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Chapter Text

12 May 1998

“Maybe if you just…just move—there, that’s fine.” Hermione gave a tight smile to her friend-turned-boyfriend as he tried in vain to get her to a satisfactory level of arousal. “Here, may I…?”

She watched as the fire started to dim in his eyes, hurt flashing across them as she attempted to take over, and the guilt set in—the gnawing ache in her gut that urged her to put his feelings before her own. Her first real sexual experience, and she was micromanaging it. Correcting him in a situation that required no logic, one where she should allow herself to relax and let emotion take over for once. And she could do that, couldn’t she? Let herself get lost in the sensations?

It was quite pleasant, after all. His tall frame against hers, making her feel small, almost delicate. Protected in strong, freckly arms. The heat radiating from him seeped into her skin, warming her chilled bones as they lay in his bed at the Burrow. Surprisingly soft ginger hair brushed her forehead as he leaned in to capture her lips with his.

His left hand kept leaving her sex to firmly stroke the skin of her waist under the covers, frustrating Hermione to no end. As he did this, he kept himself propped on his right elbow, not allowing his weight to fully settle over her. While considerate, she supposed, it made her feel like they were disconnected. But overall, the experience was...pleasant, and fairly comfortable—as comfortable as one could be, anyway, naked from the waist down, lying in bed with their childhood friend.

And he was trying. Bless him, he was really trying to make this special for her. Though they’ve been together for exactly ten days, Hermione couldn’t imagine sharing this part of herself with anyone else. There had really never been anyone else—no one attainable, that is. The same “no one” that couldn’t possibly return her secret affection, nor would she ever want him to.

She caught herself straying too far from the moment then—from Ron. Her best friend with whom she’d shared a desperate, passionate kiss during the battle that had decided the fate of their world.

It seemed impossible to have only been ten days.

“Sorry, I’m just a bit sensitive.”

She gave him a reassuring smile, reaching her hand up to cup his cheek while she pressed a kiss to his jaw, letting her lips graze down the skin of his throat. The problem wasn’t her sensitivity. No, it was far worse: she wasn’t the least bit turned on. And she should have been—there was nothing wrong with her physically. She was generally attracted to Ron and his gorgeous eyes the colour of a bright summer sky. And it wasn’t as if he was inexperienced, having spent much of his sixth year of school sneaking around the castle with his then girlfriend, Lavender Brown.

Perhaps that was why she couldn’t get comfortable—she knew he’d done this before with a girl he hadn’t been ashamed to show a public interest in. She knew from sharing a room with Lavender that Ron appreciated little moans of encouragement, assurance that he was doing a good job. It had felt like a betrayal at the time to hear about her best friend’s sex life from someone else, but now—when she didn’t have the faintest idea what she was doing—she was oddly glad to know that about him.

The breathy whimpers she feigned did seem to please him, as Hermione could feel the evidence of his arousal, thick and rigid against her inner thigh. It should’ve sent sparks through her belly or given her a pleasant tingle down her spine. The physical proof of someone she loved being attracted to her should have been enough, but to her dismay, it wasn’t.

Hours earlier when he’d brought up the idea of them taking their relationship a step further—they had just survived a war, so what were they waiting for?—she’d nervously agreed, assuming it was a topic that could be discussed in lengthy detail days in advance of the event. But, as it turned out, her timid “alright” had been enough for him, and he had wanted to take advantage of their alone time before Molly caught on to the fact that Harry had been spending his nights in Ginny’s room instead.

Their kisses over the last week had been nothing short of desperate, the tension of the last few years culminating in the fusing of lips with exploratory tongues and sensual touches as she straddled his lap and poured herself into him. It had been exciting, comforting in a way she never thought she would feel while coming out of their darkest days. To feel anything good was more than she could have hoped for, but having Ron whisper her name as she kissed his neck and raked her nails against his scalp…it felt too good. It felt like it could all be taken away in an instant.

Which is why she agreed to sleep with him.

It wasn’t that she wanted to, necessarily, but she couldn’t think of a good enough reason not to. She trusted him, she knew him better than almost anyone. There was no logical excuse for her to put it off any longer. She’d reasoned they were all still suffering from the war—if she could give this part of herself to comfort him, she’d be selfish not to.

“Are you—you’re not…?” Ron’s eyes widened in concern, and his fingers stilled their movements on her sex. How he could be so close, yet miss her clitoris every time, she had no idea, but she wouldn’t allow herself to get frustrated by that. It wouldn’t help to be honest with him—it would only injure his pride.

But she noted he seemed reluctant to touch her. His hands and mouth had yet to come into contact with her breasts—a let-down for Hermione, really, as she’d always believed them to be one of her better features. It was almost as if he was scared to touch her intimately, to put either of them in a vulnerable position.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

Perhaps, for Ron, having sex and being intimate were very different things. Maybe that was why he put such little effort into getting her off—his heart just simply wasn't in it. Either that, or maybe he wasn’t as attracted to her as she thought. He’d shown no such hesitations with Lavender Brown.

On more than one occasion, Hermione had stumbled upon them on Prefect patrols in empty corridors pawing at one another; his hands had gleefully captured Lavender’s breasts, his thumbs skating over her nipples through her bra, Ron trailing kisses down the exposed skin of her sternum where her shirt had been unbuttoned.

But here Hermione was with him, and his mouth went no lower than her collarbone. His fingers swiping through her folds were tired now, bored, and Hermione wondered if his anxiety was more from her being unresponsive to his tentative touching, or if he just wanted to get this over with.

After all, she had kissed him during the battle. There had been signs of them being together, moments where it felt like they were finally connecting and could try being together. Hand-holding in their sleep, whispered conversations with hopes for the future when Harry had been out of earshot. They were on the other side of it now, seconds from being connected on a whole new level, and Hermione didn’t know if either of them really wanted to do this. From the feel of Ron’s erection still between them, she knew he would carry on, if only to relieve himself. But it would be mortifying if Hermione pulled away—how would she be able to explain that she was having doubts without it being minimised to her insecurities?

So, instead, she clutched his bicep and shook her head in reassurance, letting her fingertips draw lazy circles over his skin. “It feels good.”

He seemed to believe her, Hermione feeling the tension leave his shoulders as he relaxed and let more of his weight settle against her. She wrapped a hand around his neck to pull him in for a kiss, if only so he’d shut his eyes. She couldn’t handle seeing him so determined when she already felt like calling it a night.

Could he really not tell she wasn’t wet? Could he not tell her squirming had been from trying to get him closer to the exact spot he kept missing?

She knew there was a lubrication charm, of course, but she didn’t know it. She’d never needed to. The rare times she’d taken matters into her own hands, her body had taken care of that detail for her. So, what was the problem now? Why was her body betraying her from sinking into a state of bliss with a boy whose attention she’d sought for years?

“Just keep kissing me.”

He gave in to that request easily enough, Hermione granting access for his tongue as she shifted her hips into a more comfortable position for her own hand to take over. In the few times in her life she’d done this—in her bedroom at home after reading something particularly racy, in the girls’ shower in Gryffindor Tower, and once on a shameful night during the war whilst wearing the locket (a moment of weakness she intended to carry to the grave)—his voice would enter her mind, urging her on. Only it wasn’t really his voice; rather, it was a slip-up she’d heard only once, happening upon him in the corridors with Pansy Parkinson at the tail end of the Yule Ball. A groan, deep and raspy that permeated her brain and clouded all sense when it came to Draco Malfoy. She’d been thankful then that his dress robes were shielding Pansy’s position on her knees, as she hadn’t really wanted to see anything.

But that groan—

Her breath hitched and she pulled her hand away, now slick with her arousal. The relief she felt then would also be something she took to the grave.

She awkwardly wiped her hand on the sheet beside her hip—mentally noting to Scourgify everything when they were done—then moved her free hand to his hair, pushing the strands back and twisting her fingers into the softness. “I’m ready.”

“You sure?” Ron followed her lips again, then anchored his hips between hers, Hermione’s knees on either side of his waist. She nodded, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. If he were more observant, perhaps he would have realised that, no, she was most certainly not ready. She gasped at the feel of his hard length pressing against her slit, the shocking sensation pulling her straight into the present.

Shit, this is really happening.

Ron reached across her to grab the wand he’d been using from the small bedside table, then cleared his throat and prepared to say the incantation. Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but the last thing he needed was a blow to his ego.

So, instead, she asked, “You used this with Lavender, right? The contraceptive charm?”

Ron waved the wand dismissively, smiling with gentle reassurance. “She was taking a potion. But I know it.”

She offered him a smile though she felt her heart stutter. “I can find a different wand—”

“Hermione, it’s fine.”

With a last wary glance at the stolen wand in his hand, she managed a stiff nod before closing her eyes and resting her head against his pillow. Ron’s voice was quiet as he muttered the incantation, as if he was worried his mum would hear all the way from the bottom floor. What she had done in preparing for their alone time was cast a wandless silencing charm on the room and lock the door, even going so far as to brace a chair against it the muggle way for extra security. Warmth seeped through her belly for several seconds, and though it was a nice sensation, it left her confused. She’d heard in passing from the sexually active girls in Gryffindor that the charm was meant to feel icy. Frigid. Like being impaled by an icicle. She’d thought the description ridiculous then, and even more so now when the soothing warmth further enhanced her readiness.

Her brown eyes flashed up to the ceiling at the exact moment he pressed in. She froze at the intrusion; nothing more than two of her slender fingers had ever made contact like this, and she didn’t know what to do. She knew what was happening, technically—but she was more focused on what wasn’t happening. Apart from the discomfort of unfamiliar stretching, of instinctively tilting her hips in such a strange way that she flushed with embarrassment, she felt… What did she feel? Just a warm body moving against her, the friction of his shaft inching into an unprepared body. If it had been anyone else, she would have demanded he pull out. But it was Ron, and she refused to ruin this for him.

His soft whispers of her name left heat against her ear and blew fine, wispy curls across her face, tickling her skin. She pushed her hair out of the way, spreading it across the pillow behind her, and let one hand wrap around his neck. Her fingers slid into his hair and played with the strands as he rocked his hips in painfully slow thrusts.

A sharp, almost pinching sensation made her whimper, earning a satisfied groan from Ron. She glanced up at him, watching the wrinkle between his brows become more prominent with the effort of his hips.

“Does this…feel alright to you?” she whispered in a feeble attempt to connect with him.

A weak nod was his response, as if he couldn’t trust himself to speak. It had the unfortunate side effect of making Hermione feel alone in that moment. She wasn’t sure if couples spoke during sex, but it felt like they should. It felt like he should be asking if it was good for her, since he’s already experienced this. She’s known for years that Ron’s inability to handle emotions was…dismal. She’d known going into the relationship that she would be the emotional backbone, and she’d accepted it.

Even so, in this moment, it felt entirely unfair. One-sided. She knew how old-fashioned the wizarding community was, but she had been raised in a modern, egalitarian household. She didn’t believe in having separate roles in the relationship—it should be a partnership. She should be able to rely on him as much as he relied on her, but maybe that’s where she went wrong. She knew him only as a friend, never as a lover. And maybe if she’d paid closer attention to Lavender gossiping to Parvati about their trysts, she would have learned long ago that Ron was a rather selfish lover.

But it wasn’t just Lavender—the tawdry romance novels (magical and muggle) she’d read during school holidays had lied to her. The experienced sixth and seventh year girls who were blushing and giddy as they got ready for their weekend dates had lied to her. The satisfied hums of Pansy Parkinson on her knees for Malfoy…she had lied to her, too. There was nothing remotely romantic or exciting about the situation Hermione found herself in now. Her knees were bent, opening for him in an almost clinical way beneath the covers, her back flat against his mattress. She felt she was nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure and his pleasure alone.

“Ron, can we—”

She’d been trying to ask him if they could attempt a new position—perhaps one that wouldn’t leave her with a backache in the morning—when his hips stilled mid-thrust, locking in place as his breath came out in a guttural moan against the pillow beside her left cheek. She felt what she could only assume to be his fluids releasing inside of her, and she knew then that it was over.

Hermione Granger was no longer a virgin, and it had been the single-most underwhelming experience of her life.

Hot, lightly swollen lips kissed hers for barely a second before he collapsed against her, his face on the pillow, their cheeks touching. Hermione released a resigned sigh and continued to stroke his hair, comforting him as he softened inside of her.

“Did you like it?” Ron’s voice was quiet, his breath still coming out in pants, and she forced a smile, tilting her head to kiss his cheek.

“I loved it.”

Minutes later he shifted, bracing himself with his palms on either side of her to pull out, and she winced at the violation once more. Once settled on his side of the narrow bed, sated and sleepy, Hermione shifted her legs to sit on the edge. She used the toes of her right foot to drag her knickers closer, Ron having tossed them off in excitement. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure his eyes were closed, she worked them up her legs and shimmied the fabric up over her hips under the blanket, then stood up.

Her purple bathrobe was folded neatly on the floor next to the beaded bag which, at present, held all of her possessions. She’d not yet agreed to move in, a slight she was sure Molly Weasley took personally. Her excuse had been she needed to be ready to go to Australia at a moment’s notice to undo the memory modifications she’d placed on her parents. It was a poor excuse, but one that had satisfied her surrogate family for the time being.

She slipped on the bathrobe and reached into her bag for a change of clothes, then went to remove the chair in front of the door.

Ron grumbled from the bed, looking at her with an expression nothing short of incredulous. “What are you doing?”

She patted the bundle of clean night clothes tucked against her arm. “Bathroom—I wanted to take a shower.”

He nodded after a moment, not meeting her eyes, and she exited the room before the defeated look on his face could manipulate her further.

The soreness between her legs as she walked down the stairs to the bathroom she usually shared with Ginny was unpleasant, but expected. She’d been hoping to be one of the lucky ones who felt no pain or discomfort their first time, and as she headed for the door, she wondered if those girls even existed. Surely there was no way one could feel good after such an event.

The bathroom door swung open, Ginny jumping at the sight of Hermione standing less than a foot away. “Couldn’t sleep either?” She asked when she recovered, blowing out a minty breath and standing aside to let Hermione enter the bathroom.

Hermione gave a half-smile, leaning her head against the doorframe. Insomnia was commonplace these days, especially in a household that had lost a child just ten—no, eleven days ago now.

“Can any of us?”

The redhead shrugged, her light brown eyes bloodshot, the deep lilac skin beneath them revealing days of sleeplessness. “I think I managed three hours straight the other night. Harry even less. The days just kind of blend together lately. Know what I mean?”

“Too well.” Hermione leaned in conspiratorially. “I may or may not have nicked a few Dreamless Sleep potions before we left Hogwarts. I can get you one…?”

“Hermione Granger stole potions from Madam Pomfrey?” Ginny laughed, the sound almost delirious with exhaustion. “I hardly even recognize you.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a second too long, jerking back when she felt her muscles relax against the wall. “Most days I hardly recognize myself, Gin.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around her shoulders, and Hermione hugged her around the waist, relieved all over again that she was safe, that they were both alive. Sniffling back weary tears, Hermione pulled away first and stepped farther into the bathroom. “I’m going to shower first, then I’ll bring it down to you?”

Ginny hesitated, clearly debating the strength of her morals before nodding. “Yeah, I think I need it. Maybe with how tired we all are, half a dose would work? I should save some for Harry.”

“You know he won’t take it.”

It had been an argument since they were left in the aftermath of the battle: Harry wouldn’t take resources that could go to helping others. He had enough blood on his hands, he’d reasoned. He wouldn’t feel right letting others suffer through their healing treatments just for a few hours of his own comfort.

“I know. I wish he would just…I don’t know. I wish he’d just let us in—let us convince him he matters.”

Hermione nodded, sharing the same desire with her friend. Harry, more than anyone, deserved a restful night’s sleep; he made it that much harder on his loved ones when he chose to suffer instead. Ginny looked down at her own feet, at her mismatched socks that ended above the ankle. “Hermione, you’re bleeding.”

The bathrobe had opened enough to show a flash of her inner thigh, and Hermione blushed and closed the robe, tightening the tie around her waist. “I haven’t been able to track my cycle. Guess it caught up with me.”

Ginny moaned sympathetically. “I don’t have anything—I haven’t had mine in months. Probably stress, don’t you think?”

It was possible, but it hadn’t been an issue for Hermione. Her cycle had always been as reliable as the moon, every twenty-eight days from the new moon since she was twelve. Being older than most girls in her class, her menstrual cycle beginning early in her first year had been unusual, and she’d been unprepared for it. It had led to a rather awkward discussion with Madam Pomfrey—she knew what muggle girls were supposed to do, having had “the talk” with her progressive mother early in life. But she’d been lost on what young witches did for their cycles; it hadn’t exactly been a topic of conversation when it was announced she was a witch.

Even during the war, when she’d spent month after month in a tent with two boys, she’d gotten it right on schedule. She’d been immensely grateful for cleansing charms during the weeks she’d had it—Harry and Ron had been none the wiser.

“Most likely. And it’s fine, I can run out tomorrow and get the muggle alternative.” It was a lie—she wouldn’t need it for another week or so. If her calculations were correct, as they always were, she wouldn’t begin bleeding until the night of the twenty-fourth or morning of the twenty-fifth of May. She gave her friend another hug, readjusting the clothes in her left arm. “I’ll bring down the potion after a bit.”

Ginny peeled herself away and announced she’d be in the kitchen, then Hermione shut the bathroom door and took off the robe. In the reflection of the small mirror, she noticed she’d left her bra on during intercourse. Ron hadn’t complained, but she could see why. The cups were padded and the cut gave her a decent amount of cleavage without being too obscene. With a sigh, Hermione turned on the tap. She stripped while the water heated up, then finally looked down at her bare legs. A small trickle of blood had dried on the inside of her right thigh, along with another substance that made her blush furiously.

The sex had been so terribly unremarkable that, if not for the tell-tale soreness, she would have explained it away as a vivid dream. But she couldn’t explain away the stains streaked down her inner thigh, or the redness on her ribcage, just below her right breast where he must’ve gripped too hard.

So now, as she stood under the dull rain of the shower, all she was left with was the all-consuming guilt that it had been unremarkable. If it had been bad for her, it had to have been bad for him, too, right? He must’ve sensed her disinterest. He must’ve realised she hadn’t been reacting to his touches the way a lover should. She’d been too in her head, ruining it for both of them.

One thing was sure now, though: she and Ron were simply incompatible romantically. She loved him, of course, but the fact that she had no desire to be intimate with him again…that said something, didn’t it? She’d done it. She’d given him the last piece of herself she had left. And now it was over.

Now she had nothing left to lose.

1 June 1998

It had taken nearly a month for Harry to give in and take half a dose of Dreamless Sleep. This was the first morning since the battle that he’d been up in time for breakfast, shuffling into the room and collapsing in a chair next to Ginny at the table. Hermione and Ron sat on the opposite side, an ice wall between them since Hermione had gently let him down just three days after they’d had sex.

In doing that, she’d moved back into Ginny’s room, displacing Harry to the spare bed in Ron’s room. Or the sofa. Or any chair he happened to find himself dozing off in.

Hermione’s supply of Dreamless Sleep had finally run out, even with her and Ginny taking half doses only a few times a week. They were able to sleep, but the nightmares tainted everything. There was no escaping the horror of it all when she saw it in wake and sleep, had evidence of the war scarred into the flesh of her forearm. Ginny’s hand came up to rest on Harry’s back and he flinched at the contact, giving an apologetic twitch of his lips a moment later—a broken imitation of the smile he’d once had.

It hadn’t mattered that their side won.

They were all fucked anyway. They all saw people they loved lying dead in the Great Hall. Three of the four sitting at the Weasleys’ dining table had seen Harry lying limp, presumed dead, for agonizing minutes while Voldemort had taunted them. That stunt, though necessary, was something Hermione was unsure she could ever forgive him for; the shockwave of hopelessness had nearly crushed her. She always prided herself on being the clever, brave Gryffindor, but in that moment, she’d wanted to run. She’d wanted to escape. If Harry was dead, there was no hope for any of them.

But they were alive. They got to wake up every day—or night—with the task of finding the light again. Finding the good in the world again.

Leaving Hogwarts, the trio had decided they’d take a week to recover, then get back into action. They would assist the Order in rebuilding the Ministry of Magic. They would find purpose now that their mission had been successfully completed. But a week had turned into two, two into four, and now they were barely-functioning teenagers hunched over a worn table in mismatched chairs, unable to eat more than a piece of toast at a time.

“You all can’t keep doing this,” Molly complained as she came down to the kitchen. “Eat. Go outside. Do something!”

Her frustration was aimed primarily at her children, but Harry and Hermione felt the sting of it no less. Hermione took a sip of tea in response to the command. Ginny attempted small bites of bacon. Harry’s distant stare made it feel like he wasn’t even there. Ron was the outlier, the one who’d already cleared his breakfast plate.

An owl flew to the kitchen window, pecking at the glass until Molly opened it and accepted the envelopes. A paper-owl had delivered today’s Daily Prophet an hour earlier, and the newspaper remained folded and untouched at the end of the table.

“You all have Hogwarts letters.” Molly grimaced at the envelopes.

“In June?” Ginny asked, holding out her hand. “McGonagall wouldn’t seriously be asking them to come and take their N.E.W.T.s now, would she?”

“I don’t know, dear. Go ahead and open it.”

Hermione and Ron accepted theirs. Harry barely registered the envelope being placed in front of him, along with a full plate and a large glass of pumpkin juice. Molly let her hand rest on the back of Harry’s head for only a moment before retreating to collect the paper.

“This is a joke—this has to be a joke!” Violent splotches of red coloured Ginny’s pretty face as she read her letter, and Hermione popped the seal off of hers. “They’re making us repeat a year!”

Hermione and Ron yanked out their letters, reading them with varying degrees of outrage.

Due to the events that have transpired within the last school year, the modified curriculum, under the interim Headmaster, Severus Snape, has been deemed insufficient. All students in years one through six are required to repeat their year. Incoming first years will join the existing first year students. All current seventh years are required to return to Hogwarts 1 September 1998 if they wish to complete their N.E.W.T.s at the end of the year. No exceptions will be granted. Seventh years who do not need to complete the N.E.W.T.s must present an alternative plan by owl to the Ministry of Magic no later than 1 August 1998 for conditional approval to opt out of the mandatory school year.

Ron crumpled up the envelope and tossed it aside, his leg shaking under the table. Molly placed her hand on his arm to try to calm him down, but he was furious. “I won’t go. I don’t need to take the exams.” Ron spat out, and Hermione took a deep breath as she tried to assess how to approach him.

“I’m not going, either.” Four heads swiveled to Harry. It was the most they’ve heard him speak in weeks. “I can’t. I can’t go back there and pretend it’s just a normal year. I won’t.”

“Harry…”

His fist slammed down on the table, making them all jump. “No, Hermione! I won’t go back.”

“Harry, you have no choice.” She tried explaining it gently, but her own frustrations seeped into her tone. “You can’t be an Auror without them.”

“Then they’ll have to make an exception!”

“They won’t. If their goal is to unify and rebuild, they won’t make an exception for Harry Potter to skip out. Nor would they reward you for it by granting you Auror training when you haven’t yet qualified!”

Harry’s chair flipped over as he shoved himself up from the table and fled the room. Ginny automatically rose to go after him, but Molly took her hand gently and gave it a pat. “Give him time. It’s too much for him to process right now.”

Ginny looked torn for several moments but ultimately heeded her mother’s advice, sinking back into her seat and rereading her letter with renewed ferocity. Hermione’s elbow rested on the table, her fingers rubbing her forehead as she read the letter once more.

“And you?” Ron asked, the edge of hostility in his tone cutting through her. “Take it you’re happy about this?”

“I’m not happy that it’s mandatory, Ron,” she began to explain. “But I had been planning on reaching out to McGonagall anyway. I needed to ask about taking my exams.”

He scoffed, pushing out his chair to get up in a much less dramatic fashion than Harry. “Of course you were.”

Hermione let him leave, going out the way Harry had. She expelled her breath and looked to Ginny, but the redhead was just as distraught by the news as her brother and boyfriend, letting Hermione know she was likely the only one happy with this arrangement.

Later that day, after Harry and Ron had calmed down enough to re-enter the house, Hermione found herself looking through her pocket-sized moon phase calendar. For the first time in six and a half years, her cycle had not started on time. She was exactly one week late, and Hermione openly begged, pleaded, and prayed to all the Gods, magical and muggle, that it was just stress finally catching up to her.

Chapter Text

2 June 1998

Last night Hermione had managed the longest stretch of sleep she’d had in months: four whole hours. Had it not been for the nightmare twisting her memories, she’d have almost felt rested. But there was something to be said about the cautious excitement she had felt in receiving the Hogwarts letter. It felt almost normal, though she was now eighteen and should’ve been preparing to take her N.E.W.T.s in the coming days. It was something to look forward to, the promise of a foundation.

But she was the only one who felt that way. Ginny, who should have been preparing to go into her seventh year, was appalled by the mandate.

In her view, the Ministry was punishing the students by giving them no reasonable out. She had no choice in redoing her sixth year, and Hermione, Ron, and Harry had no choice in actually attending their seventh if they wanted respectable careers. Ron had eventually accepted his fate, but not without a tantrum—one that they could all see as valid, but a tantrum nonetheless. Harry was more difficult to persuade, having slipped back into his shell of sullen silence for the rest of the day, shuffling back up to his bed and lying there fully-awake for hours.

For Hermione, this was a clean slate. A gift, not a punishment.

But she would remain alone in that sentiment.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ron’s accusatory tone caught her off guard. She’d been smiling internally as she thought about returning to school, but her face must have shown her anxieties over last night’s discovery.

“I’m fine.” She lied. She was far from fine, but she was setting out to resolve the issue. “I’m just on my way out.” She looped her sleep-matted hair into a tight knot after catching her reflection in a window pane. “Headed to London for a bit, but I’ll be back this evening.”

Hermione gave him a quick smile as she passed him. Ron followed her as she rounded the corner, heading for the fireplace.

“Going to the Ministry? Have you finally come to your senses?” The light in his eyes returned at his assumption. “Let’s all go—I’ll get Harry.”

“I’m not going to the Ministry, Ron. I have no intention of contesting the mandate—you know that.”

“Then where are you going?” He demanded, eyes narrowing with undisguised suspicion.

Her fingers twitched on the strap of her bag, debating how much to tell him of her plan for the day. “I need to go to St. Mungo’s, then I was hoping to get to Diagon Alley. I need to look into finding a replacement wand—my magic is too unpredictable with the ones we’ve been using.”

Ron stopped listening after “St. Mungo’s.” The annoyance faded into concern, and Hermione abandoned her trail of half-formed thoughts as he assessed her. “Are you hurt?”

Hermione shook her head and shifted her weight to her left foot. “I’m worried…I’m worried I may have fallen ill. My…cycle has been off. For the first time. I was hoping they’d have an answer, or maybe some form of treatment that will fix it.”

“Your cycle? What does that mean?”

Her eyes narrowed, and as she was about to go into a condescending lecture of not understanding women’s bodies, it occurred to her that he probably didn’t. He was brought up in a household as one of seven males, who then proceeded to live exclusively in a male dorm for six years. It was likely he didn’t fully know what the menstrual cycle was, Hermione doubting very much Molly or Ginny would have discussed it with him. Even in school or during their Horcrux search, Hermione had kept it to herself. The hushed conversation with Madam Pomfrey in first year where Hermione had inquired about feminine products had let her know the magical world was far less advanced than the muggle. Far more…traditional. Male-oriented.

And it wasn’t as if sexual education was part of Hogwarts’ curriculum. Their security had been Filch and the thousands of portraits throughout the castle, ready to snitch to a staff member at any sign of misconduct.

How had Malfoy and Pansy managed it?

Hermione shook her head to clear the stray, unwelcome thought and met Ron’s sharp gaze once more. “It’s not important, but I would feel better having an exam regardless.” She offered him one last, thin smile before turning towards the fireplace, taking a bit of Floo powder in her right hand.

“I’ll go with you!”

“No! No, that’s not necessary.” She rushed out. “But thank you.”

Ron stepped up beside her anyway. “Hermione, if you’re sick, I can’t—I know you need time to…what did you say? ‘Sort your feelings?’” He shook his head and took a step closer. “If something’s wrong with you and you get hurt because of it…I can’t live with that.”

Hermione sighed, unwilling to spare a glance at his pleading eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just a precaution. Please don’t follow me.”

He didn’t respond as she tossed in the powder and stepped into the fireplace, said her destination, and was promptly engulfed by the green flames. As she stepped out into the entrance of her destination, she was unsurprised to see Ron not ten seconds behind her. His long legs brought him up quick beside her as she headed to the reception desk, and she wished she could hex him then.

“Name?”

Hermione was startled by the bored, yet piercing tone of the Welcome Witch. She quickly shifted her focus from Ron’s irritating hovering to the blonde witch behind the desk. “Hermione Granger.”

The woman’s cold blue eyes flicked up to the pair of them, wide with disbelief. “Miss Granger, welcome.” Her voice had lost the edge in an instant, replaced with a soft, wonder-like quality. “How may we help you today?”

Hermione glanced around her surroundings, narrowing her eyes a fraction as she saw Ron take a step closer to her, leaning against her left side as if to shield her. “I need an exam for…” she lowered her voice—not because she was ashamed, but because of the rapt attention of other patients and the mediwizards passing through, noticing her and Ron’s well-known faces. She supposed it was a novelty to them all, neither the pair nor Harry making a public appearance since leaving Hogwarts a month ago.

“I need an exam for a female issue.” She whispered the last words. “My cycle is a bit late.”

The witch smiled politely, but Hermione could see the quick, knowing flick of her eyes towards Ron. She was easily connecting the dots, and it made Hermione fidget with her bag’s strap once more.

“Of course, Miss Granger.” Another forced smile. “I’ll send for a mediwitch.”

“Thank you.”

Mediwitch, not wizard. Hermione was grateful for the distinction, though she could tell by the slight frown on Ron’s face he didn’t understand why that would be necessary. She and Ron stepped away from the desk, choosing to remain standing and far from the curious ears of the other patients waiting their turn for treatment.

“What the bloody hell is your ‘cycle?’” His voice was a pitch too loud, and Hermione whirled on him, silencing his next comment with a deadly stare. He looked around them, noticing the glances, and lowered his voice. “I don’t get it.”

“Trust me, I am well aware of that, Ron. You invited yourself, but I will not be answering your questions until I know for sure that I am fine. Understood?”

He nodded once, a childish grimace on his face for being publicly scolded. He leaned back against a wall with his arms crossed while Hermione remained stiff in her stance.

“Miss Granger?” a young mediwitch approached them, her voice low and well-aware of the attention she was receiving. “Will you follow me, please?”

Hermione nodded, following the tall brunette down a corridor, going past the usual staircases, guiding them down. “Should I be offended we’re going underground?”

To her surprise, the witch chuckled. “It’s the best we can do, I’m afraid. Because of ongoing treatments from the war, we’ve had to undergo quite a bit of reconstruction. General exams are being conducted in a temporary location while the new floor is built.”

Once inside the temporary location, Hermione was surprised to find it no less light and welcoming than the rest of the hospital. A small relief, as the walk down had made her feel as though she were headed into a medieval dungeon. The mediwitch guided her to an exam table, her eyes silently asking Hermione if she was comfortable with Ron’s presence. She gave a subtle nod before sitting down on the edge. Although there was a chair in the corner, Ron chose to stand beside her.

“Alright, Miss Granger.” She said with a practiced, comforting smile. “Do you happen to know the date of your last cycle.”

“It began on the twenty-sixth of April and ended on the thirtieth.”

“And is it around the same time every month?”

“Yes, every new moon.”

Ron scoffed. “Is it like being a werewolf? Blimey, Hermione, how long has this been going on?”

Both Hermione and the mediwitch gave him an exasperated look. “It is not like being a werewolf, it’s a natural process. Now sit down and stay quiet.” She waited until he took her command seriously; he settled into the chair, though he did scoot it closer.

“You’re about a week late, then?”

“Yes.”

“And are you currently sexually active?”

“Why does that matter?” Ron snarled, as if the question was somehow directed at him.

Hermione whipped her head around to tell him off once more, but he promptly closed his mouth into a hard line.

She took a deep breath, shook her head, and took a moment to remember the question before answering. “Not currently, no. But I…did engage in sexual activity a few weeks ago. Just once.”

The mediwitch nodded, her kind face showing no hint of judgment. “Were you taking any potions or using a contraceptive charm?”

“Yes, the charm. I didn’t cast it, though, my…my partner did, but the incantation sounded correct.”

The mediwitch hesitated for just a moment, flicking a glance between her and Ron as the Welcome Witch had earlier. “Miss Granger, when the charm was cast, did you feel any sensation in your womb?”

Hermione nodded. “I felt a bit of warmth, yes.”

A dark brown eyebrow lifted as she eyed the couple, lingering a moment too long on Ron. “I’m afraid the charm may have had the opposite effect.”

“What do you mean?”

The now blank expression of the mediwitch filled her with dread before she even opened her mouth to respond. “It’s a tricky charm, Miss Granger. And one we’ve been encouraging Hogwarts to teach to their students before they reach sexual maturity, but that is still an ongoing battle.” The mediwitch stood from the stool beside the exam table and reached into the pocket of her robes for her wand. “It's one of the main reasons we encourage the potion, as there's almost no room for error. Lie back, please?”

Hermione complied warily, her eyes never leaving the mediwitch’s face.

“The incantation, unfortunately, is the same for both charms. It’s the wand movement that makes the distinction.”

“Both charms?”

She placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and hovered the tip of her wand above Hermione’s lower belly. “A contraceptive charm, that essentially creates a boundary around your egg. It should feel cold—many women feel it’s quite painful for several seconds. And a conception charm, that can feel rather warm. Its purpose is to relax and prepare the womb for…insemination.”

Cold horror washed through her, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, but no sound came out. Although she was now looking up, she could see a brilliant white light in her periphery. The tip of the mediwitch’s wand glowed, confirming her worst fear.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Granger.” She murmured, low enough for only Hermione to hear. The hand on Hermione’s shoulder gently guided her to a sitting position. The mediwitch resumed her seat on the stool, professionalism slipping back into place. “You do have options. Very safe options if you choose not to carry to term, given how early the development is.”

Hermione managed a nod, incapable of speech in that moment.

“I can send a request to the Apothecary in Diagon Alley, if you would prefer to take the potion at home. Or, if you’d like, you may take it here. We would need to admit you for the night while it passes—”

Ron was up in an instant, the chair legs scraping across the unfinished floor. “Hermione, whatever you’re thinking—”

“I’ll take it here. Now.” She sniffled. In pushing back the dampened hairs that had fallen loose into her face, she realised she was crying. “Please.”

“You’re joking.” His tone was low, almost commanding, and it only added to the simmering rage deep in her gut. “Hermione, you can’t—”

“If you are unwilling to be fully supportive, I need you to leave.” She hissed. “I begged you not to come along but you did, and I can hate you for it later. This is the decision I would’ve made regardless of your presence!”

“No! You don’t just get to make this decision alone, Hermione!” He made the mistake of wrapping his hand around her wrist like a vice and yanking her forward.

The mediwitch turned her wand on him then, steely resolve on her tired, yet unwavering face. Hermione wondered faintly if she’d had to stun people in this situation before—perhaps Hermione wasn’t the first witch to need protection from their partner. That thought made her practically writhe with discomfort—she’d never had a reason to fear Ron, would never believe him to be abusive in any fashion, but she’d be lying if she said his grip on her didn’t hurt. Didn’t scare her.

“While she is here for treatment, she is under our protection. Release her now, Mr. Weasley, before you do something you’ll regret.”

He released her at once, glaring at the tip of the wand that had yet to lower. “What, you think I’d hurt her?”

“Ron, please.” Hermione begged, her eyes wide. “Please go home. I will speak with you later.”

“No, Hermione, you owe it to me to talk this through before you make a decision!”

Hermione hopped down from the exam table, throwing her hand out to the side to point at the exit. “I’ve made my decision. Now go.”

Blue eyes stared at her as if they didn’t know her, bitter, unshed tears glossing over the irises. Though she was steadfast in her decision, the sight of him like this broke her heart.

Hermione knew it was the wrong decision, putting Ron’s feelings first. She knew that’s how she’d gotten into this mess in the first place. But she couldn’t do it this way—she couldn’t leave him in such a devastated state. He would never speak to her again, he would always hate her. And she was not at a point in her life where she could accept that outcome.

So, instead, she inhaled a shaky breath and turned to the mediwitch. “The Apothecary? I can get the potion from the Apothecary?”

She nodded, her face impassive, but her golden-green eyes were gentle with pity. “They’ll send you an owl once it’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

She led Hermione and Ron back upstairs to the fireplaces, then retreated to tend to another patient.

“I may not do it today, but I won’t be changing my mind.”

Ron didn’t bother responding; he simply took the Floo powder and vanished before her in angry green flames.

“Ron, you need to be reasonable—how on earth do you expect us to manage this?”

The moment she’d stepped through the fireplace on the bottom floor of the Burrow, Ron had been there waiting with startling determination. He wasn’t going to give this up without a fight. “I’m being unreasonable? The fuck is wrong with you, Hermione?”

“I understand this is an emotional issue for you—”

“But not for you?” He spat, looming so close to her she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “This means nothing to you?”

Summoning the last remaining shreds of her patience, she eyed him calmly. “I don’t believe this is anything to get attached to. It’s hardly any different than regular contraceptives—” she cut herself off, realising she wasn’t going to get anywhere by being logical. “I’m simply correcting your mistake, Ron.”

“My mistake?” There was no precise way to describe his level of outrage, but Hermione thought the roar that emitted from his chest showed he was a Gryffindor through and through. A brave, fiercely protective lion, and she… She didn’t feel she embodied those traits so much anymore.

No—in this precise moment, with Ron’s reaction to Hermione’s indifference, she felt more aligned with the traits of their rivals. Cunning. Self-preserving. Resourceful—though, in fairness, that wasn’t exactly a new trait of hers.

“Fine. Our mistake.” She amended, though she still felt the blame lay solely with him. “But I refuse to let a two-minute dalliance determine the rest of my life.”

Perhaps that had been a step too far. Whether this new wave of fury resulted from her brushing them off as nothing more than a casual fling or by reducing his stamina to a rather insulting window of time, she wasn’t sure. But, Merlin, was Ron Weasley a sight to behold when passionate anger got the better of him.

His raving quickly summoned the Weasleys and Harry to the already cluttered room, making Hermione feel claustrophobic amongst a sea of concerned redheads.

Molly took in her son’s distress with cold calculation, turning to Hermione seconds later. She had made him upset—that’s all Molly saw, and that’s all she would care about in the end. In this moment, Hermione was the enemy.

She took a step closer to Harry.

“What’s happened?” Arthur demanded, though his tone was far more neutral, no-nonsense.

Ron broke away from his mother’s touch, flinging his arms out as he backed into the center of the room. “Go on, then, Hermione! Tell them your plan, since you’re so bloody proud of it!”

She stared at him, eyes wide with betrayal. As distraught as he was, she hadn’t ever thought he would sell her out like this. She forced herself to keep her voice calm, though it wavered a bit with emotion. “I have a medical situation, and I am taking care of it. That’s all any of you need to—”

“She’s pregnant!” Ron bellowed, and Hermione felt her stomach drop. “She’s pregnant, and she’s trying to get rid of it!”

The silence was excruciating.

No one moved. No one said a single word for several seconds as the weight of his announcement settled. Arthur and George carefully backed out of the room, leaving Hermione with Ron, Molly, Ginny, and Harry. She wasn’t sure who would be on her side, but she knew she wouldn’t be winning Molly over.

“Ginny, Harry, I need a moment alone with Hermione.”

A tremble rolled through Hermione as Harry stepped up beside her. “Molly, I think they both need time—”

“Harry, dear, I appreciate that you are looking out for your friend, but this does not concern you.” Molly said firmly, but with the hint of warmth she always reserved for her favourite non-biological child.

“All due respect, Molly, I don’t think this concerns you, either.” Harry countered, and Hermione gaped at him, staying firmly rooted to her spot on the threadbare rug. She hadn’t been sure which side Harry would take, but it seemed as though his love for Hermione outweighed any moral quandaries he may have had with the situation.

“If what Ron said is true, I’m sure Hermione has already made the best decision. She doesn’t need anyone talking her out of it.”

“Harry—” Molly tried again, irritation flashing in her hazel eyes.

“Mum, leave it.” Ginny pleaded, coming around to Hermione’s other side. “Haven’t we all been through enough?”

“Yes, Hermione, haven’t we all been through enough?” She snapped. “Take a few days and talk it through.”

“Mum!” Ginny positioned herself in front of Hermione now, her anger far more refined than her brother’s: carefully controlled and skillfully directed. “I know you think you’re protecting Ron, but all you’re doing is hurting Hermione.”

Ron stormed over to his sister then, but unlike Hermione, Ginny was never intimidated by the height difference. “Taking her side, Ginny? What kind of sister are you?”

“Don’t be such a prat! There are no sides.” Ginny reached back for Hermione’s hand, holding it firmly in her grasp. A show of support or a threat not to leave, Hermione didn’t know, but she clung to the familiarity anyway. “Hermione and I are going upstairs while you come to your senses, alright?”

It was not alright, as it turned out. Less than half an hour later Hermione and Ginny heard a crack as Ron disapparated, Harry yelling after him. Hermione looked out the window to see the familiar head of unruly black hair speed back towards the house.

“Hermione… How did this happen?” Ginny snorted, though the situation was far from funny. “I mean, I know how it happened. But it’s you.”

Hermione looked away from the spot of dirt on the window that had held her attention a moment too long. Ginny was sitting cross-legged on the bed across from her, too-casually twisting her hair into a plait. Hermione sighed dramatically and rubbed the stiffness out of her neck. “I don’t know. I think I was just…relieved. We’d survived a war. I was lonely and thought it would make us…closer, I suppose.”

“No, I understand why. I meant how? Surely you haven’t been out of school so long you can’t remember how to cast a simple charm.”

“I didn’t cast it. Ron was sure he could do it, and I didn’t want to correct him.” Hermione shrugged. “It’s an absolutely pitiful excuse, I know.”

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and Ginny’s door blew open moments later. Harry looked disheveled—which wasn’t unusual—but there was a new expression on his face Hermione couldn’t understand. “He just took off, the coward!” Harry slammed the door behind him, then crossed the bedroom to sit next to Ginny. “Said he couldn’t stand to see everyone betray him.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and let her hair slip from her fingers without bothering to secure the ends. “Let’s just hope he’s off to a pub somewhere to get pissed. Don’t worry about him.” Ginny hopped across to the other bed, wrapping a slender arm around the brunette’s shoulders. “Let’s worry about you, yes?”

“I’m not asking either of you for anything—”

“You’re not asking. I’m insisting.” Ginny’s gentleness was countered with a tight squeeze of her arm. “Right, Harry?”

Harry’s features were still clouded with the dazed look he’d recently adopted, but he managed a nod. He cleared his throat and leaned forward to pat her knee through her jeans. “Whatever you need, Hermione.”

An owl flew to Ginny’s bedroom window then, and Harry hopped up to retrieve the envelope. It was a rather plain-looking tawny owl, nothing impressive to look at, but Hermione and Ginny could see the almost mournful way Harry studied it before it prepared to take flight once more. Although it bore no resemblance to Harry’s late owl, Hedwig, they knew the presence of any owl was enough to depress him.

It was yet another reason Harry didn’t want to return to school—without Hedwig, it would be a cruel reminder that everything had changed for them and nothing would ever go back to how it was. Ron had suggested weeks before that Harry look into purchasing another owl, as it might help him move on. It was a practical suggestion—Harry would want his own owl again eventually, but he wouldn’t allow himself to replace her. He knew he couldn’t, and Hedwig’s death was still too fresh in his mind, many months later.

“It’s for you, Hermione.”

The owl flapped its powerful wings and dove away from the window, sweeping a cool, welcomed breeze into the stuffy room. Harry handed the envelope to Hermione, the wax seal on the back letting her know it was from the Apothecary.

She popped up the seal, tearing the envelope a bit, and slid the parchment out. She’d assumed they would be fairly quick, but she hadn’t been expecting the potion to be ready the same day. As Hermione was about to announce she’d be leaving for Diagon Alley, her eyes lingered on the disclaimer at the bottom, letting her know costs have gone up significantly following the war. Some suppliers had fled Britain. Others had been killed or injured. But most have become greedy, driving up the demand for potion ingredients. The potion she’d requested, that Hermione had calculated should be no more than two Galleons based on the ingredients and their quantities, was now expected to be just shy of a staggering seven Galleons. Six Galleons, fourteen Sickles, to be exact.

“Shit.”

Ginny took the parchment from Hermione before she could let it slip to the floor. “What is it?”

“I can’t afford it.” She said numbly. “I can’t afford the potion. It’s almost the cost of a bloody wand!”

Hermione grabbed her bag from the foot of her bed and pulled out her coin purse, dumping its contents onto the bed. She had exactly one Galleon, thirteen Sickles, and eight Knuts. It was hardly enough.

She shoved the coins back into the pouch and chanced a glance up to Harry. They’d both used nearly everything they’d had on them during the war, Harry unable to go into Gringotts as "Undesirable No. 1" and Hermione well without her parents’ financial support. “Harry, is there any way you can loan me the rest?”

He was already nodding when he reached for the parchment from Ginny, then froze, green eyes locking on the estimated price like Hermione’s had. His face blanched to a sickly-looking white. “I…I have maybe three Galleons left.”

Hermione swallowed, feeling the guilt clawing into her throat before she even suggested it. “If I go with you, do you think you could—”

“No.” His tone was low and apologetic, and he took off his glasses to run a weary hand over his eyes.

“Harry, I will pay you back.”

Harry looked up at her pleadingly, and without his glasses he looked so young, so heartbreakingly innocent. “It’s not that, you know it’s not that. If I had every Galleon to my name on me, I’d give them all to you. I can’t go back, Hermione, not yet. It’s too hard for me to even think about leaving the Burrow most days.”

She swallowed hard, snatching the parchment from him to fold back up. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. If there were another way to get access to my vault—”

Hermione shook her head and slid the folded parchment back into the envelope, then used her thumbs to brush away the tears she’d accidentally let slip. “It’s fine—it’s fine, Harry. I will come up with another solution. I’ll do some research and make the potion myself.”

“I will do anything else you need me to.”

Hermione forced a smile and a nod, Ginny’s arm returning to give her another squeeze. “I know. Thanks.”

Chapter Text

4 June 1998

Hermione sat on the floor of Ginny’s room, the Weasleys’ small collection of potion and herbology books surrounding her. She assumed they’d been left behind by the eldest sons, as they were in remarkably good shape; in fact, some looked as if they’ve barely been cracked open. It was entirely possible they’d only been used for one school year before a new edition was released for the other siblings’ years.

As well maintained as they were, Hermione could see that several of the potions in these books have since been tweaked for taste and efficacy, and the research on many controversial herbs has improved tenfold since the textbooks were originally published. In the early 1970s.

But it was a start.

Hermione had not slept more than an hour at a time or eaten anything in two days, channeling all her energy into research. Harry had managed to get her to sip on tea and pumpkin juice, but anything else required too much effort.

“Death cap?” Ginny asked, hanging over the edge of her bed as she read Hermione’s notes. “That sounds…deadly.” Her long red hair spilled down like a fiery waterfall, catching the golden hour light from the window. “Have you experimented with that before?”

Hermione shook her head, a curl escaping the knot atop her head and falling across her forehead. She reached up to readjust it back under the clip, then clicked her pen closed. Muggle pens had been far more efficient on the run than a quill and ink pot.

“I wouldn’t need much.” She replied, scratching out a possible ingredient.

Ginny slid down to the floor beside her, picking up one of the books Hermione had already skimmed through. “Does the Apothecary add it to their potion?”

“It wasn’t listed, so I doubt it. But I can’t afford the individual ingredients, either, so I’m trying to find suitable substitutes.” She half-smiled at her friend. “Unless you have a pet unicorn I can pluck a few tail hairs from?”

“Out of luck, I’m afraid.” Ginny’s eyes raked over Hermione’s potential formulas once more. “Such a pity, too. You know that’s all I wanted for my sixth birthday? But Charlie convinced me it was inhumane.”

Hermione shared a grin with her friend before groaning and tossing the pen down in defeat. She leaned into Ginny and rested her head against her shoulder. “I need to get this done, Gin.” She sighed. “The longer I wait, the more hope Ron and your mum have that I’ll change my mind, and I… I can’t risk becoming attached.”

“I know. It’s alright.” Ginny rested her head against Hermione’s. “Besides, I’m too young and far too attractive to be an aunt.”

Hermione snorted and pulled away, then picked her pen back up and flipped to an empty page in her notebook.

“Hermione?”

“Yeah?”

Ginny scooted across the floor to face her, looking worried enough to make Hermione pause her writing. “Is it because you don’t want to be a mum, or—”

“No, no. It’s not that.” Hermione resumed her scribbling. Her handwriting had certainly not improved since leaving Hogwarts. “I want children eventually, that was always my plan…but I’d like to be well into my twenties first, if not older. I want to have my career in place, have a home. Find out who I am outside of school, and a war, and being Harry Potter’s friend.” She swallowed, bracing herself for the possibility of Ginny being offended by her choice of words. “And I’ve decided Ron isn’t the person I want to have children with.” Hermione placed a hand around Ginny’s wrist. “A difficult decision, really, knowing they’d miss out on having you as their aunt.”

Ginny smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I can be the honorary aunt, at the very least.”

“Absolutely. Godmother, even, if you want. But we’re years away from that discussion.”

She looked down at Hermione’s new notes, frowning that death cap was listed again. “I’m worried for you, Hermione. It’s nothing to do with Ron or Mum—I’m worried you might regret it, maybe?”

“I won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

Hermione tapped the cap of the pen on a stack of books and met her friend’s eyes. “Ginny, I feel nothing for it.” She said simply. “It’s a fertilized egg that I need to remove before it becomes something I grow fond of. I have Hogwarts in three months. I have to get to Australia and carefully restore my parents’ memories. I have to…there’s so much I have to do and so much I still want to do. I’ve been responsible for Harry and Ron for nearly seven years—haven’t I earned the time to rest?”

Ginny nodded, her features relaxing. She picked a book up from the unread pile and flipped it open, then sighed brightly. “Shall we get back to work, then?”

Harry had been the one sent to collect the girls for dinner that night, looking less than pleased with the task. Judging by the late hour, Hermione knew Harry had stalled as long as he could. The rest of the family had likely already eaten, thus sparing Hermione from an evening of awkward glances and tense silence. In the last two days, no one but Harry and Ginny have even spoken to or acknowledged her directly. She knew that the encouragement for her to eat was solely from Molly, though, if only for the benefit of the three-week embryo taking root in Hermione’s uterus.

Harry knew well what she was up to, and it was his job to keep Ron and Molly away from her research. Although he was successful in keeping them away, leaving Hermione in relative peace for most of the daylight hours, she hadn’t been immune from scathing comments. With the house being shoddy as it was, she tended to hear almost everything. At any mention of her name, or the baby, Hermione would pause her reading or still the pen in her hand to listen in. In the early afternoon the day before, it had been a miracle she’d kept her cool when Molly had had the audacity to suggest names.

Family names, from the Prewett side, preferably. She selfishly hoped for a girl, and wondered if Hermione would be flexible with naming her.

“Rose is such a lovely name,” Molly had said to no one in particular.

If Hermione had had any intention of following through with her pregnancy, she would have flown out of the room and corrected Molly then and there. She would have let the woman know that if she was ever blessed with a daughter one day, she would have her middle name, her mother’s name, whether Molly Weasley liked it or not.

But she had no intention of seeing it through.

So, she had stayed quiet, letting Molly prattle on about her grandchild, hoping out loud that the red hair gene would be dominant. Brown hair is fine, but imagine Hermione’s curls in auburn! Eye colour, apparently, didn’t matter, although Molly was partial to Ron’s blue, as there were enough brown-eyed Weasleys as it was.

Had it not been for Ginny’s carefully-timed interruption to go outside and get some air, Hermione was sure she would have flung herself out a third-story window. Or perhaps she would finally take Harry up on a proper flying lesson—it would be all too easy for Hermione to “slip” and fall off the broomstick.

All means of escape with a useless, unresponsive wand spelled disaster for her, though, and she wasn’t willing to risk hurting herself over it. This wasn’t a death sentence, or even a life sentence—it was simply a hurdle she had to overcome. With or without support.

But she had support from at least two people, and it had been Ginny that night who finally convinced her to go down to dinner with them, despite Hermione’s grumbled protests that she wasn’t hungry. She’d been in the middle of debating whether adding honey or crushed pomegranate arils would improve the taste of the poisonous mushroom when Harry had interrupted. It was getting to the point where Hermione’s personal health would be compromised if she didn’t start eating regularly. She had grudgingly agreed, if only to spare her friend the anxiety of worrying about her on top of everything else.

Now the three of them—and Ron—were at the dining table, Hermione picking at a boiled carrot on her plate. She’d managed a slice of buttered bread and a roasted potato, but the thought of anything with more substance made her stomach roil, and it wasn’t from the pregnancy. She was still too early for her body to even notice she was pregnant. And she wouldn’t, had she not been so keenly aware of her cycle.

It was from months of malnourishment. Months of eating the bare minimum to keep going. During the war, she would happily eat anything edible she managed to scrape up, but now that it was over, now that survival wasn’t an ever-present cloud hanging over her head, her appetite was nonexistent.

Dead.

As dead as her romantic interest in Ron Weasley.

She’d tried explaining to Molly when she and Harry had come to stay at the Burrow—temporarily, she’d reasoned with herself—that full meals would be difficult for them to eat for a while. It had been for them, but Ron had fallen back into his old eating habits at the first smell of sausages the morning after their return.

Tonight, Harry was doing far better than her, managing all the roast beef on his plate and a spoonful of peas before apologetically pushing his plate away. Hermione cut a small piece off the single slice of meat on her plate and delicately bit into it. She chewed determinedly, not allowing herself to breathe so as to minimise the taste, and finally swallowed. It was manageable, but not her favourite, a bit tough and mildly unpleasant to chew. She reached for a second slice of bread and vowed to stick to the vegetables going forward—if she was to be here much longer, anyway.

“Are you going to reclaim your place as captain, Harry, or let someone else have a chance to lead?” Ginny teased him, and Hermione wasn’t surprised that Ginny’s attempt at a normal conversation revolved around Quidditch.

Harry’s lips twitched as if he wanted to smile but wouldn’t allow himself to. “Who took my place?”

“No one, that’s why I asked.” Ginny replied. “Quidditch was banned this year.”

“No Quidditch?” Ron asked, sounding oddly energetic.

Ginny shrugged and bit into a potato, covering her mouth to speak. “You didn’t think they’d risk another House beating Slytherin, did you?”

“S’pose not.” Ron agreed. “Bloody shame for them, though. Without Malfoy, maybe they could’ve won a game or two.” He looked a bit too delighted by that idea, then frowned a moment later, pale copper eyebrows drawing together. “You don’t think—you don’t think they’d let him come back, do you?”

Harry shrugged a shoulder. “Most likely.”

“But he’s a Death Eater—”

“He was cleared of his charges.” Harry reminded him. “But maybe they’ll make him study at home and only let him come to take his N.E.W.T.s. Honestly, I don’t really care about Malfoy. That…none of that matters anymore.”

It had been around the middle of May, just days after the incident, when the Daily Prophet had announced Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson had been conditionally cleared of their charges. The photograph on the front page showed the three leaving the court, Pansy in the middle, holding the boys’ hands, whether for her comfort or theirs, Hermione hadn’t been sure. While the boys had looked thoroughly ravaged with uncombed hair, wrinkles in their robes, and guarded expressions, Pansy’s face had been a careful mask of coolness.

It was as if it were an everyday occurrence to speak ill of one’s own father, divulging every secret crime even the Wizengamot had been unaware of. Her dark hair had been recut into a crisp, smooth bob, her clothes had conveyed innocence. When dressed in a magically-tailored blazer, a frilly white top with a high neckline and black bow at the collar, a knee-length skirt, and kitten heels with stockings, Pansy was every bit the image she wanted to portray to those who didn’t know her. She was just a girl. Just a young girl whose only crime had been seeking her father’s approval.

If Pansy was at risk of going down, she would take everyone down with her. Hermione, as much as she’d always hated Pansy Parkinson, had respected her for that decision. She respected all of them, really, for not allowing the sins of their parents to determine the rest of their lives.

The article and photo on the front page that shed a favourable light on the Death Eaters’ children had sparked outrage throughout the house. Ginny had been particularly irate as Pansy had been more than willing to sell Harry’s presence out to Voldemort himself during the battle. The three teens—children, as the article had labelled them for sympathy—had allegedly proven themselves to be of no danger to anyone, and had all agreed to the terms of their respective probations, starting with detailed testimonies against their parents before the Wizengamot just a week after the battle.

Ron had laughed at that. How “Slytherin” it was of them to sell out their families to save themselves, but Hermione had felt both pride and pity for them all in doing the right thing, even if it could cost them everything. Her friends had not seen it that way. Malfoy’s lenient sentence, especially, had been a sore subject, Ron personally blaming him for Hermione being tortured.

There was no talking him out of that narrative, no getting through to him that he’d had no choice, even if he had wanted to help. That’s what Hermione hoped, anyway, that there was some decency lingering beneath the surface of the whiny, overly-indulged heir to the Malfoy fortune. She hoped that one day he may even show remorse. But she knew that may be too much to ask, that although everyone is capable of change, one has to be willing to make the change first.

Still, seeing that he agreed to testify against Lucius, had consented to the use of Veritaserum during questioning… It gave Hermione hope.

“None of it matters?” Ron repeated, shifting to face Harry. “We’re talking about Malfoy—”

“The same Malfoy who couldn’t bring himself to kill Dumbledore. Or identify us when his and his parents’ lives were on the line.” Hermione spoke up, and it didn’t escape Ron’s notice that the first words she’d said all night were about him.

“The same Malfoy Harry saved in the Room of Requirement.” She looked up at Ron, meeting his blue eyes properly for the first time since the hospital. “For all he’s done wrong, he helped us more than we could’ve ever expected. Or hoped. As Harry said, none of it matters anymore.”

Hermione pushed back her chair and stood, taking her plate to the sink before heading upstairs without another word. By the time she arrived at Ginny’s bedroom door, Ron was taking the stairs two at a time to catch up to her.

“Ron, if you’re going to rant about Mal—”

“I need to talk about us.” He cut her off, and Hermione turned around to see him resting on the balls of his feet on the top step.

Hermione leaned back against the door to look up at him. “I don’t think we have anything to discuss, Ron.”

Ron took the last step up and scratched the back of his head, mumbling his next words. “We need to talk about…it.” He said, his eyes cast down at the floor. “I know we’re not—together. I’m not expecting this to fix it between us.” He wouldn’t look at her, making Hermione stiffen with irritation and cross her arms over her chest. “Mum and I have been talking—she says you can stay in Ginny’s room while the rest of us are at school.”

“Did she?” Hermione asked. “What else did you two discuss? Are we to get married now? Am I to birth your red-haired spawn and have no say in the name?” Ron looked guilty, shame colouring his cheeks as he gripped the back of his neck. “You want me to live here, with your mother—who I’m sure loathes me now—and have a baby at nineteen? While you finish your education?”

His face was scarlet now, so bright it muted the freckles dotting his skin. “That’s the best option, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded, reaching back behind her for the door handle. “Well, thank you, Ron. Thanks for planning my future out for me—I’m so lucky to not have to think for myself anymore.”

She turned and stepped into the room, promptly slamming the door shut behind her.

5 June 1998

Hermione planned to leave the Burrow at half past ten that morning, thinking that half the house would be asleep and the other half would have mindless activities to keep them occupied until lunchtime, as was the normal routine lately. But on her way to the fireplace downstairs, she had spotted Molly in her usual knitting chair, sipping tea while her needles magically did all the work. Or, more accurately, Molly had spotted Hermione, and had asked her to join her for a chat.

There had been a time when Hermione adored Mrs. Weasley, going so far as to consider her a secondary motherly figure—her magical Mum, even. But that had changed in her fourth year, when rampant rumours of a then fifteen-year-old Hermione had all but labelled her a floozy, courtesy of Rita-bloody-Skeeter. Molly had since apologized for believing a gossip column’s lies, but Hermione had always felt her apologies were disingenuous to a certain extent, as though part of her still saw her that way.

Hermione had never felt unwelcome in the Weasley home. She adored Arthur almost as much as her own father and felt their children, save for Ron, were the siblings she never had but always wanted. She had felt like an extension of their family, always included and easily woven into the fabric of their lives, so to have Arthur and a grieving George go out of their way to avoid her since Ron’s announcement, it felt like she was being shunned.

She felt she was being politely, but firmly, excused from her role in their family.

It hurt all the more to see Harry continue being doted upon by Molly, though he’d grown increasingly unresponsive to her affections. Uneasy. Annoyed, even, and Hermione and Ginny both had been waiting for the eventual outburst to take place.

This morning, a lovely, sunny, Friday morning, Harry was out flying with Ginny and Ron, but as Hermione could see from the kitchen window, no one looked to be having much fun as they attempted to play Quidditch. All she’d seen were three mopey teenagers on broomsticks, the love for the game not enough to shake them from the collective gloom.

Hermione had made the mistake of trying to leave then, thinking she’d be able to slip into the fireplace undetected. But Molly had seen her as soon as she’d entered the room. She’d forced a smile at the girl, her knitting needles pausing their work in curiosity, then resuming when Molly invited Hermione to sit for a quick minute.

“I know this is hard for you, Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley had said gently, offering a plate of biscuits. Hermione had taken one out of courtesy, but had no intention of eating it. “But I’m worried you’ve made this decision from a place of fear.”

“That’s not it. I’m not afraid, Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione insisted, and narrowed eyes told Hermione she’d noticed the shift in address from the informal first name to the more proper “Mrs.” title. “This was an accident—purely an accident, and I will not, after everything your son and I have been through, allow a mistake to dictate what we do with our lives.”

Mrs. Weasley had sipped her tea thoughtfully, her eyes occasionally glancing to the needles as they made quick work of an orange scarf. “Hermione, dear, this is a big decision—one you can never come back from. It would be wise if you took more time to think it through. This is your child—you will grow to love them, even if it seems impossible right now.”

Hermione had swallowed, her mouth feeling dry as if she’d eaten the entire plate of biscuits in one sitting. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I don’t feel that way.” Hermione had said gently, pleading with the woman to see reason. “I shouldn’t have to convince myself to love my child or force connections that aren’t there. Ron and I are not in love—we’re still practically children ourselves. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone.”

She’d taken in a shaky breath then, the biscuit crumbling between her fingers. “I know this is a—a difficult situation for you, and I mean no disrespect, but I don’t see this as a child. It’s…an inconvenience. And I won’t penalize either of us by letting nature take its course. Please understand.”

Mrs. Weasley had cleared her throat before setting her tea cup on a side table, then calmly replied, “I don’t understand. I think it’s horribly selfish of you to take away my son’s child—my first grandchild.” She’d waved her wand at the knitting needles, and they’d fallen away onto the ottoman, the scarf only half-finished. “But you’ve always been selfish, haven’t you, Hermione? I shouldn’t have expected anything more of you.”

Hermione had felt the ache in her throat seconds before tears pricked at her eyes. Mrs. Weasley, satisfied in her destruction, had excused herself, the tea cup and plate of biscuits floating behind her as she left the room. Hermione had sat there for several minutes, sniffling and swiping at her eyes, willing herself to not let Mrs. Weasley get to her any more than she had.

All she’d thought of as she stood and reached for the Floo powder was her own mum. Her mum wouldn’t have thought her selfish. She might have had a moral objection at first, but she would have supported whatever decision Hermione had made. She would have comforted her after, let Hermione rest her head on her lap and stroke her hair as they watched a film together on the living room sofa. Her mum would have assured her she did the right thing for herself without an ounce of guilt in her kind eyes, so like Hermione's.

It was all so horribly unfair.

After Hermione tossed in the Floo powder and spoke her destination, she let herself weep, aching desperately for a hug from the woman who didn’t even know she had a daughter.

Although she felt awful leaving without a goodbye, she knew it had been the right way to go. On her terms, without anyone’s unwarranted opinion—any more unwarranted opinions, that is. In her defence—or possibly to ease the guilt—she’d left a note on Ginny’s pillow for her and Harry, explaining she was headed to Diagon Alley and would be back by nightfall.

But that wasn’t true—Hermione had no intention of returning to the Burrow. Once in London, she would acquire the necessary ingredients to attempt a potion close enough to the real thing. Then she would find a place to go. She couldn’t afford a room at the Leaky Cauldron, she knew, but maybe she could go home. With any luck, the Ministry—now under the leadership of Kingsley Shacklebolt as the temporary Minister for Magic—had kept her parents’ house from being sold or tampered with by muggles. But if that weren’t an option, if she couldn’t go home…

Well, she didn’t know yet.

Grimmauld Place, maybe?

Although, that would require asking Harry…

Maybe she could request an international Portkey from the Ministry to get to Australia. Yes…that would be the backup plan. The backup to the backup, rather. She couldn’t allow herself to think of an additional backup should her parents’ memories not recover.

By eleven-thirty, she was debating returning to St. Mungo’s, but was unsure if she’d have the same sympathetic mediwitch and, ultimately, decided not to risk it. The Apothecary’s prices were absurd for even the most standard of ingredients—beetle eyes that had always been five Knuts a scoop were now a Sickle a scoop. And forget anything sourced from a unicorn; it was almost as if they were as mythical as muggles believed them to be, the way their horns and hair were priced.

Hermione had stumbled back out of the door as soon as she’d spotted the cost of dandelion root.

There’s always the muggle way…

Hermione sighed, leaning back against the brick wall. This was a magical pregnancy—she didn’t know if muggle methods would work. But if it came to it…

“So, she’s alive after all.” A jarring, too-familiar voice called, and Hermione jerked away from the wall. “I lost that bet.”

It should have frightened her, she realised, seeing Draco Malfoy stroll through Diagon Alley barely a month after the battle. She should have had a strong reaction to it—she should have started spitting fire, should have made a fuss over him acting so natural when he had no right to.

But she didn’t.

She simply watched in eerie fascination as he moved closer down the alley towards her, not bothering to make an escape.

“Malfoy.” She greeted stiffly. “Enjoying your freedom?”

“I could ask you the same, but I see winning hasn’t improved your disposition.”

She had to squint to look up at him, sunlight glinting off his white-blonde hair and nearly blinding her. “Well, I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled to see you.” She retorted. “And what bet?”

Draco crossed to her side of the alley but maintained a careful distance. “Between myself and the other Death Eaters-in-training.” He quipped. “When you didn’t come to bask in the glory of your victory, the world took notice.”

“The glory?”

“The Muggle-born who helped defeat the Dark Lord,” He replied coolly. “Thought you and Weasley would jump at the chance to be as famous as Potter for a change.”

Hermione crumpled the torn page from her notebook in her hand, remembering all at once how unpleasant Malfoy generally was. “Was that the bet, then?”

Grey eyes took her in, their intensity almost invasive. Hermione was about to walk off when he replied, “My bet was murder-suicide.”

Hermione paused and tilted her head curiously. She was in Diagon Alley for a reason—she couldn’t afford to waste precious time speaking to Malfoy. Yet talking to someone from the outside world, who has more than likely heard rumours about her in the last month…she had to admit she was at least a little bit intrigued.

“Who’s the murderer in that scenario?” She asked, unable to help herself. Although she didn’t particularly want to be talking to Draco Malfoy—and, in fact, found his presence to be no less soul-sucking than that of a Dementor—she couldn’t bring herself to walk away just yet. If anything, it was the first conversation she’s had in months where she didn’t have to worry about hurting someone’s feelings.

“You, obviously. Aside from Weasel’s history of truly depressing attempts at spellcasting, he doesn’t have it in him.”

Hermione scoffed, squaring her shoulders as she shifted to face him fully. “And I do?” She asked. “Thanks, Malfoy. High praise coming from the likes of you.”

He smiled innocently, but the look in his eyes was far too arrogant. As if he hadn’t been in a holding cell at the Ministry for a week following the battle. As if he hadn’t testified against his own father to spare himself from serving time in Azkaban.

As if the bastard hadn’t stood by and watched as Hermione was tortured in his own home.

“What a charming thing to say to someone on their birthday. Thanks, Granger.”

She bit back an irritated reply. “Apologies for implying you’re a murderous lunatic like the rest of your family.” Then she grumbled, “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not a happy one.”

“No?”

His almost playful smirk told her he knew she was being insincere. He very clearly knew she’d like for him to bugger off, but he also looked to be having too much fun annoying her.

“Can’t say I’ve had a ‘happy’ birthday in a few years.” Draco went on, leaning against the brick exterior of the Apothecary. An absurdly casual stance, as if they were two old friends catching up. “My fifteenth wasn’t bad, though Diggory was killed soon after and You-Know-Who returned.”

“You mean your Master?” She countered. “The Dark Lord. Vol-de-mort.”

Although she was goading him, he surprised her by not reacting. Perhaps he was under the influence of a Calming Draught. Or perhaps the Wizengamot had seen fit to bend the rules and place him under the Imperius Curse to make him more tolerable.

Or maybe Draco, when freed from his father’s influence, was more tolerable.

No, Hermione laughed to herself. That couldn’t be it.

“The very same.” His eyes gave her a once-over, and Hermione stiffened. “My sixteenth was awful—my father was outwardly a Death Eater by then. Last year, I was putting off my task to take out Dumbledore. Today, I’m talking to you. You get the point, don’t you?”

“You have bad luck with your birthdays and you joined an organisation that relishes killing specific groups of people, myself included.” She spat, narrowing her eyes up at him in a challenge. “Have I missed anything?”

“I never killed anyone.” Draco corrected her, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Some torture, yes, when it was demanded of me.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Yes, I thought so, too.” He looked down at her, eyes practically glittering with curiosity at her clenched fist. “What is it? Want to have another swing at me? Closed fist this time?”

Hermione looked down at her right hand and relaxed it. “As much as you deserve it, no. I wouldn’t want to taint my favourite memory of you.”

Draco managed an eyeroll. “Cheeky.” He moved too quickly for her to realise what he was doing, and before she knew it, her crumpled list was in his hand. She lunged for it, but he held it up too high for her to reach.

Instead of cursing him for disarming her, she made a mental note to never let her guard down around “reformed” Death Eaters again. He unfolded the sheet of paper, his reflexes preventing her from snatching it back as he started to read through the list.

“Give it back!” She demanded, her hand grazing his forearm as she tried again. He pulled his arm away from her in a flash, and she braced herself for the inevitable sting of revulsion that she, a Mudblood, would dare lay a hand on a Malfoy. But it didn’t come. He simply carried on reading as if she weren’t there.

Hermione watched him mouth the words she’d written. Cinnamon oil, dandelion root. His eyes flicked to hers. “Death cap?” he asked, amused. “Are you suicidal, Granger?”

She huffed, feeling like she was having the same argument with Ginny all over again. “No. I need less than a teaspoon.”

Draco snorted as he skimmed down the lengthy list, eyes darting around the various question marks and scribbled lines as she had eliminated possible ingredients. Then she saw his eyes widen in understanding, the whites fully visible around the grey irises. “Shit.” He gave her another condescending once-over. “You?”

“What about me?” She snapped indignantly.

“You’re stupid enough to need this?”

The blush that rushed to her face at his revelation made him laugh. Actually laugh—at her. And loud enough that passersby noticed. “Will you keep it down?” She hissed, fighting the urge to smack him for the second time in her life. “This isn’t exactly something I want to announce!”

He composed himself, but the grin remained in place as he neatly folded the scrap of paper and handed it back to her. “Not that I care, but even half a teaspoon of that mushroom can kill you.”

She shoved the list into her bag and folded her arms across her chest defensively. “Not according to my research.”

“And where, may I ask, did you conduct such thorough research?”

“It was in one of the books that the Weasleys had—”

“Well, fuck, that was your first mistake.” He chuckled, then ran a hand through his hair. Hermione noticed the lack of his usual primping products, watching as long fingers raked through the strands without resistance. A lock of it fell onto his forehead, making him look…well, like a normal eighteen-year-old boy. An unfairly attractive eighteen-year-old boy, yes, but just a boy nevertheless.

That morning Hermione had fought to restrain her hair with a tie, eventually grouping the fluff of brushed-out wavy curls into a tight knot at the back of her head. She didn’t imagine her careless hairstyle added much to her allure like it did him.

“It was all I could find while being discreet.” She muttered. “I’m not exactly overwhelmed by choices at the moment.”

“So, you thought you’d brew the potion yourself, without the proper ingredients.”

“I can substitute some of the—”

“Tell me, Granger, in this potion book of yours, did it happen to mention the uses for that specific ingredient?”

Flustered, Hermione looked around them to ensure no nosy witch or wizard was tuning into their conversation. “No known human uses, necessarily, but the properties suggest—”

Draco grabbed her arm and began steering her through the alley, towards the rows of now-empty shops that were still in shambles and dead to the public. She tried to pull back, but his grip was unyielding as he half-dragged her down the cobblestones.

“Stop!” She commanded, finally digging her heels in enough to pause his long strides. “What is wrong with you? Where are you taking me?”

“Believe it or not, I’m offering to help you.” Draco relaxed his grip, but she didn’t pull back.

“I don’t need your help, Malfoy!”

He removed his hand from her bicep then shoved it into the pocket of his fitted black trousers. “Say you make that potion and you die from it—I’m now the last person to been seen with you. Very publicly, might I add—I’m sure there’s even a photographer for the Daily Prophet floating around somewhere, too.”

That brought her up short, Hermione’s mouth gaping in horror as she realised just how bad this would look for him if something were to happen to her. “Oh.”

“Oh.” He mocked, scowling down at her. “But if you want to pop out the fiftieth Weasley, don’t let me stop you.”

Her eyes widened in panic, glancing around them once more. “Keep your voice down!”

“So, it is Weasley’s, then?” Draco’s smirk returned as he took her in, amused by her discomfort.

Fuck.

Eventually, with a defeated groan, Hermione propped her hands on her hips and met his gaze evenly. “If I go with you, will you shut up?”

“Not likely.” Draco nodded his head in the direction he’d been leading her in, then took off down the gently-sloping walkway.

What was the worst he could do? Kill her?

That would surely guarantee him a one-way trip to Azkaban, a fate she was positive he wanted to avoid at any cost. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to harm her, she knew. She hoped, rather.

“What kind of help?” She called warily, watching Draco stop in his tracks. He turned around, easily ten paces ahead of her now.

“A potion.” He offered meekly. “A properly brewed potion.”

“I can’t afford to pay for it.”

Draco’s expression was impassive. “Did I ask you to?”

Hermione swallowed nervously, looking around them once more as she debated her options. One, a mortifying return to St. Mungo’s with the hope she wouldn’t have to answer questions again. Two, forage for potion ingredients and brew it herself—a dangerous challenge, really, as she’d be taking a risk with substitutions and a wand that rarely obeyed her. Three…accept Draco Malfoy’s generous, un-Malfoy like offer. Or four: teenage motherhood.

Option three it was.

She walked to the end of the abandoned row of shops and stood beside him, unwilling to meet his eyes as she took his right arm and warily disapparated with him.

Chapter Text

5 June 1998

They apparated outside the gate of Malfoy Manor.

Of all the places he could have taken her, his home had never once entered her mind. Maybe this was it—maybe he was actually going to kill her. Maybe he had already resigned himself to slipping up eventually, knowing he would one day land in Azkaban. Taking out Hermione Granger would be his last laugh, his only means of revenge for what he’d lost in the war.

Hermione staggered backward at the sight of it, already reaching into her bag for a wand to hex him with—but he was no longer paying attention to her. Draco was instead using a charm on the gate that would grant her access, but she was frozen.

“You can leave or you can choose to trust me.” He called, seeming disinterested either way.

“Trust you? That’s rich!” She laughed. “What was your plan, Malfoy? Catch me in a moment of weakness, then attack?”

“Need I remind you that you came along willingly?”

Hermione scoffed, her hand wrapping around the handle of Bellatrix Lestrange’s former wand from within her bag. “You said you’d brew a potion.”

“Where did you think I would brew you a potion, Granger? Hogwarts?”

“You should have told me.” Her grip tightened around the wood, her eyes watching his hands as they laid limp at his sides. He stepped through the gate, facing away and completely unaware of the fact that Hermione now had the wand out and aimed at the back of his head.

“And you would have come, if you knew?” Draco looked over his shoulder to see she still hadn’t moved an inch. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She heard him mutter under his breath at the sight of the wand. “Remind me again what awaits you? Suicide or motherhood, yes?”

Hermione opened her mouth to go off on him for being such a prick but stopped herself when she realised he wasn’t exactly wrong. She shook her head, looking to the foreboding manor she’d been imprisoned and mutilated in. “I can just go back to St. Mungo’s. That’s what I should have done anyway.”

“Back?”

“What?”

“You said ‘go back to St. Mungo’s.’” He repeated, looking rather irritated now, and she silently cursed him for being so observant. “You’ve already gone to deal with this and you haven’t?”

Hermione sighed but kept her aim steady, now pointed at the centre of his chest. “Ron made a…fuss. Had an absolute fit, I couldn’t—I couldn’t do it without trying to reason with him first.”

Draco seemed surprised, his mouth opening and closing in confusion several times before saying, “He’s against you getting rid of it?”

She nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. It was quite awful and…mortifying. That’s part of the reason I’m hesitant to return to St. Mungo's—by now they’ll realise I’ve left, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s there looking for me.”

“Who broke it off?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Her arm was beginning to tire from holding out the wand for so long, and Draco seemed entirely unaffected by its presence; he didn’t view her as a threat. “Why do you assume we’re broken up?”

He simply raised his eyebrows, and she lowered the wand, letting it come to rest at her side. “I did. Weeks before I even found out about—” She gestured to her abdomen weakly.

“That’s why he’s against it.” He surmised. “He wants to keep you.”

She was already shaking her head, feeling a rush of blood heat her face and neck. “He barely wanted me when he had me.” She muttered. “That’s beside the point—are you going to help me, or are you just wasting my time?”

“Although I have a lot of time to waste these days, I was sincere about helping you.” He gave her a quick, rueful smile. “Shocking, I know.”

Hermione turned the wand over in her hands, keeping her gaze steady on his. “You won’t try to kill me?”

“Why would I tell you beforehand?”

At some point he seemed to realise she was at the brink of despair and pulled back on the teasing. The reality of her being at the manor, completely at his mercy, was a sobering experience, and he noticed the toll it was beginning to take on her.

He cleared his throat and eyed the gate. “You can leave anytime.” He assured her, and she nodded stiffly. “What will it be, Granger?”

She sniffed, giving the manor another once-over with what she hoped was a well-disguised grimace. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

Draco cocked an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Out of desperation.” She said, taking a determined step up to the gate. “Purely out of desperation.”

“I’m flattered.”

“How long do you plan on hovering?”

Hermione watched as he crushed up a seed she couldn’t identify, worrying her just a bit as he added the now-powdered seed to the cauldron. “I’m just making sure you’re not trying to poison me.”

Draco gave her a snide look before adding one precise drop of cinnamon oil. Hermione frowned; in her research, she had determined three drops were the proper amount.

“By all means, brew the potion you were going to. I’d love to see the results.”

Hermione sat down after that, lifting herself up onto the other end of the worktable. She smiled at him, daring him to yell at her, but he chose restraint over childish bickering, much to her dissatisfaction.

“It was probably no use,” she mused, eyeing his hands as they worked. “Without a compatible wand, I likely would’ve endangered myself, anyway—even with the proper ingredients.”

“You don’t have your wand.” A statement, not a question.

“No, I don’t.” She replied, giving him a sharp, accusatory glare. “Not since I was here last.”

Draco gave the brew two counter-clockwise stirs. “I know.” He flicked a glance to her, his eyes dropping to her legs that she’d begun kicking from being several inches off the ground. “I have it.”

Hermione gripped the edge of the table. “You have my wand?”

“And several others, but yes.” He killed the flame beneath the cauldron, seemingly satisfied with the temperature. “I have your wand. I’ll give it back once Potter returns mine.”

“Fine!” She agreed almost too enthusiastically, and it didn’t go unnoticed. “I can send an owl to Harry, asking him to send it back to you! Harry was able to repair his, so it’s not as if he needs it.” She hopped down from the table and went back to his side to look into the cauldron. “Although, I should probably tell you,” she started, then licked her lips. She was unsure how he’d handle the news that his wand no longer obeyed him. “Erm, Ollivander confirmed your wand had—had changed its allegiance. When Harry disarmed you.”

“I assumed as much,” he said coolly. “But I still want it back. I’ll be happy to destroy the traitorous twig.”

Hermione didn’t comment. She did, however, tentatively ask if Ron’s wand was there, too.

“Fuck if I know.” Was his reply, and Hermione blushed, taking an awkward step to the side. “I haven’t any idea what it looks like, but you’re welcome to look. Several had been…confiscated.” He looked slightly uncomfortable as he said it, as if it stemmed from a memory he’d prefer to forget.

She narrowed her eyes. “But you just happened to recognise mine?”

Draco didn’t answer as he stirred in the last two ingredients, mentally calculating the time in-between each addition. Of all the years in Potions Class together, she’d never allowed herself to openly admire his precision. His skill rivaled hers, was perhaps better than hers, but she would never tell him that. His knowledge of potions and their creation was simply intrinsic. Hers was borne from years of sleepless nights of research, fueled by competition.

Although she excelled in Potions, it wasn’t exactly natural for her. Like most everything in her life as witch, she forced her way in. She’d fought tooth and nail to be the best, to prove that a Muggle-born witch could cleverer than a Pure-blood.

If only to humble them.

“It’s quiet.” She murmured, looking around the makeshift potion lab, and Hermione wondered if this was his normal setup, or if the Ministry had been extra thorough in their search of Malfoy Manor.

“Yes, it’s amazing how deafening the silence can be when one’s home isn’t overrun with Death Eaters for months on end.”

Hermione swallowed, then glanced into the cauldron again. Draco’s hand shot out to catch a single strand of wavy brown hair as it floated down towards the cauldron. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you at least try to contain that raven’s nest of yours?” He flicked the strand to the floor, and Hermione adjusted her hair into a tighter knot.

“Are you alone?” She asked. “I heard about—” She cleared her throat, realising she’d just stepped into dangerous territory. “Your father’s charges.”

“What about them?”

She felt the blood drain from her face, mentally kicking herself for even bringing it up. It’s not as if she really wanted to know—she was simply trying to fill the silence.

Odd, really, since silence used to be something she craved.

“I was wondering how your mother would feel if she saw me here, that’s all.” She explained in a voice just above a whisper.

Draco eyed her, his expression unreadable. “No chance of that happening while she’s in France.”

“France?”

“She’s to be on house arrest for two years—the Wizengamot just didn’t specify which house.”

Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. It wasn’t that she was surprised the Malfoys had other homes—it was that Narcissa had been able to choose which holiday home she served her sentence from. Despite being outcasted from much of the wizarding community, they were still wealthy Pure-bloods. They would never really go through normal hardships in life, and Hermione couldn’t help but resent them for it just a bit.

“The Daily Prophet was rather vague about your sentence.” She challenged.

“Are you asking, or are you waiting for me to volunteer that information?”

She glanced from him to the cauldron and back. “I’m asking.” She said with more confidence than she felt. “If I’m to take a potion you’ve brewed, I feel I have the right to know the Wizengamot’s ruling. You were cleared?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, but his focus remained on the cauldron. “Conditionally.” He bit out. “Nothing for you to worry about. They don’t believe me to be much of a danger.”

“They haven’t known you for seven years.” She muttered, and his shrewd eyes caught hers for a moment too long before sliding back to the rapidly cooling potion.

Draco transferred the potion to a crystal phial, filled it all the way up to the top, then stoppered it. When he was about to hand it over, he drew his hand back and met her gaze squarely. “We’re even?”

“We’ll see if it works first.” She reached for it, but he still wouldn’t hand it over. “What’s the problem now?” She snapped. “I hardly have anything to offer in the form of payment, but you already knew that. What do you want?”

“I don’t need money, Granger.” His mouth quirked up in a terrifying impression of a smile, his left cheekbone as sharp as a razor as it caught the dim lights in the windowless lab. And damn him, a lock of hair fell over his forehead again, making him look adorably youthful despite the cruelty lingering beneath icy grey irises. “But that’s not to say I wouldn’t propose a different offer.”

“What kind of offer, Malfoy?”

He took a step closer, keeping the phial just out of her reach. “What are your plans after you take this?”

“I don’t have any.” She spat through clenched teeth. “You knew that, too?”

“I had a hunch.”

“It’s something I have to sort out—I’m sure Harry wouldn’t mind me staying at Grimmauld Place until the start of term.”

“That’s what you want?” He murmured, standing just inches from her now. Hermione tilted her head back to look up at him. “You want to be alone for the next three months?”

“Until this issue is resolved, I can’t think about what I want. So, I ask again, what kind of offer?”

Draco took a step back and leaned against the worktable, studying her carefully. “My wing of the manor was left mostly untouched—my mother’s condition to allowing my father to conduct his ‘business’ in the house. There’s an extra room—you’re welcome to it.”

She sputtered a laugh. “Why?”

“Make no mistake, Granger, I have no interest in being friendly with you—I’m simply trying to make amends. I don’t particularly like you, but it doesn’t mean I don’t owe you. And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m short on company as of late.”

“That’s a kind offer, Malfoy, but you’ve done more than enough by brewing me the potion.” She held out her hand for it, but his eyes were still dark with determination. She dropped her hand with a sigh. “You just want company? I’m really supposed to believe that?”

Draco sneered at the implication. “Do you really think I’d touch a Mudblood?” His words were meant to be cruel, but they lacked the hateful disgust usually reserved for her and her friends. “And one that’s currently knocked up by a Weasley, at that. I may be disgraced, but I still have standards.”

“You’re asking me to live with you because you’re lonely, then?” She mocked. “Where are your friends?”

“My friends, if you can call them that, are also under conditional probations for their involvement in the war. And I’m not asking you to live with me—I’m simply being generous and offering you a temporary arrangement. You’re already pathetic, but you want to be destitute, as well?”

Hermione glared at him, debating the best way to distract him and run out of the manor with the phial in hand. Would he charm the gate to keep her locked in, or would he let her leave with it?

“Say I accepted—what would you expect of me?”

“Your delightful banter.”

“Malfoy.”

“I expect nothing more from you than to stay out of my way. You do that, and we’ll get along just fine.”

“No catch, then?” Hermione shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want,” Draco drawled, sounding bored. “But this potion has a short shelf life—may want to get on with it sooner rather than later.”

The bathroom connected to the guest suite in this wing of the manor was as monochromatic as the rest of the house. Various shades of greys—everywhere. In the tiles, streaked in the marble of the countertop, the entire shower; even the neatly-folded towels were either white or stormy grey. It nearly gave her a headache as she took it all in. A stone bathtub lay beneath floor-to-ceiling windows with no curtains, leaving the small room completely open to the gardens and gently sloping hills beyond.

“No curtains?”

“The windows are enchanted.” He tapped the glass absently. “From the outside they appear to be the same stone as the walls.”

She nodded, mildly impressed. “Clever. But wouldn’t curtains be simpler?”

“You’d miss the stars then. Apart from the roof, this is the best spot in the whole place to watch a meteor shower.”

“A bathtub?” She couldn’t help but smile, odd as it was.

His lips twitched. “From my research, this room used to be exclusively for astronomy studies.” He turned on the taps to the tub. “Then my great-great-great grandfather decided to rebuild the house with the addition of plumbing, and his wife was quite fond of the idea of relaxing while star gazing.”

She stared at him as he adjusted the water. “Are you planning to have a quick soak?”

“This is for you,” he replied with a hint of a smirk. “So you don’t bleed out all over my floors.”

Although Hermione rolled her eyes, she felt her cheeks flush at the thought of not only bathing in the Malfoys’ home, but freely bleeding in it. “Charming.” She looked at the crystal phial of potion on the marble counter and felt the tell-tale signs of panic start to set in. “I don’t mean to pry, but have you made this potion before?”

“Not from my mistakes, but yes. I’ve made it for others.” Draco straightened up after the tub was filled, steam rising from the water in coiling wisps. “Care for a list, Granger?” He asked, surprising her with a grin. “Curious to see which of our classmates have found themselves in this position? The number of Gryffindors might interest you.”

“That’s none of my business.” She replied primly. “But why would they ask you? Why not go to Pomfrey?”

“Because the potion is banned at Hogwarts.” He said as if it were obvious. “Once there’s word of a girl needing it, she gets shipped off to St. Mungo’s for ‘treatment,’ or gets expelled if she chooses to pursue the alternative.”

Hermione balked, her mouth agape as she processed what he’d suggested. “That can’t be true—I’ve never heard anything like that!”

“For once I mean this with no offence, but you’re a Mud—Muggle-born.” He eyed her speculatively, resting a moment too long on her lower abdomen. “If you weren’t on such a pedestal right now, and your absence of nine months could have gone unnoticed, I doubt they would have let you leave St. Mungo’s if you had wanted the potion. Blood traitors or not, the Weasleys are still Pure-blood.”

