in his fingertips, directly pointed at the saucer. Hermione scoffed. Draco’s laugh only deepened. Hiding her smile, she ducked under the coffee table in search of her own wand. Just in case.

“Unexpected choices,” she said, voice muffled into the thick rug. She stretched out her arm and summoned the vinewood from where it lay half hidden under the end table and sat back up dramatically, stuffing her wand into her braid to warn him off any further shenanigans.

“Your reasoning?” she asked.

Draco smirked and uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Mandrake for you on the off chance that whirling brain of yours decides to overanalyse what we just did, or possibly even search for reasons we shouldn’t do it again.

She nearly spat her tea into her cup.

“And Gillyweed for me”, he continued, “As I remain breathless from the aforementioned activities,” finishing on a delicate sip like the pureblood elitist he was.

Hermione squirmed on the couch. “Well, that's completely unnecessary as I will not be overanalysing a thing. I’m quite at peace if you must know.”

He said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and sipped quietly.

Two sips later, she felt the anxiety-reducing effects of the Mandrake and knew he’d been right. Letting her shoulders fall, she whispered, “Thank you” into her still steaming cup.

His laugh filled the room and all the darkest corners of her heart.

When their cups were empty, they decided on a walk through the Edinburgh Castle gardens. Their time together was so rarely purposeless that Hermione luxuriated in the ordinary, praying witness to how Draco shrugged on his coat and his easy dexterity when he bent to lace her boot at the door.

Covered in castle shadow, they made their way into the garden, talking freely with hands stuffed into coat pockets. 

“Did you know these walls were actually scaled by a group of Scottish men in 1314 to reclaim the castle from the British?

“Oh, Granger, if I’d known your history of wand movements course was boring you, I would have owled over the  most mouldy books from the Manor before it got so dire that you resorted to Muggle heist history.”

Hermione smacked his shoulder before correcting him. “I think you’re looking for the phrase Muggle siege. But either way, you’d be wrong. My classes are more than engaging, I just happen to have an appetite for knowledge that outpaces the frivolous mind of aristocrats such as yourself.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“And furthermore!” Hermione went on, “Were I to be studying and planning a heist of my own, I would not hunt for inspiration in the playbook of brutish men.”

“Oh yes, do tell, where should one hunt for such inspiration, Granger?” his air quotes emphasising the humour in his voice.

“Oh, now there’s a question,” Hermione said through a laugh. “Thankfully, I’m a one-hit wonder and need not concern myself with such planning. Harry can raid all on his own now that he’s got that shiny Auror badge.”

She caught the questioning tilt of Draco’s head as they passed under a street lamp, and realisation dawned on Hermione just as they fell back into shadow. The tales of her year on the run were old wizarding lore by now. War stories turned into legend in the months that followed the Battle of Hogwarts. She’d assumed Draco would catch her “heist” joke from wizarding gossip at a minimum, but perhaps The Prophet isn’t delivered to teenagers on house arrest. 

“Just before the battle of Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and I broke into Gringotts to find a Horcrux in your aunt’s vault,” Hermione said, enjoying the irony of sharing this moment with the Black heir himself. “Come to think of it… We essentially robbed you .”

He chuckled but kept his eyes on his shoes, hands in his pockets. His listening pose as she’d come to think of it.

“ Anyway, we found the Horcrux, but the goblins found us just as quickly. We were backed into a corner, and my polyjuice was completely washed off by some enchanted waterfall we hadn’t planned for, so there I was, duelling in that hideous dress, hair sopping wet, a total drowned rat situation actually…”

Draco’s voice cut through her patterned retelling. “Pardon me? Polyjuiced as who?” he asked seriously.

“Oh.” She looked down at her boots as well. “Your aunt actually… I had her wand and a piece of her hair from… well, you already know from what.”

Hermione was suddenly conscious of the fact that her overly cavalier tone, realising this wasn’t the tale she’d grown used to spinning. This was Draco Malfoy. The boy who’d been in the room the night that made the polyjuiced plan possible. This story was underscored by the darkest period of their lives. 

She chanced a glance at Draco and found him watching her intently. He nodded knowingly.

Taking a breath, she steadied her tone. “Right— Well, when I found her hair, we were so desperate to end the war that I just went for it. I didn’t give it much thought at the time because it seemed like our last chance. First-time vigilantes that we were and all that,” she added sheepishly, hoping humour could detangle the emotions hanging between them.

A half-hearted shoulder knock and the sound of his laugh reassured her. 

“Oh yes, of course.” Draco drawled, “The virgin thief must take every opportunity presented. Tis expected on one’s maiden voyage into larceny. ”

Hermione latched onto his offering and mimicked his accent. Thanks be to humour.

“Exactly, Darling, you get it. Which is why I simply had to leap on the back of the Ironbelly and ride out of Gringotts to freedom.” She said, making a dramatic swooping motion. A dragon in flight.

Draco had stopped walking, and she turned with the joke still playing on her face. His eyes were wide, and his mouth slightly parted, all banter dissipated.

“Granger. You and those two dolts escaped Gringotts on a dragon ?” His voice was bordering disbelief, “Truly?”