Hermione snorted, then propped her hip against the counter. “You make it sound like some conspiracy.”

Draco studied her, taking in her somewhat defensive posture, lingering on her eyes, on the red she could feel heating her neck and chest. “Interesting coincidence that the exact potion ingredients you needed were suddenly out of your price range, isn’t it?”

“Supply issues.” She offered simply, crossing her arms over her chest.

“‘Supply issues.’ Out of curiosity, have you happened to notice just how small our class size is compared to the other years?”

She shifted uneasily. “War reduces populations. It happens in the muggle world, but afterward the birth rates tend to accelerate for a period of time.”

Draco nodded. “It’s the same in our world.” He agreed, and Hermione just barely noticed he’d included her—intentionally or not—as part of his world. “But our population doesn’t recover as quickly, or with even comparable birth rates to muggles. The goal is to restore the population,” he flicked a glance to her belly once more. “Not reduce it even further.”

“I understand that,” she gritted out, somewhat defensively. “But no one is forced to have children after a war—let alone a teenager.”

His tone was low as he asked, “You honestly believe that?”

Hermione blinked at him. “So, what, Malfoy? You’re the Patron Saint of a Woman’s Right to Choose?”

She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed, watched his eyes as they shifted to meet hers. “Do you know how difficult it is for most Pure-blood women to conceive? A Pure-blood witch who is still in school…she doesn’t have options, Granger. She’s forced to carry to term, because Pure-blood numbers are dwindling. She may be off for ‘treatment,’ but that’s just what her classmates are told. Then she returns the next year as if she’s miraculously recovered from a rare, deadly illness, or she withdraws from her social life until she reaches a respectable age to have had a child.”

Draco eyed the phial on the counter and reached for it. He turned it over in his hand, watching the reddish-brown liquid swirl around, sparkling with bits of silver from the addition of unicorn hair. “I’m in no need of money, but I do consider other offers.” He gave her a sharp, almost quizzical glance. “Small bribes. Favours. It’s no trouble to make it, really, but I can’t have people thinking I’ll do something for them purely out of the goodness of my heart.”

He was standing close enough then that Hermione could see his irises were lined with dark grey rings, speckled with light, white-grey crypts around the pupils, and all at once his eyes became the object of her fascination; she’d never been close enough to study them before.

As he was about to hand her the phial, he hesitated, closing his hand around the crystal. “Technically speaking, if anyone were to know I supplied you with this, I’d likely be sent to Azkaban.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and reached for it anyway. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s hardly anyone’s business.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” He let her take the crystal container then, slightly warm from the heat of his palm. “If I was responsible for preventing the child of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, witches and wizards everywhere, the Wizengamot, the Ministry of Magic—they would have my fucking head for it.” He eyed her seriously, but without threat. It was almost…pleading, and Hermione was unsure what to make of it.

“I won’t say a word.” She swore. “I was never pregnant.”

“Good.”

She blinked and forced herself to tear her gaze away from his, her eyes scanning his perfect, almost pore-less skin, then cleared her throat. “But if Pure-blood numbers are so important, how do you know how to make the potion?”

The air seemed to calm between them, Draco’s shoulders relaxing noticeably. “I learned it in…” Draco trailed off, his eyes looking up at the ceiling as if the answer was hidden in the stone. “Third year.”

“That’s a bit young, isn’t it? I know many wizarding families are rather prudish. Why would you, of all people, know it?”

“My father cares less about Pure-blood numbers than he does illegitimate heirs. I knew the contraceptive charm, the contraceptive potion, and this—” he nodded to the phial now clenched in Hermione’s fist. “Before my fourteenth birthday. My father doesn’t trust me not to make mistakes—he never has. Learning it was simply a protective measure so I didn’t end up destroying the Malfoy legacy.”

“A child out of wedlock would destroy the legacy?”

“So my father says. So his father said. Personally, I couldn’t care less. I’m the only heir—everything will go to me regardless. And when my father is dead, the decisions regarding the future of our line will lie solely with me.”

Draco stepped around her to the open door, standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom. “From what I’m told, the side-effects are unpleasant. Try to relax.” He frowned then, as if realising he may have sounded too hospitable. “If you need anything, you’ll have to ask me or find it yourself.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “No house-elves?” She asked curiously. “Or are they the type to not answer the call of a Muggle-born?”

“No house-elves.” He confirmed. “Not exactly.” A faint blush coloured his cheeks, and if it hadn’t been for the brilliant afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows, she doubted she would have even noticed it. “The Ministry realised my privileged arse would be unable to fend for myself.” Draco snorted derisively, and Hermione had a feeling that announcement had not gone over well. “So, there are house-elves to cook and clean, but I don’t own them, and they’re all paid through the estate.”

“Is that any different than what you had before?”

He stared at her, unamused. “Well, yes. They’re more like housekeepers than servants—”

“How dreadful.” She gasped softly. “Do they still bring your laundry to you, or do you have to go pick it up yourself?”

“Feel free to leave anytime, Granger. I won’t stop you.” He smiled condescendingly, tapping long, pale fingers on the doorframe. “I know you have so many options. You can use the Floo to go to St. Mungo’s, if you wish… If you don’t believe me.”

She bit her tongue and tightened her fist. It wasn’t as if she fully believed his conspiracy theory, but there was enough of an edge to his words, an uncomfortable feeling of truth to them that made her wary of both the hospital and the Ministry. “I’ll stay.” She murmured. “Until it’s…over.”

He inclined his head in a slight nod and reached for the door handle.

“Draco—” He froze at hearing his given name slip past her lips, and hard, stony eyes met hers. “Why are you helping me? Really.”

“I want you to owe me one day.”

Hermione sighed, setting the phial on the counter once more. “Please?”

Draco looked uncomfortable as he responded, as if the words were costing him. “Granger…no matter how I feel about you, or your blood status, or those useless twats you call friends, even I can see you deserve more than becoming the next Molly Weasley.”

Hermione played with the stopper of the phial, anxiety creeping in—she was ready to get this over with, but she wasn’t ready to take the potion quite yet. It was as if some invisible force was causing her to stall, to…well, not reconsider, but perhaps make her stew in it a bit longer. Let the anger accumulate—she had every reason to be angry at Ron, but, for some reason, she was holding back from letting herself feel it.

“I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me—Ron.”

Draco looked as if he wished he were anywhere else on the planet, a cold, dreary cell in Azkaban included. “You shouldn’t forgive him.”

“What do you mean?”

He let out a long, low sigh, regretting his response as it denied him a swift exit. “Weasley promised to take care of you, and he failed. This is on him.”

“I didn’t stop him.” She pointed out.

“But he lied and said he knew what he was doing.” Draco nodded at the phial. “Remember that list of Gryffindors?” He asked, but he didn’t seem to be gloating—he seemed dismayed.

And then it clicked: Ron was a repeat offender with the failed contraceptive charm. Hermione gasped softly, leaning her weight against the counter.

Lavender.

Draco took advantage of Hermione’s almost petrified state and finally fled from the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a soft thud.

If there was any part of her left that felt guilt for what she was about to do, Hermione promptly smothered it, shoving it into the far recesses of her mind. She would not feel bad for him.

Hermione held up the potion, unstoppered it, and swallowed every last drop before she could second-guess entrusting her life to a Death Eater.

Hermione lost track of time as she laid in the bathtub, passing in and out of consciousness as months-long exhaustion and abdominal cramps wracked her body. The only sign of time passing came from spotting the sun lower on the horizon. She’d bled, far more than she had been expecting. She’d had to replace the water twice, and now it was just barely tinted pink.

The only thing that kept her from believing Draco Malfoy was out to kill her was the knowledge that he’d set up the tub for her. He’d intended for her to be naked. As he couldn’t possibly be interested in seeing her fully exposed—if only to remove her corpse—she felt safe that he’d known what he was doing in brewing the potion.

When the grey tiles were splashed with the late sun’s golden light, Hermione drained the tub once more and rinsed off, feeling confident the worst had finally passed.

She stood slowly, carefully, and reached for the towel she’d left on a small bench beside the tub. She dried off and wrapped it around herself, then went to collect her clothes—but they weren’t where she’d left them. Hermione furrowed her brow in concentration, searching around for her jeans and the white shirt she’d left the Burrow in, but they were nowhere to be found.

She cautiously opened the door, feeling like an intruder as she made her way into the modest guest bedroom. Her clothes were sitting on the bed along with her bag, and as she approached them, she found her clothes and undergarments had been washed and folded. Beside her neat pile was a pair of light blue silk pyjamas and matching slippers, and the sight of them made her see red.

How presumptuous was he to think she’d settle right in here? To give her the potion was one thing—to expect her to owe him her company in the coming months was another. And she didn’t feel up to negotiating.

She threw on her clothes and marched across the nearly-bare room to yank open the door. She didn’t know where Draco’s room was, but she was determined to bang on every single door until she annoyed him enough to come out.

But she never made it that far, spotting the unmistakable head of sleek, white-blonde hair coming up the stairs when she was halfway down the hall. He noticed her before he reached the top step and cocked an eyebrow. She glared back, ready to go off on him, but the fire fizzled into harmless embers at seeing the almost shy wariness in his expression as she got closer.

Draco took the final step, wrapping his hand around the banister as he took her in.

“Is it done?”

Hermione shifted her weight as she mentally switched tactics. She could choose to act on her first instinct and unleash a string of venomous insults, but he would likely take it all in stride. Perhaps he’d expect that from her. Maybe he would find it amusing how easily he could rile her up. Or she could go with the much more difficult—albeit smarter—option: she could accept the loss and thank him. It would throw him off-guard, surely, and potentially give her more power in their dynamic. If she was to even think of accepting his invitation to stay, she would need all the power she could get.

Hermione relaxed her shoulders and let her hand come up to rest on the banister, mirroring his posture. Her hand was only inches from his, and if he noticed her goal was to make him uneasy, he didn’t show it. “I’m not sure. I’m still using a wand that doesn’t respond to me—especially after its owner was killed.”

Although he knew the wand she was referring to, he showed no emotion to her statement. “Would you like me to check?”

She gave a reluctant nod, not meeting his eyes. As he took out a wand, she noticed just how bare everything was. The guest room had been no more than a dark wood, four poster bed made with a white duvet and pillows, and a matching chest of drawers. The built-in bookshelves were empty, and no furniture surrounded the marble fireplace. Nothing lavish or even very welcoming, but she preferred it that way. She didn’t want to feel welcome in his home.

No portraits lined the walls of the hallway, though she felt they ought to. Perhaps they had been there before Voldemort took control of the property as his base. Or maybe they had been confiscated by Aurors. More likely, Hermione deduced, either Draco or his mother must have stashed them away before the search and seizure of artefacts by the Ministry of Magic had occurred.

A low light caught her eye, and she refocused her attention on Draco’s temporary wand. The light was an eerie, almost pale black as it hovered in front of her belly. “Is that good?” She asked, the colour of the light beginning to worry her.

He flicked the wand away, his expression turning smug once more. “It would appear the burden has been lifted. You’re welcome.”

She bit back an irritated reply. “Thanks.”

As he tucked the wand into the back pocket of his trousers, he let his eyes drift over her body—her clothes, specifically, and he didn’t seem surprised to find her in them.

“Do you know what’s strange? I’m fairly certain I hadn’t washed and folded my clothes before I took the potion.” Her tone was light, conversational even, but was no less accusatory. “Yet they were laid out on the bed for me. Do you know how that would have happened?”

“There’s a charm that the house-el—the housekeepers who happen to be elves—” he couldn’t hold back his disdain at losing his family’s servants, but Hermione felt nothing short of triumph that they had, apparently, been freed. “—put on the house. If clothes or rubbish, or…anything, really, is left on the floor too long or out of its proper place, it gets sent away to be dealt with; clothes eventually return to their owner.”

“Is that to limit your interaction with them?”

“It’s to remind me of my place as a spoiled child who was never taught to care for himself.” He muttered.

She nodded solemnly, but secretly she was enjoying watching the torment cross his face.

Serves him right.

“Are they responsible for the pyjamas as well?” She asked, knowing full well it must have been Draco. The unexpected flush of his cheeks a moment later confirmed it. “If so, should I leave my thank-you note on the floor for them to retrieve?”

“No need.” He forced out. “But if you would prefer to handle your own messes, you’ll probably want this back.”

Draco reached into the same pocket and produced a different wand. Vine wood. 10¾ inches long. Dragon heartstring core. In that moment, it was the most beautiful thing Hermione had ever seen. She hesitated in reaching for it, unsure if this was just a cruel trick. He had demanded the return of his wand first, in exchange for it. But he practically shoved it at her now, and she accepted, barely noticing how his fingertips lingered on the handle, not seeming to care that their skin was touching. He released it once her fingers wrapped around it, and Hermione could feel the magic spark through her as she reacclimated to her wand.

It felt just as it had when it had chosen her nearly seven years ago. The rightness, the connection she felt on a soul-deep level. When she’d lost it to the snatchers, she had felt a part of herself fracture—a thin fissure in the confidence that was her magic, allowing in room for doubt and despair. Childish as it seemed to her, she suddenly felt whole again.

She looked up at him then with awe, touched by the gesture. Immediately he stepped away, out of her reach, and straightened to his full height. It jolted her, how quickly and fiercely the sting of his discomfort in response to her silent, reverent thanks affected her. She’d been so consumed with joyous relief that she had almost wanted to throw her arms around him.

And he must have noticed.

“If you’re staying,” he said, allowing his posture to relax once he was a safe distance away. “Meals appear in the library—it wasn’t my idea, so wipe that look off your face. Dinner is sometime in the evening. Breakfast is around nine, or whenever they get around to it. I also lost the right to demand schedules.”

Hermione toyed with her wand, feeling the comfortable weight settle against her palm. “I’m sure it’s been a difficult transition for you.”

“Spare me the sympathy, Granger.” He sneered. “You are the last person I would want it from.”

Draco was trying to provoke her, if only to get them back to familiar territory. But there was something in his defensiveness she felt like exploiting for once.

“Not even Harry?” She asked with a hint of a smile.

His mouth twitched involuntarily, but he held his composure well enough. “Alright,” he conceded. “You are the second to last person I would want sympathy from.”

He turned to leave then, heading for a door she hadn’t noticed before as it blended in seamlessly with the walls. He gripped the handle, then shot her a knowing glance. “My library is at the end of the hallway—” he pointed in the direction of it, and Hermione spotted black, glass-paned French doors at the end. “Take what you want. I’ve already read everything.”

To her credit, she waited for several seconds after he’d retreated to his bedroom before bounding down the hall towards the doors. She may have hated the Malfoy family, but she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of their book collection.

Especially if she would be there for a while.

Chapter Text

20 June 1998

“Just how did you get pregnant?”

Draco’s absurd question out of nowhere made her jump and drop his copy of Hogwarts: A History onto the floor. She scolded him with a look and bent to retrieve it, the binding of the very worn first edition on the brink of splitting off completely. Though it wasn’t an old book, it had been read more times than she could imagine for the appalling state she’d found it in.

Either that, or Draco was a sadistic monster who derived pleasure from destroying works of art.

It had been exactly fifteen days since Hermione had arrived at Malfoy Manor, and apart from noncommittal grunts of greeting in the mornings, she and Draco have hardly spoken a word to one another. Hermione had grown quite accustomed to his library, but had also found herself strolling through the gardens more often than she cared to admit. As horrific as the memories of being here were, still fresh and achingly vivid even in sleep, she couldn’t deny that on a bright, late-spring day, the manor’s grounds were charming.

The day before, in fact, Hermione had stayed out for hours under the sun. With a book in one hand and a cup of sweetened tea in the other, it was the longest stretch of time she’d felt peace in nearly a year. She’d sat on a bench well into the night, the glittering stars overhead, the thin, waning crescent moon giving off just a hint of light.

It was so quiet. There were no sounds to be heard for miles but for an occasional owl’s hoot or the sounds of insects. No blaring muggle sounds like loud music or cars on the road. To anyone else it may have felt isolating, but Hermione found herself relishing the days and days of uninterrupted solitude.

Scheduled meals, afternoon tea; some days she even had her appetite back. Beautiful, charmed flowers stayed perfectly in bloom and smelled more divine than a flower should. The roses were a sight to behold, different shades of pinks, whites, reds, and an odd, almost lilac-coloured variety. The uncomfortably watchful eye of a white peacock, often seen strutting about the opulent gardens, usually kept Hermione from spending too much time amongst the roses. The few patches of lavender and wildflowers around the property, though—perhaps planted there by accident—were her favourites. They were the ones the chubby bumble bees and brilliantly-patterned butterflies flocked to, conveniently placed near a stone bench and a bird bath.

For a girl who had grown up in the muggle world, this was her own version of The Secret Garden, after the garden was cleaned up and in full bloom, of course. After all the hard work had been done, and all that was left to do was sit back and revel in its beauty. That was her favourite part of the book, the ending—when the garden’s beauty had been restored and the young cousins had found a way to be happy and healed for the first time in their lives. In many ways, that’s what she’d been doing whilst staying in a strange limbo with Draco: healing. Or trying to, at least. The books helped.

And, oh, the books. Hundreds of first editions of magical books she had never heard of, just sitting there waiting for her. She knew from her searches over the last several days that he had no interest in sentimentality, as the books housed in his library were almost entirely academic. She had noticed an occasional work of fiction, but it had felt too private, too…intimate, for her to pick up. It didn’t matter, though, as it could easily take her a year to read everything in that room; it had stunned her to learn this was what was left after the Ministry raids.

On her first morning, when Hermione had awkwardly stood outside of the open French doors to Draco’s personal library—in the pyjamas he’d provided her, no less—she had asked about its size. She had always assumed the Malfoy library would be so large it could take up a whole wing of the manor, and he had been quick to say it had. The contents of their library—in the main part of the house that was currently warded off to anyone but a Ministry official as it was still “under investigation”—would have made her go into shock. Or so he said.

Actually, what he’d said had been rather crude, likening Hermione’s probable reaction to that of an orgasm.

After she’d gone off on him, he’d rolled his eyes and feigned an apology, going on to explain the library she had access to was his own, filled with books of his own choosing. But it hadn’t been the contents that had stunned her—no, it had been the aesthetics of room itself. The walls that weren’t obscured by more floor-to-ceiling windows were painted a stark white, the sun radiant and deliciously warm in the mornings while they ate their breakfasts in an oddly companionable silence. It had warm-toned wood floors instead of stone, the colour complimented by the walls nicely. The furniture was plush, the sofa and loveseat both wrapped in a light, almost cloud-like grey fabric that offset the natural brown leather of the armchairs. Beautiful and masculine, sleek and cosy—harmonious contradictions.

And not at all what she’d been expecting.

She had always assumed Draco’s space would be a reflection of Slytherin in some capacity. It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least to find black, silver, and emerald greens in every corner of the room, though she knew that was an unfair assessment. Unlike her best friends, her House colours didn’t bleed into her everyday life—her old life.

Her bedroom at home was softer, almost childish in its femininity and primarily made up of pastels and white; not a style befitting of a Gryffindor. But she loved it. She loved having a side of herself that wasn’t tainted by her friends’ opinions or even by magic. She knew it would be unfair, then, to hold Draco to the standard she herself refused to adhere to.

Still…

Like the hallways, there were no portraits to be found in his library, but the vast, wooden bookshelves made up for the lack of décor. The sconces on the walls were gold, an intriguing choice for someone like him. She would have expected silver, a nod to his Hogwarts House, or even black for simplicity. But they were gold—not brass, not bronze or copper. Gold. She had chosen not to ask then, but his choice still struck her as odd many days later.

In fact, Hermione had noted, if there had been crystal vases of wildflowers sprinkled throughout the room and a chaise lounge by the south window, perhaps even a soft rug in a shade of white as luminous as the walls… No.

No, she wouldn’t let herself go there.

She wouldn’t allow herself the fantasy of sprinkling her own touches throughout his space. It was not her place, and her opinions were far from welcome here.

“If you don’t understand basic biology by now, Malfoy, I’m not sure I can help you.” She teased, gently easing the cover of the book back into place. “Besides, I’m not pregnant.” She added breathily, standing from where she’d been perched on the loveseat and strolled around the coffee table. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

Hermione had to walk in front of him to get to the bookshelves, and he pulled his legs back from where his feet had been resting on the end of the table to let her pass.

“That so?” He asked, and she could feel his eyes on her as she skipped up the three short steps to the platform that housed the bookshelves.

Hermione slid the book back into its proper space on the shelf and began her search for another. She crouched down to look at the bottom shelf, her eyes roving over the books’ spines, waiting for a title to jump out at her.

“Granger?”

She looked up to find him leaning against the shelf she was occupying. “That was the agreement, wasn’t it? That I was never pregnant?”

Hermione pulled the text from their third-year Divination class and snorted, giving him an odd smile. “Of all the books to hang onto…”

“I never understood your passionate distaste for Divination.” Draco mused. “Perhaps if you’d paid better attention in that class, you would have foreseen your predicament.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, strange as that feeling was. “You’re giving Trelawney too much credit. That woman is certifiable!”

He didn’t deny it, a half-smile toying with the corner of his mouth. Hermione stood, the textbook clutched in her left hand. She swatted him with it as she moved past him, walking down the steps to return to her spot on the loveseat.

“What subject are you pursuing today?” she asked, reaching for a de-stemmed strawberry from the breakfast tray. “Yesterday it was Potions—” She gave a pointed look to where he remained between the bookshelves. “Redundant for you. How much more about potion-making can you possibly learn?”

Draco leaned forward, resting his hands on the railing as he looked down at her. “What do you suggest, then?”

Hermione chewed the strawberry as she considered this. After swallowing, she gestured to the book in her lap. “Care to use your inner eye and suffer along with me?”

Just as she had slipped a second strawberry between her lips, he replied, “Tempting.”

She felt the tell-tale blush warm her cheeks and turned back to the breakfast tray, leaning forward to refill her cup of tea. “If we’re going back to third year, you could get reacquainted with The Monster Book of Monsters.” She sipped her tea as she looked up at him innocently. “I believe there’s a section on Hippogriffs you might be interested in.”

He simply smirked, not taking the bait. “Useless class, that was.”

She scoffed. “It was not!”

“Name a single thing you learned. I’ll wait—I imagine it’ll take a while.” He came down the steps soundlessly and sank into the armchair across from her, then put his socked feet on the table once more, daring her to say something. She merely blinked at him and snacked on the small, red berries.

“That oaf was about as useless to me as Trelawney was to you.”

“You are entitled to your opinion, but you’re wrong.” She looked down at the Divination text and opened the cover, noting his signature scrawled in the bottom corner. “You just don’t care about creatures you feel are beneath you.”

Although she had mumbled the words under her breath, the stillness in his posture informed her he had heard them.

Well, this won’t be good.

“Go on, then. Say what you really want to say, since you seem to have me figured out so well.”

She looked up from the book and rested her hands on the open page. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” She said coolly, and inwardly she winced. “It was simply an observation.”

“An observation that I don’t care?”

Hermione sighed delicately. “I only meant you don’t see all magical creatures equally. You come from a place that believes in a hierarchy where Pure-bloods reign supreme—is it wrong of me to assume that’s how you feel?” She asked. “If I am wrong, please tell me.”

Draco’s eyes were hard as steel as they met hers. “I do feel some creatures are beneath me,” he confirmed. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t care, to some extent.”

Alright, she thought. This was fine. Manageable, even. This was a side of him she was learning to accept—not only tolerable but tolerant. In fact, he’d gone over two weeks without calling her names or picking fights. Aside from their mornings in the library, they stayed out of each other’s way and had developed a routine. An understanding. A tenuous, unspoken agreement of truce. He was trying—really trying, to be good, or at least better than he’d been. He never mentioned his father. He’d not even mentioned Ron or Harry since she’d taken the potion. In return, she’d held back from wanting to ask about Lucius, or ask if he still carried the Dark Mark on his forearm.

After she’d taken the potion, she had only meant to stay for one night, maybe two. She would never mean to take advantage of someone’s generosity, especially not from a rival. Enemy was too harsh a word for what he was to her—Draco had been Harry’s enemy, not Hermione’s. It was that reasoning that convinced her to stay a third day, and after that, she had run out of excuses. She was no longer pregnant, thanks to him. She could finally breathe without feeling like the world was going to cave in on her, also thanks to him. Hermione truly had no reason to still be there other than the fact that she wanted to be.

And he had seemed fine with that.

Somehow, they had found a way to exist in each other’s space without disrupting the fine balance between them. It was as if they were both living in a fantasy, the real world staying outside the gates of the manor. No one came in or out but for an owl to deliver mail and the paper every morning. There was simply a silent, mutual agreement that she would no longer hold his past against him, and he would no longer treat her as he had.

But, being a fine balance, any small thing, any unfortunate comment, could shift said balance and send their arrangement crashing. Crashing and burning.

And that’s exactly what happened when Hermione chose to antagonise him that morning.

A petty comment, said without rational thought—and not one she’d meant for him to hear—had begun to crumble their shaky foundation. He had heard her, and she now braced herself for what was to come. It had been too easy, after all—living here as if they were anything close to resembling friends. It was only a matter of time before the niceties wore off and their true colours came through.

How fitting it was for her to have struck the first match.

Too casually he crossed one leg over the other and gave a small shrug with his right shoulder. “I let a Mudblood into my house, didn’t I?”

There it was, the proper return of Draco Malfoy.

It stung.

It stung so badly it almost knocked her out of her seat, yet a part of her had been waiting for it. The ease with which he reverted back to his old, hateful self without missing a beat was nothing short of jarring. It wasn’t as if she believed it to be gone—a month was hardly enough time to turn around one’s belief system—but for a while she had seen progress.

Or, disturbingly, maybe she had only been seeing what she wanted to see. It was a fatal flaw of hers, wanting to see the good in people. She was never shy to judge someone, to come to her own conclusions about a person’s character, but she was always curious about the lightness in people. How it manifested in them. She knew for some people it was easier to show only the dark, whether from a righteous belief or as a defence mechanism; for Draco, she’d never known which applied. Maybe it was both, in that he believed the hate and used it to validate his actions. Maybe it was neither, and he just liked being cruel…but that seemed too simple. No one could be so cruel for so long without a reason.

Still, it hurt to be on the receiving end of this particular brand of cruelty once more. Where was this Draco when he had offered to help her? Where was this Draco when he’d practically coerced her into staying?

Hermione shrank back in the loveseat, her chest tightening, but she refused to express any sort of emotion in front of him—he didn’t deserve it, and he would most certainly taunt her for it. She wished he would have been this version of himself in Diagon Alley. She would have been far better off not knowing that he was capable of compassion, continuing to believe he was just as entitled and bigoted as his father. She would have been so much better off not knowing how he prepared his tea in the morning, or how he often spent his afternoons sunbathing, his alabaster skin incapable of taking on any colour.

Fuck him.

Before she could form a dignified response, he was standing. He straightened his clothes—black trousers and a fitted, lightweight grey jumper that covered his forearms—and raked his fingers through his hair.

“I won’t be able to hang around and debate ethics with you today, I’m afraid.” He finished his cup of tea in one surprisingly elegant gulp, then set it back down on the saucer with a slight clink. “But please, make yourself at home in my absence.”

With a last snotty imitation of a smile he was off, leaving the library doors open as he went. Hermione stayed rooted in place. After a minute she realised several small, perfectly ripe berries had been in her hand when he’d insulted her, and were now squished beyond recognition. Red juice dripped through her fingers onto the fabric, the crushed flesh and seeds spread across her palm as she uncurled her fingers. It would be effortless to go down the hall and retrieve her wand to clean up the mess.

But she didn’t feel like doing that.

In fact, she thought a bit of red might do this space some good. As she stood and crossed to the doors, she stretched out her fingers and smacked her open, strawberry-stained hand onto the pristine white wall.

If he was going to resort to childish antics, she was more than happy to play along.

Hermione had fallen asleep outside, the heat from the sun and the intensely floral scent of lavender lulling her into a deep sleep on the ground. It had been a lovely, dreamless sleep, too. The ground was soft and warm, the buzzing of bees a pleasant hum in the background. It had been the perfect way to turn the day around after her tense morning with Draco. She had told herself she’d only shut her eyes for a minute—she simply wanted to rest her eyes, take in the sunshine like a cat lying in front of a window. Lazy, relaxed. Not a single care in the world.

She awoke well into a thunderstorm, the skies a menacing dark grey, cracking with streaks of purple and blinding light. It was far from an ideal situation to be caught in, and had it not been for the hail pelting her skin, she might not have even woken up. As it was, opening her eyes to find lightning overhead had sent a thrill of panic through her, and she quickly collected herself and the blasted Divination textbook. A clap of thunder rolled through her, reverberating in her chest the way it did windows on a house, making her nearly lose her balance as she rushed back to the doors.

She made it inside just as another streak of lightning blazed across the sky; she closed her eyes and braced for the thunder, resting her back against the door to keep steady. Inside the house the thunder echoed in the nearly-empty space, ricocheting off the marble and stone, shaking the window panes. When it passed seconds later, Hermione took a deep breath and pushed herself off the garden door.

She was soaked through. The white, sleeveless dress she had transfigured from a spare bedsheet—the weather today being too warm for most of her actual clothes—stuck to her and felt like a slimy, humid, second skin. She could only hope it wasn’t see-through. The book in her hands had suffered the most damage, though, as she had fallen asleep reading, the open pages taking the brunt of the downpour.

As she began to manoeuvre her way through the halls to the staircase, she studied the ruined pages, wondering if a simple drying spell could save them. Although she maintained a certain disdain for the subject, it was still a book and it didn’t deserve to be ruined beyond repair. Especially when its owner was an unpredictably moody little prick.

“You look like a drowned Kneazle.” Like the thunder, Draco’s voice bounced around the walls, making her stumble on the stairs. Her eyes darted around until she spotted him leaning on the banister at the top of the stairs, watching her make her way up.

She held the sodden book in front of her chest, just in case her dress was sheer—she expected it was, the way it clung to her, suffocated her. As he’d announced he would be gone for the day, she hadn’t bothered with a bra, and the frigid air inside the manor now made her unbearably aware of her nipples.

“Drown many of them, have you?” She kept her eyes on him as she ascended the staircase, the hem of her dress sprinkling water on the marble as she went. “I wouldn’t be surprised if so—they are beneath you.”

Draco chuckled but he didn’t argue that point. “You’re dripping water everywhere.”

“Better water than my dirty blood.” She muttered. Before she reached the last step, he was standing in front of her. He rested a hand on either banister, caging Hermione in and preventing her from getting around him. “Is this my eviction notice?”

He tilted his head slightly, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. “Play nice and I’ll give you a second chance.”

“Play nice with snakes?” Her eyes darted from his lips to the space between his left arm and side, just enough of a gap that she might be able to squeeze through if she was fast enough. “I think that would be beneath me, Malfoy.”

His eyes lit up with mischief. “You would like to be on top, controlling as you are. Ever had a snake beneath you, Granger?” He leaned forward an inch, just enough of a shift to make Hermione notice her now considerable height disadvantage. She wasn’t short by any means, even above the average at five-foot-five, but Draco was easily six-feet. The addition of the top step put him a solid foot above her, and if she angled her head back any more to maintain eye contact, she was sure should lose her balance and topple down the stairs.

Her eyes fell to the base of his throat, to the neckline of his grey jumper that she now noticed was soaked through as well. He must’ve just returned home, she realised. She had left her wand in the guest room, but he had no excuse for not casting a drying charm on himself.

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

If she could just duck down enough to leap through the gap—

Draco lowered his left arm, wrapping his hand around an iron spindle as if he could sense her plan of escape. “Lions more your speed, then?” With the angle of his new position, she could feel his breath on her forehead as he spoke—close, hot, with a hint of mint and a pungent, herbal note she couldn’t identify. “What’s that like, anyway? Fucking one. A bit messy, I’d imagine. Animalistic.”

Hermione’s fingers wrapped around the book, curling and tightening, pouring all her energy into it to stay composed as he attempted to rile her up.

“Won’t you tell me all about the mating rituals of Gryffindors? I am curious.” Draco lowered to the top step, forcing Hermione against the rail to make room for him.

Although their height difference was back to normal, Hermione only needing to lift her chin to meet his eyes, the proximity made her stomach plummet.

“Pansy caught them once during patrol—Weasel and his airheaded girlfriend.” Draco’s tone was light, almost cheerful, intentionally setting a trap for Hermione to fall into. “He’d snuck her into a bathroom, had her sucking him off against a sink. She only went to check because that ex-boyfriend of yours was quite vocal.”

As Hermione looked down, she noticed the hand on the spindle twitch, the tendons in his wrist flexing, and she couldn’t help but study the lines of greenish-blue veins under his skin. The sleeve of his jumper was pulled up just enough to show his wrist, but not enough to show the mark she suspected was still there.

“She thought it was a shame—that Brown was on her knees like an obedient pet, getting nothing out of the exchange.”

Hermione’s chin trembled as she gathered the will to meet his gaze. She wouldn't allow herself to show that he made her uncomfortable. “Does Pansy make a habit of watching people in intimate situations?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, but she commended herself for locking eyes with his, glaring into them. If he was startled by the sudden shift in her demeanour, she couldn’t tell. He was frustratingly good at masking his emotions. “I didn’t know voyeurism was a Slytherin trait.”

“Only for research purposes—to compare.”

Hermione laughed without humour, leaning further against the handrail to create a bit of distance. “And what conclusion did Pansy come to?” She didn’t know why she’d felt compelled to ask, to further the inappropriate conversation, but she knew she wanted to beat him at his own stupid game. “That Gryffindors have passion? That they aren’t soulless, selfish, spineless reptiles and actually give a damn about the people they’re with?” She gripped the book tighter, droplets of rainwater squeezing out of the cover and sliding down her fingertips. “If Lavender was on her knees—a position I’m sure Pansy is very familiar with—it’s because she wanted to be. She wanted to please her partner, and you and your friends want to mock her for it?”

She was sucking in hard, defensive breaths now, and the wicked gleam that flashed through his eyes told her she had lost. Oh, Merlin, how she had lost.

“We never mocked her.” Draco crooned. “We simply pitied her. We may be ‘soulless, selfish, spineless reptiles,’ but unlike you lot, we are the ones who give a damn about our partners.” He scanned a lazy path down her face and the exposed column of her throat, shifting to follow the curtain of hair that had been weighed down by the storm.

The advantage to it being mostly damp still was that it was unable to frizz, but it had the effect of appearing longer, and more wavy than curly. In her view, her hair was at its best right after a wash, before she’d even placed a drying charm. All her life she had wanted smooth hair—the curls she could manage, but the frizz was always a sore spot of insecurity for her.

That said, Hermione’s hair had never looked better since staying with Draco. Her mass of curls and waves was still there, but it was as if the water was enchanted to smooth them out. If she ever decided to speak to him again, she would have to ask him about it.

As Draco now studied her hair in its—arguably—most attractive form, the grey of his eyes was molten silver as they skimmed over the brown locks. It was almost sensual, the way it fell down her back, the front strands clinging to the bare skin of her upper arm.

She couldn’t decide whether the tight achiness in her gut meant she was going to be sick or—to her absolute horror—she was turned on by this. By him. His assessment of her. She hoped it was the former, hoped she would vomit all over his shoes and the expensive marble.

She had not counted on her years’ long secret attraction to him eventually manifesting when deciding to stay with him. Under the circumstances of her arrival, that dormant part of her brain she’d usually had secured under many, many layers of protection, should have stayed buried.

But he was dragging it out of her now.

He was forcing his way in, slipping past every layer of defence she held in place, and deciding to take up residence in her consciousness.

“Say what you will about us, Granger, but we always aim to please.” Draco trailed from the ends of her hair that were sticking to her elbow and stopped his perusal at her chest, his brows furrowing as if he hadn’t noticed a book was even there and seemed perplexed by its presence.

Hermione exhaled shakily, noticing his eyeline at the hint of cleavage that peeked out over the book. “That’s rather chivalrous,” she rasped. “That’s supposed to be a Gryffindor trait. You are the self-serving ones.”

“It’s not chivalry,” he stated in a voice just above a whisper, and the sound of it nearly made her collapse. She would have, too, if not for the banister holding up her weight. “It’s fairness. There’s no point in having a partner if you’re only in it for yourself.”

Keeping her distracted by no more than the mere thought of Draco returning the favour, he wrenched the book from her hands.

Too easy, she recalled a moment later. He’d gotten under her skin, wore down her defences, and planted the seed that would rot her mind from the inside out far too easily.

Leaving her without the protection of the thick textbook, she felt sure her breasts were on display for him, though he was fixated on the book. As she was sufficiently warmed-through now, she knew her nipples were still hard for a very different reason.

“I-I’m sorry about the book.” She stammered. “I can try to fix it—”

“It’s fine,” he murmured, turning it over in his hand to assess the damage. “It’s not the first book to be left in the rain. I’ll take care of it.”

Hermione managed a weak nod and gestured helplessly to the hallway. “Can I—may I get through?”

Draco looked up from the book, noticing he was still blocking her exit. He dropped his hand without hesitation, inviting her to go. “All you had to do was ask.”

She scowled at him and stomped up the last step.

“You might want to change into something warmer,” he called once Hermione was in the hallway. “It’s a bit nippy outside.”

Chapter Text

21 June 1998

Hermione awoke earlier than usual that morning, the sun just barely peeking through the windows that she preferred to leave uncovered. It would be a good day, it seemed, judging by the endless stretch of blues and pinks in the sky with not a cloud in sight. The possibility of a storm brewing inside the house, however, remained to be seen.

She didn’t know how to prepare for the morning ahead. Would she be allowed back into his library? Would things be horribly awkward between them? They’d both gone too far, had both intentionally pushed and prodded one another. Hermione was certain she couldn’t handle another spat so soon after she’d been stripped bare of her defences before him.

How bloody humiliating it had been and yet…thrilling, too. A petty spark. Challenging conversations. That’s what she’d been missing at the Burrow. That’s what she’d been missing from Ron since they decided to shift from good friends to awkward lovers. She needed an outlet, one that would have been impossible to pursue at the Weasleys (if she ever hoped to get back in their good graces one day).

As she sat up and stretched, she wondered what she and Draco would argue about today.

It wasn’t that she was hoping for it—nor did she intend to go to war with Draco—but after she’d left him on the staircase, she had felt a rare bit of excitement coursing through her. Were she not secure in the belief that he found her unattractive, she would have felt nervous about facing him again. Her own inappropriate, ill-timed infatuation she could handle, but if he’d been at all serious in his teasing, she would have left last night.

When the sun was higher up, and Hermione guessed the time to be around eight, she got out of bed and went to retrieve clothes from her bag. The one chest of drawers in the room remained empty. She acted the same as she had at the Burrow, keeping all of her possessions on her in one easy-to-grab place. It was a habit she couldn’t allow herself to part with from the war. If she needed to leave here, or anywhere, at a moment’s notice, she couldn’t waste time collecting her belongings.

She pulled out a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt—both recently washed and ironed, scented with hints of fresh citrus and grass—and looked around the room, instantly feeling her optimism for the day begin to diminish. The room was dreary, there was no getting around it. Grey and dull, as lifeless as the manor had been when she and her friends had been dragged in against their wills just months before. She shuddered, willing herself not to think about it as she fished in her bag for her white bra.

The guest bedroom was a stark contrast to Draco’s library, a room so oddly light. She still didn’t know if he’d always had his library as a cosy, warm escape from the rest of the house, or if he’d remodelled in the few short weeks following the war. If she were to bet on it, she would guess the latter. She couldn’t imagine Lucius Malfoy giving his seal of approval, nor could she imagine a younger Draco wanting to deviate from his father’s lead.

In the bathroom, after brushing her teeth and dressing for the day, she looked out the west-facing windows behind the tub and set her eyes on her favourite spot. The patches of wildflowers looked so inviting in the early morning light—so much so that she found herself outside hours earlier than she normally would.

The air had a chill and the grass was still dewy, and it felt invigorating. The storm from the day before had, miraculously, left no marks behind in the garden, the flowers sturdy and blooming with bees already flocking to them. So colourful and bright, filled with life, that Hermione couldn’t resist cutting several stems to take back with her; cornflowers, daisies, stunningly-vibrant red poppies, to name a few. She only took a little, and only from the patches the bees and butterflies hadn’t gotten to yet.

It was only after she was on her way back inside with handfuls of flowers that she realised she may have made a mistake. She could admire the flowers all she liked, but she was never told she could take some. She also wasn’t told she couldn’t…

Mistake number two was realising she had nothing to put them in. It wasn’t like her to be so impulsive, so unprepared, but she hadn’t been able to resist the urge.

Half an hour later she was placing two of the three vases in the guest bedroom. The colours clashed with the grey tones, but it was something. She planned to sneak the third vase into the library before Draco went in for breakfast.

“Those are for the bees.” He said in place of “good morning” as she came to a stop just inside the doors of the library, holding the wildflower-filled crystal vase with both hands out in front of her.

It seemed he had also woken up too early that morning. He eyed the vase with a blank look while Hermione tried to determine a good spot to place it. The breakfast tray was already on the coffee table, taking up most of its surface.

“I’ve left more than enough.” She said, settling for an end table beside an armchair. “So, they were planted intentionally, then?”

“Pollinators aren’t fond of enchanted roses.” He narrowed his eyes as she placed the crystal directly onto the wooden surface of the table. “Where did you find the vase?”

Hermione centred the vase and fidgeted with the flowers until she was satisfied with their arrangement. “I enlarged a few potion phials—I’ll shrink them back and Scourgify them when the flowers are done.”

Draco, sitting just a few feet from where she stood, smirked and asked, “Is this a peace offering?”

She straightened up and slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans as she considered his question. “Yes and no.”

“What’s the no?”

She inhaled deeply and dared a look at him. He wasn’t being snarky this morning, he wasn’t taunting or teasing. He only seemed to be asking out of genuine curiosity.

“I have a condition.”

“Goody.” He replied dryly, but his shoulders relaxed. “Let me have it.”

She waited until he met her eyes to start in on him. If there was ever a good time to bring up the subject, the day after a series of gruelling conversations was probably it.

“If you ever call me a Mudblood again—even in passing, even if you think you’re joking—I will not hesitate to walk out those doors and never speak to you again.”

“That’s not the threat you think it is.”

She held out her left forearm, staring hard into his eyes until he forced himself to look at the damaged skin. “This is my line. If you cross it, I will never forgive you for it. If you use it in reference to me around your friends, I will never forgive you for it. Are we understood?”

“Perfectly.” He agreed, taking in an almost grateful breath when Hermione pulled her arm back. “Although, I can’t control if other people use it around me.”

“I know you can’t.” She said with a nod. “But for the first time in your life, you have control of yourself and your actions. I don’t care what other people say, let them be ignorant arseholes all they like, but I expect more from you.”

His brow furrowed as he narrowed his eyes once more. “Why is that?”

“Because you may actually be capable of being a halfway decent person.”

He deserved an award for the way he held back his eye-roll just then. “Just decent? Not good?”

Hermione snorted. “None of us are good.” She replied, then muttered, “Well, Harry might be. But I’m not good. I try my best to be…light. But not without fail sometimes. I won’t hold it against you if you have a slip-up, but not—”

“That word.”

“Right.”

“Done.” He affirmed, then seemed to notice she was still standing. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”

“Oh, erm,” she mumbled, realising it herself. Normally she would have settled onto her favourite cushion of the loveseat by now, but she was hesitant. “Yes? I’m glad we got that all sorted, but about last night—”

He let himself roll his eyes then. “What about it?”

“I know my being here is an inconvenience to you—”

“You’re not an inconvenience, Granger. I barely notice you’re here.”

“But about what you said—”

“After you accused me of being a Pure-blood supremacist incapable of caring for creatures ‘beneath me?’”

“Oh.” Hermione shuffled her feet. “You didn’t mean it, then?”

“I still think house-elves and Kneazles are beneath me,” he quipped, but Hermione, somehow, could see he was at least partly joking. “But, no, I no longer believe Muggle-borns to be any different, magically speaking. I haven’t for a while. Contrary to what most Pure-blood families choose to believe, magic doesn’t spontaneously appear in muggles.”

Hermione tiptoed around the loveseat, gauging his mood to see if she would be welcome to sit down. He gave her slow, patronising smile, and she groaned inwardly as she sank onto the cushion. “Painful as this is to admit, I don’t know very much about that.” She said, eyeing the breakfast options for the morning. “I know I must have a magical ancestor somewhere, but I don’t know whose side they’re on, or how many generations back they are.”

She leaned forward to butter a slice of toast, then topped it with strawberry jam. “It feels unfair sometimes, that the trait manifested in me. Not either of my parents, not my grandparents, or aunts and uncles, cousins…” she took a bite and chewed, using her free hand to catch the crumbs. “Why me?”

“Luck of the draw.” He said flatly. “Or fate.” He gave her a wry look then nodded to the book on the table, the Divination textbook he’d been unable to salvage. “I doubt Potter and Weasel would have survived a month on the run without you.”

Hermione swallowed her next bite and frowned. “So, you believe my being a witch was fated? To help Harry?”

“It’s a theory. A plausible one, even. Why else would you have been sorted into Gryffindor? You’re brave, I’ll grant you that. But you’re smarter than the average lion. You’re not kind or non-judgmental enough to be a Hufflepuff—”

“I am very kind!” She argued, but he simply blinked at her, a hint of a smile on his lips. She exhaled a bitter breath and took a last, unladylike bite of her toast. “When the person deserves it.”

He nodded, as if she’d just proven his point, and he mouthed the word, “judgmental.”

“I believe in fairness. I could have been a Hufflepuff.”

“I believe in fairness, too, but you won’t see me parading about in yellow.”

It was Hermione’s turn to roll her eyes. She filled a cup with hibiscus tea then added a spoonful of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. “Do you ever hate how we were sorted?” She asked, stirring her tea. She gave it an experimental sip, then added more sugar.

“No. I always knew I’d be in Slytherin. It was expected.”

Hermione nodded absently and took another sip before setting the cup on the saucer, then settled back against the loveseat. “No, I know, but... It’s determined when we’re eleven, when we’re children who still have years to grow and develop our personalities. Our beliefs.” She drew a leg up to her chest and rested her chin on her knee. “And why are the House traits so rigid? Why can’t I be brave, just, ambitious, and wise all at once?”

“You can be, but that’s not the point of sorting. You know that. The Sorting Hat chooses based on the traits you possess and what you value.”

She sniffed and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Well, it puts people at a horrible disadvantage—for the rest of our lives we’ll be judged based on the House we were sorted into. You, of all people, should recognise how wrong that is. Honestly, I don’t know why I was sorted into Gryffindor—I wanted Gryffindor. I wanted to embody those traits more than anything…but I never really thought I’d get in. I had resigned myself to Ravenclaw.”

Draco shook his head. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you're too unimaginative and too much of a bitch to be in Ravenclaw." Her eyes widened but he carried on as if he hadn't just offended her. "You think you would have gotten on well with the likes of Luna Lovegood? With your temper?"

"I don't have a temper!" She insisted. "I have a low tolerance for certain people, yes, but that's not necessarily a bad thing!"

"I didn't say it was. I'm only pointing out why you were meant for Gryffindor—fated, if you will. The most intelligent witch that school has seen in a generation, a Muggle-born, no less, just happened to get sorted into the House with the Chosen One and his ginger sidekick?”

“Don’t do that.” Hermione warned. “Don’t belittle him like that. Harry and I wouldn’t have survived without Ron.”

“You would have survived.” He corrected her, almost like a challenge. “Potter would have survived long enough for You-Know-Who to take him out.”

Hermione leaned forward, eyes fixed on his cool, unwavering expression of superiority. “Did you know Harry almost drowned in a frozen pool trying to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor? If Ron hadn’t found him, Voldemort would have won.” She said icily, her defensiveness for her friends clouding every instinct that warned her Draco had just been teasing, had just been trying to rile her up for his own enjoyment.

“I’m sure he would have found his way out—the plan for Potter was far too convoluted to be foiled by water.” He mused, then mistakenly added, “It was just convenient Weasley was there.”

He doesn’t mean any of this…

But that thought didn’t tame the surge of irritation, and Hermione’s reaction seemed to be exactly what he expected. He was lounging in his leather armchair, watching her, fascinated by how quickly he could flip her switch.

“Did you also know that Ron knew enough Parseltongue to open the Chamber of Secrets and collect the Basilisk’s fangs? Or that he helped destroy the Horcruxes? Or that he risked his life, time and time again, because he knew Harry’s mission was more important than any of us? Ron has always protected and sacrificed for Harry—he’s the reason we’re all here, not me, and I would not have survived without him!”

Her words were shrill as she hurled them at him, but he wasn’t giving her what she needed—he wasn’t sparring with her. He wouldn’t. And, fuck, if that didn’t fuel her rage. “People give me far too much credit—the clever Muggle-born. The researcher. The fixer of everyone’s problems. I’m an anomaly—I will never fit in, not in this world or the muggle—but if I have a place with Harry and Ron, if I can help them, I have no excuse not to!”

“That’s fucking pathetic.” Draco laughed into his mug. Coffee this morning, it seemed, the colour pale from too much milk. “You thought I was belittling Weasel, and you turn around and do it to yourself. Pathetic.”

Hermione stood so fast her knees knocked against the table, dislodging the spoon from the sugar dish and flinging hundreds of tiny crystals across the tray. “You are fucking pathetic! Following Daddy, desperately wanting his approval so much you almost wound up in Azkaban for him!”

A small part of her mind wondered if the windows would shatter had they not been charmed. “You’ve spent your whole miserable life being an obnoxious, hateful twat just so he would love you! You took the Dark Mark for him! You are branded for life because of that monster!”

“As are you.” He stated calmly—too calmly—his eyes flicking to her left forearm once more. “You were branded, scarred, because no one protected you, either. Be grateful you walked away with just a scar.”

He was serious now, a slight, involuntary shudder passing through him. Hermione’s mouth went dry at the memory of the snatchers in the woods, the implication that things could have been far worse for her if their escape from Malfoy Manor hadn’t worked out exactly as it had.

Hermione forced herself to swallow in a weak attempt to loosen the tightness in her throat.

“Well, it’s not as if you tried to help me.”

“I did help you, Granger.” He countered, eyeing her over his mug as he took another sip. “I didn’t identify you. That was the most help I could have offered you—my aunt would’ve happily killed me if it meant getting to Potter, make no mistake. My indifference to you all bought you time.”

“Your…indifference.” She repeated. “You knew it was Harry.”

“Of course I knew.” Draco then set his mug down on the table. Hermione gracelessly sank back down onto the loveseat’s cushions, facing him. “I just wanted it to be over—believe me, if Potter had died, I would’ve happily offed myself soon after. There was no point to living if that was what I had to look forward to.”

Draco watched her carefully, studying every stain of blush on her cheeks, her neck, every imperfect freckle—but he avoided her eyes directly. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his hands clasping together. “Do your friends carry scars from the war like you?”

“Of course they do.” She said warily. “None of us came out of it unscathed.”

“But do they have to walk around with the physical reminder of it for the rest of their lives? It must bother you, surely, that it was you who’d been maimed? You who’d suffered the Cruciatus Curse?”

“Luck of the draw.” She muttered, though the words held little fire. It was simply a matter of fact. The sword had been in her bag, but she often wondered if it would’ve mattered anyway. Bellatrix Lestrange had been wicked enough that she wouldn’t have needed a reason to torture someone.

“Do you think either of them would have taken your place, if given the chance?”

“Yes.” She said immediately, but she wasn’t entirely convincing. Harry loved her, she knew, but he’d never been in a situation where he had to put her first. Ron loved her, but if it had to come between protecting her or protecting Harry… “Ron would have—I know he would have. He tried to.”

“Not hard enough.” He said evenly, as if reading her thoughts. “And not if that left Potter alone in the cellar. You think he would have taken a chance on you getting out of here alive over him?”

“What’s your point, Malfoy?”

“My point is, Granger, that no matter how much you give, how much of yourself you sacrifice for them, they will never return the favour the way you deserve.” Draco reached for the stolen wand he’d been using to cast a charm, sweeping the sugar crystals back into the dish as if they’d never escaped. “You love them, fine, but what do you get out of it?”

“It’s not about me. It’s never been about me.”

“And you don’t find anything wrong with that?”

“I…no. I don’t. I shouldn’t—everything I did was for the greater good. Every night’s sleep I missed to study, every bruise and scar I endured from fighting, my parents—” her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, fighting to hold that particular dam in place.

She cleared her throat after a long moment and gave a helpless shrug. “It was all for the greater good.”

Draco groaned. “Fucking Gryffindors and their saviour complexes.” He snorted a laugh then and reached for a slice of toast from the breakfast tray. “If you ever again question why you were sorted into Gryffindor, remember this conversation.”

Hermione sank deeper into the cushions, thoroughly deflated, while Draco rather smugly ate his breakfast as if he hadn’t put her through the wringer in just a few minutes’ time.

“Do you feel better?”

“No.”

He ate as she finished off her rapidly-cooling tea. She had prepared for some sort of altercation today, but no matter which scenario she played out in her head, she never expected to lose. She never expected to have her solid beliefs smacked off of their foundation with appalling precision. It wouldn’t have mattered if Draco had been a physical fighter—his psychological tactics were horrifying enough in their efficiency. If he had cared enough to, Hermione could only begin to wonder how much damage he could’ve singlehandedly inflicted in the war.

Still very much trying to process that discovery, Draco startled her by saying, “I noticed your other contribution to the library.” He gestured to the wall by the doors, her streaky, pinkish-red handprint on the white paint. It was dried now, the seeds and pulp of the berries ready to flake off. He tossed her a strawberry from the tray, and she flushed as she caught it. “I never thought red would be a good colour in here, but it adds a certain charm.”

“I…apologise.” She bit out. “That was immature of me.”

“It’s just a wall. You’re entitled to lash out every now and then.” Draco finished his coffee. “When I get access to the other wings of the manor, you’re welcome to join in on the destruction with me.”

She turned the strawberry over in her hands, debating what to do with it when the weight of his words sunk in. “You would destroy it?” Her voice was a pitch higher than intended.

“I would burn this place to the ground if I could.”

13 July 1998

Hermione awoke to chaos that morning. At first she thought the incessant banging was a lingering sound in her head from a dream she couldn’t quite remember, but when she heard the distinctive sound of Draco cursing in the hallway, she knew something was happening. She slid out of bed in her summer pyjamas that consisted of no more than sleeping shorts and a pink t-shirt and headed for the door. She cracked it open, finding Draco leisurely walking to the stairs, pulling a white shirt over his head while the banging on the front doors persisted.

The sight of a shirtless Draco Malfoy was not how she’d expected to start her morning, but she found herself without complaint. He was too far away for her to make out fine details, only noting that he was rather fit. She was also in disbelief that he actually owned a t-shirt—it wasn’t the shock of his arms being bare, but that the shirt looked so normal. So…muggle.

She crept down the hallway as he descended the staircase, his head of ruffled, slept-on blonde hair disappearing after a few steps. A minute later she heard the doors swing open, a loud creak echoing through the empty halls that was followed by several pairs of footsteps smacking on the marble.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Minister?”

It was still dark out, barely past six in the morning. Hermione knew Draco, per the terms of his probation, was subject to unexpected visits by Ministry officials. From what she’d been told, Aurors usually did a rough sweep of the place, looking in vain for damning evidence against him but always coming up empty. Then they would leave, add to his sparkling file that he was obeying orders, and the cycle would start all over again.

But he had never mentioned the raids included supervision by the Minister for Magic.

“Your mother wrote.” The sound of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice woke her up immediately, and she tiptoed down the hall as far as she could before she’d be visible to the entryway below. “She’s concerned for your health. Says you haven’t been responding to her letters.”

“Mummy asked you to check on me personally, then?” Draco managed a derisive snort. “How sweet. Thank her for me, will you? In the meantime, I would like to get back to bed.” Draco came into her line of vision then, taking a seat on the second-to-last step. He ran a hand through his hair and yawned.

“You can, once they’ve done their search.”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary. Haven’t you all stolen everything you needed to by now?” He waved a hand at the empty space before them. “Look around, what else is there to take?”

“Knowing your family, I imagine quite a lot. But I’ve accompanied the Aurors for another reason.”

Draco shrugged. “Which is…?”

Kingsley came to a stop in front of Draco, his hands clasped behind his back. “A classmate of yours has gone missing—Hermione Granger. She was last seen speaking with you in Diagon Alley about a month ago.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “Granger? Why are the whereabouts of Hermione Granger so important to the Ministry of Magic? I thought Muggle-borns were no longer a target.” He thought for a moment. “Or is it because she’s a member of your precious Order?”

“The concern is that she’s not been heard from in weeks, and she was last seen with you. Why was she with you?”

“We were catching up.” He lied smoothly. “Reminiscing about Hogwarts—we’re so eager to get back there, you know. Thanks so much for mandating it.”

Kingsley frowned, growing impatient. “Do you have any idea where she may have gone?”

Even from a distance Hermione could make out the shape of his lips as he smirked. “Sure, I have ideas.”

“Care to share?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Kingsley bent forward slightly, looming over him now, but Draco seemed unfazed by the intimidating closeness. “Draco, do I need to remind you that your compliance is a requirement of your probation?”

“I wasn’t aware my unscheduled drop-ins included a line of questioning first.”

“They do now.” Kingsley straightened. “So, when was the last time you saw Hermione Granger?”

“In what state?”

“Malfoy,” Kingsley’s voice was low and authoritative, in no mood for games. “If you had anything to do with her disappearance, there won’t be another trial. You’ll go straight to Azkaban—I’ll make sure of it.”

Draco yawned again, then leaned back on the steps, resting on his elbows. “Have your dogs checked the cellar? That’s where my father liked to keep his prisoners.”

Hermione heard a sickening crash from the library. Draco and Kingsley heard it, too, but before Hermione could think it through she was tearing down the hallway towards the open French doors. Two Aurors, both male, were sweeping the room, shoving books off of shelves in what Hermione could only assume to be a search for hidden items. But they weren’t going to find anything damning—Hermione had been reorganising the library all month. Draco had offered her the “job” in exchange for his hospitality, but she hadn’t cared why; she only cared that she could finally get a system in place for finding books that they could both understand.

The Aurors—instead of using their wands to detect dark magic or their hands to carefully shift books aside to look at the shelves—were only succeeding in wrecking a week’s worth of her work. When the squat Auror, a man with thinning blonde hair and an aged, lined face stepped over the books on the floor, his black boots determinedly stepping onto the already-worn covers, Hermione lost her composure.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She called out, appalled by their reckless behaviour. She’d been standing at the threshold of the library, but the moment a mud-caked boot came into contact with the book, she flew into the room. “Have you any idea how rare these books are?”

She didn’t care in that moment that they were doing their job, or that she could potentially get into trouble for interfering—she only cared about the fact that they were being disrespectful in their search.

She skipped up the steps to the platform, barefoot, and began to pick up the books when the other one, a man of average height with glasses and a neatly-trimmed black beard, attempted to pull the small stack she’d compiled from her hands. He had to wrestle them from her, Hermione only relenting when the cover of one started to splinter.

“I didn’t know desecrating priceless literature was a duty of an Auror!” She hissed.

“Hermione?”

She spun around to find a stunned Kingsley rushing into the room. Draco followed behind, unhurried, and leaned against the wall that had since been scrubbed free of her strawberry handprint.

“Is this how they are in everyone’s home, or is Draco receiving special treatment?” She demanded. She was in no mood to play nice, even if she respected the man before her—even if she absolutely owed him an explanation.

Hermione snatched the books back out of the Auror’s hands and sidestepped them both, clutching the stack against her chest as she stepped down into the sitting area. “Well?”

“Hermione, what are you doing here?”

“I’m protecting a library from being destroyed—what does it look like?”

Kingsley exhaled impatiently. “I meant, what are you doing here, at Malfoy Manor?”

“Is Draco not allowed guests?”

“You’re a guest?”

She blinked. “What else would I be? A prisoner?” She scoffed. “The war’s over, and he has no interest in hostages, I assure you.”

Kingsley’s dark eyes took her in carefully. “That doesn’t explain why you’re his guest, Hermione.”

Hermione, properly annoyed now—especially with Draco ready to burst into a fit of laughter—carefully set the books down into an armchair and squared her shoulders. “It’s none of the Ministry of Magic’s concern where I spend my summer holiday.”

“It is when there’s reason to believe you’re not here of your own free will.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Kingsley!” She laughed, throwing her arm out in disbelief. “I’m an adult, and I am recovering—I’m entitled to privacy!”

“Hermione, please…”

Hermione met the challenge in Draco’s eyes from behind Kingsley. This was, no doubt, his most exciting visit from the Ministry yet. “Fine.” She shrugged. “Draco and I have been having a secret love affair since our sixth year. Does that satisfy the DMLE’s curiosity?”

Whatever Draco had been expecting her to say, it had certainly not been that. All humour was completely wiped from his pale face, his eyes wide, and if Kingsley’s back hadn’t been turned to him, Hermione was sure his expression would have given away her lie.

“Really?” She asked, exasperated, when Kingsley just gaped at her. “You actually believed me, didn’t you?”

He folded his arms, the impatience she’d heard in his voice minutes earlier manifesting in his demeanour towards her now. “There’s very little reason for you to be here with him, Hermione.”

“We’ve known each other since we were eleven,” she reminded him. “Why is it out of the realm of possibilities that he’s simply been kind in letting me stay here?”

Kingsley swayed where he stood slightly, practically writhing with discomfort. The line between professionalism and personal obligation was wearing thin, and he needed to get a handle on the situation. “Let’s continue this discussion in the hall, shall we?” He asked, more gently than he would have had she been anyone else.

He instructed one of the Aurors to move his search to the workroom; Hermione guessed that to be the room Draco brewed his potions in. As an afterthought, Kingsley asked the bearded Auror not to be careless this time, though she could tell that detail wasn’t important to him—he was simply trying to prevent another fit from Hermione.

In the hall, with the door to the library securely sealed and a silencing charm in place—presumably to keep them from hearing further destruction—Hermione stood before the two men, defensive hands on her hips, waiting for Kingsley to begin his interrogation.

“How long have you been here?”

“I left Diagon Alley with him last month.”

“Have you been here this whole time?”

“Yes.” She met his expression squarely. “I needed time. Space. Surely you can respect that?”

“I can respect it, but I can’t say I agree with it.” Kingsley folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve a lot of people worried about you. Your friends, especially—Ron’s beaten down my office door more times than I can count, demanding we send out a search for you. I told him you probably didn’t want to be found—”

“You’re right, I didn’t.”

“But because you were last spotted with Malfoy, we had reason to be concerned.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “If he’s such a risk, why was he cleared?” She demanded. “He’s fit to walk free, to return to school, but he’s a danger to me if we’re alone?” She laughed without humour, her hands dropping from her hips as her arms relaxed. “And if he’s such a threat to my safety, why has it taken you over a month to come looking for me?”

Draco also seemed curious for the answer, glancing to Kingsley with an almost amused lift of an eyebrow.

“We had matters of higher importance.” He replied, discomfort settling over his face. “I can’t go into too much detail, but several of the Death Eaters have been difficult to track down.” He flicked a hard glance to Draco, as if he was responsible for their disappearances, too, then refocused on Hermione. “Ron offered to head up the search for you.”

“What?”

“He practically demanded I grant his exemption from school to begin Auror training.” Kingsley looked almost embarrassed as he forced out his next words. “He said he needed to focus on his career, since he’ll be having a family of his own soon.”

Hermione groaned audibly. Of course Ron would use her since-resolved situation as an excuse to leave school. Damn him. “What are you saying? What family?”

“He implied you were expecting.”

She forced a laugh. “That’s ridiculous!” She caught Draco’s suddenly blank expression and could only wonder what was going through his mind right then. Panic, probably. “No. Ron had suggested it as a way to get out of school, but I reminded him I would be the one unable to go, not him.”

“You’re not—”

“Pregnant? Goodness, no!” The laugh came easier now as it was no longer a lie. “Did it ever occur to you that Ronald was simply trying to get out of what is, essentially, an eighth year at Hogwarts? And what business is it of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?” She added hastily. “My reproductive system is of no one’s concern but my own!”

He nodded once. “If you were a muggle, then yes, it would be your business.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Kingsley shifted uneasily. “Birth rates and recorded pregnancies are lower now than they were after the First Wizarding War, Hermione. There are restrictions in place to ensure the future of our population.”

She folded her arms across her chest, her heart rate kicking up. “What kind of restrictions?”

“Let’s leave it at that.”

After an uncomfortably long minute, wherein Hermione had to refrain from looking guiltily at a still-blank Draco, she nodded at Kingsley.

“Do you want me to send word to the Weasleys that you’re here?”

“No.” Hermione and Draco said at the same time, and Kingsley’s eyes flitted between them.

The Auror that had been sent to the workroom ascended the stairs then, giving Kingsley a quick shake of the head. Hermione didn’t know what that meant, but Kingsley seemed to relax some.

“The potion supplies are lower than they were last month.” The Auror announced.

Draco seemed to snap back to himself, standing straighter, stiffer. His usual defiant arrogance slid over his face like a mask—a defence mechanism. “I was never told I couldn’t brew potions.”

“You can,” the Auror replied with an almost gleeful expression. “But what potion would you need unicorn hair for?”

“A Beautification Potion, obviously.” Draco teased. “How else would I have lured Hermione Granger into my trap?”

Her glare was sharp. This was most certainly not the time for his attempt at humour. “He’s joking.” Hermione put her hand up in a weak attempt to shield Draco from the advancing Auror and Kingsley. “He was joking,” she repeated. “I wasn’t lured here, I came voluntarily.”

“What was the unicorn hair for?” Kingsley demanded.

She didn’t have an excuse for that, her stomach sinking at the thought. If he couldn’t come up with a lie quickly enough, Kingsley would absolutely infer Draco had brewed a potion for Hermione to end the pregnancy—one he only knew about because Ron was incapable of keeping his mouth shut.

“I was trying my hand at wand-making.” Draco said, and he sounded so confident that she almost believed it herself. “The wand that Potter stole from me had a unicorn hair core. I’ve been trying to replicate it.”

“That’s interesting,” Kingsley mused. “He informed my office that he returned the wand to you. Why would you need to replicate it?”

Days before an owl had arrived with a long, narrow package. The note attached had explained, in Harry’s messy hand, that he was sorry for holding onto it for so long, and that he hopes it will learn to respond to Draco once more. Draco had been uncomfortable reading the note, eventually using the wand to try to set it on fire but it hadn’t given off so much as a spark for him.

Instead of destroying it, though, as he had sworn he would if the wand was ever returned, Draco kept the wand on the mantle of his library’s fireplace. Occasionally, during breakfast or in the evenings when she silently organised the bookshelves, making note of every author, title, subject, and date of print, she would catch him fiddling with it. Simple spells, charms easy enough for a first year, but nothing worked for him, and the ones that did had unintended results.

Yesterday morning, in fact, he had cast Aguamenti to refill the water for the vase of wildflowers, and the crystal had exploded into sharp shards all across the library. It had been such a shame, too, as that had been the first breakfast in a week to include sources of protein outside of porridge. The eggs and sausages had glittered with the dusting of almost microscopic bits of crystal, catching the morning light and rendering the food entirely inedible.

“It doesn’t work for me anymore.” Draco replied in a clipped tone. “And I doubt very much I’d be welcomed at Ollivander’s before the start of term, so I have to start somewhere.”

“Very well.” With a sigh he nodded to the Auror, and the bearded man slipped past them to go back to the library. Hermione hoped it was to wrap up their investigation—how much more of the house could they search? “I think we’re done here.”

“I assume they’ll be leaving my library in shambles?”

“Are you worried they’ll leave you with something to do for a change?” Kingsley chuckled darkly. “You’d do well to remember you’re always one wrong step away from Azkaban, Malfoy.”

Hermione’s sharp gasp captured their attention. “That was uncalled for! Searching his home is one thing, but you do not have the right to antagonise him!

“I’m surprised, Hermione. I thought you had more sense.”

“And I never thought you’d abuse your position as Minister for Magic, but here we are.” She took half a step closer to Draco without thought, her hardened eyes never leaving the formerly-respected man’s face. “As far as I know, Draco has complied with every asinine demand the Ministry has thrown at him—you’ve all done your search, now you need to leave.”

Kingsley studied her coldly, as if trying to invade her mind—surely there must be some dark reason as to why she was there. Was she being held captive? Was she under the Imperius Curse? Had she, for some insane reason, made an Unbreakable Vow with Draco and was now paying the price for it? She could see all the questions there behind his eyes, and it infuriated her.

“Do you honestly believe I’m here against my will, Kingsley?”

He shook his head after a moment, resigned. “No. Although, we can’t be too careful these days.”

“These days?” She rubbed at her eyes tiredly. “The war is over. I’m just trying to move on with my life.”

The two Aurors exited the library then, stepping between Hermione and Kingsley on their way to the stairs. Kingsley nodded after them, then said goodbye only to Hermione. She was positive he was holding back another thinly-veiled threat against Draco as he took his leave.

She felt Draco’s eyes on her as they listened to the footsteps echo on the stairs and then, finally, the sounds of the front doors opening and closing. She met his eyes, and he was scowling at her.

“I didn’t need you to defend me.”

“Piss off, Malfoy, I didn’t do it for you!” She snapped. “They were in the wrong, and I would like to go back to bed while it’s still reasonably dark out.”

As she left him, though, taking off down the hall to the guest bedroom, she had to wonder how much of that was actually true.

Chapter Text

23 July 1998

The rustling Hermione heard was not, in fact, the sound of crunching leaves underfoot as she ran through a winter-bare forest, her heart beating so loud in her ears she thought she might faint from the blood rush. She was not being chased. She was not on the run. She was not trying to out-manoeuvre a pack of highly-skilled snatchers and get to a safe point with her friends to disapparate.

No, the rustling sound was coming from her nightstand where a six-foot blonde with a death wish was raiding her stack of books.

She didn’t know which was worse.

“Oh, my god, Malfoy!” She whined, planting her face into her pillow when the light from the tip of a wand made her flinch in the darkness of the guest bedroom.

“That’s a very muggle phrase.” He commented, but the sorting of books continued. “Which god are you referring to when you say that?”

She peeked up, her left eye just barely open as it lifted enough from the pillow to see the illuminated wand tip was pointed right at her. He had it sitting on the nightstand, purposely facing her as he rummaged through the books.

“It’s just an expression.” She said icily, then flicked her hand out, sending the wand clattering to the floor. “One to convey incredulity or excitement or anger.”

Draco picked up the wand half a second later and flicked it at the sconces on the wall. The whine in Hermione’s throat was practically a growl then as she smacked her hand down on the mattress and lifted herself up onto her elbow to glare at him.

“Why?” She asked, her eyes narrowed slits as the lights assaulted her vision. “What time is it?”

“I’m looking for the—ah, here it is.” He proclaimed, taking the book from the very bottom of the stack. It was an almost pristine copy of Advanced Potion Making from their sixth year.

When she’d taken it from the library the week before, she’d noticed that it had barely ever been cracked open. There were no notes in any of the margins and his usual signature he placed on all of his textbooks was strangely absent. Of course, she knew, he’d had much bigger things on his mind that year than their N.E.W.T. level Potions class.

“It’s just after two.” He added as an afterthought, then sat down on the edge of the bed—well within kicking distance—and flipped the book open.

“Are you—” She forced her sleep-heavy limbs awake and sat up, primly yanking the duvet close to her chest. “You’re purposely trying to drive me mad, aren’t you?”

“Why would you think that?” He asked, his fingers skimming the pages, roughly tearing through them as if hunting for something specific.

“I charmed the door to stay locked.” She said evenly.

He looked at her then, an expression nothing short of amused pity. “You thought you could charm a door in Malfoy Manor to keep a Malfoy out?”

“It was worth a try.” She muttered, rubbing at her eyes.

Hermione had no idea what state she was in. Her hair was undoubtedly a mess. Her clothes, she could feel, were askew from thrashing around in her sleep. And, worst of all, she could feel the dried crust of saliva on the corner of her mouth—one that she now furiously scrubbed at with her fingertips.

“What are you looking for?”

“Dreamless Sleep Potion.” He said, then stopped on a page. “I thought of a way to improve the calming draught, perhaps take it in a different form, and I want to compare ingredients to see if I’m correct.”

She moaned and attempted to rake a hand through her hair. “And you decided to test your theory in the middle of the night?”

“What can I say?” He smiled to himself. “Inspiration struck.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Fabulous. Next time, do you think you could keep your epiphanies to the waking hours? Some of us still value sleep.”

His smile grew wider in response, and she let out an irritated huff. Now that she was awake, her bladder was screaming for attention, and she silently cursed him for it. She was shifting, scooting to the edge of the bed when she felt the rush of hot liquid pool out into her knickers. Her eyes widened as she froze.

No…

The twenty-sixth of April was the start of her last cycle. She knew that date well, could remember telling it to the mediwitch at St. Mungo’s. It was the date of the new moon that month. May’s was the twenty-fifth, June’s the twenty-fourth, and July…

“What day is it?” She asked abruptly. “What’s the date?”

“Twenty-third.”

She expelled her breath in a sigh of relief, looking up at the ceiling and not caring for once that it, too, was painted a bleak shade of storm grey. Somehow, some way, by some beautiful miracle, her cycle had returned, easing back into her natural pattern despite the two-month hormonal hiatus.

His potion had worked. It wasn’t that she’d doubted his skill—especially when he had been eager to prevent another Weasley from being born into the wizarding population—it was that, for many weeks, it had felt too good to be true. Despite acting as if the situation really was resolved, the fear never fully left her. She’d been waiting for the day she felt an inexplicable wave of nausea or noticed her clothes had started to get tighter. She’d been waiting for reality to smack her in the face and send her back to the Burrow with her tail between her legs, begging for Molly Weasley’s forgiveness and accepting the help to raise a child she most certainly didn’t want yet.

But the potion had worked.

The smarmy bastard’s potion had worked.

She felt inclined to kiss Draco then. He wouldn’t understand the significance of it, her joy, but she did. He would be appalled, maybe even disgusted, but she couldn’t care less. What stopped her from doing something stupid, though, was the knowledge that he sat just a few feet from her, and she needed him to leave now.

It most certainly did not help that the sheets were white.

She didn’t believe Draco to be squeamish. He’d been almost clinical when explaining the process of her potion-induced miscarriage—he knew female biology well enough, knew those with a female anatomy bled every month. He wasn’t Ron who had been shielded from such horrors by a prudish mother or Harry who, frankly, had no one to teach him the basics, but the thought of Draco Malfoy seeing her in such a vulnerable state put her on edge.

“Can you leave?” She asked, pleased that her voice sounded natural. “I need to get up.”

“I’ve seen you in pyjamas before, Granger.” He reminded her, his eyes roving over the potion ingredients.

She chewed her bottom lip impatiently. “Malfoy, you have the book. Please go.”

“I’m almost finished.” Draco looked over his shoulder at her. “Or is it you’re worried the sight of you is in any way appealing to me?” He gave an exaggerated survey of her exposed skin, his expression daring her to call his bluff.

And call it she would.

“Suit yourself.”

Hermione pulled back the duvet and got out of bed, well aware of the patch of red left in her wake—on the sheets, on her backside. The book audibly snapped shut, and she turned back around in time to find a pink-cheeked Draco too-casually flinging himself off the bed.

“Are you alright?” She asked innocently, wrapping her hands around a bed post. “You look a bit flushed.”

“Fine.” He ran his free hand through is hair, gripping it by the roots. “I’ll just be taking this, if you don’t mind.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s yours. Good night, Malfoy.”

He was already out the door, shutting it softly behind him, and she couldn’t hold back the trill of laughter that followed.

31 July 1998

It occurred to Hermione that morning that she was being a terrible friend.

It was Harry’s eighteenth birthday, and she was sitting in Draco Malfoy’s library, eating decadent French pastries whilst surrounded by books and glorious sunlight. Harry was likely sitting at the Weasleys’ dining table, being doted upon by his adoptive family. Mrs. Weasley would have made all of Harry’s favourite foods. Ginny would have prepared a cake for later. He and Ron would likely go flying at some point today.

And he was probably miserable.

He’d been in such a poor state when she’d left nearly two months ago. He had only begun eating regularly again, so skinny that his spine had shown through his thin t-shirts. It sickened Hermione to think that he could be worse off now because she’d been a coward and left.

After everything they had been through together, after everything she had sacrificed for him, after simply being grateful he was still alive, she had the nerve to abandon him. She had abandoned her friends, only thinking about herself.

But there was a dangerous, seductive voice in her head that told her she deserved the break. She deserved to think about herself for once. Yes, Harry had been traumatised. Yes, Ron was likely losing his mind with worry for Hermione’s well-being. But she couldn’t bring herself to care all that much—and that’s what scared her.

Having distance, having zero communication with her friends…it put things into perspective. It was uncomfortable to think that she may care more about them than they probably did about her. After the war, not a single one of them had asked about her parents, or asked how she was feeling. It was about Harry, the boy stuck in a twisted loop of life and death.

And it was about Ron. The reality of losing Fred had pushed Mrs. Weasley into being more affectionate with her youngest son, giving him the praise and adoration that he had always craved from the woman. After they had returned to the Burrow from the battle with Hermione on his arm, he had been almost god-like in his arrogance. Hermione hadn’t been able to blame him then, for he deserved to feel something good when the rest of them couldn’t.

But it was never about Hermione.

She had known when she kissed Ron the first time that it had been a mistake—a rush of emotions too strong to rationalise in the heat of the moment. All she’d known was that he felt safe, like home, and his sudden concern for the house-elves’ safety had been what she so desperately needed to hear. So, she had flung herself at him, threw her years’ long affection at him, and he’d reciprocated. It had felt so romantic then, a beautiful moment in the midst of chaos. It had felt like he was hers. It had felt like he loved her then, too.

Until it didn’t.

Until he had taken advantage of her love for him.

She still wrestled with that conclusion—surely that hadn’t been Ron’s intention. He hadn’t meant to coerce her into losing her virginity, but he hadn’t tuned into every cue that said she was uncomfortable, either. He hadn’t questioned her hesitancy, or suggested they stick to kissing. They had been friends for nearly half their lives, but there was still so much he didn’t know about her…and he had never thought to ask. They were dangerous thoughts to have, blurring the line between reality and cruel fantasy; both hurt tremendously.

After breakfast, she had shut herself inside the guest bedroom for the day. She didn’t feel up to talking or having Draco psychoanalyse her again—and he would, if given the chance. She felt like wallowing today, allowing her mind to beat itself up over not going home—for not wanting to go home.

Whatever solace she had found with Draco, she was in no rush to leave it. Her friends had taken everything they could from her, and although she had let them—encouraged them, even—she couldn’t bear to lose herself again now. She wouldn’t.

She could apologise to Harry in a month.

When the evening came and went, the sky fading into the violet hues of twilight, she made her way to the library for dinner. More often than not, she and Draco ate their dinners separately, retiring to their own rooms for the rest of the night. Sometimes she would eat in the library, then continue her reorganisation project—she was nearly halfway done, the notebook she kept on her nightstand filled with the titles of every single book in the room. She would be organising by subject, then year—if it was a textbook—then author by last name. If there were multiple editions—and she found there were, in fact, several editions of the same books—she would also sort by print date. It was a project that kept her busy, yes, but also kept her sane.

And kept her from “destroying” the gardens.

The glass paned doors to the library were hazy, a layer of smoke obscuring the contents within. Smoke wafted out, its putrid, herbal scent hitting her the moment she pulled on the door handle; she batted it away ineffectively.

“Open the window, at least.” She said as she made her way inside, then stopped short at the scene before her.

Draco was in her usual spot on the loveseat, a bottle of firewhisky to his lips, and sat beside Pansy Parkinson. Two heads from the armchairs across turned to look at her, one amused, the other visibly displeased with her presence. It seemed she had walked straight into a snake pit.

Pansy snapped her head to Draco, her smooth bob swishing with the movement. “What the fuck?”

“Secret’s out.” He announced proudly, then took Pansy’s hand, put the rolled cigarette between her fingers to his lips, and inhaled. It wasn’t tobacco, and she knew it wasn’t marijuana—a smell she was unfortunately well-acquainted with from her muggle neighbours. This was less bitter and smelled faintly of mint, but it repulsed her all the same.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, clutching the small stack of books against her. “I wasn’t aware I was a secret.”

Draco blew out the smoke and released Pansy’s hand. “I’m your secret. Isn’t that why you’ve been hiding out here for months?”

“Months?” Pansy demanded. “That’s why you’ve wanted to be alone?”

Blaise Zabini chuckled and took a puff of his own herbal cigarette. “Is she your little Mudblood sex slave, Draco? Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“That can’t be why she’s here.” Pansy scowled, her own defensive arms mirroring Hermione’s.

“Oh, I don’t know, Pans.” Said Theodore Nott, his wavy brown hair and boyish features making him look far too angelic for the words that followed. “I’m sure she has some good uses—hey, Granger? How does it work in that little trio of yours? Do you suck one off while the other fucks you from behind, or do you prefer to take them individually?”

“Theodore!” Pansy gasped, aiming a kick at his shin. “No one wants to picture that.”

“I do,” he argued. “I’ve been picturing that one sucking me off for years. Gryffindor’s Princess under a table in the restricted section, hands tied behind her back with only my cock to shut her up for once.” He looked back at Hermione and winked despite her icy glare. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

What was she expected to say? Of course it bothered her—the idea of people she hardly even knew fantasising about her was revolting, made even worse when the general consensus in the room seemed to be that she and her friends consistently engaged in some sickening version of a threesome.

Her face was on fire as she went around them to the platform’s steps, choosing the safe option of not engaging. She would return the books, make sure Draco hadn’t moved any just to fuck with her, and go back to her room without another word.

“As if they would ever share her with a lowly Slytherin.” Pansy scoffed. “They’re very protective of you, aren’t they?”

Hermione ignored her as she went up the platform, relieved when she was hidden from view. She slammed the books back into place, stifling a groan when she saw that Draco had switched books on her. She reasoned with herself that it was fine and she could fix it in the morning—the less time she spent in here with Draco’s friends, the better. She reached for an advanced Arithmancy textbook to brush up on and made her way back to the steps.

“—probably still a virgin.” Blaise mused as she came down the steps. “That might be the one pure thing about her.”

Pansy’s eyes were cold as they assessed her, lingering with distaste at her choice of plaid pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. “Probably.” She agreed finally. “Unless one of her boys was desperate. Well, Granger? Is your maidenhood still intact?”

“Ask Draco.”

The blood drained from Pansy’s face while the boys whooped with laughter at the implication. She didn’t dare a glance at Draco, and didn’t hear his laughter in the mix. It was only then that she remembered Pansy had been his girlfriend—perhaps she still was—and Hermione might’ve gone too far.

Pansy stood, her short skirt clinging to her thighs perfectly as if held in place by a sticking charm, and came to a stop before Hermione. Up close Hermione could see Pansy had become rather pretty, with her nose slightly narrower than it had been. She’d lost the roundness, her features sharper and refined, eyes large and almond-shaped, lips a perfect pout. The differences were subtle, but noticeable. Even without makeup, Pansy might now be prettier than Hermione on her best day.

“Don’t you have reading to get back to?”

“Yes, Pansy, that’s why I came to the library.” She said slowly, as if speaking with a child.

Pansy sneered at her, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and practically shoving her out the doors. “Don’t let us keep you, then!”

The doors slammed shut against her back.

1 August 1998

“I suppose you’re cross about last night.”

Draco walked in for breakfast later than usual, his hair damp and a shade darker from his shower. When Hermione had come in minutes before, she was glad to notice the smell of smoke hadn’t lingered. She sat on the loveseat now—after Scourgifying and drying the fabric—and picked at the breakfast items. Eggs and bacon, fruit, and potatoes. The pastries from the day before had spoiled her, Hermione realising it then as she looked upon the food with disappointment.

“Not because of you.” She said, pouring a glass of pumpkin juice.

“Why not?”

“You didn’t say anything crude.” She shrugged, then helped herself to a piece of bacon. “I told you I wouldn’t hold what your friends say against you—I meant it.”

Draco sat in his chair, wearing his usual ensemble of black trousers and a lightweight jumper—dark green today. It occurred to her that she still had yet to see his arm. Weeks before when he’d worn a t-shirt during the Ministry visit, he had always managed to keep his forearm from of her view.

“Even though I didn’t defend you? That’s noble.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to. I’m a big girl, Draco.” She teased. “I’ve had sex. I can handle hearing about it, alright? Besides, Theo’s fantasy…” Hermione shook her head. “It was very uncreative. I was disappointed.” She took a sip of juice and gave him a rare smirk. “I thought you said Slytherins liked to reciprocate—what would I get out of that?”

“He probably thinks you’d like being dominated, or that you secretly enjoy being told what to do.” Draco chuckled. “He doesn’t know you at all.”

“And you do?”

Draco poured his mug halfway with coffee, the rest with milk. She couldn’t understand the appeal of that ratio, but he seemed to enjoy it. “No. I just can’t imagine a scenario where control and degradation would get you off. Am I wrong?” He took a sip. “Did I just uncover a secret kink?”

She grimaced at the thought. “No. That’s…that’s quite the turn-off, actually.”

He smiled to himself. “Thought so.”

“Anyway,” she shivered, wanting to quickly move on from the topic. “How did your session go yesterday? I meant to ask last night, but you had company.”

Another condition of his probation—and one that Hermione agreed with for the most part—was that Draco had to attend twice-weekly healer appointments to assess his mental health. He had only told her two weeks ago, when she’d been concerned one evening over seeing Draco thoroughly wrung out. His hair had been a mess, his eyes had been red from crying. She hadn’t meant to pry, but his defences had still been forced down from his appointment, and he’d told her just enough to satisfy her curiosity.

If she knew that Draco was an Occlumens, it was likely the Ministry knew it, too. She shuddered to think of the methods they might employ to keep Draco’s mind open to them. Although she felt it was barbaric, she had developed a new respect for him in tolerating it. If it was between having his mind bared to a stranger or spending years in Azkaban, he’d chosen the safer route. More painful, probably, but safer nevertheless.

“It was fine.”

She nodded. He never indulged her when she asked, and she hadn’t expected this morning to be any different.

An owl pecked at the one window that opened, centred on the wall between bookshelves, and Draco got up to retrieve the mail for the day. The Daily Prophet had arrived earlier, the pages sprawled on the end table next to Draco’s chair, but she had no desire to flip through it. She hadn’t read the paper since she left the Burrow.

A minute later he tossed an envelope at her, the weight of it heavier than the average Hogwarts letter. She popped up the seal and slid the contents out, her eyes skimming over the list of supplies first. She would have to get by with what little she still had from sixth year and hope her professors would take into account she’d given up a year of her life to fight in the war when judging her lack of new books and parchment. Behind the list was a generic letter from McGonagall’s hand, addressing students and their parents’ concerns about returning to a school just months after battle. It listed resources for counselling between classes with each professor having a designated office hour to be available, emergency Floo contacts for concerned parents, and, to Hermione’s great surprise, additional resources for muggle parents with the Ministry if they need to be in contact with their child and couldn’t wait for a response by owl.

Draco seemed to receive the same, tossing McGonagall’s parchment aside to focus on the supply list. But he didn’t have the third note that Hermione did. She opened the note, also handwritten from McGonagall. She was asking Hermione to be Head Girl, her kind words just shy of praise as she listed Hermione’s achievements in school and in the war. It would be a natural fit for her, a goal she had always had for herself once she had learned about the position in first year. It had always been the plan to get to this point, to receive the honour and wear the badge proudly.

Head Girl. Ministry. Minster for Magic. That was always her path. She would take her O’s and position from school and start off in a humble but meaningful position at the Ministry, perhaps in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She would make changes from the bottom up—make the world work for everyone, not just a select few. Then, one day, become every Pure-blood’s greatest fear. It was better than a dream, though—it was actually attainable. Her contributions were being valued, her hard work recognised by a professor she had always admired.

Minerva McGonagall was giving her the key to the life she’d always wanted.

But now the thought of it all made her ill.

She folded the note back up and slipped it into the envelope, ignoring the way Draco was studying her. When all the contents were back inside and the envelope was next to her nearly untouched breakfast plate, Hermione stood and crossed to the small desk she knew Draco kept parchment in. She took a sheet and a quill, dipped it into an inkpot, and began to write her rejection of the offer. It went against everything she stood for, but as she wrote to her professor, thanking her for the consideration, she felt she was ultimately making the right decision. She would remain a Prefect, if that was alright, but she didn’t feel capable of taking on the responsibility of being Head Girl.

And she didn’t want to.

She folded the parchment into a new envelope, addressed it, sealed it, then turned to look at Draco. “Can you send this out for me?”

Chapter Text

29 August 1998

“Do you like being called ‘Draco?’”

“As opposed to what?”

Draco paused on the steps outside of Gringotts, sneering at Hermione’s question.

She secured her now-manageable curls into a high ponytail, the back of her neck feeling instant relief from the late summer heat despite it still being early in the day. “I was curious because there are some people who don’t like their given names, and you never correct people when they call you by your surname.” She smiled brightly and dropped her hands from her hair. “You have to admit, your name is rather unusual.”

Draco hummed thoughtfully, meeting her on the bottom step. “I think you might be onto something, Hermione.”

She giggled, a bubble of laughter that took them both by surprise. She was prone to fits of laughter now and again, but it had been a while—and never around Draco. “Would you believe my mum thought she was being kind by giving me the Anglicised pronunciation?”

“There’s another way to say it?”

“Oh, yes. Her-mee-oh-nee is more accurate to its origins.”

Draco began to lead the way through Diagon Alley. It was the last weekend before the start of term, and likely the last day they’d be able to get supplies before every shop sold out of their already low inventories. Hermione had only agreed to tag along so she could do his shopping for him, well aware of the fact that most shop owners wouldn’t be keen on having his business. In return, he offered to lend her the money to buy her own supplies, but she hadn’t felt it was a fair trade, and had vehemently refused well until they’d disapparated. Still, she couldn’t resist the lure of one last shopping trip before school started, even if it was to shop for someone else.

“It stems from Greek mythology, a feminine derivative of the gods’ messenger, Hermes.” She explained, practically having to skip to keep up with his long strides. “My mum loves mythology. Greek, Roman. Some Celtic and Norse. I used to love it, too. If I wasn’t a witch, I might have studied it in university.”

“Study it anyway. There’s nothing to hold you back after Hogwarts.”

She grinned. “I don’t believe having an O in Ancient Runes or Transfiguration would qualify me entry into a muggle university.”

They went around either side of an elderly witch, the woman determinedly walking up the centre of the path, her too-long navy blue robes brushing against the stones with each step.

“Are there many Hermiones or Her-mee-OH-nees running about the muggle world?”

“I doubt it. Not in Britain, anyway. I would argue it’s less common than being named for a constellation.”

An involuntary smile quirked at the corner of his mouth, but he suppressed it quickly after she spotted it.

“I’ve noticed the theme in the Black family. I think it’s a lovely tradition.”

“Lovely?” He snorted.

“It’s meaningful. You should be grateful for it.”

“Yes, well, I suppose you’ll be kinder to your own children and give them normal names?”

“Not if I can help it.” She shuddered, then dropped her voice as if the wizard standing several yards away would be able to hear their conversation. “Actually, before I took the potion, Molly had started throwing around baby names—”

“She’s a cunt.”

Hermione gasped, her feet stilling on the cobblestones as she stared, open-mouthed, at the back of his head. “You can’t just call someone that!”

Draco turned to face her, his hands in his front pockets, and he shrugged. “Why not? That was a cunt-like thing to do, wasn’t it? She was guilting you.”

She shook her head. “I like to believe she meant well…but, yes, I suppose she was trying to guilt me. You still can’t say that—what if someone said that about your mother?”

Draco grinned mischievously, folding his arms across his chest. “Then I would be sharing a cell with my father in Azkaban. He might even be proud of me for it.”

Hermione sighed. Of course he’d make a joke about it.

“Well? What did your mother-in-law pick?”

“Rose.” She replied evenly. “Which is fine, I suppose, but there’s nothing…”

“Special about it?”

“Exactly. It’s too common.”

“And people would assume you like roses, which you don’t.”

“Not really.” She said with a slight wince. “Your mother’s roses are very nice, but no, they’re not my favourites. I think I’d like to continue my own tradition and give my children names from literature or mythology, as well. Have you read any?”

“Muggle mythology?”

She nodded.

“No.”

They began walking again, Hermione raising a hand to her brow to wipe off a bead of sweat. “That’s a shame. Mythology in the magical world is different, most of which is quite boring by comparison.”

“Boring?” Draco demanded, exasperated. As if a muggle tale could ever outshine a magical one.

“Yes, boring. It’s not a myth if it can be easily proven—anything comparable to muggle mythology is simply history in the magical world. Have you any idea the parallels between what exists in this world, and what was thought up by muggles thousands of years ago? It’s incredible. Honestly, I think you’d be rather impressed by the tales muggles have come up with.”

“Would I?” He asked with a condescending smirk, but she simply beamed up at him in return.

“You would.”

“And how do you know the people who came up with these myths weren’t magical? Why do you assume they’re muggle?”

Hermione laughed. “Well, wouldn’t that suggest magical people and muggles can coexist? Does that not go against the narrative of you Pure-bloods, that muggles are inferior in every way?”

She skipped ahead of him, turning to face him, and he stilled. “Or perhaps it’s possible everyone was once magical, and magic just simply faded from certain bloodlines.”

Draco’s eyes squinted as he considered that, the early morning sun peeking out over the tops of the shops and casting a bright glow over his skin. “That’s less horrifying than the alternative.”

“What’s that?” She asked. “That everyone was a muggle, and magic did spontaneously occur in certain families?”

The thought of either was visibly affecting him, utter confusion and mild disgust crossing his smooth face as eighteen years’ worth of Pure-blood knowledge was suddenly called into question.

“Humour me, then.” He said, his eyes flicking to hers. “Tell me one of these myths so I can decide if entertaining the concept is worth my time.”

Her eyes widened. “Off the top of my head?”

“Yes.”

“I-I can’t—” She stammered. “It’s been so long since I’ve read any, I wouldn’t be able to do it justice.”

“You can’t think of one?”

“Of course, I can think of one, but you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a love story.

Draco groaned dramatically. “A love story? I meant something good, Granger.” He nudged her on the shoulder with the tip of his finger for her to start walking again.

“Yes, I know. That doesn’t sound like something I’d be interested in—cold-hearted and studious as I am,” She sneered up at him as his cocky smile slid into place. “It was my favourite as a child…although, I was a bit more optimistic back then.”

“When the fuck have you ever been optimistic? You’ve one of the worst outlooks on life of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I was before I met you, obviously. May I continue?”

“Go on.”

“It’s most commonly known as Cupid and Psyche. You know Cupid and his arrows at Valentine’s Day?” Draco nodded. “Eros is the Greek equivalent, a god known for mischief and eroticism, often causing chaos and adultery amongst the mortals by pricking them with his arrows to attract them to one another. In this myth, he was the son of the goddess of Love and Beauty, Aphrodite, who was jealous of a mortal girl called Psyche.”

“Why would a goddess be jealous of a mortal?”

“Because she was so beautiful that people began to worship her more than Aphrodite. Eros, or Cupid, was sent by his mother to prick Psyche with his arrow, enchanting her to fall in love with a monster, but before doing it he is so stunned by her that he strikes himself with his own arrow. All the while, Aphrodite was so consumed by envy that she fails to realise Psyche’s beauty in itself was a curse; she’s always admired but no one ever falls in love with her.

“Her parents strongly wished for her to marry, as her less beautiful sisters had already found husbands. And they were so desperate that they consulted with an oracle who predicted Psyche’s fate was, in fact, to marry an immortal monster—”

He stopped walking, holding a hand out in front of her. “Hang on. Your favourite myth involves an oracle?”

“The oracle is partly wrong here.” She pointed a finger at him. “I stand by my hatred of divination.”

Draco shook his head, smirking, and they continued along the path.

“So, it was predicted she was doomed to a life with a hideous, deplorable creature on the top of a mountain. In some versions of the myth he’s serpent-like, others a dragon, but an inhuman monster nonetheless. Her husband—”

“Cupid?” He asked, as if it were obvious and she was about to bore him to death.

“Shut it!” She laughed. “Her soon-to-be husband—”

“Cupid—”

“You don’t know that yet!”

“It’s in the title.”

She sighed. “He insists that Psyche can’t know what he looks like, as he wants her to love him for who he is and not for his appearance—”

“So, he’s a hypocrite, as well. Are you even hearing yourself, Granger?”

“I know few men who aren’t hypocrites.” She gave him a pointed look. “I’d say that’s one of the most realistic things about this tale.”

He didn’t contradict her.

“So, they can only be together in the darkness, and she falls in love with him without ever knowing what he looks like. Sometime later, she requests her sisters for a visit, and they’re so envious of her lavish lifestyle in a palace with a man who adores her that they manipulate Psyche into breaking her promise. So, one night, she gazes upon him in his sleep and finds he’s not a monster at all—he’s a god, and he’s stunning and angelic with blonde curls and white wings. As she moves to take a closer look, hot oil from her lamp drips onto him and startles him awake. He tells her how he’d betrayed his mother by marrying her, having fallen completely in love with Psyche. But because he can’t trust her, he leaves her as punishment for disobeying his one request of her.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not!” Hermione insisted. “How can you love someone if you can’t trust them, or they you?”

Draco had stalled, lingering now outside of Quality Quidditch Supplies, his eyes fixed on the broom on display in the window. He’d stopped listening to her at the sight of it.

“Do you still play?” She asked, watching his face in the window’s reflection for a reaction, but none came. He was completely blank.

“No.” He answered, then started walking again. “Go on.” He said, snapping his fingers at her. “Love and trust and all that rubbish.”

Hermione noted he was walking just a bit slower, allowing her to keep up with him. “Okay.” She said eagerly.

“In her despair, a now-pregnant Psyche throws herself at the mercy of Aphrodite once she promises her that Psyche can have Eros back if she completes a series of dangerous tasks. She receives help along the way, gifts for her kindness, and Aphrodite is displeased that she is able to obtain every item requested. So, for the last task, she has Psyche travel to the underworld to ask the queen, Persephone, for a bit of her beauty, as Aphrodite has given some of hers to her son to heal him.

“After she completes the task, she’s warned not to look inside the box containing it; but, in a weak moment of vanity, Psyche opens the box to retrieve some for herself in the hopes of drawing her husband back to her. However, the box does not contain beauty, but a powerful sleeping curse.

“Eros, now healed and having forgiven Psyche, flies to retrieve her and removes the curse from her body. When she wakes, he helps her complete her task by bringing the box to Aphrodite. Then, Eros flies to Mt. Olympus and begs Zeus to convince his mother to accept Psyche, for she’s done everything that’s been demanded of her. Zeus blesses the union and allows Psyche to consume the food and drink of the gods, thus making her immortal, and allowing them to marry as equals.”

“And?” He asked after a moment, unimpressed.

Hermione gaped at him. “What do you mean and?” She asked incredulously. “She’s the personification of soul and purity, untouched and desired by many, but loved only by one. And in her loving him, in him saving her, he’s redeemed of his bad behaviour. You can’t tell me that’s not romantic!”

Grey eyes looked down on her in pity. “I think it’s idiotic to think love can save someone.”

“And what do you know of love and romance?”

They came to a stop outside of Flourish and Blotts, neither making a move to head inside. “No less than you, I’m sure.”

As the shops had just started to open for the day, there was hardly anyone around, thereby allowing them to wander into shops undetected. He would only venture into a few shops, ones where he knew he wouldn’t be cursed out in, and Hermione would take care of the rest.

It had sounded like a good idea in theory, but standing outside of the familiar bookshop just then made her stomach lurch.

It felt so wrong to return to normal.

“Well?”

“I need a minute.”

He nodded, but his eyes had narrowed a fraction. “What happened to your parents?”

Hermione flinched. “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t mention them often.” Draco frowned, the space between his eyebrows creasing. “They weren’t—in the war…?”

Hermione shook her head quickly. “No, they’re fine.” She cleared her throat. “They should be in Australia. Erm—they had been talking for a while about having a second home there, to live on a sunny coast for half the year when the weather is dreadful here. I would be out of school soon, and they’re well-off enough to retire early if they wanted, so I helped that dream along.” She glanced up at him warily, but that didn’t seem to be a satisfactory answer. “I crafted a charm.”

“What kind of charm?”

She swallowed and looked down at her feet, her next words tiptoeing from her mouth. “A memory charm. It gave them new identities and false memories so they could live safely—far away from me.”

“You obliviated them.” He concluded.

“I didn’t obliviate them—their memories are still in their subconscious, but I have to be careful in how I go about retrieving them. I could cause more damage by trying, so I need to do more research first.”

“You probably should have done the research before casting a potentially irreversible charm, I suspect.”

“Thanks.” She replied coolly. “I hadn’t thought of that. My mistake—I know I had so much time to prepare between Dumbledore’s murder and me going on the run to hunt down Horcruxes. How silly of me not to research every possible outcome of fucking with my parents’ memories. And you know what? I feel so great about it, too!”

Draco had pulled a handful of Galleons from his pocket and was absently counting them in his palm. “Where in Australia?”

“That I don’t know.” She muttered. “When I’m done with school, I’ll figure out a way to get there and start tracking down every ‘Monica and Wendell Wilkins’ until I find them. That’s the best I can do.”

Draco nodded, then tapped her foot with the toe of his shoe after a moment. “Feel ready to go in yet?”

She stared up at him, her eyes narrowed as she realised he’d intentionally distracted her from her shopping anxiety by asking about them. “You’re an arse.” She informed him, holding out her hands for the small stack of Galleons and his supply list. “I really don’t tell you that enough.”

“Come now, Granger,” he said, depositing coins into her hand. “You know you at least tolerate me.”

She chose to ignore that and closed her left fist over the gold, then brought it close to count the coins. “I can tell you now, this is far too much.”

“Not for both of us.”

“Malfoy, I am not taking your money—”

“You’ve been living with me for free, eating my food and reading my books for months and now you’re worried you’re using me?” Draco taunted, then looked over his shoulder at the sudden noise in the distance to see younger witches and wizards start to fill the alley with their parents.

“You’re wasting time.” He nodded across the way. “I’ll handle the Apothecary—with their prices, they should be bloody grateful for my business.”

When she still didn’t make a move to go inside, he huffed impatiently and pulled the door open, glaring down at her until she slipped passed him into the shop.

“You don’t have to supervise me.” She said, turning to see him still standing in the doorway, gripping the handle. “Or is it you don’t trust I’ll do it?”

He lifted his eyebrows in a challenge, and she took a step further into the shop, now well within the eyeline of the wizard behind the counter. Seeming satisfied, he released his hold on the door and took a step backwards himself. Hermione rolled her eyes at him and turned around to face the shelves. When she looked over her shoulder once more, she saw his tall, lithe frame crossing the alley, his posture perfect but unmistakably stiff.

She had expected to be the first patron of the day, but found herself relieved that there were a few, quiet families roaming about the shelves. The excitement of the first year students was palpable, that feeling of innocent wonder in the air she used to know all too well.

One little witch with long, ash brown waves down her back was well-prepared, already wearing her new school robes over her clothes despite the temperature outside. Hermione couldn’t help but watch from the end of a shelf as the girl checked—and rechecked—her list, and used her new cauldron and her father’s arms to hold her textbooks. She looked so young. She looked so much younger than Hermione felt she’d looked at that age, and she wondered how the girl’s parents could possibly feel comfortable sending her away.

By the looks of them, they were magical—dressed in robes with familiarity written across their faces as they scanned the shelves for their daughter. It was a rite of passage for the family, their child finally of age to attend school.

She wondered, too, how much of the war they’d been shielded from as a magical family. How much of the truth did they know? How much of the propaganda did they believe? If either of them looked up to see her watching them, would they recognise her as an Undesirable and a dangerous Mudblood, or would they know her name fondly and sing her praises for helping to restore peace in the wizarding world?

She didn’t care to know either way, and contented herself with unabashed spying.

Whatever the case, she saw the family as lovely, and the sight before her was achingly familiar. A confident, bookish girl overachieving before the year had even started, with her proud parents standing back, helping by reaching the higher shelves she couldn’t access herself.

Hermione should have looked away then.

The girl smiled in awed delight as her mother handed her the first years’ Transfiguration textbook from an upper shelf, the cover indicating it to be the exact same edition Hermione had purchased with her parents seven years earlier.

Seven years.

Already seven years. It was so long ago, yet the memories were as vivid as if they had happened that morning. She could recall the exact dress she wore on her first trip to Diagon Alley, white, short, and delicately floral, contrasted by her favourite, well-worn boots and brown tights. Her hair had been a frizzy disaster, falling over her eyes and shoulders as she’d pranced around, unable to contain her excitement, with her timid parents following along.

She’d meant to be more reserved, a calm outer shell that only showed her confidence. That had been the impression she wanted to give to her classmates, and it had been on the train and well into the start of term, but that first day in Diagon Alley she’d been so overwhelmed by wanting to know everything that she hadn’t been able keep her composure very well.

But that had been fine—she’d only been a child. She was allowed to be excited and act like a child for once. She’d only just learned she was special, that there wasn’t anything wrong with her, and it deserved to be celebrated. The hard shell could come into place later.

Hermione felt lightheaded as she turned away from the family, her breath becoming shallow. She leaned against the legs of the bookshelf and shut her eyes, willing herself to take slow breaths in through her nose and out through her pursed lips at a measured pace.

But it wasn’t helping.

Nothing could help as she felt her senses heighten, tightening her chest, her throat. Her eyes stung, and suddenly the sounds of people shopping became too much, too loud. Her skin was prickling. She was too hot, too exposed, too surrounded by the noises.

“Granger?”

Her eyes flew open in a panic, whirling to find the voice that was now too close. She wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor, curl up in the dark, and hide. No more running—she couldn’t run anymore.

She just needed to hide.

Hide. Hide. Hide.

She felt like screaming.

Draco was before her then, his hand wrapping around her arm at the elbow. “Are you alright?” He asked, his voice low.

Hermione locked her teeth onto her trembling bottom lip and nodded a few times more than necessary, her glossy eyes on the brink of overflowing.

“Go sit down.” He murmured. “I’ll get the books.”

She nodded again, her face screwing up as hot tears welled over, and she gasped in her next breath. A sob tore from her throat, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, already feeling her body start to curl in on itself.

Draco took her by the shoulders and guided her through haphazard stacks and row after row of bookshelves until they were in a back corner, in a dim, rarely-visited section of the shop where many of the elective texts could be found. He guided her to lay on the floor, Hermione unable to object when he had her press her forehead and palms to the cool wooden planks, softly talking her through how to breathe.

How long to breathe in, how long to hold, how long to breathe out. Every time her exhale was broken by a choked sob he added an extra second to the next. Her nose had become too stuffy to inhale properly, so she settled for inhaling through her mouth, coughing on dust every so often. In. Hold. Out. On and on it went until the concept of time became meaningless. In for five. Hold for five. Out for five. Six. Seven…

Seven.

With her forehead pressed to the floor, her tears pooling on the wood and wetting her face, she lifted her hands to hold the back of her neck. Draco must have pulled her hair aside, as her neck was free to touch and she didn’t feel smothered by the wild strands; she began to massage her neck. She sniffled wetly, the tears beginning to subside after a minute of rubbing the tension away. Her hands were interlocked, her thumbs skating up and down the sides of her neck from the tops of her shoulders to the base of her skull as she started to breathe more deeply.

She slowly started to become aware of her surroundings again. The distant sounds of shop patrons with muffled voices and laughter, Draco’s even breathing as he sat across from her. Her legs, she felt, were tucked beneath her. Her elbows were on the floor shoulder-width apart as she stroked her skin. Her soft, beaded bag was pressed against her stomach. The tear and mucus-streaked floor had become cold, giving off a pleasant—yet disgusting, if she thought about it too much—sensation against her flushed face. Her nose felt hot and swollen.

She guided her hands to the floor once more and began to push herself up, moving so slowly it looked as if she were a dead cockroach coming back to life. Her limbs uncurled, the pressure off her stomach and chest lessening and allowing for more air to come in. She felt the weight of her hair as she lifted her head and gravity took hold of her ponytail, settling her heavy curls behind her once more. She wobbled on the floor into an upright position, then stretched her legs out before her and rested her back against the legs of a bookshelf.

Finally, she looked at Draco. He was seated before her, his long legs outstretched as well and only inches from hers. He was resting against the back wall of the shop, and as they studied each other in the dim light, she saw his eyes were wide with concern while the rest of him appeared relaxed. His posture was deliberate, and she doubted he knew his eyes were giving his concern for her away.

“This—first year witch.” Hermione coughed into her elbow to clear her throat. “She pulled out the Transfiguration text.” She raised a hand helplessly, as if that explanation was anything close to sufficient, then let it drop into her lap.

Draco nodded anyway, his eyes trained on his shoes that rested now beside her left hip. “For me it was tea.”

“Pardon?”

“Chamomile tea.” He said, then crossed his ankles. “At my first mandatory therapy session, I was given a cup of chamomile tea.” Grey eyes flicked to hers then. “Have you had it?”

Hermione nodded, though she didn’t understand where he was going with it. “It’s fine.”

“It used to be my favourite. It’s sweeter than most, floral without being overpowering.” Draco hesitated, taking in a deep breath of his own. “It tastes a bit like apples. I think that’s what did it. The note of apple made me think of something—unpleasant.”

“I’ve seen you eat apples since.”

“And I’ve seen you read Transfiguration texts.” He countered with a shrug of his shoulder. “From what I’ve been told, no one can’t predict what will set them off—anything and everything can remind us of an event or a moment we hoped had been long forgotten. We can’t avoid the reaction—we can only manage it when it happens.”

“Does this happen to you often?”

Draco nodded after a moment of deliberation, his hands resting perfectly still on his thighs. “More so when I was younger. The time before last, I was sixteen.” Draco’s right hand twitched, eyes carefully trained on the stacks of books to be sorted behind her as he offered no more details. “I’d gone almost a year thinking I was successfully avoiding it, but really I was just shoving everything down, filing it all away until I felt…nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ve been trying to switch to coffee.”

“You don’t even like coffee.” She accused. Her hands came up to relieve her hair of the tie, which she then slipped onto her wrist.

He tilted his head, considering that. “I’m adjusting.”

“I’ve noticed how you take it.” Her voice was thick, the lilt of her normally refined dialect now dulled and raspy. She sniffled. “It’s coffee-flavoured milk.”

He didn’t argue that, giving her a hint of a smirk. “It’s too bitter otherwise.”

“Have you tried sugar?” She sniffed, swiping at her nose with the back of her wrist.

Draco leaned up then, tilting his hips just enough to reach his right hand into the back pocket of his trousers. He produced a small plastic bundle filled with cotton tissues; a muggle item. Hermione frowned as he pulled one out of the package and handed it to her.

“My healer’s office—” he spoke of his healer derisively, as if appalled both by the title and that he was required to see one. “—is in a muggle building near the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry. I may have nicked these when I was there last.” He seemed proud of himself as he looked at the tissues. “They’re more convenient than carrying around handkerchiefs.”

Hermione blew her nose, sighing gratefully when she could breathe through her nostrils again. “I agree.” She said. “A lot of muggle things are more convenient, though. Better, even.”

“Just because something is more convenient, that doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.” She attempted a smile and found it wasn’t too difficult. “But, if I’m being honest, it is much easier to use the telephone than have to wait several hours for someone’s response by owl, or hope to catch them near a fireplace to Floo.”

He gave a slight nod, unable to challenge that point, and Hermione was glad he knew enough of the muggle world that she wouldn’t need to explain the concept of telephones.

“I’m sorry I threw off our schedule—we could’ve been done by now, I suppose.”

Draco shook his head and folded his hands in his lap. “There’s no schedule. The library’s done, and there’s not much of the garden left for you to destroy.”

Hermione laughed, startled by the accusation. “I left plenty!” She tried to defend herself, but knew the last time she had collected wildflowers she had put the bees off, and she’d felt a bit guilty ever since. “I promise the bees will come back next year.”

She hoped, anyway.

“If they don’t, I expect a formal, written apology to Narcissa herself.”

She smiled more easily then. “I promise.”

It was several minutes more before either of them made a move to stand, and Draco beat her to it, offering his hand to her. She took it almost shyly, the air still heavy between them, and he waited until she was firmly planted on her feet before easing his fingers from hers.

“The lists?” He asked expectantly. “Since we’re already back here.”

Not ten minutes later, they were walking out of the shop with the heavy stack of books, many of them duplicates as they shared most of the same classes. Before she slipped the books into her bag outside, she wondered how she thought she could have handled the load on her own. Perhaps Draco had realised that, too, and had come back to assist her.

“What else is there?” She asked, comparing their lists once more.

“Did you manage to fit your trunk in that bag as well?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. My trunk is…” She trailed, eyes widening with realisation, then whispered, “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” He asked, alarmed.

“My trunk—I had it at the Weasley’s last summer. Before…” She put her hand over her mouth, her mind racing. “Oh, fuck.” She repeated, louder this time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The last word came out as an unmuffled shriek, earning several head-turns in their direction by curious passersby. Draco shifted his stance to shield her from view of the pathway.

“Just go and get it.” He said, clearly not seeing the problem.

“Just go and get it?” She repeated, her tone sharp. “Are you mad? After what I did?”

Draco eyed her seriously then. “You didn’t do anything. You needed a holiday for your health, yes?”

“They won’t see it that way!”

“If they care about you, they won’t hold it against you.”

She moaned, her hands running through her hair with little resistance thanks to whatever magic was in the water at Malfoy Manor. “When did I enter a parallel dimension where Draco Malfoy is the voice of reason?”

“I’ve always had reason, but no one seems to want to listen to me.” He drawled wistfully. “Just go and get it over with, Granger.”

She released her hair at once, the long curls falling into her face. “Easy for you to say.”

When Hermione apparated to the Burrow, she had braced herself for all manner of inappropriate and unkind conversations with the people she’d deserted. Some of it would be deserved—they had every right to worry, and she’d been wrong to not send word that she was alright and in a safe place. But they would not have the right to demand anything more from her—she was entitled to her privacy, and her health was her main priority.

That’s what she tried to convince herself of, anyway.

She made it to the front door and knocked, then went around to the kitchen, but still no answer. It felt too good to be true that no one was home, but she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to go inside undetected.

Hermione eased into the house, being careful not to let the door creak, then took out her wand when she saw that no one was nearby.

“Homenum Revelio.” She said, swooping the tip of her wand to cast the charm. When no human presence was detected inside the house, she breathed out a sigh of relief and thanked every star in the galaxy.

She hurried up the stairs, still, unsure of how much time she’d have, and made it to Ginny’s room. Hermione kneeled on the floor and dragged her trunk out from under the spare bed, flicking the clasps up to open the lid and glance inside. Everything appeared to still be there—her shrunken cauldron, her neatly-folded school robes and uniforms, scraps of unused parchment and overly-used quills.

Perfect—it was all just perfect. She really couldn’t believe her luck.

“Hermione?” She heard the startled voice from the open door.

She jumped, automatically shoving the lid to her trunk shut as she looked to her left. Ginny stood in the doorway, hand wrapped around the handle of her broomstick.

“Merlin, Hermione!” Ginny cried, launching herself at her, not caring that she’d rammed her knees onto the hard floor. “We’ve been so worried!” She said as she crushed Hermione into an almost painful hug.

As Hermione was about to return the embrace, Ginny gripped her shoulders and pushed her back, shrewd eyes taking her in.

Since Ginny had seen her last, Hermione had regained most of her lost weight, her clothes beginning to fit better, soft curves filling out as they should. Her hair had lightened considerably, thousands of individual brown strands bleached gold from her time spent worshipping the sun. Her skin had darkened a shade, the light tan giving off a healthy glow, but the two months of sunbathing had also given her more freckles on her arms and chest than she’d ever had before.

She could only imagine how she looked to Ginny, as Hermione’s appearance was the best it’s been in years. She could see the confusion in the redhead’s eyes, the hint of betrayal that Hermione dare to look so human again when Ginny’s hair was dull and limp, the sleeplessness beneath her eyes a dark shade of purple. But mostly it was betrayal that Hermione had left without a word, leaving them all to be sick with worry for months.

It wasn’t just Harry she needed to apologise to.

“Where’ve you been, then?” Ginny asked icily, letting her hands slip from Hermione’s shoulders.

“I’ve…I’ve been staying with a friend. Of sorts.”

Light brown eyes narrowed. “Which friend? A muggle one?”

“Erm, no. From school.”

Ginny stood. “Who?”

“It’s…it’s complicated, Ginny. I’m not sure you would understand.”

“Why wouldn’t I understand? Are you in trouble? Hermione, what—” Ginny laughed then, an apparently hysterical thought occurring to her. “Please tell me it’s Lavender. That would be fantastic!”

She didn’t know why Ginny would think that—it wasn’t as if she and Lavender had ever been friends. And since learning what she had in confidence from Draco, she had mixed feelings about seeing her again once school started in the next few days.

Hermione inhaled slowly and held for five too-quick beats. “I’ve been staying with Malfoy.” She announced breathily.

Several conflicting emotions crossed Ginny’s face for several seconds before she relaxed, grinning at Hermione now. “Very funny. Really, who is it?”

“I’ve been staying with Malfoy.” She repeated. “I’m serious.”

Ginny frowned, looking bewildered as Hermione stood. “No, really, Hermione.”

“I can explain later.” She bent to lock the clasps on her trunk. “You have every right to be angry—you can yell at me on the train all you like, I’ve been expecting it anyway.” She grabbed the handle at the top of her trunk then, tilting it up off the ground. “But I just need to take this and go before anyone else gets back.”

Ginny looked hurt, her arms crossing defensively over her chest, her eyes seconds from angry tears. “And what do you expect me to tell everyone?” She demanded. “Do you have any idea what we’ve been through this summer?”

“I didn’t have the best summer either, Ginny.”

“Really? Because you look just fine to me!” She shot a hand up to her face to dash the tear streaks from her cheeks, her jaw clenching as she attempted to rein herself in. “You don’t even care, do you?”

“Of course, I care!” Hermione snapped. “But I’m allowed to care about myself, too!”

Ginny sat on her bed, curling her hands around the side of the mattress and gripping the sheet so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Ginny, please—”

“Just go.” She spat. “Take your trunk and go. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

Hermione sighed. She’d been expecting worse, but having Ginny brush her off hurt just the same. She pulled at her trunk, dragging it along the floor behind her. She knew she could easily levitate it, but the sight of her returned wand would only raise more hostile questions.

She heard Ginny huff from behind her, and as she got to the stairs, the other end of the trunk was being lifted. Wordlessly, Ginny helped her get the trunk downstairs and out the door, walking her outside the boundaries of the anti-apparition charm.

“Thanks.” Hermione said, then winced when Ginny let her end drop, yanking Hermione’s arm with it. Hermione eased her end onto the ground and released the handle. “I don’t know what to say, Gin.” She said helplessly. “Would an apology even suffice?”

“Doubt it.” Ginny grumbled.

Hermione sat down on the trunk and looked up at her friend. “I can’t apologise when I know I did the right thing for myself.”

Ginny shrugged after an uncomfortably long minute. “As long as you can justify it, right?”

Before Hermione could ask what she meant by that—justify the abortion or justify her leaving, she couldn’t quite tell which—they each turned at the sound of no less than a dozen gnomes shouting in protest as a ball of ginger fluff launched itself at them.

“Is that—” Hermione gasped, jumping up to stand as she locked onto a pair of determined yellow eyes, the cat expelling the gnomes from the Weasleys’ garden and whizzing after them.

“You came on a good day, it seems.” Ginny muttered. “He’s been coming and going for the last month—probably been waiting for you to show up.”

“Crookshanks!” Hermione called, just as he managed to pin a writhing gnome beneath his paws.

The cat kept the gnome in place despite the fight it put up and turned his squashed face to meet hers. Crookshanks released the gnome at once and trotted over to them at a leisurely pace, his bushy tail sticking straight up.

Hermione bent to scoop him up, the cat appearing indifferent to her presence, his tail swishing as she held him up to her from under his front legs. “Where’ve you been?” She asked, and Crookshanks simply yawned, his eyes squinting and whiskers twitching. She brought him close, placing his paws on her shoulder so her hands could be free to support the rest of his body. “Are you upset with me, too?” She cooed to the cat, and it took only a moment before he could no longer resist purring and vigorously marking her face with his, his front paws kneading at her shoulder.

Hermione, smiling and hugging her cat, turned to look at Ginny but saw her retreating form on its way back to the house. She could only imagine what Ginny would tell everyone, but she found herself not caring all that much.

When she arrived outside of the gate to the manor, she released the handle of the trunk and reached into her bag for her wand, Crookshanks still resting over her shoulder, Hermione’s left arm cradling his body. She casted a charm for her trunk to levitate, then made her way to the gate. She didn’t know if it would allow her entry—she’d never gone through alone.

But, to her relief, she passed through with no resistance, Crookshanks sitting up curiously to take in the new surroundings. Hermione kept her wand trained on the trunk, guiding it to follow behind her.

Once inside and up the stairs, Hermione took the trunk to the guest bedroom and let it settle gently onto the floor, then she set Crookshanks down on the bed. She took a few minutes to organise their purchases from Flourish and Blotts, separating Draco’s books into a much neater stack than her own.

“Granger!”

Hermione had just picked up his stack of books when Draco shouted, and she whirled around to see she’d left the door open, and Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen.

Damn.

She took the books from the room and hurried down the hall to the library. Draco was sat in his usual armchair with an open bottle of firewhisky in his hand, glaring at the ginger cat sniffing around him.   

“You remembered I have a cat, right?” She said weakly, setting his books on the end table beside him.

“Granger…” Draco warned, watching the cat that was now making himself at home on the opposite chair.

“It’s only for a few days.”

When Crookshanks decided to test his claws on the leather and Draco’s face paled to a shade of white she’d never seen before, she pulled him up and cradled him close. “Just a few days.” She said again with a slight tremble to her voice. “We’ll be out of your hair in a few days."

Chapter Text

30 August 1998

Harry and Ron

Ron, Harry

Harry, Ron, and Ginny,

I owe you all an explanation. I don’t expect your immediate forgiveness, but in time, I hope you can understand why I felt the need to leave. I needed

Hermione looked up from the library desk in frustration as the words refused to come to her. A part of her wanted to put off the task for as long as possible, but with the term starting in two days, she felt the need to explain herself beforehand.

As if that would even make it better.

Crookshanks was lying on the desk in front of her notebook, occasionally swishing his tail over the piece of paper that Hermione then had to bat away.

Dear Harry and Ron,

By now I’m sure Ginny has told you I stopped by yesterday to retrieve my trunk. I’m sorry I missed you, and I apologise for not informing you of my whereabouts once I was situated. I imagine this summer has been difficult for all of us, and I concede my leaving has made it all the more difficult for you. Please know it was never my intention to disappear. I would not have done it if it hadn’t been in my best interest to do so.

“You can’t send that.”

Hermione covered the sheet of paper with her hand quickly as Draco’s voice came from behind her. “If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it.”

She crossed out the last line and started over on a new sheet.

Harry and Ron,

I apologise for my abrupt departure

“That’s how you talk to your friends?”

Hermione tossed the pen down and turned in the desk chair to face him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than read over my shoulder?”

Draco held up his hands in defence and backed away, heading up the steps to the platform. Hermione started over once more, determined to not overthink and just write from the heart. These were her best friends—she could be honest with them.

Harry and Ron,

I’m fine. I’ve been staying with Malfoy all summer. I’ll explain later. Please don’t be angry with me.

Love,

Hermione

She folded the piece of paper and shoved it into an envelope, then sealed and addressed it before she could overthink it. She added the envelope to the letters Draco would be sending out later in the morning: one to each of his parents and one to an address in London—perhaps his healer’s office.

Still sitting at the desk, Hermione tapped her pen against the wood, agitated with nothing to do. She was all packed and ready to go two days early. She’d been freshening up on her courses. With the library reorganisation project complete and the bees appeased by new flowers, Hermione had absolutely nothing left to occupy her time.

She looked around the sitting room, swivelling in the chair, and spotted the dish of food that had been sent up for Crookshanks earlier, even when their breakfast had still not arrived. Although, she reminded herself, tinned cat food took far less time to prepare than meals for two adult humans.

Now knowing what to do, Hermione opened her notebook once more as Draco came down the steps, an Astronomy book in hand.

He eyed the envelope sitting on top of his own letters. “What are you writing now?”

“A thank-you note to the elves. It was very considerate to provide food for Crookshanks, and I would like to thank them for their hospitality.”

He scoffed, almost disgusted by the thought. “Or you could thank me…”

She shifted in her seat to look up at him. “Have you been feeding me, cleaning my clothes, changing my sheets, or keeping the soaps and shampoo fully stocked for months?”

Draco opened his mouth to argue but seemed to know he had no leg to stand on. Finally, with a low, put-out groan he took the pen from Hermione’s hand and wrote the name of an elf on the top corner of the sheet of paper.

“I’m not allowed to summon her.” He explained, then tossed the pen back down. It rolled to Crookshanks, and he shot a paw out to stop it.

Hermione smiled, then carefully tore out the new sheet of paper. “Thanks.”

Draco returned to his seat and unfolded the Daily Prophet as he waited for the breakfast tray to arrive, and Hermione took the pen from back from Crookshanks, earning her an irritated tail-flick.

Dear Pipsey,

Thank you for your wonderful care over the last few months. It was considerate of you to accommodate me (and my cat) on such short notice, and I am grateful for your kindness. I wish you the very best.

Yours sincerely,

Hermione Granger

PS

If there is anything I can do to ensure the quality of your working conditions or your pay, please do not hesitate to let me know.

Hermione set the folded note on the floor and capped her pen, wishing she could offer more to the elf. As she stood to take her usual seat for breakfast, the piece of paper disappeared from the floor soundlessly.

Halfway through breakfast a separate plate arrived just for Hermione, presenting her with their favourite almond croissant and the last of the season’s perfectly ripe, destemmed strawberries. Draco—having fought her weeks ago for the last one—glared at her over his cup of coffee as she merrily tore off a bite of the pastry and popped it into her mouth, icing sugar and bits of slivered almonds falling onto the plate to taunt him further. A few bites in, however, she cut the remaining pastry in half and offered him the rest.

It only took an extra, pained second for him to relent and reach for it.

31 August 1998

Hermione had elected to eat her dinner outside that evening, wanting to bask in the late-sun’s rays. She’d argued that if she was to be subjected to dreary Scotland for the next ten months, she was going to make the most of the sunlight while she could.

Crookshanks joined her, dividing his time between running through the remaining patches of wildflowers and eating his tinned food from a crystal dish on the garden’s ground. Hermione laid on her back with her legs crossed and eyes closed, one hand resting atop her stomach as the other played with the grass beneath her.

She wondered if Harry and Ron had received her letter. It might be better if they hadn’t, for she’d have more time to prepare what to say when she saw them in the morning. But, if they had, she would simply apologise in person for her unintentional coldness.

With Ginny knowing she’d been staying with Draco, perhaps they’d all come to the same conclusion as Kingsley the month before: she was there against her will and under his spell. There might not even be a way to explain that that assumption couldn’t be further from the truth.

The uncomfortable truth that, at present, she felt more comfortable around Draco than she did any of her friends.

They would all forgive her eventually, she was sure of that. Ginny and Harry would, certainly. Harry definitely would…

Hermione sat up on her elbows, meeting a set of knowing yellow eyes. He was inches from her, peering cautiously at her as if he could sense her distress, and she sat up to collect him in her arms.

“You’ve forgiven me, yes?” She asked, and he cleaned his paw in response.

She sat cradling him for several minutes, letting the start of the sunset wash over her. As optimistic as she had been to start her last year of school, she wasn’t at all prepared to leave the manor.

It would be good for her to leave, though, as she couldn’t rely on Draco any longer than she had. She needed to wake up from the lovely dream she’d been living out and get back to reality.

A long shadow appeared on the ground beside them, becoming smaller and more distinct as Draco approached. He sank down to the ground a careful distance away, his eyes looking to the horizon as Hermione’s had.

“What are you doing out here?” She asked as he looked thoroughly unimpressed with the sunset that held her absolute appreciation. “You’ve already fulfilled your one hour outside today.”

“Been watching me, have you?” He sat with one leg outstretched, the other bent with his elbow resting on the knee.

Crookshanks flipped out of her arms, Hermione smiling fondly as he leapt into an overgrown patch of blue-violet field scabious to chase after insects.

“On the days you’re not in London, you spend exactly one hour outside, usually in mid-afternoon. I know because you treat it like a chore. Once your time is up, you head back in.”

“Excellent observation, as always.”

She shrugged. “If you don’t like the sun, why do you do it?”

“It was recommended for my ‘fragile’ mental health.”

Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing at the pain that statement seemed to cause him.

“What?” He snapped.

She released her lip and turned to smile at him. “Is this why you’ve been…decent? All you needed was sunlight?” She scooted closer, Draco stiffening as she advanced on him. “All this time.” She said wistfully.

“What are you on about?” He attempted to lean away but she persisted, Draco grumbling something about “boundaries” as she knelt beside him.

“You have to admit, your attitude has improved immensely. What was it? Were your parents afraid you’d mar your delicate skin if they let you play outside as a child?” She leaned in until she was only inches from his face. “Oh, goodness, is that a freckle?”

He stared at her, his eyes shifting from mildly annoyed to playful, then moved to close the space between them.

“Granger.”

“Yes?”

It was easy to see Draco in winter. Dark and brooding, icy and cold. It was typical. It was expected.

But Draco in the light of the setting sun was otherworldly; it was an instantaneous shift from silver to gold, and it took her breath away as reflective grey eyes bore into hers. He was memorising the colour of them, the shape, the length of her lashes. They travelled over the pattern of freckles across her cheeks and nose, his pupils dilating almost imperceptibly as they flicked to her parted lips.

She stopped breathing when he leaned in, eye to eye, their noses almost grazing. His hand came up to her waist, a featherlight touch on the thin fabric of her pale blue top. She didn’t blink as he held her gaze, his fingertips stroking her in such a way it made a warm, almost numbing tingle spread throughout her body, but she closed her eyes when their noses brushed. She felt the heat of his breath on her lips, the scent of mint and the unidentifiable herb that he often smoked wafting over her. It invaded her mouth, Hermione tasting a trace of it on her tongue.

His lips hovered so close to hers it felt like they were touching. He would only need to press in and make contact—she would welcome it. The hand on her waist tightened, settling comfortably into the curve. The breath she couldn’t recall returning hitched as his hand slid higher, curving around her ribs. His thumb rested just below her left breast, his long fingers wrapping around to trace her shoulder blade. She felt the tip of his tongue as he licked his lips and then, suddenly, he stilled.

“You’re in my space.” He whispered against her lips.

He retreated and Hermione’s eyes opened in utter confusion at the loss of his heat, the taste of acrid herbs and sweet mint, the pressure of his thumb as it had teased her. She blinked as Draco leaned away, his expression guarded and unreadable. If not for the slight flush to his cheeks, he would have looked entirely unaffected by their almost-kiss.

“Oh.” She murmured, then realised what he’d said. “Oh!”

Hermione scrambled away from him in a rush back to her original spot. Crookshanks sat and stared, observing, silently judging the scene that had just played out before him.

“Sorry.” She said, looking away from both him and her too-intelligent cat.

“It’s good to know I wouldn’t need a Beautification Potion to lure you in, after all.”

Hermione laughed, her skin on fire, but she was glad he didn’t seem offended by her inappropriate behaviour moments before.

“I suppose congratulations are in order.” He waited until she looked at him again before continuing. “Head Girl? Isn’t that what you sent back to McGonagall?”

She’d felt distressed the minute she handed off the rejection letter to be sent out. Surely, she was making a mistake. The offer of Head Girl was an honour, and one that she felt she rightfully deserved. To reject it was to reject her very sense of self—everything she had worked for, everything she had fought for, and she had rejected it.

She nodded stiffly. “She offered it, yes.”

His lips twitched. “I always knew it’d be you. Even when I didn’t like you—I couldn’t imagine anyone but you.”

“Are you saying you like me now?” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, not wanting the question to lead them back to another awkward encounter.

He thought for a moment, his eyes trained on Crookshanks as he ate his dinner between them. “I suppose I tolerate you.”

1 September 1998

Hermione awoke on the cold ground, shivering as light splashes of water pelted her. She heard a muffled groan beside her and shifted to see Draco stirring awake. They had fallen asleep outside. In her disoriented state, she couldn’t recall how that had happened, but vaguely remembered trying to outsmart him with her knowledge of Astronomy, the sky clear and full of stars.

She couldn’t remember who’d won, but judging by Draco’s calm awareness in waking up beside her, she was sure he’d fallen asleep triumphant.

Crookshanks was perched atop the bird bath, swatting his paws through the shallow water and onto the people beside it.

“Bloody beast.” Draco muttered, wiping water off his forehead. “Ugly thing, too. Are you sure it’s a cat?”

Hermione yawned. “He’s half-Kneazle and he’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“You would think so.”

She sat up and stretched, trying to shake off the grogginess. “What time do you suppose it is?”

“Maybe eight?”

She looked around, a low fog muting the blue sky above. Crookshanks jumped down from the bird bath when a butterfly appeared in the garden, sinking low into a predatory stance and wiggling as he geared up to pounce on it. As brilliant as she knew him to be, it was always nice to see him behave like a playful cat.

“You don’t have to go back, you know.” Draco said conversationally, propping his left arm behind his head but making no move to get up from the dew-dampened grass.

“Of course I have to go back.” She replied, lying back down and tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. “I want to go back. I need time to prepare for my N.E.W.T.s so I can find a job that pays money so I can have a place to live.” She grinned at him. “I know, I know—that’s a difficult concept for you to grasp.”

Draco sighed, resting his free hand on his stomach. “I understand, I just don’t agree with it.”

Hermione snorted. “Most people don’t have the resources you do.”

“I’m aware,” he said sharply. “But I don’t agree with devoting your life to a path that leaves you unfulfilled.”

She turned on her side to face him. “Are you really content with doing nothing? There isn’t anything you’d like to do professionally?”

His eyes narrowed mischievously. “Are you content with forcing yourself down a path you don’t really want?”

“I’m not forcing anything, Malfoy. I’m following my plan.”

He smirked. “Plans can change.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, looking over his shoulder to the manor that looked so cold and uninviting from the outside. “Yes, I’m aware. But not for me. I…I can’t allow myself to deviate from the path I’ve chosen. I can’t give up.”

“Taking care of yourself is not giving up, Granger.”

She snorted and looked back down at him. “Who told you that, your healer?”

“Among many things, yes.” He said calmly, and for the first time she noticed the sleeve of his indigo jumper had been tugged up from sleep, the head of the snake she’d always suspected was there peeking out.

And it didn’t bother her.

“What would I do, then? Hypothetically.”

“You…would live.” He grimaced. “I will never understand why you feel the whole world is your responsibility.”

“In a way, it is. I’m alive—don’t I owe it to the world to keep making it better?”

“At what cost?” He asked softly, almost to himself. He cleared his throat and sat up, resting his forearms on his knees. “You’ve done your part. Finish school and take time for yourself. Take a year. Take two. You don’t owe the world everything.”

She sat up to face him, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins. “Even if I wanted to, I still need money to live off of. Not all of us have endless supplies of gold.”

“Have you needed a single Knut since you’ve been here?”

She gave him a patient smile. “No, but I will once I’m back in the real world.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but held himself back. “I’m going in. Perhaps the overpaid and wrongly-freed elf will have prepared breakfast early.”

At ten till eleven, Hermione was pacing the platform. Crookshanks kept up with her, sitting between her feet whenever she paused her strides so as to not get trampled. She’d not yet spotted her friends, but arriving just before the train’s departure was a habit of theirs. Draco had boarded already, and not a word had been shared between them after they’d left the manor. She had been hoping they could talk through the awkwardness that appeared to be one-sided, as he remained visibly unaffected, but she hadn’t been able to get their earlier conversation or their almost-kiss out of her mind. Although it was doubtful her proximity had stirred anything within him, she knew his actions the night before would leave a permanent mark.

It had been one thing to imagine his voice in her fantasies over the years, but now she knew him. She knew his laugh, she knew the way his hand felt on her body, knew the barest touch of his lips as they moved against hers. She knew how he tasted, and not since the war had she ever felt such shame in letting him invade her thoughts.

It was good they were going back to school—distance would be her friend when it came to Draco. She’d thank him for his generosity over the summer and they would go their separate ways.

Simple as that.

“Hermione!”

Over the hundreds of students and parents saying their goodbyes and boarding the train, she managed to hear her name in the crowd. Harry’s unmistakably wild black hair was the first thing she noticed as she turned, and suddenly she was in his arms in a fierce embrace.

“I’m sorry,” was the only thing she could think to say as she hugged him back. “Harry, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine,” he promised, giving her one last, hard squeeze before pulling back. “We’re fine. I understand.”

She took a step back to look at him properly. He was still too skinny, but he looked far less frail than he had three months earlier. The dark circles, when compared with Ginny’s, were practically non-existent. But the startling difference was Harry’s smile—it wasn’t forced this time.

“Are you alright?” She asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

His expression was an almost pained mixture of humour and discomfort. “Am I alright? You’ve been with Malfoy all summer.”

She sighed as she nodded. “You received my letter.” She concluded, but Harry looked blank. “Or Ginny told you?”

“Kingsley, actually.” He adjusted the bag over his shoulder that had slipped when what looked to be a second year had bumped into it. “I went to him in July to ask again for an exception, but he refused. He thought this last year would be good for me.” He looked down at his feet sheepishly. “And confirmed it wouldn’t be fair to let me into the program without passing my N.E.W.T.s.”

“Good.”

Harry groaned at that. He still didn’t believe it was good, but Hermione was glad at least Kingsley felt it was.

“He told me he found you at Malfoy’s, but that you looked fine. You seemed like yourself.” Harry gave her a once-over as if to validate that claim for himself.

“I’m…better than fine, actually.” She said, almost reluctantly. Although he looked better than he had, there was still a fragility to him that she didn’t quite know how to handle. “How was it after I left?”

He scoffed a laugh and shook his head, widening his green eyes for effect. “I’m not getting into that.” He chuckled. “Besides, I left, too, so I’m probably in for a worse scolding than you.”

“You left?”

“After I spoke with Kingsley—I was already in London.” He shifted uneasily. “I just thought a night alone might be nice, and then I just…stayed. I wrote them, though.”

“And they were fine with you being alone?”

“Well, I had Kreacher.” He said brightly. “Which, I imagine, is about as pleasant as living with Malfoy.”

Hermione laughed with him, unable to resist giving him another quick hug. “Honestly, he wasn’t that bad.”

“You…” Harry shook his head. “You can explain later.”

She nodded, though that wasn’t exactly a conversation she was looking forward to. She glanced up at the clock—it was four minutes till, and there was still no sign of the Weasley children.

“Have you spoken to them recently?” She asked, but as she did she saw Ginny enter the platform, followed just moments later by Ron, then Arthur and Molly, who took both trollies from them.

Harry turned to follow her gaze, forcing a smile this time as the redheads spotted them. Ginny ignored Hermione entirely as her eyes met Harry’s, and then she was pressed against him in relief, her arms locked around his back.

Ron took Hermione in almost reverently, letting his bag slip completely off his shoulder to the ground. She attempted a smile, feeling oddly shy by his appreciative inspection. Before she had time to react, Ron had bent and captured her lips in a kiss. He was warm and tasted a bit like cinnamon, and her lips moved mechanically against his for only a moment before she realised she was still very much angry with him.

Hermione jerked back, Crookshanks leaping out of the way before she could step on him. She stared down at him as he collected his bag and presented his hand to the cat to sniff, which he had no interest in doing.

Harry and Ginny had already slipped by, Hermione spotting them stepping into the train, Harry’s eyes wide and almost mocking as they met hers. At one minute till, she knew this was no time to reprimand Ron, but she happily would when the moment presented itself.

Once she bent to collect Crookshanks she was off, boarding the train closest to the Prefects’ Carriage. Ron was only a second behind her, his long legs allowing him to keep up despite her quick pace.

“Hermione, wait!” He called, but she was already on and heading through the corridor. “We need to talk.”

She nodded noncommittally as she continued down the narrow passage, but he took her arm and halted her before she could reach the door. The train started moving at eleven on the dot, momentarily throwing them off balance.

“We have our meeting.” She informed him. “Or have you forgotten your responsibilities already?”

Ron didn’t take offence to her snide tone, and actually looked rather pleased. “Of course I haven’t forgotten—I’m Head Boy, after all.”

Crookshanks growled as she dropped him.

“You’re—you’re Head Boy?” She asked breathlessly. “Ron, oh, my god, Ron, that’s—” She couldn’t stop herself from hugging him. “Congratulations!”

He returned the hug, the slight rumble of his chest as she pressed her cheek against it indicating he was laughing. “I know,” he said, then pulled back. “I was surprised, too.”

“I’m really happy for you.” She said sincerely.

“And you, too. Head Girl, yeah?”

Oh.

Hermione swallowed. “Erm, no, actually.”

“No?”

“I turned it down.”

His blue eyes were wide, stunned, then after a moment returned to their normal, cheerful state, Ron seeming to connect the dots for himself. Then he smiled and brought a hand up to push a loose ringlet away from her cheek. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

She pulled out of his reach, her silkier-than-normal hair slipping from his fingers. “What do you mean?”

Ron looked around as if worried someone might overhear. “You can’t be Head Girl when you have to leave halfway through, can you?”

“Leave?”

“Yeah, for the—” he gestured to her abdomen, slightly rounded only from the two almond croissants she’d shovelled in that morning. “The baby.” He whispered.

She laughed haughtily, folding her arms over her breasts, which she noticed Ron had been glancing at far too much for it to be an accident. “The baby?” She repeated. “There’s no baby, you idiot. There never was.”

“What the hell are talking about?” He demanded. “Of course there’s a—”

The door to the Prefects’ Carriage slid open, and Crookshanks took the chance to escape into it, darting between Hannah Abbott’s feet into the compartment. She smiled as the cat passed, then looked to Ron expectantly. Hermione noticed the badge on her robes, the one she was always meant to wear, but it didn’t fill her with the despair she’d thought it might.

Honestly, it was a bit of a relief that she wouldn’t have to handle Ron on a professional level all year.

“Congratulations, Hannah.” Hermione told her, nodding to the badge.

She nodded her thanks, then to Ron she said, “We need to have a quick chat before we get started.”

Ron’s face was already heating red, and she could tell he wanted to brush Hannah off completely but knew he had a duty to fulfil. “Can it wait?” He asked, looking at Hermione pleadingly.

“Absolutely not.” Hermione said. “You have a responsibility right now—we can talk later.”

Maybe.

Hermione stepped into the compartment and slid the door shut behind her, then scanned it for a place to sit. The despair began to settle in then when the one remaining seat, the one Crookshanks was now occupying, was directly beside Pansy Parkinson and across from Draco. As Hermione approached, she saw Crookshanks and Pansy were staring at one another, the cat swishing his tail while the raven-haired girl sat perfectly still. Hermione picked him up and held him to her chest as she sat down, then let him settle onto her lap.

Pansy groaned. “I’d rather sit next to that thing for eight hours.” She muttered.

“It’s no treat for me, either, Pansy, I assure you.”

Draco was assessing her, his eyes as sharp and narrow as the rest of him. “You turned it down?”

She nodded. “It didn’t feel right to accept.”

Although he strangely didn’t seem surprised by her confirmation, he did look pleased to hear it. His shoulders relaxed and his usual smirk fixed into place, but she was sure that if he hadn’t been in a section almost entirely made up of Slytherins, he wouldn’t feel so at ease.

The door slid open again, and Hannah looked visibly irritated. Hermione groaned inwardly, knowing Ron had likely been unable to focus on their brief meeting, and it was entirely unfair to Hannah as the Head Girl. He followed her in, his mouth set in a hard line, cheeks flushed. She hoped he would do the wise thing and let Hannah run their first meeting.

Aside from the relatively uncomfortable introductions of the fifth year Prefects to the returning seventh years, the meeting went rather smoothly. Hannah would be sending the fifth years to patrol the train—after a pointed look at Ron when he objected, letting it be known they’ve never had a proper chance to experience it as last year had been traumatic for everyone who’d returned to school.

When it came to scheduling patrols for the first term, no one except a sixth year Hufflepuff, the fifth year Ravenclaws, and Hermione had volunteered to pair with a Slytherin. It irritated her to no end that the majority of the school was prejudiced against the House as a whole for its affiliation to Voldemort, even when most of them had nothing to do with him or the war. She could only hope that volunteering to pair with them would show the rest of them that they were just their classmates—they weren’t evil, they weren’t anyone to be wary of. But they still needed convincing.

“You owe me a new chair for the library.” Draco whispered across to her, leaning forward to let Crookshanks sniff at the back of his hand.

Hermione grinned, watching her cat examine Draco curiously. “Or you could leave it as a scratching post for his next visit.”

“That’s where you’ve been, then?” Ron cut Hannah’s speech off abruptly, and everyone fell silent, staring with varying levels of intrigue at the scene Ron was causing.

“With Malfoy?”

It seemed he hadn’t received her letter, after all.

Hermione sat frozen, her eyes wide with disbelief that Ron would call her out so publicly—and so rudely.

“What? Are you fucking him, too?”

Shocked, excited murmurs and bursts of laughter emitted from all sides of the carriage as Ron had—intentionally or not—placed them at the centre of this year’s gossip. Mortified as she was, she was oddly relieved that Harry would be getting a break from it for once.

“Am I ‘involved’ with Draco Malfoy?” She asked incredulously, as if such a thought were anything but appalling, but she could feel the blush begin to creep up her neck. “Are you mad? Do you have any idea how unprofessional you’re being?”

“Answer me, Hermione!”

When she wouldn’t, and she could feel her face heat with fire and hear the sniggering of Pansy beside her, Ron turned on the Slytherins.

“None of you should even be allowed back!” He shouted.

“Ron, stop!” Hermione said, outraged. “You’re making a fool of yourself!”

Draco’s smirk widened into a grin. “No more than usual.”

She stood before Ron could march over to where Draco sat and went to slide the door open, glaring back at him until he followed her out. She slammed it shut behind him and turned her back to the window, sure in the knowledge that everyone would want to watch.

“What is wrong with you?” She hissed. “How dare you talk to me like that! And you’re being so disrespectful to Hannah and the rest of the Prefects!”

“I don’t care!” He barked, towering over her. “What did you do, Hermione?”

She inhaled shakily but kept her eyes locked onto his. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The baby!”

“There was never a baby, Ron, as I’ve already told you. I am not pregnant, and I am not involved with Draco.”

“Draco? Hermione—”

She held up a hand to cut him off. “This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation.” She said firmly, then pressed her palm to his chest as he began to rant again. “You accepted the role of Head Boy—don’t ruin it over something you don’t know the first thing about!”

“I know enough!”

“You know nothing!”

She was entirely sure everyone in the Prefects’ Carriage and several compartments down could hear them arguing now. “You’re going to go in, apologise to Hannah, and carry on with your duty, or so help me, Ronald, I will report you to McGonagall for misconduct the second we arrive!”

“You wouldn’t.” He challenged.

“You don’t know what I would do.” She shot back coldly. She turned back to the door, no less than ten faces peering through the glass of the window. With a huff, she faced Ron once more. “And if you ever humiliate me like that again, you will regret it.”

The Start-of-Term Feast proved to be a great distraction for both Hermione and, surprisingly, Harry. He sat beside her, Ron staring daggers across the table at them as no more than fifty new students were sorted into their houses, joining the returning first years to make up a class size of around ninety.

The girl she remembered from the bookstore stepped up and retrieved the hat, and Hermione watched with rapt attention. The girl and her parents had reminded her so much of herself, so much of her life before she’d known the true evils magic could possess. The girl with the ash brown hair pulled the hat on and grinned down at her classmates, likely sure of where the hat would place her.

Gryffindor was the only House that came to mind, as the mannerisms to her own were uncanny. Perhaps this girl would be the brightest witch of her age. She sat, waiting impatiently, a defiant smirk on her face as the hat deliberated, and Hermione frowned. When she had been sorted, the hat was almost immediate with its placement, proudly proclaiming her a Gryffindor before it was even fully settled atop her head.

“Slytherin!”

The girl beamed and tore the hat off, then skipped down to the only table clapping and cheering.

“Poor thing.” Ginny said mournfully, earning low laughs from their fellow Gryffindors. Hermione frowned at her, but Ginny easily brushed off the silent admonishment.

During dinner, where Hermione was glad to see Harry’s appetite had returned, as well, she noticed Ron staring at her again. He’d barely touched the food on his plate, evident betrayal overcoming him as he looked at his best friends.

“Did you both have nice summers, then?” He asked, scowling. “Did you spend time with Malfoy, too, Harry?”

Harry muttered something unintelligible under his breath before taking a long drink from his goblet. Hermione finished her plate and pushed it away, then filled her own goblet with water. As she tipped the goblet to her lips, she watched Lavender get up from several seats down and come over to them, smiling shyly and giving a delicate wave.

“Hi, Ron.” She greeted him, and he finally, mercifully, tore his eyes from Hermione to look up at his former girlfriend. “I never got the chance to thank you,” she explained, then bent to whisper in his ear, her hand resting on his shoulder.

Hermione stiffened at the sight, an uncomfortable, almost jealous feeling rolling through her. Lavender was likely thanking him for ensuring, even during a battle, that she fled back into the castle for safety. To Hermione, even though that horrible night had solidified them as a couple, she had still felt a pang of…something as he’d cared enough about Lavender when they’d spotted her in a corridor to insist she go inside.

It had been a damsel-in-distress moment, and while Hermione was glad Ron had been smart enough not to suggest such a thing to her, she wondered if the thought had even crossed his mind to keep her out of harm’s way.

If she were to ask Draco if Ron had thought about it, the answer would be a resounding, “no.” Probably “fuck, no.” She’d been needed, both for her brilliance and as a human shield for Harry if it came to it.

Lavender pulled back and kissed his cheek. The corner of Ron’s lips tugged into a slight smile, and Lavender beamed at him before taking her leave back to her seat.

Harry was just shaking his head, as if preparing himself for disaster to strike.

When the feast had concluded and the Prefects were to guide the new students to their respective Houses, Hermione found herself hanging back in the Great Hall. She looked around the room, torn between the joy she felt at seeing it fully restored, and feeling the great losses they’d all suffered within. She doubted there would ever be a time where she didn’t recall the bodies laid out on the stones beneath her feet, the lifeless faces she’d once known.

Hermione rose from the bench and made her way slowly out of the hall, Crookshanks trotting ahead through the still-opened doors. When she made her way out, following Crookshanks aimlessly now, she heard a whistle and the sound of her name being called. Her surname, actually.

She turned on her heel to catch Draco leaning against a wall, evidently ignoring his Prefect duties as well.

“No interest in leading the first years?”

“Pansy and the other Prefects have it handled. I’ve done it enough.”

She nodded, unashamed to feel the same. “Were you waiting for me?”

“I was, actually.”

Her brow furrowed and she placed her hands on her hips. “Why?”

“It seems I already miss your annoying small talk.” Draco bent to allow Crookshanks to butt his head against the back of his hand, Hermione’s eyes widening in astonishment at the interaction. “Although, it’s not so much your voice as your company I miss. I’ve heard you speak enough for several lifetimes.” He smirked up at her. “But I’m rather annoyed with myself that I’ve wasted months not taking advantage of what I had right in front of me.”

The hands on her hips faltered, slipping to rest limply at her sides. Then, after only a moment of processing Draco’s infuriating habit of misguiding her to the wrong conclusion, she snapped up straight and huffed. “Alright, what are you playing at?”

Draco stood up tall once Crookshanks became bored of him. He gave her a serious, calculating once-over, eventually shoving his hands in the pockets of his robes. “I’m trying to get under that skirt, Granger. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Very funny.” She shot back, and Draco advanced on her, walking until he was almost uncomfortably close. “That’s rubbish, and you know it. If you wanted to shag me, you’ve had months to try.”

Draco ducked his head, meeting her eyes solemnly. “I was giving you time to get over your situation.” He breathed, and she was almost sad to note that the herbal mint scent was gone. “But now that I’m in a place where I know I can’t have you, I’m going to stop pretending that I don’t want to.”

Hermione took a step back, forcing her gaze down from the intensity of his silvery greys. “That was kind of you to give me time.” She said sarcastically. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Draco.”

Draco let out a laugh, a low, singular chuckle as he, too, stepped back. “So, it’s ‘Draco’ now?”

“Did you get a name change I’m unaware of?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“Then what’s your point?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No point, Granger. See you in Potions.”

He took the long way around her, intentionally brushing against her shoulder as he went. He made it only two steps before he stopped and turned back around, his hand fishing for something in his trousers pocket. He pulled out a phial and tossed it to her, Hermione practically leaping to catch it before the crystal hit the ground.

“What’s this?”

“From the house—mix it into your shampoo, if you want. Or don’t,” he added hastily. “I don’t care. You just seemed to like the static-free look over the summer.”

She looked down at the mixture in her hand, silver and shimmery beneath the crystal. “How much?”

“Three or four drops for a standard bottle should be fine.” He explained. “That amount should probably last you a year.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

He simply raised his eyebrows in response, then took off for the dungeons once more.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

Although he nodded slightly in acknowledgment, he didn’t return the sentiment.

Chapter Text

1 September 1998

“Hey, Hermione!” Parvati Patil greeted her breathlessly as Lavender spun around from her mirror, looking stricken.

Parvati was lounging at the end of her bed, Hermione apparently having walked in on their conversation when she entered their shared room. Judging by Lavender’s wide, guilty eyes, Hermione was positive she’d been the focus of their gossip.

She gave them a tight smile in return, heading to her own bed. “Did you have nice summers?”

“Not as good as yours, we hear.” Parvati sat on her heels, looking across the room at Hermione with interest. She wrapped an arm around the bottom left post of her bed and grinned. “Is it true you prefer snakes to lions now?”

Hermione grimaced, then opened a drawer to retrieve her pyjamas for the night. Now that she was back in school and the nights would be much cooler, she wouldn’t need her shorts and t-shirts, those items of clothing tumbling somewhere in her beaded bag now. Her clothes were back to being sensible: jumpers, heavy skirts, trousers and jeans, cloaks and robes. Gone were the days of flowy blouses and summer dresses, and the lovely hint of a tan she’d managed over the summer already seemed to be fading from being so far north.

She pulled out a pair of plaid bottoms and a long-sleeved shirt, a combination she hadn’t seen in nearly a year and a half since they’d been stashed away in her trunk at the Burrow. She gave them a delicate sniff; they were clean, but they smelled like old books and parchment. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, but she’d had the misfortune of growing fond of the citrusy scent combination Pipsey had been using on her clothes.

“Do I even want to know what you’re talking about?” Hermione asked mildly. She set the pyjamas on the bed and began to collect her toiletries, adding the serum from Draco to the bag.

“We heard about the train.” Lavender chimed in.

“Oh?”

She turned from her mirror to give Hermione her full attention, pausing in the task of applying various nightly serums and creams to her face. “We heard you were shagging Malfoy all summer.”

“I heard you were shagging and he got you pregnant.”

Hermione felt her stomach drop. “What?”

The two friends shared a grin and flicked back to Hermione, their actions more identical than Parvati with her own twin sister.

“We were not shagging and I’m not pregnant.” Hermione corrected them, exasperated. “Where on earth did you hear such a thing?”

She froze then, realising that Padma, too, was a Prefect, and had been in the Prefects Carriage when Ron had yelled at her. She hadn’t even noticed. Sitting in such close proximity to Draco and Pansy, and feeling Ron’s withering stare the whole time, she hadn’t noticed or acknowledged the other Prefects, even when making introductions to the fifth years. Mentally, she had been so far away then, her school duties a well-rehearsed routine that allowed her body to be present but her mind to be back in Wiltshire.

“What was it like?” Lavender couldn’t help but ask. “We’ve heard…rumours.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate, though not really knowing why she was entertaining them. “What kind of rumours?”

Lavender and Parvati shared another glance, clearly communicating telepathically as Hermione had no idea what the hell they were getting at.

“We’ve heard he’s into some…interesting activities.” Lavender giggled.

“All of Slytherin, really.” Parvati added. “In the dungeons.”

“What kind of interesting activities?” Hermione asked, turning to grab a pair of knickers from her drawer. “If you’re asking if he and all of Slytherin are kinky, I have no idea.”

Although, that wasn’t quite true, if Theodore Nott’s confession in the library was anything to go by.

Lavender seemed more than pleased as Parvati looked disappointed. “I told you it wasn’t true—as if Hermione would ever!”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, setting the neatly-folded pair of underwear atop her pyjamas. “As if I would ever what?”

“Be into anything fun.” She said simply, then turned back to her mirror to apply an eye cream. “It’s no secret you’re…well, you.”

Hermione took a step closer to Lavender, hands on her hips. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Lavender looked at her in the mirror, her eyes wrinkling as she grinned. “I only meant that some people are more sensual than others. More in tune with her desires.” She turned and gave Hermione a pout. “You’ve become very pretty, don’t get me wrong, but I just can’t imagine you enjoying…well, sex. You seem the type to frown upon anything adventurous.” She whispered the last word, as if it were something Hermione should be ashamed of.

In the mirror’s reflection, Hermione saw herself blush, and she scowled at the glass. “What makes you think I’m such a prude, Lavender?”

“I’ve known you for seven years—never mind that I dated your best friend for the better part of a year.” She shrugged. “I know you well enough. Besides,” she turned back to her mirror, examining her face until she was seemingly satisfied with her skin care. “It’s not as if any of your books have ever told you what to do with a cock, have they?”

Hermione, though flushing from her chest to her ears now, managed a blank expression and innocently asked, “Bite it?”

Parvati covered her mouth to contain her startled laugh. Lavender whirled on her in betrayal, and all humour slipped when she quickly jumped up from her bed to start digging through her own drawers. Hermione turned back and collected her clothes and toiletry bag as Lavender put away her mirror.

She started speaking louder than necessary as Hermione headed for the door.

“Ron was never a fan of teeth, by the way.” She said pointedly. “You’ve even had yours fixed, haven’t you?” She expelled her breath and shook her head sadly. “I suppose I’ll have to offer him my sympathies.”

Hermione absently touched her front teeth with her tongue and spotted a now-panicked Parvati from the corner of her eye organising her already organised drawers.

“I’ve never seen it.” She admitted, to Lavender’s apparent delight. “But from what I felt, I wasn’t too impressed. You have my sympathies.”

She felt so wrong for discussing her friend like that, but in that moment, in that discussion, Ron wasn’t her friend. Ron was the boy she and Lavender had both slept with, and Lavender had clearly gotten more from the interactions than she had.

She left a nearly apoplectic Lavender and embarrassed-by-association Parvati and headed for the girls’ bathroom to shower.

In hadn’t been true, anyway. Ron’s…body had been more than satisfactory, and it’s not as if she had anything to compare it to. But she’d been honest when she told Lavender she hadn’t seen that part of him. As nervous as she’d been lying beneath him, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to look.

She had—very immaturely, she knew—kept her eyes averted when Ron was undressing. Her unblinking stare had been fixed at the beams on the ceiling as she heard the clank of his buckle and the zip as his jeans were undone. The rustling of fabric falling to the ground, Hermione lying stiff as a board on her back beneath the covers with her undergarments still on. He hadn’t said anything about her bra, and she hadn’t offered to remove it, forgetting about its presence entirely. She’d felt his naked skin sliding against hers as she made room for him on the bed, under the blanket. His hand had practically ripped her knickers off, eager to get going in case Hermione changed her mind.

Perhaps the awful sex had been her fault. She’d been so tied up in nerves that she hadn’t allowed herself to sink into the moment and appreciate what they were sharing. If he was responding to her signals, of course it was going to be horrible, as she had given him nothing. It could have been better—it should have been better, but she hadn’t willed it to be.

In the shower, she added a few drops of the serum to her shampoo and mixed it, as Draco had advised. The worst possible outcome would be his belated revenge in making Hermione lose all of her hair. It would certainly catch her by surprise, but she knew it would be very much in character for him to drag out her humiliation for as long as possible. He could really savour it that way. But the best (and most likely) outcome of using the product was that her curls would be abundant yet manageable, as they had been all summer.

Hermione rinsed her hair free of the shampoo, and she was almost sad that all of her hair was attached. Even as she towel-dried her hair, her mane a chaotic mess atop her head, everything stayed but the few strands that normally fell out every day. In the mirror, she combed it all out, watching her hair lie straight for only a moment before shrinking back into damp ringlets.

Ginny was watching her curiously then, the redhead’s reflection startling Hermione into dropping the comb in the sink.

“Hi.” Hermione smiled to her and picked up the comb, then ran her toothbrush under the tap and applied toothpaste to it.

Ginny nodded to her in response, then started brushing her own teeth. It was quiet for a minute, only the sounds of their brushes scrubbing teeth echoed across the porcelain and marble all around them.

“I s’pose you want to talk soon?”

Hermione paused her brushing, her voice muffled by the minty foam as she said, “Of course I want to talk to you, Gin.” She finished brushing then rinsed her mouth. “But do you want to talk to me?” She turned to face her, leaning her hip against the sink. “You didn’t tell Ron where I was.” A statement, not a question.

Ginny spat and rinsed her own mouth, shaking her head as she went. “I told Mum.” She replied, then patted her lips dry on her towel. “She didn’t think it would be good for Ron to know.”

“He’s an adult.” She said dryly, as if reminding them both of that fact. “I think he could have handled the news just fine.” She began to collect her things and put them back in their bag.

“He’s been through a lot.”

“No more than the rest of us.” Hermione replied coolly. “Did either of you receive my letter, then?”

Ginny shrugged after a moment, looking slightly guilty. “I read it.”

Hermione waited, but she offered no further explanation before taking off for the showers. “Ginny, please talk to me.”

She turned on her heel, her eyes pleading with Hermione’s. “I don’t want to say something to you that I’ll regret.” Ginny said. “I have a right to be upset with you and Harry, you know. I just need time to get over it.”

Although it pained her not to get the conversation over and done with in that moment, she glumly agreed and let Ginny go off for her shower.

8 September 1998

In the library, Hermione was going over her Potions books and notes from the last class she had with Professor Slughorn. The man’s teaching style was rather infuriating, and she found herself longing for the days she spent at Snape’s mercy. He’d been blunt almost to the point of insulting, but had been absolutely brilliant in the craft of potion-making. Slughorn was a wonderful teacher, she knew, and she did fairly well in the subject regardless, but she’d practically wanted to pull her hair out in their first class last week.

The chair beside her at the secluded table was pulled out then, Hermione only noticing it when Crookshanks leapt from the chair to the lecture notes she’d just scribbled fresh ink on. In a panic, she pulled the notes out from under him and saw all the ink smeared, a few patches of ginger fur on her cat’s belly tinged with black. Her notes were even less intelligible than they had been, but she didn’t feel as if that made any difference.

Where was her head, anyway? She was back at school to study and prepare for her exams. This was supposed to be easy for her—a reprieve, even. This was the culmination of the last seven years, a time to put all of her skills and lessons to practical use. She knew what she was doing; it hadn’t all disappeared during the war.

Or had it?

“Breathe, Granger.”

Draco was lounging in the chair now, kicking his feet up on the table like the entitled prick he used to be. Or still was. Honestly, between her rapidly diminishing knowledge of Charms and Potions and Malfoy’s one-eighty over the summer, she was beginning to think nothing made sense anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

He slid her messy notes closer to inspect them, grimacing even at the unruined ones. “Fixing your mistakes, apparently.” He opened the flap of his bag and slid out his own notebook and the text, then reached for Hermione’s quill. He compared the two, adjusting Hermione’s notes where necessary.

“Did you peak too soon?” He asked, smirking triumphantly as he decided to start her notes over entirely on a new page. “If you’d been this distracted before the war, I would have easily been at the top of our class.”

“How unfortunate for you that I wasn’t.” She quipped, tilting forward in her seat to scoot the chair closer to his.

She watched him closely, Draco copying almost word for word his own notes which, she grudgingly admitted, made more sense than what she’d been able to follow in class. His penmanship was much neater than her own lately, so much so she was surprised he was able to read her notes at all.

It was his patience and his eagerness to help that infuriated her, though. She didn’t want to be pitied or taken care of—he’d certainly done enough of it over the summer, and she kept waiting for him to collect upon her debt. Surely he would, one day. He’d said himself he doesn’t do things for people without something in return. He’d brewed her the potion and she’d kept him company, but it felt too easy for that to be all.

Never mind the bomb he’d dropped the week before, almost kissing her then saying he wanted her. She was nearly clawing at her mind in desperation as she waited for things between them to make sense again. If she could count on one thing in her life, it was that the boy beside her was a cruel, pathetic, snivelling little creature who cried to his father at any inconvenience.

It was possible the war had changed him—likely, even. It would be foolish to think it hadn’t affected everyone in some form. But for Draco…the war had hardened and matured him in many ways, but had softened him, too.

It was clear to her then that it was Draco that made no sense to her. How could one person be so contradictory? Rightfully cruel and spiteful to the father he’d spent his life worshipping, kind and sympathetic to the girl he’d always loathed for being Muggle-born and all around better than him. He had said he would stop pretending he didn’t like her, but when had he even begun to like her? It was all an act—it had to be. There was no world in which his sudden affection for her was believable, and she hated him for putting the thoughts in her head to begin with.

“Can you just call me a Mudblood already?” She snapped, and by the way he jerked as if stricken, she realised he hadn’t been at all aware of her silent stewing. “Stop keeping me in suspense.”

Draco managed a lazy eyeroll, but he seemed a bit hurt by her words. He played it off nicely, though, as he did with every jab she threw his way. They had come to a truce at the manor, but now that they were back in school, she had no idea where she stood with him.

Especially not after he confessed to liking her. Wanting her. Logically, she just couldn’t fathom how his admission could be true. Did he like her to spite his parents, or was he trying to make up for being an absolute shit to her for years? As genuine as he had seemed the last few months, it would be a lie to say she trusted him fully. Developed a new respect for him? Absolutely. But that didn’t mean they were capable of liking each other in any way but a grudging friendship.

“I don’t say that anymore.” He said, a forced calm behind the words. “And not just for your benefit, so don’t flatter yourself too much.”

Hermione scoffed and began to collect her things, capping the ink pot and marking her place in her Potions book. “But that’s what I am, isn’t it?” She challenged. Without giving herself time to think about what she was doing, she dropped her supplies with a clatter onto the wooden table and rolled up the sleeve of her white button down, showing him the word scarred into her. “You used to say this all the time. What’s changed?”

Draco’s eyes flicked to it but he had no visible reaction to the sight. “For one, I’ve seen your blood. It looks no different than anyone else’s.” He glanced around to confirm they were alone, then he began to do the unthinkable.

Hermione gaped, wide-eyed, as he pulled off his school jumper and unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve, then began to roll it up his forearm.

“What are you doing?” She asked, her voice a pitch higher with panic as she, too, glanced frantically around them.

“I,” he began, determinedly rolling up to his elbow. He laid his arm on the table before her, but her eyes wouldn’t leave his. “Am showing you that you’re not the only one with marks to be ashamed of.”

Out of sheer curiosity, she reasoned with herself, she let her eyes drift down to his arm. The head of the snake she’d already seen, but seeing the completed mark left a foreign feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t quite pity, nor was it disgust, or even anger.

She felt all of those things, but not at him. He’d still practically been a child when he took the mark—her anger, pity, and disgust lied with his parents, the ones who had encouraged him to take it. How desperate must they have been to have their only child sacrifice his entire life for an ideology and a false god doomed to fail?

“I’m not ashamed of mine, Draco.” She murmured, her eyes searing into the skull as she ran her fingers over the rough cuts on her own skin. “And you shouldn’t be ashamed of yours. Neither of us have these by choice.”

The tendons in his wrist flexed as he clenched his fist, her words a surprise to him. “Why do you think I was unwilling? You acknowledged what I used to call you—something I said quite freely, might I add.” He rolled the sleeve back down and buttoned the cuff, but left his jumper in a ball sitting on the table beside Crookshanks. “I used to wish you dead, you know?”

“I’m sure you did.” She said with a nod. “And I used to wish you’d be trampled by a herd of Centaurs, but here we are.”

She tore her gaze from his mark then, determined to catch the dim lights of the library in his appallingly beautiful grey eyes. “What would your father say if he knew you were cosying up to me?”

The lamp light’s reflection in his eye flickered as they narrowed involuntarily. “I don’t really care what he has to say.” Draco said under his breath. Then, with a decisive clearing of his throat, he added, “Any day now he’ll be sentenced to life in Azkaban, Merlin willing.”

Hermione frowned. “Were his crimes really so egregious he deserves to rot in a cell for the rest of his life?”

Draco ran a hand through his hair and leaned back into his chair with a soft sigh. “My father made poor choices.” He said evenly, eyes trained now on Crookshanks as yellow eyes studied him in return. “I’m tired of paying for them.”

As she contemplated that, Draco collected her newly written notes and the old, stained ones into a neat stack and slid it back to her with her quill on top. He rummaged through his own bag to pull out his Charms book and notes, and his wand rolled out. Draco caught it before it could roll off the table, sitting back and absently playing with it between his fingers as he got lost in his train of thought for several seconds.

“Has it started responding to you yet?” She asked, gesturing to the hawthorn wand.

He snapped back to himself at her question, his gaze sliding from the wand to meet hers. “Not yet.”

She shifted in her chair to face him better, resting her elbow on the table. “You haven’t destroyed it.” She stated, although that was an entirely obvious and unnecessary thing to point out given the wand was still perfectly in one piece.

“I will if it doesn’t give in soon.”

Hermione allowed herself an eyeroll then. “You wouldn’t. It’s too sentimental to you.”

Draco snorted a laugh. “Nothing is sentimental to me.”

“If that were true, you would have destroyed the…what did you call it? The ‘traitorous twig?’” She noticed his grip tighten around the handle, both in frustration and possessiveness. “Maybe you just need to earn its loyalty again.”

“Earn it?” He asked incredulously. “Potter earned its loyalty just by disarming me.”

“Yes, but Harry wasn’t conflicted.” She said, earning an exasperated look from Draco. “Harry was fighting for the right side and you…you were wavering.”

Draco tapped her chin harmlessly with the tip of the wand. “Interesting assessment, Granger. Five points to Gryffindor.”

Hermione hummed softly. “It’s a possible theory,” she went on. “Most wands retain a fondness for their original owner. I’m sure you just need time to reacclimate to it, and it to you.” She hesitated then, gauging his current mood, the stiffness that always seemed present in his posture when anything heavy was discussed. “Unless you’re still…conflicted.”

Draco smirked then, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m always conflicted.”

10 September 1998

Hermione was scheduled to patrol with Anthony Goldstein that night, but after he’d claimed to be ill, she had gladly assumed the responsibility to do patrol on her own. She didn’t know if it was the solemn, post-war mood in the castle or if children had been warned by their parents to be on their best behaviour, but not a single point deduction or detention had been issued by any of the Prefects since the start of term. She’d been sure she could do patrol on her own—happy to, even, as Crookshanks had become her shadow since retrieving him from the Burrow.

He’d always been affectionate with her, but had the tendency to be aloof more often than not. A very independent creature by nature and wickedly sharp in his intelligence, she could only assume he’d become clingier due to being separated from her for so long. Or, even, that he could sense there was no more danger lurking around every corner. He no longer had to have his guard up and sneak around the castle—now he could just live his days as a witch’s familiar, and he seemed content with that.

What he was not content with, though, was Ron volunteering to patrol with her that evening. There was no love lost between the pair, the two only tolerating the other, at best, over the years, and Crookshanks let his disinterest in Ron show when he’d followed her out of their common room. The cat trotted ahead of them, knowing the path by rote at that point, and only occasionally wound himself around Hermione’s legs as she walked, but never Ron’s.

It hadn’t mattered to Ron that as Head Boy he wasn’t obligated to patrol, as he and Hannah were now in charge of the Prefects, but he’d been eager to anyway. Much to her chagrin, he’d insisted on coming as it would be a good chance for them to “talk.” Hermione had dismissed any conversation that wasn’t strictly professional, but he was pushy as ever that night, and she still had to finish the ground floor and the dungeons before she could head back up to Gryffindor Tower.

“I told Mum.” Ron announced just outside of the Great Hall. “About what you did.”

Hermione didn’t bother dignifying that with a response and instead kept her well-trained ears alert for any signs of mischievous first years.

“She’s really hurt, you know.” He went on as they continued through the empty corridor.

Suddenly desperate for fresh air, she started meandering to the entrance of the courtyard, Ron easily keeping up with her every step.

“I’m hurt, too, but what do you care? You dumped me, didn’t you?”

“The easiest decision I’ve ever made.” She said matter-of-factly, though the words stung as they left her lips.

Her goal in their breakup had been to do it amicably—maintaining what they’d had had been her priority. She’d reasoned that they could move past the awkward two weeks of kissing and one short-lived romp under the covers and get back to normal. Whatever “normal” could mean for any of them now, that is.

But, as was becoming his specialty, he had thwarted those plans. Intentionally or not, he’d gotten her pregnant, and hadn’t even the decency to be remorseful about it.

There was no coming back from that, no matter how hard they tried or how badly she wanted them to.

Before they were outside, Ron caught her off guard by bringing up Lavender. “I’m thinking of asking her out again.”

His words were confident, his smile—when she allowed herself a glance up at him—was the almost cocky grin he’d mastered in their sixth year when he’d begun dating her roommate in the first place.

Hermione stepped backwards into the courtyard, turning to face him fully. “I think you should.”

Ron’s grin fell flat as whatever jealousy he’d hoped to stir in Hermione fizzled into nothingness. She didn’t feel jealous of Lavender, but it would be a lie to say the idea of the two of them picking back up again was an easy pill for her to swallow.

“How can you just move on?” He demanded, shaking his head in disgust.

She tilted her head back and expelled her breath, marvelling at the puffs of steam her breath made, especially so early in the year. They still had over a week of summer left, but the castle’s cold was already bleeding into the air around it.

“This isn’t the time or place, Ron. I’m working.”

“No one has broken curfew, and aside from that bloody cat of yours, there’s no one else around!”

“That’s not the point! Honestly, unless you want to talk about repairing our friendship, I’m not interested in anything you have to say tonight.”

Ron threw out an arm, frustrated, his skin warming pink. “I’m in love with you, Hermione!”

She closed her eyes on a sigh, covering them with her hands. That was the absolute last thing she wanted to hear from him. Neither of them had been able to say it when they were together, but of course he would say it then, just minutes after considering dating Lavender again.

She laced her fingers together behind her back, forcing her shoulders straight as she looked up at him. “You are not in love with me.” She said, forcing patience. “Emotions were running high, and we got carried away—it was too much too soon, Ron. Surely you see that?”

“No, I don’t see that, Hermione! You don’t get to decide how I feel about you!”

“And you can’t be angry with me if I don’t feel the same way!” She retorted. “I had no business getting involved with you. Between the war and my parents—god, Ron, did you ever think that maybe I wasn’t in the right state of mind to be with you? I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again, let alone be able to restore their memories! Even if I had been in love with you like I wanted to be, a baby would have ruined…everything.” She ended on a sharp whisper, feeling hollow as the weight of her words settled.

“But we would have been together.” He insisted, his voice more pleading than anything else as he began to cool down.

Hermione inhaled deeply and held a second longer than necessary, closing her eyes as she said, “We wouldn’t have lasted—it wouldn’t have fixed what never worked between us, Ron. We don’t work.”

She opened her eyes to the stain of blush on his cheeks, inflaming once more as he bit out, “In your opinion.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, scream or all three in that moment. Was there anything she could even say to make him realise they were over? Did she have to tell him specifically she had no desire to ever be in love with him or bear his children?

“Well if I had listened to your opinion,” she began hotly, too sharp, too loud for the late hour. She was shaking with her own pent-up rage and the chilly night air as she stepped farther back into the courtyard. “I would be stuck with your overbearing mother pestering me about the joyous accident we created because you couldn’t cast a bloody contraceptive charm to save your stupid life!”

Any professor still up could have heard her, or any dormitory that had their window open. Perhaps even the house-elves in the kitchens below could hear her. She closely resembled a madwoman then, standing in the grass and wailing like a banshee at the man who’d made her feel this way. But it wasn’t a professor or a student, or even Filch for that matter. No, what she heard behind her made her blood run cold: the almost shrill sound of Pansy Parkinson’s barely-controllable laughter.

She and Ron turned to look at the sound and spotted them tucked away in the darkness, invisible up until Pansy had let their location slip. It was almost too easy to notice them then, Hermione catching them sitting on a stone bench, a lit herbal cigarette passing between Pansy, Theo…and Draco.

Ron was standing beside her now, his wand out and illuminated to show the Slytherins in the darkness as they made their way over to them. Hermione took several steadying breaths, willing herself to return to a reasonable level of outrage before acknowledging them.

“What are you doing out here?” Ron demanded, the wand pointed between a pair of narrowed grey eyes. “It’s past curfew.”

“Yeah, no shit, Weasel.” Draco blew out smoke as he said it, his left arm reaching behind Theo to pass the cigarette to Pansy.

“If you don’t fuck off back to the dungeons, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Pansy asked, gracefully crossing one leg over the other, her already short school skirt sliding further up her exposed thighs. “Take House points? Give us a detention? I know Gryffindors aren’t exactly known for their intelligence, but surely as Head Boy and a former Prefect, you remember that you can’t take points from other Prefects?” Pansy reminded him snidely. With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she inhaled the cigarette deeply and blew it out in a slow, minty stream, right into Hermione’s face. She batted the smoke away, scowling at the snotty witch.

Theo took it from Pansy then, inhaling for half a second before offering it to Hermione with an easy grin. She looked down at it but made no move to take it from him. Ron stepped in and smacked it away, then crushed it with his foot into the grass.

“Watch it.” Draco warned. “That’s a bit too rich for your blood.”