Hoping to keep them on steady ground, Hermione put both hands on her hips and looked back at him resolutely.

“Yes, we did and they aren’t dolts, you prat of a man. And incidentally, the dragon was blind, so it wasn’t much to scramble onto its back if I’m honest.”

“Oh, it wasn’t much, was it?” Draco cut in, slowly walking towards her, eyes intent. “Hermione Granger, a witch who loves flying if I’ve ever seen one, just hopped on a dragon to nip out of town. With Famous Forehead and Weaslbee as backup?” He was much closer now.

“Well, yes, the flying bit was rather disturbed…” her voice stuttering out as he stopped in front of her, head lowered towards her.

Draco’s voice came out low. “You robbed a wizarding bank. ” 

She nodded as he placed both hands on her shoulders. She eased under his touch and dropped her hands from her hips to let them hang at her sides.

“And rode a Ukrainian Ironbelly across England?” he whispered.

Hermione gave a smaller nod, unsure where he was taking this. Draco slid his hands up her shoulders to the sides of her neck and leaned in to kiss her. His lips were firm, and when he pulled back, his gaze was intense. Was this what an impressed Draco Malfoy looked like?

She gripped his forearms and held his gaze, enjoying the idea of shocking him. His forehead bent to hers. “How are you real?” he whispered,  “the things you’ve done. So fucking brave…” 

He pulled her face up into a chaste kiss, then stepped back seriously. “I will never tire of you,” he announced, “Not ever. Gods Hermione… an actual fucking dragon!”

Smiling widely, she stepped back into him, pushing onto her toes, and catching his bottom lip in hers. He opened the moment she slid her tongue against his lip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to pull herself closer. Draco slid one hand along her jaw and the other to the small of her back, and she lost herself to his taste. He nearly picked her up off the ground as they clutched at each other, kissing until they were both breathless. Like they hadn't been in this exact position an hour before.

They walked back to Hermione’s flat, talking of everything and nothing. He touched her quietly, clear in the ways that mattered. An arm offered at the crosswalk. A hand guiding her to the inside of the sidewalk. A finger tucking a curl behind her ear at a gusty red light.

She’d never felt like this. The way he listened, appreciating all the right moments of her seemingly impossible stories, drinking her in. She didn’t feel the need to make the truth of her experience less than it was. She didn’t repeat herself or work to hold his attention. He could handle whatever she shared, and afterwards, he reached for her. She wanted to tell him everything .

His active listening was only matched by his own storytelling. Watching him gesticulate and emphasise his memories of growing up at the Manor, she finally understood why so many Slytherins had followed him around during school. She felt alive when he spoke, as if his magic charged the air around him. Honestly, maybe it did. 

Later that night, long after seeing Draco through the flu, Hermione pulled her pink blanket to the armchair and watched as the rain slid down the window pane. 

Ever since she first stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express, outside forces had set her opposite Draco in a constant standoff. House rivalries. Blood status. The war.

But then, that same system had shoved them together when it suited. Their juxtaposition paraded for the cause of the hour.

But the man she’d known in letters, seen over steaming samosas, hadn’t been the familiar schoolyard bully from her childhood. She’d finally seen the Draco Malfoy he’d kept behind a curtain of cruelty and realised just how wide the divide between Draco and Malfoy truly was.

Of course, she understood why he’d been the way he was in school and the war. What choices were there when your parents were dragging you down with them? 

But her Draco. Silly, thoughtful, persistent Draco was nothing like the villain she’d crafted, lying awake, fuming in her Hogwarts four-poster. She wanted to be tied to him, to drink weird teas in too orange armchairs until they were so intertwined that he’d sunk into her bones. Held together without any force outside themselves.

The thought made the fluffy blanket too hot, suddenly itchy where it’d been warm. Shaking free, she went to the window and traced a Jera ruin in the mist clinging to the glass. 

Harvest past efforts. Reap what’s been sow n.

Cool air slipped under the old sill, and Hermione was thankful for the relief.

She’d always been on a team. She was a loyal companion, bound by duty and love for her friends, but the bond growing between her and Draco felt so different from the connectedness she’d known. She wanted to tell him what she had for lunch and then crawl inside his ribcage for a nap. A thought that would have made her gag if she’d had it about either Harry or Ron during their years of complete codependence. 

Yet, this bond didn’t resemble any romantic feelings she’d previously acknowledged either. Dating Ron made her feel small and immature, like she was trapped in an outdated version of herself, fighting to be seen. They’d fought like children and let the air sour between them afterwards. Their old habits had constricted until the idea of growing old with him made her want to claw at her skin. Scales grown too tight for the person she’d become.

But with Draco, she wasn’t bound to any version of herself.

She was eleven, sliding open train car doors, trading a toad for friendship.

She was fourteen, with a periwinkle dress waltzing around her ankles, hoping not to trip.

Seventeen, shamelessly confessing the scent of her Amortentia, desperate for approval.

Eighteen, slipping on the Manor’s gravel drive, praying to be invisible.

And today, she’d been twenty-two, gasping in her living room, undone by a Dark Marked potioneer. Draco knew her at every age, every iteration, and he’d written letter after letter because he’d understood who she’d become.

That meant something. She just wasn’t sure what.