“It was my mistake,” Theo said, blowing out the smoke and resting his elbow on Draco’s shoulder. He placed his other hand to his chest in a gesture of contrition. “I forgot we were in the presence of royalty. Are you going to have me beheaded for my insolence, Granger, or might you show me mercy, just this once?”

Although she was rightly annoyed with everyone in her presence just then, it was easy to soften a bit at Theo’s mischievousness. “I suppose I could be benevolent.” She mused, unable to help herself from playing along. “But I must congratulate you, Theodore, for being the first to lose your House points this year. You are not a Prefect, so I’m well within my right to deduct points. I’d say five is fair, wouldn’t you agree?” She looked to Draco then, and Ron stiffened at her side.

“You’re being too generous.” He said, looking at his friend with disapproval. “Make it ten. You can’t trust snakes. Isn’t that right?”

He had asked Hermione, but Ron huffed in agreement, his arms crossed so tightly over his chest she could almost make out his bicep beneath his robes. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Head on up, Weasel.” Draco commanded to Ron then, jutting his chin back to the castle. “I’m sure Granger’s fulfilled her duty tonight. I’ll make sure the princess gets back to her tower safely, you needn’t fret.”

“If you think I’m leaving her alone with you, Malfoy—”

“She was alone with me all summer.” Draco informed him with a smirk. “What do you think we’ve been doing?”

Reading and verbally sparring, mostly, but Ron’s instant reaction to Draco’s words told her he wouldn’t believe their arrangement had been so innocent. He lunged for Draco, but Theo hopped up and placed himself between them as if he were the blonde’s personal bodyguard.

Although Theo was several inches shorter than Ron—as many boys were, in fact—he wasn’t at all intimidated by him.

“Now, now, Weasley,” Theo started, his eyes cold and mouth in a flat line despite the bright inflection to his voice. “You wouldn’t want Headmistress McGonagall to rethink her decision, would you?” He flicked Ron’s Head Boy badge, and Ron shoved his hand away. With a smirk to rival Draco’s, Theo reclaimed his spot in the middle of the bench.

“Go, Hermione.” Ron said, his voice shaking as he struggled to bring his hatred for the trio down to a simmer. “I’ll finish patrol.”

Pansy snorted, shaking her head at the command. “Your boyfriend needs to learn some manners, Granger.”

“He is not my boyfriend.” Hermione spat, perhaps a bit too harshly, as the words sounded cruel to her ears.

At this pronouncement, Ron stilled and stared at her, hurt shining in his night-darkened blue eyes. With a disbelieving scoff, he turned and stalked off from her and the three satisfied Slytherins. Hermione felt an immediate wave of regret as she watched his retreating figure moving back into the castle. His expression of betrayal would be forever etched behind her eyes to remind her what a bitch she’d just been. She had effectively chosen them over him—that’s how he would see it, anyway.

Swaying a bit as she debated whether or not to go after him, she concluded that she had meant to say it, but she knew she could have been nicer about it. She still loved him as a friend, after all, and she couldn’t bear to be the one to hurt him. Again.

“Go on.” Draco said, resigned. “I’m sure you can catch him if you run.”

She looked back at them. The three were calmly sitting on the bench with an air of superiority, enjoying the destruction of her relationship. Her cat decided to be a traitor then, popping up out of nowhere and settling himself to sit between Pansy and Theo. He blinked up at her, his whiskers twitching as he licked his nose, but he made no move to leave the Slytherins he’d never shown any preference to before.

“For what it’s worth, I think you can do better.”

She glared at the boy in the middle then, Crookshanks tentatively leaning into Theo’s hand as it scratched behind his ear. “Oh, shut up, Theo. You don’t even know me.”

Hermione made a move to collect Crookshanks, and the cat took off across Theo’s lap, placing himself in the space between Theo and Draco.

“You were right, mate.” Theo said, gripping Draco’s shoulder enthusiastically. “She’s much more fun when she’s scolding me.” He beamed up at her. “I never thought I’d be into submission, but for you Miss Granger, I’d be happy to give it a go.”

Hermione bent, snatched her disloyal cat, and narrowed her eyes at the two boys as she straightened. “You want to submit to me?”

“I think I do.”

“Wonderful!” She chirped. “Hold your breath until I’m interested.”

She turned on her heel and marched back to the castle, the sounds of three sniggering Slytherins filling the courtyard behind her.

Chapter Text

19 September 1998

Hermione sat alone in the Great Hall the morning of her birthday. She’d arrived nearly an hour before breakfast, determined to get a bit of studying in before her day was taken up with plans she had no interest in—the thought of celebrating anything filled her with dread.

She was nineteen years old today—her golden birthday—and she was still in school, preparing for her N.E.W.T.s. When she awoke that morning, the age difference between her and her friends had struck her. If she’d been born not even three weeks sooner, she would have been a whole year above them. She would have graduated on time. She wouldn’t have had to sacrifice a year of her life—or anything at all, really.

She wouldn’t have had to sacrifice anything if she hadn’t been a first year with Harry Potter. There would have been no reason for her to be friends with him; she simply would have kept on her path of academia, and would have graduated before a war broke out.

Being a Muggle-born, there was no telling what kind of horrors she and her family may have been subjected to had she not been friends with Harry—had she not been so informed and part of the Order.

But not being friends with Harry or Ron, not feeling an obligation to them…she liked to think she would have fled with her parents. She could very well be enjoying life in Australia while the Ministry in Britain got its act together.

When the Gryffindor table started filling up, she put her school things away. It was a Saturday, but she wished she had a class to look forward to after breakfast.

An arm wrapped around her shoulders in a quick side-hug. “Happy birthday.” Harry greeted her breathlessly, then sat down beside her.

“Did you run here?” She asked with a laugh as she ran her eyes over him. Dishevelled, as usual, but with a hot flush to his cheeks. “And thank you.”

“Spent the morning flying—lost track of time.” He explained, panting. “Oh, er, I’ve scheduled practice for this afternoon—sorry, Hermione. It was the only time I could get with Slytherin having to train their new Seeker.”

Hermione perked up at the news, her eyes flicking across the room to the Slytherin table. Draco had only just arrived, his long frame sinking down onto the bench beside Blaise on the end. His hair was un-styled with the carelessness he’d adopted months ago. It should have made him look rumpled and exhausted, but his eyes were bright and clear, even from so far away. He was alert and calm, just shy of cheerful, even. It was a stark contrast to how Hermione felt, sleep-deprived since returning to the castle, feeling pale and weak without the energy of the sun and fresh, warm, flower-scented air.

“Hermione?”

She slid her gaze back to Harry’s, his green eyes playful as he caught her staring at Draco.

“Nice summer, then?” He asked dryly, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a teasing smile.

She exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head. “We’ve become friendly. Nothing more.”

Harry’s eyes widened, but he kept whatever nasty comment he had to himself, which she appreciated. “One day you’ll explain it, yeah?”

“There’s nothing to explain—we ran into each other and he offered me his guest room.”

That answer seemed wholly inadequate, but Harry didn’t push. He was as reluctant to dredge up the events of the last year—the last four months in particular—as she.

“One day.” She eventually agreed. With a determined nod to herself, she collected her textbooks and parchment, then slid them into her bag between her feet.

“You have practice today.” She confirmed, and he nodded, pouring his goblet full of pumpkin juice. “I assume Ron and Ginny will be there?”

“If they want to stay on the team.” He said in a dark tone that made her wonder if there had been a conversation about it she wasn’t privy to.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Is Ron upset about something?” She asked, though she couldn’t recall the last time he wasn’t upset about something.

Harry set down his goblet and wiped his mouth with his hand. “He thought I was stepping down as Captain and recommending him.”

A startled sound escaped her. “What gave him that idea?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t want the responsibility? I turned down Head Boy, but I think he heard me talking to Ginny a few months ago—I was going to suggest to McGonagall that she be named Captain next year, and I think he was hurt that I still wanted to be.”

Hermione sat stunned, staring at her friend. “You were offered Head Boy?” He nodded as he began filling his breakfast plate. “Why’d you turn it down?”

He paused, giving Hermione a rather condescending look. “Why did you?”

As he must have suspected, she had no reason other than…not wanting more responsibility.

“I think Ron would have preferred Quidditch Captain…” She mused, adding honey and thin slices of apple to her own porridge.

Harry just shrugged after a moment. “I—don’t really care. Quidditch was the only good thing about coming back.”

“Why do you think Draco gave it up?”

“I dunno, Hermione. You were living with Draco—you tell me.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “No theories, then?”

“They probably didn’t want him on the team.” Harry said carefully. “I can’t say I blame them, if that’s the case.”

“No, you’re…you’re probably right. He only told me he doesn’t play anymore.”

It was only minutes later that Ron finally arrived for breakfast, and he took a seat beside Dean several spots away, on the other side of the table to allow for the occasional glare to be sent their way. Overhead, owls began swarming the Great Hall with parcels and letters, diving to make their usual deliveries.

“What has he been saying about me?”

Harry looked as if his pumpkin juice had turned sour. “Please don’t put me in the middle.”

Hermione groaned. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s not good…” He said under his breath, then snapped his head to meet Ron’s equally sour expression. “What?” He demanded across the table, and Ron’s mouth hardened in a flat line before averting Harry’s gaze.

As she watched their exchange, it barely registered to Hermione that a barn owl had just dropped an envelope beside her bowl of half-eaten porridge.

“You two don’t actually believe I’ve…been with Malfoy, do you?” Hermione asked, suddenly worried that Ron, hurt as he was, had spread rumours throughout the boys’ dormitory.

Harry chose to pretend he didn’t hear her, and she smacked his arm. “It’s…Hermione, it—I don’t care as long as you’re okay.”

“I am more than okay!” She insisted.

“Great!” He agreed, but kept his eyes trained on his food.

She lowered her voice. “I haven’t been with him—”

“I don’t need to know.” He reminded her softly, the heat returning to his cheeks.

Huffing in frustration, she shifted to face him fully, ready to do anything, say anything she could to convince him when a red envelope caught the corner of her eye, silencing the Gryffindors around them. The envelope hovered in front of her for only a moment, then began to open on its own. She frantically dived under the table for her bag to retrieve her wand, desperate to silence what was about to come, but the shrill pitch of Molly Weasley’s voice rang out a second too late, assaulting the ears of everyone in close proximity.

“—YOU DECEITFUL WHORE! WE WELCOME YOU INTO OUR HOME AND PROVIDE FOR YOU AND THIS IS THE THANKS WE GET?”

Hermione met Ron’s horrified expression. It was clear he hadn’t expected his mother to send Hermione a Howler—on her birthday, no less—but it provided little consolation.

“—WE WERE SO BAD YOU WENT TO LIVE WITH A DEATH EATER? IF YOUR PARENTS ARE EVEN STILL ALIVE, I KNOW I SPEAK FOR THEM WHEN I SAY WE ARE ALL SO ASHAMED OF YOU! I HOPE YOU CAN LIVE WITH YOURSELF!”

The note tore itself up violently, falling to the table completely in ashes. Hermione sat, frozen and unblinking, staring at the remnants of her humiliation while the table around her erupted into chaos. Much of it gossip, but the voices of her fellow seventh years were all turning on Ron. Harry set about cleaning the ashes, glaring at them as he went. Hermione couldn’t look up from the table where the ashes had been, Mrs. Weasley’s voice going round and round in her head until she almost believed the words herself.

When she finally looked up, her face burning, eyes pooling with tears she refused to shed over a stupid note, she saw that the Slytherin table was eerily quiet. Draco’s eyes were narrowed, his jaw clenched, as he glared at the back of Ron’s head from across the room. Pansy, several heads down from Draco and Blaise, didn’t appear to be gloating; she was almost as enraged as Draco. As horrified as she was, she couldn’t help but compare their reactions to her friends’. Their anger was quiet. Cold. Almost murderous in its intensity. She could explain away Draco’s reaction, but Pansy’s was a mystery.

Hermione pulled her bag up and slipped her wand back inside, then quietly excused herself from the table. It didn’t surprise her when she heard hurried footsteps behind her as she stepped into the corridor. It shouldn’t have even surprised her when Ron’s hand gently wrapped around her shoulder, but it did.

Since the night they’d patrolled together, they hadn’t shared a single word. A few glares across the dining table, even more so in their shared classes, but he’d not shown an ounce of regret over that night—not until right then.

“Ron, please, I—”

“I’m so sorry,” he cut her off, his eyes as wide and horrified as her own. “I don’t know how she knew—Hermione—”

“Ginny told her.” Hermione said quietly. “Ginny must have told her.”

His face fell with devastation, a heavy exhale escaping him. “I’m sorry.” He said again. “I didn’t know she’d—”

“Be an absolute bitch?” She suggested unhelpfully, but he didn’t argue it.

“…Right.”

Hermione swallowed and tilted her head back to blink away the tears. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but it’s…” She sighed. “Well, this isn’t the first time your mother has scolded me.”

When he was about to apologise for his mother once more, Hermione put her hand up to stop him. “Stop. You didn’t do this. But if there’s anything else you want to apologise for…?”

He cleared his throat reflexively and looked down. He would not be apologising today, that message was received loud and clear.

“Right, then.” She said stiffly. “Have a good practice.”

She took off for the stairs, Ron calling a gloomy “happy birthday” after her.

“This looks familiar.” Draco called out.

Hermione smiled into her reflection in the glass of the shop window and looked over her shoulder to see him approaching. As her friends were spending the better part of the afternoon at Quidditch practice, Hermione had gone to Hogsmeade alone.

“You’re breaking the rules, Granger. You know it’s not a Hogsmeade weekend.”

She grinned. “What’s your excuse, then?”

“I don’t care about the rules.”

“Clearly.”

He came to a stop beside her, gazing into the shop window expectantly but seeing nothing of interest. “What are you doing standing outside?”

She sighed and took a step back from the glass. “Well, it seems I’m still without money. My parents don’t know they have a daughter, so that complicates my finances just a bit.”

“So you thought you’d depress yourself by not being able to buy anything?”

“It’s not depressing—sometimes it’s just nice to look without buying anything.”

He laughed. “Says the girl with no money.”

“Says the girl who doesn’t need to buy something to see the value in it.” She corrected him.

The village was quiet for a Saturday afternoon, most of its visitors down at the Three Broomsticks. As it was not a Hogsmeade weekend, most shops were closed early, not expecting an influx of students.

“Your friends didn’t want to break the rules?”

“They’re at practice.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Is that what they told you?”

She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no practice today—the pitch was empty when I left. No, I suspect they’re finishing up your party.”

She rolled her eyes. “A party? Have you been speaking to my friends about me?”

He smirked and placed a hand on her lower back to steer her away from her pathetic window-shopping attempt. “I overheard what they were planning—they’re very loud, Gryffindors. They’re even surprising you with a cake.”

“Well now it’s not a surprise.” She said dryly. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“So, where’ve my friends decided to host an after-hours, unsanctioned party on a Saturday night?”

Draco removed his hand from her back now that he’d guided her back in the direction of the castle. “Last I heard, the Forbidden Forest.”

“And no one thought that was incredibly dangerous? Or stupid?”

He chuckled. “Afraid Potter will die again?”

“I’m afraid someone will die because they did something idiotic.” She said, giving him a stern look. “Might I ask why you’re being so nice when you’ve been a royal pain for seven years?”

He raked a hand through his hair, the fine blonde strands falling so…adorably around his forehead. “I like to believe I’ve matured. Learned the error of my ways.”

She smiled to herself, shaking her head. “Yes, that must be it.”

“Also court-mandated therapy.”

Hermione snorted a laugh. “That, too. How does that work, anyway? Being back at school?”

“Weekly letters, but if I feel I’m on the verge of a psychotic break, I have permission to request a Floo call.”

“If only there was access to this muggle invention called a telephone…”

Draco rolled his eyes as they made their way out of the village. “I have a gift for you.”

She groaned. “Is it a Howler from one of your parents?”

“I thought that was your mother-in-law.”

“She is not my mother-in-law.” Hermione corrected him, her voice sharper than she’d meant it. “I was never going to marry Ron.”

Draco nodded. “Hermione Weasley doesn’t quite fit, does it?”

They began their ascent back to the castle, the route a well-memorised path. “I’d have kept Granger, actually.”

He grimaced. “Let me guess, you’re the type to insist taking her husband’s name is beneath you?”

“I don’t judge women for taking their husband’s name—I just don’t know if I’d be one of them.”

“Under any circumstances?”

She paused, considering it. “I think…I’d have to really love him to even consider it, if it were that important to him.”

He nodded again, smug as ever in his assumption. “So you would. If it was important to him, and your love for him outshined your stubbornness.”

“Possibly.” She shrugged. “But the odds of that happening are practically non-existent.”

“Would you have married him had you not…” He gestured to her abdomen.

Hermione shook her head. “No. I would have wanted to stay friends, but after…that, the relationship was over.”

“If you’re not romantically interested, why are you stringing him along?”

She huffed, looking up at him exasperatedly. “I’m not!”

Draco smirked and bent to whisper in her ear, “How bad was it?”

She flinched away. “That’s…hardly any of your business.” She said primly, feeling heat rise to her cheeks as she quickened her pace.

“It’s been killing me for months, so I had to ask.” He explained. “I had a feeling it was bad, but for you to not even be able to describe how awful…”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Why not?” Draco turned to walk backwards, keeping his calculating eyes locked on her face. “Your reluctance to tell me anything will just lead me to my own conclusion, Granger.”

“You know what? Fine. It wasn’t bad. It was…it was what it was. Neither spectacular nor horrible…empty, maybe.”

“What about before?”

She stilled and frowned, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “Before?”

“Krum. McLaggen.” He said with an easy shrug. “Either of them spectacular or horrible?”

She knew to someone like Draco, sex was probably meaningless. And she also knew that whatever virtuous reputation she might have once had had been destroyed by Rita Skeeter in her fourth year. Still, for him to think that of her…

“There aren’t any others.” She mumbled, then began to walk again.

After a moment of stunned silence, Draco placed a hand on her shoulder, stilling her once more. “That wasn’t your—”

“My first time?” She shook his hand off and took a step forward. “Yes, it was.”

He laughed under his breath. “It makes sense how it happened then.” He remarked, walking slowly for him so as to keep pace with her. “You’ve never had to cast the charm. And they’re quite the fertile lot, aren’t they?”

Hermione sighed, unwilling to respond to that particular accusation.

“Did it hurt?”

Her eyes widened. “I am not answering that!” She hissed.

“So that’s a ‘yes’…”

“Draco, I am not discussing this with you!”

True to form, he ignored her objections. “Did he make sure you were comfortable? That you were relaxed and wet? Or did he take your fake pity moans as a sign of a job well done and clumsily shove in?”

She darted away from him, furious with his inappropriate questioning. She’d expected him to be nosy over the summer, but had believed school was safe. Neither wanted word of her failed relationship—the reason for her failed relationship—to be known, so she had unwisely believed he wouldn’t pester her.

How very naïve she’d been.

“Shut up! You are so out of line!”

“Feel free to correct me at any point.”

She gaped at him, mortified heat rushing to her face. “My…physical relationships are none of your business!”

“On the contrary,” Draco grinned. “Unsatisfied women everywhere are my business. It gives the rest of us a bad name.”

“Really? I would’ve thought the sign of your allegiance to Voldemort on your arm was what gave you a bad name!”

Draco took a step closer, ducking his head to lock his eyes with hers. “Throw my past in my face all you like, Granger—you still haven’t corrected me.”

She swallowed hard, blinking up at him. “I…”

Draco eyes were pitying as he whispered, “Did he even try to find your clit?”

She snapped back, so angry she could have spit at him then. “You are positively vile, Draco Malfoy.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

A little clearing just inside the entrance to the Forbidden Forest had indeed been set up for a party. Chairs had been conjured, fallen branches and logs had been transfigured into benches and tables, others used for the massive bonfire Ginny and Harry were setting up. Food had been brought from the kitchens, and one long table was packed with butterbeer, firewhisky, and bottles upon bottles of pumpkin juice. Whether for her or just an excuse to have a celebration months after a tragedy, she didn’t quite care—it was their thoughtfulness alone that held Hermione back from calling them out on their disregard for school rules.

It wasn’t just her friends there, she noted. Almost all of the seventh years had already arrived; Ginny and Luna Lovegood seemed to be the only sixth years in attendance. She made her way to them then, mentally preparing a lecture on safety and how idiotic it had been of them to throw a party in, arguably, the most dangerous area of Hogwarts’ grounds. Ginny spotted her first, and she carelessly threw the last handful of broken twigs into the fire as she rushed over to her.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny said, enveloping her in a tight hug. “For everything.” When Hermione didn’t quite return the hug, Ginny pulled back, frowning. “I should have known Mum would do something like that—”

“I don’t need you to be sorry for your mother, Ginny.”

Ginny took her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “If I hadn’t been so upset about your news, she never would have known. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry. About…everything. I—can’t imagine what you were going through, and I supported you, I did, but being ditched like that—” Ginny looked away, her light brown eyes catching the firelight. “I still support you. I was just…hurt. I was lonely, and Harry, well,” she sighed and released Hermione’s hands. “Anyway, I’ve been an awful friend to you. I’m sorry.”

Hermione didn’t know how to respond. She felt she was owed an apology, yes, but the dynamic between them had become so awkward that she didn’t know where to go from there. In the end, she gave Ginny a tight smile and said, “Thanks.”

Ginny smiled in response, but it seemed just as forced, just as uncomfortable as Hermione felt. “Happy birthday.”

“Did you plan all this?”

Ginny nodded. “With Harry—he said he got permission from McGonagall to do this.”

Hermione doubted that very much, but she went along with it anyway. What was the worst punishment they could all receive? Detention? Deduction of House points? It was all so meaningless anymore.

“Is Ron not coming?” Hermione asked, her eyes darting across the recognisable faces of her classmates.

To her dismay, Lavender was there, standing between the Patil twins. It had been a tense couple of weeks in her dorm, especially after her fight with Ron in the courtyard. It wasn’t that Lavender ignored her—no, Hermione would have preferred that—but she went out of her way to make pointed jabs to her about their relationship in sixth year, and that she and Ron had been discussing going out again. The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, actually, they would be going for a drink to talk.

Hearing about their potential date she could handle, but when the topic shifted unnecessarily into sex, it had become almost unbearable. She didn’t know what Ron had told Lavender, but the way she spoke it was implied Hermione was entirely unknowledgeable and unskilled in that department. Of course it hadn’t occurred to Ron that Hermione was simply unsatisfied with their one sexual encounter, and had chosen not to do it again.

“He was sent to get you, actually.” Ginny said, looking around them for her brother. “How’d you know about this?”

“Dra—Malfoy told me earlier.”

Ginny scoffed. “It was supposed to be a surprise.” She complained. “How did he even know?”

“He wasn’t invited?”

Ginny’s eyebrows drew together, appalled that Hermione would even suggest such a thing. “Of course not. None of Slytherin was.”

“Did Harry know that rule?” Hermione asked, noting that the remaining six Slytherins of her year were gathered together, almost entirely out of sight between two enormous trees. If not for the tell-tale smoke she’d come to associate with their presence, they might have gone unnoticed.

“It wasn’t a rule,” she grumbled. “More of a suggestion. It sent the wrong message to have them here.”

Hermione bit her tongue and forced another bright smile. “Well, I’m going to go say hello, anyway.” She said, already stepping around Ginny. “I wouldn’t want to appear rude.”

On her way over to her Slytherin classmates, Ron caught up and pulled her aside. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, a quick peck that made her cringe.

“I wrote to Mum,” he announced. “She owes you an apology.”

She shrugged. “What’s done is done, Ron. Let’s just move past it, alright?”

“It’s not alright, Hermione—”

“Please,” she interrupted. “Please give me one night without an apology or a guilt trip—I just want one night where I don’t feel bad about myself. Can you give me that?”

Ron rocked back on his heels, his hands buried in the front pockets of his jeans. His shoulders were hunched, and he looked absolutely exhausted.

“We—we can talk tomorrow.” She sighed. “I just want to enjoy my night.”

He nodded after a moment, willing himself to relax before meeting her eyes. “Where were you going?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at the direction she’d been heading in.

“I was going to say hello to Draco.” Her eyes narrowed when he looked about ready to argue. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Can’t do anything about it, can I?”

“No, you can’t.”

Ron wisely stepped aside then, letting her pass, and to her relief he didn’t follow. Between the trees sat Draco, Theo, Blaise, Daphne Greengrass, and Millicent Bulstrode—every Slytherin but Pansy. She knew Goyle was still awaiting sentencing for his crimes; he’d apparently been far more enthusiastic about the reign of Voldemort than Draco, and had committed far more atrocities both at school and during the battle.

Theo noticed her first, skipping over to her with the lit cigarette in his hand. He kissed her cheek much in the same way as Ron had, leading her to wonder how much of that interaction they’d witnessed. “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence.”

Hermione leaned away, looking at the cigarette so close to her hair with disapproval. “I don’t recall giving you permission to breathe.”

Theo pushed her hair over her shoulder and ducked his head. “I think I might be in love with you.”

“And I think you’re a filthy liar.”

“Can’t get anything past you.” Theo grinned, his eyes crinkling, then he offered her the lit herb between his fingers. “Try it.” He insisted. “I think you’ll like it.”

Theo slid it between her fingertips, and Hermione glanced over to Draco to find him watching their interaction. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question—for approval or encouragement, she wasn’t quite sure which—and he gave a slight nod.

“It’s not addictive.” Draco assured her. “It just…takes the edge off.”

She held it up to examine it, the light wisps of smoke coiling up from the lit end, dosing her with its heady fog. She took it between her lips and inhaled softly, just wanting a taste of it. Her fear was that she would make a fool of herself and begin choking on it, so she methodically took it slow, held it for a moment, and blew it out in a thin stream between pursed lips.

It wasn’t terrible at all, she realised with great disappointment. The smell took some getting used to, but the taste was pleasant enough, the blend of mint overpowering the bitter effects of the herb. But she didn’t feel high—she felt absolutely lucid and unnervingly calm. It frightened her, actually, how calm she felt, the panic in her mind battling the steady beat of her heart, her loosened muscles. It felt like giving up a sense of control, but she didn’t exactly feel powerless. Scared, yes, but more relaxed than she could ever remember feeling in recent memory.

She looked to Draco again, half expecting to hallucinate and not recognise the setting or the people around her, but everything was the same. There was no drug-enhanced filter. She wasn’t having a mental episode and losing her mind. She was simply, perfectly clear with no fear or anxiety thrumming through her veins.

If this is what Draco had been taking every day, she knew now why he’d been so pleasant. “It’s not addictive?” She asked, unconvinced.

How could it not be?

“Surprisingly, no.”

Hermione took another, deeper inhale before handing it back to a very impressed Theo.

“Be careful, Theodore.” Pansy hummed disapprovingly from behind Hermione, making her jump. “You wouldn’t us to be uninvited again, would you?”

Pansy came to stand beside her, her shrewd eyes roving over her appearance. Hermione had thought she looked nice until that very moment, dressed simply in a black jumper and a grey wool skirt with tights and a pair of boots. Pansy’s hand suddenly captured her wrist and gave her a tug.

“Come with me.”

“What are you doing?” Hermione demanded, trying to wrench her wrist out of Pansy’s tight grasp, but her feet followed her kidnapper deeper into the forest, out of sight from their classmates and the roaring bonfire.

“I want to work on my transfiguration.”

“Like hell, you will!” She exclaimed, finally breaking free.

Pansy turned around to face her, her expression bored as she took Hermione in. “Relax, Granger. I won’t maim a single hair on that perfect bloody head of yours.” She muttered, using the tip of her wand to lift a long curl off Hermione’s shoulder. “Give me your jumper.”

“Absolutely not.”

Pansy raised a brow in a challenge. “Alright, then.” She said, then aimed her wand at Hermione’s chest. “I am a bit rusty, but I think I remember the basics well enough.”

When she started to flourish her wand, Hermione relented and removed her jumper, immediately crossing her arms over her chest to hide her bra. Pansy snorted at the action, at Hermione’s apparent modesty, and set to work turning the jumper into a dress. The jumper had been one of her favourites, loose with too-long sleeves—cosy and not at all flattering to the male gaze. She’d been comfortable in it, the jumper a compromise with wearing the fitted skirt that showed off her hips more than she’d prefer.

She was surprised when Pansy had her remove the skirt altogether, the new “dress” coming down to only the tops of her thighs, which Pansy secured with a sticking charm. The arms were now skin-tight but still long and secured to her wrists. The neckline had been squared, and Pansy had the decency not to suggest modifying her bra to show more cleavage.

“Better, I suppose.” Pansy said, her eyes still critical as they inspected her once more. “But would it have killed you to wear any makeup?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I don’t wear it because I don’t need it.”

“Yes, lucky you with the perfect skin. How foolish of me to suggest such a thing.” Pansy waved her wand and conjured her vast collection of cosmetics, kneeling on the forest floor to root through it all.

When Pansy stood, seemingly satisfied with her selection of eye makeup and lipstick, she vanished the rest and took Hermione’s chin in her firm grip.

“Need I remind you we’re in the dark?” Hermione tried to pull away once more, but Pansy was like a viper, quick to strike and deadly in her attack.

“I can do this with my eyes closed and hands bound behind my back, and still do a better job than you on your best day.” She went for her eyes first, forcing Hermione to squeeze them shut.

“Why the sudden need to play nice, Pansy?” Hermione asked as Pansy blotted her eyelids rather brutally with a fluffy brush. “This isn’t like you.”

“Piss off, Granger.” Pansy muttered. “I’m not being nice—I just owe you.”

“Why do you think owe me?”

Pansy’s hand stilled against Hermione’s temple, and she opened her eyes to see the dark-haired girl looking solemn. “I know what Draco did for you.” Hermione’s eyes widened, ready to deny it, but Pansy sighed and pulled her hand away. “I won’t say anything,” she assured her. “But I know you won’t, either, and that is why I owe you. He makes really stupid decisions sometimes, and I…” Pansy grimaced. “Appreciate that you protected him and kept it quiet. Thank you.”

“He protected me.” Hermione said softly. “Why wouldn’t I do the same?”

Bitch Pansy was back in an instant, looking absolutely disgusted with herself for stooping so low, for having an almost friendly interaction with the Gryffindor Muggle-born.

“Just shut up, will you?” She forced Hermione’s eyes closed again and resumed her violent strokes with the brush.

“You…” Ron hesitated, taking Hermione in. “Look nice.”

Hermione groaned and dug in her bag for her mirror, one Pansy had so thoughtfully failed to provide when she’d completed her attack and left her alone in the dark clearing. She braced herself before looking in the mirror, but found Pansy had hardly done anything extreme, only enhancing her eyes and lips. It certainly wasn’t anything so dramatic to warrant his criticism. And that’s what it had sounded like—a critique. A subtle jab that made her self-conscious when she had only just begun to enjoy herself. She nodded her thanks and took a sip of butterbeer, not meeting his eyes any more than she had to.

She looked around for signs of Harry, catching him beyond the bonfire with an exasperated Ginny. They looked to be arguing, but through the roar of the fire and the dozens of voices around them, she couldn’t hear a word of it.

Hermione slipped away from Ron once he’d distracted himself with Seamus and Lavender at the drink table, heading over to Ginny and Harry.

“Everything okay?” She asked, looking to Harry first, which Ginny noticed.

“Just bloody perfect, Hermione, thanks!” Ginny held up her hands in defeat, scowling at Harry, then took off through the trees, presumably on her way back to the castle.

Hermione widened her eyes at Harry, and he looked drawn. “What was that about?”

“Nothing we need to talk about tonight.” He said, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “She’s upset that I invited Malfoy.”

Hermione looped her free arm around his waist as they ambled back to where the rest of the Gryffindors had convened. “I appreciate that you did,” she said honestly. “I’m quite tired of the exclusivity amongst the Houses.”

“That’s what I tried explaining to her.”

Ginny returned not thirty minutes later, cooled off and in a much better mood than she’d been in all night. If she had been on friendlier terms with the Slytherins, it wouldn’t have surprised Hermione to learn Ginny had also tried the calming herbs. It didn’t take long for Hermione or Harry to realise Ginny had simply gone off with half a bottle of firewhisky.

“We got you a cake,” Ginny announced, her words slightly dulled from the liquor in her system. “I think it’s time to blow out your candles!”

Hermione laughed, uncomfortable now that people had heard her. “Maybe later.” Hermione told her patiently. “For now, you need to give me that bottle.” She reached for the now-empty bottle of firewhisky and Ginny let her take it.

Minutes later when the candles were lit on the large, blue cake, Hermione realised just how little she enjoyed the spotlight. She’d never really made a fuss about her birthdays before. Being an only child with few friendly acquaintances and cousins that lived farther away, her childhood birthdays usually consisted of museum trips or shopping sprees at bookstores, followed by dinner and a small cake with her parents. Once at school, her parents would send her a package every year with her favourite sweets and writing supplies, a new book or planner. Practical, yet very thoughtful gifts that they knew she would enjoy.

A party in her honour and a cake, surrounded by her classmates and former tormentors…it wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind to celebrate that night. Had Draco not told her about the party earlier on—one she hadn’t fully believed was even taking place—she would have holed away in her dorm with Crookshanks and gone to bed early.

With Ginny in her ear then, singing a drunken rendition of a birthday song, Hermione wished she was there. Draco was across the table from her, watching her discomfort with wry amusement, and she rolled her eyes back at him. She had no birthday wish for the year to come, but she hadn’t the heart to tell her friends that.

When Ginny finished singing, Hermione held Draco’s gaze as she bent to blow out her candles, her hair spilling over one shoulder. Ron was beside her as she straightened up, which should not have annoyed her as much as it had.

“It’s a shame there’s no one to kiss the birthday girl.” Theo drawled sadly, but grinned when he caught Ron’s glare.

Pansy next to him asked, “Are you volunteering?”

Theo wrapped his arm around her waist and leaned his head against her shoulder. “No, I couldn’t do that to Draco.”

The party had come to a hush then, the crackling of the fire and Hermione’s quick intake of breath as she locked eyes with Draco the only sounds she could focus on. His eyes were mischievous, his ever-present smirk a challenge as he waited for her approval.

Hermione felt breathless as she stared at him. Surely, he wouldn’t be that daring.

Or that stupid.

“Not tonight.” Draco said evenly. “When I claim Granger, it’ll be because she wants it,” his grey eyes flicked beside her to Ron then. “Not because she was talked into it.”

Hermione winced. She could already feel Ron brushing passed her and silently cursed Draco for baiting him.

“Got something to say, Malfoy?” He spat. Hermione followed him quickly, grabbing his arm to halt him before he got too close, but Ron shook her off easily. “You obviously have something to say to Hermione, so go on, then!”

“No, I’m sure Granger already knows what I would like to do to her.” Draco held up a finger, correcting himself. “Say to her. She knows what I would very much like to say to her.”

Ron threw a punch, but Draco, anticipating it, sidestepped him without difficulty. Ron was almost as intoxicated as Ginny, and it showed in his reflexes. He righted himself and stormed back to Draco, ready to strike again, but Harry and Theo held him back as Draco enjoyed the sight of successfully riling Ron up.

“Slimy git!” Ron snarled, fighting against the boys restraining him. “You stay away from her!”

Hermione shook her head and collected herself to leave. Ron had promised her one night, one event without him making a scene, and it had ended with her humiliation once more. His jealousy was the least attractive thing about him, it always had been. At one point she had talked herself into being flattered by it, choosing to see it as a sign that he cared—that he liked her.

But there were no excuses for his behaviour anymore. If he could spend the better half of the night pissed and shamelessly flirting with his ex-girlfriend at Hermione’s birthday party, then he had no right to attack the boy she was…friendly with. She slipped by undetected, the party goers enthralled by the scene before them. Ron was shouting, his words slurred with liquor and utter rage, but Hermione tuned it out.

Minutes later, she was almost back to the castle when she heard soft thuds behind her at a quick pace. She didn’t need to look to know it was Draco, his quiet tread and long legs well-known to her now. Hermione stopped suddenly and turned around, Draco’s eyes flashing with surprise only a yard back.

“That was quite the scene back there.” She said bitterly, resting her hands on her waist.

“I agree.” Draco took a step forward, his hand reaching back to the pocket of his trousers. “I know I’m fucked up, but that ex of yours needs to manage his impulse control.”

Draco pulled a thick, white envelope from his pocket and held it out to her, but made no move to come closer. Hermione sighed and took a step down, close enough to retrieve it whilst maintaining distance.

“What’s this?” She asked sceptically, frowning at the illegible seal on the back.

“Open it.”

Though wary, Hermione opened the envelope of skimmed through the contents. “I don’t understand—what is this?”

Draco closed the distance between them, taking the envelope back from her. He rifled through and pulled out a square of parchment, then held it to her between his fingertips. “That is the contact information to a mind healer in Australia.” He looked uncomfortable then, a faint blush colouring his neck. “I wrote to my healer. I told him your parents’ aliases and that they were likely living on a coastline, and asked if he had any connections with healers there or contacts at the Ministry in Canberra. It was a longshot, and nothing will probably come of it, but—”

Hermione launched herself at him.

Her arms locked around his neck and she stood on tiptoe, bringing her body flush against his. She could feel the taut, lean muscles of his torso, the tension in his shoulders. She’d never hugged him before, and it was obvious in his lack of response to her show of affection that he hadn’t been expecting her to do it just then. Draco’s hands came to rest on her waist moments later, gently easing her off of him, and she loosened her hold.

“Thank you.” She choked out, blinking rapidly against the onslaught of emotion. “Really, Draco. Thank you.”

The blush had crept up to his cheeks, and he couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s not a guarantee.” He reminded her.

She caught her trembling lip between her teeth and nodded, pulling the sleeves of her transfigured dress over her hands to wipe her eyes. She remembered too late she was wearing makeup, and was sure she’d ruined Pansy’s work just then.

“It’s enough.” She sniffled. “It’s more than enough, I don’t—” Hermione licked her lips, tasting salt, and placed her hand to her chest. Her heart was racing wildly.

Draco’s hands came up to touch her face then, his thumbs swiping beneath her eyes to her temples, wicking away the tears as they fell. His hands were cool on her skin, soothing, and he kept them there until the tears subsided and she could take a deep breath once again.

“Alright?”

She nodded, casting her eyes down. The envelope was on the ground between them, crumpled from her assault, with the pieces of parchment spilling out. Draco followed her eyes and bent to retrieve it.

“I should probably wait until June, don’t you think? It would be…wrong…to try to restore their memories and have them know what happened to me while I’m still in school. It wouldn’t be fair to them—they’d worry too much.”

Draco didn’t argue as he handed the envelope back to her. “If you think that’s best.”

She managed a nod. “I do, yeah. It will give me time to track them down, too.”

“They found them.” He said, tapping the envelope in her hand. “Their address is in there. It was only too easy for the Ministry to locate them.”

Hermione paled. “Too easy?”

“They’re fine.” He promised. “I only meant it was easy because they prioritised it.”

“Why would my parents be a priority?”

Draco wiped his hands down the thighs of his trousers, his thumbs streaked black with her runny mascara. “Because of your reputation as a war heroine.” He said mildly. “You must know magical governments around the world would bend over backward for you?”

She scoffed. “That’s not true.”

He eyed her carefully, hesitantly, as if afraid to say more. “Granger, I…I was quite selfish over the summer. I kept you uninformed, and you let me. Take a look at any of the Daily Prophets over the last four months—there’s not a single paper that doesn’t have a story on you or Potter or Weasel. When you’re done with your N.E.W.T.s, you could walk into any Ministry around the world and demand a job, and they would give it to you on the spot.”

“You’re exaggerating.” She accused.

“I’m not. It’s honestly a miracle word of your situation never got out.”

She nodded, knowing that it was true and grateful for it all the same. “Do you think I’m evil for it?”

“No more than I was in helping you do it.”

Hermione tucked the envelope into her bag, satisfied enough with that answer.

“Granger?”

“Yes?”

Draco bent his head to murmur, “Unwanted children often grow up to be lonely, desperate adults. For all we know, I helped you prevent the next Tom Riddle.”

Hermione snorted a laugh and swatted at him. “Shut up.” He righted himself and she wiped at her face with her sleeves once more, embarrassed that she had cried so easily in front of him. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve been so nice to me?”

“Maybe.”

“So there is a reason?”

He smirked. “There could be.”

“You could be an adult and tell me.”

“I could, but where’s the fun in that? I quite like you prissy and flustered when you’re caught off guard.”

“I am not prissy!” She argued.

“You are the definition of prissy.”

She bit her lip, unwilling to laugh with him. She didn’t believe she was the one to be flustered, though, as Draco had always been the first to disengage at any form of affection from her. It was confusing—it was almost as if he was afraid of her.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” She asked suddenly.

His eyes flared, startled, but quickly darted behind her to the castle. He cleared his throat, distressed—flustered, even by the spotlight she’d placed on him then.

“I meant it when I said I wouldn’t try unless you wanted it.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stepped forward and placed her hands on his chest. She tilted her head back to take in his shifty eyes and the tight set of his jaw.

“How will you know if I want it?”

“I’ll know.”

Hermione wrapped a hand around his neck, pressing her thumb beneath his jaw and stroking the skin there, willing him to look at her. When he did, he asked, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

She nodded. “I might, actually.”

Draco hummed. “Might. There’s your answer, Granger.” His hand came up to remove hers delicately, then released it at her side.

Feeling the sting of rejection, Hermione fiddled with the strap of her bag, looking down as she felt the blush set in. “Why did you provoke Ron if you don’t want me?”

“I didn’t provoke him.” He said, but he didn’t deny the accusation he didn’t want her, either. “He still wants you.”

“No, he doesn’t.” She whispered. “He barely showed an interest when he had me.”

“His loss, then. He probably took advantage of your pining and believed you’d go back eventually.”

Hermione disengaged, stepping out of arms reach from him. “Are you jealous?”

“Of Weasley?” He sneered. “Why the fuck would I be jealous of him?”

She chewed on her lip. “Because I was with him—he was my first.”

“I’m not jealous. I just pity you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He couldn’t respond to that, sliding his hands into his back pockets and looking down at their shoes. “Sorry about Pansy.”

“Was it your idea to sic her on me?”

“All hers, I’m afraid.” His smirk returned, but he kept his eyes trained on the ground. “Although, I did warn her I wouldn’t help if you tried to kill her for it.”

Hermione smiled and wrapped her arms around herself, the frigid night air beginning to seep in. She hadn’t noticed how cold it was earlier, surrounded by body heat and a blazing fire, but now that she was standing with Draco, someone unwilling to touch her, she felt entirely chilled through.

“I think she did a nice job,” she said softly, then gestured to her face. “Before I ruined it.”

Draco let his eyes scan her face for only a moment. “I thought you looked perfect before.”

Hermione stilled, fighting against another smile. “Perfect?”

“Average.” He amended. “Perfectly average.”

She nodded. “Goodnight, Draco. And thank you.” She patted the bag at her side.

“Anytime.”

As she was about to turn away and head up, she paused. “What do I owe you? You said it yourself—you don’t do things out of the kindness of your heart, so what would you like from me?”

Draco considered her words carefully and ultimately said, “Consider this a gift. No strings attached."

Chapter Text

20 September 1998

“—mione?”

A hand was roughly shaking her shoulder, but Hermione couldn’t seem to tear herself away from the intoxicating scents of wildflowers and almond croissants. She could almost feel the heat of the sun, absorbing deep through her skin and muscles, embedding the light in her bones.

“Hermione!”

Another rough shake snatched her away. The hum of bees became rough lashes of wind and rain against the windows. The flowers and pastries became the now-suffocating scents of musty fabric and old parchment. The brilliant yellow sunlight became dim scarlets and greys.

And the rough shake of her shoulder was courtesy of Ginny Weasley.

“Merlin, Hermione!” She laughed in relief. “I almost thought you were dead!”

Disoriented, Hermione moaned faintly and brought a hand up to her eyes, her arm so numb it felt disconnected from her body. She examined it curiously, deep red lines sinking into the skin as if she’d slept hard on it all night long. The curtains on the left side of her four poster bed had been pulled back, Ginny standing between them, the fabric still swishing as if she’d flung them apart only moments before.

She blinked up at Ginny uncomprehendingly for several seconds until the redhead snapped her fingers an inch from her face.

“Alright, then? Or should I get Madam Pomfrey?”

Hermione propped herself up on her elbow and swallowed reflexively, preparing her dry mouth to speak. “’m fine.” She croaked.

Ginny sat on the edge of her bed, shaking her again when her eyelids fell shut a moment too long. “You don’t look fine.” She countered. “You weren’t moving—you were hardly breathing, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I was sleeping.” Hermione grumbled, suddenly, aggressively annoyed that it had only been a dream. “What time is it?”

“Half-past eight, or so. I thought we should head down to breakfast in a bit.”

Hermione rolled to her back and sat up with her elbows to study Ginny, memories of the night before beginning to trickle in. “Are we on speaking terms?” She asked carefully.

She winced. “I was pretty smashed, wasn’t I? Firewhisky is not my friend…” She trailed off, looking embarrassed.

Hermione gave a reluctant nod, and Ginny moaned. “I think most everyone was, though.” She assured her. “Ron especially.”

“Don’t get me started on what a tosser he is.” Ginny frowned then, almost to herself. “Although, I’m probably not to best person to judge.”

Hermione sat up fully, drawing her legs in to give Ginny more room. She sat cross-legged, facing Hermione, and attempted a smile.

“Why have you been so upset with me?” Hermione asked abruptly.

Ginny’s fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on the hem of her jeans. “We don’t have to talk about this now—”

“I think we need to.” She countered. “I can’t handle your mood swings if I don’t know what’s causing them, Gin.”

Ginny chewed on her lip for a second. “I was worried about you.” She shrugged. “All summer. The potion you were going to brew—I researched the ingredients after you left.” She eyed Hermione seriously. “Death cap is highly toxic—even the smallest dose could have been fatal. I’d begun to worry that you knew that—that you might have been desperate enough to…”

Ginny’s inhale was shaky, her fingers gripping the hem now, curling around it and whitening her knuckles. “When you didn’t come back,” her voice broke, and she forced herself to clear her throat. “I thought you’d killed yourself, Hermione. Stress from the battle, your parents—not being able to afford the potion, I—and I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to betray your trust in case you were fine. I didn’t know if Harry would have kept it to himself…but for nearly three months I thought you were dead, and I had to grieve alone.”

Hermione reached for Ginny’s hand, and she flinched at the contact. In an instant, her brown eyes looked apologetic at her own reaction, lips quirking into a sad smile, and she took Hermione’s hand a moment later.

“I had no idea.” Hermione breathed, suddenly so much of Ginny’s mood over the last few weeks making sense. “It never even dawned on me you’d come to that conclusion, but now…god, of course you would have.”

Ginny squeezed her hand. “I never told them you were planning to brew the potion or get it from the Apothecary. I didn’t want Ron or Mum to stop you—we all knew you couldn’t afford it, and Ron went back to St. Mungo’s to see if you’d gone back. For all they knew, you could have lost it naturally—but that was your business, and if you’d managed to get it done, I didn’t want to risk selling you out.”

Hermione chewed on her lip, tugging at the chapped skin until it felt raw. “Thank you.” She said weakly. “Really, Ginny, thank you for that.”

Ginny swallowed, her eyes blinking as they began to gloss over. “You were able to…get it done?” She lowered her voice, though Lavender and Parvati were gone, likely already down for breakfast. “Safely?”

Hermione nodded, a bit warily. “I can’t go into detail, but yes.”

She seemed fine with that answer, her shoulders relaxing into a hunch. “Good. I don’t need to know more, then.” After letting relief settle over her, a slight frown reappeared, Ginny debating whether or not to say more. “Ron was beside himself all summer, you know?”

By Ginny’s nervousness, Hermione knew she hadn’t said it to inflict guilt, but she felt it all the same. “I assumed so.”

“He spent weeks hounding poor Kingsley to look for you, but they had no reason to. I assured him and Mum that you’d probably gone to Australia—Kingsley must’ve secured a Portkey for you, or something.” She inhaled sharply, looking down at their joined hands. “If you had gone, you wouldn’t have been obligated to tell us, but I just thought—I…I kept waiting for a letter. Or for you to apparate home. Something to tell me you were okay, but…nothing. It was so unlike you that I just thought—I thought the worst.”

She released her hold then and scoffed, shaking her hand free of the tension in her fingers. “And then you show up to get your trunk, and you tell me you’ve been living with Malfoy—”

“Ginny, I’m—”

She shook her head, forcing a smile. “I know. I don’t blame you, and I don’t want to hurt you anymore. It’s just going to take some time to forgive you—but I want to.” She reached across the bed to pull Hermione into a hug. “I can’t lose you, too.”

“You won’t lose me.” Hermione swore, resting her chin on Ginny’s shoulder. “You could never lose me.”

“Ron lost you.” She countered, her voice muffled by Hermione’s shirt. “I never thought that was possible.”

“He hasn’t lost me.” She said, but when Ginny pulled back, Hermione could see she wasn’t convinced.

Ginny gave her a wan smile. “It’s not the same, though, is it? He’s still heartbroken and you…you’ve clearly moved on.”

“Moved on?” Hermione frowned. “I haven’t ‘moved on,’ Ginny. I’ve been recovering—I’ve been getting healthy, and for the first time in years, I’ve been making myself a priority. I never wanted to hurt Ron, Ginny. I love him too much.”

“But you don’t want to be with him.”

Hermione thought for a moment but ultimately shook her head. “I don’t.” She confirmed, and it didn’t feel like a lie. “I know he’s hurt. I know he’s acting up because of it, and maybe it was too much for him to come back and take on the role of Head Boy—but I can’t allow myself to feel guilty anymore. If he can sit down and have a rational conversation with me and find a way to be friends again, I would do it in a heartbeat. But he has to want that. I don’t want to force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.”

Ginny gave her a knowing look and nodded once. “I agree.” She said firmly, then gave her hand a pat. “So we just wait, then, for Ron to come to his senses?” She snorted dubiously. “I think we’ll be waiting a while, if that’s the case.”

Hermione gave her a hint of a smile. “I can wait.”

29 September 1998

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Draco slid into the seat beside her in the library, letting his bag drop with a heavy thud onto the table.

“What if I was?”

They’d not spoken since her birthday. Hermione had assumed he’d taken to studying alone in empty alcoves or the Slytherin common room, anywhere and everywhere he could to avoid her. In classes he kept his distance, sitting beside Pansy in Potions and Transfiguration, Theo in Herbology and Charms. The classes he could afford to miss, allowing him to study on his own, were granted with a note to excuse his absence if Madam Pince or a wandering professor questioned him.

“What are you here for then?” She asked quietly, pulling her notebooks aside to give him more space.

“You.” He answered with a smirk, pulling out his books and a fresh quill. “What’s that?” He asked, lifting up the edge of the book splayed open before her.

“Memory charms.” She let him slide the book closer. “I had to ask Professor Flitwick for a note to check it out from the Restricted Section.”

“And without any troubles, I’d imagine.”

Hermione bit her bottom lip softly. “None whatsoever. He seemed happy to assist, actually.”

“Ah, of course.” Draco groaned. “The world is indebted to you, and you use that advantage for library privileges. I should have expected no less.”

She smiled to herself and handed him the notes she’d made so far.

Although he hadn’t asked for them, he took them anyway, scanning over her relatively sloppy hand. “Did you have to explain what for?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t even ask. As soon as I mentioned ‘Restricted Section,’ he had a quill out and ready to sign for it.”

“The perks of being on the right side, I suppose.” He said, his tone just shy of bitter. “Pince, that spiteful shrew, won’t let me take a single bloody book from the library.”

Hermione hummed. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Draco’s eyebrows knitted together. “I beg your pardon?”

“There’s no telling what someone like you could do to a school text—I’ve seen your library at home, Draco.” She admonished him. “Madam Pince would be a lunatic to trust you with her books.”

He scoffed, tossing the quill onto the table and setting her notes down beside it. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve ruined your fair share of texts, Granger.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm, that’s strange.” Draco leaned back in his chair, sliding down enough to allow for his legs to rest on the table, crossing them at the ankles. “Didn’t you know my Divination book was priceless?”

“I’m sure you can still find a replacement at Flourish and Blotts. I can’t imagine there’s been a lot of demand for Trelawney’s ‘expertise.’”

“Not that copy.” He said regretfully. “Not with my notes or observations from that year. Pansy had a new perfume; Goyle fucked up his tea leaves. Potter getting The Grim was a good day, but your hissy fit after Trelawney destroyed you…fucking hell, that was the best.”

Hermione scowled. “You’re an idiot.”

He sniggered, stretching out in the chair.

“And I’ll have you know, you’re also a monster for writing in the margins the way you do—I did that dreadful book a favour leaving it out in the rain.”

Draco’s smirk widened into a grin. “Which were your favourites?” He reached for the quill, weighing it between his fingertips before he teased the skin of her wrist with its feather. “I know you must’ve gotten a good laugh at some of them.”

Hermione turned her wrist over, feeling an uncomfortable fluttering in her stomach at the sensation. “Your entries in the first year’s Potions text were entertaining.” She grabbed at the feather with her opposite hand when it began to tickle up her arm, but Draco swiftly pulled it back.

“I don’t think there was a single page where you didn’t mention Harry. You were practically in love with him.”

“What you were reading was hatred, Granger.” He corrected. “I’m surprised you can’t tell the difference.”

“I can tell the difference.” She shifted in her seat, resting her arm on the back of the chair to face him.

Crookshanks appeared on the floor between them, his bushy tail the first thing she noticed. The cat had resumed his past behaviour of independence, taking himself for strolls throughout the castle, following other students into their classes. This was the first time in two days she’s seen him, and instead of greeting her, he wiggled a bit, ready to pounce, and hopped up onto Draco’s waiting lap.

She gasped softly, apologetically, and stood to retrieve him. Despite Crookshanks warming up to him over the last month, she would have never imagined he’d be so bold as to settle on his lap for a nap—it had taken months for him to even warm up to her friends.

Hermione delicately tried to extract the stubborn cat, but not even Draco was willing to help. He seemed to enjoy her struggle, even, giving her a rather smug smirk as he allowed the cat to curl up tight like a snail.

“Crookshanks!” She huffed, frustrated by Draco’s lack of concern. “He’s not usually like this.” She muttered, mostly to herself.

She had just gotten under his body when he shifted, forcing the backs of Hermione’s fingers against Draco’s zipper. She pulled back as if zapped, knowing now and trying to forget the feel of his flesh beneath the material.

“Careful there, Granger.” He warned, his voice low, eyes narrowed as he began to scratch Crookshanks behind the ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I might think you were trying something.”

Blushing and trying to re-establish their boundaries, Hermione forced a laugh and sat back down in her chair. “You wish.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his hand still. “Oh, I do.” He assured her. “Practically every night—and day, really.”

“Shut it, Malfoy.”

Draco lowered his legs to the floor then, gently lifting Crookshanks off his lap to place him on the table. He stood and pulled his chair out, manoeuvring it to face her completely, then sank down into it.

“You were my first wank.”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

He crossed his right leg over the left. “Care to know the details?”

“If it involves me bound under this table—”

“It was third year.” He interrupted. “When you stormed out of Divination—I couldn’t stop thinking about your arse for weeks.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and opened her book back up. “Remind me, was that before or after I slapped you?”

“Hmm…I don’t remember, actually. But I must say, I think I enjoyed it.”

Hermione managed a scoff and sorted through her notes, Draco having lost her place in the book. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

Draco leaned in, his lips just inches from her ear, and she cursed herself then for having her hair pulled up in a tidy knot. She could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured, “Do you believe I’m joking or do you just hope I am?”

Hermione cleared her throat, determined not to let him see how easily he’d affected her. “The latter.”

Draco pulled back then, a triumphant grin across his sharp features.

She sighed and resumed her notetaking. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m insatiable. Care to indulge me?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You couldn’t handle me.”

4 October 1998

“You’re coming in late.” Hermione called, looking up to see a worn-out Ron coming in through the portrait hole.

She and Harry had been studying in the common room—a rare occurrence for them to actually be studying, and one she had been enjoying greatly—until Ron appeared. Harry stiffened and began to collect his supplies.

“Do you honestly feel ready to attempt Veritaserum tomorrow?” She asked him in a hushed tone, a bit condescendingly. They had only made it through half the chapter so far, and would be tested in the morning by brewing their first batches of it.

“I’ll get up early and finish.” Harry muttered.

Ron noticed Harry’s urgency to flee, his face a snarl as he stared at his best friend. Hermione watched the silent, awkward exchange from her place on the sofa, and wished she and Ron were on better terms so she could scold them both for being ridiculous.

From what she’d been able to drag from Harry, Ron had tried to overthrow Harry as Quidditch Captain, even going so far as to ask the Headmistress for assistance in the matter. If Harry couldn’t handle being Head Boy, surely he couldn’t handle managing a House team, either. That act had been so unlike him that Hermione hadn’t wanted to believe it. Ron was not the backstabbing type—Ron would have happily died for Harry on many occasions. The Ron she knew would have never gone behind Harry’s back—but, as she also knew, they had all changed from the war. Ron’s confidence had skyrocketed while Harry and Hermione had retreated into themselves. None of them were wrong, necessarily, but Ron’s betrayal, even from a place of concern, nevertheless stung.

Harry made his way up to the boys’ dormitory then, giving Hermione a brief, apologetic smile on his way, his back to Ron.

Hermione attempted a smile as she brought Ron’s attention back to her. “Head Boy duties?” She guessed. “What kind of trouble are the first years getting into now?”

“Had a meeting with McGonagall and Hannah.” He said, his eyes on the shadow of Harry’s footsteps up the stairs.

“Did it go well?”

Ron grimaced and made his way over, landing clumsily in an armchair across from her, closest to the fire. “We’re supposed to help with Halloween. Fuck if I know anything about it.”

She gave him a patient smile. “I’m sure Hannah will pick up any slack.”

Hermione felt Hannah shouldn’t have to pick up his slack, though. He should just be happy to get to do it. He’d accepted the role with pride, and he should be grateful Professor McGonagall respected him enough to consider him for the honour.

As much as she wanted to drill into him that his role was a privilege, she didn’t feel it was the right time to remind him there had been other, possibly more qualified candidates.

“It should be you—Head Girl. I should be doing this with you. It would be so much easier if it was you.” Ron dropped his head in his hands. “I think I’m in over my head, ‘mione.” He mumbled.

Hermione sighed. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.” She promised, but even offering to help with the Hallowe’en Feast felt like too large an undertaking for her. “I’ll request a meeting with McGonagall after Potions tomorrow and—”

“Why did you turn it down?” His head jerked up, devastation plain on his face. “Thought you wouldn’t have enough time for Malfoy?”

Her shoulders slumped. It had felt almost normal between them over the past week, glimpses of his old, cheery self slipping through the cracks in his angst. Hermione leaned in, torn between wanting to comfort him, and wanting to be annoyed that he’d shifted yet another conversation back to the Slytherin that already consumed most of her waking thoughts.

“I turned it down because I didn’t want the responsibility of it.”

“What’re you talking about?” He exclaimed. “All you care about is responsibility!”

“I’m…” She licked her lips. “I’m just tired, Ron. Even when I manage to sleep through the night, I’m always so tired. I’m here to finish school and nothing more—the N.E.W.T.s are difficult enough. I don’t even know how I’m going to manage Slughorn this year—”

“And Malfoy?” He asked gruffly, cutting her off.

Hermione turned to the open books still at her side and shut them, capping her pen and sliding it all into her schoolbag. Then, after taking a deep, steadying breath, she turned to face him and said, “Ron, I love you. I have always loved you and I will continue to love you, but whatever might be evolving with him…that’s none of your business.”

“Hermione, it’s Malfoy.” He said pleadingly. “You’re not stupid—”

“No, I’m not.” She interrupted fiercely. “So don’t treat me as though I am. I’m hurt, and I’m tired, but I’m not broken, Ron—I’m not something for you to swoop in and fix. My mind is as sharp as it’s ever been, and I don’t appreciate your unwarranted jealousy.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“I’m not asking you to trust him—I’m asking you to trust me. Trust my judgment. Have I ever steered either of us wrong?”

Ron swallowed, his firelit blue eyes falling from hers in defeat. “No.” He said in a voice just above a whisper. “But I don’t accept it.”

Hermione felt her heart begin to race, a rapid thrum as a new kind of pain took hold of her. “What do you want from me?”

His eyes snapped to hers once more, confused and a little bit frightened. “What do you mean?”

“What do you want from me?” She repeated slowly, standing. She crossed to the armchair, looming over him, her legs between his. “You had me in your bed, Ron, and you hardly took advantage of what you had then. So, what do you want from me now?”

He gulped, looking up at her imploringly. “I was nervous!” He said, ignoring her question altogether, only focusing on the bit where she might have insulted him.

“But you’d done it before!” She threw her arms out in frustration. “I was the virgin, Ron! Not you. What would you have been nervous about?”

The heat in Ron’s face began to drain as his eyes widened. “You weren’t a virgin!” He practically shouted, but the waver in his voice made him sound unsure.

“Of course I was a virgin! I—bled.” The blush from his face began to trickle into hers then, creeping up her neck and heating her cheeks.

“Oh,” he whispered faintly, then looked down at his lap, horror-struck. “I didn’t—I thought,” his eyes flicked to hers. “I thought I was too…” he waved his hand near his lap, implying the reason for the bit of blood on his sheets had been from his size, and not because she was unprepared.

Hermione groaned, half in disgust and half in pity.

“But you liked it.” He murmured. “You said you loved it.”

“I…” She swallowed, feeling the sting of that night all over again. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“You faked it.” He accused.

From the details she could remember, there hadn’t been enough time for her to “fake” anything.

“Is that why you broke up with me?” The blue of his eyes were like ice, cold and unyielding against the shakiness in his voice.

“No!” She bent down and took his face between her hands. “No, it wasn’t you, I—”

Ron shot up from the chair then, and he would’ve knocked her over if not for the hands that grabbed her waist. He crashed his lips to hers and she…she kissed him back. Her hand reached up to grip his hair, forcing his head down further as their mouths fused. But his kisses, enthusiastic as they were, lacked the burning she craved, his tongue sweet and gentle in its tentative pursuit of hers. Her kiss, on the other hand, was full of rage, a different form of heat than Ron could deliver.

Bitter, stabbing pangs of jealousy and anger were only natural to Ron when he felt vulnerable; hers were ever-present.

And lately they all seemed to revolve around Malfoy.

At the thought of him—the remembered feel of his jaw beneath the pad of her thumb, the lean muscles of his chest, his hands as they held her waist and the tip of his tongue as he spoke against her lips—she broke away, flinging herself off and landing in a heap in the armchair previously occupied by Ron. It dimly registered to her that he must have turned them around, had been guiding her down.

“I—shouldn’t have done that.” Horrified, she wiped at her mouth with her sleeve, her lips swollen. “I’m sorry, Ron, I don’t—”

His shoulders slumped, his eyes taking in her curled frame in the large chair. She closed her eyes at the heartbreak in his.

“It didn’t change anything.”

She shook her head, tears beginning to well up beneath her closed lids. “I’m sorry.”

The tears slid in two perfect beads down her cheeks when she opened her eyes. She didn’t bother to wipe them away, and he didn’t seem to mind their presence. If anything, her misery seemed to reassure him.

Ron was happy he’d made her feel this way.

He made a move for the stairs, running away from her, and she bolted after him, grabbing hold of his arm before he’d made it to the first step.

“Ron, stop!” She pleaded. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be messing with your head, that’s not fair.”

He wriggled out of her grasp, pain etched into the face she’d once adored, had been so broken over losing to Lavender in what felt like another lifetime ago.

“That’s all you ever do.” He accused.

“I don’t mean to, Ron. I swear I never meant to, I…can—can we just try to be friends again?” She was shaking as she took the first step to stand beside him, closing a bit of the distance. “I just want us to be friends again.”

He turned away and marched up the stairs then, and Hermione felt a part of herself shatter. His rejection now—after she’d kissed him, after she’d tried to make love with him—was far more painful than it had been two years before when he’d only kissed her roommate.

He turned back before the curve that would block him from her sight. “Were we ever really friends, Hermione?” He asked coldly. “Or was Harry just the one thing we had in common?”

“Don’t say that.” She choked. “You’re my best friend, Ron—I love you.”

“But you’re not in love with me.” He scoffed, shaking his head, then placed a foot on the next step up. “I thought I loved you, too…but you ruined us. Not me.”

5 October 1998

Hermione was on her second straight week of restless nights. She sat up in bed, feeling clammy as she had, apparently, sweated through a nightmare she couldn’t remember in consciousness. She was hot, her sheets rumpled at the foot of her bed as though she’d kicked them off in her sleep. The drawn curtains around her bed acted as insulators now, and she kneeled to fling them apart. She’d been hoping to draw in fresh air, but the room was just as sweltering as her bed.

Hair stuck to her neck and forehead and she twisted it away, looping it into a messy knot and securing it with the clip she’d tossed onto the chair beside her bed. She shifted her feet to the floor and saw Lavender and Parvati snoozing away peacefully, the curtains parted on all four sides of their beds. They were best friends, after all—they didn’t need privacy from one another.

But Hermione always had, the friendless only-child she’d been. She had always been the odd one out in their dorm, had always been the one to draw her curtains behind her when she settled into bed, not caring if it made her seem unapproachable to the dim-witted girls she was forced to share a room with. As she watched them—perhaps a bit too long—she couldn’t help but be thankful for the fact that she and Lavender had never been friends.

It would have been too many betrayals at once.

Hermione slid open a drawer as quietly as she could, using the tip of her illuminated wand to inspect the contents closely. She pulled a new set of pyjamas and knickers, then checked the time; it was just after midnight. She held back a groan at only getting an hour of sleep, knowing Potions would be brutal in the morning, and decided then that she needed a bath instead of a shower to wind down.

Before exiting her dorm, she threw her robes and Prefect badge on, hoping that if she were to run into Filch, he would believe she was simply finishing patrol. It would have been all too easy to sneak into the seventh year boys’ dorm and wake Harry for the Marauder’s Map. With her luck, though, she’d likely wake Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean in the process, and she wasn’t feeling up to explaining why she was in their dorm at night, sweaty and generally disheveled.

So, instead, she tiptoed down the stairs, through the common room with embers still glowing orange in the fireplace, and exited through the short, tunnel-like portrait hole to the landing. The castle was too brightly lit for the late hour and she felt exposed, fearing the Fat Lady would make a fuss and alert the other portraits. But, to her relief, the Fat Lady merely peered down at her with judgment and kept her mouth shut.

Hermione headed down, her eyes wide and alert as she scanned the changing staircases. It had been so long since she’d gone to the Prefects’ Bathroom that she’d lost her way more than once, forgetting which tower it was in and only remembering it was somewhere on the fifth floor. When she found her way into a familiar corridor, the flickering flames on the walls were dimmed to the point she needed the light from her wand. Moments later she spotted the statue of Boris the Bewildered and sighed happily, knowing she’d made it to her destination.

It was a privilege she had never fully taken advantage of before, using the pool-like tub. When she’d had free time as a fifth and sixth year Prefect, she had spent it all on Harry. On Dumbledore’s Army. On trying to figure out just how it was that Harry was suddenly surpassing everyone in Potions when he’d only received an E on his O.W.L. for it.

There hadn’t been time for her to fill the tub with bubbles and blissfully scorching water, cast aside the curtains, and fall into a deep sleep with the light of the full moon. But now…

Hermione had just closed her eyes, her body under the water up to her shoulders, when she heard the click of a lock as it bolted into place and the familiar, soft tread of Draco Malfoy as he entered the bathroom.

Her eyes flew open.

“You cannot be serious!” She hissed, eyes wide as she faced the windows.

“Hello, Granger.” He said, sounding too cheery, too playful. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Her arms moved to cover her breasts as she turned her head to glare at his approaching figure. “You need to leave.” She said coldly. “I was here first.”

Draco crouched down a few feet away. “You didn’t lock the door.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t mean it was an invitation—get out!”

But Draco simply righted himself and began to strip, tossing his robes across the floor to land over hers and leaving him naked from the waist up. “Are you going to watch?”

“If it makes you uncomfortable enough to leave, then yes!”

Draco slid his thumbs into the waistband of his pyjamas and began to tug them down. She snapped her head away, staring forward and blushing furiously as soon as she saw the V of his abdominal muscles.

“You can look.” He teased. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do!”

He chuckled, low and smooth, and her cheeks felt hotter than the water. “I wish you would.” He crooned. “With your keen eye, I’m sure you’d make quite the assessment.”

“Are you sure you’d want me to?” She spat. “What if you repulse me?”

“If I repulse you,” he started, and Hermione heard the sound of rustling fabric as it fell to the marble floor. “Then I’d rather know now, before I put in too much effort.”

Draco sank to the edge of the tub, bracing his hands on it to lower himself into the water. She couldn’t help but watch from her periphery, his skin bleached white from the moonlight, all lean muscles and something…something she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge just yet.

Or ever, she told herself. Never.

Once in the water up to his pectorals, he glanced over to her, and she didn’t have to look to know he was enjoying her discomfort. “What’s wrong, Granger? Not up for sharing?”

She swallowed hard, her biceps screaming in pain as she dug her fingertips into them. “I was trying to have a bath. In private.”

“You should have locked the door.” He reminded her.

“I’m aware!”

“I always thought this tub was a poor design for a co-ed school. It’s like they’re asking for orgies to take place.”

Hermione groaned, disgusted at the thought of Draco and Pansy and Merlin knew who else fucking one another in the tub she currently sat naked in. She knew the house-elves kept the castle clean, but when had they last scrubbed this tub?

“I’ve never.” He assured her, as if reading her thoughts. “But I’ve always wanted to.”

Hermione looked at him then, scowling, and said the only thing she could think of to turn him off and convince him to leave. “Ron kissed me tonight—just before I went to bed.”

He cocked an eyebrow instead, his expression just short of a sneer. “My condolences?”

Her eyes narrowed. She was angry—angry with herself for not locking the bloody door, angry with Draco for overstepping her boundaries.

“Can you not be a prick, please? Or is that too much to ask?”

He rolled his eyes, sinking beneath the water dramatically. She crossed her legs and flung an arm over her lap, gripping her hip in an effort to shield her body from view. Draco came back up a moment later and shook out his hair, flinging water at her. She was sure if she hadn’t been fully exposed, she would have thrown herself at him, holding him underwater until the very last breath escaped his lungs.

The dark thoughts almost made her smile.

“Why do you want me to know that, Granger?” He asked, and she realised he’d shifted a foot closer. “Are you hoping it will make me jealous?”

“I’m not hoping for anything. I’m tired of this…back and forth with you. You tell me you want me, then you do nothing about it. You’ve almost kissed me—twice now. You tease me, then you ignore me—what kind of game are you playing?” She demanded. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to play anymore if it won’t lead anywhere!”

She nearly cringed at her honesty. She hadn’t meant to say any of it, even if it were all true. Anything she said, any admission to liking him as more than a friend, could be used against her if he decided to back out.

If he decided she was, in fact, beneath him.

His eyes widened briefly, just as surprised to hear her admit it. He took a moment to consider the question, eyes carefully studying her, his wet hair dripping down his temples. “Would you want it to lead somewhere?”

She inhaled shakily, studying him anxiously in the same way. “I’d be open to it, yes.”

He made a face, doubting that very much. “Open to it.” He mouthed.

“There’s still so much we don’t know about each other,” she acknowledged. “And I… All I know is that I want to know you better.” Her eyes flitted between his nervously, her arm still secure across her chest. “Do…do you want to know me better?”

Draco’s eyes shifted and fixed onto the bizarrely seductive portrait of a mermaid, watching as she lounged and played with her hair as if he’d never seen it before. It made Hermione feel all the more vulnerable.

“It’s a shame, you know.” He drawled, grey eyes dancing from the portrait to the windows, the full moon on the other side of the glass almost too large, too close for it to seem real.

“What is?”

“That Weasley’s the only one who’s had the pleasure.” His eyes met hers again, his lips set in a slight frown. “If I’m jealous of one thing, it’s that he had you…and he wasted it.”

She looked down at the bubbles, knowing she was visibly blushing. “I never said it was terrible.”

“You never said it was good, either.”

Hermione lifted her arm from her lap and used her now-free hand to coax a layer of bubbles closer to her chest, allowing her arms to relax whilst maintaining coverage. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…” she chewed her lip thoughtfully. “He didn’t see me. We were under the covers and I kept my bra on, and I didn’t…” She trailed off, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

Draco went very still for several seconds as he processed that information. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head, the look of pure concentration almost laughable until, finally, he relaxed against the side of the tub, expelling his breath in a contented sigh.

Unable to help herself, she gave him a shy smile. “Does that help?”

“It does, actually.” He said brightly.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms and legs when the bubbles started to dissolve a bit more. “Do you have enough information now?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“I am, actually.”

“No.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “No?”

His smirk returned in full-force. “No, I’ve just gotten comfortable. But feel free to leave anytime—I’m not holding you hostage.”

Her eyes made the path from the tub to the door, mentally calculating how quickly she could get out of the water and throw her clothes on without him seeing too much of her. “Will you close your eyes?”

“I can’t promise that.”

She sighed. “Of course you can’t.”

“I will make you a deal, though.”

She let her head roll back to rest on the edge of the tub. “You make too many deals, Draco. Aren’t you ever worried they’ll come back to bite you?”

“You haven’t bitten me yet.”

Out of curiosity—purely out of curiosity—she asked, “What’s the deal?”

“If you can outlast me in the water, you may sit next to me in Potions tomorrow.” She met his smug expression with a frown, and he added, “I know you’ve been struggling—I’ve had the unfortunate task of brewing Veritaserum before. I’ll let you watch what I’m doing when Slughorn’s not looking.”

She hated to admit it, but his offer was almost too tempting to pass up. “And if you outlast me?”

“Then I get to see you in all of your glory.” He said, sounding a bit too pleased with the arrangement. “Something that—as you yourself admitted—not even the Weasel has seen.”

“And I’m sure that would do wonders for your ego.”

His smirk spread into a beaming grin. “It would be second to that of making you come.”

Although she felt her blush intensify, she managed to keep her voice steady as she said, “That’s not part of the deal.”

“Would you like it to be?” He asked, moonlit eyes raking over her face and the tops of her exposed shoulders. “For the record, Granger, I would have made sure you finished.”

She snorted. “Sure you would have.”

“Are you doubting me?”

“I think you talk big.” She accused. “Your selfishness is hardly a secret.”

Draco tilted his head in agreement. “But I’ve told you before, haven’t I? It’s only fun for me if it’s fun for you.”

“Actually, you said ‘partner,’ not me specifically.”

“I thought it was implied.”

“It was not.”

“Well, you’d just had an abortion—it was hardly the right time for me to come on to you.”

Hermione put a hand on her forehead, muttering an “oh, my god, Draco” under her breath.

When she uncovered her face, he nodded to the pile of robes behind her. “In the pocket.” He said. “There’s something you might like.”

“You get it.”

Draco relaxed further against the tub’s wall, in no rush to comply with her command. “I know curiosity will get the better of you sooner or later.”

And it did.

It took less than a minute before she dried a hand on a bath towel and dug into his pockets. She produced a tin, the scent of mint emanating from it. One-handed, she used her thumb to pop up the lid; it shouldn’t have surprised her to see two rolled cigarettes, loose, dried herbs lining the bottom of the tin.

“Absolutely not.” She chided him, snapping the lid shut.

“We’re here by Ministry order, Granger—what’s McGonagall going to do? Expel us?”

“She very well could!”

Draco reached his hand out for the tin, and she tossed it to him, mildly disappointed when it failed to land in the water. “Me, maybe, but not you.”

“You need to stop with that. I do not get special treatment!”

He pulled one out and set the tin on the floor. “Toss me my wand, will you?”

She snatched the hawthorn wand carelessly and threw it at him. With a wordless flick he lit the tip, the thin paper almost burning faster than the herbs. As he exhaled, he scooted the tin close to her once more, grinning when she smacked it away, sending it spinning out of both their reach across the floor.

“You enjoyed this on your birthday.” He reminded her, inhaling deeply.

Ashes and loose herbs fell onto the surface of the water, popping the few remaining bubbles around him. He exhaled the smoke through his nose, reminding her of a dragon, and a sudden clench in her lower body at the sight of it nearly made her gasp. Draco, thankfully, seemed unaware of her reaction, continuing to smoke the herbs as if she wasn’t even there.

“It really is the best way to sleep for people like us.” He went on, the cigarette nearly half gone.

“Like what?” She breathed.

“Let’s call it morally...murky.” She must’ve made a face then, as Draco took another quick puff then amended his words. “Ambiguous. Grey. Whatever you want to call it, that’s what we are.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Speak for yourself.”

“Surely some part of you knows I’m right.” He murmured. “We’ve both done things we’re not proud of. We were both given tasks that demanded too much of us. It chips away at the soul after a while, and the more we try to fix what we’ve done, the harder it all is to live with.” He laughed softly, peering into his distorted reflection in the water “So, fuck it.”

Hermione held her hand out for it. Draco slipped it between her thumb and forefinger wordlessly, watching as she inhaled softly. She almost moaned from the relief she felt then, the tension ebbing from her neck and shoulders, her heart rate slowing a beat. It was like the night of her birthday but magnified, and she didn’t know if he’d increased the potency or if the soothing water and quiet of the bathroom lulled her into a deeper state of peace.

She was so relaxed for several minutes that she’d nearly forgotten he was there. He was no more than a figure in the darkness, a silent entity whose presence she didn’t seem to mind anymore. She felt loose all over, her arm slipping from her chest to lie limp at her side, the rigid way she held her legs together under the water easing, the muscles of her thighs singing in relief.

She felt good—that was the only word to describe it. Her mental fog was clearing, her anxiety easing. She could take a deep breath and felt almost drowsy, but the dull throb between her legs kept her aware of Draco’s closeness.

“Have you ever been in love?” She asked, exhaling slowly and watching the bittersweet smoke stream out and rise up. The mermaid in the portrait wrinkled her nose and sent them dirty looks, but the mermaid was the least of her concerns.

“No.” Draco said evenly, eyeing the last little bit between her fingers.

Hermione took a deep breath away from the smoke and exhaled with an almost dreamy sigh. “Do you know the only real time Ron told me he loved me?” She asked, but she wasn’t expecting him to answer.

“It was sixth year.” She went on. “I was fixing his assignment, and he was talking about breaking up with Lavender.” She laughed then, feeling ridiculous for having once cared so much about the memory. “I…I had been flattered by it. I was flattered that he’d said it at all—‘I love you, Hermione,’ right there in front of Harry. In the common room, of all places.” She bit her lip softly. “I suppose you were right when you called me pathetic.”

He touched her then.

She glanced down to find his lips around the cigarette in her outstretched hand, his bottom lip brushing against her fingers as he inhaled the last of it. Ash fell into her palm in a shrivelled, grey clump, shockingly cool to the touch.

“You’re not pathetic.” He blew out the last of the smoke away from her and resumed his place against the wall.

She tipped the ashes onto the floor, unsure if she’d heard him correctly, her mind spinning through every possible phrase he could have said instead.

Nothing sounded close enough.

Hermione dipped her hand beneath the water, washing the residue off and watching in fascination as a faint shimmer appeared on her skin. “What was in it?”

Draco opened his eyes drowsily, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep. His brow furrowed as he tried to remember her question. “It’s a...herb.” He said, though she’d already known that. “Similar to muggle marijuana, but without altering the state of mind. It’s laced with mint to be soothing.” He sighed. “Catmint. Bit of spearmint. Peppermint was too strong.” His lips twitched in a smile. “The first round with it made our lungs burn for nearly an hour.”

“You made this?”

He nodded. “It was a…collaboration. I did most of the research—Theo’s better at Herbology and has a greenhouse.” He smirked. “It kept me busy while you took over my library.”

“I fixed your library.” She corrected. “And you’re welcome, by the way. But why smoke it? Surely a potion would be more efficient.”

“It’s more relaxing in this form—offers a quicker relief.”

Hermione couldn’t argue that the effects had been instantaneous. “I like it,” she murmured. “But the idea of taking drugs to manage my anxiety makes me uncomfortable.”

“Not a drug.” He clarified. “Herb. And how is it any different from taking Calming Draughts or Dreamless Sleep potions regularly?”

She had no answer.

“We were in a war, Granger. We experienced more death and torture than either of us had a right to.” Draco slid closer, barely two feet from her now, but he kept his eyes on the mermaid. “Stop punishing yourself for it.”

“I’m not punishing myself.” She muttered, but the words held little fire. “I helped Harry win the war—why would I be punishing myself for it?”

“You didn’t think about after the war, though.” He countered. “Or did you always plan to end up on your back for Weasley?”

Hermione swished her hand through the surface of the water, flicking him with it. “Why do you assume I was on my back? You once suggested I liked being on top.”

Draco lazily rolled his head to the side to meet her eyes. “I know I would enjoy that, but Weasley…”

“On my back.” She confirmed bitterly, if only to shut him up. “And no, that wasn’t how I planned the end of the war. Honestly, I hadn’t given much thought to it outside of surviving—that was the challenge.”

“His idea or yours?”

“His. I thought it would be better, but I think my expectations were too high.” She sighed wistfully. “It’s silly, but I always imagined it would be spontaneous—early morning and unhurried. Waking up beside someone and just…” She shrugged, unsure why she felt compelled to keep going.

In the back of her mind, she knew she was revealing too much, especially when he’d hardly given anything at all. But maybe that was what he needed—someone else to take the lead, to give in first and show him jumping into the unknown could be a good thing.

“Viktor and I kissed a few times, but it was a sweet fling. We were never going to be anything serious—and nothing handsy, either, no matter what Rita Skeeter claimed.”

She was expecting Draco to smirk but he was grimacing. “That was disgusting—you and Krum. He was so much older.”

She sputtered a laugh. “He was barely eighteen! I was fifteen—it wasn’t that serious! Besides, I’m older than you. Is that not an issue?”

“We’re in the same year.” He reasoned. “What about McLaggen?”

Hermione gagged. “We kissed at Slughorn’s Christmas party—it was not my finest moment.”

“What was the best?”

“You don’t want to know.” She assured him, holding back a smile.

He groaned. “Weasel? Really?”

“It was in the heat of the moment.” She said, too relaxed to be defensive about it. “He was concerned about the house-elves during the battle—I couldn’t help myself.”

“The strangest things get you off.” He muttered. “Gingers and ungrateful house-elves.”

“Don’t forget Centaurs.”

He snorted a laugh. “Fuck, I hope that’s not true.”

She gave a noncommittal shrug. “You’ll never know…”

Minutes later when the bubbles had all but disappeared and the water was tepid, she asked how he knew she was in the Prefects’ Bathroom.

Draco stiffened reflexively, as if the idea of Hermione calling him out hadn’t occurred to him.

“I was wandering about after patrol with the Ravenclaw Patil. Couldn’t sleep.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I saw you get off on the fifth floor and came to the right conclusion.”

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek then, the herbs wearing off and allowing their earlier tension to filter back in. “Why did you follow me in?”

He scowled up at the mermaid then as she, too, waited for his answer. “You know why.” He said under his breath. “You know why, Granger.”

She nodded slowly and took a deep breath to brace herself for what might come next. He would either give in to her advances, or he would shove her away, the thought of touching a Muggle-born revolting, even if his fantasies over the years had tried to convince him otherwise.

“Do you want to see me naked, Draco?”

“Only if you want me to.”

A shudder ran through her, his low tone in her ear rushing to the apex of her thighs. She sank down into the water, letting the coolness rush over her heated face and matted hair. She felt weightless and drowsy, her hair soft from the lush soap in the water and floating all around her. When she resurfaced, her hair was a heavy sheet, lying flat against her back, and she blinked the water from her eyes. She glanced over at him then, Draco seemingly mesmerised as she licked her lips.

Steeling herself then, knowing full-well this might very well be the worst decision she had ever made, Hermione uncurled her body and stood. Water slid off her in beads, sprinkling onto the surface of the bathwater like raindrops, and she settled on the edge of the tub, leaving her legs submerged from the calves down.

“Well?”

His exhale was ragged as he took her in, shaking his head in disbelief moments later. “I knew the Wizengamot had been too easy on me.” He said, and it made absolutely no sense to her. “You were my punishment all along, weren’t you?”

She died a little on the inside, the worst-case scenario coming to fruition. He wasn’t attracted to her—he didn’t really want her. Swallowing back the awful scratchiness in her throat that foretold a long night of crying, she reached for her robes to cover herself.

“What are you doing?” He asked incredulously. He swam over to her then, standing on his knees before her as his eyes pleaded with hers. “Don’t hide now.”

She blinked. “What?” She asked, her voice broken with dammed emotion. “My body’s a punishment, right?” She covered herself, holding the black wool around her torso. “I’m learning my way through memory charms—I’ll figure out how to erase this moment from your brain, don’t you worry.”

“No!” He said, startled, then as realisation set in, his eyes widened with understanding. “No—fuck, Granger, that’s not what I meant.”

She stilled at the feel of his hands on her knees. “What did you mean?”

Draco sighed to himself, embarrassed by the apparent misunderstanding. “The punishment,” he said, looking up into her eyes. “Was having you down the hall from me for months, teasing me, testing my willpower—Merlin, did you test me. If I had known this was what you were hiding when you were off-limits…fuck, I would have begged for them to throw me in Azkaban instead.”

“I thought this was an exercise in stroking your ego,” she spat. “Not mine.”

Panic and shame faded from his eyes as he began to devise a new plan. His hands left her knees to rest on either side of her hips, palms flat against the floor, the sides of his forefingers radiating heat as they sat only centimetres from her skin. As her legs were together, he was unable to move any closer, the length of her thighs giving her a reassuring distance even as Draco tried to work around the obstruction.

As he knelt before, her knees against his chest, his hands lightly caressing the bare skin of her hips, he told her, “It was never about my ego.”

His hands formed around her hips and slid down the sides of her thighs. “You can leave.”

She inhaled shakily, hands clenching the fabric of her robes.

“Do you want to leave?”

She had no answer. Yes, she wanted to leave, to Obliviate them both and forget this stupid night happened, forget their time in the library, forget the summer—but she wanted to stay, too. Despite their poor communication, her stubbornness was willing her to see it through, to see what he had to offer.

He rested his head on her lap then. His hands wrapped around her thighs, his eyes peeked up at hers.

“Granger,” he whispered, chin on her knee, imploring her to give in.

Let me in.

She could almost hear the thoughts in his mind, a soft plea that held the promise of satisfaction. She could do it—she could remove the robes, part her thighs, and let instinct take over for the first time in her life.

“I can make it good for you.”

His fingertips stroked the skin on the back of her thigh, drawing circles as they made their way to the more sensitive inner flesh.

Let me in.

Draco kissed a path from her knee to the top of her thigh where the black robes covered her lap. She could feel herself caving, the clenching of her walls as the voice from her years’ long fantasies drew her out of her shell. It would be good, she was sure of it—but she held onto the last layer of defence as tightly as she could, still fearful of the backlash.

The humiliation.

There was so much he could do to her with his words alone.

Turn her on; tear her down.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked, his hands and lips retreating from her skin, and she almost wept from the loss.

“No,” she whimpered, sounding needy. Needy and equally mortified by her neediness.

Draco placed his hands on the edge again and stood on the floor of the tub, their hips almost perfectly aligned. He leaned into her, against her, and her legs parted of their own volition to allow him in. She felt him against her thigh, hard and long, and if not for the hand that came up to cup her cheek, she would have gladly looked down to see his physical response to her.

“Hermione,” he whispered, swiping his thumb across her bottom lip. “Tell me what you want.”

It could have been her name on his lips. It could have been his show of vulnerability. Neither mattered as she held his eyes and relaxed her hold on the robes to cast them aside.

“Will you touch me?”

Draco’s hand slid from her jaw then. Featherlight touches traced the skin of her throat, her collarbone, down her sternum… He paused between her breasts, letting his eyes follow. Whatever grey had been left in the irises was nearly gone now—they were two glossy black orbs, ringed in silver. Inhuman. Hauntingly beautiful. They flared as his hand smoothed across her left breast, her nipple hardening between the light pinch of his fingertips.

She nearly came undone then.

Her head lolled to the side as he stroked her, pinched her, the peaks of her breasts gathering into almost painful points—but it felt incredible. Draco sank to his knees in the water, his hand leaving her breast to trail down her abdomen. Her thighs had tensed again, putting the barrier back into place without conscious thought.

“Don’t overthink this.” He murmured, and his voice sounded so warm, so soothing in that moment that she listened.

She relaxed her legs, closing her eyes as he pushed her thighs apart. She felt the cool air on her heated core, felt the blood rushing to her folds, the wetness pooling just inside her entrance. It didn’t take long for her insecurity to push its way back in, to needle at her that perhaps she was too exposed. No one really wanted to look—touching her was simply an obligation. It was a precursor to the main event, the last hurdle one had to overcome.

But when she dared to open her eyes, she found she was anything but an obligation to him. He was earnest in his assessment, his eyes taking in every last bit of flesh between her legs. He looked like he wanted to taste her.

His first touch was deliberate, a firm circling of her clitoris, and she gasped. Her thighs clamped together instinctively, but Draco eased them apart once more.

“You never answered me, you know?” He dragged his fingers to her entrance, one slipping in to the second knuckle to collect her wetness, then slid back to her clit.

Hermione panted softly as he moved in practiced, patient circles. “Hmm?”

“Did he try to find this?”

Their conversation leaving Hogsmeade had been one she tried to block out. It had been so invasive, so wildly inappropriate, that she didn't want to remember any of it. But with Draco touching her, asking her questions about Ron’s skill and attentiveness…

“No.” She breathed, curling her hands around the edge of the tub as her hips leaned into his touches.

Draco pulled away just long enough to readjust her. He coaxed her knees up, guiding her to rest her heels on the edge and to lean back on her hands. His hands were on her again, pleased with how she had opened up for him.

He chuckled darkly. “He’s a selfish prick.”

Then he struck.

Two fingers drove inside, filling the tight space and twisting, rooting, curling until he found what he was looking for. She looked everywhere but at Draco—the ceiling, the stained glass, the mermaid who had wisely chosen to pretend they weren’t there.

“Lie down for me?” It might have been a suggestion, but she took it as a command, too far in then not to trust him.

She felt so full of him. On her. In her. Mint and herbs and her own arousal drugging her into submission. Her hands guided her onto her back, her still-wet hair cold on her flushed skin, the marble pressing it across her back and shoulder blades. She could have pushed it away. She could have cast a drying charm, even, but the chill felt too nice.

She squirmed as he curled his fingers inside of her once more, feeling her walls stretch, feeling an ache she’d never felt before, but one he clearly knew to exploit.

Without warning, he pressed his forearm flat between her hips. A sweet, brutal pressure directly above his curled fingers that made her writhe. She was delirious. She was in hell. The more she resisted, the faster he worked.

Curling, stretching, pressing down and forcing her release. His free hand snaked down and rubbed her clit simultaneously. Sweet words and tentative touches had lured her in, but she should have known better than to trust them. Him.

Malfoy.

“Deal’s a deal, Granger.” He purred, and she barely heard him through breathy moans and swallowed screams. He stopped suddenly, releasing his forearm, sliding his fingers just to the base of her entrance.

She shot up in a panic, her eyes wild as she pleaded him with to keep going. “Draco.”

His nearly-black eyes flared at the strangled sound of his name. He held her gaze as he slipped his fingers all the way out and drew them back up to her clit.

“I need you to be honest with me.” He said, stilling his movements until she agreed. He used two fingers to slide her apart, exposing her to the chill in the air, grinning wickedly when she couldn’t hold in a sob. “How many orgasms do you think you’ve had?”

He stilled to let her answer, Hermione gasping as she said, “Not too many.”

“All by your own hand?” He asked, his voice low and dark and so close to the groan that had held her hostage for four years.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, just me.”

He relaxed in an instant. The menacing edge abated, the almost sweet, deceptively shy smile taking its place as he gave into her once more.

“We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

He waited until she was on her back again before easing his fingers back inside, shifting them apart to stretch her further, using his thumb to swipe across her clit. She choked on her screams, refusing to let them out or make too much noise for fear of being discovered. One hand clenched into a fist, Hermione pressing it against her mouth in a feeble attempt to mute herself. The other grabbed her breast and squeezed as Draco applied pressure to her belly once more.

She felt the familiar throb as she released, her mind clearing of the lusty fog as it always did. For a moment she’d thought it would be more intense, letting someone else touch her, but it ended the way it always did when she was alone. It was nice—it was a stress relief. It wasn’t toe-curling and mania-inducing, as she’d begun to feel minutes before.

That had probably been a fluke, anyway.

“Granger…” He warned, his fingers still working inside and out.

She leaned up on her elbows to tell him it was no use. She came—it was more than she’d ever gotten from anyone else. He should be proud of that, at least.

But he held her gaze then, held her eyes captive as she lay exposed before him. He was almost taunting her, laughing with his eyes and his sly smirk. He was challenging her. He intended to drag another out of her.

“I thought you said I couldn’t handle you.” He murmured, holding her eyes as he leaned in to kiss just below her navel.

Hermione swallowed, feeling anxious as the ache started up once more. She could control it—she could walk away right then and declare a victory.

Or she could let him try and watch him fail.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” She asked breathlessly.

His fingers stilled inside of her. “Sit up.”

She did, walking up with her hands slowly as his fingers stayed pressed up inside. Draco’s fingers resumed their curling, his thumb circling her clit, then he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her forward. She gasped, startled, as his chin pressed against her stomach.

It was a stretch, but he managed it flawlessly. Wet, hot kisses trailed up to the space between her breasts, Draco’s eyes catching hers once more as he licked across the right one and suckled her nipple between his lips.

She would have collapsed without his arm around her, she was sure of it. She arched her back instinctively, her tender flesh sinking more into his mouth while his hand attacked with a renewed fervour. He licked at her greedily, pressing his tongue flat against her nipple, tracing the tip around her areola, and her legs began to shake.

Her whole body started to vibrate with his punishing speed and teeth that caught her puckered flesh. Her hips moved with his hand, the pace so frenzied—so desperate—she nearly fell off the edge back into the water.

But he caught her.

He caught her. He brutalised her.

He fucking worshipped her.

Hermione clamped her teeth down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. Her desperate wails stuck in her throat and released in a steady hum of whimpers and gasps as the world went black.

When she came to, Draco’s forehead was between her breasts, his panting breaths pelting the skin of her stomach, shallow and wanton and desperate for his own release.

Weakly, she brought her arms up and draped them around his shoulders, holding herself against him as he finally withdrew his fingers. A soft, drawn-out moan slipped past her lips as he went, a hot trickle of wetness slipping out of her with them. The sound of it would have been unbearable had she not been so lost in the hazy afterglow.

Draco detached himself, fine strands of his hair sticking to her sternum with sweat—hers or his, she didn’t know.

He secured his arms around her waist and sank back into the water with her. Hermione’s legs, sore from the angle they’d been subjected to, automatically wrapped around him, even as she was lowered to the floor of the tub, submerged to her shoulders once more.

His arms held her in the water, allowing Hermione to drape herself over him limply as their heartbeats slowed to an acceptable pace. He kissed her shoulders, her neck, her cheeks—but never her lips. She pressed a hand to his cheek, eyes begging the question to his.

“Not yet.” He said regretfully.

Hermione frowned and dropped her arms. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t really want me to.”

“Don’t turn this around on me.” She’d meant to sound annoyed, meant to make him feel guilty, but they were almost pleading. “I want you to kiss me.”

He released a sigh against her skin before kissing her cheek, his lips so tauntingly close to hers. “You should get some sleep, Granger.”

Then he pulled away, Draco standing in all of his nude glory before her, fully aware of her wide, roving eyes. She blushed, naturally, her mouth went dry, and it took her a pitifully long time to realise he’d distracted her from what she wanted.

“Would you like my assessment now, Draco?”

He smirked, hands on his hips and looking far too arrogant for what was about to come. “Oh, yes, please.”

She feigned impassiveness, dragging her eyes from his thighs in the water, his—she hated very much to admit it—rather impressive cock, up the scarred, pale skin of his torso, and finally landing on his face.

“Average.” She said with a smile.

He barked a laugh. “Average?”

Hermione stood and grabbed her towel, wrapping it around herself as she stepped up from the tub, letting him stew in her lacklustre estimation of him. She bent to collect her pyjamas and robes before giving him another shrewd once-over, then, finally, a definitive nod.

“Perfectly average.”

Chapter Text

5 October 1998

“Obviously this was a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Wasn’t it?” Hermione asked, straightening her Prefect Badge in the mirror. “We got…carried away. We had our guards down. We said and did things we shouldn’t have—and I’m sure your herbs had some effect—”

“It wasn’t the herbs, Granger.” He pulled on his robes and came to stand behind her, fussing with his hair in the mirror above her head.

She looked up at his reflection. “Then what was it?”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, light greys flicking to deep browns for half a second. “You had fun, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Alright, then.” He stepped back from the mirror.

Hermione spun around to face him as he began to retreat towards the door. “No, it’s not alright, Draco! We—”

“If you can’t be mature about this—”

“I’m not the one running away!”

“You are the one making this a ‘thing’ when it’s not. We didn’t fuck, Granger, it’s not that serious.”

“Not serious to you, you mean.” She spat. “But nothing is serious to you, is it?”

He bent down to retrieve the tin she’d flung away long ago. The tin was popped open, herbs sprinkled all over the smooth, marble floor. Hermione pulled out her wand and vanished the mess before he had the chance.

“I get the feeling you’re upset about something.” Draco straightened and slid the tin into the pocket of his robes.

“Well spotted, Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin.”

“Why? Because I won’t kiss you?” He sneered. “Does that hurt your feelings?”

She nodded, bewildered. “Yes, actually, it does.”

He returned her nod, thinking, then shrugged and said, “Good.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lower your expectations.” He went to the door and unlocked it while Hermione stood frozen beside the sink. “You’ll never be disappointed again.”

Hermione once again ignored the judgmental look of the Fat Lady as she muttered the password. The portrait swung open, and she stumbled upon Harry in the common room on her way in. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be up in the middle of the night, but it made her heart ache all the same.

Judging by the position of the moon in the sky, she guessed it was around two in the morning. He was hunched over his books at a table, looking absolutely dreadful, his eyelids heavy behind his glasses as he read.

“What are you doing up?”

Harry jumped at her question. He hadn’t noticed her coming in, and at the sight of her he quickly darted his eyes back to the books.

“We have a few months still to perfect it.” Hermione assured him. “You need to rest.”

She went around to the table to close his books for him and he didn’t fight her.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He muttered, dragging a hand down his face and knocking his glasses aside. He fixed them but kept his eyes from hers, even as she crouched down beside him.

“You look awful, Harry. Why don’t I run down to the hospital wing and find a Dreamless Sleep potion for you? I’m sure Madam Pomfrey won’t mind.”

“No.” Harry said, wincing when his voice had come out a bit too harsh. “Er, no, Hermione. But thanks.”

Hermione stacked his books and paused when she saw his wand sitting atop the folded Marauder’s Map. She picked it up gingerly, looking at the blank parchment, and noticed Harry had become still. There was only one room that didn’t show up on the map…and it certainly wasn’t the Prefects’ Bathroom.

“Erm, Harry?” She said a bit shakily. “You didn’t happen to look at the map, did you?”

Harry blushed guiltily and looked like he might be sick. Hermione moaned and pressed her hand over her eyes.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” She said, but even to her own ears the words sounded hollow.

No matter which horrific scenario Harry’s mind could have conjured in the past few hours, there was nothing Hermione could say to make him feel better. She and Draco hadn’t had sex, necessarily, but she doubted the distinction would make a difference—he had seen both of their names overlapping in a bathtub. There was no talking her way out of it.

Harry slid the neat stack of books towards him and picked up his wand. “I’m going to head up—night, Hermione.”

She handed him the map with a heavy sigh. “Night, Harry.”

Hermione had only managed about five hours of sleep, but she awoke feeling well-rested and actually eager to start the day. It was a bit of a disappointment to have missed most of breakfast, but it allowed her the opportunity to be the first one down to the Potions classroom.

She wasn’t sure what kind of mood Draco would be in that morning, but she was determined to hold him to his end of the deal. She would take the seat beside him, and if he had an issue with that, so be it.

The only thing that made her uneasy then was the presence of Pansy Parkinson standing before her, tight-lipped with narrowed eyes.

“I think you’re lost.”

Hermione straightened in her seat at the accusation. “Draco and I have an arrangement, actually.”

“Draco?” Pansy repeated with a sneer. “Of course.”

Hermione looked at her apologetically then, frowning slightly as she realised she’d unintentionally displaced Pansy for the day.

“That didn’t take long, did it?” She muttered under her breath. Without sparing her another glance or even an explanation, Pansy went to settle in at the next table over, one in the unofficial Ravenclaw section of the room.

For a moment, she felt guilty about the shift. She wanted—needed, really—to sit beside Draco as he had experience with the complicated potion, but she hadn’t given thought to the ripple effects.

It was no secret Pansy was difficult to be around, what with her being a self-important Pure-blood elitist with a nasty comment always at the ready.

Ever since her trial, though, Hermione had felt herself soften just a bit towards the girl. Her father was in Azkaban and her mother was somewhere in Europe. Unlike Narcissa Malfoy, Pansy’s mother hadn’t been a part of her husband’s involvement with the Death Eaters, choosing to take extended holidays for much of Pansy’s school years. Perhaps that had been a blessing. As she’d been separated from any legal troubles, Pansy should be able to see her anytime she liked.

Still, Hermione had the feeling Pansy wasn’t very close to either of her parents, using her friends to fill that void.

Hermione could relate.

The rest of the Slytherins trickled in, Draco’s eyebrows lifting as he spotted her in Pansy’s usual seat. He didn’t seem surprised, but he looked a bit dismayed. Perhaps he’d been hoping Hermione would remember his cruel exit from the bathroom just minutes after they’d been so intimate.

When she awoke that morning, she hadn’t thought of the sting of his humiliating rejection. No, she’d only thought of how difficult it must be for him to always have his guard up, to always be defensive. He had sought her out, after all. He’d known there was the possibility of something happening between them, and he pursued it. She may have been the instigator, but he had been a willing participant.

She wasn’t about to let him forget it.

“If you’re here, who’s going to play peacemaker for the Gryffindors?”

“I suppose they’ll have to manage on their own today.”

Draco set his bag on the table, standing on the opposite side in front of her. “You think that wise with Weasley’s temper?”

“I’m choosing to not think about it.”

“Very good, Granger.” He crooned. “You’re learning to avoid the unpleasant. Well done.”

“I’m not avoiding anything. You and I had a deal—I’m simply holding you to it.”

Draco came around then, sitting down on the stool and resting his covered forearms on the table.

“You left first.” She announced. “I won.”

A slow smirk crept in, tugging at the right side of his mouth. “Well, I can’t argue with that, can I?”

Over the next ten minutes, the last of the students filtered in. Ron was the first to notice Hermione’s change of seat, but wisely kept his grievances internal, glumly taking the seat beside Ernie Macmillan. By the time everyone was settled, Pansy had been moved to the last remaining seat beside Harry; neither of them looked too pleased, but both kept quiet.

Hermione watched them for a moment, wondering if this would be the catalyst to ending Harry and Ron’s stupid fight, but nothing came of it. It spoke volumes that Harry chose to stay seated next to a long-time tormentor—a girl who had even tried to sacrifice him in the battle—instead of his best friend.

Hermione sighed to herself and began to set up for the day. She lit a flame beneath her cauldron and pulled her book and notes from her bag, then set off for her ingredients, noting Draco was absently staring off. When she came back and carefully arranged it all on the table, Draco was still just sitting there with nothing prepared.

“Why’ve you not brought anything?”

Draco flicked an amused glance to Professor Slughorn as he entered the dungeon classroom. “Because we won’t be brewing it today.”

Hermione, flustered, sat and pulled out the class schedule, her eyes darting to the day’s date. “Yes, we are.” She insisted. “The entire first term, we’re—”

“It was a test, Granger.” Draco murmured. “To see how quickly everyone can prepare for it. We have until Christmas to get this right—he’s not expecting anything a month in.”

Professor Slughorn cheerfully said his good mornings and started to wander about the classroom, muttering indulgently to the students who had followed instructions by collecting their potion ingredients and lighting the flames beneath their cauldrons to the exact temperature needed. Draco’s side of the table only held his unlit cauldron and his now-open textbook, which Professor Slughorn noticed with a disappointed tsk as he passed their table.

Hermione, however, received an exclamation of praise for being the only one so far to remember her moonstone; Draco smirked as she visibly delighted in the attention. Although she had changed in many ways, positive reinforcement from her teachers never failed to make her beam.

Once he’d moved on to Blaise and Theo’s table, Draco pulled out his calendar and flipped to the date, tapping at the moon phase he’d drawn in the top corner. It was a full moon.

“Okay?” She mumbled, not quite understanding its significance.

“Veritaserum takes an entire lunar phase to complete.” He informed her, eyeing the professor as he continued to make his rounds with varying degrees of satisfaction. “We’ll begin on the new moon, at the start of the phase.”

Hermione, frowning, flipped through the lengthy section of the book to confirm that, but Draco was already prepared. He set his book on top of hers and tapped the section that described the brewing process. A lunar cycle, twenty-eight days, beginning and ending with the new moon, not the full.

She relaxed a bit from her perch on the stool, the pressure of brewing her first potion in over a year off her shoulders for now. She looked around and saw a very tense Harry and Ron sitting opposite one another, similar masks of wariness on their faces as Slughorn assessed them. Harry, a favourite, received an adequate commendation for remembering the moonstone as well; Ron, who hadn’t studied with them the night before, was now red and irritated, not privy to the almost hidden potion ingredient. Pansy earned a similar sound of dissatisfaction as Draco as she, too, presented nothing for the professor to judge.

All in all, Slughorn decided, the class was ready to begin. He headed to the centre of the room, flicking his wand to open the page in his own book, then feigned surprise as he noticed he’d made a mistake.

“My, well, this was certainly unexpected!” He exclaimed.

Draco rolled his eyes then glanced over at Pansy. Hermione noticed her shoulders fall an inch in relief.

After apologising for the mix-up, the professor explained they could use this as an opportunity to brush up on their potion knowledge from sixth year—mainly for the benefit of the three Gryffindors in the room who hadn’t so much as touched a cauldron in a year, and much to the annoyance of those who’d already been seventh years.

Slughorn seemed absolutely delighted when he suggested they spend the morning brewing a Memory Potion instead (if they could remember it, that is). Most of the students had left their copies of Advanced Potion Making from sixth year behind, resorting to asking the professor for a written copy of the formula and instructions, which he so happily provided, having anticipated it.

But Hermione had Draco beside her, his long, skilled—so very skilled—fingers flipping through the pages deliberately. She felt herself blush, and the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth let her know he noticed the stain of red as she watched him. Mentally shaking herself, Hermione hopped down from her stool and went to the supply closet. She’d nearly memorised the book over the summer and focused on that potion specifically in the event she would need it for her parents.

Hermione grabbed enough ingredients for both of them, her arms full and pressed to her chest to hold everything on her way back to the table. Harry gave her a look as he passed by: relieved they wouldn’t be making it today; annoyed Ron was being a git.

It was going to be a very long day.

Ron pulled out a chair at their table in the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione and Harry eyeing him warily. But she relaxed when he gave them a small smile, setting his books on the table as if to study along with them. Harry stared at him, waiting for an explanation, while Hermione was just happy it was a step in the right direction.

And he seemed fine—he seemed like himself. A bit shy, even. Perhaps they’d been walking on eggshells around him for so long that it had been setting him on edge, too, making it worse for all of them. But this was good. This was a step forward. Even if it felt a bit forced, progress could be made from this.

“I’m dropping Potions.” Ron announced, ruining everything. “It’s not like I’ll ever need it to work. It’s bloody useless to me.”

Hermione and Harry shared a look across the table. He held back from rolling his eyes, focusing instead on his notes without responding to Ron.

Hermione gave a soft sigh and attempted a smile. “You need five N.E.W.T.s to qualify for Auror training, Ron. If you drop Potions, you won’t have enough.”

“I’ll ask Kingsley to make an exception.” Ron said confidently, and Harry snorted. “What? Got something you want to say?”

Harry shook his head and reached for Hermione’s notes. “Drop Potions.” He said with a shrug as Hermione passed him the notes. “Drop Transfiguration. Drop Defence Against the Dark Arts, too, since you think you know so much.”

“Harry—”

“No, go on.” Ron interrupted her. “Say it.”

“Alright, fine.” Harry set the notes down and leaned back in his seat to look at Ron. “You wouldn’t make it as an Auror, anyway, so you’d be doing yourself a favour. You’re too emotional and you let it cloud your judgment. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Ron scoffed and crossed his arms. “At least I know what I want.”

“And I don’t?”

“No.” He said snidely. “You want to be an Auror so you can keep hunting down dark wizards ‘cause it’s the only damn thing you know how to do!”

“And what do you know how to do, Ron? Play Keeper for a team you didn’t even earn a spot in?” He sneered. “You know that, don’t you? If Hermione hadn’t Confunded McLaggen—”

“Both of you, stop it!” Hermione demanded a bit too loudly, noticing a moment later the other Gryffindors in the room had stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. Blushing, she adjusted in her seat in leaned in, lowering her voice as she said, “This is getting us nowhere. Ron, Harry and I are studying. You can join us if you actually intend to study, otherwise we need you to leave.”

Ron huffed but didn’t argue back, flicking glares between them as he leaned back in his seat and defiantly picked up the Daily Prophet instead. Hermione, resigned, shook her head at Harry, silently asking him to let it go for now and carry on.

They did for a while, Harry and Hermione murmuring over their notes, their voices punctuated now and then by the aggressive rustling of the paper. Ron was trying her patience and it was a miracle Harry kept his composure. Still, neither of them were able to concentrate very well with his simmering hostility. By unspoken agreement, they put away their Potions work and settled on Transfiguration, as they had it the next day. Hermione rolled her neck tiredly and felt it crack, then checked her watch.

“I need to go soon.”

Harry nod absently, going over the schedule.

“Where are you going?” Ron asked.

“Patrol.” Hermione said, giving him a blank look. She felt he should know the schedule by now.

“I can come with you.” He offered, but she shook her head.

“No. I’m scheduled with D—Malfoy.”

Ron tossed down the open paper and stood. “I’m going.” He said firmly, and at this Harry did roll his eyes.

Hermione rubbed at her tired eyes and exhaled slowly. “Ron, please.” She looked up at him, staring until he relented and settled back into his seat. “You don’t have to study for Potions, but there are other subjects you can focus on. Why don’t you two work on Transfiguration while I’m gone?”

Although she felt it had been a good suggestion, Harry and Ron both looked at her like she’d gone insane. With a drawn-out sigh, she put her things away and prepared to take her leave, but when she caught sight of an article on the edge of the paper, she stilled.

Trial Continues for Disgraced Mediwitch

Hermione slid the paper over to her, ignoring Ron’s objection as she locked onto the small column on the second page in of the paper. The moving picture above the text showed a tall brunette witch with tired eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw. Hermione recognised her instantly as the mediwitch who had offered her the potion months before.

The trial for Muggle-born mediwitch, Aurora Mills, has entered its third day before the Wizengamot. She has been accused of knowingly distributing outlawed potions to pregnant witches under the guise of care from her position at St. Mungo’s. The potion in question is known to terminate pregnancies and has been banned for use under an emergency decree set forth by the Minister for Magic and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; the ban has been in effect since 1 June 1998 as a “crime against nature itself.”

Ms. Mills graduated from Hogwarts in June 1990 with high marks in Potions and Charms. She attended a competitive healer program with St. Mungo’s in the 1989-1990 school year whilst maintaining a good standing in her classes. Once described as an “exceptionally bright witch,” it is unknown her current relationship with Hogwarts’ staff. It has been noted in her testimony that she continues to question the school’s curriculum and the lack of contraceptive awareness; Headmistress Minerva McGonagall was not available for comment at this time.

Ms. Mills has been forthcoming with her knowledge of the potions and has admitted to brewing the banned substance herself without permission or supervision of a Healer. It is unknown what other side effects the witches in her care may have faced, but every pregnancy has been confirmed terminated under her watch. An additional investigation for the witches who took the potions from Ms. Mills is underway.

The trial is set to continue Thursday, 8 October.

“Hermione, you okay?” Harry asked, reaching over to shake her wrist.

She blinked and shut the paper roughly. “Er, yeah. I’m fine. I should get going, though.” She handed the paper back to Ron and picked up her books, then dashed up the stairs to her dormitory to get ready for patrol.

“You’re awfully quiet. Are you overthinking again?”

“Not about you.” She mumbled. “I finally picked up the paper. Saw something I wish I hadn’t.”

Draco nodded, looking rather smug. “The gossip column predicting your next suitor.”

Hermione scoffed. “I beg your pardon?”

“In the Lifestyle section.” He said with a smirk. “Did you know your type is Quidditch players? You’ve quite the history of it. Krum, Potter, McLaggen—hell, they even counted Weasley. The Seeker for the Chudley Cannons was quoted saying he’d fancy a night out with you.”

“Oh, Ron would love that.” She said with a snort. “That’s his favourite team. So, just a night out?”

“That was the safe version—the carefully redacted, Daily Prophet friendly version. If it had been for Witch Weekly, you’d have been fucked. Skeeter has no boundaries.”

She grimaced. “Trust me, I know.”

He led her down the stairs to the first floor. “They couldn’t print his comments on your tits, obviously,” he went on. “But I imagine that’s what he was referring to when he said you’ve blossomed into quite the lovely young witch.”

She shivered involuntarily, disturbed by the thought. Disturbed by the comments. Disturbed especially by the gossip about her in print. If her parents were still at home, they would be receiving the papers every day and reading vile, untrue things about her. For a moment, it almost made her glad they didn’t know who she was.

“What is then? What’d you read?”

Hermione glanced around the corridor they’d wandered down. “There was a small piece on this, erm, mediwitch. I went to her back in June.” She looked up at him as they walked, his expression now guarded. “Did you read it?”

He nodded once. “Do you believe me now?”

“I believed you before.” She said, though it wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t wanted to believe him, had kept a reasonable amount of doubt around his accusation of the Ministry and hospital, but now that the witch was being penalised for caring for her patients… Well, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t scared. “But I must admit, I was hoping you were exaggerating. What do you think would’ve happened if I’d gone back for the potion?”

“You wouldn’t be here.” He said simply. “I don’t know what they would’ve done with you, but if you’d been insistent on getting rid of it, I don’t think you’d be enjoying your life much right now.”

“See, when you say things like that, it sounds barbaric. It sounds impossible—they wouldn’t have harmed me, I know that.”

“Not physically—not in any way that caused harm to your offspring.” He agreed. “But I’m sure you’d be monitored to prevent self-harm or miscarriage.”

Hermione stopped and took his arm. “It said there’s an investigation underway for the witches she helped.”

Draco’s eyes flicked around, checking to see the corridor was still empty and the portraits were minding their own business. “You didn’t get it from her, right?”

She shook her head. “She sent a request to the Apothecary.”

“And you didn’t pick it up there either.”

“No.”

“Then you’re fine.” He gently slipped his arm from her hold, her fingers twisted in the sleeve of his robes. “Secretive as she was, I doubt she even recorded you were…” he gestured to her stomach, wary of saying it aloud. “No one can prove it. If they had any suspicion I helped, I’d have been caught months ago. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but be grateful Weasley interfered—if he hadn’t, well, then you’d need to be worried.”

Hermione dropped her hand to her side. “I just feel awful for the witch.” She said, shaking her head. “I need to find a way to speak in her defence.”

“Do that and you’ll out yourself—and me. So do us both a favour and let it go.”

She gaped at him. “I can’t just let it go.” She said, pleading with him to understand, but he was already closing himself off. “She doesn’t deserve to be punished for doing the right thing.”

“She knew the potion had been banned.” He said evenly. “She knew what she was doing—she knew she was breaking the law. This wasn’t just once or twice, Granger. For them to even know it was her, she’d had to have done it multiple times. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not the only mediwitch found guilty in all of this.”

Hermione shuffled her feet, her head spinning, thinking if she could only reason with Kingsley, if she could plead her case to the Wizengamot…

But Draco was right.

The mediwitch had been aware of the stakes, and she’d done it anyway. There was nothing Hermione could do without implicating herself and Draco in the process.

“Do you think they’re being stricter on her because she’s a Muggle-born?” She asked. “They claimed she was a Muggle-born, in the paper. I don’t know why they’d specify that if it weren’t important.”

“Perhaps. As I’ve said before, our population is much smaller than the muggle. It’s possible she didn’t understand the lengths magical people would go to ensure the next generation.”

He started walking again, heading towards the library, and she managed to keep up.

“Don’t obsess over this.” He warned. “You can’t help everyone.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. It was almost instinct to help where she could, especially when she’d played a hand in someone’s unfair treatment. But that wasn’t technically true in this case. The witch had offered to help, yes, but Hermione hadn’t taken the potion from her. She hadn’t even known it was frowned upon until Draco had informed her—she certainly hadn’t known the potion had already been banned from distribution by mediwitches and healers when it had been offered to her.

If the mediwitch had truly known what she was doing, the risk she was taking, then Hermione had no choice but to sit back and stay silent. If she had managed to brew the potion on her own, though, if she’d been able to get it done without Draco’s help, she was sure she would find her way into the courtroom. She would speak on the witch’s behalf and condemn the Wizengamot and the Ministry for imposing such a cruel, undignified, inhuman law that put the quality of a witch’s life at risk.

“And you’re obsessing over it.” Draco said dryly.

“I’m not obsessing—there just has to be something I can do.” She shook her head, outraged. “Who do they think they are anyway? Controlling magic is one thing, controlling an innocent person’s life is another. It’s criminal! It’s despicable!”

“And it’s out of your control.” He said, and she could see he was starting to get angry. “Do you ever stop and think before you do something stupid, or is it just the habit of you Gryffindor saints?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She demanded, halting her steps.

Draco turned to face her, his jaw clenched. “You don’t ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, your involvement makes things worse? You stubbornly insert yourself wherever you want, whenever you want, without thinking if it has anything to do with you or you have anything to contribute—you see a problem and you decide to fix it. You don’t think, Granger, you act. You’re an impulsive little swot who never minds her own business!”

“But this involves me!” She insisted.

“How? How the fuck does this involve you?”

Her eyes started burning with frustrated tears. “I could be under investigation right now!”

“You’re not!”

“But I could be! It’s not fair that I just get to walk away from it—”

Draco’s lips were on hers then. They were closed and bruising in their pressure, Hermione’s eyes wide as she numbly responded. His hand fisted in her hair at the back of her head, twisting it, angling her chin up. To open his mouth to hers was to lose the battle, but after a moment, after a weak whimper in the back of her throat and her eyes fluttering shut, he stopped fighting. Fighting her, fighting himself—he was done.

The hint of mint exploded on her taste buds when their tongues met. Her hand went around his neck, holding him to her as she went on tiptoe to press herself into him. Her back hit the wall and Draco’s knee wedged between hers, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. She smiled into the kiss; it felt so right, so good—she couldn’t remember any kiss feeling so fantastic before. Hungry but not desperate. Heated and far from shy. He kept his hands in her hair and on her back, she held his neck, his shoulder. And it was enough. It was more than enough.

But when they heard a heavy wooden door slam shut, the spell was broken, and Draco ripped himself away from her. He straightened his robes and ran a hand through his hair while she stood stunned and mute, unable to vocalise what had just happened to the person who’d interrupted them. Her hands automatically went to her hair to fix it as Draco turned towards the sound of the slamming door.

A young Slytherin boy had slipped out of the library, looking at the pair with wide eyes and a pale face. He was a first year—a first first year, Hermione noted, the boy far too innocent-looking and lost to have been here during the reign of Snape and the Carrows.

“Lose track of time?” Draco asked the boy.

He swallowed and looked panicked as he shifted his nervous eyes from Draco to a recovering Hermione. She wanted to kick herself for being so unprofessional. Of all nights to catch a student out of bed, it had to be the night Draco finally kissed her.

“I-I was returning a book.” He said shakily.

“And replaced it with another?” Draco asked, nodding down at the advanced Charms book in his hand. He held out his hand for it, and the boy meekly complied. He pretended to study it only a moment before he handed it over to Hermione. “You’ll return it in the morning, won’t you?”

Glaring at him, she snatched the book from his hand and slipped it into her bag, already dreading the awkward conversation with Madam Pince.

“You can go.” Draco told him, and the boy brightened in relief.

“No, he can’t!” Hermione interjected, holding a hand out to stop him from taking off towards the dungeons. “For being out of bed, I’m taking ten points from Slytherin. Professor Slughorn can decide your punishment in detention for stealing the book.”

Draco rolled his eyes and gave the boy an apologetic look. “We don’t know he stole it…”

“I didn’t!” The boy chimed in, and all at once she felt cornered between Draco and his eleven-year-old self. “And I won’t do it again!”

“See,” Draco said with a nod. “He won’t do it again. Lesson learned.”

“Malfoy!”

With a smirk, he nodded to the boy to leave once more, and he didn’t waste time running past them. His legs, though short with age, propelled him forward so fast his robes flowed back as he went racing through the corridor.

Hermione turned her ire to Draco, shaking her head with disbelief. She’d always known Draco and Pansy hadn’t taken their roles as Prefects as seriously as she, but to see the flagrant disregard for the rules before her eyes was astounding. And a little insulting.

“You can’t just do that!”

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Slytherin has enough against them right now—a first year sneaking a book is hardly worth the effort.”

“It’s the principle of the matter. You can’t pick favourites.”

Draco started to walk again, lazily wandering down the corridor until she calmed down enough to catch up to him.

“Don’t ever undermine me like that again, Malfoy.” She warned.

He huffed a laugh. “You wouldn’t have done the same if it was a Gryffindor first year?”

“No. Rules are rules. They’re meant to be followed.”

“Rubbish.” He said under his breath. “Besides, you saw how panicked he was—I’m sure the fear from getting caught will be enough to keep him from doing it again.”

“So you say.”

Draco shifted to stand in front of her, halting her, and she took a deep breath. She was irritated. She had a right to be irritated. But a part of her couldn’t deny his House’s reputation had gone down the drain over the last few years. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble to bust a child for breaking a rule or two, especially when they caused no harm to others.

Finally, Hermione sighed, accepting he might have been right in letting the boy off with a warning. He deserved a warning for a first offence, not a punishment.

“You distracted me.” She said quietly.

If he hadn’t distracted her, if he hadn’t snogged her senseless, she would have been aware of the boy sooner and would’ve been more level-headed in her decision making. But he’d distracted her, he’d undermined her, and the boy may have gotten off a bit too easy.

“Yes.”

“On purpose.”

“Also yes.”

Hermione huffed and straightened her robes. “Don’t do it again.”

“Distract you or kiss you?”

“Distract me.”

His eyes flickered with wry amusement. “So, you’d like for me to kiss you again?”

“I would.”

“Not happening.” He said with a smirk, then took off, calling over his shoulder, “I hope it was everything you wished for.”

It was, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Why not?” She demanded, jogging ahead of him to stop him in his tracks. She pressed a firm hand to his chest. “What is it? You can touch me, you can say crude things to me, but you won’t kiss me again? It makes no sense!”

He sighed. “I kissed you to shut you up, and it worked. I’ve no interest in doing it again.”

Her hand slipped off his chest. “You’re a dreadful liar. Why is it such a big deal to you?”

“I never said it was—I just didn’t enjoy it.”

He was lying again, she knew. She could feel it in the way his walls had shot back up at their interruption. Even if it had been to shut her up, he had wanted to kiss her just as much. So why did he keep fighting it?

“Well, I enjoy it. I enjoyed it—I’d like to do it again…and more.”

“More?”

“More.”

Eventually…

Draco rolled his eyes. “Are you asking me to finger you again?”

She blushed at his bluntness, but nodded anyway. “Amongst other things.”

His eyebrows shot up then, surprised by her honesty. Then, a moment later, he relaxed into his neutral mask of snotty unapproachableness. “No thanks.”

He started walking again, heading in the direction of the Great Hall.

“I don’t think I can handle another one of your assessments. What conclusion did you come to? Fairly attractive with an average cock?”

Hermione almost laughed but stopped herself in time, having the better sense not to kick him when he was down. She’d thought she was joking in the early hours of that morning when she said he was perfectly average, but now she wondered if he’d maybe taken it personally.

She skipped ahead to keep up with him once more, noting his strides were shorter to let her.

“Above average, really.”

“Thanks.”

“The biggest I’ve ever seen.”

Technically, that was true.

“And just how many have you seen?”

She shrugged innocently. “Well, I’m not often presented with the chance to see a penis, so…”

Draco snorted. “Penis. Merlin, it’s no wonder you stayed a virgin so long.”

“I’m trying to remain…delicate…about this. I don’t know how to act around you when you are so…” She waved her hand at him, unable to explain the way he was.

“Was there anything delicate about the way I touched your vagina last night?” Hermione cringed, and he glanced down at her with a smirk. “See? Nothing sexy about those words, is there?”

“But the others are too crass for polite conversation.”

“Are we having a polite conversation?”

Her eyes flared. “I would like to, yes. I would like to be on the same page as you.”

“Good luck.” He laughed. “Tell you what, Granger. If you can look me in the eye and say what you like about me with a straight face, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“Well, that’s a trap.”

Draco shook his head, but his eyes were too mischievous to be believed.

“Are you asking me to re-evaluate you?”

“I want your honest feedback.”

He turned her then, pressing her up against another wall, and she groaned aloud. The portrait beside them awoke and grumbled a sleepy complaint. She smiled awkwardly—apologetically—then met Draco’s eyes.

“If I say it, will you kiss me again?” She asked in a low voice.

He pushed her hair back, tucking a long curl behind her ear. “Yes.”

Swallowing hard and blushing scarlet, Hermione gave a quick glance around the empty corridors and sleeping portraits, licking her lips nervously before saying, “Draco, I like…your…” She winced as Draco’s eyebrows rose expectantly, his head ducking down as if to capture the word from her lips. “Cock.”

He was fighting to bite back the grin. “And?”

“It’s well above average.” She said with a nod. “It was very nice. I was honoured to be in its presence. Honestly, it’s a work of art—”

He rolled his eyes indulgently and cut her off. “Alright, that will do.”

She beamed up at him, her lips parting softly in anticipation for a kiss that never came. Instead, Draco’s lips pressed against her forehead in a brief peck before retreating from her altogether.

“What are you doing?” She asked, frowning. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“We agreed I’d kiss you again—you never specified where.”

She scoffed indignantly and pushed herself off the wall, then marched ahead of him. His peal of laughter echoed off the walls behind her as he followed.

Chapter Text

20 October 1998

Hermione paced the corridor outside the Headmistress’s office, waiting for her first meeting of the morning to conclude. She had sent in a request to speak with her nearly two weeks prior, and the earliest she could be seen was the second appointment of that morning, just before breakfast.

She checked her watch and saw the meeting had now bled two minutes into her allotted time, and she was growing antsy, the clicks of her short heels on the stones as she paced beginning to drive her mad.

If the meeting took any longer, she would lose her nerve and ask to reschedule. This was going to be a very uncomfortable meeting, and one she now felt unprepared for. She could feel the eyes of the enormous stone gargoyle on her; was it, too, judging her?

Three minutes now.

With a huff, Hermione bent to retrieve her bookbag from the floor and slung it over her shoulder. She would send an apology for missing their meeting and—

The spiral staircase began to move, several sets of footsteps descending the steps, faint voices echoing that got louder and more distinct as they got closer. She saw the tired, unmade face of Pansy Parkinson first, her dark hair ruffled on one side from sleep. She was in her nightclothes, black satin pants and a matching camisole, an oversized, unbuttoned coal-grey cardigan slung over her shoulders. Fluffy pink slippers adorned her feet, and while it clashed with the dark ensemble, the feminine touch seemed very Pansy.

Draco and Theo followed, arriving at the bottom of the steps mid-conversation. They were appropriately dressed, ready for classes even with their bookbags over their shoulders. Pansy startled when she saw Hermione, her hand gripping the base of her throat.

“Resorting to stalking now, Granger?” Pansy sneered. “Pathetic.”

Hermione managed a scowl in response and waited for the boys to step aside from the gargoyle so she could go up. Theo eyed her curiously, playfully, but Draco looked rather grim upon Pansy’s announcement of her presence.

She and Draco had had a disagreement the week before, a heated disagreement that caused them not to speak for four days straight. Or five, if he decided to shun her today as well.

In her view, the least harmful thing she could do to support the wrongfully charged mediwitch was to write a letter to the Minister, a letter to their Headmistress and—a step Draco felt was too far—a strongly-worded letter to the reporter covering the trial, demanding he correct the prejudicial mentioning of the witch being a Muggle-born in his articles.

But it wasn't so much the letter to the reporter as it was her line that suggested he was loyal to Voldemort. Upon her research, the same reporter had been linked to writing slanderous articles against "Mudbloods" during the war, spreading harmful propaganda that often placed Hermione herself at the forefront of the hate.

Draco had asked her to let it go, had told her he'd had no choice in printing that rubbish, but she’d been unable to accept that. He'd also tried convincing her there was nothing McGonagall could do, so she should just accept it and move on.

So, naturally, she now awaited her meeting with one of her favourite professors, a woman she had admired since learning she was a witch, and Draco looked like he wanted to fling himself off the nearest turret.

She had assured him she wouldn’t sell him out. This wouldn’t affect him in the slightest, she’d sworn it, but it hadn’t been enough to convince him. In his view, if Hermione opened this box, she would seal both of their fates, condemning them both to a life of misery in the misguided pursuit of justice. But he didn’t know her good relationship with McGonagall. He didn’t know that she would trust the woman with her own life if it came to it.

Pansy deliberately bashed Hermione’s shoulder with her own as she passed, and while it hurt, Hermione took it as a good sign that she’d only resorted to physical outbursts—she’d not so much as said “Mudblood” in the whole month and a half they’ve been back at school.

It was progress.

Theo followed her, giving her a sly wink as he passed, and Hermione rolled her eyes at him. Draco stayed back, taking in her stiff frame as she stepped up to the staircase.

“Should I write to my father, let him know I’ll be joining him soon?”

“I won’t say a word about you.” She promised. “I’m not even sure what this will accomplish, but it’s a start.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Maybe.” She agreed, and his eyebrows rose. “Care to kiss me for good luck?”

Draco bent, locked eyes with hers, and said, “Not a chance.”

She smirked and reached into her bag to retrieve her modified Potions notes. “Then can you give these to Harry at breakfast, please? I might be late, and we weren’t able to study last night.”

He looked at the notes as if they were a dead bird Crookshanks had dropped at his feet. “In what bloody world do you think I’d do you and Potter favours?”

“In this world.” She said, urging him to take her notebook. “This world, where friends do things for each other without expecting something in return. You should try it.”

“I’d rather set myself on fire.” He muttered, but ultimately relented and swiped the notebook from her hands.

When Hermione was halfway up the stairs, Draco called up a warning: “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Miss Granger, I appreciate your passion for—”

“Professor, it’s a human rights issue.” Hermione pressed. “If there’s such a fear of the magical population dwindling down, then there should be more research done on fertility treatments for witches who want children and can’t have them. Those who can and choose not to shouldn’t be punished because nature has a sick sense of humour! If there are potions to end a pregnancy, and a charm to help insemination, there has to be a solution for Pure-bloods who have difficulty conceiving—that should be the priority.”

The Headmistress sighed delicately and placed her hands palms-down atop her desk. “I’m afraid my hands are tied.” She said gently.

“You could help me get a meeting with Kingsley, couldn’t you? Or write a letter in support of the initiative? You grew up in the muggle world, too—can’t you see how dehumanising this mandate is? I don’t presume to know your feelings on the matter, but I can’t imagine you, of all people, would be comfortable with a law that prevents witches from exercising their free will.”

She looked at Hermione quizzically, as if trying to put the many mangled puzzle pieces together in her mind. “May I ask why this is so important to you? Forgive me for saying this, but it seems personal.”

Hermione shrank back in her seat, the steady gaze of her favourite professor examining her body language: the unusually nervous lip-biting, the nail picking, the restlessness as she crossed one leg over the other in order to still it. She looked around the Headmistress’s office, her eyes roving over the portraits of school Heads that came before. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore was silently observing their conversation, unabashed curiosity behind half-moon spectacles.

“It’s not personal.” She lied smoothly. “It’s an injustice. An innocent witch is facing two years in Azkaban for doing her job and providing care to her patients. It’s wrong.”

“The mediwitch knew the new laws and she broke them.” Professor McGonagall’s words were soft, but Hermione could see that she, too, felt it was unfair. “Whether or not we agree with them, there is nothing that can be done for her now. This isn’t the first time there has been a restriction on these potions, but I do hope it is the last.”

Hermione sat up straighter. “They’ve done this before?”

“After the First Wizarding War,” she confirmed. “For about three, maybe four years. Only until there was a steady repopulation rate. I expect it will be about the same this time.”

Hermione laced her fingers, pressing her palms tightly together, feeling her knuckles pop. Professor McGonagall noticed the action and raised a brow, and Hermione willed her hands to relax in her lap.

“I feel there must be something I can do.”

“You’ve done enough.”

Hermione felt her shoulders sag. Without McGonagall willing to vouch for her, to stand beside her as she fought against the Ministry, she began to feel a trickle of hopelessness seep in.

“Hermione,” Professor McGonagall smiled, half-pleading, half-indulgent. “I can’t make you any promises. My hands are tied for the curriculum this year, and as I have no reason to speak in defence of the mediwitch, I can’t be of much help for her. But, I can promise to speak with the school governors—I’ve believed for some time that there should be a class on reproductive health, and I will work to have that included.”

“Professor, thank you,” Hermione breathed. “That would be—”

“However,” she interrupted. “I would need you to do something for me.”

Hermione frowned, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “Alright…”

“I need you to focus on your health and your studies.” She said firmly, the small smile settling into a thin line. “I understand this is important to you, Miss Granger, I do…but I worry about you.”

“I’m taking care of myself.” She insisted. “I’m eating regularly and keeping up with my classwork—”

“And even that is a challenge for you.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but no sound came out.

How long had McGonagall been keeping an eye on her? Had she been watching her zombie-like form slumped over the dining table most days, picking at her food whilst furiously correcting her notes? Had she heard from Hermione’s professors that she’d seemed distracted? Had the other Prefects let slip that she was unusually quiet and jumpy during patrols?

Taking on the Ministry was a fight she couldn’t afford to take on, she knew, but to sit back and do nothing… It went against her very nature. But what could she do? Floo over to the Ministry and bang on Kingsley Shacklebolt’s door until he agreed to listen to her? Plead her case to the Wizengamot, laying everything on the line and admitting to taking the banned substance?

She would never say who she got it from—she would lie and say she brewed it herself. She would go so far as to say she stole the ingredients, if she had to. If they wanted to throw her in Azkaban for it, then maybe there would be enough of an uproar to reverse the ban altogether. But what would that mean for her? How much would she lose just to make a point? A half-formed, unresearched, emotionally-charged point. Something had to be done about it, but getting herself locked up because of her arrogant righteousness wouldn’t help anyone, either.

“I can’t let this go.” She whispered, feeling her eyes well up. “It’s not right.”

Professor McGonagall rose from her seat behind the desk and came around it to pull out the chair beside Hermione. She sank onto it gracefully and reached across the space to wrap her hand around Hermione’s.

“This is a fight you can’t win alone.”

Hermione sniffled. “I know.”

“Let this go.” She pleaded, giving her hand a squeeze. “For now. Focus on your studies and your health. That is not a request, Miss Granger. It is a demand.”

Hermione swallowed hard and turned her head to look at her. “If I could just have some time away from school to research—”

“Out of the question.” Another squeeze, then her hand was released. Professor McGonagall’s hands folded neatly in her lap. “This is not your fight yet. You’ve spent so much of your youth attending to the needs of others and putting yourself second—do you even know what your goals are? Once you’ve graduated, do you know what is it you would like to do?”

A single tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t know. She truly didn’t know what she wanted anymore, or remember what she had wanted before. Advocating for magical creatures. Improving muggle relations within the wizarding world. Fighting was the only instinct she could grasp onto. Without that fire, without that all-consuming desire to fling herself into dangerous situations for the sake of the greater good, what did she have?

“This isn’t the first time you’ve overwhelmed yourself, my dear. Too many classes and helping in others’ legal battles—it’s as if you’ve learned nothing at all.”

“It’s not that simple, Professor.”

“It is.” She countered. “It absolutely is. All I see is you tearing yourself apart again, only this time, you don’t have a Time Turner to help you keep up. What will you do if you can’t manage on your own?”

“I don’t know.” She said brokenly. “But I have to try.”

Did she?

The fight was over. The war was done.

If she didn’t take up this cause, there was nothing left for her to do but to sit and finally breathe, and she couldn’t allow herself to do that.

“Your studies.” She said again. “Your health. Those are the only two things you need to care about right now.”

Hermione shook her head, defiant despite the tears that streamed down her cheeks, the tightness in her throat that prevented speech.

“It’s not fair,” agreed Professor McGonagall. “But you are not in a position to take this on. You are allowed to think about your own needs first, and I need you to take this seriously. What good are you to anyone in this state?”

To anyone else, the Headmistress might’ve sounded cruel, but Hermione knew it was only from a place of concern. She wasn’t criticising Hermione’s capabilities, but rather pointing out the current lack of them. The frailty of them. In her right state, there would have been no question of taking this head-on.

But Hermione wasn’t in her right state. Not yet.

It just wasn’t something she wanted to admit out loud…or even to herself.

She was grateful then that Professor McGonagall knew her almost as well as she knew herself. She knew Hermione had human limitations. She knew Hermione struggled in silence as much as she could, not wanting to be a bother to anyone else. What good would she have been to Harry over the years if he’d seen how often she felt vulnerable and afraid? How often she felt she was taking on more than she could handle. How often she felt lonely and tired and…helpless.

It wasn’t that the war had defeated her, no. She was simply at the end of her own fight. She’d been running on fumes for years and it had finally caught up with her.

She wasn’t broken, she only needed to rest. She needed to reset and reform her plans. The mediwitch’s trial and the abhorrent laws were not something she could fix overnight or on her own. It would take months, if not years, of careful planning and organising, rallying and informing. If this was something she wanted to see through, she would need to finish school with top marks and make changes from within the Ministry itself.

But she hated that it was true. She wanted the instant change, the power that came from knowing she’d made a difference. She wanted something to be angry about.

She wanted a fight to consume her again.

“If you want to fight,” Professor McGonagall said, as if reading her thoughts. “Fight for yourself, for once.”

Hermione looked down from her professor’s wary gaze, brushing her chin on her shoulder to wipe off the tears that had collected beneath her jaw.

“For how long? How long will that take?”

Professor McGonagall rose from her seat and placed her hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “However long it takes. If it takes a month after graduation or a year—I will be your biggest supporter in anything you choose to do. You will have my highest recommendation, and I will be happy to find a position for you here if you ever choose to teach. You are an invaluable asset, Miss Granger. I want you to know that.”

With a kind smile, she went back to her chair behind the desk, and Hermione pulled the sleeves of her jumper over her hands to wipe the stickiness from her face.

If it takes a year after graduation…

“Well,” she said formally, getting back to business. Hermione straightened in her seat reflexively, all emotion of their meeting to be brushed aside now, much to their collective relief. “We’ve discussed your agenda, it’s now time to discuss mine.”

Hermione cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

It was an inconvenient day for the new moon to fall on, a day their class wasn’t scheduled. When she arrived at the dungeon classroom—flushed and sweating, breathless as she’d had to run to collect her monthly pain-relief potion from Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing—Professor Slughorn had managed to reconfigure the room, squeezing their small class into the back. All twelve seventh years were now crammed around a large, round table near the supply cupboard while the second year Gryffindor and Slytherin students had their double Potions lesson up front. It was noisy, the thirteen-year-olds rowdy and uncaring of the young adults at the back of the room trying to brew an incredibly difficult potion.

If any of them messed up just one ingredient, it would be a whole month until they could try again. Professor Slughorn tried his best to remind the younger students to behave themselves, but his jovial nature allowed them not to take him too seriously.

A dark-haired Gryffindor girl bumped into Pansy whilst retrieving salamander blood. She giggled unapologetically and bounced off, easily dismissing the threatening look in Pansy’s eye.

“I’m going to kill them.” She announced, just loud enough for everyone at their table to hear. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the handle of her knife. “Every last one of them.”

Harry’s eye twitched as he furiously ground his moonstone into a powder. “I’ll join you.” He muttered. Hermione gave him a disapproving look that he ignored.

Hermione tried her best not to follow Draco every step of the way, but she did use him for reference after completing each step. Grind the stone, slice the Adder’s Fork. The ingredients were simple enough, but it was the process that determined the potency. How much per addition to dissolve the stone, how long to heat in between. When to simmer, when to boil. When the brew ran clear, it would be time to bottle it up and store it.

In two weeks, they were to place the bottle outside after the sun was fully set to absorb the light of the full moon, then return it to a dark place before sunrise—and wait another two weeks. It was an easy cycle, twenty-eight predictable days. New, full, new again. Waxing and waning, over and over, an easy passing of time that felt more reliable than the changing of seasons.

If only everything could be so consistent.

When she'd arrived to class, Draco had given her a questioning look, one she responded to with an eye-roll. As he'd predicted, McGonagall hadn't been able to help the way she'd hoped. He didn't have to be so smug about it, though.

“You’re really testing Weasley today.” Draco hummed, leaning toward her slightly to assess her work.

Hermione looked up to see Ron across from her, his blue eyes narrowed and focused on Draco’s closeness, the ease with which he moved around her. They were too comfortable for his liking, too familiar.

“By doing my work?” She asked snidely, looking back down at her perfected—she hoped—formula and collecting her moonstone. She placed the small, opalescent stone into her mortar and began to grind it down.

“By being so close to me.” He smirked. “Just imagine if I had to lean across you to grab something—he’d probably flip the whole table.”

She sighed, trying to ignore him as she put her weight into pulverising to stone. She couldn’t imagine she looked sexy in any sense. Her hair was tangled, several front strands loose from the knot and sweat-matted from the morning’s run.

Draco came to stand behind her, his head over her shoulder to inspect her work. She flinched as his chin rested on her shoulder, her eyes up and scanning the heads of their classmates to find they were all, thankfully, diligently working over their own cauldrons. Even Ron, who’d apparently not dropped Potions, was carefully reviewing his formula. Hermione gave her shoulders a shake and he backed off, dragging himself too slowly back to his station.

“You’re being ridiculous.” She chided him, grunting softly as she worked. The pestle was rubbing her hand raw, letting her know she’d likely develop blisters; that would mean yet another trip to the Hospital Wing that day.

On her other side, Harry had already finished turning the stone into a powder, and he and Pansy followed the same steps to add it bit by bit to the simmering water.

“That needs to be finer.” Draco said after she slid the mortar and pestle aside.

He took it for her and finished it, and Hermione grudgingly thanked him, turning her palms up to examine the reddened skin. Ron had noticed the action then, pausing the crushing of his own stone to glare at Draco’s surprisingly chivalrous act.

When he finished, he slid it back and leaned into her, reaching across to slide her notes closer, though he didn’t need them. Ron began crushing his stone more violently, the pestle audibly thudding against the stone bowl.

“Should I clue him in on how to make Hermione Granger come?”

Flushing from his boldness, Hermione flicked her eyes to his sharply. “If you value your life, you won’t say a word.”

She had meant to sound intimidating, really she had, but with the softness in his grey eyes as he teased her, her words sounded half-hearted. A playful reprimand.

“It’s very easy, you know. You’re quite responsive.”

“Malfoy.” She warned, willing her expression to harden.

Draco smirked and returned to his own work.

“Too much.” He murmured a minute later, stopping her from adding a standard spoonful into the cauldron. He placed his hand on hers and tilted it to tap a pinch back into the mortar, then let her add it to her cauldron. She set the spoon down and peered in, watching as the simmering bubbles dissolved the pearly powder.

They worked like that for several minutes, Hermione eyeing Draco’s method, Draco making sure she was doing it correctly. Occasionally, she glanced over to Harry to find him working in an easy silence alongside Pansy. They seemed to be working together well enough, sharing tools and notes without so much as a word or a smile passed between them. It was easily the politest interaction they’d ever had.

“Are you ever going to kiss me again?” She asked in a firm, no-nonsense tone as she began to slice her Adder’s Fork. “Specifically on the lips. Tongue optional.”

“No. I told you I don’t enjoy it.”

She glanced up at him to find his lips had twitched into a slight smile. “And I think you’re a liar. What is it, really?” Still holding her knife, she took half a step closer and lowered her voice. “Do you want to shag me?”

He snorted and tried to cover it with a cough.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” She pressed. “You’re worried you’d want me.”

“I’m not worried.”

“No?”

Draco glanced around the room. “No. If you want me to fuck you right here, right now, I will. Turn around and lift your skirt.”

She went back to slicing as a means to ignore him.

“I see…” He cooed, suddenly too close, his voice low and playful. “You’re worried you want that.”

“Of course not.” She murmured, adding the snake tongue into the cauldron and giving it a stir. “I don’t want anyone who won’t even kiss me.”

“So if I kissed you, you’d want me to fuck you. Is that what I’m hearing?”

Hermione looked around the room. Harry and Pansy hadn’t heard, Blaise on Draco’s left seemed oblivious. “I’d be open to it. I’ve been honest about what I want, haven’t I? I might want to be more than friends with you. One day.”

Draco shuddered, as if the idea he’d somehow become friends with Hermione had just occurred to him and it was unpleasant. He was about five steps ahead of her, the potion almost a routine to him with how easily he’d prepared it. His cauldron was settling, the steam rising clear to indicate it was nearly finished.

“The last ‘friend’ you shagged left you in a sticky situation, didn’t he?”

“He was shit with charms.” She gave an unapologetic shrug then brought her cauldron to an almost violent boil. “Unlike you and me.”

He huffed a laugh and shifted slightly to face her, bending down to speak closer. “Fucking you and kissing you are two very different things, Granger.”

She arched an eyebrow. “So if I asked you to fuck me, you would, but kissing is where you draw the line?”

Draco’s eyes flitted between hers, grey dots dancing in the dim, greenish light. “Unless you’re serious, then yes.”

“Serious about what?”

His eyes narrowed and he straightened up, returning to his own work station beside her and reaching for a clean, green phial.

31 October 1998

It was the first Hogsmeade weekend and the small village was practically bursting at the seams. Hermione, Harry, and Ginny managed to find a table at the Three Broomsticks after their Honeydukes shopping; Hermione had used the last of her Knuts on a pack of Toothflossing Stringmints. Ron and Lavender’s ill-fated date had ended before it even began, the reminder of Ron’s responsibility as Head Boy ringing through the Gryffindor common room before they’d even had the chance to leave.

He was to assist in the preparation for the Hallowe’en Feast that night, a duty that should have been a fun perk to the job, but Ron had treated like a tooth-pulling obligation. It had been weeks since they had had a real conversation, Hermione’s insistence they buckle down and study in their “free” time actually sinking in. He studied with them—suffering in silence at Harry and Hermione’s ease—and attended all of his classes, and the boys had seemed to relax around each other once again. There was a tension that remained unacknowledged, an uneasy wedge in their friend group that teetered on the brink of collapse.

If Harry was still waiting for an apology, it didn’t seem like he was going to get it. Ron, it seemed, was going with the tactic of avoidance—it was clear to them both that he intended to sweep it under the rug and move on, but she wasn’t sure Harry was fine to move on this time.

“No firewhisky today?” Hermione teased Ginny as she took a small sip of butterbeer.

“I’ve learned my lesson, thank you very much.”

Harry, however, was happy to imbibe the strong liquor, taking smooth sips without so much as a wince. Green eyes narrowed as he noticed her look of concern, and she looked away quickly, picking up her own glass of butterbeer and pressing it to her lips.

This was a hard day for him, they knew, and when Ginny suggested they go for a drink to cheer him up, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. But Harry had been quiet all day, had barely even cracked a smile in the sweets shop. At the mention of bringing something back for Ron, he had grimaced and offered to find a table at the pub, leaving the girls to finish up their purchases.

Ginny was sat beside him, chatting with her sixth year friends at the table next to theirs while Hermione tried to get in Harry’s head.

“You’re having fun.” She murmured, attempting a teasing smile.

He gave her a mocking smile in return, eyes flashing as he finished off his drink in one gulp. “Yeah, I’m having a great time, Hermione.”

“Do you want to leave?” She asked, feeling overwhelmed by the crowded pub as well. “We can leave.”

He sighed and set his glass down on the table with a dull thud. He looked a bit guilty as he looked at Ginny, her long red hair swishing as she chatted animatedly.

“Er, no. You stay. I’m in a—mood.”

Harry placed a hand on Ginny’s back to get her attention. She turned back to him, grinning from her conversation. The smile began to fade as Harry whispered in her ear. He kissed her cheek and stood, then gave Hermione an apologetic smile before grabbing his coat and wading through the standing crowd for the door.

Ginny sat stunned, crestfallen as he walked out. She gave Hermione a slight smile. “You know, for a while, I thought he'd gotten better.”

“Better?”

Ginny slid her glass between her hands and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “When he got back to school, he seemed like himself again. I thought…he was better.”

“I think it’s just a lot for him to be back here.” Hermione guessed, then took a long sip of her drink. She wiped the foam off her lips with her sleeve. “He’s also never been so focused in classes. I’m quite proud of him.”

Though she’d said it with a grin, Ginny’s face fell even more, as if the thought of Harry succeeding academically was somehow a negative reflection on her and their relationship.

“Ginny,” Hermione sighed. “I don’t think he’s processing the war very well.”

The redhead finished off her drink, chugging the half-full glass down until only foam settled at the bottom.

“He had the whole summer away from us.” She said, sounding irritated. “He wanted to be alone—he had plenty of time to sort himself out.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I know.” Ginny breathed, pressing a hand to her eyes. “I know. I’m trying to be supportive. I’m trying to understand, but I don’t. He’s alive, Hermione—he should be happy he’s alive!”

Hermione nodded sympathetically.

“Gods, it’s so hard to even be around him sometimes,” she said, her voice cracking. “I love him, but I’m…I’m struggling.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, ashamed to have admitted such a thing. Her eyes were hard as she held back frustrated tears. When she removed her hand, she took a deliberate, steadying breath, and looked up the ceiling to blink the wetness away.

“I shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around him, right?”

Hermione gnawed at her lip, Ginny having navigated them into very dangerous territory. It was one thing to discuss her relationship with Ron, but she was uncomfortable discussing Ginny’s relationship with Harry. A bit hypocritical, she knew, but Harry was like her brother. As much as she loved Ginny…

“If neither of us is happy, we should end it. Shouldn’t we?”

Hermione swallowed. “I’m not the best person to give advice here.” She admitted weakly. “My longest relationship was thirteen days.”

Ginny groaned softly. “I just turned seventeen, right?”

“Right.”

“I still have another year of school after you all graduate—if he’s in Auror training, am I just supposed to be here alone? That’s not fair, is it?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably and took another sip of butterbeer, feeling her cheeks heat from Ginny’s words and the tiniest bit of alcohol in the drink.

“D’you know Mum’s already talking marriage?” Ginny was incredulous now. “We’re both of legal age, so why the bloody hell not? Fuck Quidditch, right? That wouldn’t be nearly as rewarding as being a broodmare like her!”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, and she was suddenly very thankful for the large crowd, the overlapping voices in the pub that drowned out Ginny’s outburst.

“I’m getting us another round!” She announced, standing up. She waded through their classmates towards the bar without waiting for a response.

Hermione sighed into her glass as she finished it off.

Chapter Text

31 October 1998

The Hallowe’en Feast was an unusually odd experience for most. Bright orange, carved pumpkins and jet-black bats were suspended from the enchanted ceiling, tables were piled high with sweets, and a throng of delighted ghosts floated about in celebration as they always had, uncaring or unaware of the general lack of enthusiasm for their beloved holiday. It felt too soon.

It was too much of a shift towards normality that it felt…insensitive. To a ghost, a being who had been dead for hundreds of years, perhaps the thought of a bloody battle on the castle’s grounds just months before was hardly anything to lament over. To the living, to the ones who saw friends die in the very room they sat, the call for glee and celebratory antics was a step in the wrong direction.

One look around the table at her fellow Gryffindors told Hermione the feeling of the night being off was a shared sentiment. The only ones who seemed to be enjoying themselves were the Hufflepuffs, the ones most eager to see the good in something rather than continually dwell on past events. Even less excited than the Gryffindor table was the Slytherin, the outcasted group who’ve made not so much as a peep all night. The younger students who hadn’t been involved with the war took in the moods of their sombre elder peers and sat quietly, seemingly aware of the animosity most students felt for their House.

Fun as they’d tried to make it, Hermione could see why Ron had felt the task was a chore. There was nothing fun about carving pumpkins or planning the night’s entertainment when the horror of it all was so fresh.

Upon their return from Hogsmeade, Hermione and Ginny had offered him their assistance, both girls using their wands to carve faces into Hagrid’s pumpkins and placing levitation charms on them, staggering their placements where they hung above the tables. It had been much more fun for Ginny, pleasantly buzzed on butterbeer and elderflower wine, a bottle of which she’d brought back to the castle and stashed away in Hermione’s drawer for later use.

Up at the front, Professor Flitwick conducted the night’s performance from the Frog Choir. Their enchanting voices and the croaks of oversized toads were magnified by the sounds of thunder. The ceiling was charmed to be stormy, lightning streaking overhead, though it was perfectly clear outside that night. When the performance concluded, the thunder faded and the ceiling broke out in thousands of sparkling stars against an indigo backdrop.

It was beautiful, but knowing it wasn’t real made Hermione ache to be outside then. Fresh air and silence, safe in the secluded darkness. If it were possible to slip out of the Great Hall then she would have, but the boisterous ghosts would surely make a fuss at her departure, and she was in no mood to explain herself.

So she sat and ate sweets until her teeth ached, washing it all down with pumpkin juice. Her parents would have been horrified at such a display of sugary indulgence, even more so that Hermione’s favourite holiday had been Halloween for this event alone. But tonight the sweets were too sweet, the icing on the pumpkin and carrot cakes cloying and nearly turning her stomach. She set down her second piece of pumpkin cake and switched to an apple instead, the least offensive food on the table to a dentist.

Murmurs of a party in the common room filtered up the table, Ron, Seamus, and Dean already plotting to sneak drinks up from the kitchen. It was just what they needed—unsupervised alcohol consumption. The thought of Percy Weasley entered her mind and she scoffed, thinking of how he might’ve handled it. She was certain as rigid as he’d been, how determined to follow the rules and set a good example for the younger students, he would not have allowed such plans to be made under his nose.

Let alone plot them with his roommates like Ron was currently doing.

It was harmless, she knew. It was all in the spirit of a good time, and a good time was hard to be had in a hall of atrocious memories; in that sense it was easier to let it all go. She could easily walk away and slip up to her room, stay secluded in her four-poster and let them get pissed until they blacked out.

When the feast concluded and she felt nauseated beyond belief, she decided her dorm was the last place she wanted to be. She should have sucked it up and gone upstairs to set a good example, but the thought of brisk night air had her nearly gasping for it. The Great Hall was too hot with the walls brightly lit with enormous flames and several hundreds of students cramming to leave.

For the event, though a weekend night, they wore their black robes and pointed hats, and the wool was so stifling and unbreathable that she felt itchy and consumed by unpleasant heat. Her friends tore off their hats as soon as they could, and dozens of robes were removed upon their exit into the corridor.

In all the commotion, Hermione took the chance to slip away from her fellow Gryffindors and follow the way of the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, desiring to make an unnoticed escape outside. It was technically against the rules to be out at night, but she was a Prefect and one of the oldest students. She would use those facts to her advantage if it came to it. Hell, she would remind any professor who dared to stop her that she was an integral figure in the war and the battle that won it if she had to.

She only knew she couldn’t be inside any longer.

The first breath she took in the night air was piercing. Her lungs ached in the gasp she took, but it was a sweet burn. The coolness she’d been craving beckoned her farther out from the castle, Hermione a dark figure dotting in the darkness as she pranced down the pathway to the Black Lake. It would be quieter there, she reasoned. Calmer. The sound of lapping water on the shore was what she needed after hours of endless noise and lights.

The ground was covered more in small rocks and pebbles than it was sand, uncomfortable against her back as she lay down, despite the thick robes she used as a barrier. More of her skin was exposed to the frigid air without them covering her, but it felt nice. She watched her breath against the real night sky, illuminated by the large, waxing moon.

It would be full in just a few days’ time and she would need to tend to her potion. It currently sat on an enchanted shelf in the Potions classroom, preventing anyone else—namely the younger years—from accidentally or intentionally tampering with the phials. If her first attempt was perfect, as she expected it would be, she would be free to spend the following month before Christmas to focus on her other studies. For that reason alone, her first attempt had to be perfect. There was already so little time for the other six classes she was taking that the break from Potions would be a tremendous help to her schedule.

As she mentally debated the right time to retrieve the phial the night of the full moon, a ball of ginger fluff trotted down to her. Still lying down, Crookshanks butted his squashed face against hers, purring and marking her, and she giggled at the greeting. After he seemed pleased that she was sufficiently marked, he settled himself on her belly and kneaded her, his yellow eyes narrowed in contentment.

Hermione indulged him in pets and scratches under his chin, on his cheeks and the top of his head. Not even a minute after Crookshanks arrived, she heard almost silent footsteps down the path.

She groaned loud enough for the intruder to hear, then whisper-shouted an admonishment the cat. “Bad Crookshanks! You led him right to me!”

“I have to say, he’s a lot smarter than I gave him credit for.”

Hermione tilted her head back to look up at him as he came nearer. “Were you using him to find me?”

“Of course not.” He said. “He’s not a dog. It’s not like I could give him your clothes and have him hunt you down.”

She grinned. “You probably could, actually, but you wouldn’t need to. He’s usually able to find me when he wants to.”

“When he wants to,” Draco scoffed. “Such a cat thing.”

“I’m sure you can relate.”

Draco sat beside her, several feet away. Drawing the line in the sand that he needed distance, but wanted her company.

“Did you just compare me to that?”

Hermione turned her head and smiled at him, her fingertips resuming their path around Crookshanks’ face. “You are like a cat in many ways, yes.”

“How so?”

“Moody. Territorial.” She gave him a pointed look. “They only want someone on their terms.”

He scoffed again, but couldn’t contradict her. “He didn’t want you during the war?”

“I left him behind.” She scratched between his ears, and his eyes closed and purr intensified as he stretched into it. “I suppose he was rather annoyed by that, because he left soon after I did.”

“How do you know?”

“Ron’s dad told me—he felt really awful about it, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault.” She smiled at her cat. “He came back on his own, that’s all that matters to me.”

Draco looked at Crookshanks, considering him. “Half Kneazle, you said?”

“Mm-hmm.” She murmured. “He looks more like a cat, I think, but has the intelligence of a Kneazle.”

He made a face at the thought of Crookshanks being intelligent. “He’s probably no smarter than the average housecat, Granger. You’re blinded by affection.”

Crookshanks turned his narrowed eyes to Draco then and stopped purring, flicking his bottlebrush tail like a whip. Hermione grinned and praised him softly, and Crookshanks turned back to her moments later for more pets. The purring resumed, sinking soothingly into her belly.

“I was going to get an owl, you know.” She said. “I wasn’t much of a pet person and I thought an owl would be the easiest for me. They’re practical and it would’ve stayed in the owlery, so it wouldn’t impact my everyday life.”

“Why a cat then?”

“Not just any cat,” she said sweetly when Crookshanks tucked his paws in and settled the weight of his head in her palm. “Him. He’d been at the Magical Menagerie for ages because no one wanted him—he was known to be aggressive, but was very sweet with me. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being in that shop another day more, the poor thing. The witch was surprised I wanted him, but I think she was more shocked that he picked me, too. He’s very selective with who he likes.”

“It’s the bushy hair.”

Hermione snorted a laugh, Crookshanks opening his eyes irritably at the rumble of disruption. “If only I were ginger, too. We’d be like twins.”

“Thank Merlin, you’re not.” He muttered, shaking his head as if repulsed by the thought. “You’re already associated with the Weasleys enough.”

She made a disapproving face. “They’re not the only redheaded family in Britain.”

“You’d think they were, the way they breed.”

“Stop it.” She gave him a playful eyeroll. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same.”

“I grew accustomed to the cold.” She said simply. “Live in a tent for months, and you will, too.”

A shiver passed through him. “How’d you do it? Stay sane?”

Hermione frowned as she considered that. She wasn’t entirely sure she had stayed sane on the run, living in a constant state of anxiety as she had. “How did you?”

He gave her a dark look. “Who says I had?”

“You’re an Occlumens?”

A wary nod a moment later was his response, guarded now.

“Did that help?”

“At the time.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not when I have to be an open book every week, no. I’m fighting against instinct at this point.”

Hermione licked her dry lips as a thought occurred to her. “Why do you do that?” She asked suddenly, then clarified when he looked affronted. “You confide in me fairly easily—why?”

Night-darkened eyes narrowed on hers shrewdly. “I suppose with you…I have nothing to lose.”

“How do you mean?”

“I know your secrets now. I’m confident anything I tell you will stay between us.” He smirked. “Isn’t that right?”

She leaned up on her elbows and looked over her shoulder at him. “If that were true, then why would you tell Pansy about helping me?”

He cocked a challenging eyebrow. “Because I know Pansy’s secrets, too. She won’t say anything.”

“You know Pansy—you trust her.” She gave him her own shrewd assessment. “You’ve no reason to trust me.”

“Of course, I do.” He huffed a laugh. “If you fuck me over, Granger, I’ll take you down with me.”

She swallowed, Crookshanks’ purrs losing their calming effect. “I could sell you out, you know. If you cross me.”

“You would have already.”

“You don’t know that.” She argued. “Honestly, I’ve no reason to trust you.”

“But you do.”

“How would you know?”

“You wouldn’t have let me get so close if you didn’t trust me.” He said with a confident smirk. “You wouldn’t have opened your legs for me.”

She glared at him. “Don’t be crude.”

He snorted. “For fuck’s sake, make up your mind. You can’t beg me to touch you or kiss you then act like a prude when I have you cornered.”

“You…” She sighed and sat up, dislodging the sleepy cat with a grumbly meow. “You confuse me, okay? I don’t know when you’re joking or not. You think you have to be guarded, Draco? I like you—you.”

“And?”

Her eyes widened. “And, what? You know exactly how you’ve treated me in the past.”

“I thought we agreed to move on.”

“We may have called a truce over the summer, but if you can’t see how confusing it is for me to feel anything more than hate or pity for you…” she shook her head. “It’s just hard sometimes to process that you have changed. I know you have and that’s why I trust you, but it throws me off when you threaten me like that.”

“When did I threaten you?”

She stared at him incredulously. “Only minutes ago you threatened me to keep your secrets, Draco! That’s what I don’t understand about you! Do you honestly like me, or do you just enjoy having me at your mercy?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“You—” She cut herself off with a growl and got to her knees to stand up. “You arrogant prick! And you wonder why no one decent likes you!”

He stilled at her words as she stood, his once playful eyes now hard. “You like me.” He said coldly. “Didn’t you just admit that?”

“I,” she huffed, throwing an arm out at her side. “Against my better judgment, yes.”

“So does that make you indecent or a liar?”

She looked down at him and scoffed. “Both. Fuck, I don’t know. God, I’m so…lost when it comes to you.”

Draco uncurled his long frame and stood then, close enough that she had to tilt back to maintain eye contact. “On that, we can agree.” He snaked his hand into her hair, tangling itself in the thick strands. “I like you.” He ground out as if the words were costing him. “It’s…easier if you’re at my mercy.”

She tried to pull away but he fisted her hair at the base of her skull, keeping her locked in place. Her hands went to his chest and she pressed her palms against him firmly, but his grip was unrelenting.

“I don’t trust you,” he confirmed despite her glower. “But I’m trying to. Can’t that be enough for now?”

Her eyes flitted between his, the pupils dilated in the night. The moonlight was infuriatingly magical on his skin and hair, casting them in luminous shades of white that only he could pull off, and a faint hint of blush coloured his cheeks

He could Occlude his mind, but flushing was a physiological response, an involuntary rush of blood to heightened emotion or a shock to the body. She didn’t know if he was so powerful he could normally prevent it, or if his walls were down then, allowing the stain of pink to speak for him in ways he couldn’t vocalise.

She swallowed hard. “Enough for now” held the promise of more to come later, didn’t it? If she accepted his terms now, accepted the boundaries he placed and respected them, would she be rewarded for the sacrifice later on?

“Is this going somewhere?” She asked flatly. “It’s a yes or a no. No more skirting around the subject.”

The hand in her hair flexed, making her wince, but his eyes held hers almost desperately. He was pleading with her not to make him say it first.

He was so beautiful to her then, his mussed hair a stark contrast to his angular face. For years he had looked so pointy and cold, sleek and edgy and so nastily unappealing. His personality hadn’t helped matters, his sharp-tongued comments often cutting right through her even when she pretended they hadn’t. He’d been unnecessarily hateful, always needing to prove something, but had gone about it in such a way that most people outside of his House despised him.

She couldn’t begin to imagine what his upbringing had been like, but she’d never believed him to be neglected. His father had been, at times, too involved in his education and his mother had always sent him gifts. Both had taken him to the Quidditch World Cup and showered him with material possessions that were excessive even for an only child. There had to have been some kind of love in his household, even if it wasn’t the affectionate love she had for her parents.

But she thought of the way he spoke of them in the rare moments they were brought into conversation. Formal mother and father titles, never Mum or Dad. He’d ignored his mother’s letters so long that Kingsley had gone along with the Aurors for a wellness check on him.

Some kind of love, she was sure, but maybe not enough. Maybe not the right kind.

When had he changed? The hair was the first thing she’d noticed was different about him all those months before. It was no longer slicked back and had the slightest wave to it, the longer strands often falling into his face. It was attractive, yes, but in that moment she saw it as an act of defiance.

He had stopped trying to be like Lucius, but when? When had he stopped modelling his persona after his father?

After the war? After his father had been taken away for good? If space from her friends over the summer gave her a chance to breathe, what had freedom from his father’s influence done for him?

Hermione’s eyes scanned his face, the pink darkening the longer she looked at him with his walls down.

“For me, it’s ‘yes.’” She said softly, tapping a finger against his chest. “Is that enough for now?”

A minute of silence passed between them, his fingers flexing and relaxing their grip, Hermione’s hands walking up his chest and across his shoulders, both of them painfully aware of the shared vulnerabilities they’d expressed. It made her skin crawl, but if putting herself out there first meant they could move beyond the bizarre dance of flirtation and avoidance they’d been in for months, she was willing to do it.

Draco nodded, mouthing the word “yes.”

“Good.” She said more brightly than she felt. “That’s good.”

Her hands relaxed and rested on his shoulders, and his grip in her hair eased. He pulled his hand from her hair and moved to step away, but she kept her hold.

“We’re not done here.”

“We’re not?”

“No.” She slid her palms down his chest again, feeling the faint beat of his heart through the material of his jumper. “You need your boundaries, that’s fine.”

He exhaled through his nostrils, eyes flitting to the lake as if knowing where she was headed with the conversation.

“But I need physical affection sometimes.”

“You’re asking me to kiss you.” He concluded dryly.

Hermione bit her lip and shook her head. “If that’s a hard line for you right now, I will try my best to respect it.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

“I…” she smiled, embarrassed, and felt herself blush. “I don’t really know, honestly. Hold my hand?”

He snorted as he turned back to her. “Hold your hand?”

“Not in the halls or anything in public, but if we have time alone I would appreciate…something.”

He looked offended then. “You don’t want me to hold your hand in public?”

“No!” She said quickly, her eyes wide. “I mean, yes, I would, but if that makes you uncomfortable, then no. Hold my hand, hug me, kiss me—anything short of shagging me in class, I’d be open to.”

Draco looked utterly devious then as he seized on her words. “You did want me to fuck you in class, didn’t you?”

She was sure she was scarlet then as she shook her head, but she was hardly believable. She’d have been lying if she said the thought didn’t excite her, didn’t lead her mind to wander in the seclusion of her four-poster bed of what it could’ve been like to be so wanton.

“I never took you for an exhibitionist, but it’s good to know.” He bent and pressed his lips to her neck, making her shiver.

Though she scoffed in response, she tilted her head to allow his lips easier access. Her skin tingled where he touched, a soft whimper sounding in the back of her throat as his teeth raked the spot beneath her ear. His hands worked to untuck her button-down from her skirt, working his cold hands up her waist and making her gasp at the contact.

“Did you want to fuck me in class?” She asked breathily, and the bruising suction on her neck ceased.

Draco pulled back and looked down at her, pushing her hair off her shoulder and examining the spot where his lips had been. “No.”

“No?” She asked wryly.

“Believe it or not, I do have some limits.”

She snorted. “You don’t have limits! You let Pansy suck you off where anyone could see you!”

Mocking, dark eyes widened. “You like to watch? You’re a bloody pervert, Granger.”

“I stumbled upon you,” she said, sounding prickly. “I hardly call that watching. You were out in the open!”

His smirk had returned, astonished and triumphant by the new discovery. “But you stayed long enough to determine what was happening?”

Caught, Hermione could only blush and look away. There was no way to defend herself when she’d essentially admitted to it.

“And here I thought I was corrupting you.”

“Why does everyone think I’m this fragile prude?” She demanded. “There were rumours of me when I was fifteen shagging a world-famous Quidditch player!”

“They were rumours.” He reminded her. “And no one believed them. No one at Hogwarts, anyway, swotty little bookworm that you are.”

Her eyes narrowed at the slight. “I may not be a total slag, but I’m not incompetent!”

“No,” he agreed, grinning now. “But you have limits, too. I can’t fuck you if I won’t kiss you, right?”

She raised her eyebrows defiantly. “You’ve kissed me before—it won’t take much to break you again, I’m sure of it.”

“Then I can have you?”

“You could have me right now, if you wanted.” She hummed.

The hand still under her shirt slid up her waist, skating over her ribs and making her arch into him. He rested his hand on her breast over the cup of her bra, his chilly fingertips on the skin above. He bent to brush his lips against her ear, whispering, “Now who’s the liar?”

His teeth nipped at her earlobe as she took too long to respond, Hermione frozen on the spot. She was thankful he called her bluff, yes, but almost wished he hadn’t. Draco kissed her ear, her neck, then retreated and set his hands to work tucking her shirt back into the skirt.

“I can do that.” She said primly, unzipping her skirt enough to get the material back in.

When she was properly redressed and her robes retrieved from the ground—earning another sound of dissatisfaction from Crookshanks as she once again displaced him—Draco caught her hand. She met his eyes with surprise as he laced their fingers, and he only looked mildly put out by the unfamiliar action.

“This is what you want?”

Hermione bit her lip and stroked his skin with the pad of her thumb. “You like it, don’t you?” She teased.

He made a disgusted sound as he turned his head to face the lake once more.

But he didn’t drop her hand.

“Can I take you somewhere?”

Hermione shifted, tilting her head over to capture his eyeline. “Will you fuck me if I say yes?”

He shook his head at her, blush creeping back in as he tried to hold back a smile. “For such a good girl, you really are eager to get railed by a Death Eater, aren’t you?”

Hermione was the first to release her hand. She licked her lips and stood on tiptoe to murmur close to his lips, wrapping her hands around his neck. “I’m not good and you’re not a Death Eater.”

Draco’s hands came up to cradle her face, and he kissed the tip of her nose. It was a sweet, fleeting moment, punctuated by an indulgent eyeroll.

“Goodnight, Granger.”

Though he hadn’t kissed her the way she wanted, she smiled as he let her go and departed for the castle, Crookshanks following after him.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

Stepping through the portrait hole into the common room was like walking into a nightmare. It was decorated much like the Great Hall, pumpkins and bats, orange and black everywhere, sweets that made her teeth hurt just by looking at them. Loud voices and amplified music filled the large space as she made her way in.

A few twelve and thirteen year old boys—second first years or second second years, Hermione couldn’t tell, the new arrangement still a bit confusing to them all—tried sneaking a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky from the table, but Harry was quick to snatch it away before they could make their way up to their dorm. He traded them bottles of butterbeer for it with a slight smirk, and while she wanted to argue that any amount alcohol was too much alcohol for a child of that age, she didn’t feel up to undermining Harry.

She set off towards the drinks to sneak one up to her dorm. Perhaps with the majority of their House in the common room for the after-hours Halloween party, she could take a shot of liquid courage and find her way into the girls’ showers for a bit of stress relief.

Very much needed stress relief.

Harry and Ginny seemed to have relaxed a bit around each other, the pair affectionately holding hands, occasionally kissing as Hermione made her way over to them. When Harry spotted her he pulled back, blushing, and she saw the bottom half of his glasses had fogged up.

“Where’d you run off to?” He asked, cleaning his glasses with his shirt.

Hermione waited until his glasses were back on his face before giving him a snotty look. “You didn’t look at the map this time?”

He scratched the back of his head, wincing an apology. “I thought it best to give you privacy after…”

She nodded, fighting back a smile at his discomfort. “I went down to the lake for some fresh air.”

Ginny gave her a knowing smile and brushed Hermione’s hair off her shoulder. “Good time with Malfoy, then?”

Hermione frowned and Harry quickly looked away from her as he spotted the exposed skin of her neck.

“Sorry?”

Ginny grabbed two butterbeers and gave Harry a look, trying to hold back her laughter. “You haven’t seen a mirror yet, have you?”

Hermione dug into her bag for the small mirror she often carried with her, looking at her reflection in confusion until her eyes locked at the reddened, purpling skin below her left ear.

“Oh,” she said weakly.

Harry took the opportunity to slip away, his eyes flashing with humour as he left them. Hermione put the mirror back and pulled her hair over her shoulder, blushing uncomfortably under Ginny’s scrutiny. “I’m going to head upstairs. Night, Gin.”

“No, you don’t.” Ginny caught her arm and dragged her back. “If I have to suffer with Won-Won and Lav-Lav,” she grimaced as she said it. “You do, too.”

“Ginny, I’ve had a long night—”

“Clearly.” She teased, then pressed a bottle of butterbeer to her chest until Hermione accepted.

“Will you at least let me go and cast a glamour?”

Her grin was positively wicked then. “Absolutely not. I think you should show it off.”

“I think you’re asking for trouble,” Hermione accused. “You know he’s going to pitch the fit of the century if he sees this.” She tapped her neck but Ginny looked entirely unaffected, happy even.

“I know.” She said brightly. She looped her arm through Hermione’s and steered her over to the furniture that had been placed around the fireplace.

The flames crackled brightly, and she felt too hot once again, still wearing her uniform and robes. Before she sat, she slid off the robes and set them aside, trying to avert her eyes from the giggling Lavender as she and Ron sat close together, his hand on her knee, hers on his thigh.

It was like sixth year all over again, but without the piercing jealousy. The sight of them still hurt, but it didn’t fill her with despair as it once had.

Especially not when she’d practically been begging Draco to take her on the rocks beside the lake half an hour before.

She shuddered at the thought, wondering where her head had gone. She was grateful for Draco’s self-control as hers seemed to fly out the window whenever he was around.

Ginny sat between Harry and Hermione on the sofa, the three of them sitting across from Lavender and Ron, Parvati, and Seamus. Dean sat in an armchair, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. Hermione fidgeted with her hair as she silently cursed Ginny for putting her in the line of fire.

“You alright, Hermione?” Parvati asked, her eyes bright with curiosity as she examined her.

“Fine.” She said with a forced smile, then willed herself to relax her hands. She sent a look to Ginny as she grinned, her lips pressed to her own bottle. “It’s too hot. I think I’m going to go change.”

“Oh, we can switch,” Parvati offered, standing up. “It’s cooler over here.”

“No, honestly, I’m fine.” Hermione assured her, but her roommate was already making her way over.

Ginny prodded her, knowing full well she would be placed beside Lavender if she took Parvati’s seat. Hermione sent her friends a glare as she made the swap, Harry seeming to enjoy her mortification as much as Ginny.

She was going to curse them both.

Perhaps she could write to George and ask for the nastiest hexed sweets he had and slip them into their morning pumpkin juice. They both deserved to suffer swollen tongues or burning boils on their faces for forcing her to endure the night.

Lavender stiffened as Hermione sat between her and Seamus, the former letting her hand slip higher up Ron’s thigh; she sat further back against the sofa to ensure Hermione saw the action. Hermione met Ginny’s eyes across the way, and Ginny just lifted a shoulder in a shrug with a too-innocent smile on her face.

Hermione drained her bottle in under a minute. There was not enough alcohol in it to get her to the level of buzzed Ginny had been in all day, but it was something.

“Need something stronger?” Seamus asked, holding a half-drunk bottle of firewhisky out to her.

It was no secret she disliked the stuff. The night of her sixteenth birthday in their fifth year had proven as much when she spat it out, spraying the Weasley twins in the process.

But she took it from him then. If she felt the urge to spit it out this time, she had two convenient targets to her left. Perhaps it was the tingle of the butterbeer that left her tongue a bit numb, but the whisky didn’t burn like it had before. It wasn't smooth by any means, warm from being out too long and tasting too strongly of cinnamon, but the burn down her throat promised to leave a longer lasting effect on her than the butterbeer.

She could regret it in the morning, but right then, she only cared about drinking until the bottle was empty. Ginny and Harry stared at her, wide-eyed and speechless when she came up for air, and she proudly dropped the empty glass bottle on the table between them. Seamus and Dean laughed, impressed, but the couple to her left was silent.

Hermione chanced a glance to them and saw Lavender was stiff, her hand clenched on Ron’s thigh, and he was red-faced and staring at her, seething.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, then wiped her mouth of the drop that remained on her lips. “Am I not allowed to drink now?”

Her tone had been teasing, but Ron’s cheeks didn’t cool. He couldn’t possibly be angry about her drinking—with the way his eyes were heavy, the pupils dilated, he looked as if he’d been drinking for hours, too. It would be ridiculous for any of them to have a problem with her alcohol consumption as she was the oldest and, arguably, most responsible of the group.

“What’s on your neck?”

Hermione realised then that her hair had fallen behind her shoulder, leaving the left side of her neck exposed to both Ron and Lavender, and as she was sitting further back between them, Ron saw the mark in its entirety. It throbbed a bit, a not-so-subtle reminder of what could’ve happened by the lake had Draco not kept her libido in check.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’ve done something stupid.”

Lavender shrank back even further, her formerly good mood now soured, and Hermione felt a strange bit of guilt for spoiling her evening.

“I’ve done a lot of stupid things lately. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Hermione…”

She looked over to find a tired-looking Harry silently asking her not to rile him up. The three of them were all on shaky ground with one another, and none of them needed her pettiness then. Ginny, however, looked rather pleased with the night’s turn of events, her firelit brown eyes gleefully watching her brother’s increasing irritation.

“Is that from your Death Eater boyfriend?” Ron spat, shifting to sit on the edge of the sofa and angle himself to face her better. It didn’t seem to matter that Lavender sat between them, her hand clutching a bottle of pumpkin juice to her chest. Hermione glanced over to find Parvati was giving Lavender a sympathetic look, then sent Hermione a fiery glare as if she was the one at fault.

Perfect. Just perfect.

The very last thing she needed was for her two roommates to be upset with her, but it seemed that was now unavoidable.

Choosing to ignore Parvati, Hermione faced Ron and matched his own anger. “He is not a Death Eater.”

“But he is your boyfriend?”

“As I’ve told you before, whatever he is—it’s none of your business.”

“The hell it’s not my business!” he argued. “You picked Voldemort’s lapdog over me!”

Harry jumped in then as Hermione let out an indignant gasp. “Shut up already.” He told Ron.

Ron turned on him, shock overtaking his features. “What’s this?” he demanded. “You want her to be with Malfoy?”

“If it makes her happy, yeah.” Harry said, as if it were obvious. “Why wouldn’t you want that for her?”

“Harry, it’s fine,” Hermione said, putting out a hand to stop him.

“Am I the only one who remembers who Malfoy is?” Ron asked incredulously.

“Who he was!” Hermione hissed.

“Don’t be blind, Hermione, no one changes that quickly!”

She shook her head and moved to stand, and he followed, jostling Lavender as he went.

“You know he’s just using you,” he said, using his height to his advantage then. Hermione backed up a step, the backs of her legs hitting Seamus’ knee. “Once he gets between your legs, he’ll drop you.” He sneered down at her. “If he can even get past his blood standards to touch you.”

Harry stood and went around the table to pull Ron back. Hermione smiled at him coldly as he struggled against Harry, but as Harry was the soberer of the two, he won the fight by a narrow margin.

“Well, that is my cue to leave.” Hermione announced.

She turned and stepped over Seamus’ legs to get out, then stood behind Dean’s chair and waited for Ron to settle down and Harry to step away. The two boys had their backs to the fire, Ron’s jumper stretched in the neck from Harry pulling at him.

“Goodnight, everyone.” She said sourly, noting two of the three girls were mentally hexing her right then, Ginny was having the absolute time of her life, and her two best friends were swaying slightly, their fists clenching as if they were both holding themselves back from a physical fight.

She turned and headed for the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, wading through the rest of her housemates who appeared to have not heard the commotion. She shouldn’t have been surprised that Ron was following after her, but she was glad then the staircase was enchanted to prevent him from coming up.

“I hope he ruins you, Hermione!” He shouted after her. “I really do. Maybe then you’ll come to your senses.”

Hermione turned around on the steps to glare down at him. Ginny reached him then, shoving her way through and throwing an elbow to his ribs in a way only a sibling could get away with. He winced and put a hand to the place she struck, his eyes scolding her as she made her way up to Hermione.

“Sober up before you speak to me again.” Hermione warned him.

The girls turned their backs to him and made their way up the staircase, Ginny one step behind her. She was hiccoughing on her giggles.

“That was amazing. It’s almost worth you dating that git to see Ron act like that.”

“You’re terrible.” Hermione chided her with an exhausted head-shake. “Truly awful.”

“But you love me.” Ginny wrapped her arms around her from behind when they reached the landing, resting her chin on Hermione’s shoulder. “It was for your own good.” She promised. “The sooner he sees you’ve moved on, the better it will be for everyone.”

Ginny sounded confident in that. She pressed a quick kiss to Hermione’s cheek before stepping around her and retreating to the sixth year girls’ dorm for the night.

Hermione remained on the landing for several minutes, preparing herself for the unpleasantness to come with her roommates, then let out a resigned sigh and made her way to her dorm.

It was only eight weeks until the Christmas holidays. Surely, she could keep the peace until then. She would keep everyone happy and calm and civil, even if it killed her inside to do it.

Chapter Text

13 May 1998

Ron was asleep by the time she got back up to his room after bringing Ginny a bottle of Dreamless Sleep from her bag. He was lying on his side under the orange bedspread, leaving just enough room for her to curl up against him and drift off.

Despite having left the door open when she’d gone to take her shower, the room overwhelmed her with their combined scents and musk, and it left her feeling hollow with an unexpected sense of shame.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Her eyes filled with tears as she gently shut the door, locking her into the tiny bedroom with him. Instead of slipping in beside him, as perhaps she should have, she took the bed Harry typically slept in when staying at the Burrow. It was a similar, narrow bed to Ron’s, only a few feet between the two, and as Hermione took a seat on the edge of it, she gazed at his sleeping form.

Cold, wet hair dripped down onto the skin of her back and arms, exposed from the thin-strapped night shirt she wore. Without her wand, she hadn’t been able to cast a proper drying charm on her hair for months, the stolen wand of Bellatrix Lestrange fussy and unyielding, especially in the days since her death. Hermione blinked, her eyes overflowing with tears, and she inhaled a shaky breath.

It was such a stupid thing to cry about, losing one’s virginity. It didn’t really mean anything significant—it’s not as if she was ruined now. She wasn’t ruined but she felt…

Empty.

Devastated.

Damaged beyond repair.

Although she had accepted the possibility she might feel physical pain from penetration, she hadn’t given any serious consideration to emotional pain.

But what was there for her to be sad about? Her first time, this oddly poignant moment in a person’s life, had been with someone she loved and desired. What more could she have wanted?

The room had been filled with candlelight and twinkling stars from the small window. The bed had been warm and smelled of him—sunshine and cinnamon and the earthiness of dirt from being out in the garden all day.

It should have been so perfect.

How many times had she pictured the two of them cosying up by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, sipping hot chocolate and discussing their future?

He would be a world-famous Quidditch star, a lofty goal she would have supported even if she didn’t understand the appeal of the game. She would become Minister for Magic one day, a proud Muggle-born hellbent on changing the world for the better.

They would be the perfect team, a balance of seriousness and laughter, intensity and sweetness. They could spend Sundays in bed with the paper or lazily making love well until the afternoon in the small bedroom of their London flat. They would marry one summer’s day in the Weasleys’ garden and have exactly two children, a boy and a girl, with her brains and his hair and sense of humour.

They would have been happy.

If he hadn’t pressed the need for them to be intimate when she wasn’t ready, or encouraged her to sleep in his room, or convinced her to recover at the Burrow instead of tracking down her parents to set their memories right—if he hadn’t interfered with her plans, they would have been happy.

If he had loved her the way she needed—selflessly with comfortable barriers in place—they would have been happy for the rest of their lives.

They hadn’t made love that night. They’d had quick, uncomfortable, detached sex on the bed he currently slept in, the sheets undoubtedly stained red with the loss of her gift to him. Her chin trembled as the tears streamed freely down her cheeks. She wouldn’t allow herself to sob, though her chest ached to release them.

She didn’t want to risk waking him. She was going to have a hard enough time explaining to him in the morning that she wanted to cool things off between them.

Cruel as it might have sounded to anyone else, she didn’t see the point of dragging it out and pretending they still had a future together. It was over before it barely even started. He’d pushed and she’d given in, against all better judgment that told her she wasn’t ready. They were jumping in.

They were both in tremendous pain and needing comfort, but they needed different things. He needed her body—she needed her space.

And he had won.

Never before that night had she ever felt so stupid. The moment they’d joined their bodies, she knew for certain it was a mistake, but the doubts had already started creeping in before. Before, when she’d blocked the door with a chair and charmed the room for privacy. Before, when she released her brushed-out, bushy hair from its constraints in the hair tie she often wore around her wrist. Before, when she pulled off her t-shirt and stood in front of him in her bra and jeans, and he’d had little to say but looked away as if he were seeing something he shouldn’t.

Despite her stomach dropping at his lack of a positive reaction, she had followed with her jeans next, then her socks, then slipped under the Chudley Cannons bedspread in her knickers and laid back to wait for him. Maybe it would have felt better if he’d reassured her she was beautiful or given any indication he was enjoying himself besides his body’s physiological response to arousal—a response so easy for young men to achieve without much in the way of stimulation.

She could have looked past that if he had once told her he loved her.

When he was inside of her and she was wincing and whimpering from the pain, he could have touched her cheek or looked into her eyes and said he loved her, and it would have made it all worth it.

But he hadn’t.

She laid down on the spare bed, Harry’s bed, and curled on her side, facing away from Ron and willing herself to sleep. In the morning she awoke to a thoroughly-offended Ron sitting up in bed, still naked from the night before. He was staring at her as if waiting for an explanation, and all she could give was a small smile.

“I didn’t want to wake you.” She said softly.

Even if he’d been clueless to her needs during their act, he was alert enough to know this wasn’t how they should be spending the morning after. His face softened into an apologetic smile, and he made room for her on his bed.

Hermione uncurled herself from the clean sheets and shuffled across the floor to slip beneath his. The scent had diminished overnight, but the sheets were stiff against her bare legs, evidence of their combined fluids drying on the fabric.

It was mortifying.

Still, she let him hold her while he drifted back to sleep, and she wrapped her arms around him in a desperate attempt to feel something good.

She spent the next hour crying into his neck without his noticing.

It took that lonely hour for her to realise what she’d been feeling all night long was her own heart breaking. Gone were the visions of their flat and their garden wedding. Gone were the visions of their two fun-loving, yet well-behaved children, the sweet dreams of them ten years from now with Hermione reading in bed with a cup of sweet tea and Ron fondly talking to her pregnant belly.

She wasn’t getting the naïve fairy tale she’d allowed herself to cling to, even in the midst of a war. She’d been such a fool to believe he loved her as much as she loved him—the more she thought about it, the more she realised he’d never given any indication that he did.

In her grief, clinging to Ron’s chest, her arms locked around his bare back, she wondered if this is what it felt like to die.

Perhaps she could ask Harry.

1 November 1998

She vomited over the side of her bed, sickly acidic bile burning her throat on the way up and painfully reminding her of the drinks she’d consumed the night before.

The night before had been Halloween, and she awoke in her bed at Hogwarts.

She wasn’t with Ron in his narrow bed at home, suffering through the onset of her heartache, but rather in her dorm with her head pounding and stomach heaving and the bitterness of remembering what a prick he’d been to her the last few months.

The sobs she’d kept in back then wracked through her now, Hermione curling miserably into a tight ball up against her headboard. If her roommates noticed, neither of them moved to check on her. The acrid smell of her sick was all around her and her vision was too blurred to find her wand to clean it right away.

God, she was angry. She had half a mind to go to his dorm and beat him senseless while he slept, but she had no present reason to do so. If only he could see into her mind and feel what she felt—if only he knew how much he’d hurt her.

But she knew she’d never tell him. If she did, they would never be friends again, and no matter what had happened between them, she wasn’t willing to risk that.

Not yet.

When she could stand on her shaky legs, she stepped out of bed and dug around for her wand, weakly muttering a Scourgify to her rug and watching as the stain vanished from sight.

Arithmancy had been Hermione’s favourite subject since third year, though the irony of its relation to Divination was never lost on her. But where crystal balls and tea leaves were easily misinterpreted or grossly exaggerated, numbers were simplistic. Logical.

Making a prediction for the future with numerology was far and away a more reliable method than the rubbish Professor Sybill Trelawney touted. How many times had the hack predicted Harry’s death in the last five years?

One could argue she had been correct, of course. Harry had died on school grounds, but did it count when he chose to come back and live? Did the prediction count when the only part of him that died was the part of Voldemort’s soul that had been living in his body for sixteen years?

Hermione didn’t believe so, no.

But while it was her favourite subject, she saw very little point to it anymore. It was hardly useful in a real-world setting; it was a hobby subject. A breezy course that allowed her to focus on her other subjects in preparation for the N.E.W.T.s in June, which suddenly seemed too soon.

She was the only student in the library that Sunday morning, the vast majority of students sleeping in and recovering from the night before—if any other Houses had partied the way the Gryffindors had, that is. As it was, she felt dreadful as she sat a large table, her books and Arithmancy essay spread out before her. She’d managed to snap a quill in her frustration, the numbers a jumbled mess in her sore head. Her eyes danced across the parchment, unable to focus, and she had the strong urge to vomit but forced herself to keep it down by sucking on a Toothflossing Stringmint to settle her stomach.

An hour into her essay-writing Madam Pince strolled into the library, the witch looking haughty and disapproving of Hermione’s presence so early in the morning. It mattered little to her that Hermione was a rigidly responsible student.

Soon after, a few students began to trickle in, the smell of breakfast wafting in behind them and making her stomach growl. She checked her watch and noted most of her Housemates would likely be up and down in the Great Hall.

She would complete just two more inches then allow herself to go for a quick bite before jumping into Ancient Runes. It was a subject she’d been slacking in since returning to school, and it almost felt like a punishment to study it when she felt so awful—but it needed to be faced sooner than later with her first practice exam coming up in the following week.

Feeling a sharp stab of pain in the centre of her forehead, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her palms against them. She had just dipped her quill into the ink when the ache intensified, and she was sure ink was dripping onto the surface of the table.

It may have been seconds, it may have even been minutes, but eventually Hermione released her hands and slowly opened her eyes to find the dimly-lit library was still too bright for her comfort.

The library door opened and she looked up out of habit at the sound. Her cat strolled in with Pansy and Draco—is that where he’d been all night? She tried to imagine her cat sleeping in the Slytherin dorms and couldn’t, nor could she imagine any of the Slytherins would have been happy to have him down there knowing he belonged to her.

Crookshanks hopped up onto her table and nudged her hand with his flat nose, demanding pets, and Hermione let her hand flip over weakly for him to help himself. Draco and Pansy spoke in hushed tones by the door, Pansy’s face once again unmade, her eyes softer and less shrewd than normal as she glanced over to Hermione’s table. Seeming to remember herself and their dynamic, Pansy shot Hermione a scowl before retreating back into the hall.

Seemingly unaffected by her departure, Draco made his way over to Hermione’s table and sat opposite her, allowing him to face her head-on.

It made her want to vomit again.

“Rough night?” He asked with a knowing smirk. “Word is the Gryffindors had quite the after-party.”

She could only glower at him as she popped another thin thread of the sweets into her mouth, sucking on the mint coating whilst they went to work flossing her teeth. It was a strange sensation but rather comforting, reminding her of home. She could remember giving them to her parents for Christmas one year; her mum had had a laugh at the tickling feeling and her dad had been awed by them, wishing he could break the International Statute of Secrecy just once so he could offer the product to their patients’ children who strongly disliked the act of flossing.

The splintery sweets dissolved like a breath mint when her teeth were sufficiently cleaned, and she allowed herself to meet Draco’s gaze.

“You look terrible.”

“Piss off.”

He took no offence to that, still smirking as he slid out his own books and class assignments.

“Had one too many?” He asked, then took the hand Crookshanks had just left, the cat lying down on the table and tucking in his front paws.

She jerked her hand back. “No, I just don't want to be around anyone right now!” She snapped, feeling near tears as the pain in her head increased. She heard a distant “shh!” from Madam Pince as she roamed about the library.

Draco leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and ducking his head to meet her eyes. “You are absolutely infuriating.”

Hermione gave him a pained look.

“You’re almost not worth it.” He teased.

She couldn’t respond; her eyes had started watering. She leaned her elbows on the table and pressed her hands to her face, willing herself to breathe deeply and slowly to calm down.

The morning had been brutal from the moment she’d opened her eyes. She hadn’t known witches and wizards could have a hangover, but there was no other explanation for how she felt. She was suffering the most intense headache she’d ever experienced in her life, with a pounding by her ears and behind her left eye. It would have been easy to go to Madam Pomfrey for another pain relief potion, but since her cycle had come and gone already that month, there was no excuse for needing it outside of admitting she’d drunk half a bottle of firewhisky in under a minute.

How very stupid that decision had been.

That had to have been the reason for the dream and waking up sick. How else had she been able to forget most details of that awful night, only to remember them in startlingly vivid detail in a dream many months later?

It was either the numbing effect of the alcohol, dulling her senses and lowering her walls, or it had been the false confidence the alcohol provided her. Once the shock had worn off of Ron seeing the mark Draco had left, she’d secretly enjoyed seeing him be jealous of another man. He’d made a fool of himself, and she was sure she had, too, but even as she went to bed, she had felt so…powerful. She had finally felt she had outgrown him.

And then she had to go and dream about him.

“What’s wrong?”

Hermione removed her hands slowly and placed them palms-down on the table. She couldn’t bring up her dream with Ron—it wouldn’t be fair, and Draco would almost surely get the wrong idea.

So she settled on a half-truth, a thought that had been weighing heavily on her mind since her birthday.

“It’s started to sink in that I’m going to be twenty years old next year.” She said quietly. “Twenty. And I feel I’ve done nothing with my life.”

“Twenty?” He repeated in mock horror. “Well, shit, Granger. You’ve only about another century or so to live—may as well take a dive off the Astronomy Tower now and get it over with.”

Her head jerked up, horrified, and the sudden movement intensified the throbbing behind her eye. “What is wrong with you?”

He gave a derisive snort and opened his Herbology text. “If you were anyone else, I’d say you have nothing to live for.” He continued his teasing, ignoring her outrage entirely. “But you are you.”

“And?”

“And you could have the world worshipping at your feet if you wanted.” He said earnestly. “Get out of your head and realise it before it’s too late.”

Draco studied her for several seconds, the space between his brows wrinkling in concern.

“Feeling alright?”

She could only grimace in response.

“Have you eaten?”

She shook her head and winced as it jostled everything around in her head. “I think I’d rather be under the Cruciatus Curse right now.” She whispered miserably.

Then, pointing to her head in a weak explanation, she added, “Butterbeer and firewhisky.”

“How much firewhisky?”

She spaced her thumb and forefinger a few inches, indicating the amount. He huffed a laugh, seeming to understand her perfectly, then began to pack up her books.

“Come on,” he said, rising to collect her bag and slip everything back inside. Crookshanks yawned and stretched before sitting up, ready to follow Draco without question. “If you can keep food down for an hour, I’ll give them back.”

Crookshanks followed them into the Great Hall, going ahead of them in the direction of the Slytherin table even when Hermione froze in realisation.

Breakfast with her Housemates seemed like an added punishment. She didn’t want to face any of them—didn’t feel she could when she’d embarrassed herself so much the night before. Her only allies were Ginny and Harry, but even they weren’t enough to propel her feet forward.

Ron noticed her before anyone else. His bed-rumpled red hair clashed harshly with his burnt-orange jumper and flushed cheeks, angst plain on his face as he moved to stand up from the bench.

Draco seemed to have noticed her trepidation, zeroing in on the sadness and regret that filled the space between Ron and Hermione.

He took her hand then, slipping his cool, smooth skin against hers and lacing their fingers, uncaring of the hundreds of students who could look over and find them like that.

She felt a little jolt from the pleasant surprise and looked up at him with wide eyes, half-afraid he’d be smirking at Ron in triumph but found he was looking down at her, too. A small, secret smile only she could see on his lips, and suddenly she was beaming at him, grinning despite the pain in her head.

She paid no attention to Ron after that, following Draco to the Slytherin table with little complaint.

“Am I allowed to sit here?” She asked as they approached. “The table’s not enchanted to repel Muggle-borns, is it?”

He smirked. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

The seventh years tended to take up the end closest to the doors of the Great Hall, offering the easiest route of escape should they need it. As it was a Sunday morning, the table wasn’t very full, but Pansy and Blaise Zabini were there, the raven-haired witch chatting very seriously with Daphne Greengrass, neither girl seeming to notice her quite yet.

Blaise looked up from his plate as Hermione took a seat on the end, a slow, wry smile stretching across his lips as he looked from her to Draco.

“I thought Pansy was full of it.” Blaise hummed in amusement.

Pansy gasped in outrage and whipped her head around to Blaise, and Hermione thought he must’ve given her a kick under the table to get her attention.

“What?” She demanded hotly, then grimaced at the sight of Hermione filling her plate. She cast her narrowed eyes to the blonde across the table from her. “Draco, darling, you know we don’t allow strays at the breakfast table.”

“Should I have come for dinner, then?” Hermione asked.

Daphne rolled her lips inward, fighting a smile, then went on to fix her own plate. “How long has this been going on?” She asked, her tone light and curious and not at all filled with the harshness Pansy was so fond of projecting.

“Since the summer.” Blaise informed her from around Pansy. “Found Granger waltzing into Draco’s personal library like she owned the place.”

“In a way, I did.” She said, topping a slice of buttered toast with several pieces of chewy bacon. “I spent months organising it.”

“She really was staying with you?” Daphne asked Draco in astonishment. “I thought Pansy was lying.”

“Why would I lie about that?” Pansy asked her friend sharply. “What would I get out of announcing my ex-boyfriend had invited his Muggle-born plaything to live with him if it weren’t true?”

Daphne grinned at Blaise, then turned it to Hermione. “Welcome, Hermione. I promise we’re not all hot-headed and morally compromised.” She told her kindly, flicking a glance between Draco and Pansy.

“Hot-headed and morally compromised?” Draco echoed snidely. “Have you met Granger?”

“Since we were children? No.” She said, then gave her friend a pointed look. “Pansy and Mills made sure of that, didn’t you, Pans?”

Hermione wondered if “Mills” was Millicent Bulstrode, the Slytherin girl she had hated almost as much as Pansy for using her size against Hermione in their earlier years to bully her.

Pansy dropped her jam-covered knife onto the plate with a clatter. Hermione winced at the sound, her fingertips coming up to rub her left temple.

“You want to make friends with her? Be my guest.”

Daphne gave her a haughty smirk and reached her hand across the table, offering it to Hermione. Taken aback by the gesture, it took Hermione a moment too long to realise it, and she blushed as she returned the handshake.

“It’s nice to officially meet you.”

“You as well.”

Daphne settled back into her seat on the bench, smiling brightly as she fixed herself a cup of tea. “Are you alright?” She asked a moment later, noticing Hermione was unable to make herself take a bite of anything.

“Hangover. I think it’s her first.” Draco said cheerfully, then scooted a glass of pumpkin juice closer to her.

“Oh! I have something for that.” Daphne said, pulling up her bag from beneath the table. She rooted around in the pale pink leather handbag and fished out a phial of dark green liquid.

“Where did you get that?” Draco demanded, intercepting the exchange before Hermione could even reach for it. “It’s not ready.”

Daphne shrugged. “Theo said he finished it. It works. My headache was gone like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

“What is it?” Hermione asked him, her eyes examining it.

With a sigh, he unstoppered it and gave it a sniff. “We’ve been working on distilling the herb so you don’t have to smoke it.”

Seeming satisfied enough with the quality, he handed the phial to Hermione and said, “Just a drop on your tongue.”

Hermione filled the dropper and tilted her chin up, squeezing a drop of it as directed. She shuddered involuntarily as the bitterness made her want to retch, but it passed quickly. “That’s absolutely disgusting.” She said as she reached across the table to hand it back to Daphne.

“I know.” Draco said to Daphne. “It’s not finished.”

But Daphne had been right—it felt finished. It tasted like mud, but the pounding in her ears and behind her eye had faded almost instantly, and she finally felt the pain-induced nausea settle enough to attempt a bite of her breakfast.

“Better?” Daphne asked, ignoring Draco as she picked up her teacup.

Hermione gave her a nod and a small smile in thanks. “Much.”

Theo lingered in minutes later, his eyes bright with mischief as he settled himself on the very end of the bench, forcing Hermione to be wedged between him and Draco. Draco’s arm went around her back to make more room for her against him, and his hand curled around her hip rather possessively as Theo reached across her for the tray of bacon.

“I still can’t believe it.” Blaise said as he set down his glass of orange juice. “You two. Even that night in the library in your knickers.”

“Oh, when you asked Draco if I was his Mudblood sex slave?” Hermione asked, cocking an eyebrow.

She hadn’t been in her knickers, but she mentally reviewed that night anyway, trying to remember if she’d worn anything even remotely scandalous.

“Blaise…” Daphne murmured disapprovingly.

He put up his hands in defence but gave Daphne a grin. “You can hardly blame me for wondering.”

“She was obviously there for me, weren’t you, love?” Theo said as he casually threw an arm over her shoulder.

The hand on her hip tightened as she shrugged Theo’s arm off and gave him a stern look of warning, one he seemed to enjoy if the cheeky grin was anything to go by.

From across the hall, Harry did a double-take as he came in and spotted her. The amused lift of his eyebrows as he walked to the Gryffindor table told her she would be in for quite the line of questioning later on.

4 November 1998

“He’s kind of sweet, actually.”

“Sweet?”

“And patient. And have you ever looked into his eyes? They’re not flat grey—they’re like quartz. They’re different shades of greys and whites and they’re so—”

“I don’t need to know about his eyes, Hermione.” Harry cut her off, looking only mildly disgusted by her rant. “I’m just making sure he’s not being a prat.”

They rounded the corner into the corridor of the Potions classroom. The pair had finished their dinners and decided to head down early instead of staying at the table with a sulking Ron. Ginny had elected to sit with her friends in her year, chatting animatedly with them and ignoring the general air of brooding.

Hermione hadn’t minded waiting until everyone was finished and going down with the rest of their class, but Harry had seemed adamant about getting time alone with her as she’d managed to evade him for days.

Ron had been carefully avoiding her, going so far as to keep his head down whenever they were in the room together to minimise the risk of accidental eye-contact. Ginny had told Hermione that he regretted Halloween, but it meant very little if he couldn’t say the words to her himself.

She had noticed Lavender had backed off from him, a drawn expression on her face as she kept her distance from both of them. Hermione felt the need to apologise to Lavender, but with the silent treatment she and Parvati had been giving her since that night, she was sure Lavender wasn’t up to accepting it just yet.

The way Hermione saw it, all this fuss was over a boy who felt jilted and arrogant, and she mostly wished Lavender would let him go for her own sanity.

No one was worth that kind of emotional torment.

Remembering Ron’s behaviour towards Lavender on Saturday night had been the key to sorting her guilt over the dream. It was difficult to describe how she felt to anyone, even Harry. Logically, she knew she didn’t owe Ron anything, but her heart was torn—she wanted to keep him in her life.

She wanted her friend.

In studying Harry the past couple of months, Hermione knew he felt the same about Ron. He wanted his friend back, too.

Although she considered Harry to be her best friend, she knew she was a close second to Ron for him. It wasn’t a slight against her, they just had a different relationship. An easier one.

A fun one.

Ron was the one who helped him feel like himself when he was going through a troubling time, lifting his spirits and keeping him honest. Hermione was his serious older sister, the one who encouraged him to buckle down and put his work before anything else.

But lately, with Hermione, Harry seemed more like himself. Granted, a matured version of himself. She was still a bit concerned for his mental state, but she didn’t feel the need to worry about him like Ginny did.

Perhaps he was different with her, too.

“Draco’s been fine.” She promised. “But enough about me. What’s up with you?”

They came to a stop outside of the classroom’s door. Professor Slughorn had only just started his meal and his second goblet of mead when the two of them had left the Great Hall, so she knew they had plenty of time to talk in private before their classmates arrived.

“Nothing.” He said, his eyes fixed on the stones under their feet.

“You and Ron still aren’t speaking.” She prompted. “Not much, anyway.”

Harry’s expression soured at the mention of Ron. “There’s nothing much to say.”

“He’s your best friend.”

“So?”

“So,” she said pointedly, giving his shin a gentle kick to make him look at her. “It’s not like you two to not speak for months. This is about more than Quidditch, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s all about Quidditch.” Harry said dryly. “First match is on Saturday—I’ve had to talk to him at practice.”

Hermione sighed patiently. “I meant your relationship.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile. “I know what you meant. We don’t…have much of a relationship.”

“Why?”

“Why? Think, Hermione. What happened over the summer that could’ve possibly affected our friendship?”

“You leaving for London?”

Harry groaned, as if she were dragging the answer out of him. “And why do you think I left for London?”

“You needed space.” She said simply. “A big family can be really overwhelming—I’m sure the smothering of Mrs. Weasley wasn’t easy to manage at times.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I left because of you.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Me?”

“Once I knew where you were and that you were safe, there was no reason for me to stick around.” He clarified. “I would’ve gone with you, if you’d given me the chance. You could’ve stayed with me. But no one knew you were even leaving. I thought Ginny was covering for you—we fought about that, you know?”

Hermione frowned. “No. Harry, I’m sorry—”

“It doesn’t matter.” He said, shaking his head. “It was just a stressful time. None of us could conjure a Patronus to save our lives and without an owl or any idea where you were, we couldn’t reach you.”

“I left a note.”

“A note that said you’d be gone for the day.” He corrected her, sounding irritated. “Ron went to St. Mungo’s the next morning when you still weren’t back. He was convinced you’d…” Harry gestured to her, looking uncomfortable. “Anyway. You weren’t there. He went off about how much of a bitch you were and I—.”

“You what?” Hermione encouraged, her folded arms stiffening defensively. “What did he say about me?”

Harry shook his head. “I said he was being a git and that he drove you to leave.” He met her eyes then. “Is that what happened?”

“Mostly. Go on.”

“There’s not much more—just that you ruined it and you were a coward.” Harry scoffed. “He changed his mind everyday how he felt about you. Sometimes he hated you, sometimes he hated himself for being a wanker and losing you.”

“And that’s why you’re not speaking?” She asked, then let her arms relax and fall to her sides.

“It’s complicated.”

“So uncomplicate it.” She demanded.

“Why is this important to you?”

Hermione licked her lips as she considered his question. “You two not speaking—it feels wrong. Knowing I had a hand in that, Harry, I can’t… I may not be able to fix my friendship with Ron—and that kills me. But if I can help mend things between you two, I have to try.”

“There’s nothing to be mended.” He said softly. “He’s wrong and he won’t admit it—nothing can be fixed until he does.”

“If you two are going to skulk about down here,” called Pansy, her voice echoing down the corridor. “At least have some fun with the first years’ potions!”

Pansy came into view a moment later. “Leave it to the Gyffindors to be noble.”

Hermione sighed as Pansy sauntered over to them, her eyes going from Hermione to Harry, then she frowned at the locked door.

“Why are you out here?” She pulled on the handle experimentally.

“We’re not supposed to go in yet.” Hermione reminded her, feeling properly annoyed by the entitlement most Slytherins seemed to possess.

“But you can.” Pansy said snidely. “Or did you two suddenly forget how to unlock a bloody door?” Pansy snorted before either of them could reply. “Oh, I forgot, Potter. You only know how to disarm and maim—you don’t know any useful charms.”

Pansy pulled her wand from the pocket of her robes and pointed it at the Potions door, then cast a silent Alohomora and opened it, giving Harry a self-satisfied smirk as she passed them to go inside. Harry followed her in despite Hermione’s refusal, a slight smirk on his own lips as he went.

With a huff, Hermione followed moments later. Harry and Pansy were at their class’s cabinet, Harry pulling his wand out and casting Lumos so she could peer inside.

“We need to wait for Slughorn.” Hermione said, her ire directed mostly at her friend as he helped Pansy retrieve the phials.

“I really couldn’t care less.” Pansy handed Harry’s potion to him and collected her own, then closed and locked the cabinet. “If you want to wait all night for him, have at it. Come along, Potter.”

Pansy strode out of the room, Harry beginning to follow her out when Hermione grabbed his arm to stop him.

“You’re not seriously going with her, are you?”

“I want to get this over with and go to sleep—you can stay back, if you want.” He backed out of the room, smiling. “I’m sure Draco will be coming for you anytime now.”

Harry walked into Draco as he turned back to the door, the two boys colliding and flying apart with similar grunts of pain.

“Fuck,” Draco spat, rubbing his forehead.

Harry’s glasses had flown off and scattered a few feet away on the floor.

“Sorry.” Harry muttered, pulling out his wand to summon his glasses over to him. He put them on and looked up at Draco as he made to leave the room once more.

But he lingered a moment.

Draco scowled at him, the boys standing at almost the same height.

“You were right, Hermione.” Harry said brightly. “They are like quartz.”

Then he fled with a cheery wave of his potion phial, satisfied in making Hermione blush as he betrayed her confidence.

Draco turned his head to look at her, a confused smirk toying with his lips. “What was that?”

“That,” she hissed, feeling the fire in her cheeks. “Was the last conversation I’ll ever have with Harry Potter.”

Chapter Text

13 November 1998

The mind healer called Beatrice Harper was a soft-looking woman in toffee-coloured robes with straight, mousy brown hair that fell at her shoulders and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She smiled too widely yet seemed rather skittish, as if she were forced to be there, and sat in an overstuffed armchair with a roll of parchment and a quill at the ready.

Healer Harper had taken up a spare closet in the hospital wing to conduct her therapy sessions. Unbeknownst to Hermione, Professor McGonagall had scheduled her for an evaluation with the Ministry-sent healer; she’d been on her way to Ancient Runes when the healer had pulled her aside and informed her she was late for their appointment.

Hermione had promised Professor McGonagall she would start taking better care of herself, but she hadn’t realised the lengths the Headmistress would go to in ensuring Hermione kept up her end of the bargain.

Professor McGonagall had kept her word and put the discussion of a reproductive health class on the agenda for her next meeting with the school governors, and now it was Hermione’s turn to follow through.

The healer the Ministry of Magic had sent at the start of term was a woman she’d managed to avoid since September and had planned to keep evading, but as Hermione sat opposite her in a wooden swivel chair, she knew her luck had run out.

“Is it alright if I call you Hermione, or would you prefer something else? A nickname, perhaps?”

She gave the healer an impatient look. “My name is Hermione, I don’t do nicknames.”

Healer Harper’s shoulders gave a little jump as if startled by Hermione’s bluntness. “Her-mi-o-ne it is.” She said cheerfully, spacing out the syllables of her name, and wrote it on the top of her parchment.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you all term, but you are really tricky to track down.” Said Healer Harper with a too-friendly smile. “I see your goal is si—no, seven N.E.W.T.s. Goodness, how are you managing that?”

“I go to classes and do my assignments.” Hermione replied tartly. “And you have me missing one now.”

“Yes, Study of Ancient Runes,” she said, pulling out what Hermione could see was a copy of her schedule. “Do you get on well with Professor Babbling?”

“Why do you have that?” Hermione demanded, ignoring her question.

Healer Harper blushed a bit at being called out, and she eased the schedule back under the sheet of parchment with Hermione’s name on top. “Would you say Ancient Runes is your favourite subject?”

“Arithmancy and Charms. Why do you have a copy of my schedule?” She asked again.

“Headmistress McGonagall thinks quite highly of you, Hermione. You must be flattered.” Healer Harper changed the subject once more, the feather of the quill quivering as she jotted down notes hidden from Hermione’s view.

“I suppose.” Hermione sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “You have me missing an important class to ask about my relationship with the Headmistress?”

Healer Harper crossed her right leg over the left, showing off a pair of sensible brown heels that perfectly complemented the rest of her monochromatic look.

“She was your Head of House until this past year—have you always gotten on well with her, or has your involvement in the war improved it?” She asked, flashing another toothy smile. “Several of your classmates have mentioned she’s very stern and difficult to approach.”

“I don’t know anyone who would say that.”

“No? Even some of your Gryffindor peers felt she’s too intimidating. You don’t agree?”

“No!” Hermione scoffed. “She’s a wonderful professor and mentor—if someone has an issue with her, it’s on them. What is this? What does my relationship with Professor McGonagall have to do with anything?”

Healer Harper’s right foot began to bounce as she looked over her notes and opened a file folder. “And you met her here, on your first day in…” She glanced down at her notes once more. “1991?”

“No, I met her on my birthday the year before.” Hermione couldn’t help but correct Healer Harper, her general intolerance for idiocy far exceeding the maximum with the witch across from her. “She delivered my Hogwarts letter.”

Healer Harper jotted that down. “Not by owl?”

Hermione craned her head to try to see the notes or even the front of the file, but she kept it all carefully tucked out of sight.

“I’m a Muggle-born.” She said, stating the obvious. “Professor McGonagall came to explain to my parents that I was a witch.”

“So you’re fond of her?” Healer Harper asked. “If she was your introduction to magic, you must’ve formed quite the bond with her.”

“I suppose. What does it matter?”

“What did your parents think of it? You being a witch?”

Hermione glanced at her watch. She’d only been in the makeshift office for ten minutes. “They were fine with it.”

“Were they worried what it would mean for you socially? I’m sure leaving your childhood friends was difficult.”

“I didn’t have friends growing up.”

“Really?” Healer Harper sounded surprised. “What was that like?”

Hermione shrugged. “Fine. Quiet.”

“Any playmates? Siblings, cousins? Neighbour children?”

“I’m an only child.” Hermione said firmly; she didn’t elaborate further, and Healer Harper made a note of it.

“How did it feel when you got to Hogwarts? Was it easier to make friends knowing you were now surrounded by witches just like you?”

Hermione ignored her, choosing instead to take in her surroundings. A cramped, windowless “office,” lit only by floating candles overhead and scented with lavender and rosemary. A shrunken harp sat in the corner, enchanted to play soft, soothing notes. It was so small Hermione hadn’t noticed it for several minutes, the faint music only attracting her attention when she was able to tune out Healer Harper’s questions.

The wooden chair creaked as she fidgeted.

“Were you an anxious child, Hermione?”

“Define anxious.” Hermione retorted.

“Would you consider yourself a perfectionist?”

Hermione snorted. “Well, I am a Virgo.” She rolled her eyes. “Before you ask, no, I don’t give a damn about astrology.”

“Astrology is quite a load of rubbish, isn’t it?” Healer Harper asked, catching her off guard. “Difficult to calculate. Contradictory. Star signs hardly even matter to the individual—you said you like Arithmancy?”

“Yes.”

“But is that not a form of Divination?”

Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably and checked her watch.

“You like knowing the future so you can plan for it, but only in logical, emotionally-detached methods. Have I got that right?” She asked curiously. “The other methods are too unreliable?”

“They’re too easy to misinterpret.” Hermione agreed, despite her better judgment that warned her not to engage in conversation.

Healer Harper made another note. “What are three words you would use to describe yourself?”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “No.”

“No?”

“No, I’m not going to describe myself in three words.”

“Just three words,” Healer Harper reasoned. “Perhaps three that you feel right now.”

“Annoyed.” Hermione said in a clipped tone. “Unproductive.” She said, lifting her brows to remind the healer she was missing an important lecture.

She made more notes, nodding as she listened. “And the third?”

“I’m done.” Hermione reached for her bag on the floor. “No more words.”

Healer Harper gave her a patient smile. “We’re not finished.”

“I’m finished.” Hermione stated. “I’ve neither the time nor desire to sit in a glorified broom closet talking to a Ministry plant about my feelings. I don’t need this.”

More note-taking, more nodding. “Have you sought any form of treatment following the war?”

“No, I have not gone out of my way to spill my trauma to a paid stranger so they can misdiagnose me and give me a complex about it.”

Healer Harper’s smile never once faded, the woman clearly used to pointed jabs from her patients by this point in her career. “Most people find comfort in speaking to a stranger. There’s no judgment with me, Hermione. You can tell me anything—it’s confidential.”

Hermione scoffed and let her bag’s strap slip from her grasp. “And who has access to these confidential files? The Ministry? St. Mungo’s?”

“Only when necessary, and only if you prove to be a danger to yourself or others.”

“And do you, in your expert opinion, find me a danger to myself or others?”

Healer Harper looked at Hermione thoughtfully, her quill tapping on the parchment now lined with several inches of notes. “It’s too soon to diagnose you, but you appear to be unstable, yes.”

“Unstable?”

“You’re unfriendly. Very defensive—”

“No shit!” Hermione laughed. “I was in a bloody war, you hag! If I wasn’t naturally defensive, I’d be dead!”

“Naturally defensive?” She asked, perking up to that. “You’ve been defensive for as long as you can remember?”

Hermione sputtered as she fought to come up with a clever retort, but nothing was coming through but the urge to bolt from the closet.

“That must feel very isolating. I’m sure you must lean on your friends for support.”

Hermione could swear she felt her blood rushing through her veins, she was so angry. So exposed. “When I need it.” Hermione lied. “When it doesn’t coincide with whatever mission Harry’s been sent on.”

Oh, fuck, why did she say that?

“Do your friends lean on you for support, Hermione?”

She kept her mouth shut this time, turning her wrist over to check the time on her watch. If she ran out now, she could make the last twenty minutes of her class. Surely it would be an easy thing to explain to McGonagall—Healer Harper had been inappropriate in her evaluation. She went too far.

Hermione didn’t have the time to entertain it.

“You know, I graduated the year before the Triwizard Tournament,” said Healer Harper, and Hermione shot a bewildered look at her. “How exciting was it that your best friend was a champion?”

“It wasn’t!” She snapped. “Harry was meant to die in it—”

“It was fascinating to study the challenges,” she cut in. “Do you remember being under the water?”

“No—I was asleep!”

“Oh,” Healer Harper hummed, sounding disappointed. “But to be saved by Viktor Krum? That must have been a nice boost to your confidence.”

Hermione’s glare down at the floor was icy, and she could feel her body curling inward. Her arms tightened across her chest, her legs crossed, her shoulders hunched.

“The Merpeople were to take the thing the champions would miss the most, yes?”

Hermione nodded stiffly.

“And for Harry Potter, that was…not you. It was his best friend in the water for him to retrieve. Yes?”

Hermione’s throat constricted; she refused to answer that asinine question. She hadn’t been any less of a friend to Harry than Ron—he just couldn’t have two to save.

“Ronald Weasley would’ve been missed most by Harry Potter, and you’d have been missed most by a relative stranger. How did that feel, when you realised you meant more to a stranger than your best friend?”

“How dare you?” Hermione demanded. “You don’t know the context—you don’t know us! You’re using a compilation of twisted facts and outright lies to draw your own conclusions, and I will not sit here a moment longer and hear it!”

She was up from the squeaky wooden chair and at the door in a single bound, her hand yanking at the door handle that wouldn’t budge under her force.

“We have about ten minutes still.”

“Unlock the door!”

“Take a seat, Hermione.” Healer Harper advised firmly, but still the practiced smile remained fixed upon her face. “Perhaps a more comfortable chair?”

Healer Harper brandished her wand and charmed the uncomfortable wooden chair into a plush, tan armchair like hers, instantly taking up more space than the closet allowed for. Hermione uselessly pulled on the handle once more before taking out her own wand and casting the unlocking charm.

“The room is enchanted.” She informed Hermione. “The door will open on its own when our time is up. Please, take a seat.”

“Is Professor McGonagall aware you keep students imprisoned during your sessions?” She asked hotly, throwing herself down into the overstuffed chair.

“No enchantments are placed on the castle without her knowledge, Hermione.” Healer Harper assured her. “Where were we?”

“I will not talk about Harry.” She said firmly. “I will wait out the—” she checked her watch. “Nine minutes in silence, if I have to.”

Healer Harper made a gesture as if to say, “as you wish.”

Another minute and the quill was upright, scribbling across the parchment. The tip must’ve been charmed to stay filled with ink, as Hermione saw no ink bottle anywhere around them.

“How is your relationship with Ronald Weasley?” She asked, her quill stalling as she waited for an answer. “Would you also consider him a best friend?”

“I won’t talk about him, either.”

“The three of you have gotten into quite a bit of trouble over the years. You’re a sensible girl, Hermione. Why would you participate in dangerous and—in many cases—illegal activities? What did you gain from it?” She prodded. “Their loyalty? Their friendship?”

Seven more minutes.

“What is your relationship with Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione’s eyes slid to hers coldly. “I beg your pardon?”

Healer Harper made another note, the parchment rolling in on itself as she extended it, having run out of room. “A schoolyard bully. A known Death Eater who bears the Dark Mark. What do you see in him?”

She shifted in her seat, perching at the end of it whilst compulsively checking her watch. Six and a half more minutes and she’d be free to report her to McGonagall for unprofessionalism. She didn’t need a healer—she didn’t need to sort her feelings. She was fine.

“Your muggle parents—how would they feel about you potentially dating someone who’s been known to call their only child slurs for half her life?”

They wouldn’t feel great about it, you cunt. Next question.

“Ah, I see. Is Draco off-limits as well?” She asked, though she seemed satisfied to already know the answer. “You’re very protective of the men in your life. Why do you think that is?”

Because I’m friends with impulsive idiots who don’t know their limits and constantly need saving.

“How about the girls in your life? Are you as quick to defend your female friends?” Healer Harper gave her a thoughtful look, setting her quill and parchment aside to lean forward, resting her forearms on her thighs and cupping her hands. “Do you have any friends that aren’t men? Any friends that aren’t related to your male friends?”

Five and a half minutes.

“You know, I’ve heard checking the time actually makes it go slower.”

“Rubbish.” Hermione muttered, turning her wrist over once more as if the three seconds would have made any difference.

“Look, Hermione, I’ll reason with you.” Healer Harper said, leaning back in her seat and relaxing against the arms of the chair. “As you learned at the start of term, I’m here to act as emotional support for students as we all recover from the war. Professor McGonagall does think highly of you, but she’s concerned you’re at an…impasse. You’ve no clear direction in going forward with your life.”

“And dragging me to the hospital wing for a thirty-minute chat about trauma is supposed to fix me?”

“I’m not in the business of fixing people, Hermione. I’m only here to help you understand your impulses and guide you to a place of healing. There’s no fixing anyone, but talking through your past traumas can help—if you let it.”

“I’m not interested in dredging up the past for you to manipulate.” Hermione said stiffly, standing up and adjusting her bag over her shoulder. “You can tell Professor McGonagall I’m noncompliant, I don’t really care, but I’m done here.”

Hermione watched the seconds tick away on her watch. She heard the faint scribbling of the quill on parchment behind her but refused to look at what she was writing. None of it mattered—none of it was true.

She yanked on the handle once more and fled.

19 November 1998

The success of her first attempt at the finicky potion left her with less relief than she’d have liked. It freed her from Potions for the rest of term, their class set to work on Wolfsbane potions after the new year, but to not have an excuse to sit next to Draco for a few hours a week in the coming month was…disappointing.

Still, she had brewed it perfectly. Draco had as well, but received far less praise for it, Professor Slughorn still wary around the students who had been associated with the Dark Lord. Pansy’s and Harry’s were successful. The only students required to stay back and immediately start on their second attempts were Ron and Ernie Macmillan. It was a new moon, Slughorn had reminded them. It was their last chance to brew it correctly for the rest of term.

To Hermione’s surprising relief, Harry volunteered to stay back and assist the two. Ron didn’t argue it, didn’t feign pride, and even managed a small smile at Harry as the three set to work. She wondered if them winning their first match against Slytherin had helped smooth things over between them, but remembered what Harry had told her a couple of weeks before.

He wasn’t going to forgive him without an apology, and Ron owed them both an apology.

“What do you plan on doing with it?” Draco asked her as they filed out of the classroom.

Hermione looked back inside when she noticed Pansy wasn’t ahead of them and stilled when she saw Pansy had stayed behind to help as well.

She looked up at Draco, wide-eyed, and he guided her down the corridor with a hand on the small of her back. “She doesn’t—” Hermione squeaked. “Not Harry.”

“I don’t know anything.” He said, but the smirk gave it away as a lie. “So, who do you plan to poison with that?”

“Oh,” she said, remembering the phial in her hand. “I don’t know yet. I’ll probably save it for a special occasion.”

“What kind ‘special occasion’ would call for a truth-telling potion?”

Hermione slid the phial into a secure pocket of her bag and gave it a pat. “I don’t know yet.” She repeated. “Stay on my good side and we won’t have to find out.”

They headed up the stairs. It was still a few minutes before lunch, but both could stand to work on their Transfiguration studies.

“Speaking of special occasions,” Draco drawled, his fingers twisting around the ends of her long hair as they walked in-step with each other. “What are your plans for Christmas?”

“I have absolutely no plans.” She said, giving him a look to remind him why that was.

No parents. No home to go to. A sad, lonely Christmas at Hogwarts was what awaited her, and she shuddered to think what next year would be like if she still had no family or a home. Would the Weasleys take pity on her and let her and Crookshanks share the attic with their ghoul? Harry had mentioned he would have left the Burrow with her over the summer and let her stay with him. Would that offer still apply once they’d graduated and she was left to fend for herself?

She felt the blood leave her face at the horrifying thought.

She was alone. She was so utterly alone.

“Granger?” Draco gave her hair a tug, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Christmas?”

She shook herself and forced a nod. “Christmas.” She repeated, then realised she hadn’t heard what he’d even asked as she’d been wrapped up in her own thoughts. “What about it?”

“Would you like to stay with me over the holidays?” He asked, looking put-out as he said the words for what appeared to be the second time. “I’m sure Pansy will find her way over at some point, so don’t feel any pressure to say yes.”

Hermione scoffed and pulled her hair away from his hold. She gathered it up and twisted it to rest over her shoulder. “Yes, because I want you to stay with your ex alone.”

“I have before.” He said casually, continuing up the steps ahead of her. “Actually, it would probably be easier if you stayed behind. I only have the one guest room right now and Pansy likes her space.”

“Pansy can sleep on the floor of the library for all I care.” She said hotly, jogging up the steps after him.

Draco caught her as he reached the landing first, his hands finding her arms just above the elbows. “I like when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous.” She said bitterly. “It’s not appropriate for her to be sleeping over when we’re—” she cut herself off, feeling her cheeks heat. “Never mind.”

“No,” he said, his hand resuming its place on her back after she managed to wriggle away and stalk off. “Not ‘never mind.’ What are we doing, Granger? Hmm? What are we?”

“We are successful lab partners.”

Even at her quickest pace he was able to keep up with hardly any effort.

“And?”

“And I am not comfortable with your beautiful ex-girlfriend sleeping under the same roof as you while I’m stuck at the castle!” She spat, turning to face him mid-stride and nearly crashing into him. “So, yes. I will join you for Christmas.”

“Because you’re jealous.”

“Because I want to spend Christmas with you.” She said through gritted teeth. “My…more-than-a-lab-partner.”

He smirked triumphantly and stepped around her on his way to the Great Hall, leaving her behind without another word.

28 November 1998

“You’re not really going to stay with Malfoy again, are you?” Ginny asked, pulling the cork from the bottle of elderflower wine she’d been keeping in Hermione’s drawer since Halloween.

“I am.” Hermione insisted. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Just thought you’d like to be around family for Christmas,” she hummed in her best guilt-inducing voice. “Not cosied up with the Slytherin prince for two weeks in his cold, lonely manor.”

“It is cold and lonely.” Hermione agreed. “So shouldn’t I be there to offer some…warmth?”

Ginny didn’t bother finding a glass; she simply tipped the bottle to her lips and took a long swig.

Hermione pulled the bottle away from her after several seconds, Ginny laughing through a mouthful as it began to dribble out, her hands working uselessly to catch the clear, yellow-ish liquid.

“It’s really not good.” Hermione said with a grimace after taking a sip.

“Mum’s homemade stuff is loads better.” She agreed, then took the bottle back. “So what’s happening between you two? Really.” She charmed the bottle to levitate, then went to lie on her side, her legs off the side of Hermione’s bed and leaving the curtains partially-opened; it rendered the silencing charm completely useless.

She gestured to Ginny to bring her legs in to recast the charm, but Ginny seemed unconcerned with Hermione’s roommates just a few feet away.

“Have you shagged yet?” Ginny asked, her voice a touch louder than it had been before.

Hermione shook her head in disapproval as her roommates’ conversation faltered. “Not exactly…” she said, feigning innocence as she reached for the not-too-pleasant wine and took another sip.

Strawberry-blonde eyebrows shot up with interest. “I think you need to elaborate. Out with it, Granger.”

When Lavender and Parvati resumed their conversation, Hermione balanced the bottle on her knee and chewed on her lip as she decided what to say.

“He is…good with his hands.” She eventually said with a grin, then took a satisfied sip as Ginny rolled to her back dreamily.

Ginny gazed up at the canopy of Hermione’s four-poster and shook her head, a wide smile on her face. “I need details.”

Now very aware of her roommates’ presence—the girls halting their conversation once more—Hermione forced the wine bottle into Ginny’s hands before she sat back against her headboard, pulling a pillow into her lap. Crookshanks was gone again, likely roaming about the castle’s grounds or sneaking his way into the Slytherin dorms.

“It only happened once.” She swore. “About two months ago, in the Prefects’ bath.”

Ginny leaned up on her elbow and took a sip. “And nothing since?” She scoffed. “Don’t tell me Draco Malfoy is suddenly being a gentleman.”

“He actually has been.” She said softly. “I don’t know what it is, but he’s very respectful of my boundaries. It’s quite nice, actually… When it’s not infuriating, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I’m happy for it, other times I wish he would just take me so we can get it over with.”

Ginny frowned and passed the bottle to Hermione. “Why would you want to get it over with?”

“To see what it’s like.” She said, lifting her shoulder in a slight shrug. “See if sex is worth the fuss people make over it. In my limited experience, it isn’t. I don’t know.” She took a longer swig, the floral notes of the wine making her gag as she swallowed it down.

“Well, it is.” Ginny assured her, grinning as Hermione’s face screwed up in disgust. “The first time is the worst. Michael was nice, but it hurt and it was so awkward. Dean and I got better with practice.”

Hermione nearly choked on that revelation. She had never been sure who Ginny had lost her virginity to—the concept never seeming to matter to her—but having it confirmed to be her first boyfriend in her fourth year was a surprise.

Where would they have even done it? Ravenclaw Tower? An empty alcove? The Quidditch pitch? Hermione had always assumed it was Dean Thomas, but that only raised more questions.

“You will, too.” Ginny promised. “Enjoy it with more practice,” she pretended to shudder. “Even if it’s with Malfoy.”

Hermione smiled but didn’t feel as confident as Ginny sounded. As much as she wanted to try with Draco, remembering what sex led to made her wary of the act.

Ginny sat up and pulled her legs in, letting the curtains flutter closed once more. She pulled out her wand and cast the charm, locking them in a bubble of silence so her roommates were cut off.

“Do you want me to teach you the charm?” She asked gently.

Hermione gave a tentative nod after a moment. She knew the incantation, but until she learned how to brew a contraceptive potion, she needed to know the exact wand movement. She would never leave something so important in someone else’s hands again.

She reached for her wand and mimicked Ginny’s precise movements until she had it memorised.

30 November 1998

Lavender Brown had been watching her all morning.

From the time she pulled back the curtains to when she got out of the shower, she had spied Lavender’s eyes on her.

It had been a few uneasy few weeks in their dorm, Lavender hurt that Hermione hadn’t cooled down the confrontation with Ron, and Parvati upset that Hermione had made Lavender upset. It was the pettiest thing Hermione could imagine—the girls were upset with her over a boy she hadn’t any romantic interest in.

It was ridiculous.

It was a bit insulting, too. They were adult women, not children. Why were they upset that Lavender and Hermione’s mutual ex couldn’t move forward?

Just after Halloween, when Lavender had calmed down enough to speak with Hermione, she had apologised for not “asking permission” in dating him again, as if that were even necessary. Hermione had implied Lavender could do better than Ron and should find someone who isn’t still hung up on their ex.

That conversation had not ended well.

Lavender and Hermione came to an awkward standstill at the door of their dorm, both girls attempting to leave at the same time. Hermione took a step back and allowed for Lavender to pass first, and she did, her shoulders stiff as she turned away from her.

Sighing, Hermione adjusted her bookbag on her shoulder and followed Lavender down the girls’ staircase to the common room.

In the common room, Hermione could see the portrait hole was open, and voices from the landing outside the Fat Lady’s portrait were hurried and excited, Hermione picking up a gasp that sounded an awful lot like “fight.”

She rushed through the portrait hole and found the staircase lined with Gryffindors as they rushed down to see the commotion.

Being that Gryffindor Tower was on the seventh floor and the supposed fight had broken out near the Great Hall, Hermione had to sprint to keep up in their descent of the staircases for fear of being trampled.

They had just made it down the corridor when Ron landed a final punch, the sickening crack that followed making it clear he had broken Draco’s nose. The hundreds of students already down and spectating had mixed reactions: some gasped, some howled with laughter, some cheered and called for the fight to continue.

Draco’s back was to her but drops of blood landed on the floor as he launched himself at Ron, knocking him to the ground and cracking his head on the marble. Ron hadn’t been expecting the retaliation, hadn’t been prepared and had lost his footing.

They were blown apart from one another in an instant, white-blue sparks flying from Professor Flitwick’s wand as he and the other teachers pushed their way through the students into the corridor. Draco was thrown nearly ten feet into the doorway of the Great Hall, landing in a heap on his side. Pansy and Theo, as Hermione now realised were standing aside during the fight, rushed over to him. Ron had been sent a shorter distance, but he yelped as his head collided with a stone statue, his body curling in on itself to ward off another attack.

Hermione looked around wildly to find Ginny right behind her, her eyes wide and terrified as she spotted her brother crumpled on the ground, unmoving now.

“Fuck,” Ginny whispered, barely audible. Neither girl could find Harry in the crowd that had gone silent at the arrival of the professors and the Headmistress.

She didn’t think as she looked between the two on the ground. She pushed through the people ahead of her, throwing herself into the clearing they’d made to watch the fight, and found herself beside Professor McGonagall, the woman’s stern, cold eyes taking in the altercation and carefully drawing her own conclusion of what transpired.

Ron groaned from where he brought himself up to his knees. Draco was spitting blood onto the stone floor, nearly drowning in it.

Hermione went over to him, dropping to her knees and taking his face in her hands without even thinking it through, paying no mind to the whole school having just witnessed her choosing Draco over Ron.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, her eyes welling up as she took in his appearance. “This is all my fault—I’m so sorry.”

His nose was definitely broken, the normally straight length of his nose now crooked and oozing dark red from the nostrils. It was difficult to tell if his lip was split, there was so much blood, but his bottom lip was swollen. His left eye was bruising, the white around his grey iris bloodshot. Draco winced as he tried to turn away from her.

Hermione released her hold on his neck and looked down at his hands. The white skin was stained red and the skin scraped, his knuckles openly bleeding.

“Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall in a commanding tone. “A word.”

Hermione glared over her shoulder to see Ron struggling to a standing position, coughing and wrapping an arm under his ribs where Draco must’ve knocked the wind out of him. His lip was split, a line of blood trickling down his chin to the base of his throat where it disappeared behind his Gryffindor tie. Both of their robes had been cast aside, their school jumpers wrinkled, Draco’s collar torn as if Ron had gone for his neck.

She looked to Draco again but he was already standing, Theo helping him up. She couldn’t tell if he had any marks on his throat or not, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if there were. Ron winced with every step as he followed the professors into the Great Hall.

“What happened?” She asked Theo, the wavy-haired boy now glaring after Ron. She stood up, feeling the ache in her knees from where she’d thrown herself down.

“Someone lost their temper.” He said evenly. “Care to guess who?”

Hermione half-expected Pansy to be fussing over Draco as she normally would—as she normally had, anytime Draco was injured, but she was simply offering him her own supply of muggle tissues from her bookbag with a stoic set to her face. When Pansy’s eyes flickered to Hermione’s, they lacked the coldness they always held for her.

“Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall called, her emerald robes swishing as she re-entered the corridor. “Explain yourself.”

Draco’s once-lovely face turned to her with a silent, simmering fury, and he spat out blood in response.

“Nott?” She asked instead. “Weasley said you were present.”

“Weasley threw the first punch.” Theo said, and none of the cheery playfulness remained in his voice, reminding Hermione just how different he and Draco were in expressing their anger to her friends.

She and her friends blew up; they would start a fire and burn everything to the ground if they had to.

Draco and Theo, though—everything was a calculated move. Every scenario thought through. Cool, calm, and collected in their rage.

She didn’t know which was more dangerous.

“Pulled his wand out and attempted an Unforgivable.”

Professor McGonagall startled at that, and the crowd of hundreds of students who still remained in rapt fascination broke out into gasps and hushed murmurs.

“That is a serious accusation.” she said sternly.

“Check his wand.” Theo challenged. “Check mine.” He offered it to her, but she made no move to take it from him. “Weasley attempted the Cruciatus Curse. Draco was able to block it and I disarmed Weasley. Go on, Professor. Check all of our wands.”

Professor McGonagall looked over at the students, her face twisting up in dissatisfaction at their loitering. “Abbott!” She called, and the blonde Hufflepuff Head Girl popped out from behind Susan Bones, the redhead turning back to look at her.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Find Filch and have him clean this up.” She commanded, and Hannah tore off in the direction of Filch’s office. “Malfoy, to the hospital wing. We’ll sort this out when you’ve healed.”

Hermione left Draco and raced after Professor McGonagall as she went back into the Great Hall. Ron was receiving a half-hearted lecture from Professor Sprout, nowhere near the kind of reprimand he deserved.

“Professor McGonagall!” She called, and the woman stiffened. “You know this is Ron’s fault!”

The Headmistress turned to face her, curiosity and confusion crossing her face. Her eyes flicked over Hermione’s shoulder to Ron, then back. “What I know is Mr. Malfoy has a history of inciting fights on school grounds.”

“Not this time,” Hermione insisted. “Please, Professor, this is all on Ron. It’s because of me—don’t blame Draco for this. Please.”

“Take Malfoy to the hospital wing.” She said, touching Hermione’s arm. “We can discuss this later on.”

Hermione nodded. “You’ll be punishing Ron, though, right?”

Professor McGonagall sighed delicately and took her hand back, moving to fold them over her stomach. “Weasley will receive detention and the loss of House points for his involvement, yes.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“Miss Granger, please. Escort Malfoy to the hospital wing and let me handle the mess both boys have made.”

“Is what Theo said true?” Hermione asked cautiously, matching Draco’s slow pace as they made their way up to the hospital wing. “Ron attacked first?”

Draco managed a condescending look through the black, blue, and red marring his face. He kept a tissue against his nostrils, his breathing a bit laboured as they climbed the stairs.

“Why not a duel?” She asked, then remembered his wand was still stubborn in responding to him. “Ron punched you when Theo disarmed him?”

“Theo.” He said hoarsely. “I blocked it—went to shit from there.”

Hermione frowned, wondering why Ron would feel compelled to go after Theo just for disarming him. If it was an emotionally-charged situation, though, she could understand where Ron’s mind had gone. They were both Slytherins. They were both the enemy.

And Theo had once stopped Ron from attacking Draco.

“What started it?”

Another condescending look, a look that told Hermione she already knew the answer.

“Why did you retaliate?” She asked instead.

It wasn’t like Draco to engage in a physical, non-magical fight—what had been so bad for him to attack him back? Theo had disarmed Ron—Theo could have petrified Ron, if he’d needed to. There’d been no reason for a real fight to break out unless… Unless.

“What did Ron say about me?”

They came to a stop in the corridor of the hospital wing, Draco leaning back against a pillar and moving the tissue to check the blood on them.

“That bad?”

Draco’s eyes flicked to hers then back to the tissues. He wadded them up and placed the blood-free bit to his nostrils.

“You taunted him, didn’t you?”

Even with a broken nose and blackened eyes and a bruised, swollen lip, he still managed an attractive smirk. “I clarified a few things.”

“Draco—”

“Go on, Granger.” He said, backing away towards the door. “Let Pomfrey set my nose. You can hound me later.”

He turned and headed inside the hospital wing, the loud sigh from Madam Pomfrey telling her she’d been waiting for him and was displeased with the state he was in.

Hermione saw red as she marched back to the Great Hall.

When she arrived at the Gryffindor table, Hermione sat between Ginny and a fifth year; Harry was still nowhere to be found. Ron and Lavender sat on the other side, a few heads down, and her Housemates were congratulating him on winning the fight while Lavender tended to his wounds.

“Can you believe that?” Ginny muttered. “How’s Malfoy?”

“Broken nose.” She said, taking a bite of dry toast as she glared at Ron. “Looks awful.”

Ginny shook her head in disgust and turned her glare to Lavender instead. “Oi, Lav!” She called, and Lavender’s eyes darted around, her smile fading instantly as they landed on Ginny. “You didn’t happen to hear anything Saturday night, did you?”

Lavender looked stricken, paling under the intensity of Ginny’s accusation. “What do you mean?” She asked with a nervous giggle.

“You didn’t tell my brother anything you might’ve heard about Hermione?”

“Ginny, I—” Lavender nervously stumbled through her words. “Yes. I said something—”

Ginny let out a harsh laugh, but Lavender rushed to continue. “I was only concerned for Hermione.” She said, pleading with her. “Hermione, you know Malfoy’s not good for you—you should be flattered Ron cares enough to defend you the way he did!”

“Yes, I should be so appreciative of Ron attacking him!” Hermione spat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?" She asked Ron. "God, you are such a git!”

Hermione stood, abandoning her half-eaten toast and the table, and striding for the corridor. Her first class wasn’t for half an hour, but she could kill time in the library. She could go back to the hospital wing, even, if Draco would allow her to.

“Hermione!” Ron called, following her out of the Great Hall.

“No!” She whirled on him. “I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t want to be anywhere near you!”

“He pulled his wand on me first!” he insisted, taking her arm.

She shook him off quickly. “And what did you say to make him do that, hmm? What did you say about me?”

“Ask your boyfriend!”

“I’m asking you! My friend! The person I once entrusted my life with—don’t you dare lie to me, Ron! What did you say?”

“I said what he already knew,” he growled, his voice low. “That you were mine first. That you should still be mine.”

“Good thing that’s not your decision to make.”

Ron blew out a breath, devastated despite the anger that boiled his blood. His blue eyes were wide and watering, rimmed in red as if he’d been holding back tears all morning. The cut on his lip was healed and he had a small gash on his forehead from where he’d been thrown away from Draco by Professor Flitwick. Hermione reached down and tugged up his jumper and the white button-down underneath, exposing his pale, freckled abdomen. Several splotches of red and purple bloomed over his ribs, the skin of his stomach, his left side.

He was an absolute mess.

Good.

“What happened, Hermione?” He whispered, his breath shallow as he fought to hold back the tears. “Why did you ruin us?”

“Don’t do that to me!” She hissed sharply. “That’s not fair!”

“You left, not me! What was fair about that, Hermione? What?” Ron pressed his back against a wall and leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs as he struggled to breathe and not cry in front of her. “We would’ve made it work—been happy—you didn’t give it a chance.”

Hermione swallowed back the wave of emotion that threatened to break free of her carefully-crafted dam. She wouldn’t break in front of him. She couldn’t.

“We would have been miserable. You know it.” She cleared her throat. “We would have resented each other for the rest of our lives. We’re not your parents, Ron. We wouldn’t have been fulfilled by our children.”

Ron sniffled. “You wouldn’t have been.”

“No.” She agreed, feeling angry with him for trying to manipulate her and angry with herself for nearly falling for it. “No, Ron, I would not have been fulfilled having children with someone who has only ever tolerated me!”

Ron’s head snapped up, tears tracking down his reddened cheeks. “And you think Malfoy loves you? Malfoy, who calls you a Mudblood and wished you dead, Hermione? That’s who you want?”

“Yes. That is who I want—someone who has been owning up to his mistakes and learning from them!” She cried. “You haven’t even tried to change, Ron!”

Ron was nonplussed, staring at her then as if she’d lost her mind. “Why would I need to? I’m not the Death Eater, Hermione!”

“No, you’re not,” she agreed icily. “But you have always been jealous of me getting attention from other boys—and you’ve never shied away from making me feel awful about it! Why can’t you just let me be happy?”

“Because you were always meant to be mine,” he whispered, the tears flowing shamelessly now. “No one else deserves you.”

Hermione dashed away her own tears, her voice choking on a whimper as she said, “I don’t deserve this.” She inhaled shakily. “I need you to let me go. Please, Ron. Let me go so we can move on—I can’t take this anymore.”

“Move on with Malfoy?”

“What does it matter?”

Ron pushed away from the wall and pulled her into him, his hands cupping her cheeks as his eyes pleaded with hers. “Anyone is better for you than Malfoy. Pick anyone else, Hermione. I’m begging you.”

“And if I asked you not to date Lavender, would you respect it?” She whispered, gasping softly on an inhale. “If I asked you not to date her because she sleeps ten feet from me, would you stay away from her?”

He was at a loss for words, unable to look away though the eye-contact was unbearable for them both. “Hermione, please—”

She pulled away. “Thought so.”

“It’s different.”

“Of course it’s different—you win either way. What do I get?”

“Hermione—”

“McGonagall should have taken your badge. You don’t deserve to wear it.”

Chapter Text

30 November 1998

Hermione and Harry climbed the stairs of the West Tower to the Headmistress’ office. Although he’d been absent during the altercation that morning, Harry was prepared to corroborate Hermione’s claim that Ron was unstable, at best. None of them were particularly of sound mind, but they both agreed that Ron’s behaviour had gotten out of control.

She had found Harry in the library after breakfast, his eyes fixed on his Defence Against the Dark Arts text and his wand out underneath the table. His lips had been moving as he silently recited the incantations and practiced the wand movements out of sight of Madam Pince. He’d been so focused he hadn’t noticed Hermione’s presence for a solid minute, continuing on with his studies as if he hadn’t heard any of the commotion or noticed students fleeing to the Entrance Hall to see what was going on.

When he’d finally looked up and took in her furious devastation, demanding to know everything then and there, he’d shoved his books into his bag and began to lead her to see Professor McGonagall.

Rightfully hurt as she was, she was still reluctant to get Ron into any more trouble. She felt he deserved to lose his badge, but if he’d truly attempted the curse as Theo and Draco had confirmed he had, he was risking time in Azkaban. Before the war, it would have meant a life sentence, but so much had changed. The world around them was so volatile that she had no idea which laws still applied and which they would make exceptions to depending on the case.

If it were the case of Ron—a notably good person, a Gryffindor, a bloody saviour of the wizarding world—against Draco—a known arsehole, a Slytherin, and a marked Death Eater—she had an awful feeling the cards would fall in Ron’s favour, justified in his actions or not.

And they were not.

“Are you sure about this?” Hermione asked as they stepped into the corridor. “She’s only going to wonder why we hadn’t said anything before.”

“I’m sure.” Harry said, his expression a mask of determination. “It’s been months of this—he needs to be put in his place for once.”

Hermione sighed, resigned, but ultimately agreed. They would tell her about the train incident where he’d behaved inappropriately towards Hermione and made the claim that no Slytherin student should even be allowed back. They would tell her about his drinking and abusing his position as Head Boy, as well as his complaints of the role if it came to it.

Harry had sworn it was the right thing—it was the only thing they could do at this point to wake Ron up, but she still felt as though they were betraying him. He’d betrayed them first, had caused more pain to them than they ever could to him, but just as she had when she’d called off their relationship, Hermione had automatically chosen to assume the guilty conscience.

He gave her a firm squeeze around the shoulders, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts and reminding her none of this was her fault. She nodded in response but felt her throat constrict as they neared the gargoyle.

He knew the password already; it was a measure Professor McGonagall had taken when they had returned to school, making sure Harry had access to her whenever he needed it. As soon as Hermione had explained the events of that morning, he had chosen to exercise the privilege of unrestricted access to the Headmistress and had steered her right out of the library.

The time had come to get it over with.

“—went far too easy on him!”

She and Harry ducked around a corner the second they heard the indignant voice of Arthur Weasley coming down the stairs behind the gargoyle.

“He’s still a boy, Arthur!” Molly Weasley objected. “He made a mistake!”

“The mistake was throwing a few punches—he attempted an illegal curse!”

They were at the landing now, visible as Harry and Hermione peered unsubtly around the stone wall to view them. If they’d had any idea Ron’s parents would have been called in, she was sure Harry would have held off on visiting the Headmistress. As it was, there was no way for them to sneak back down the corridor without being spotted, so they remained frozen just out of the Weasleys’ sight.

“It didn’t land,” Mrs. Weasley said haughtily. “And the boy is going to be fine!”

“That doesn’t excuse—” Mr. Weasley huffed a sigh of impatience. “You may be content letting him get away with it, but I’m not. He would be tried before the Wizengamot if I had any say in it.”

“What more of a punishment should he have gotten? We’ve lost one child already—you want to send another to Azkaban?” Mrs. Weasley’s tone was shrill. “He’s upset!”

“Stop justifying his behaviour!” Mr. Weasley demanded. “Whether you like it or not, he’s an adult! We can’t fix this for him!”

Mrs. Weasley made a sound of outrage. “If Hermione hadn’t—”

“This has nothing to do with Hermione—that poor girl has been through enough. We promised her parents we’d look out for her, and what have we done? We allowed our son to mistreat her. Ron’s behaviour is on us, Molly. All of this is on us for indulging him.”

Harry’s bag slipped off his shoulder as he moved to listen closer, the contents of the frayed pouch spilling out all over the floor. Empty phials and ink bottles clanked and quills scattered across the marble. Hermione’s eyes were wide as she flattened herself against the wall; Harry’s face was reddening at being caught. She winced as she heard the footsteps draw nearer and stepped further into the darkness behind the wall.

He was on the ground in plain view, kneeling to retrieve the contents of his bag. They had not yet spotted Hermione.

“You heard about Ron.” Mr. Weasley concluded acidly.

“Er, yeah. Hermione told me.” Harry admitted sheepishly, forcing his lips into a thin smile. He pushed up his glasses and secured the strap on his bag before standing.

Mrs. Weasley scoffed at the mention of Hermione. “Yes, I’m sure that girl only has wonderful things to say in his defence.”

Harry blew out a breath. “I dunno, why don’t you ask her?” He turned his head to her then, tilting his head in a nod for her to come out.

She glared as she came to stand beside him, her lips pursed. “Mr. Weasley—Mrs. Weasley.” She greeted them. “I’m sorry. I needed to see Professor McGonagall—we didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Mrs. Weasley had to physically turn herself away, she was so angry. Mr. Weasley had softened, though, taking in her apprehension, her discomfort at being in Mrs. Weasley’s hostile presence. He sighed and forced a smile, one hand running over the few remaining bits of red hair on his head. His hair had already been thinning for some time, but the war had taken a toll on what had remained.

“She’s still in with Ron,” he said, sounding apologetic. “It might be a while.”

Hermione nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself. What was there to even say?

Harry would tell her she didn’t have to explain herself to them. Apologise for leaving and making them worry, yes, but nothing else. Ron’s behaviour was not her fault. She was not responsible for the fallout of their family.

“Mr. Weasley, I—”

He held up a hand and gave her a sad-looking smile, saying without words that it was alright, that she didn’t need to continue. Mrs. Weasley had tensed when Hermione addressed him, her shoulders stiffening beneath thick layers of a knitted jumper and cardigan.

Despite everything, she felt the need to address Mrs. Weasley, to apologise to her directly, but only after remembering the Howler on her birthday and the unnecessary comment about her parents did she pause.

There was nothing Hermione could say to sway the woman to her side, to make her see reason. There hadn’t been back in June, and there wouldn’t be now when her youngest son had pulled his wand on other students and physically attacked them. It hardly mattered that his target had been Draco Malfoy, even when Mrs. Weasley had shown a hint of sympathy for him several months earlier.

In the middle of May, when the Daily Prophet had released details of the Slytherin students’ trials, Mrs. Weasley had felt they were all the product of poor parenting. While they had been wealthy, they were all clearly lacking emotional support and kindness at home. They had only been children. They had been indoctrinated into their parents’ foolishness without much choice and shouldn’t have had to bear the consequences for their ignorance.

But right then, right when Mrs. Weasley was seething over the altercation between her son and the poor Malfoy boy, it was clear any sympathy she’d once had for him was gone. All blame in this case, in her view, would fall on Draco.

Hermione could understand to a certain degree the desire to protect one’s child, but to consistently make excuses for their outright selfish and unreasonable behaviour was an entirely foreign concept to her. Perhaps it was that she’d been raised by muggles, but she couldn’t imagine her parents would have tolerated such actions. They’d brought her up to be responsible to a fault, mature and wiser beyond her years.

If they even knew half of what she’d done in her time at Hogwarts…

Well, Hermione chose not to think of it. They hadn’t needed to know all the times she’d bent or broken school rules and cost her House points—if Dumbledore hadn’t felt the need to inform them, she certainly wasn’t going to say anything.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Hermione said softly. “Either of you.”

Mr. Weasley nodded. “We know. It’s alright.” He looked between Harry and Hermione and gave him a nod. “Harry, why don’t you go in? I’m sure that would be the…easiest.”

Mrs. Weasley made an affirmative “hmpf” sound, her back still turned to them. Harry slid his gaze to hers, and she rolled her eyes at the grown woman acting so childish.

“Yes, I’m sure Harry knows exactly what needs to be said.”

Hermione stepped around them to head back down the corridor, the placating voice of Mr. Weasley soothing his wife getting further and further away as she made her way to the staircases.

“Well, you look dreadful.” Hermione announced as she approached the foot of Draco’s bed in the hospital wing.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. His skin was mottled with purple and black, the edges of his bruises beginning to yellow, their healing sped up by one of Madam Pomfrey’s concoctions. As she took a seat on the edge of the bed, she saw his nose had been reset, the bridge perfectly straight and narrow once more, albeit a little swollen. His bottom lip had a tiny split, dried blood crusted around the single stitch. He had looked much worse that morning.

She’d spent much of her afternoon in the library, breezing through Arithmancy right after lunch and surrounding herself with books as a means of distraction. She hadn’t even realised the time until it was well past dark outside, the lights of the library dimming to the soft, warm candlelight.

The library had been nearly empty when she’d poked her head up, and as she hadn’t felt hungry enough for dinner, she decided to take a stroll to the hospital wing to check on Draco. Perhaps she should have done it earlier in the day, but she knew Madam Pomfrey would have tended to him well enough without her hovering—it also gave her time to actually focus for once.

“And Weasel?”

“Still walking.” She said glumly. “No concussion. No cuts that required Madam Pomfrey’s assistance. Plenty of bruising, though. Nicely done.”

Draco’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Nicely done?”

She shrugged. “He deserved it, didn’t he?”

“Have I missed something?”

“Not much,” she said, looking down at his hand. The once-smooth skin of his knuckles were scabbed over and still red. “You’re on the mend, so I can ‘hound’ you now. What did he say about me?”

“I don’t want to repeat it.”

She smiled wryly. “It can’t be any worse than what you used to call me.”

“I’ve never called you a ‘whore,’ surprisingly enough.”

She scoffed, but inside she felt a part of herself crumble. Would Ron really have called her that? Perhaps Draco had misheard, or he’d said it out of context. Ron was angry and hurt, but she didn’t think him capable of saying such a thing about her.

His mother, yes, but she was a different story.

But Mrs. Weasley had also been the one there for him after Hermione left, rejecting him and the egg he’d fertilised, so maybe there was some truth to it. Maybe Ron’s possessive streak was the product of years of insecurity and rejection, and he was looking to her to unload his frustrations because she had been the closest person to him. She had been the one to hurt him, even if she hadn’t meant to.

Or maybe she was still making excuses for him.

Out of misplaced love—or habit.

Fuck, what was wrong with her?

“Did he really cast the Cruciatus Curse on you?” She asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Tried it,” he confirmed again. “Wouldn’t have landed, though. Even if I hadn’t been able to block it, there were barely more than a few sparks that left his wand.”

“He probably didn’t mean it, then.” She said, sounding a bit too hopeful.

“He probably didn’t want a life sentence to Azkaban, though I doubt they’d lock him away for it. War hero against a Death Eater?” He smirked, though winced almost immediately as the action tugged on his stitch. “They’d probably give him an Order of Merlin, First Class.”

Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “He already has one. It’s not as special as you’d think.”

“Speaking from experience?”

She shrugged again. “Maybe two, three days after the battle, Kingsley visited the Burrow and presented us with them. One for each of us. Ron’s parents and brothers, too. Ginny got Second Class, which I thought was absolute rubbish—she’d been at Hogwarts the whole time. If anyone deserved First Class, it was her.” She frowned. “It was meant as an honour, but it all felt like a show of pity. ‘Sorry you sacrificed months of your life and lost family members and dear friends. Here’s a pretty medal on some green ribbon—hope that makes up for it!’” She rolled her eyes. “I think mine’s buried at the bottom of my trunk.”

“Potter and Weasley must’ve enjoyed it.”

“Goodness, no. Not Harry.” She shook her head for emphasis. “He was really fired up the first few days after, though, writing letters and working with Kingsley and the Ministry to help rebuild. He wanted to jump right into Auror training and round up the remaining Death Eaters.”

Draco frowned. “Why is he here then?” He asked, as if Harry had even had a choice.

If anyone could have gotten an exception, it would have been Harry. She couldn’t blame him for being confused by it, knowing what little he did about the situation.

“Because it only took a few days for him to crash. He was almost manic following the battle—he just wanted to get everything done, all at once. Fix the castle, plan the funerals and memorials, work with the Ministry—it was all just too much and he…couldn’t handle it. He went without sleep for about four days or so and when he finally did, he was out all night and half the next day and then—well, then he was…unrecognisable. All his energy was gone. He barely got out of bed, barely ate. He was already skinny, but after a few weeks he looked…hollow. There was hardly anything left of him.”

“Sounds like you.”

She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

His eyes took her in, scanning her face and her frame as she sat beside his right hip. “You don’t know how awful you looked when I found you, do you? Your clothes were practically falling off you, you were so thin.”

She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny then. “I had trouble eating. And sleeping. And doing anything that required more than blinking. Such is life.” She sighed. “But Ron, though. Yes, he enjoyed all the attention.”

Accepting the damned medal had been the start of his change for the worse.

For the first time in his life, Ron was getting the proper recognition he deserved. Being Harry Potter’s best friend and making Prefect in his fifth year paled in comparison to his status as a War Hero. He had saved the wizarding world. He was revered. Every Daily Prophet article that Harry and Hermione had refused to read, Ron had soaked up like a thirsty sponge, proudly reciting the articles about him for all of the Burrow to hear.

She couldn’t blame him—really, she couldn’t—but even then she had worried it was going to his head. If he got too used to the adoration, to the public praise in the newspapers, in the flattering articles in Witch Weekly, how would he behave when the attention inevitably went away? How would he handle going back to a version of the life he’d once had?

That might have been why he’d been acting the way he had, Hermione realised. It suddenly made perfect sense. Ron had been pushing his limits with everyone because he was afraid of losing everything. Harry rejected Head Boy, Ron eagerly accepted. Harry didn’t want to return to school, Ron swept in and tried to claim his place as Quidditch Captain.

Hermione began to fall for Malfoy, Ron broke his fucking nose.

She groaned as everything began to fall into place. It wasn’t that he loved her, not really. It wasn’t even that he was jealous she was moving on—not completely, anyway. It was that Malfoy was getting something he felt unreasonably entitled to. Ron had had her first and felt he had the right to claim her, even if he didn’t love her as she had loved him. Even if he might very well be in love with Lavender.

War Hero or not, he was still the same insecure boy who felt he’d never had enough growing up. Not enough love or affection from his mother, not enough money.

More than enough friends, though. Plenty of laughter and siblings who adored him, even if he hadn’t seen it or appreciated it.

She hated that she hadn’t seen it all before.

She had been expecting him to grow up after the war, to take responsibility and be a man, but he was only eighteen. Legal adults or not, they were all still so young. They had been forced to grow up much sooner than they should have.

Could he be blamed for backsliding into a state of petulance?

She was hardly the poster child for having one’s shit together; she couldn’t even remember the last day she’d gone without crying or screaming or having some form of a tantrum. She was no better than he was—she just had more self-control.

“Granger?”

“Sorry,” she said absently. “I was in my head for a bit. What did you say?”

“I asked if you’ve spoken to him,” he said a bit stiffly. “But I think I know the answer.”

“We talked after breakfast, yes.” That was a bit of a stretch—it hadn’t at all been a pleasant interaction.

He readjusted himself on the firm mattress with a scowl. From personal experience, she knew the beds weren’t very comfortable in the hospital wing.

“Let me guess,” he muttered. “I provoked him. He wouldn’t have ever done such a thing that if I hadn’t egged him on.”

“The blame was more on me, actually.” She chewed on her lip for a moment. “I defended you. He accused you of being my boyfriend…and I didn’t deny it.”

Grey eyes flashed to hers. “Why not? We have no label, Granger. We’re not in a relationship, right?”

And whose fault was that?

She was cautious and he was a complete mind-fuck of a human being. The constant pushing and pulling of his charming nature and cruel dismissal at any given point was enough to drive her mad and yet…

She wanted him.

She’d realised it earlier when she’d gone to him outside the Great Hall. She didn’t care about the moral divide of her peers or the stigmatisation she might be facing within her own House. She had seen both of them beaten and broken on the ground, and she had gone to him instead.

She had made her choice—what more did Draco want from her? What more did she have to do to prove herself?

Seeing his defences slam into place was hardly a deterrent. Hermione wanted nothing more than to bend down and kiss him. She’d be gentle, just a soft, chaste kiss on his lips, nothing to add pressure to the injury. She wanted to kiss him and slip her fingers through his soft blonde hair and just…melt into him. Comfort him. Apologise in a way he might accept, since she knew he’d reject the words.

But kissing was a line he’d drawn—the reason for which was still unknown to her—and she had sworn to respect it. He’d been respectful of what little boundaries she had placed, and he deserved the same in return.

So instead, she took his hand and laced their fingers together, bending only to press her lips to his knuckles, the skin healing better now that the potions had begun to set in.

“Move over.” She ordered as she began to shift to lie on her side next to him.

“No,” he said incredulously. “I’m the injured one.”

“And I’m trying to comfort you.”

He made no move to scoot over, though, his eyes narrowed as she manoeuvred around the limited space. She settled on the very edge of the single bed and draped herself over his stiff frame. Her leg crossed over his, her arm stretched across his chest, and she rested her chin on his shoulder.

Looking up at him, she lifted her hand to gently push the hair back from his face, then let it rest on his chest once more, her fingertips just below the base of his throat.

“Am I hurting you?” She whispered when he remained unresponsive. “Is this okay?”

He gave a slight smirk, a condescending one that told her she’d already crossed several lines. “Does it matter?”

She lifted her hand and pulled away, leaning up on her opposite elbow to face him better. “Do you want me to stop?”

Though his eyes avoided hers, he licked his lips and gave a slight shake of his head. His left arm went behind his head to prop him up on the pillow, his right arm snaked around her waist, caging her against him to keep her from falling off the narrow hospital bed.

Feeling a bit more relieved, she snuggled in closer, hitching her leg over his hip, Hermione nearly lying on top of him then as she studied him. His jaw tensed at the closeness. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his silver eyes flashed up at the dim lights above the bed. With a slight frown, she took in the state of his clothing. His jumper had been removed and his robes were long gone, presumably abandoned outside of the Great Hall. His white button-down was stained a with jagged spots of dark, brownish red, the collar of which she remembered had been torn.

One-handed, she gently began to remove the Slytherin tie that had already begun to come loose during the fight. She slid the end up through the knot and dragged the silky material off his neck. Feeling a bit daring, knowing at any moment Madam Pomfrey could walk in on them, she unbuttoned his shirt from the base of his throat to the centre of his sternum, enough to open the fabric for her to inspect his skin.

There were fine scratches on his neck, nicks from fingernails, probably, but no marks from strangulation. His chest was mark-free, save for the white scars that remained from Harry’s attack years before. In the bath, seeing Draco as starkers as he’d seen her, she’d noticed the slashes on his skin, reflecting silvery white in the moonlight.

In the lighting of the hospital wing, they were a few shades lighter than his already pale skin, slightly raised and outlined in a faint shade of pink. Her eyes drifted from his face to her hand, her fingertips tracing the line across his left pectoral.

“What did it feel like?” She asked softly.

What a stupid question that had been. She mentally kicked herself, cringing inwardly as she braced for his snarky retort or for him to move his arm and let her fall, but he did neither. The hand on her back went up to her hair, his fingers twisting in the long curls and stroking them down her spine.

Tentatively, she pushed his shirt open wider to get a better look, unbuttoning a bit more as she went. Although he no longer played Quidditch, he had remained fit. He was built of lean, hard muscles under silky skin, the slashes of scars across his torso even softer. New, delicate skin that had stitched him back up and kept him alive when he should have bled to death.

Draco was a better person than her. She couldn’t imagine forgiving someone for that.

Did he have anyone to comfort him then? So close to death, so isolated—had anyone been with him while he recovered in the very same hospital wing?

“It wasn’t too bad.” He murmured, surprising her. “Don’t get me wrong—getting sliced up was fucking excruciating, but losing blood the way I had—so quickly—it felt…kind of nice. I blacked out soon enough. It would’ve been an easy way to go.”

“But you would have died.” She said softly.

He rubbed her back, lightly dragging his nails as he went, and she shivered. “It might have been better if I had.”

“Don’t say that.” She pressed her hand to his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palm. “Please don’t say that.”

“It’s true, though.” He said softly, trailing his fingers over her hip. “If I had died, my mother might have left sooner. Dumbledore and Snape might still be alive. I’m sure Potter would’ve gotten away with it—maybe I was meant to die then.”

She sighed, her fingertips skimming over his abdominal muscles; he flinched as she neared his navel. “There’s no talking you out of that theory, is there?”

“No.” He met her eyes and smirked.

She moaned and pressed a kiss to his sternum, then laid her head on his chest. His hand drew away from her hip slowly, curving over her backside. She gave another pleasant shiver and relaxed further into him, letting his hand grope her over her skirt, the hem of which had hiked up to mid-thigh.

Her hand skimmed down the open front of his shirt, Draco inhaling sharply as she neared his navel once more. “You’re not ticklish, are you?”

He gave her arse a playful squeeze. “No.”

“No, I think you are.” She accused, looking up at him as she tested his limits.

She traced the skin above the waistband of his trousers, the smattering of darker blonde hairs there a bit coarse beneath her fingertips. Blush crept up his neck as he sucked in another breath, releasing it on a cough as she dipped beneath the edge of the fabric.

“I am, too,” she hummed against his skin, kissing a spot of skin near his nipple. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She lifted her head enough to glance around the room. The only other patient in there was several beds away on the opposite side, a curtain drawn around them. She slid her hand back out from the band of his trousers and carefully shifted her knee to his opposite hip, bracing her hands on either side of his torso to gently straddle him.

“Do you want to know where?”

She lowered her hips, sinking onto her heels slowly, slowly. Her own breath hitched at the feel of his cock growing hard against her, the thin layer of her cotton knickers her only barrier as she settled her weight against him. He groaned softly, reluctantly, and she felt rather triumphant.

She took the hand lying limp beside her knee and pulled it up around her ribs, the expanse of skin from her breast around to her back. He’d found this spot months before and she wondered if he would remember.

“Here.” She said, sucking in her own sharp breath as he ran his thumb along the underside of her left breast. “And…here.” She guided his hand down to the back of her thigh, the skin turning to gooseflesh at the contact.

“Good to know.” He mused with a satisfied, though still-strained smirk.

With his fingers skimming the back of her thigh, she bent at the waist and pressed a kiss above his navel. She rebuttoned his shirt, kissing a trail up his skin as she went. He pulled her down to him, his palm flat against her lower back, her knees still straddling his hips. She reached a hand back on instinct to tug her skirt back into place, but he swatted it away, his right hand trailing up her thigh, fingertips brushing the bottom of the cheek her knickers didn’t quite cover, then back down again.

“We’re going to get caught.” She warned, reaching for the long-forgotten tie.

“Do you think I care?”

She propped herself upright, shifting to straddle his waist as she finished buttoning his shirt. She popped up the tattered collar and slid his tie around his neck, then began to knot it with practiced efficiency.

She had only just folded his collar back down when the doors swung open. It might have been less obvious if she’d been graceful about it, but the sound had startled her, and she’d flown off of him as quickly as she could. She got to her feet beside the bed and began to fix her skirt just as the curtain slid open and Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, and Healer Harper appeared on the other side.

Hermione swallowed guiltily as she smoothed her shirt back into the waistband of her skirt. Draco was sitting up with his elbows, his feet crossed at the ankles, looking completely relaxed while she looked frantic.

“Miss Granger,” said Professor McGonagall in a clipped tone. “I need a moment with Mr. Malfoy—perhaps you would like to speak with Miss Harper about this morning?”

“Er, no.” Hermione said, slipping her left foot back into her shoe. “No, thank you.” She looked around for the right one with a slight frown—when had she even removed them?

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat and pointed down at the floor on the other side of the bed, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush. She avoided eye contact as she walked around the women, using her sock-covered toes to drag the black shoe over to her.

She sent a cautious glance to him once her shoe was back on and found his eyes—unsurprisingly—full of mirth.

“I hope you’re feeling better.” She told him, her voice trembling.

She gave the witches an awkward wave and booked it out of the hospital wing.

2 December 1998

“Well, I think it’s safe to say you’ve officially been uninvited to Christmas.” Ginny said dryly as she took the seat beside Hermione in the Gryffindor common room. “Dad sent an owl at breakfast—Mum’s losing it.”

“I bet she is.” Hermione muttered. “Does she still believe the evil Slytherin started it?”

“No, she thinks you’ve been stringing both boys along. In her words, ‘it wouldn’t be the first time.’”

Hermione scowled down at her Defence Against the Dark Arts notes, the subject still her worst despite her real-world experience using defensive spells.

“They’re furious, though—Mum and Dad.” Ginny said in a hushed tone, taking in their surroundings to see if anyone was listening in. “Dad threatened not to let him come back for Christmas. He wanted McGonagall to report him for trying the Cruciatus Curse, but Mum thought his punishment was enough.”

Hermione scoffed, though she already knew about this. What she’d managed to drag from McGonagall in the Great Hall had been less than reassuring, her priority to protect Ron’s status overruling her duty as an impartial Head of the school. Draco had hardly been a model student over the years, but that fact shouldn’t have absolved Ron of his crimes.

“A few detentions is hardly enough for what he did, Gin.”

Ginny furrowed her brow, a confused frown on her lips. “A few detentions?” she repeated. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Her light brown eyes went round and she shifted in her seat to face her. “Okay,” she whispered, leaning in. “I dunno if McGonagall is planning to make an announcement or not, but Ron’s badge was confiscated. He’s not Head Boy anymore, Hermione.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “What?”

Ginny nodded. “Suspended from Quidditch, too, until the spring match. If he stays out of trouble, he might get to play in the final match. If he doesn’t, well…”

“Quidditch is over for him.”

Ginny nodded again, biting her lip. “Yeah.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, actions have consequences, right?” She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug.

It was difficult for Hermione to gauge Ginny’s feelings. On the one hand, she seemed annoyed and with how Ron had been acting as of late. On the other, he was still her brother. She wanted to protect him and side with him out of love and familial loyalty, but he was making it increasingly difficult for her to defend him.

“Does your mum really blame me for how he’s been acting?”

“I think she’s just looking for someone to blame in general.” Ginny said. “I think she’s embarrassed by how she behaved towards you—doesn’t know how to come back from it.”

Hermione nodded, looking down at her lap. “Sounds familiar.”

“She did think of you as a daughter, Hermione. I think if Fred—” She cleared her throat and shook her head as if to clear it. “I think it was just—shit timing. You and Ron. Any other time, she might’ve supported you. Him, too.”

“You said you kept my secret. What did you tell them I did?”

Ginny’s eyes scanned the room again, noting the group of fourth years that had taken up a table a few feet from them. “I said you must’ve found a muggle way.”

She nodded. That was as close to the truth as she was willing to go, knowing Ginny’s loose lips and preference for wine and liquor as of late.

“Ron wouldn’t have supported me,” Hermione muttered. “He would have used it against me. He made it very clear the other day he still felt entitled to me. He can date whoever he likes, but I’m supposed to sit around and wait for him, apparently. No one else is good enough.”

“He’s scared.” Ginny murmured, pink colouring her cheeks at the impulsive defence of her brother. “He’s been afraid of his feelings for you for years and he fucked it all up. I think he’s scared because you made these big decisions without him, left for months, and came back dating ‘the enemy’—he doesn’t know how to handle any of this.”

“I was scared, too.” She whispered hotly. “Everyone thought I was being a selfish bitch, but I was terrified, Gin. I didn’t want my future tied to a mistake that I regretted the moment it happened. If the roles had been reversed, would anyone have blamed him for doing the same?”

Ginny tilted her head thoughtfully. “Probably not. Though, I dunno,” she frowned. “Mum panicked when she found a bottle of contraceptive potion in my trunk before fifth year. I think she’d rather we all just stay innocent children for her to take care of. Doing the right thing for yourself, Hermione—it took away her chance to raise another. I’m not defending her,” she clarified in a rush. “I think that’s just how her mind works.”

“I just want an apology,” Hermione sighed. “Just one ‘I’m sorry,’ is that too much to ask?”

“It might be.” She said gently. “You know them, Hermione. Stubborn as anything and never wanting to admit when they’re wrong. You remember how she treated you when she thought you were cheating on Harry?” She snorted a bitter laugh and shook her head. “She was only nice to you again when he set her right.”

“So, don’t expect an apology, then.”

“Not from Mum, no. I wouldn’t. Ron might come around, though. Once he realises what he’s lost and there’s no one to blame but himself.”

Hermione gave her a wan smile. Even if he did come to his senses and apologise, she was no longer sure she could accept it.

“Maybe.” She agreed. “But I won’t hold my breath.”

Chapter Text

7 December 1998

“You’ll have to study without me tonight,” Hermione told Harry as he got up from the Gryffindor table. “Emergency Prefect meeting.”

Harry started to nod but paused, glancing over to the Slytherin table. “All the Prefects?”

She lifted a brow and followed his eyeline. Pansy was deep in conversation with Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, her eyes flicking across the Hall to Harry as if sensing his staring, then back to her friends.

Hermione had already been suspicious of Pansy’s preference to Harry, but she hadn’t been aware of it being returned. Or maybe she’d chosen not to notice. Or maybe she was hoping she’d been imagining it.

She was losing her mind about everything else—why not create this nightmare scenario, too?

“What?” Harry asked defensively, catching her stare. “She does well in Transfiguration—better than you, even.”

She scoffed, taking great offence. The only evidence of Pansy’s skill had been to change a jumper into a dress—it was hardly impressive. “And just how would you know that?”

“By talking to her.” He shifted a bit uncomfortably, becoming more aware of the thinning crowd as students left from dinner. “You should try it sometime.”

“Forgive me for asking, but why would you voluntarily talk to Pansy Parkinson?” She demanded. “You know what she did, oh, seven months ago, don’t you? Not to mention her taunting in the years before. Honestly, Harry, I don’t know what you see in being friendly with her.”

Harry was stunned, torn between indignation and wanting to laugh. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Hermione folded her arms and adjusted her posture. “She’s not a good person.”

At this Harry snorted and leaned against the dining table. “Do you really want to get into that debate?”

“What debate?”

“That you picked the worst of them all to…befriend.”

“That’s different,” she argued. “He’s actually trying to change.”

“And Pansy’s not?”

She glanced across the hall once more, the two Slytherins in question heading over to meet Hannah Abbott in front of the High Table; most of the other Prefects were taking their time.

“I can’t speak for her.” She said primly. “Besides, Draco is hardly the worst—are you forgetting Crabbe and Goyle?”

Harry was very much trying not to burst into laughter now. “Malfoy gave the orders.” He reminded her. “Hermione, how long have you fancied him?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t fancy him until this year, Harry.”

“Oh, my god,” he shook his head, realisation dawning. “Oh, my god—is that why you didn’t believe me about him being a Death Eater?”

“I didn’t believe you because every time you thought something was Malfoy’s fault, you were proven wrong. Why would I have believed such a serious accusation? You weren’t credible.”

He gestured to the High Table with a triumphant grin. “And yet…”

“You were right one time. Congratulations.”

Though still smiling, he swayed a bit, as if lost in thought for a moment. “Alright, well…I need time to process whatever the hell this is.” He pretended to shudder.

“Go on, then.” She rose from the table. “Process away. But just so you know, Harry? That’s how I feel about the idea of you being friendly with…Pansy.” She grimaced.

He gave a rather smug shrug of his shoulders and backed out of the Hall. Collecting herself, Hermione went and joined the other Prefects, standing beside the fifth and sixth year Gryffindor Prefects, whose names were escaping her.

Draco and Pansy were on the opposite side of the large group, Draco using his previous injuries as an excuse to sit on the end of a Ravenclaw bench while everyone else stood. Hannah stood high on the platform to address everyone equally, the blonde looking calm and collected as she took charge.

Hermione tried to imagine herself in the role she’d once felt entitled to, and the thought of it was daunting. She no longer felt capable of Hannah’s responsibilities, especially when she could barely remember the names of Prefects in her own House. And if what Ginny had said was true, and Ron was no longer Head Boy, all responsibility would have been heaped upon her in his absence.

But if she had accepted the role—if she hadn’t changed what was meant to be, then she could have kept Ron in check. She would have spent more time with him and gently eased him back into being just friends and not flaunt her…more than friends friendship with Draco.

“—authorised to tell you there has been a change in duties.” Said Hannah, dragging Hermione from her thoughts. “I know we all have a lot on our plates, so I’ll be brief. Draco Malfoy has been suspended from patrols through the end of term. I’ll need volunteers to cover his shifts with Padma tomorrow night and Pansy next Tuesday.”

Ernie Macmillan volunteered for Padma. Pansy looked blank when no one leapt at the chance to patrol with her. Hermione had done it before—it hadn’t been that unpleasant, both girls doing their best to pretend the other wasn’t there. She didn’t relish the idea of spending an evening patrolling the corridors with her, but she already felt partially responsible for the fight; if she could help clear her conscience by volunteering for Pansy, it was the least she could do.

Hermione sighed and shot a hand up. “I’ll take Pansy.”

Hannah nodded, relief in her eyes that she wouldn’t have to by default. “Right. Thanks, Hermione.” She cleared her throat and glanced around, her eyes narrowing when she finally spotted Draco sitting down, his long legs casually stretched across the aisle to a Hufflepuff bench. “You’re on suspension,” she said, bewildered that she’d have to remind him of that fact. “You didn’t need to stay for the meeting.”

“No,” he agreed with a smirk. “But I wanted to be here for this.”

Hannah sighed but didn’t argue with him further. “Alright, then. Erm, there was an altercation last week—” she flicked her eyes to Draco once more. “We won’t get into specifics, but Ron Weasley is no longer Head Boy.”

The group didn’t break into outrage like Hermione had expected. If anything, it seemed as though they’d all been anticipating the announcement.

“Who is then?” A boy in the front asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Hannah admitted. “Professor McGonagall will be deciding over the next month. In the meantime, I’ll be assuming both responsibilities—if there is any issue, you will report to me and me alone. We’re going into the holidays, so I don’t expect there to be any more…incidents between now and next Friday.” Hannah unsubtly glanced from Hermione to Draco on either side of the large group. “Now, if anyone is staying at the castle through Christmas, please come up and see me. Otherwise, you’re all dismissed.”

The group dispersed and broke into hushed whispers as they began to file out, only two staying back to talk to Hannah. Hermione lingered a moment, peering over at Draco and Pansy before following the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs out of the Great Hall.

He was being cold with her again. Cold, in the sense that she’d all but laid herself out for him, and he’d not gone out of his way to talk to her since his release from the hospital wing. In Charms class the day after the fight, Draco had given her a blank look. Neither a smirk nor a sneer, just a blank expression in acknowledgment of her presence before taking his seat beside Theo.

The touch and go of their pseudo relationship had driven her mad enough to access the Divination section of the library the day before. As it was a Sunday and her work was almost complete for the rest of term, she had decided to take a chance and see if there was a reason for his behaviour. She hadn’t been expecting a logical one—their connection far defied logic at that point—but perhaps, she’d felt, an illogical reason might help.

Thus…the dreaded Divination section. Astrology, specifically. Apart from knowing her star sign, she hadn’t ever cared for the subject. Harry and Ron had taken an interest in it years ago, using their horoscopes to predict the immediate future, but Hermione had been too preoccupied with the real world that she hadn’t given any merit to it. Track the course of a planet a million miles away for the fun of it, or advocate for equal rights for the house-elves?

It was no contest.

But now that she had the time and a mild interest, she’d brought the same focused intensity into researching the subject as she did anything else. Draco was a Gemini. Gemini and Virgo were both ruled by the planet Mercury. He would be intellectual and clever, she would be sensible and reliable. She’d bristled at that, feeling slighted by a broad brushed summary of her capabilities. She was just as intellectual and clever—more so, even, as she’d always been at the top of their class.

After calming down, though, and accepting that she was quite sensible and reliable, she’d read on. She’d gathered that they could make a fine match, despite her hypersensitivity and his ability to flip the switch from attached to disinterested without skipping a beat. They were both defensive by nature—that had been painfully obvious from the start. She expected praise and admiration; he disengaged. Though great at philosophical conversations, these differences often caused strife for those couples. Though the Gemini man tries to relate and give in to the needs of his partner, the Virgo woman can be too demanding—too serious, too affectionate.

It burned her to read about it, each sentence feeling like a stab to her psyche. It was an objective take to their signs’ compatibilities, she knew, but she felt personally attacked by the “information” presented in the text. She forced herself to carry on then, reading about his supposed quick-witted nature and the ability to peel away her insecurities. With patience and understanding of one another’s needs, they can make a relationship work after the thrill of excitement in the beginning fades away.

She’d felt uncomfortable at that. She didn’t want to have to make a relationship work—it should either work or not. If they weren’t perfect together, then what was even the point?

Still, she wasn’t ready to let go of what could happen between them based of one person’s “expert” opinion in a dusty library text.

There were positives, though. Mutual respect and fondness. Attraction. They speak with their intellect first and feelings second—most of which she felt was true. When he wasn’t looking directly into her eyes and challenging her in a way that made her lower half clench in anticipation, it was true. When on the same page sexually, Virgos and Geminis tend to be chatty and unafraid to voice what they want. That, she’d hoped, was true. She’d gotten a taste of it months before in the Prefects’ Bath. He may have had to pry it out of her, but she’d said what she wanted, and he’d given it to her without hesitation.

Perhaps that was his hesitation with pursuing anything more concrete. Flirting and arguably innocent fooling around aside, he might be afraid to give in to her fully. Perhaps he was afraid of letting her in and her taking advantage of him.

It made her head ache to consider all of the possibilities. She wanted him—there was no clearer way for her to say it than she already had. He wanted her until he didn’t, freezing her out one day then cosying up to her another as if nothing had happened.

She’d had to make the first move with Ron. She had kissed him first. She had told him she wanted to be his girlfriend. What was it with the men in her life that they couldn’t grow the fuck up and tell her what they wanted first?

It wasn’t fair that she always had to make herself vulnerable. Introverted and careful as she was, it was rather cruel that the boys she fancied made her jump through an embarrassing series of hoops for them.

And yet, she kept going back. She was attracted to Draco, yes, but her sticking around was little more than a test of endurance for her now. She wanted to break him, to bend him to her and have him admit once and for all exactly what he wanted from her. She needed the clarity. She wanted to have him in bed, even if it complicated things.

Having felt at her breaking point, she’d skipped around their compatibility and challenges in love and sex, and went back to the basics. Virgo and Gemini are a balanced pair: yin and yang, feminine and masculine, passive and assertive. Ruled by the planet Mercury, she’d read again. It was the planet of communication and named for the Roman counterpart of the Greek messenger god, Hermes—the very same from which her own name derived.

She'd chucked the book away then, wanting to scream.

There were only so many coincidences she could take.

15 December 1998

Pansy was chattier than usual, much to Hermione’s dismay. It wasn’t that Pansy seemed particularly interested in befriending her, oh no. She wanted to discuss Harry. It was subtle, she had to give it to Pansy. Her inquiries were surface-level observations.

Potter’s gotten taller, hasn’t he?

He’s doing much better in Transfiguration since we’ve started studying together. Maybe you’ve been holding him back, Granger.

His scar has faded a bit, have you noticed?

That one she had noticed. In much the same way as Draco’s dark mark had faded from black to dark grey in a relatively short amount of time, Harry’s lightning bolt scar was just as present as ever, but less…violent. Less threatening. The outer edges had softened a bit in a shade closer to his skin tone, the colour of the scar itself still red but with more hints of natural pink than a bloody brown. The change was so miniscule, so insignificant, that she was sure Harry himself hadn’t even noticed.

But Pansy had.

She chose to file that piece of information away into a drawer called “things I never want to think about again.”

On the staircases between the third and fourth floors, the girls descending the presently-stationary marble stairs in their patrol of the castle, Crookshanks scuttled his way down to meet them. The ginger cat, like Harry, had recently developed a peculiar fondness for the Slytherin girl.

It had been that morning, in fact, that Pansy had delivered him to Hermione at breakfast, announcing the cat had found his way into her dormitory. She’d woken up to find him on her pillow, purring and kneading the silk pillowcase, according to Pansy’s rant.

“For Merlin’s sake, Granger, is it really so difficult to keep track of a cat?” She’d hissed, thrusting Crookshanks into Hermione’s unexpecting, limp arms.

She’d been sat at the Gryffindor table beside Ginny, mouth full of a bite of her dry, crumbly scone when Pansy had stormed over to her.

“I have grimy ginger hairs and claw marks all over my sheets now, thank you very much!”

Hermione had scowled at her and collected her cat, holding him to her chest defensively. He wasn’t a grimy animal by any means—very clean and well-groomed, even—but she hadn’t felt like arguing that point as Pansy took off again for her own table.

Ginny had been sniggering through the interaction, praising Crookshanks for his actions with a kiss on the head and a bite of sausage, which he’d happily chomped at in Hermione’s arms.

At the present moment, Crookshanks wound himself between their legs as they did their quick sweep of the third and second floors. As amused as Hermione was that Crookshanks seemed to annoy Pansy, she felt a prickle of jealousy that Crookshanks had been spending so much time in the dungeons. She’d realised a while back that Draco must’ve been letting him into the Slytherin common room at night, but she couldn’t understand why. Was it a manipulation tactic? Was he trying to drive her mad with curiosity?

Or did he simply enjoy the fact that her cat openly approved of him and wanted to throw it in her face?

That seemed the likeliest.

She really had no frame of reference for what the Slytherin dorms looked like. She knew they were mostly under the water of the lake, and she assumed it would be a mess of green and silver everywhere, but there were certain things she’d been anxious to find out.

Did they have windows, or were they completely in the dark? Was it always cold? Did they have carpets or was everything made of damp, chilly stone? Did it always smell of brackish water like Gryffindor Tower smelled of ash and burning wood?

“Do you have windows in your dormitory?”

“What?”

“Do you have windows in your dormitory?” Hermione repeated, slower this time. They were on the second floor landing, preparing to descend the stairs once more for the first floor when Crookshanks stopped in his tracks and stared at a far wall.

“Yes, we have windows.” Pansy sneered. “Why wouldn’t we have windows? The castle’s medieval, but it’s not completely barbaric.”

Crookshanks sat still, his tail brushing the floor as he flicked it, his eyes hard and penetrating as they stayed fixed on the invisible spot on the wall. Hermione frowned slightly, following his gaze but seeing nothing there.

“What is he staring at?” Pansy demanded, folding her arms over her chest and squinting her eyes as if to make out the hidden shape.

Hermione’s ears picked up the faintest sound of shuffling; Crookshanks tilted his head. She stepped closer until she was about two feet from the wall. It would be so easy to reach out and grab the cloak she suspected was there. She knew his height, knew she’d only have to reach forward and snatch it off his shoulder, but she wasn’t feeling particularly gentle that night.

With the toe of her shoe, she aimed a swift kick at where Harry’s shin would be.

Harry hissed in an instant, muttering something that sounded like “blimey, Hermione,” and she yanked the invisibility cloak back. He was doubled over, one hand wrapped around his shin while the other clutched the handle of his Firebolt.

“And where are you off to?” Hermione asked brightly, placing her hands on her hips.

“Well, I was going to go flying!” He spat, rubbing feeling back into his leg.

Pansy bent and retrieved the cloak from the ground, holding it up to inspect it.

“Where’s the map?” Hermione asked, noticing he was without the Marauder’s Map. “You could’ve easily avoided us.”

Harry looked displeased at the mention of it. “Lent it to Ron a few weeks ago,” he said grimly. “When I thought we were moving past all this.”

“Why did he need it?”

Green eyes flashed with pity, as if the answer was obvious.

It took a moment for her to catch on, but when it finally clicked, she gasped. Ron had borrowed the map to watch for Draco. He had planned it to confront him.

“Yeah, fine.” Pansy said, balling up the cloak. “Keep leaving me in the dark here.”

“Oh, er,” Harry mumbled, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s just a map of the castle.”

Pansy furrowed her brow and tossed the cloak to Harry; he caught it with his free arm and held it to his chest. “You don’t know the castle after seven years, Potter?”

“It’s not that kind of map,” he said, fumbling through a weak explanation. “It’s just useful to have.”

Hermione sighed and looked over her shoulder at Pansy. “It’s an enchanted map to see where people are in the castle or on the grounds.”

Pansy’s jaw dropped, a look of pure outrage in her expression. “Are you fucking joking?”

Harry smiled sheepishly and shook his head, his face reddening.

“You have that and a bloody invisibility cloak?” She scoffed. “Some people get all the luck.”

“I have no family, if that makes you feel any better.” Harry said dryly.

Pansy hummed. “Well, that, yeah…I suppose you weren’t so lucky there, were you?”

Hermione stared at her in astonishment. “You have no boundaries, do you?”

“What? It’s common knowledge he’s an orphan—are we supposed to pity him his entire life for it?”

“You could at least be respectful!”

“I’m being honest,” Pansy reasoned, then gave Harry a smarmy sort of smile. “You like that I’m honest, don’t you, Potter?”

Blush bloomed across Harry’s face and neck and he fidgeted with his broomstick, avoiding eye contact with his friend and the Slytherin girl. Hermione groaned aloud, not wanting to know anything more. For all she knew, Harry and Ginny were still together. Strained, yes, but still technically a couple. Neither of them had announced their separation, so the idea of Harry getting comfortable around Pansy in any sense infuriated her on Ginny’s behalf.

“You need to go back to bed.” Hermione told him stiffly, her air of authority slipping into place. Draco had once asked if she’d ever given preferential treatment to students in her own House and she hadn’t, but when it came to Harry or Ron she did. She knew full-well they took advantage of Harry’s cloak and the map—if she were a better Prefect, she would have demanded he turn them over to McGonagall, the former Head of their House. She had once reported the delivery of Harry’s broom to her—causing a minor rift between Hermione and her friends—but knowing how personally he’d taken her act of care, she knew she’d lose Harry forever if she reported his property again.

It was a map, she’d reasoned. A bloody useful map, too.

It concerned her a bit that Ron had it, unsure if he’d be spiteful enough to keep it away or destroy it. She didn’t think he would. She hoped he wouldn’t.

“No, I’m going to go fly.” Harry said defiantly. He slid the cloak back over himself and started to leave.

“Harry, I said no!”

Pansy snorted from behind her. “Let the boy live, Granger. Isn’t that what he’s best at?”

Crookshanks followed after him, his more sensitive cat ears able to pick up on footsteps she could not. Pansy followed suit, taking her time towards the staircase and leaving Hermione alone on the landing. Though irate, she checked the time on her watch and noted it was almost midnight. If anyone was still wandering about the castle, they would have been caught already.

“Damn.” She muttered, heading for the stairs as well.

Harry kept the cloak on until they were at the Quidditch Pitch. Hermione set off for the stands, reasoning with herself that the castle was stuffy and clean air would do her some good. She called for Crookshanks to follow, but he seemed content to stay beside Pansy and Harry.

Halfway up the steps, she heard several new voices and the trill of Pansy’s laughter. She rushed up and onto the stand usually occupied by Gryffindors during their matches.

Draco, Blaise, and Theo hovering on their brooms, Madam Hooch’s trunk on the ground. Harry mounted his broom while Pansy opened the lock on the supply closet and helped herself to a school broom. She had no idea if Pansy was a skilled flyer or not, but she mounted it smoothly, sitting on it elegantly despite straddling the broomstick in a skirt.

Hermione sat back in fascination. The game wasn’t particularly interesting to her, but something about it then held her attention. It was completely silent on her end. There was no rowdy, cheering crowd. No one announcing the score or commentating on plays. It was five figures flying in the darkness, the sounds of laughter and the thwacks of the Beater’s bats against the single Bludger they’d released.

She looked down onto the ground, squinting and straining to see what was left in the trunk. The small compartment for the Snitch was still locked in place, leading her to believe this was a friendly match, not a competition.

Did Harry do this often? Come out at night to play Quidditch with the sworn enemies of the Gryffindor House? It didn’t seem likely, but it felt too comfortable, too familiar. Pansy, though not as fast or steady on her broom, kept up well enough. At one point, in a moment of panic, Blaise threw Harry a bat to bash the Bludger away from Pansy’s broom.

Pansy laughed it off, but it only reminded Hermione how unnecessarily violent the game was. Why would anyone want to be high off the ground, balancing on a stick, and trying to dodge iron balls designed to knock you off and cause injury?

Harry immobilised the Bludger, collected it, and secured it back down into the trunk, then released the Quaffle and flew back up, the five of them huddling up in a meeting she couldn’t hear but was just as intrigued by. This was normal—this wasn’t a random occurrence. Harry, at some point, right under her nose, had been secretly meeting the Slytherins for nightly Quidditch practice.

She was stunned.

Pansy and Blaise took the roles of Keeper, Theo graciously bowing out to keep score, hovering on his broom and shouting out the arbitrary points as needed. Harry couldn’t get past a surprisingly swift Pansy, leading Hermione to wonder if she’d been downplaying her skills all along to throw him off his game. She saw his grin when he tried once more several minutes later, and she blocked the hoops like a pro.

Crookshanks sniffed around the trunk, and she laughed as he raised a paw to swat at the Bludger thrashing around its bindings. She didn’t know if the Slytherin boys had noticed her presence in the stands yet, so she stayed quiet and watched, their eyes all somehow adjusted to the night and able to play with little failure.

Theo eventually called time and announced the score. “Forty to ten!”

“That’s it?” Harry shouted back. “No, I got two goals, Nott!”

“Not from where I’m standing!” Theo called back. “Better luck next time!”

Theo captured the Quaffle, flew down, and finally set the Snitch free.

Harry and Draco took their positions, Pansy and Blaise hovering off to the sides of the hoops now as the real challenge set in.

“Three…two…” Theo released it as soon as he called one, not waiting a beat like he should have.

Harry surprised her, letting out a similar string of curses to Theo as Draco had in tricking them, the Snitch now lost in the night darkened Pitch.

“Fuck you, Theo!”

“It’s just a game, mate,” he laughed. “You’re taking it too seriously!”

Having lost the advantage, Harry and Draco scoured the Pitch for several minutes, the time dragging on to the point Hermione had to check her watch. It was nearly two in the morning, but no one seemed the slightest bit tired.

Everything was silent as they flew, their faces too dark to take in their expressions but she was sure they were both equally determined. She knew Draco had never caught the Snitch before when playing against Harry in an official match. Draco was a great flyer and had to have been good at the game to stay on the team as long as he had, but Harry always won against him.

Suddenly the Snitch fluttered in the air in front of her, stealing her attention away from the boys as they circled the Pitch. She gaped at it, watching its wings zip frantically, hovering as if deciding where to go next. Draco spotted it first, the flash of his white-blonde hair in her periphery as he flew up to her. Harry changed course in an instant.

His broom was superior, there was no doubting that, but Harry, this time, hadn’t been fast enough. Draco reached out and snatched it, squeezing it between his fingers in amazement as Theo shouted victoriously from the other side of the stands.

He hadn’t noticed her standing there yet.

“You’re supposed to be impartial!” Blaise reminded him, but he sounded pleased his “team” had won.

“Too bad it doesn’t count, Malfoy!” Harry called before he caught up. He was grinning though, looking flushed and exhilarated and genuinely happy. He met her eyes then, his glasses fogging and his breath coming out in harsh pants.

She grinned back, then turned her attention to the blonde. “Well done, Draco.” She greeted him, his grey eyes still transfixed on the Snitch as it struggled to zoom away again.

Her voice startled him, Draco dropping a foot as he lost his balance. “Fuck,” he panted, catching himself with one hand and steadying the broom with the other. “How long have you been there?”

“She followed us out,” said Harry. “Did we forget to mention it?”

Draco scowled at Harry and all but shoved the Snitch at him. “Fuck off, will you?”

Still in too good of a mood, Harry flew back down to the ground, Draco’s winning Snitch clutched in his right hand.

“Come here often?”

“More than you.” He replied coolly, his chest rising and falling with his rapid breaths. “What’re you doing here, Granger?”

She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from the cold and his apparent displeasure at seeing her there in his private space. Had she been out of line to come uninvited? She wondered if she should have asked Harry first—maybe Draco didn’t want her to see him play. He’d all but lead her to believe he’d given up the sport, but that, clearly, was not the case.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” She replied honestly. “I thought it was just going to be Harry.”

He rolled his eyes then ran his hands through his sweat-dampened hair, pulling the strands back from his flushed face. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hands holding his hair back, legs expertly locked around the broom to keep himself steady as he began to wind down from the physical activity.

When he opened his eyes again, he seemed calmer. She was used to the mood swings by then, his ability to weave from hostile to jovial to flirtatious at any given point in time. For now, he seemed relatively relaxed, hovering in front of her and catching her eyes squarely.

They’d not had the chance to talk since his time in the hospital wing, Draco having ignored her for nearly two weeks at that point. It left a lot in the air.

“Am I still going to the manor for Christmas?”

“If you want to.” He said flatly. “I don’t care either way, but make up your mind soon for the elf’s sake. She’ll need to prepare an extra bed for you.”

She couldn’t fight the smile that stretched across her lips. She was still invited, then. She was still on whatever good side he still had. It filled her with enough confidence to be bold then.

“I’ll come.” She said, her words sounding like a scandalous promise. “But tell Pipsey not to bother with an extra bed. I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”

He tilted his head in consideration. “You know Pansy won’t share.” He reminded her.

“I know.” She bit her lip softly. “I wasn’t planning on sharing with Pansy.”

He blew out a breath, steam puffing out into the night’s sky as he continued to hover on his broom. She noticed then how muscular his thighs were, how steady he was on a broom with so little effort. He was no longer playing Quidditch with his House team, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still playing for fun—it certainly explained the mystery of his well-maintained physique.

“Are you going to keep leering, Granger?” He asked, smirking. “You’re practically fucking me with your eyes.”

She leaned forward against the short wall of the Quidditch Stand. “What if I am?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Am I any good?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, would I?”

He hummed thoughtfully, then angled the broom closer to the wall, well within her reach. “Take a ride with me and find out.”

She could tell by the playfulness in his eyes he was expecting her to back out, but she felt inspired by his unexpected win that night. “Alright.” She agreed, matching his own arrogant smirk. “I’m not good with heights, so you’ll have to fly low.”

“We’ll fly how I want to fly.”

She allowed herself an eyeroll. “Fine, but if I fall, I’m haunting you in the afterlife.”

She moved to step up onto the wall but he clicked his tongue, halting her. “No knickers.”

“Absolutely not!”

He looked smug. “That’s how I want to fly.”

“You just want me at your mercy.” She accused.

“Of course I do.” He agreed. “I’ve been fairly honest about that, haven’t I?”

He had, that was true.

“That broom is filthy.”

“No, it’s not.” He argued with a laugh. “I polished it this morning. But feel free to Scourgify if you want—only the best for your cunt.”

She huffed and placed her hands on her hips.

“What will it be?”

With only a moment of indecision, she slipped her wand out of the pocket of her robes and cast a cleansing charm on the broom. She slid it back in, slipped off her robes, and worked the cotton underwear off her hips, inching them down her thighs under her skirt. She held his gaze as she went, then stepped out of them and pressed her thighs together tightly before stooping to collect them. He was holding his hand out expectantly, a brow lifted in a challenge, testing to see just how far he could push her before she got nervous and backed out. Looking around the Quidditch Pitch to see everyone else flying low in the air but far enough away that they wouldn’t notice the exchange, Hermione handed them over.

He inspected them briefly before pocketing them, seeming satisfied enough. “Hop on.”

She took his hand to step up onto the wall, going against all survival instincts by immediately looking down. “Okay, no! No, not happening!”

She started to backpedal, not caring at that moment if she fell backward and flashed everyone on the pitch. She just needed to get down—down, back on the ground, injury-free.

“Granger,” he said, rising up a foot to wrap an arm around her waist. “Trust me, alright? I won’t let you fall.”

She was shaking, adrenaline racing through her veins as he guided her left leg from the wall and over the broomstick in front of him. She gripped his shoulder, her fingers digging into the flesh and muscles there as he coaxed her onto it. It took quite a bit of adjusting. Lowering the broom, raising the broom, holding her hip, her lower belly until she was finally on and gripping the handle for dear life, panting shallow breaths into the chilly air.

The broom dipped and she let out a squeak, throwing out her hand to catch the wall but he’d steered them too far away.

“Hey, hey, relax,” he murmured in her ear as if he was soothing a startled animal. “Lean back into me.”

“I can’t,” she choked out. “I can’t move.”

His thighs flexed as he adjusted his balance, taking his hands off the broom in front of her. She felt her stomach sink, anticipating a sudden drop, but the broom didn’t move an inch. He moved to grab her hips, his hands wrapping around them firmly before he gently slid her back towards him.

She had to relax her grip on the handle, her hands weakly skimming the broomstick as she was edged back. Her next breath was a sharp inhale, the smooth, polished wood of the broomstick pressing up and parting the folds of her labia.

Wide-eyed, she stayed very still as Draco situated himself around her. His palms brushed her thighs as he took the handle in front of her once more. She could feel her skirt had ridden up, her bared backside pressed against the front of his trousers. He had to tilt her forward slightly, pressing his chest to her back for a better grip, and she whimpered as her clit brushed against the wood.

“Pull your hair back for me?” He asked as his forearms came to rest on her clenched thighs. “It’s lovely, but it’s hard to see around.”

With trembling hands she let go of the broom fully, feeling secure enough now that he’d wrapped himself around her. She slid the tie off her wrist and cautiously lifted her arms to the back of her head, reflexively moving to grab the broom with every sway, every light gust of wind until she managed to wrap her hair in a tight knot.

“You’re doing so well, darling.” He breathed against the back of her neck, his lips pressing to a spot below her hairline.

Her clit throbbed at the unexpected term of endearment, stealing another whimper from her breath. She would have never expected such lovely words to come from his mouth, but she couldn’t deny she responded well to it. Her thighs tightened around the broom on instinct, opening herself more onto it as he pressed against her back. She could feel the slickness trickling down, lightly coating the handle beneath her sex and knew she would have been mortified if it had been anyone else’s broom.

But Draco had asked for this.

He knew her body more intimately than anyone, even if they’d only shared the one experience. Even then, though, it had felt like he knew her—everything about her. The right pressure, the right words. Knowing she could take two of his fingers instead of testing the waters with one.

Did he know she’d enjoy sitting on his broomstick, too? There was no way he knew she’d be out there tonight or that she’d call his bluff and hand over her knickers, but he didn’t exactly seem surprised by her actions, either.

“All set?”

“Yes.” She breathed shakily. “Go.”

His hands were above hers on the handle, their skin touching, his thighs squeezing around hers as she maintained control of the broom. Flying was not a natural gift for her, but she doubted it had anything to do with being raised in the muggle world. Harry had, too, and he was one of the best flyers the school had ever seen. For Hermione, she felt riding a broom was giving up a sense of control.

Brooms were stubborn and wanted the rider to trust them, but she could never relent. All the times she’d been forced to ride had been out of pure necessity and almost always escaping from a dangerous situation. She could neither see the fun nor the practicality of riding a broom, especially not when witches and wizards could only ride at night-time lest they be spotted by a muggle.

But they were a simpler method of transportation than Apparition. They didn’t have to be connected to a government network like Floo. They didn’t have to be regulated like Portkeys. In the sense of freedom, she could see the appeal of brooms.

Before tonight, that would have been the only noteworthy thing about them, but that was before she’d flown with Draco.

The muscles of her thighs ached but the strain was dulled by adrenaline and arousal as they flew around the pitch. He kept it easy on her, limiting how many dives they took and making sure not to do a roll, nothing that could upset the balance they’d found.

Down below, she saw the other four winding down, landing within seconds of one another. She could only pray it was dark enough that they couldn’t look up and see she was bare beneath her skirt, but none of them seemed to notice. She felt confident that if Theo had, he would have made a show of it.

“You alright, Hermione?” Harry called up, waving his broom to get her attention.

“Fine!” She called back, her voice stronger than it had been earlier in their ride. “You can go!”

Pansy, Blaise, and Theo had already taken off, clearly not waiting for permission like Harry had. He called out a goodnight and followed them out, taking longer and quicker steps to catch up.

“That wasn’t very wise, Granger. How do you know I won’t keep you?”

She grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “You won’t.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because I’d be willing—you only want me when I make it a challenge for you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” She countered, tilting her hips back, pressing the skin of her backside to the growing stiffness behind his zipper.

They hovered for many moments, several yards off the ground and almost level with the walls of the stands once more.

“Make it a challenge for me.” He ordered, his breath hot against her ear. “Prove you can come without me touching you.”

She circled her hips without conscious thought, her inner flesh throbbing, begging for friction. “You’re already touching me.”

“Not like this…” He slid a hand from the broom to her thigh, sneaking under the fabric of her skirt and caressing the soft inner skin too gently for her liking. His fingertips found her swollen clitoris with ease, collecting her arousal fluid and circling the spot, flattening his palm against her pubic bone to hold her steady.

“Draco,” she whispered, drawing out his name in a long breath.

She pressed herself against his hand and he retracted it just as fast, dragging his slick fingertips along her inner thigh. He wiped the remainder off on her knee-high sock; it should have made her feel dirty, depraved, even, for liking it, but it didn’t. She couldn’t deny that she enjoyed him defiling her just a bit any more than she could deny loving the feeling of the broom between her legs.

“I agree with you,” he breathed. “The broom is absolutely filthy now.”

He took hold of the broom once more, locked his thighs around hers, and shot them up, tilting the broom up and back and earning a shrill scream from her lips at the loss of what little control she still had. They were going too high, too fast, Draco switching directions too much for her to keep anything straight. She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her hold, clenching down on the broom to keep steady and worsening her arousal in the process.

She wasn’t going to fall, she knew he wouldn’t let her…but she also knew he wasn’t going to let her down without giving him what he wanted first. The sky was open all around her when she opened her eyes. Looking down, the Quidditch Pitch felt miles away, the House banners swaying in the crisp breeze. The sky was an endless sheet of indigo, speckled with millions of abstract spots of silver. The moon was waning, just days from the new moon, and casting them in enough darkness that it felt private enough for her to let go. She took several steadying breaths, the air burning her lungs as she devoured it. He was still behind her, his hands not even twitching, the broom bobbing up and down slightly as they hovered.

When her breathing evened out, he rested his chin on her shoulder, bearing more of his weight down on her and it felt wonderful. She moaned softly at the contact, allowing her head to roll back against him. It was so overwhelming being so high up, but when she quieted, when the only sounds were her own heartbeat in her ears, his breathing, and the creatures of the night in the world below their feet, she eased a hand from its grip.

She moved her left hand under her skirt.

Feeling steady in the air, he removed both of his hands from the broom. He captured the hem of her skirt from where it rested at the tops of her thighs and flipped it up, peering over her shoulder to watch her now with an unobstructed view. He moaned softly at the sound of her slickness as her fingertips rapidly swiped across her clit. Everything was so swollen, so stimulated. Her hips rocked against her hand, her vagina clenching almost painfully as it begged to be filled.

He didn’t touch her. He watched, gave soft sounds of praise as she rubbed her skin raw in a desperate attempt for release. She whimpered, a high keening sound at the back of her throat as her thighs tightened and she felt herself reaching that wall.

The half orgasm. The one that relieved tension and cleared her mind of dirty thoughts. The one she reached in her bed or in the shower. When alone, feeling too sensitive to continue, she simply gave up and carried on, sneaking out of bed and taking a shower to rid herself of the slickness and musky scent between her legs.

But now she pushed herself over that edge, pushed past even when her body tried to shy away. She couldn’t vocalise what she needed, but he seemed to know anyway. He leaned in, pushing her back down to the broom, Hermione crying out at her silken opening pressing flush against the broomstick. He resumed his hold on the broom with both hands and put his feet between hers, guiding her thighs open.

There was nothing to hold her back, nothing for her to cling to but the broomstick and her own hand. The stretch of her thighs opened her to the chill of the air below, sending a rush of coolness to her sex and making her writhe with it.

This is perfect. This is perfect. This is—fuck!

“Keep going,” he encouraged in that long-suppressed voice she loved so much. “Almost there, darling, keep going…”

She cried out as his thighs snapped hers around the broom once more, the sudden movement, the sliding of her electrified labia on the broom, her fingers pushing into her clit and scrubbing until she was sure there’d be nothing left of it—she broke.

“Oh, god!” She wailed, dragging out the single syllable.

He held her close with one arm around her waist, letting her lie limp like a ragdoll over the broom as he guided her back down to earth. Her thighs were clamped around it only by instinct—the rest of her mind was far, far away.

When his feet touched the ground, he picked her up and let the broom drop, Hermione’s feet skimming the grass as he held her close. He carefully eased her down, guiding her to lie flat on her stomach and ground herself. She only barely registered him readjusting her skirt to smooth back over her exposed skin. Wandlessly, he summoned her robes from where she’d left them in the stands, and covered her with them.

He laid down next to her on his back, looking up at the stars. She panted as she looked him over. He was flushed and panting, too, his breaths a continuous stream of translucent, ghostly white.

“So…” he breathed, his voice sounding tight, constricted. “Christmas?”

She attempted a laugh but it came out as a whine, and she buried her face in the grass.

Chapter Text

16 December 1998

When the bliss of her mid-air orgasm receded into cold reality, he helped her to stand and guided her back to the castle, draping his arm over her shoulders. She felt so close to a breakthrough with him—it was only a matter of time before he either realised he wanted something serious with her, or he would get tired of the mind games and call it off for good.

Something had to give.

They said nothing on the chilly walk back up, the sky lightening, turning grey with foreboding storm clouds; she was honestly surprised it hadn’t started snowing yet.

Nearly halfway to the castle from the Quidditch Pitch, he snuck his hand into hers and laced their fingers. His skin was just as icy as hers, the temperature barely registering, but she felt the pressure, felt the roughness of his palms from holding the broom. He seemed to shiver as they walked, Draco wearing lighter clothes meant for exercise. He hadn’t brought his robes out to the pitch with him, but she stayed nice and toasty beneath hers.

“Cold?”

He smirked slightly. “Normally I’m still too hot when I get back to the dorms, but someone kept me out late tonight.”

“That was very rude of them.” She said, bringing up their joined hands to kiss his knuckles. “I could cast a warming charm?”

“No thanks. I’ll need to adapt to the cold if I’m to survive Azkaban.”

She frowned up at him. “You won’t be going to Azkaban.”

“It’s possible. If McGonagall or the healers don’t believe my version of events, I very well could.”

“Harry and I vouched for you.”

“Neither of you were there at the start. Weasley’s claiming self-defence.”

“You don’t need to worry about that—if McGonagall believed you were responsible, she wouldn’t have been so strict with Ron’s punishment. You only had a suspension from patrol, right?” He nodded. “Okay, then. There’s nothing to worry about. You were fighting in self-defence. You didn’t even use your wand—that shows tremendous restraint.”

He smirked. “I would have, but I knew it’d resist.”

“No breakthroughs yet?”

“Just simple charms, nothing that could help in a duel.”

She pulled him against the wall just outside the entrance to the castle. The lamps had been extinguished earlier in the night, perhaps by the Slytherins as they’d made their way out to the pitch. It cast them into a lovely darkness, the only light visible through a far window nearest the doors. The sky was completely clouded over then, fine swirls of white, powdery specks glittering down to the grassy hillside they’d just climbed.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him tightly against her, her hands slipping under his well-worn Quidditch jumper that looked painfully thin for the weather that had just rolled in. He rested his broom against the wall beside her and closed the little space that remained between them, ducking his head to rest on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry about tonight.” He said, a slight tremble to his voice as if his teeth were chattering.

He moaned softly into her hair as he relaxed into her warmth, his arms flexing and squeezing around her back. Although her hands were just as chilled through as his, she was running them up his back under his jumper to try to rub some warmth into him with friction.

“Which part?” She asked, shivering as he caressed the skin of her back.

He huffed a soft laugh, his breath hot on her neck. “Not telling you about Quidditch. I’m sure you have questions.”

“I do.” She murmured, her breath hitching as one of his hands went to her stomach. “But that’s not what you should be sorry for.”

“What do you mean?”

She trailed her fingertips across his shoulder blade, the muscle flexing at the chilly contact. “You’ve been a bit of a twat the last few weeks.”

“I’ve been a twat?” He laughed against her skin.

“Well, you have been ignoring me—that wasn’t fair.”

His hands stilled abruptly and he lifted his head. He’d been leaving soft kisses along the side of her neck, but stopped when she’d uttered the word “fair.”

“I haven’t been affectionate with you,” he said, meeting her eyes, his face just inches from hers. “But I haven’t been ignoring you. I’ve acknowledged your presence in classes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I would have liked more than an acknowledgment, Draco.”

The playfulness he’d exhibited earlier in the night started to slip away, but the meanness didn’t take its place as expected. He seemed rather defeated, trembling under her hands, his minty, herbal breath visible as he let out a resigned sigh. “And I would like for you to decide what we are…but you don’t want to do that.”

“What are you talking about?” She asked harshly. “I’ve been transparent with my feelings for you.”

“Have you?” He pulled his hands away from her, his fingertips red even in the dark of the night. She wondered if they stung from the blood rush her heat had provided. “You always skirt around putting a label on us.” He scoffed, then rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “I’m tired of it. You’re so eager for me to get you off, and that’s fine. I actually appreciate that you come to me. But have you thought about what I want from this? From you?”

The snowfall was harder then, fat clumps swirling in the air, the green grass masked by a sheet of sparking white. It was quite beautiful. Winter at Hogwarts was her favourite season, the innocence of freshly-fallen snow taking away some of the harshness of the medieval castle.

He folded his arms, the sleeves of his jumper pulled over his fists to preserve what little warmth remained. In the low light, his pale skin was almost eerie in its whiteness. He looked made of marble, everything about him grey-streaked white. His hands had been a stark contrast, looking as if he’d burned them by touching her.

“I asked you if we had a label, in the hospital wing.” He inhaled shakily. “But instead of answering, you acted like a coward and tried to distract me. I should have sent you away then, I really should have.” He swallowed then licked his dry lips, the pale pink skin of them visibly chapped. “You don’t see that I’m constantly putting my guard down with you, do you? I’ve done everything you asked of me. I hold your hand, I’ve brought you to sit with my friends—every moment not spent dreading life outside this school in a few months, my thoughts are consumed by you…and I don’t know if you even care.”

“Draco—”

He cut her off, determination flashing in his darkened eyes. “You’re upset I haven’t felt like talking to you the last couple of weeks, fine. I’m sorry I misread you once again. I’d like to say I’ll try to do better, but maybe I’m incapable of it.”

She sighed and wrapped her own arms around herself, her robes not as warm as they had been earlier.

“I got into a fight with Weasley, defending you, and the second you got caught in bed with me, you ran away. What was I supposed to do with that?” He asked, sounding choked. “You made your rejection loud and perfectly clear.”

“I wasn’t rejecting you!” She insisted, her eyes prickling as she noticed his gloss over.

“Then why did you take off?” He asked, sniffling. “If you’d stayed, you would have actually heard my side of things. You gave Weasley a chance to explain himself. Potter said you two were going to talk to McGonagall about him. Why couldn’t you have stayed in the room and been my support then? For all I knew, I was facing expulsion or another trial—it would have been nice to have someone on my side for once.”

A shudder rolled through him, his shoulders tensing.

“I’ve been on your side,” she breathed, her throat closing as she took in the state of him. “I went to you after the fight—everyone saw. McGonagall saw. That should tell you my preference, shouldn’t it?”

He laughed bitterly, one hand going up to grip his hair. “You showed me sympathy in public, but you defended me in private. Can’t you see how I might feel just a bit slighted by that?”

She could only stare at him helplessly. She felt she’d done all she could then, but wondered if she could have done more—if she could have shown more support. She thought she’d made a significant, public display, but to anyone who didn’t know them, know their situation, had she simply looked like a concerned bystander?

“What was I supposed to do?” She asked weakly, shrugging her shoulders. “Publicly berate Ron? Make a big fuss to McGonagall in the Entrance Hall?”

“Yes!” He said, as if it were obvious. “That would have felt nice, you doing something for me for once.”

“I do things for you all the time!”

“You don’t.” He said to himself, expelling his breath in a harsh puff. “You really don’t.” He reached out and snatched her wrist suddenly, turning it over to view the face of her watch, then released her. “It’s late. Let’s try to get some sleep, alright?”

“Draco, I—”

“I’m not in my right mind, Granger. I’m tired. Talk to me in the morning.”

“Draco—”

“Stop. Please. If either of us says anything more, we’ll regret it.”

His face was solemn as he reached for the broom beside her, his eyes boring into hers. She stayed silent, unsure if he was daring her to challenge him, or pleading with her to let her rebuttal go.

It was late and he was probably exhausted, but she didn’t feel tired. No, she felt fired up. She wanted answers, even if she made things worse between them.

“Why tonight, then?” She called after he’d started for the doors. “Why bother making me feel good if it hurts you so much?”

He turned back to her, the end of his broom brushing the stone ground. “I’m sure you can draw your own conclusion to that.” He said, still without anger or a hint of a sneer. “Go to bed, Granger.”

17 December 1998

Although it had been a Wednesday and she had end-of-term assignments to submit and present, she had skipped classes the day before and holed up in her dormitory. All day she had stayed, only leaving bed to shower and use the bathroom. She hadn’t felt like eating, but she refilled a water glass several times to stay hydrated.

Draco had given her a lot to consider.

After she’d gone to bed nearing four in the morning, her mind had kept her wide awake with his words. All the times she thought she’d been sparing him by detaching herself, she now saw how rejected he must’ve felt. He was always a bit icy after they’d been close—she had always assumed he didn’t want her to get too close to him, too familiar, but now she recognised his pulling away was the direct result of her actions.

It dawned on her then, lying in her bed with the curtains drawn, watching the light of morning reflect off the snow on the grounds and brighten her dorm, that the first time she had Draco had been intimate, she had called it a mistake.

Obviously this was a mistake, she recalled herself telling him in the mirror in the Prefects’ Bathroom. She had been trying to save face, to make it less awkward between them, but upon reflection, he hadn’t seemed awkward at all until she’d said that. He’d seemed relaxed, content, but his defensive walls had shot right into place as he met her eyes.

What he’d accused her of after the Quidditch Pitch, dealing with Ron—even if it had been to ensure his punishment—then running away from Draco like a startled rabbit upon being caught…of course she had hurt him. She had rejected him.

He had asked her if they had a label, and she’d ignored it and forced herself against him, ignoring his discomfort, ignoring that he’d rather talk than have her snuggle into him—but he’d relented anyway. He had pushed his needs aside to comfort her, though she had told herself she was comforting him.

Was she really so bad at reading him?

Perhaps she had been too cautious with him. Teasing that she’d like him to fuck her aside, she had a habit of dancing around the serious topics. She wanted him, wanted him to make the first move, but why would he when she’s proven herself to be indecisive? Every time the idea of labelling what they were to each other had come up, she had skirted around it.

My more-than-a-lab-partner. Saying she would let him fuck her if he gave in and kissed her. Letting her resentment over the past taint what she could have if she could just be honest with herself.

She was afraid of having something real with him.

She was afraid of having him and then losing him. It wasn’t a fear of commitment—it was the fear of not having him forever. It was the desire for commitment that terrified her and influenced her decision-making. If she could have a guarantee that he felt even close to the same way, she would take a chance. She would let herself fall.

But he’d not yet shown her that. He liked her, he wanted her, but if it wasn’t a long-term commitment he was interested in, if he didn’t see a future life—in some capacity—with her, she couldn’t allow herself to get swept up in him.

She didn’t fall in love easily. Lust, yes—Draco’s voice in her head the last four years was evidence of that—but not love. She had only ever felt a romantic love for Ron, until that night in October. She had trusted Draco that night in a way she never had with Ron—that said something, surely. She wasn’t skilled at differentiating feelings of love, romance, or lust. Maybe they were all the same in a sense, just with different intensities.

Maybe there was a deeper meaning to his voice staying in her head all these years. She’d brushed off the idea of ever being in love with him—she’d simply been attracted to him. His behaviour in the past hardly qualified him for being loveable. She would have been absolutely insane to consider an actual, romantic relationship with him back then.

But that hadn’t explained the unreasonable amount of time she’d spent studying him after the Yule Ball. In classes, in the library, wondering when his voice had deepened, when he’d had his growth spurt that made him taller than Harry. Wondering why such an arrogant, whiny prick could smile the way he did or have such long eyelashes, making him look innocent and playfully mischievous even when he was insulting her.

It was attraction. It was chemical. It had been an easy thing for her to manage, pushing him deep into the recesses of her mind and allowing herself to focus on what she knew she wanted, what she should have wanted—Ron. It was chemical…until it wasn’t.

When it had changed, she couldn’t say, but love and lust for her no longer felt mutually exclusive.

Was she in love with Draco? Fuck if she knew, but she certainly lusted after him. She trusted him in ways she couldn’t trust Ron. Surely that counted for something.

When Wednesday came and went, the hushed whispers of concern from her roommates quieting as they went to bed that night, she had formulated a plan. Spending a day in bed, alone with one’s own thoughts, really put things into perspective. She would make the first move, the only move, for the last time. If Draco decided to be unreceptive to it, then she could walk away knowing she’d done everything she could.

If he was receptive to it, though…she shivered pleasantly at the thought. She would wait until the holiday. Her cycle was set to start right before they left, so she would have several days to gauge where he stood with her before pouncing. It wasn’t even about sex, really. She wanted—needed—to make her intentions clear. She couldn’t give him any more room to doubt her.

But she had to trust him, too. She had to stick with her needs and make sure she was safe before taking such leap. It was entirely possible she was overthinking this, but he probably was, too. If his surprising emotions the night before had told her anything, it was that he was just as fearful of her as she was of him.

She had trusted Ron to protect her body. She would be asking Draco to protect her heart. Knowing how much the former had failed, the idea of entrusting anyone with a piece of herself was daunting. Her body had healed—she wasn’t sure if her heart could.

Living in fear of a possible outcome hardly spoke of her bravery, though. She could either let him go now and protect herself forever, or she could take a chance and hope for the best. She could handle this—if she could fling herself onto a bloody dragon, she could tell Draco she wanted to be his girlfriend. She wanted a relationship. She wanted to wake up curled against him with Crookshanks on the pillow beside them and spend the day talking.

It hurt to envision it, to want something so badly without the guarantee of getting it. She’d been burned by her fantasies before. But Draco was not Ron, not even close. He had the potential to hurt her far worse than Ron ever could, but she didn’t think he would. If this had all been a game to Malfoy to see if he could seduce her, she would admire his determination, at the very least, even if it broke something inside of her.

Determined and cunning as he was, though, she hadn’t felt he was lying when he’d expressed resentment of her unintentional rejections. She had felt he’d been sincere, and for once she’d been the cold one, the detached one. It wasn’t a role she liked, but she’d been able to feel, in that brief moment, how draining it was to be so defensive all the time. He didn’t trust anyone and for good reason, but he was trying to trust her.

Despite all reason, all common sense, he truly seemed to want to trust her, too.

Thursday morning, two days before they were set to leave the castle for Malfoy Manor, she was up and dressed and heading down for breakfast before her roommates. She had sat at the Slytherin table only once. It had felt nice, him caring for her whilst she recovered from the hangover of the century, but at some point it had felt too close.

She’d been sitting with her former enemies and chatting with them, laughing with some of them, with Draco’s arm around her. She had been sure that he’d only allowed it the one time because she’d been so pitiful the morning after Halloween, but now she realised he’d wanted her there.

He’d taken her hand and led her to his table. He’d brought her into his world, putting himself at the mercy of his friends, and the next morning she’d gone back to the familiar. The comfortable. She’d explained to her Housemates she’d still been a bit drunk and they’d laughed it off with her.

She hadn’t realised then that Draco might’ve wanted her company again.

“You’re not a twat.” She told him as he came up from the dungeons.

He looked confused, the space between his brows wrinkling, his lovely mouth in a slight frown. “Good morning to you, too.”

The Great Hall was nearly half full despite the early hour. They were nearing the end of term, many of the younger students diligently studying as they shovelled down their breakfasts. Hermione had poked her head in to see if he’d arrived early, but when she saw the only recognisable face at the Slytherin table as belonging to Millicent Bulstrode, she’d decided to wait in the Entrance Hall for him.

She was leaning against a wall and wringing her hands, his grey eyes taking her in carefully, clearly wary of meeting her gaze.

“You’re not a twat.” She said again, firmer this time. “I’m sorry for what I said the other night. I was wrong.”

He sighed after a moment, letting his bag slip off his shoulder as he came to stand beside her. He leaned against the wall, too, and turned his head to look down at her.

“I am a bit of a twat, aren’t I?” His lips tugged up into more of a smile than a smirk.

She hummed thoughtfully. “Well, if you’re a twat, then I’m a…stupid bitch.”

When he didn’t argue that, she swatted him. He caught her hand and laced his long fingers with hers. “Anyone could come by and see.”

“I know.”

“And this is alright?”

She gave his hand a squeeze and smiled up at him. “This is perfect.”

“It’s not terrible.” He agreed, using his free hand to tousle his already messy hair.

Stifling a giggle, she released his hand and went around to him, reaching up to smack his hand away and fix his hair for him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re making me long for the days you used to slick it back.”

He visibly shuddered at the thought. “Never again. Better get used to this, Granger.”

“You could give it a trim, at least.” She said, clicking her tongue at being able to capture a fistful of the blonde strands.

The benefits of not slicking it back far outweighed the shabbiness of it now, though. It was softer-looking, clean and shiny instead of oily, and it made him look properly youthful and not severe and too mature for his age.

But it could stand a trim.

“I could cut it for you, if you’d like.”

Panic flashed in his eyes as he tried to look up at what her hand was doing. He weaved away from her, the silky strands slipping through her fingers. “I happen to like it, thank you very much. I don’t tell you how to do your hair.”

“Yes, you have!” She said, sputtering a laugh. “You’ve given me smoothing serums and had me put my hair back the other night.”

“And have you any complaints?” He asked, a knowing smirk on his lips then as he bent to collect his bag from the floor.

She had no complaints, actually. She’d been glad he’d had the foresight to restrain her hair whilst flying. He’d said it was so he could see better, but she suspected later it was to prevent painful tangles in her curls. As for the absolutely magical hair serum he’d given her from the manor, she refused to go back to the frizzy mane she’d had before.

“None.”

He slipped his bag back over his shoulder. “I think we only have DADA today.” She nodded. “Well then, I’ll try to do more than acknowledge you.”

“I was thinking we could have breakfast together.” She said quickly as he turned to enter the Great Hall. “Today. Now.”

“I don’t think I’d be very welcome at the Gryffindor table.”

“I’m barely welcome at the Gryffindor table these days.” She said, matching his smirk.

The fallout with Ron had resulted in her exile from people she used to consider friends. Her roommates didn’t like her, necessarily, but they’d been kinder since the unfortunate incident on Halloween. Parvati had heard Ron going off on her in the hall after the fight and had offered her sympathy to Hermione in the privacy of their dorm; Lavender had come around after Ron’s fate had been decided.

He hadn’t been expelled. He wasn’t going to Azkaban. He lost his Head Boy and Prefect privileges, but in Lavender’s mind it was a blessing, as it left more time for her.

As relieved as she was for her friend not losing the rest of his life over an impulsive mistake, she was furious that he was getting off on a technicality and preferential treatment. Harry had been in the office with McGonagall and Kingsley, who had felt it necessary to hear Ron out in person.

If it had been anyone else, they would have had a trial. They might have even had their wand destroyed. But Ron had gotten out of the altercation practically unscathed, and a part of her hated that fact.

When news had travelled throughout their House that Hermione and Harry had sided with Malfoy, they’d been effectively shunned for betraying Ron. It had felt ridiculous at the time, friends who had literally fought alongside them in the battle now turning their backs to them for calling Ron out on his awful behaviour.

It was pathetic.

“I was thinking I would like to join you, actually. If you’ll have me.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“Good.” She said brightly. “But I’d like to do something first, and I’d very much appreciate if you didn’t fight me.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, she went on tiptoe, and their lips met in the middle. A soft, closed-mouth kiss, her hand around his neck to pull him down to her as he still tried to resist. She heard the resigned groan as he gave in, bending to her will, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. Their lips parted but she kept it fairly chaste—they were standing in front of the open doors of the Great Hall, after all.

“Thank you.” She whispered, smiling against his lips.

He pulled back first, a light flush to his cheeks, then he put a hand to her lower back and steered her to the Slytherin table, trying very hard not to return her smile.

23 December 1998

They’d departed Hogwarts on Saturday the nineteenth, the train ride to King’s Cross Station seeming to take forever. It had been a nice ride, though, the Prefects’ Carriage quiet and relaxing, Hermione’s eyes fixed on her window, watching the heavy snow become icy rain as they travelled further south.

It had been fully dark when they’d arrived at the manor. As expected, dinner was hot and waiting for them in the library, with three plates set. A bed had been conjured by the windows anyway despite Hermione telling him one wasn’t necessary.

They were in a good place, but he still needed…distance.

She had thanked him for it sweetly. One night she had even managed to bring him over to it so they could talk more comfortably, but he’d seemed very aware of her motives. She hadn’t been trying anything—even if she had, she’d been in the middle of her cycle then—but he seemed to know she was plotting something.

She and Pansy had stayed out of each other’s way, only interacting when they had to during mealtimes. A part of her could understand why Harry had been oddly drawn to her—she was easy to be in silence with. She had her own misfortunes and she kept them to herself. She wasn’t a Weasley who felt the need to talk and provide physical comfort, which she knew Harry had grown a bit resentful of.

Ginny had told her the morning before they left for Christmas that Harry was going home with her. She had a feeling something was coming, and for that she wished she could have stayed at the castle, but Mrs. Weasley had apparently been insistent that she have all of her children back home. Bill and Fleur would be there. Charlie would be in from Romania. Even Percy, who had been on the outs with his family before the war, was being welcomed back in.

Harry, who had always been considered an honorary member of the Weasley family, was only going out of obligation. He and Ron weren’t speaking much; he and Ginny were barely holding on to their relationship. Hermione wished she would have asked Draco if he’d mind Harry staying with them, but the thought of Harry choosing to spend his holiday at Malfoy Manor was ludicrous.

She had found comfort in this place, though—it was possible Harry could, too. Probable, no, but always possible.

The fireplace in the library flashed emerald, and Pansy stepped out moments later. She fixed her hair and tossed her handbag into the armchair Crookshanks had resumed using as a scratching post, then helped herself to what remained of dinner.

“You’re out late.” Hermione commented, clearing away the ash and dust left behind by Pansy’s arrival by Floo with a flick of her wand.

“You’re observant.” Pansy said sarcastically. She filled a glass mostly full with pumpkin juice, then helped herself to a bottle of Draco’s firewhisky, topping off the juice with it. She took an experimental sip and seemed pleased with it. “Want some?” She surprised Hermione by asking, holding up the bottle with her other hand.

“No thanks.” She said, organising the books she’d already skimmed that day to return them to the shelves later.

Pansy shrugged and put back the bottle at the small bar area, then settled herself onto the sofa to begin filling her plate with cold roast beef and potatoes.

“What’s happening with you and Draco?” Pansy asked conversationally.

“What’s happening with you and Harry?” Hermione countered.

Pansy eyed her critically over her glass of spiked pumpkin juice. “Fair enough.” She said, then dabbed at her lips with a napkin.

“You weren’t out seeing him, were you?” Hermione asked, suddenly worried that Harry had left the Burrow to meet her.

She didn’t think he would have, but Pansy seemed to be in a suspiciously decent mood.

“No, Granger. I wasn’t secretly meeting with a Gryffindor. That’s Draco’s specialty, not mine.”

“Oh, sure.” She said as she settled into her old favourite spot on the loveseat, Crookshanks hopping up to relax in her lap. “He has a girlfriend, Pansy.”

“Are you sure about that?” She asked, taking another sip.

Crookshanks purred as Hermione scratched the spot between his ears. “I think my friends would have told me if they’d broken up.”

Pansy shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe. I do know he’s spending his time at the Weasleys to…re-evaluate his relationships.” She set her glass down on the table between them with a thud.

“Like he re-evaluated you?” Hermione asked coldly. “You do remember how you wanted to offer him up as a sacrifice, don’t you?”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed fiercely. “I promise you, Granger, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t regret that.” she said, matching Hermione’s tone. She clasped her hands together and leaned in. “I don’t expect you to understand, given your…heritage and your self-righteous beliefs of right and wrong, but I had no choice. Don’t get me wrong, I had absolutely no sympathy for you or anyone else on your side, but I wanted it all to end, too. I wanted to move on with my life and he was right there—the nightmare could have been over for me in a matter of hours.”

“And the nightmare for everyone else?”

“Not my problem.” She said simply. “Think what you want of me, I don’t particularly care for your opinion, anyway. But I’ve talked to Potter. You might be surprised to hear he understood where I was coming from.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, actually.” She said honestly.

Pansy cocked an eyebrow. “No?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. He’s already surprised me by being nice to you—I don’t think he would have bothered if he hadn’t understood the position you’d been in.”

“That’s…generous of you.” Pansy said carefully. “You know Draco used to feel the same way, don’t you? He was all too thrilled to uphold the Pure-blood beliefs of his mother and father, as was I. Tell me, what would you have done if you’d been either of us? If the side your family was on—if everything you knew, every lie you were fed since birth was at risk of being torn away and the one thing standing in your way to maintaining your way of life was right there for the taking, would you have really let him go?”

Hermione scoffed in disgust. “You can’t justify this, Pansy. Not to me.”

“I was scared and power-hungry and desperate for it all to be over. You’re lying if you really think you would have acted any differently. If I had brought him to the Dark Lord, can you imagine the kind of pride my father would have felt? Can you imagine how wonderful my life would have been if I had been the one to present him?” Pansy sighed. “I thought he was going to win—I really did. I thought we would all be under the rule of Voldemort,” she winced as she said the name. “And I needed to make sure I was taken care of.”

She shook her head as if to clear it, then met Hermione’s glare. “I didn’t have anyone to fall back on if the war shifted in your favour. If Voldemort lost and your side reclaimed the Ministry, I was sure I’d be spending the rest of my life in Azkaban. I had been practicing the dark arts—using any of the Unforgivable Curses used to mean a life sentence. I was so sure they’d inspect my wand and lock me away. So, yes. I fucked up. I did horrible things and I tried to sacrifice Potter to the Dark Lord, but if I had any idea things would turn out the way they had, I wouldn’t have. I might’ve even joined your side.”

“Might have?”

“Well, I can’t speak for myself in the past, but I’d like to believe I’m a little better now.” Pansy smirked. “You’ve forgiven Draco.”

“Yes, but Draco had—” She cut herself off abruptly, seeing the wicked gleam in Pansy’s eyes as she won that argument. She was going to say Draco had no choice, and Pansy had been expecting it.

Hermione huffed in defeat and resumed scratching the cat’s ears.

“Not so black and white, is it?”

“No, it is not.”

Pansy returned to her dinner, her mood lifted to the state it had been in before Hermione had brought up her involvement in the battle. Hermione sat in the comfort of her cat’s purr whilst sipping on pumpkin juice without firewhisky, though she was curious to try the combination.

“Still sleeping in the library?” Pansy asked, setting her fork down once she’d finished.

Hermione glanced over to the single bed she’d been occupying with a frown. “Still?”

“I thought you would’ve wormed your way into his bed by now.”

That was still the plan, but Pansy didn’t need to know that. She had impatiently waited out the days of her cycle, going to bed alone every night and practically itching with the desire to sneak into his bed. Tonight she was finally free, but the longer Pansy lingered outside of her own room, the more she could feel herself losing her nerve.

“Unless you’re both still pushing the ‘friends’ rubbish.”

Hermione swallowed nervously. “We are friends.”

“And?”

“And whatever else we are is private.”

The dinner tray and plates disappeared then; the house-elf, Pipsey, must’ve summoned them to her.

“It didn’t used to be.” Pansy said after a minute. “He was practically obsessed with you—even in first year he couldn’t help himself from talking about you.”

“And I’m sure he only had the nicest things to say about me.” Hermione said with a grimace.

Pansy grinned. “Big hair, bigger teeth.” She laughed. “Wished you would learn your place and shut the fuck up in class—‘that Granger thinks she knows everything!’”

Hermione couldn’t help but snort a laugh at the imitation, though she didn’t believe he’d been as obsessed with her as Pansy claimed. If hatred could evolve into an obsession, then maybe, but even that was a stretch.

“He didn’t call you ‘Granger.’” Pansy added. “I’m just trying not to use that word anymore.”

“I admire your restraint.” Hermione said dryly.

Pansy frowned suddenly as if she’d come back to herself after realising she might have just had a pleasant exchange with Hermione.

“It’s not because I don’t want to,” she said hastily. “It simply doesn’t bode well for my Muggle Sensitivity Training.”

Hermione gawked at her, Pansy looking more and more uncomfortable by the second as she’d revealed something she probably hadn’t meant to reveal. “Muggle Sensitivity Training?” Hermione repeated slowly. Carefully.

Oh, this was too good. She wanted to soak up every drop of Pansy’s discomfort and revel in it.

“Laugh all you want,” Pansy said bitterly. “It’s a condition of our probations. Time out of school is to be spent appreciating muggle contributions to the world, seeing how they aren’t so different from us!” She rolled her eyes. “It’s all a load of rubbish, but it keeps me out of a cell.”

Crookshanks stood and stretched, then turned in a circle and resituated himself on Hermione’s lap, tucking his front paws in and purring harder.

“Does Draco have to go through that training?”

Pansy scoffed another bitter-sounding laugh. “No. The Healer that evaluated him before sentencing felt he’d evolved.”

“That quickly?” She asked, unconvinced. She knew Draco had changed his ways in a short amount of time, but for a Ministry-hired Healer to clear him from the same training as his friends…she wasn’t entirely sure she believed that.

“He started to change when his father was arrested a few years ago.” Pansy said, shifting uneasily on the sofa. “But I suspect it was earlier.”

Hermione frowned. “When?”

Pansy smiled sadly. “The night of the ball, I think. The first decent thing he’s ever done around you was keep his mouth shut that night. Not a single, nasty comment could be uttered when Hermione Granger outshined us all.”

“He was still awful to me for years after, Pansy.”

She shrugged. “That was more to keep up appearances, I think—his heart wasn’t in it.”

Could have fooled me…

“Being tormented by a Half-blood for nearly two years probably had a lot to do with questioning his stance on blood purity. He had more to deal with than a petty, classroom rivalry with a frizzy-haired Gryffindor.”

“And you?” Hermione asked. “What’s your stance? You’ve befriended a Half-blood and have willingly spent the last few days under the same roof as a Muggle-born. Have you evolved yet?”

Pansy hummed softly. “Honestly, I don’t know.” She laughed to herself. “The Ministry’s brainwashing is hardly any different than what I grew up with; it’s just a different narrative. I only care about myself, though, if that’s what you’re asking. No one else does.”

“Draco cares about you.” Hermione insisted.

“He feels an obligation to me. There’s a difference.” Pansy looked like she wanted to add something, but promptly closed her mouth.

She stood gracefully, her vibrant pink skirt still perfectly in place with a sticking charm.

Hermione scooped up the sleeping cat and held him up. “Crookshanks cares about you.” She said, giving him a quick kiss on the top of his head. “And he’s very selective with who he likes.”

Pansy scoffed. “The cat of my ex’s new girlfriend likes me.” She placed a hand to her chest and gave her a mocking smile. “My heart has never been fuller, truly.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted him in your room tonight, but never—”

Pansy was already taking the large ginger cat from her hands. She secured Crookshanks in her arms and took him without a word, the library doors left open behind her.

“Now this is what I was expecting.”

Hermione hadn’t waited more than twenty minutes after Pansy had left the library to head to Draco’s room. She had knocked and let herself in without waiting for an invitation, but as he sat propped up in bed, he didn’t seem surprised at all with her invasion.

She made sure the door was securely locked behind her before tiptoeing into the room, her eyes roving over every inch of the massive suite. It looked about what she expected the Slytherin dorms to look like, save for the bluish-green lighting from the lake. The main colour was black, but he had accents of silver and green in the lamps and bedclothes, a dark grey rug at the foot of his massive, dark wood, four-poster bed with emerald curtains pulled back.

He didn’t say anything as she examined his bedroom, though he eyed her with suspicion as she looked over the few photographs he kept, the empty spaces on the walls where there might have been portraits. The clothes he’d worn that day lay over the back of a green velvet armchair.

There were two additional doors inside the room. The first she assumed to be the door to his bathroom. The second was slightly ajar, a white shirt peeking out from it. She strode over to the second door that she believed to be his closet and swung it open all the way. She stepped inside and found it to be a generously-sized closet, dimly lit and well-organised.

She began to shamelessly paw through his clothes, feeling the fabrics, smelling the scent of the soap Pipsey used, the citrus and grass that she had missed so much. He had a few Quidditch jumpers, each one bigger than the last to account for his changing height and frame. She pulled one down and put it up against her, noting the sleeves were too long, the hem coming down to the tops of her thighs.

“I’m cold,” she called out. “Mind if I borrow a jumper?”

He cleared his throat after a moment, his voice a bit raspy as he said, “Help yourself.”

She took a moment to consider her plan more carefully. Less clothes would be good. His clothes would be even better. She slipped out of her pyjamas and pulled the jumper over her head, the green and silver feeling strange but also exciting.

“How long does it take to find a—” he froze when she came out in nothing but her knickers and his jumper, her simple pyjamas abandoned in a pile on the floor of his closet.

“Yes?” She asked, wrapping her hand around a bed post.

He picked up the book that had dropped in his lap at the sight of her and tried to resume his reading. “How are you warmer in that?” He asked dryly, ignoring her as she crept around to the other side of his bed.

She let herself up and slid over to him, kneeling beside him patiently until he became so annoyed that he threw the book aside.

“What are you doing?”

She couldn’t help but grin at his frustration. “I’m trying to seduce you, but clearly I’m failing.”

He sighed, letting the back of his head rest against the headboard with a soft thud. She rapped it with her knuckles curiously, determining it to be solid wood a moment later.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

He huffed impatiently, his nostrils flaring. “What specifically do you want, Granger?”

“I. Want. You.” She said seriously. “In any way I can have you.”

“If you just want me to shag you to replace the memory of your first time, that’s fine, but I won’t be interested in being around you anymore.”

Hermione sighed dramatically and shifted into his lap, her hands trapping his face between them. “I’m not interested in meaningless sex with you. I want to date you. I want to kiss you. I want you to be comfortable enough with me that you feel like giving me those things, but I don’t want to force you.”

“Says the girl who just crawled into my lap.”

“Would you like me to move?”

“No.”

“Then shut up and listen to me. You wanted a label, yes?”

He rolled his eyes but muttered a “yes.”

“And I want my boyfriend to be honest with me and be more affectionate. I won’t shy away from it if you don’t.”

“Boyfriend?” He asked, frowning slightly. She released him then, feeling thoroughly deflated. “Just in private, or will everyone know?”

She swallowed. “Well, I would hope public, but if you just want privacy—”

“No.” He said, his eyes scanning her face. “I don’t need privacy.”

“We’re settled then?” She asked hopefully. “We’re together? You can drop whatever strange rule it is that prevents you from kissing me?”

“Well, no.” His hands went to her hips, hinting at her to get off of him.

She planted her hands on his shoulders, gripping them tight until he winced. “Draco, why is kissing me such an issue when I know perfectly well, from first-hand knowledge, thank you very much, that you are not shy snogging about the castle—particularly with Pansy.” Her words had come out in a tone similar to a growl, but he didn’t look amused.

He looked annoyed.

“I never wanted to keep Pansy.”

She took in the flush of his cheeks, the twitching of his fingers on her hips, and chewed on her lip softly for a long moment. “And you’re worried you’d want to keep me?” She asked hesitantly.

“I’m not worried about it—that’s exactly what I want. The line is there to protect you, not me.”

She shrugged. “I fail to see the problem with that.”

He released the hold on her hips, his hands coming up to wrap around her wrists and push her away. “Being friendly is one thing. If you let me in, I have no intention of letting you go.”

His words sent a pleasant chill through her. Judging by the iciness in his tone and his grey eyes that looked hard as stone then, she knew that was the opposite of the reaction he was hoping for.

She braced herself. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

His eyes narrowed speculatively, carefully weighing her words before he said, “Go to bed, Granger.” He reached for the book he’d abandoned at the end of his bed and opened it to the page he’d left off. He was dismissing her. He didn’t believe she’d thought this through.

She pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed and slid beneath them, aware and uncaring of the incredulous look on his face as she openly disobeyed his request.

“Goodnight, Draco.” She muttered, turning on her side.

If he wanted her to go back to the library, he would have to drag her out himself.

He let out a long sigh a tense minute later, and she heard the heavy book snap shut. The lights soon followed, casting them in complete darkness as he, too, slipped beneath the covers, his body heat and minty scent lulling her into a deep, blissful, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

24 December 1998

The deep sleep she’d been enjoying in her lovely state of unawareness was interrupted by Draco re-entering the room. She sat up in a fright upon seeing the figure in the doorway only moments before it shut behind him and cast them both into the darkness once more. She didn’t know how she knew it was him, but could only rationalise that it would be—who else would be mad enough to break into his room in the middle of the night?

Perhaps if that question had been asked a year ago, there would have been a very different answer, but in the present, she felt confident it was him lurking back to the opposite side of the bed, his bare feet padding almost soundlessly across the wood floor.

“Couldn’t stand sleeping beside me after all?”

He chuckled, and a moment later she felt the bed dip slightly, the duvet being pulled away from her; she promptly jerked it back, the frigid air of the room a shock to her bare legs.

“You’re shit at sharing, Granger.” He grumbled, then inhaled sharply on a yawn.

He smelled of his herbal cigarettes. She was well-acquainted with them now, though she hadn’t smoked it in months. She had begun to think he’d cut himself off, too, but the scent was unmistakable on his breath and clothing.

“Do you have any more?” She asked hopefully.

“Last one, I’m afraid.” He hummed. “I’m shit at sharing, too.”

She sighed and laid back down, maintaining the distance he’d imposed. She could have sworn she’d felt him holding her in his sleep, but now the memory felt more like a pleasant dream—wishful thinking—than anything else.

“What are we doing, Draco?”

“Not sleeping.”

She turned her head on the pillow, her eyes roving over the outline of his profile. “We need to talk.”

He nodded after a moment, his lips parting. “I know.”

“Draco…I promise I want this. You’ve had me on the hook for months; if I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have put up with it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have. Merlin knows I’m not worth the effort.”

“Stop!” She commanded, propping herself up on her elbow. “Stop punishing yourself for the past. You were given a second chance and you’ve done good things with it. The world is not going to come crashing down on you if you let yourself enjoy it, I swear!”

He turned his head towards her, the line of his nose disappearing, replaced by the sharp line of his cheekbone. “You can’t promise that—no one can.”

“Then you’re just going to have to trust me—if there’s any part of you that wants me, you have to learn to trust me.”

“Did Weasley trust you?” He asked bitterly. “His life fucking imploded when you were done with him—am I expected to believe it’ll be any different for me?”

Her first instinct was to be offended. Deeply, morally offended at the implication that she’d ruined Ron’s life after being with him, but she knew Draco well enough now to notice his tells. His defensive measures.

His insecurities.

He may believe he was better than Ron, but he knew she’d been in love with him and left him right after. She’d never been in love with Draco, as far as he knew—what would stop her from tossing him aside when she’d gotten what she wanted from him?

She sighed in understanding. “You’re not Ron.” She murmured, reaching out to rest her hand on his chest. “He and I had our own issues, going back many years. We were never going to work—I just couldn’t see it until it was over.”

“And you don’t think you’ll see me differently after?”

“I don’t.” She said, her voice gentle. “Look, neither of us have been great at relationships, I know that. But I’ve liked you for a while, even before the war.” She swallowed hard. She’d never admitted that out loud, even to herself, and now she was putting herself on the line for his scrutiny. “You don’t need to worry that I’m only interested because I feel insecure or because you were the only person I had for months. I want you for the person you’re trying to become. I admire you, really—you’re braver than me, Draco. Even if you don’t see it, I do.”

He scoffed a moment later, turning his head back to look up at the ceiling. “I’m not brave, Granger. I’m rather pathetic.”

She chewed on her lip, his words too familiar as the same ones that have been in her head since the war ended. “I wish you could see how I see you.”

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m perfectly clear.” She said calmly. “I was worried about you in sixth year. You just seemed so lonely and…quiet. You weren’t yourself. I thought Harry was blinded by his hatred when he accused you of having joined Voldemort, but I wondered if you had.”

“And when you found out I had?”

She exhaled slowly, letting her fingers trail over his collarbone. “I felt sad for you. Scared.” She licked her lips and took in another deep breath. “When Harry told me you lowered your wand—that you couldn’t kill Dumbledore—I knew there was a goodness to you, even if you hadn’t realised it. Even if you never came to realise it. You’re not a bad person because bad things have happened to you.”

They were quiet for several minutes, his breathing shallow, his heartbeat beneath her palm racing.

“Apart from your personal attacks toward me, have I really held anything you’ve done against you?”

“Well, I can’t read your mind—”

“Draco,” she said sharply. “I have been as clear as I possibly can. If you have any doubt that you want the same, or maybe you’ve changed your mind about how much you like me—you need to tell me. If you were going to get back at me for the war, you would have already done it. I know you’re scared to let me in, but I promise you I want this. I need you to be honest with me and tell me what you want, too. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re really just protecting yourself. So hear me loud and clear: I can handle it. Can you?”

He sighed, his features still too shrouded in darkness to make out clearly. “I can’t answer that.”

“You can back out now,” she reminded him. “I won’t hold it against you, but there won’t be another chance after this. I’m not saying that as an ultimatum, I’m saying it because I don’t want to be dragged around anymore and wait for you to decide you want me. I did that for years with Ron—I will not do it again.”

“I never meant for you to feel that way.” He said, sounding startled. “I don’t feel worthy of you, Hermione. I don’t deserve you—some part of you must know that.”

He shifted, turning his body towards hers, his hand finding her cheek despite the lack of light in the room and holding her in a gentle yet firm grip. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, the smell of his herbs on his breath hitting her lips as he drew closer.

“Everything I ever wanted was taken from me.” He said in a low voice. “If I have you and I lose you, I don’t—” He inhaled sharply. “I want you. You have no idea how much I want you or how long I’ve wanted you, but I will fuck this up somehow. Don’t let me ruin you.”

“You can’t ruin me.” She promised in a voice just above a whisper. “Even if I haven’t suffered enough for a lifetime, I don’t think you’re capable of it anymore. I see how you’ve changed for the better.” The hand she’d had on his collarbone found his cheek, and she held his face as he held hers. “If I’m the only person in the world who sees the good parts of you, can’t that be enough?”

“I don’t want you to realise you’ve made a mistake—to wake up months from now. A year from now. And regret the moment you let me in.” His shaky exhale tickled the fine hairs around her temples, and he reached up to brush them off of her face, seeming to notice they’d bothered her. “I’m fucking terrified of you—how much I want you.”

She stroked his cheek, feeling the outline of his jaw, his angular cheekbones. “I won’t regret you.” She whispered. “If you believe one thing I’ve ever said, let it be that. I will not regret you—so stop trying to make me.”

He fell silent for another long minute, his skin on hers, hers on his. His hand found its way into her hair and raked through the tangled strands with gentle tugs.

“I thought if I kept pushing you—kept making you uncomfortable—you would demand I leave you alone.” He drew his hand back, leaving her hair to trace the line of her jaw and down her neck. “I never would have expected it would have the opposite effect. Do you remember what I said in September—at the start of term?”

“Something about no longer pretending?”

“I meant it. The months you lived here were probably the best of my life—and I could handle it because we kept each other at a distance. You weren’t interested, and I was content to let you take over and just…exist in your company. I liked talking to you.”

His fingertips danced under the collar of the jumper she wore, teasing the skin of her collarbones, the base of her throat.

“You’ve always had such an intensity about you—frustrating. Annoying. But utterly fascinating.” He said with a laugh, the sound drowsy.

She wondered if the effects of smoking were settling in, lulling him into a state of contentment she wasn’t meant to be witnessing. Was he aware of what he was saying?

“Then you had to go and become beautiful.”

She snorted. He was most definitely not aware of what he was saying.

“I know what I’m saying.” He said, a bit defiantly. “You know the herb doesn’t work like that—it just relaxes me.”

“But do you really want to be saying any of this?”

“Do I want to say I found you absolutely mesmerising? Yes.”

“Mesmerising?” She echoed dubiously.

“Seeing you in summer clothes, reading in the garden, watching you take in the sun for hours,” he huffed a laugh. “I thought if I gave you any indication of my desire for you then, you’d run off back to the Weasleys, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t act on it. I may have had a wank to the thought of you a few times, but that was nothing new.” He laughed again as she smacked his cheek lightly. “Three agonising months alone with you, and I managed to keep myself in check. If anyone deserves an Order of Merlin, First Class, it should be me for enduring you in those skimpy pyjamas, eating those bloody strawberries every fucking morning.”

It was very difficult to not argue with him then. Her self-deprecative tendencies were screaming at her to say something, to get the attention off of her. The only romantic interests she’d ever had—Viktor and Ron—had been more physical than vocal with their affections. She was never in love with Viktor, but had felt he was sweet and respectful; she was attracted to his surprising kindness, but even at fifteen she knew they wouldn’t amount to anything serious.

With Ron, she knew going into it how much more weight she would have to carry. He would throw himself in front of a curse if it meant saving her life, but on an intellectual level—on an emotional level—they were polar opposites. She’d been attracted to his bravery, his loyalty, even if he put the greater good—the needs of others if it meant saving the world—above her own safety.

It was a new challenge for her, being with Draco. He wasn’t known for kindness or bravery, but he seemed to care for her in a different way. If he would allow himself to, she felt he would openly worship her. He pushed her limits, and she kept going back with the promise of something more, giving her just enough intrigue to keep her guessing, to want to dig to the very core of who he was and learn his chaotic thought processes. She wanted more than his body—she wanted his mind. She wanted to know him. She wanted all of him.

And he seemed to want the same. There had to be a reason he pushed and pulled away so much, and it had to be more than his own indecision. He was testing her resiliency, testing how much of him she could handle, and every time she came back, he would become detached for a while, realising his plan had failed.

Was he saying these nice things about her now because he wanted to push her away again? Was he hoping she would be embarrassed by the lovely things he said and ask him to stop?

He was sniggering then. “I wanted to put a frame around that ridiculous handprint, place a plaque under it to honour the time I got you so riled up you smashed fruit onto the walls out of sheer rage. Honestly, I deserved far worse.” He shifted closer, allowing himself a soft kiss to her temple. “That last morning, Granger, waking up beside you in the garden—if we hadn’t gone back to school that day, I don’t think I could have stopped myself.”

She shivered under his touch, his lips trailing kisses from her temple to her cheek to under her jaw.

“I woke up in the middle of the night. I knew I should have gone back inside, but you had wrapped yourself around me and I thought if that was the only time I could have you in my arms, I would make the most of it.” He let out a breath against her throat, his lips following it; her head tilted back reflexively. “If we had more time that morning, I would have kissed you. You just looked so…soft. Warm. I would have fucked it all up just for a taste of you, and I almost did.”

She was about to tell him she wished he would have when his lips covered hers, gently moving, parting her lips before biting her bottom lip softly.

“Going back to school—getting some distance from you,” he murmured against her still-parted lips. “I thought it would help, but you’ve been the only thing that’s kept me sane all year. I craved you.”

He kissed her again, his hand on her cheek, holding her still but allowing her own hand to slide through his hair. He broke away too soon again, not giving her the chance to respond, but kept his lips against hers.

“So I pushed. I really thought you would reject me. I wanted you to push me away and tell me off, but the more you let me in, the less I wanted you to hate me. The more it hurt when you did reject me.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “But I was torn—I still am. I want this, too—I do. It’s the worst feeling, knowing I can just have you, but knowing how capable I am of hurting you—of you hurting me.”

She thought he was going to kiss her again, but she felt him pull back, the hand on her cheek falling away and resting on her arm, his fingers curling around her bicep.

“The last thing I want is for you to be judged or punished for being with me.” He said earnestly. “You deserve more than I’m able to give you.”

She leaned up on her elbow, displacing his hold on her. “That’s what this is?” She asked sharply. “You care more about public perception than what I want?”

He rubbed her arm placatingly. “You know how vicious the press can be—do you really want to be associated with me, this soon after the war?”

Although he likely couldn’t see it, she narrowed her eyes and scowled at him. “I don’t know how much more I can say this, Draco—I couldn’t give a single flying fuck what anyone thinks about us being together. Are you ashamed to be seen with me in public? Is that really what’s going on?”

“Of course not, but—”

She threw her hand over his mouth. “Then let me handle it. I don’t care if the Daily Prophet splashes us across the front page—I don’t care if I receive Howlers at breakfast every day for the rest of my life! I only care that you want this, too—that is the only thing that matters to me. I just want you, regardless of what comes with you.”

He took her hand away, curling his fingers over hers. “Granger, I—”

“I won’t pretend to know what your family might think,” she interrupted hotly. “Or how you’ll be treated if they don’t accept me, but if you’re willing to take the risk, why is it so hard to believe I’m willing to risk hatred on my end, too?”

“I—” He cut himself off with a sigh. “Hermione, it’s not—”

“Are you still trying to trust me?”

He thought quietly for several moments, his fingers drumming on her arm. “It’s getting easier.” He said finally. “I’ve only been fully honest with one person—ever—and only because I have to be.”

“Your healer?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not a Legilimens, is he?”

“No, but he’s good at detecting lies, so there’s really no point. Nothing happens if I try to fabricate anything. It took about a month before I realised his master plan—getting me to trust myself so I could learn to open up and trust others.” He gave a low, bitter laugh at that. “Called him a pithy tosser and said he was wasting my time. The next two meetings were just silent stares and cold tea until I broke.”

“Sounds like he had more sensitivity training than Healer Harper. I’m jealous.”

“Harper’s not bad.”

“You’ve spoken to her?”

“A few times. She’s a fairly pleasant, maybe a bit skittish. She had my favourite sweets, so I can’t complain.”

She was scowling again, though this time not directed at him. She was offended he’d gotten better treatment, despite the voice in her head that reminded her she’d been resistant and probably could have gotten along better with the woman if she hadn’t been so defensive in their first meeting; she’d since blamed her overreaction in that session on Pre-Menstrual Syndrome.

“I called her a hag.” She admitted. “Amongst other things. But I felt I’d insulted actual hags with the comparison.”

He snorted. “What could the poor woman have possibly done to make you hate her so much after one session?”

“She was rude. Pushy. Kept trying to pin me by jumping from topic to topic until I was so flustered that I blurted things out.” She huffed. “She locked me in, you know.”

He laughed. “McGonagall must’ve warned her about you. She probably thought you needed a ‘tough love’ approach, or whatever the muggles say.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t care—I had no reason to talk to her. I had a deal with McGonagall that I would take care of myself. It didn’t mean I’d consented to therapy.”

“Because you couldn’t possibly stand to benefit from it.” He said wryly. “Obliviated your parents. War survivor. Abortion. Death Eater sympathiser.”

“You’re saying I’m fucked in the head, then?”

“I’m saying it’s a miracle you’ve kept it together as long as you have. Talking helps, even if it’s to yourself. Just saying the words out loud—it’s like being able to breathe again after being trapped under water.”

She scoffed. “Now who’s the pithy tosser?”

“You’re an only child, too—you know how…isolating your world can be. You know finding someone to trust isn’t easy. Do you even trust your friends?”

“I trust you.” She said earnestly, then smirked. “Most of the time.”

“That right there is why you need to find someone to talk to. I shouldn’t be at the top of your list of people to trust.”

“Even if you’re the only person I want to talk to?” She asked, bending her arm up to capture his hand with hers. “You are. I don’t like when I’m not able to talk to you.”

He played with her hand—teasing her skin, curling his fingers around hers and tracing the lines of her palm.

“I know.” He said softly, then laced their fingers and locked her into a firm grip. “But you can—always. Talk my ear off until you faint from exhaustion if you need to.”

She laughed quietly. “Be careful. I might take you up on that one day.”

It was sunny outside. At first the brightness behind her eyelids had felt like a cruel trick, but when she opened them, she found the large, east-facing window bursting with golden rays, the sky brilliant shades of blue and orange. It was supposed to be dreary with rain and slush through the new year, but there were hardly any clouds that she could see. It was so beautiful and reassuring that she almost started to cry.

Draco’s arm, heavy with sleep, tightened around her midsection. She smiled down at the sight of it, a clear, visible reminder that their middle of the night confessions had been real.

Carefully, she began to shift, his arm dragging the hem of the jumper up as she twisted herself to face him. She thought she was being sneaky, but his eyes found hers almost instantly, startling her with their intensity so quickly after waking up when she still felt a bit drowsy.

“Hi.” She mouthed, giving him a small, tentative smile.

“Hi.” He echoed, visibly fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He allowed himself a smirk instead.

“I have no intention of letting you go, either.” She said, bringing her hand up to rest against his jaw. “I wanted to put that out there before you let yourself overthink our talk.”

He did roll his eyes then, but instead of pushing her away or making a snide comment, he took hold of her chin and brought her lips to his. It was different than the gentle, exploratory kisses from hours before. It wasn’t sweet and reassuring, an exercise in gaining trust and allowing themselves to feel the weight of the bond they were creating.

This was the crashing of ocean waves upon rocks, relentless and jarring until she woke up enough to respond and then—then it was a pure explosion. Lips, teeth, tongues. Mint and sleep. Desperate and a bit clumsy. He pulled her beneath him, sinking his lean, muscular frame down on her. Her knees went around either side of his waist, making room for him to settle in between her thighs. She looped an arm around his neck and yanked at his shirt below his waist, gathering it up to slide her hand under the hem.

Despite their brief encounters, she had yet to feel him on top of her—though she did spend an inordinate amount of time imagining it. Her imagination was a piss-poor substitute for the real thing. She had never imagined the way she would mould herself to him—her back arching, his pelvis grinding against hers. His hair had fallen onto her forehead, cool and silky against her skin as their mouths fused together. Breathy, laboured moans, gasps, and whimpers filled the space between them.

He felt heavy in all the right ways. Consuming her, devouring her. Unabashedly unafraid—he didn’t treat her as delicate in any manner, the hand snaked around her thigh evidence of that in its bruising grip. His right forearm was beside her head, his hand fisting her hair, kissing her as if she were the Elixir of Life itself and he couldn’t bear to waste a single drop.

Her head fell back on the pillow with a moan as his hand released her thigh and dipped into her knickers. Her knees widened in response, allowing him all the space he needed as his skilled fingers unerringly found her clit. He licked a line down her throat as he circled her, the sound of her wet flesh against his skin only dimly registering in her ears.

He kissed the side of her neck, sucking the soft spot below her ear he knew she liked so much. She looked down at his hand between her legs, her eyes spotting the odd pair of grey joggers slung low on his hips. They were plainly muggle, perhaps something he’d acquired in is forced outings in London over the summer. A means to blend in.

Or perhaps he had realised muggle clothing was often more comfortable. Lighter, more fitted. Much more fashionable compared to many of the ancient, drab robes many wizards sported. They looked rather nice on him with the waistband set low, a flash of his hipbone peeking out as his long-sleeved black shirt had been pulled up.

She wondered what other articles of muggle clothing would suit him.

He slid a finger inside of her, stealing the moan from her lips, his tongue finding hers and tasting her as he curled his finger upward.

“Mm—wait,” she drew back, her breathing erratic, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her hand was locked in his hair, tugging him back just enough meet his eyes. “Will you do something for me? You’ll think it’s ridiculous, but I need it.”

He rolled his mirthful eyes and dropped another, less aggressive kiss on her lips. “If you need it, I’ll do it. Anything.”

She grinned, feeling the heat in her cheeks as she withdrew her hand from his silky hair, and he eased his hand out of her knickers. She reached down for it, feeling her slickness on his fingers. His skin was hot from her body, her eyes noting the red flush of his fingertips as she brought his hand up between them.

She watched his eyes go from excited to utterly confused as she hooked her pinkie finger around his.

“Am I supposed to know what you’re doing?” He asked, looking down at their locked little fingers.

“It’s a pinkie swear.”

“A what?”

“It’s a sacred oath amongst muggles.” She deadpanned. “You make a promise and lock pinkies—it’s considered legally binding.”

He snorted. “The Unbreakable Vow of the muggle world?”

“Something like that.” She said, her voice full of laughter. “I told you you’d think it was ridiculous.”

“It very much is, but if you need it…” he frowned at their hands as if waiting for further instruction. “What next then? What do I need to promise?”

Her smile faded just a bit, the solemnity of the situation settling over her despite the rush of arousal pulsing through her. “It’s not fair to either of us to keep—going the way he have. Neither of us is a Legilimens—we can’t see into each other’s heads and we have an awful habit of thinking the worst when the other is quiet. So I need you to promise you’ll talk to me, even if you think you’ll hurt my feelings—”

“I’ve done it before, I’ll probably do it again.” He quipped.

She narrowed her eyes and tried to pull her hand back, but he held on.

“Sorry.” He said with a smile that told her he was not at all apologetic. “Old habit. Carry on.”

“As I was saying, we need to be honest with each other, even if it’s painful. Alright?”

He tilted his head in a slight nod. It was less affirmative than she’d hoped, and she was about to call him out on it, but he opened his mouth to speak.

“On one condition.” He said seriously. “Talk to me all you like, but give Harper or another healer a chance.”

“Draco—”

“That’s all I’m asking from this ‘legally binding’ agreement. It doesn’t have to be right away—you can work up to it. But I can’t be the only person for you to confide in. I have my own problems and I can’t fix yours on top of them, much as I’d like to.”

She sighed. “I really don’t think I need it. I’m fine—honestly.”

He bit down on his lip then, fighting a grin. “I think it’s really adorable you believe that.”

“I—” She sighed again, then licked her lips.

In general, she believed therapy to be very beneficial. Everyone needed it in some capacity. Harry and Ron, especially, could stand to benefit from it. She knew she was being hypocritical by objecting to it for herself—she just couldn’t make herself want it. Call it pride or stubbornness, she didn’t want anyone—anyone but Draco, who had witnessed the worst of the worst of humanity first hand—to see inside her head. To assess her. To judge her. Never mind the fact that she couldn’t tell anyone about her health condition in June—that was something she had to bury to protect them both.

So why would he want her to talk about it?

There were many other things that could be discussed in great detail. Feeling the separation from her parents, even when they knew her. Her feelings of inadequacy that fuelled her problematic perfectionism. Her mortifying insecurity that no one loved her as much as she loved them, let alone liked her when she only ever wanted to make friends but didn’t know how.

It was the constant nagging that she was never good enough that played throughout her mind since she was a child. It was living in a hell of her own creation by having an inflated sense of self to protect against the opinions of others. A solid, frozen wall around herself and her mind. Defensive and painful and likely irreversible.

But Draco had done it. Draco was doing it.

You don’t see that I’m constantly putting my guard down with you, do you?

She recalled the scene clearly in her mind’s eye. His cold breath in the snowy air, his white face, painfully tragic and honest. She hadn’t seen it—she’d chosen not to.

It felt like a reflection on herself, a cruel reminder that she wasn’t doing enough again. He was surpassing her. It mattered little to her fractured ego that mental health was not a competition; she’d walled herself up at the revelation without even thinking about it. Instinctive, reactive. She was no better than he was.

But he was at least doing something about it.

“Okay.” She said with a nod. “I promise to give it a second chance.”

“Thank you.”

“So if the healer, in their infinite wisdom, suggests you’re wrong for me—you’ll be fine with that?”

“Wiser words will have never been spoken. I am wrong for you…but I’m also a selfish prick.” He smirked. “So—last chance to back out. What’ll it be, Granger?”

She didn’t even have to think about it. “I’m all in, Malfoy.”

He rolled his eyes as she beamed up at him, tightening his finger around hers then releasing.

“Is there anything else we need to clarify?” She asked, shifting beneath him.

“I think we covered everything.”

“Then pass me your wand—I need to cast a contraceptive charm.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure—”

“Draco, I swear if you back out again, I will hex you!”

He grinned down at her. “I was going to ask if you were sure you wanted to cast a charm when I could go down and brew a potion instead.”

“Oh,” she said softly, her eyes widening with understanding, though an embarrassed flush began heating her cheeks. “Well…I’d rather you not have to leave. I can cast it myself—I’ve been practicing.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Practicing?”

“The wand movement.” She clarified. “I know the Conceptus charm has a dual use—I learned the hard way, as I’m sure you remember.”

“Vaguely.”

“Hmm.” She laughed softly. “Will you trust me to use your wand? Mine’s in the library.”

With a groan, he lifted off of her and sat back on his heels. She sat up expectantly, watching as he reached for it on the bedside table; he twirled it between his fingers for a beat before passing it to her.

“If it doesn’t work, I’ll brew the potion. I’d rather not take any chances by casting it for you.”

She rolled her eyes and took the hawthorn wand from him. “As I’ve told you before, if you don’t learn trust your wand, it will keep resisting you.”

Steadying herself on her knees, she held the wand out in front of her lower belly, the tip slightly turned inward as Ginny had shown her weeks before. She took a deep breath and prepared herself mentally, Draco watching with amused fascination at her level of concentration. It felt more like being in an end of term Charms exam, giving a practical demonstration before Professor Flitwick than preparing herself for intercourse.

“Any day now,” he hummed, and she shot him a fierce look.

She shook her shoulders free of the lingering tension and started over. Wand held parallel to the belly, a deep inhale of breath, a confident declaration of the incantation, and a swift, downward slash with the tip of the wand.

It stole her breath away. She doubled over almost instantly, catching herself on the bed with her free hand while she clutched the wand with the other. Impaled by an icicle would have been a mercy compared to what she felt in those few, horrendous seconds. Impaled by the deepest point of a bloody iceberg was more like it.

“Alright, then?”

“Splendid.” She ground out, her breath sharp and shallow out of fear of jostling her internal organs too much.

He gently eased the wand from her hand, uncurling her fingers just enough to slip it out. She heard him settle the wood on the bedside table, the wand rolling noisily and clattering to the floor moments later; he didn’t seem to care.

He brought a hand up to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His pupils were wide, blown-out despite the sunny morning light in the room.

“How do you want me?”

Her face flamed at his words, at the sudden, drugging baritone of his voice. There was no point in feigning modesty with him—he’d seen more of her body than even she had. It sent a thrill of excitement through her, knowing she didn’t have to be shy, knowing he could handle whatever she requested; it would be useful information for later.

“I was on my back last time—it wasn’t the best.”

“I can do it better.”

She closed her eyes to stop herself from rolling them at his arrogance, sniggering as she leaned in to kiss him, wrapping her hands around his neck. His hands went to her waist, pulling her in so his thigh was between hers. A soft moan tore from her throat as she pressed down onto him, rocking her hips just enough to stoke a friction between them. He followed the moan with his lips, taking great care with them, tugging at her lower lip as he now knew she liked.

“I want to be under you.” She whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you. I want to meet your eyes and see how you look when you come.”

She nipped at his lip a bit roughly, his breath a sharp hiss as her teeth nicked him. She slid off his thigh and backed up nearer the headboard, sitting on her heels. Her hands played with the hem of the jumper.

She bit her own lip then, considering. Instinct told her to be cautious, to be very careful with the words she spoke next, but she rather liked the sound of freefalling.

“I want to feel possessed by you.”

Danger.

The word ricocheted around the last of her present brain cells as her eyes met the eerie stillness of his. Silver-rimmed pools of black locking onto hers, the confident declaration she’d made moments before seeming to have set something off within him.

“Say it again.”

It was a light, almost curious request. He made no move to approach her, his frame perfectly still despite the rapid rising and falling of his chest. His level of restraint was a quality she lacked, her fingers curling around the hem of the jumper once more as her breath hitched at the hungry look in his eyes. She lifted onto her knees and pulled his Quidditch jumper off in one fluid movement, her hair lifting and falling swiftly, cascading down her back in a mess of long curls.

If her aim had been to distract him with her bared breasts, he didn’t fall for it. He kept his gaze steadily trained on hers, watching, waiting for her to slip, but she felt nothing to hold her back anymore.

“Possess me, Draco.” She said clearly, lifting an eyebrow in a challenge. Then, as an afterthought, she added sweetly, “Please.”

He shook his head, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I always hoped you’d be the death of me.” He slid off the bed to undress, tearing off his shirt first and carelessly tossing it onto the floor. “I never thought it’d be while shagging you.”

“But what a way to go.”

His hands stilled on his waistband as he spotted her trying to work her knickers off her hips. “Mind if I do that?”

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, hesitating a moment before releasing the lacy sides. She’d been strategic in choosing her undergarments the night before. The pair she wore had been a frivolous impulse purchase she’d made on the last shopping trip with her mum before the start of her sixth year. She hadn’t meant them for anyone specifically—and had been so mortified to inspect them around her mother she had gone back for them later—but she liked the simple, yet elegantly sexy design of them.

Structurally, they were no different than the style she always preferred to wear, but they were solid black and made of a satiny material instead of her standard cotton, bordered in delicate lace instead of a thin, solid band. She’d grown a bit since then, her hips wider, the lace cutting into her skin enough to leave an imprint—but she liked the way he looked at her in them. His eyes followed the line of black lace over her hips, between her thighs; he came to stand between them.

The bed was high off the ground, Draco barely having to duck his head to capture her lips. He kissed her slowly, all the while easing her onto her back, following her to the mattress with his hand braced beside her head to support his weight. He broke away first, kissing down her throat, her chest, all the way to the lace an inch or so below her navel.

He was standing upright again, his hands finding her hips, his fingertips trailing the beneath the lace before hooking around the fabric and tugging each side down simultaneously. She stared up at the canopy, now visible in the early morning light.

There were constellations painted up there, silvery specks on an indigo background. She tilted her head to examine them more carefully. She made out Cygnus first, then followed the path around to the much smaller Lyra, then Hercules—her eyes flicked up to the centre of the painted star map, knowing she’d find Draco easily then. She grinned when the familiar lines connected before her eyes.

He brought her back to earth as he eased the satiny lace down her thighs. She sat up on her elbows and watched as he pulled them off her legs and tossed them aside in a similar fashion to his shirt.

“Did you know the constellations up there all have roots in Greek mythology?” She asked as he went to his own waistband. “For example, Lyra was named for the lyre of Orpheus—the first of its kind ever produced.” Her voice had gotten higher, louder, with her excitement as she recalled more of its origin. “The lyre was actually made by Hermes as a gift to the god, Apollo, which I think is just—”

“Hermione?”

She smiled widely at the use of her name. “Yes?”

“Fascinating as this is, I’m not exactly in the mood for a muggle mythology lesson.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Right.” She said sheepishly. “Not exactly romantic conversation, is it?”

He rolled his eyes at her indulgently then motioned for her to move up the bed. She pulled the duvet back all the way and nestled into the smooth, silvery grey sheets, her eyes flicking up to the canopy once more, the stars now in their proper places at this angle.

“Are you really more interested in the bloody star map than in me?” He asked with a slight scowl, coming into view then as he settled beside her.

“No—sorry.” She felt herself blush. “I’d just never really made the connection before. We have this…weird, cosmic connection. I don’t know—it caught me by surprise.”

He manoeuvred himself above her, his blonde head blocking out the map but for the blurry edges of her vision. “Weird cosmic connection?”

“It’s an interesting theory, don’t you think?” She gave him a shy smile. “I’ll have to do some research on it.”

He groaned, dismayed, as he leaned down to kiss her. “Such a swot.”

She laughed against his lips, closing her eyes for another, deeper kiss as he settled himself more fully between her legs.

Her knees were loosely anchored around his hips as they kissed unhurriedly. There was no rush, no urgency but for the ache in her lower body to be filled. She reached down between them and tentatively touched him, gently wrapping her hand around his considerable girth, her thumb swiping over the tip as she’d read to do in a rather saucy article in Witch Weekly.

He moaned into the kiss, a drawn-out, soft, almost pleading moan as she stroked up and down his length. He broke away panting after several moments, his hand gently removing hers. She looked down between them and watched as he wrapped his own hand around it, then used the swollen tip to glide through her folds.

Hermione gasped at the feeling, the head hot and thick and unlike anything she’d ever felt making contact with her clitoris. His fingers went to find her opening, sliding inside with ease to see how ready she was. She could feel the fluid trickle out of her as he withdrew his fingers, then felt her face flame scarlet as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.

She stared up at him in disbelief, her vagina clenching at the sight of his throat bobbing as he swallowed reflexively. He took hold of his cock once more, lining the tip to her entrance. He rolled his hips, pushing the thick head inside in one fluid motion. She whimpered, desperately wanting all of him inside.

Sensing her need, he eased himself in, his torso sliding across hers as he filled her. He caught her next moan in a kiss, Draco fully settled on top of her now. Her legs shifted instinctively, moving up from his hips to encircle his waist and allow him more access.

He was being too careful. She needed the part of him that knew she was unbreakable.

“You can go faster,” she said breathlessly.

His answering laugh was shaky. “So bloody impatient.”

She rolled her hips to urge him on, the action stealing a groan from his lips, right beside her ear. The sound had her pulsing around him, feeling so properly full of his hard, velvety length. If only he would just move.

“Patience has never been my thing.”

He pumped his hips once, twice, her knees widening instinctively to try to take even more of him still.

“And delayed gratification?”

“Overrated.”

“Noted.”

He slammed his hips into hers, a strangled cry tearing from her throat and she spasmed beneath him, her hands grappling at his back for purchase.

“Fuck!” She squeaked, her back arching off of the bed.

“What, darling?” He stilled and lifted his eyes to meet hers, his lips in a wicked smirk, his cock throbbing within her clenched walls. “Too much?”

“A little warning next time?”

He obliged the request easily enough, pressing teasing kisses to her lips, her jaw, her throat as he rolled his hips in a gentler rhythm. He snaked an arm under her backside, tilting her pelvis up at an angle that drew him in further and stole a high, whimpering moan from her.

It wasn’t the sharp pinch she’d felt her first time, a defensive reflex at an invading force. Her body welcomed his like she’d been waiting for it all her life, stretching to fit and lock him in as their hips thrashed in unison.

“Ah,” she whispered. “That’s perfect—just there,”

He removed his arm from under her and began to rub her clit, driving his hips in a bit harder with each unrestrained whimper from her lips.

“Draco, I think I’m—I’m—”

“So bloody perfect, Granger,” he choked out, his lips finding her neck as she tossed her head to the side. “Fuck.” His breath was harsh against her skin, ragged, tickling the fine tendrils stuck to her neck.

Her eyes screwed shut as she felt the pulsations amp up, becoming more frequent, more intense with each meeting of their flesh. He pulled her skin between his teeth and sucked; she yelped in surprise, her legs and arms locking around his back to hold him tighter, tighter, tighter until she began to see stars behind her eyelids.

“Draco,” she whispered, the name incoherent to her own ears as she thrashed, gripping the back of his head and squeezing a fistful of his hair as she flew apart around him.

He released her neck, jerking back and away from her with an offensive abruptness. The contractions had just started to ebb when he pulled out of her sharply and gripped his cock, aiming it away from her and stroking furiously until he broke. A choked, guttural groan passed through his lips as he shot his release on the sheet.

“Wait—” She panted, leaning up on her hands and frowning as the tip of his cock finished spurting his release beside her hip. “You didn’t want to—inside—”

He released his grip with one last squeeze up his shaft, panting rapidly, his sweat-slickened hair falling over his eyes as he studied the mess he’d made. He braced himself over her again, easily reclaiming his place between her still-parted thighs.

“We didn’t—talk about it,” he said breathlessly. “Wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

She took him in dazedly for only a moment before his words sank in. He didn’t come inside of her because she hadn’t said he could.

The stupid, considerate prick.

She lunged for him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him with everything she had left in her. Clearly sapped of his strength, he collapsed on her with a groan, one hand seizing her curls, the other on her neck, his thumb brushing along her jaw.

When neither could catch their breath, he broke apart first, a reluctant moan escaping him as he pulled back and shifted further down the bed to rest his head between her breasts.

It took several minutes to come down from it, both sweaty and exhausted and so wrapped up in one another the thought of separating was unbearable. His arms were locked around her back as he nuzzled her. One of her hands was stroking his shoulder, massaging the tension from it, while the other stroked his hair, her nails scraping along his scalp; he hummed appreciatively at that, the deep, satisfied sound radiating through her skin and sinking into her bones.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but the bright sun in the sky told her it was now well into the daytime. Draco was out, his breath heavy and even as it lashed across the skin of her right breast. He slept with his mouth slightly open, his jaw relaxed. There were no harsh lines on his face she could see from her angle, nothing that told her he scowled in his sleep.

She felt guilty for having to wake him from such a peaceful-looking sleep, but her bladder was finally commanding her attention.

“Draco?” She whispered, tapping his shoulder.

His brow furrowed as she coaxed him back to consciousness, his arms around her locking defiantly.

“Draco,” she repeated, sniggering. She tried sitting up but he was too heavy to lift off.

“What?” He mumbled, his eyes still closed.

“I need to get up.”

Grey eyes fluttered open, flashing wide briefly at the sight of her erect nipple. “Wasn’t a dream.” He said, sounding astonished. “How about that?”

He groaned as he unlocked his hold on her, pushing himself up with his hands. She hadn’t realised her breathing had been constricted until her lungs expanded happily for the first time in hours. She inhaled a deep breath and let it out on a yawn, stretching her arms upward. He was watching her with a grin, dipping to kiss the space between her breasts before meeting her lips.

“Good morning. Again.” He said against her lips. “Or afternoon—fuck, what time is it?”

“Late morning, maybe?” She guessed, sitting up on her elbows to peer out the window better. The sky was a crisp, clear blue and looked bitterly cold, the windowpanes lined in a layer of frost. “You find out while I use the toilet, alright?”

He let her go, watching her naked form slide from the bed with zero shame.

When she came back several minutes later—her hair somewhat tamed, her teeth brushed with a spare she’d found in a drawer, and her bladder blissfully emptied—the bed had been remade with clean sheets, a breakfast tray resting on the end.

His window had been opened and the fresh, wintry air was more pleasant than chilly, and she noticed he’d pulled on the grey joggers but kept his shirt off. She stooped down to retrieve her knickers and the jumper, redressing in them and wondering if she should go fetch her things from the library before her eyes spotted her beaded bag beside the tray.

“The elf brought it in. Thought you’d be more comfortable in here for the remainder of the holiday.”

“Insightful elf, she is.” She said with a grin, then hopped up on the bed and looked over the breakfast options. “You should pay her more.”

“I pay her enough.” He said evenly. “Any more than a Galleon a week, she’d be insulted.”

That was not a discussion she felt like having, especially knowing it was a fight she would lose. They were stubbornly loyal beings, putting the needs of their employers above their own. She’d insulted many in the past by insisting they deserved equal treatment, but she was thankful Pipsey, at least, seemed receptive to being compensated in his home, though a single Galleon a week didn’t feel like nearly enough.

It was a battle for another day.

“Draco?” She asked, smothering a moan as she took a bite of an almond croissant.

“Hmm?”

She swallowed happily, uncaring in the moment that icing sugar was raining down on the clean, black duvet. “How long does it take to brew the contraceptive potion?”

He popped the last bite of his own croissant into his mouth and dusted off his hands. “Twelve hours.”

She stared at him. “You were going to have me wait twelve hours?”

He was smirking without repent then, leaning over to kiss her shoulder. “Care to cast the charm again? I could go for another round.”

She laughed bitterly and set the croissant down on her plate, shaking her head. “There’s a charm to freeze my reproductive system but not one to freeze a man’s balls. What a load of patriarchal—” She huffed. “I ought to invent a new contraceptive charm for males.”

“You stay far away from my balls, witch.” His eyes were wary as he assessed her ire. “I’ll start on the potion now, alright? You’ll have it just in time for Christmas morning.”

“Happy Christmas to me.” She said dryly.

He hopped off the bed and went around to her, his hands sticky with sugar as he cupped her cheeks. “And a very happy one to me.”

She snorted a laugh, rolling her eyes just before he kissed her.

“Be gone with you.” She commanded against his lips.

He pecked her once more and released his hold, Hermione grinning widely as he threw on a shirt and exited the room.

Chapter Text

24 December 1998

The beautiful shades of orange across a blue sky of the morning were gone, giving way to endless stretches of grey. She sighed as she crossed the room to the window, seeing the streaks of falling rain several miles away—a promise the dreariness she’d naively believed could be avoided for the rest of the holiday was now on its way.

“What the—”

Hermione paled at the sight. From the view of Draco’s bedroom window, she saw Pansy sitting on a bench in the garden with Harry. His back was to her, but she could see Pansy fully, wearing a cream slip dress and a leather jacket. The image of yet another Pure-blood Slytherin wearing muggle clothing was almost as discomforting as the image of her best friend casually hanging out her, the two laughing and touching as if they knew each other intimately.

Harry was here—at Malfoy Manor.

When did he get here?

Why would he come?

Most disconcerting of all, Hermione couldn’t recall if either of them had cast a silencing charm on the room that morning.

Horrified at the thought, she stepped back from the window and went to her bag to retrieve a fresh set of clothes. She’d just gotten out of the shower, her hair sprinkling water droplets all over the floor as she whipped off her towel and redressed. She didn’t bother with a drying charm on her hair or even finding her coat—she shoved her boots onto her feet and ran out and down the stairs to the garden door.

Pansy was the first to spot her as she rounded the corner, her boots loudly crunching the icy gravel.

“Morning, Granger.” She greeted her ruefully, the laugh lines around her mouth fading the instant their eyes met. “You look well.”

“Pansy,” Hermione said stiffly. “What the hell are you wearing?”

She was smoking, her freshly manicured hands holding the rolled herbs between slim fingers, the nails painted a glossy black. Her eyes narrowed at Hermione appraisingly as she blew out a long stream of wispy smoke.

“Not muggle enough?”

“Erm, no. It’s very muggle, actually. Why are you dressed like that?”

Pansy brushed a bit of ash off her thigh and flicked the cigarette over the frosty, winter-dead grass. “I have a class today,” Pansy said slowly, as if reminding her. “I have to assimilate when in London, be one with the muggles. Potter has volunteered to join me—I’d ask if you wanted to come, see for yourself, but I have the feeling you’ll be a bit…preoccupied…for the rest of the day.”

Hermione felt her skin flush under Pansy’s knowing eyes and gave a tight nod. She shifted her focus to the boy who still had his back turned, deliberately staring off into the rows of dormant rose bushes.

“Hey, Harry.” She said, sounding oddly unsure of herself.

He was stiff as he shifted around on the bench to face her, giving Pansy a quick, wary glance before looking up to Hermione; a slight blush began to colour his cheeks as he attempted to look her in the eye.

“Have you been here a while?”

“Came through the Floo around midnight—told Malfoy I might, when he offered last week.”

She frowned automatically. “He didn’t say—”

Harry shook his head. “I was sure I’d be staying at the Burrow,” he looked down at his feet, fidgeting slightly on what was sure to be a very cold bench. “Ginny and I agreed to cool off for a bit. Made things—awkward.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “Harry, I’m sor—”

“I’m fine.” He promised. “She’s fine—we both knew it was coming.”

Hermione chewed on her lip thoughtfully, gauging Harry’s mood, recalling Ginny’s behaviour of the last few months. It had been coming—the news of their separation shouldn’t have been a surprise, yet she couldn’t quite wrap her head around it.

Reuniting with Ginny at the end of the war was one of the only things that had kept Harry going. What did it say about him that now, months later, when they were both recovering and had every opportunity to enjoy their lives together, they were calling it quits? If Harry and Ginny could go through everything they had and still found a reason to split, was there hope for anyone?

“I’ll be starting Auror training in July,” he reminded her, seemingly aware of her train of thought. “And she still has another year at Hogwarts besides. It wasn’t fair to pretend anymore, Hermione.”

She would have expected Pansy to gloat at the news, but the girl beside him was solemn. It wasn’t that she believed Pansy to be the reason for her friends’ breakup, but a part of her had wondered if Pansy was encouraging him to end it. But Ginny had said at Halloween they’d been having problems since the summer, and that was well before Pansy had even entered the picture.

She couldn’t deny that Harry had been—happier since he’d begun spending time with her. Difficult as it was for her to consider the idea of Pansy and Harry enjoying one another’s company, she was hardly in a position to judge it.

Her loyalty to Ginny, though…that was being tested. If she were on better terms with the Weasleys, she would apparate to the Burrow and check on her, but she was sure her presence would be most unwelcome on Christmas Eve.

“Alright, Harry?” Hermione bent, trying to catch his eye, but he skilfully evaded her.

“Fine.” He said to the grass.

Hermione sighed loudly and folded her arms across her chest. “Are you really going to be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Sulky because I shagged Malfoy?”

He groaned in objection, the verbal confirmation so much for him to hear that he flung himself off the bench and began pacing away from them both.

“Yeah, I shagged Malfoy, okay?” She called after him. “You didn’t avoid me after I slept with Ron.”

“I didn’t know you had until—” He cut himself off quickly, turning back around and glancing warily between Hermione and a now-curious Pansy. “Later.”

“What is your problem now, then?” She demanded. “You knew where I was headed with Draco—this can’t be a surprise to you.”

His cheeks heated, one hand coming up to remove his glasses while he rubbed his eyes with the other. “My problem is waking up to the sounds of you shagging Malfoy, Hermione.”

She felt sorry for him, she really did, but seeing just how distressing the situation was to him caused her to sputter a laugh. She promptly covered her mouth with her hand, but she ultimately surrendered to the fit of giggles.

“It’s not funny.” He said despairingly.

“It’s a little funny.” Pansy murmured, fighting a smile as she watched him.

Harry stared at her, wide-eyed, his hair more chaotic than usual from the way he’d been pulling at it. “Pansy, she’s like my sister!”

She snorted a laugh and blew out the puff she’d just taken. “Oh, come off it,” she extended the last little bit of the herb to Hermione, who stared at her hand, unblinking, for several seconds before accepting it. “She’s a grown woman with needs. Needs that were filled, by the sound of it.”

Hermione took a long drag, looking away from him as she blew out her breath. It struck her then that her friends had never seen her smoke—not even when she’d tried it at her birthday party. What was going through his mind then? Was he judging her for it, or was he considering it to be the least shocking revelation of that morning?

When it was burnt up, Hermione snuffed it out with the toe of her boot, then vanished the ashes with a flick of her wand.

“Pansy—”

“Potter.” She said, her tone an icy warning. “Don’t ruin this for her with your misplaced virtue.”

“I’m not trying to ruin anything—it’s just—Hermione,” he flicked an apologetic, albeit awkward, glance to Hermione then. “No offence.”

“Offence taken.” She muttered, folding her arms over her chest.

Pansy stood, her hands automatically smoothing the thin skirt of her dress. Her arms looked more delicate, less defensive, as she matched Hermione’s posture, but her face was set in a scowl. “Pull your head out of your arse and see her as a friend—as a mate, even. Would you be like this with one of the boys in your dorm?”

“Well, no—but that’s different. That wouldn’t be my business.”

Hermione and Pansy scoffed in unison, and Harry scowled at them both defensively. “It’s different.”

“It’s not.” Pansy said stiffly. “Even if she were your sister, it’s still not your place to shame her.”

“I’m not shaming her—I’m not shaming you, Hermione—”

“Feels like it.”

“Not. Your. Place.” Pansy said again. “As her friend, you should be happy for her. As long as it was consensual—it was consensual?” She snapped her gaze to Hermione’s sharply.

Hermione jerked back slightly. “Of course.”

Pansy nodded once and turned her head back to face Harry. “Then leave her be, Potter.”

Harry sighed in response, his eyes on the ground again, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.

Pansy turned her wrist over to check the time. “I’ll go let Draco know we’re leaving. Don’t say anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“I really didn’t mean to offend you.” He said after Pansy was out of sight. “It’s just awkward.”

“Because it’s awkward, or because you’re making it awkward?”

He sat on the bench, his shoulders slumped. “I dunno.” He sighed. “Both?”

Hermione cautiously joined him on the bench, leaving a generous foot of space between them. “I was careful this time. And comfortable. And it was quite fun, too. I enjoyed it—and I don’t regret it like before.”

He shrugged. “Okay…?”

“I’m sorry you heard me in a…compromising position,” she bit her lip, unable to help the grin that spread as Harry sighed once more. “But I think you should be happy for me.”

“Happy for you.” He echoed dully.

“I would want the same for you—you wouldn’t really be able to talk to Ron about you and Ginny, but I’m—”

“There was no me and Ginny,” he said, frowning. “I mean—there was, but we never—” He groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Fuck, this is embarrassing.”

She frowned, too, then realised what he was getting at. “Oh. You’re still a—”

“Virgin.” He said acidly. “Yeah.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said quickly. “It’s not a competition, Harry. I’d probably still be one if I hadn’t gone back to the Weasleys after the battle.”

“So you and Ron didn’t, erm, shag in the tent, then?”

Her eyes narrowed. “We hadn’t even kissed yet, Harry. Don’t be ridiculous—holding hands felt like a big step for us then.” She scoffed. “Besides, between him being splinched and him abandoning us for weeks—when would it have even happened?”

He blew out a breath, sounding relieved.

“And if we had, he probably would’ve told you right after.” She added bitterly.

“Probably.” He agreed, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “And I would have had the same reaction because you are—like my sister.”

“But I’m still your friend first—always.” She gave his thigh a punch. “Don’t treat me any differently than you would your other friends because I’m female, alright?”

“Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’ve been a bit of a git, haven’t I?”

“A bit.” She agreed, returning his smile. “Fortunately for you, I’ve had enough experience with the male ego over the last few months, so consider this a minor offence I’m willing to overlook. This time.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

She shifted on the bench, sitting cross-legged to face him. “Why did you leave the Weasleys last night?”

Harry chewed on his lip for a moment, his eyes looking over the gravel path a few feet away. “I didn’t feel…like I fit—anymore.” He spoke slowly, sounding pained. “Ron’s been avoiding me for weeks, which is fine—I don’t have much to say to him right now, anyway. Or Ginny, really—we talked after Halloween, but we didn’t really know how to…end it. She just wants me to move on with my life and I—can’t. Not like she can. I can’t just have a shot of firewhisky and plaster a smile on my face and pretend everything is still normal when it’s not.”

He sighed and kicked at a small rock. “I thought after the war everything would be good again. Evil was defeated—I survived again because goodness prevailed and I had my mum and dad—and Sirius and Remus—and all these people that had died for the right side watching over me…and then it hit me one day that they all died for me. They died because of me. Because of a madman’s prophecy. All these people—over twenty years of pain and two bloody wars because of me. If my mum hadn’t sacrificed herself for me, she would have lived. Sirius would have lived. Teddy Lupin has to grow up an orphan now because of me.”

Hermione was very quiet, trying to determine the best way to respond. Normally very pragmatic to an almost insulting degree, she knew she had to be more considerate of his feelings right then than spewing the facts that he already knew at him.

“Teddy’s parents made a choice.” She said softly. “They made a choice to do the right thing, like your mother did. That’s what parents do—they make sacrifices in the best interest of their children. Teddy won’t be alone—he has Andromeda. He has you—you’re going to be there for him in the way Sirius couldn’t be for you.”

Harry nodded absently, and she sighed, unsure if he’d really been listening to her.

“Is that what you did?” He asked quietly. “You made your choice in the best interest of your child?”

She blinked, considering his words, his tone. He hadn’t been sneering, he hadn’t made his question sound like an accusation. It was still unknown to her what Harry’s opinion of her getting an abortion was—he’d been supportive, but she hadn’t known for sure if he was supporting her decision, or if he was outwardly supporting his friend whilst silently criticising her decision.

She hadn’t even thought of it as a child so much as the idea of a child—what it would have turned into had she not discovered her pregnancy as soon as she had. But as for the concept of a child…

“Yes. I made my choice in the best interest of myself by not having a child.” She murmured, watching his eyes intently for a reaction that—thankfully—never came. “When I have a child, it will be because they are wanted. It will be because I’m financially and emotionally stable enough to give them the life they deserve. It won’t be because of an accident neither of us wanted, even if Ron claims he did. You know he didn’t—he was scared and thought I would take him back if I went through with it.”

“He thought you would marry him, actually.”

She laughed without humour, shaking her head. Of course he’d thought that.

“For what it’s worth, Hermione, I think you made the right decision.” He gave her a slight, wistful smile. “I don’t know if I ever really told you that—I’m sorry if I haven’t.”

She smiled her thanks. “Even if it put a strain on our friendship?”

“The war put a strain on our friendship—not you. You’re still my best friend, Hermione. I didn’t want to take sides then—I was still clinging to the Weasleys. They were the only family I had and I was afraid of being alone, but I knew Ron was wrong. If I could go back and stand up for you, I would. I’m sorry I didn’t do enough.” He cleared his throat. “I would go back and empty my vault for you, too, if I could. Whatever you needed—I should have given you everything.”

She shook her head and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I understand why you didn’t. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if either of us would be allowed inside the bank then. We were essentially war criminals, weren’t we?”

“Yeah…” He nodded grimly. “But we’re not banned. I went in July, and then right before school—it’s all still there in my vault. Stacks and stacks of gold I don’t really know what to do with anymore.”

“I know what you mean. I have a single Sickle to my name just begging to be spent.”

He snorted and stuck a hand in his pocket, producing a small handful of Galleons a moment later. “How much was that potion again? Six? Seven?” He made a show of counting them out, then offered seven gold coins to her.

“A little late for that, thanks.” She said dryly, shoving his hand away. “Are you okay, Harry? About Ginny and…Ron…and everyone?”

He nodded after a moment. “I don’t think Mrs. Weasley’s my biggest fan at the moment, but everyone else seemed fine. I think Ron and George were a bit relieved of the news, to be honest. Percy and Charlie didn’t have much of a reaction either way—Bill and Fleur comforted her.” He sighed. “I suppose I could have been nicer.”

“What did you say?”

He winced. “I didn’t mean to—Mrs. Weasley was pushing for an engagement, talking about summer weddings and how nice it would be for us to have time together before I started training and she went back to school.” He looked rather agitated as he spoke. “Ginny was at the kitchen table, looking like she wanted to hex herself to get away from the conversation. Lavender and Molly were talking about flowers or cake or—something, I dunno. I just snapped. Went off on all of them, said the thought of marrying Ginny was a nightmare. I hadn’t meant it like that, honestly. I meant the idea of marriage at all was a nightmare, but it slipped. I tried apologising, but Ginny was drunk and started crying and I just—couldn’t stand being there anymore. I kept hurting people that I loved and I had to get away.”

“So you came here instead?”

“Went to Grimmauld Place first. Tried to sleep, but couldn’t. Kreacher decided to go on a cleaning binge and I didn’t want to lose it on him, too, so I came here. I meant to find you, but Pansy was in the library when I came in. It was already easy for me to talk to her, so I thought I’d just catch up with you in the morning.” He smiled wryly then. “Obviously, that didn’t happen.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry I offended your fragile ears.”

“You traumatised them.” He corrected her with a smirk.

“I’ll make sure there’s a charm next time.”

He shuddered at the thought of a “next time.”

“Hey, Harry, I just realised something.”

“What?”

“I think I know why you survived the killing curse again.” She said seriously. “In horror films, it’s always the virgin who survives, isn’t it?”

“Alright,” Harry said, then patted her knee and stood up. “Good talking to you.”

On Christmas Eve a year ago, the world had never seemed so bleak. She and Harry had gone to Godric’s Hollow—he’d seen his parents’ graves and they’d heard church music and everything had seemed so oddly serene that it had felt foreboding. For a moment, though, the war had slipped from her mind, and she was just a normal girl in the quiet, snowy night, having a solemn moment with her friend.

Although the moment had been short-lived, and danger had been lurking—literally—around the corner, she’d been able to escape for just a bit. Imagine what life could be like again. Picture a time in the very near future where they could celebrate and relax and just exist without threat.

Any scenario she’d conjured in the graveyard, any hope she’d had for the future—none of them held a candle to what she felt now.

Now, sitting in a booth in the Leaky Cauldron the night before Christmas with Harry, Draco Malfoy, and Pansy Parkinson. Odd as the choice of company would have been to her a year ago, the most surreal thing about their group was that it felt normal.

It fit.

It wasn’t awkward or scary or even the least bit uncomfortable to have Draco sitting so close, so familiar, in such a public setting. More than once she’d heard the crack of a camera flashing, but she’d done her best to ignore it.

This was really the first major outing for her and Harry since the end of the war, and she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to see their faces on the front page of the Daily Prophet in the morning.

If only for Ginny’s sake, it made her a bit ill to think of the Weasleys getting the paper on Christmas morning and seeing the four of them together. Would she feel betrayed, or would she see Harry looking relaxed and Hermione looking so genuinely happy with Draco’s hand on her back that she would accept it?

She knew Ron would be furious, and she felt sorry that Lavender had chosen to spend her holidays at the Burrow instead of with her own family. Complicated as her past with her roommate was, she didn’t wish anything bad on her. She didn’t wish to have her first Christmas spent with Ron be overshadowed by the news of his friends enjoying life without him.

With any luck—if the photos even saw the light of day—they would be insignificant. A blip on the back page of the Lifestyle section or accompanied by a frivolous article in Witch Weekly or some crazy conspiracy theory in The Quibbler that no one in their right mind would take seriously.

They were just four people having a drink on Christmas Eve—it was hardly newsworthy.

Now if she could just tell that to the photographer who passed by their table more times than could be considered coincidence.

Pansy conjured a small mirror and began inspecting her teeth. “That damn muggle popcorn.” She muttered.

“It’s the same you get in the wizarding world.” Harry said, grinning. “You wanted the muggle Cinema experience—that includes popcorn.”

She rolled her eyes and dropped the mirror into her handbag.

“You took her to see a film?” Hermione asked in surprise, setting down her butterbeer with a hard thud.

“I did.” He said proudly. “I think she might have even enjoyed it.”

Pansy rolled her eyes at Draco, who was smirking when Hermione tilted her chin to look up him. “It was fine once I got past the sticky floors and tiny seats and blasting noises bouncing all over the place.”

Hermione nodded. “That’s the typical experience, yes.”

“And you enjoy that?”

She shrugged. “It depends on the film.” She grinned at Harry then. “I’m rather fond of the horror genre.”

Harry returned her gaze with a look that clearly said “piss off” and knocked back the rest of his firewhisky while she sniggered.

“You’ve never been, have you?” She asked Draco, whose hand had slyly sneaked to wrap around her waist. “The Cinema?”

“No, Granger.” He said, smirking.

“Would you like to?”

“Tonight?”

She shrugged. “Whenever.” She turned her watch over and frowned with disappointment. “They’re probably done for the night. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

He grimaced slightly, picking up his tumbler with his free hand.

“Unless you have other plans?”

He shook his head and took a sip, then set it back down on the table with a lighter touch than Hermione had.

“I don’t know yet,” he said, sounding bitter. “I’m waiting to hear back on something.”

She nodded and picked up her butterbeer. She finished it off in two large gulps, then wiped the foam from her lips on the back of her hand.

It wasn’t until she set the empty glass down that she realised how unrefined the action had been. She looked up at Draco slowly, unsure if he’d be appalled or not.

He rolled his eyes and pulled her in to kiss her forehead; the crack of the camera sounded closer.

“How’s the potion coming along?” She flicked a glance to Harry and Pansy, who seemed to be caught up in their own argument about the film they’d watched.

“Should be ready by morning.” He pulled her wrist towards him to check the time on her watch. “I just have to finish it off with powdered rose petals in an hour, then let it cool before bottling it.”

She frowned. “It’s not been twelve hours yet?”

“It took a bit longer than usual.” He admitted, pink colouring his cheeks. “I made one for the coming month—and enough for a six month supply after.”

“That’s a bit optimistic, don’t you think?”

“I like my chances.” He said, smirking as he caught her lips in a kiss.

25 December 1998

Dawn had barely broke when an owl pecked at the window. Though she was closest to the window, Draco went to go open it, producing a few coins and a treat from a jar she hadn’t noticed before. He paid the owl for the paper and fed it the treat, then watched it take off, looking disappointed.

“Everything alright?” She sat up in bed and stretched, moaning softly as her muscles pulled.

“Fine.” He said sullenly, then tossed the paper onto the bed beside her. “I’m going to check on the potions. You can go back to sleep, I might be a while.”

“I’m already up.” She said, reaching for the paper. “Maybe I’ll have a bath and read the paper. It’s been so long since I’ve done that.”

He nodded distractedly then made his way to the door, Hermione frowning after him.

Ten minutes later she was up to her shoulders in eucalyptus-scented bubbles in Draco’s marble tub, using her wand to levitate and turn the pages of the Daily Prophet. As she’d suspected, the media was in an absolute frenzy over last night’s outing.

The front page practically exploded with photos, the largest of which was Harry and Draco chatting animatedly about Quidditch strategies, Pansy smirking and Hermione looking less than thrilled as she slammed back her second butterbeer of the night. The wording above it asked readers if the “Chosen One” and the Death Eater have decided to let bygones be bygones, followed by the promise of an inside scoop.

News of their relationship was speculated in a smaller section towards the bottom of the front page, a photo of Draco’s forehead kiss shown but not one where he’d kissed her on the lips, which she was embarrassed to admit she was thankful for. She wouldn’t have wanted her first public kiss to be in print for thousands to see and judge on Christmas morning.

She seemed to be a footnote compared to Harry, though that was hardly surprising, even if she was a Muggle-born dating a member of one of the most prominent Pure-blood families in Britain. Disgraced as they were or not, still, she would have expected the news to have had more of an impact.

Harry Potter cosying up to Death Eater Daughter Pansy Parkinson, though…that had certainly made an impact. “Insiders” claimed to have witnessed them holding hands through Diagon Alley before meeting Draco and Hermione for drinks. One claimed he had kissed her, though there was no photographic evidence. There was plenty of speculation on Harry’s newfound loyalties, some theorising Harry and Draco had been friends all along or that Harry and Pansy had always fancied each other—that rubbish theory had come from Draco himself, having needled Pansy about it at the table until she was so red from embarrassment she threatened to hex him.

It was of no surprise to Hermione to see the writer of the articles had been Rita Skeeter. If she’d been more on guard the night before, perhaps she might have noticed her Animagus form flitting about, but she hadn’t even considered it.

Her mind wandered to the Weasleys, to Ginny, especially, wondering if she was reading the paper or if they would keep it from her. She wanted to talk to her; a Patronus felt too informal and a letter by owl would take too long. If only they had access to telephones…

She briefly considered using the Floo to pop over there, but if she’d thought her presence would be unwelcome the day before, she couldn’t begin to imagine the outrage it would inspire today. Christmas morning, newly public with her relationship, showing up in the Weasleys’ fireplace looking to console the girl who’d just been dumped by the boy she’d spent the night before laughing with.

It would not go over well.

Hermione folded the paper neatly with the tip of her wand and floated it over to rest on the counter, then rose from the tub. She towelled off roughly and wrapped it around herself, then released her hair from its clip and shook it out, catching her reflection in the mirror, noting how red her skin had gotten from the heat of the bath.

Back in Draco’s room, she found him sitting in an armchair, looking far more relaxed than he had when they’d woken up. He held a small, white box in his hands and was flipping it around, looking rather pleased with himself; he smirked at her as she passed.

“You’re in a better mood.” She commented, setting the paper down on the side table next to him.

“I got what I’ve been waiting for.”

She eyed him curiously, standing before him. He handed her the box.

“You can open it, but don’t touch it.”

“Because that’s not concerning at all, is it?” She muttered, tentatively accepting the box and opening the lid.

Inside was a button. A rather large, light blue button that looked to have popped off of a coat or a witch’s robes. There was nothing special about it.

“This is part of the reason I’ve been a ‘twat,’” he said, nodding to it, which only furthered her confusion. “I requested it about a week or so after Halloween—I thought the Ministry would deny it after my spat with Weasley. It took some convincing on my healer’s part, but it was finally approved last week. I’ve just been waiting for it to get made and sent here.”

He placed his hands on her hips and pulled her to stand between his legs as she continued to frown at the button.

It took a moment, but she managed to make sense of his words. She couldn’t touch it. He’d been awaiting Ministry approval.

“It’s a Portkey."

"Yes."

She couldn't help but grin, still utterly lost. "And where, may I ask, will it take us?"

"Near a hospital." He said, flicking his eyes to hers. "In Australia."

Chapter Text

25 December 1998

“Sorry?”

His hands flexed around her hips, his eyes boring into hers, and she could only stare down at him in confusion.

“Australia,” she said blankly. “You know I haven’t done enough research with the counter charm yet—I’m not ready to—”

He shook his head, seeming anxious. “Your parents have been in hospital since late October.” He said, his now-guilty eyes falling from hers. “They started making progress after a few weeks—enough to where you can visit now.”

Visit.

Visit her parents in a magical hospital, where they’ve been for nearly two months.

Her heart started racing as she thought through a list of scenarios for how the healers even acquired them. She’d always hoped that if she ever developed the right counter charm, she would start by slowly introducing herself to Monica and Wendell, gaining their trust over time, and then carefully—carefully—cast the charm when they were turned away or distracted enough that they wouldn’t notice a relative stranger pulling a wand on them.

Granted, it was a poor plan, but it had been the only one she could produce short of appearing on their doorstep and ambushing them with the charm as soon as they opened the door.

“I know you said you wanted to wait until you were done with school, but the longer they waited, the harder it may have been to restore their memories.”

“Draco, I—”

“When you’re ready,” he said, reaching out to take the box from her frozen hands. He gingerly closed the lid and set the box on the side table. “It doesn’t have to be today.”

Her breath had become shallow and she could feel her throat closing in, her eyes prickling with the sting of tears that she promptly wiped away. She sniffled and crossed her arms over her chest, trying to force herself to take a deep, steadying breath.

She just needed a second to process it.

He gave her several minutes, his gaze carefully neutral as she shifted her weight from foot to foot and calmed her breathing, her heart rate. This was a good thing.

He’d done a good thing—for her. For her parents. Draco Malfoy had voluntarily helped her muggle parents. She stilled and frowned, the words in her head entirely foreign when strung together like that, yet, somehow, she was able to make sense of it.

Her birthday gift—the contact information for a healer and her parents’ new address. Him telling her he’d reached out to his own healer for assistance. Putting himself on the line with the Ministry when he was already on thin ice by being on probation.

He’d done this all for her, without asking for anything in return.

“They’re expecting us this evening, but we can go tomorrow, or next week.” He shifted in the chair, visibly uncomfortable. “I sprang this on you. I know you’re thinking I should have told you, and I probably should have—but I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case they weren’t able to remember you.”

She sniffed and nodded after a moment, her eyes unfocused as they fell on the back of his chair.

He rested a hand on her waist and lightly squeezed her, and she could only nod again, her fingers swiping away the wetness from her eyes.

“I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She blinked and refocused on him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

She didn’t have to force a smile, though she was sure her eyes were still watery and her nose was probably red. She kneaded his shoulder absently, her head buzzing through all of the possibilities of what she’ll find when she sees them.

Would they want to hug her—or would they be so angry they would send her away?

In the few times she’d allowed herself to imagine a reunion, the scenario she dreaded always seemed to take the space of the likeliest outcome. She didn’t deserve forgiveness—she fully expected them to hate or fear her for what she’d done to them.

But they were willing to see her.

They were expecting her.

That had to be a good sign.

“Do you have the potion?” She asked, swallowing down the lump in her throat.

“The potion?” He frowned, but he reached for the small phial on the side table behind the white box.

She held out her hand for it; he seemed quite cautious in handing it over, concern evident in his expression then as if anticipating her imminent mental break.

She chose to ignore him as she examined it, a mostly-clear liquid with a pink tint that filled the air with the scents of raspberries and rose petals the moment she unstoppered it.

From her research, and the second-hand knowledge of her more experienced classmates, the contraceptive potion was meant to be rather vile.

A dull, sea green, smelling of damp earth and tasting bitter. She was sure it had been developed as a means of desperation—an option that was so unpleasant it made the risk of impregnation almost worth it. As with the icy effects of the charm, the potion developed by wizards for witches was meant to act as a deterrent, not a solution. An illogical ploy to keep the population reproducing.

But this was something else.

She tossed it back, swallowing every drop, and stoppered the empty phial before setting it back down.

He was watching her intently.

“Why do your potions taste better than they should?”

He lifted a blonde brow. “Do they?”

She nodded. “I’m not complaining. I’m just curious how you do it so differently.”

“I was mentored by Snape for five years—might’ve learned a thing or two in tweaking potions to make them more pleasant.” His eyes narrowed slightly, the hand on her waist sliding down to her hip. “What’s going on in that overused brain of yours?”

“A lot,” she breathed with a laugh. “A lot. You’ve truly bested me in the gift department—I don’t know how to thank you enough. Honestly, Draco, this is…”

She laughed again, utterly bewildered. She bent to kiss him, bracing herself on his shoulder as her free hand lifted to his smooth jaw.

“Thank you.” She whispered against his lips. “Thank you.”

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into him, and she straddled his hips. Her arms hung loosely over his shoulders as she sat in his lap, and she smiled at him.

“Decent gift, then?”

She laughed softly. “It’s the perfect gift. Even if it completely backfires and my parents decide to shun me for all eternity.” She sniffed and ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “Fair warning, I’ll probably be a mess if that happens.”

“It won’t.” He said confidently, playing with a loose curl that had fallen over her arm.

She wasn’t as confident. In fact, she was fairly certain her parents would take one look at her and turn away in disgust.

But it would be worth it just to see them, no matter the outcome.

And she wouldn’t be alone.

Harry was stretched out on the sofa in the library. He’d fallen asleep in his glasses, the frames askew where he rested the side of his head on his arm. Crookshanks was curled up against him, the cat yawning and stretching as he spotted Hermione coming in. Pansy was asleep on the loveseat across from him, her fine, dark hair streaked across her face. They were both dressed in the clothes they’d had on the day before, but Pansy had thrown the leather jacket somewhere.

The room was cold enough she could see her breath in the air, and she lightly touched Harry’s arm to find he felt like ice. Hermione quickly conjured up blankets and delicately draped one over each of them; Crookshanks slid out just before the fabric settled, looking affronted as he leapt onto the coffee table.

“I have to go away for a few days,” she whispered to Crookshanks, bending down to kiss him between the ears. “You’ll keep an eye on them?”

He yawned again in reply, showing off his sharp, white fangs.

She slid the note she’d written for Harry onto his side of the table, then carefully reached out to remove his glasses; she folded them and set them on top of the note. Crookshanks grumbled a meow as she scooped him up and gave him a quick squeeze, his bushy tail whipping against her. Despite his evident protest, she hugged and kissed him once more before setting him back down on the table. He flicked his tail at her and hopped over to the loveseat, turning himself around a few times before settling in by Pansy’s now-covered feet. His yellow eyes blinked slowly at Hermione as she backed out of the room, the cat looking sleepily content once more.

Draco was putting the last of his things into Hermione’s bag when she re-entered his bedroom.

“All set?” He asked, then tossed the bag to the foot of the bed.

“I think so.” She said, sounding nervous to her own ears.

He frowned, his mouth opening as if to remind her—again—they didn’t have to go yet, but she shook her head.

“I’m ready.” She said with forced confidence. “No matter the outcome, I’m ready.”

Travel by Portkey remained low on the list, second from the bottom to flying. It was nauseating, disorienting, and she had yet to find a graceful way to land. She landed in a heap on the pavement, her right hip throbbing with the soreness that promised a nasty bruise the following morning. Draco had landed on his feet, as if this method of travel was second nature to him.

It probably was.

To his credit, he was trying not to smirk as he helped her up. His hands came up to cradle her head, his left hand brushing back her hair and checking to make sure she hadn’t cracked it on the hard ground.

“I didn’t hit my head.” She said, but then his fingers ghosted over a spot that made her wince.

“I thought you travelled by Portkey before?”

“I have—I’m just not very good at it.”

At this he did smirk, his fingers lightly massaging the spot she couldn’t remember hitting. He kissed her temple and murmured, “I can tell.”

She smacked his arm with the back of her hand, batting it away, and he released her, still cocky as ever.

“What now?”

“Now,” he said, bending to nudge the button back into the white box. “We find the hospital. I have directions somewhere.”

She snorted. “Oh, that’s helpful.”

He closed the lid and stood up, yanking on her bag and pulling her forward. He undid the knot and slipped the box into the bag, then reached his hand in to root around for the note with the directions printed on it.

“You could have kept it with the box…” She informed him in a singsong tone, earning a glare as he continued to dig blindly in her bag.

“How the fuck do you find anything in here?” He complained several seconds later, retracting his hand. “It’s a black hole.”

She stuck her hand in and easily found the note, grinning as she produced it for him. “The key is clearly envisioning what you’re looking for.”

He snatched it from her hand, then scanned the bit of parchment intently.

As he studied it, she began to survey their surroundings. They appeared to have landed in a wide alleyway between two buildings. They were in the shade, but the air began to feel oppressive around her, the little detail that it was summertime in Australia and she was dressed for English countryside winter clicking in her head as she began to strip off her layers. She shucked her coat and thick jumper and stuffed them into her bag, making sure to pull her wand from her coat pocket beforehand; she slid it into the back pocket of her jeans. She was very glad she’d had the foresight to wear a t-shirt under her jumper, the thin cotton a comfortable layer over her skin and leaving her arms pleasantly uncovered.

He finished memorising the note a minute later as she was wrangling her hair up into a ponytail.

“Okay,” she breathed, releasing her hair and wrapping her hands around the back of her neck.

“Are you sure?” He asked, sliding a hand around her back. “We can get settled at the hotel first, go in the morning.”

She shook her head. “I think—I think I just need to do it. Get it over with. Worst case scenario, I spend the night crying and we go home in the morning.”

“Best case scenario?”

She shook her head again. “I’m not anticipating one.”

He didn’t argue further, though he seemed to want to. His eyes rolled before he ducked his head to kiss her, Hermione tilting her chin up to kiss him back, pressing herself into the one good thing she had to depend on.

“No more stalling, Granger.” He teased against her lips.

“I’m not stalling.” She argued, kissing him again.

Her arms went around his waist and she stood on tiptoe to get closer even as he began to pull back. Her lips fell from his, and she pressed kisses down his jaw, his neck, the tip of her tongue teasing his pulse point and stealing a soft moan from his throat. Her teeth lightly scraped his skin and she soothed it with her tongue, her lips, as her fingers trailed up and down his back.

“If you don’t stop, I’m taking you to the hotel.” He hissed in her ear.

She nipped him again, then whispered, “You say that like it’s a threat.”

He pulled back in what felt like a reluctant move, his pupils wide, face flushed a light pink. The spot she’d sucked and kissed on his neck bloomed red like a small poppy flower, and she smirked at it, kissing it once more before dutifully stepping back, her hands up to show she was done and meant no harm.

“I wasn’t stalling,” she said innocently, meeting his eyes. “I was showing my appreciation.”

He snorted. “And I wasn’t complaining, but you are running out of time.” He pulled her left hand away and glanced down at her watch that she’d set nine hours ahead before they left. “It’s almost six.”

“Okay.” She said after another moment of not stalling. “Lead the way.”

Unlike St. Mungo’s, hidden within a muggle building in London, the hospital before them was set at the end of a row of shops much like Diagon Alley. Cobblestones under their feet, shops advertising wands, Quidditch supplies, robes, an Apothecary, and even an ice cream shop similar to Fortescue’s. If it weren’t for the heat and intensity of the evening sun, she would have felt like she was home.

Being Christmas day, there was hardly anyone around, and for that she was grateful. She was gripping Draco’s hand so tightly she felt his knuckles pop, but he didn’t complain or try to ease her off, though she did notice his jaw was clenched every time she glanced up at him during their walk.

When they stopped outside of the glass doors, she noticed flashes of lime green as it burst through a corridor to the nearly empty foyer, the shocking colour materialising into the robes of an eager-looking healer as he came to a stop and pulled the doors open for them.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy.” He greeted, ushering them inside the white marble entryway.

The wizard was striking: sun-streaked hair, blue eyes partially obscured by glasses, and an even tan that clashed harshly with the colour of his robes. He was rather handsome, actually, the cut of his jaw and set of his cheekbones reminding her of Gilderoy Lockhart in his prime as he flashed his white teeth with every smile.

“I’m Healer Devlin Craft,” he extended his hand to Hermione. “I’ve had the pleasure of working with your parents the last couple of months.”

Hermione gave him a wide-eyed look for several seconds before forcing a smile in return and shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And it’s an honour to finally meet you.” He said, clasping her hand between both of his for a moment too long. “Please, come in—we’ve been expecting you.”

Draco was scowling but gave Hermione a nod when the wizard had turned his back, a nod of encouragement to follow, but it was hardly reassuring.

Inside, the air was pleasantly cool, the marble floors, staircases, and columns ensuring a temperature controlled environment. The interior was almost entirely bare, but voices and the bustling of footsteps could be heard echoing down the long corridor Healer Craft had run through.

He briskly escorted them through the corridor, his head whipping back now and again to check they were still following. Hermione clutched Draco’s hand once more, and he muffled a pained groan as she locked her fingers through his.

“It’s an ‘honour’ to meet me?” She whispered up at him as they followed Healer Craft up the first staircase.

“You’re not just famous in Britain, Granger,” he informed her smugly. “I’ve told you before—the whole world worshipping at your feet.”

She felt he’d been exaggerating then, but the excited, almost reverent way she’d been greeted, the gasps from patients and mediwitches and wizards as they passed—it didn’t feel like such an exaggeration anymore.

They stopped on the fourth floor, the large windows showing the tops of the buildings behind it and, in the distance, an unending strip of pale blue ripples, glittering in the sunlight.

She gasped as she saw it, and Healer Craft turned at the sound. “That’s not—the ocean, is it? Or are the windows enchanted?”

“They’re enchanted, yes, to keep the muggles from seeing in, but we are fairly close to the water. About a fifteen minute walk.” He smiled patiently, waiting for Hermione to have her fill of the view before steering her down another hallway.

“Your parents’ room is at the end here—they have one of the best views in the hospital.” He announced proudly.

The door at the end of the hall, now less than ten feet away, appeared to be open. She froze, Draco’s arm pulling hers a second before he realised she’d stopped walking.

Reality was crashing down. Her parents were inside that doorway—closer than she’d been to them in a year and a half.

They were going to hate her.

They were never going to forgive her, and they were about to tell her they never wanted to see her again—she could feel it.

“How much do they remember?” She called to Healer Craft.

The wizard paused his stride, the distance of Hermione’s voice a clear sign they were no longer following him, and he turned back, his brilliant smile now one of sympathy. “I can’t speak to intimate details, but they at least know the basics. Their daughter, their names, their business. Dentists, yes?”

She nodded impatiently. “But how much do they remember?” She asked, sounding shaky. “Do they know my name? Do they know I’m a witch? Do they even know about magic, or are they under some illusion that Australian doctors wear ridiculous uniforms? Just, please, tell me what I’m walking into—”

“Hermione?”

Her mother was standing half in her doorway, half in the hall, her hand at the base of her throat as she stared at her with rapidly watering eyes. Hermione took a step back into Draco, his hand slipping from hers and settling on the middle of her back.

It was one thing to imagine the scenario of her parents yelling at her, disowning her—it was an entirely different thing to live it. To see Jean Granger in the flesh, eyes overflowing with tears as she took her in—it was too much.

She’d seen her. She was alright. Hermione could go home and be content with that—she didn’t want to hear a playback of everything wrong she’d ever done to them, much as she deserved to hear it. She deserved to hear the worst—she’d done the very worst, and her mother had every right to be angry with her.

But she felt it might just kill her.

“It’s alright,” she told Hermione, nodding, tears spilling down her cheeks as a small, seemingly hopeful smile tugged at her lips. “It’s alright, love.”

Hermione broke then, running the last few feet and launching herself into her mother’s arms. She couldn’t remember the last time a hug had felt so real. The arms that wrapped around her were like a vice, one gripping her back, her fingers digging into her shoulder blade, while the other hand held the back of her head and smoothed her hair. Hermione sobbed against her shoulder, grasping at her just as desperately.

If she was still in for a backlash, the warm, jasmine-scented hug of her mother would only add to her misery in the long run.

Small, deceptively delicate hands cradled her face as they pulled back from one another. Two pairs of the same brown eyes met, both wet and red with tears, both heavy with what felt like years of sorrow. But her mother smiled sadly at her, her thumbs swiping away the tears she felt would never end.

“You look so tired, sweetheart.”

Hermione could only nod, a whimper escaping her mouth as she opened it to respond.

“Come on,” she murmured, kissing her cheek. “Come sit.”

She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak as she was guided into the room. It was a small, unremarkable hospital room with two single beds and plants in the corners that promoted calmness and healing. A small pot of lavender—presumably enchanted to stay in bloom outside of its natural climate—sat on the bedside table beside a journal. As Healer Craft had mentioned, their room really did have a nice view. Ocean waves were more visible from this angle, the white caps rolling over and over and crashing with the blue. The window was cracked open, but the ocean was a bit too far still to hear much but the occasional cries of seabirds.

“Where’s Dad?” She croaked, sitting on the edge of the first bed.

“Out for a walk,” she said dismissively, sending a quick glance to the doorway before coming to sit beside her.

Hermione shifted slightly to face her, taking as deep of a breath as she could manage. “What do you remember, Mum?”

The space between her brows wrinkled for a moment as she concentrated. “I’m not sure how to answer that—be a bit more specific?”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut, a new round of too-hot tears sliding down her face. She sniffled and brushed them away.

“You know I’m a—witch.”

“Yes. You went to a boarding school for it.”

Hermione let out a long sigh, opening her eyes, relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain that part all over again. “Yes.”

Hermione spent the next half hour quizzing her—Harry and the Weasleys she recalled fairly well. She remembered their address and her cat, though she was blanking on the name, a bemused look on her face at the absurdity of him being called “Crookshanks" when Hermione told her.

Her dad remembered her, but he was apparently having a more difficult time remembering her magic. In the time she and her mother spoke, he hadn’t returned from his supposed walk, and she tried not to read too much into it. She contented herself with the gratitude she felt for Jean talking to her, laughing with her, and generally not making her feel too horrible about what she had done to them, though there was an edge to her tone every now and again.

There was something unpleasant on the horizon, and it seemed neither of them were willing to go there just yet.

“How long do you expect recovery to take?” Hermione asked Healer Craft, the tall wizard standing in the doorway across from them.

“It’s difficult to say,” he mused. “They have good days and bad. We’re hoping to make more progress in the new year.”

“And they’ll just…what? Stay here?” Hermione asked, her tone sharper than intended. “Until when?”

“Until they feel they’re ready to relocate back to London.” He said simply.

Hermione scoffed at his blasé tone. “And then what? Find a new home, start a new practice? Tie up every loose end that I couldn’t? What do you expect them to do when they’re ready to leave?”

She knew she was snapping at the wrong people—she could only be angry with herself. She’d set wards around their home after casting the memory charm, simple yet effective muggle repelling wards. It had been so long since she’d been home, she wasn’t sure if the wards had held up. She wasn’t sure if they even still had a home to go back to.

She was spiralling, she could feel it.

She’d ruined her parents’ lives as much as she’d saved them. They were alive, but they might’ve lost absolutely everything.

“We’re not there yet,” Healer Craft said, stepping over to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’m expecting a few more months of care still, Miss Granger. Plenty of time to get things sorted.”

“I’m still in school,” she said, snapping her gaze up to his. “This is why I wanted to wait, because I can’t—help them.”

“You have helped them.” He assured her. “You’ve done the most important thing already.”

Draco had, actually—she’d been too much of a coward to do it herself. The advanced memory charms she’d studied in the library months before had fallen to the wayside as end-of-term assignments came due. It had been easy to excuse her lack of attention on the subject as she’d not been intending to create a counter charm for several more months.

But here they were now.

Her mother’s memories mostly restored, and nothing else settled.

“I’m going to give you two some time to catch up,” Healer Craft announced. “I’ll check in soon.”

He smiled before turning to exit the room, Hermione’s eyes following him as he went and finding Draco in the hall, looking tense as he exchanged words with the healer.

“Still in school?" She asked. "But you’re nineteen.” She leaned over to follow Hermione’s eyeline then.

“Yes, but because of the—” Hermione broke off, hesitating, unsure of how much she should or even could tell her. “There were…reasons—beyond our control—that made the last year not count for anyone. I’m making up my seventh year with my friends. I’ll be done in June.”

“Is that one of your friends?” She asked, spotting Draco’s profile as he continued his conversation with Healer Craft in the hall.

Hermione fidgeted slightly. “He’s my boyfriend, actually.” She said, meeting her mum’s eyes. “Draco Malfoy—I might have mentioned him before.”

Her face felt hot as her mum examined her, then him, her eyes narrowing as if there was something off about him, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Hermione tried to recall if they’d ever seen one another in Diagon Alley, or if she was able to place him based on Hermione’s old descriptions of him—either way, her mum knew there was something wrong.

“He actually arranged all of this. He had a few connections, and asked the Ministry here to look for you and Dad for me.”

“That was kind of him,” she said, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion.

Hermione sighed softly and brought her hand up to brush her hair away, the fine, wispy curls around her face starting to itch the longer she sat under her mum’s scrutiny.

She knew in an instant it had been a mistake to use her left hand, the forearm she’d been careful to keep out of view during the visit now in plain sight; her mother’s outraged gasp confirmed she had spotted the long, mostly-healed scar. Her eyes were practically venomous as she looked back at him.

Hermione shot up and went to the doorway. “I think we need a few minutes alone,” she told them, and she could practically feel her mum’s eyes burning a hole in her back as she blocked her view. “Or an hour.”

Her eyes were panicked as she met Draco's, his flashing in alarm before she turned back to face her mother.

“Mum, please listen—”

“Shut the door, Hermione.”

Hermione reached behind her and grabbed the handle, then shut the door, leaning her back against it as her mother stood up. Her arms were folded, her mouth set in a hard line.

“Let’s skip the niceties, shall we?”

Hermione breathed a quiet sigh and pulled her wand out, spelling the room in case her mother decided to yell.

“He’s the one who called you that, isn’t he? That’s how I know him.”

Hermione nodded, slipping her wand into the bag at her side. “It’s not like that anymore, Mum—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Spare me whatever story you have planned, whatever excuse you think you need to conjure up to protect me. I’m sick of being lied to!”

“I’m not lying in saying he’s changed.” Hermione shot back defensively.

Her mum laughed in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself, Hermione? Is this not the same boy who used to taunt you and belittle you and reduce you to tears in every letter you sent home?”

“He’s not the same,” she insisted. “I’m not even the same! I’m completely stuck in place, and he’s the one making changes for the better—he’s unlearning every prejudice he was ever taught and it’s been really challenging for him. I’ve forgiven him—”

“Forgiven him?” She scoffed.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed coldly. “I am not asking for your permission or approval—I’m an adult and I’ve made the decision to be with him for who he is now, not the prat he was. Obviously, I’d prefer my parents approve of the person I’m with, but if I can’t have that, well—that will just have to be another disappointment I have to live with!”

“You’re right,” her mum shot back. “You don’t need my approval. But I won’t stand aside and watch you fall for someone who would do such a thing!”

She gaped at her, comprehension dawning when her mum’s eyes flicked to her arm once more. “You,” she breathed. “You think Draco did this to me?”

“Who else would have?”

“Anyone else could have,” she hissed, her eyes filling with outraged tears. “This is a sick term for Muggle-borns that has been used for years, not something Draco came up with! He was parroting his parents and his friends all those times he called me that!" She held her arm up, showing the scar again. "And he wouldn’t have done something like this. Ever.”

Her mum, frustrated, threw her arm out to her side. “Who did it, then?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I do, you’ll only ask more questions—questions I can’t answer.”

“Can’t or won’t?” She demanded. “You’ve kept me in the dark long enough, Hermione—I need answers.”

Hermione fisted her hands at her sides. “I can’t give them to you.” She repeated.

Her mum crossed the room to a small chest of drawers, pulling out the top drawer and retrieving a hefty stack of newspapers. She tossed them onto the chair beside Hermione, the moving photos on the front page indicating they were magical, not muggle.

“I’ve looked through all the papers since I’ve been here. I’ve read the news and seen your pictures and all the headlines of you in a war—of you fighting in a battle.” She said derisively. “I knew—I just thought you would have the decency to tell me yourself.”

Hermione picked up the papers with shaking hands, the paper on top dated 5 May 1998, just three days after the Battle of Hogwarts. The photo was the castle in near ruin, taken before it was rebuilt in some places and restored in others. Her name was all over the stacks of papers, always grouped together with Harry and Ron, pictures of her healthy school days juxtaposed with her battered appearance following the battle, then later at the Burrow when she was presented with an Order of Merlin.

Then her disappearance in June, the last picture of her standing several yards away with Draco and looking horribly frail outside of the Apothecary in Diagon Alley. She hadn’t been seen for months after that, and the papers—even the international ones—had taken notice. She hadn’t made a public appearance again until the end of August, and the side-by-side comparisons were gut-wrenching.

She hadn’t realised how dead she’d looked in the spring, her cheeks hollow, eyes sunken in. Draco had said her clothes were falling off of her, and they had been. In August, her face was fuller, eyes brighter, curves filled in more than they had been even before the war.

She chanced a glance at her mother, the woman eyeing her with a mixture of grief and distrust. Her fear had been her parents yelling at her or demanding she leave and never visit them again, but seeing the look of disappointment on her mum’s face then somehow felt worse, and she crumpled into the chair, the papers falling to the floor.

“You know everything.” Hermione concluded dully.

“I only know what was written,” she countered, sitting tiredly on the edge of the bed to face her. “I don’t really know what happened to you outside of it. I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“Then don’t.” Hermione whispered. “Please don’t. I promise you don’t want to know.”

Her mum sighed after a long moment. “It’s not a matter of wanting to know, Hermione—I have to know. I can’t rest—all I think about is what could have happened to you.”

“Nothing happened to me,” Hermione lied. “I’m fine.”

Her mum just stared at her, her gaze critical as if she could see right through her. “Whatever it was, I’m assuming you got help for it.” She nodded down at the papers. “You certainly look better than you did.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to hers, cold defensiveness pulsing through her again. “That’s all thanks to Draco. He let me stay with him over the summer when I needed space from my friends.”

“Why did you need space from them?”

Hermione shrugged. “I was on the run for months with them—wouldn’t you want some space, too?”

Her mum didn’t argue that, but seemed to be lost in thought for several moments. “Have you talked to anyone? About what you went through?” She asked carefully.

“I’ve talked to Draco.”

Her mum’s eyes flashed to the closed door. “I meant a professional.”

“I know what you meant.” She said coolly. “And no. I haven’t yet, but I promised him I would. Believe what you want about him—just know you’re wrong. He only wants the best for me.”

Their eyes met again, both challenging, both still simmering beneath the surface.

“Alright, then.” Her mum said, crossing her right leg over the left and clasping her hands over her knee. “I have a few contacts. Dr. Greene is—was—one of our patients. I should have his number in my address book if you would like me to reach out to him for you.”

Hermione scoffed at the thought of the sixty year old therapist sitting down to listen to her experiences of the war. It was almost as laughable a scenario as her mum suggesting it.

“A muggle therapist cannot help me with this, Mum.” She said tartly. “I’d be locked away for some psychological evaluation the moment I open my mouth—not to mention all the laws I would break in the wizarding world, betraying the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Alright, alright,” her mum sighed and held up a placating hand. “I—I just don’t know what I can do to help you. I don’t know what to do for you.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything—I’m here for you, to see that you are okay. That’s the only reason I’m here—don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t worry about you?” She asked mockingly. “Don’t worry about you.”

Hermione stiffened reflexively at her tone.

“The last time I saw my daughter, she was seventeen. A child.”

“An adult.” Hermione said sharply. “An adult by my laws.”

“And still a child by mine. You don’t get to decide when I let you go.” Her laugh was brittle then. “Yet somehow, you did—you got to decide it because you had the advantage over us. But you didn’t just break away from me, no. You erased me. You could have died, and I would have never known—would I? You would have been just another name on the memorial, and no one would have grieved you. Not really.” She shook her head, her eyes filling with bitter tears once more. “That’s what’s tearing me apart, Hermione—no one would have remembered you enough to mourn you.”

Hermione shifted in her seat, tearing her gaze away as the tears in her mum’s eyes trickled out. “I didn’t want you to mourn me. Anytime I came close to being in danger, I thought of how grateful I was you didn’t know me—you and Dad would have been fine. Happy.”

“Happy that a part of myself was gone forever.” She said in disgust, swiping away her tears. “You had no right to take that from me—you had no right to take that pain for yourself.”

“Everything I did was to protect you, Mum.” Hermione insisted.

“And who was protecting you? Who was looking out for you?” She demanded, her voice rising to the point Hermione was glad she’d spelled the room. “Who was making sure you stayed out of danger?”

“No one was protecting me because I was a target!” She jumped out of her seat. “Alright—is that what you wanted to hear? You want me to tell you they were hunting down Mudbloods and killing or torturing or imprisoning them?” She screamed. “Do you want me to tell you all about how I got this awful scar? How—how I was cursed in interrogation so many times that I lost count before I was even cut up? Do you want me to tell you that the knife carving into my arm was practically painless compared to what came before it? That the amount of times I was subjected to it—I should have lost my mind? What do you want me to tell you that will make you feel better about this situation? Because I can’t think of a single reason to justify keeping you informed! You wouldn’t have let me go—you would have insisted I run away with you—”

“I would have done anything you asked me to!” Her mum shot back, standing up. “Short of wiping my memories of you, I would have done anything for you! We would have left if you’d asked us—if there was a way for you to let us know you were safe every now and again, we would have done it.”

“I couldn’t promise anyone’s safety—that’s why I did it! You and Dad would have been targeted and I couldn’t—couldn’t think about you when I was on the run.” Her voice cracked, and she brought her hands up to tighten her ponytail, her breathing harsh as she tried to calm down. “I wouldn’t have been able to focus if I was constantly worried about seeing your faces in the paper, with a headline about muggle parents being captured as a way to lure me out of hiding. It was too much of a risk.” She sniffled and dropped her hands. “I don’t know how much more I can do to convince you that I made the right decision.”

Her mum was far from calming down, though, her straight brown hair practically floating off her shoulders with static.

“Giving us a choice would have been the decent way to go about it, Hermione!” She shouted. “You could have given us a choice!” She bent to pick up the papers, then tossed them all onto the bed as if they were evidence of Hermione’s crimes. “I knew something was going on, the way you were behaving. I didn’t know how deeply involved in it you were, but I knew something was wrong. I knew you were hiding something, the way you’d been slipping away the last few years.” She folded her arms across her chest tightly. “You were distancing yourself from us, weren’t you? You thought it might hurt less?”

Hermione nodded guiltily a second later.

“How long were you planning it?” Her mum demanded. “Before—how long were you planning to wipe our memories?”

Hermione swallowed. “It’s really advanced magic—it took quite a bit of research—”

“How long?”

Hermione closed her eyes, the devastation in her mother’s voice too much to bear in that moment. Tears slid down her cheeks. “I started learning a basic memory charm in fifth year.” She said brokenly. “Just in case. When things started to take—take a turn, I started advancing it.”

She opened her eyes, her vision blurred. “Honing it. Specifying it. Implanting new memories to the forefront and boxing away everything—everything you knew. I never wiped your memories—they were there all along, just hidden. I didn’t want to take the chance of Obliviating you so I—I had to come up with another solution.”

“You learned all that at sixteen?”

Hermione shrugged helplessly, then sniffed. “I’m gifted with charms.”

Her mum moved her hands to her hips, her mouth set in a tight, thin line. “What was the plan to get them back?”

“What?”

“You hid them away—what was your plan for retrieving them?”

Hermione choked on a sob as she shook her head. “I—I didn’t have one.”

She stared at Hermione for several minutes, the tense air between them settling into an uncomfortable silence before she eventually sighed and took her seat on the edge of the bed once more. She brought her hand to her face, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

Hermione sat back down in the chair a moment later, her hands shaking as she opened her mouth to speak. “I…I started researching more advanced memory charms when I got back to school—started looking into counter charms.” She admitted, though it seemed to offer little consolation. “I told Draco I wanted to wait until I was done with school to find you because—because I didn’t know if it could even be reversed. And because I created the charm, I didn’t know if anyone could help counter it.”

Her mother looked at her then, her face drawn, the whites of her eyes bloodshot. “That was quite the risk.”

“I felt it was worth it.” Hermione said softly.

She huffed, her eyes closed, her head shaking. “Well, if you and your six years of magical wisdom felt it was worth replacing almost eighteen years of my life with you, I suppose I can’t argue with that, can I?” She said acidly. “You were an adult, yes? You did what you thought was best for me?”

Hermione’s chin trembled as she forced a nod. “I did.”

“Without regard to my feelings, or your dad’s, or anyone else we left behind because we didn’t even remember ourselves?” She went on, driving the knife in further. “I haven’t been able to phone my parents, or my sisters—what do they think happened to us, Hermione, or did you hide their memories, too?”

Hermione dropped her head into her hands, her tears an endless, silent stream then but for the occasional gasp of breath.

“I feel cheated.” Her mum went on. “It was hard enough to send you away as a child—even harder when you chose to spend your school breaks with your friends. But we supported your choices. We encouraged you to find your own path, even when it hurt to let you go.”

Hermione inhaled with a ragged gasp, her silent tears steadily turning into aching sobs with each painful word from her mother’s mouth.

“I was cheated out of the last year with you—I missed you at eighteen entirely, and you can’t give me that back, can you?” Her mum huffed a sigh again, the toe of her shoe tapping in a steady rhythm against the marble floor. “I never thought I would actually lose you to that world, but I have, haven’t I?”

“I didn’t mean for you to lose me,” she choked out. “I didn’t mean for any of this, but I had no control.” She looked up at her mum, her eyes stinging, face hot and sticky as the tears dried on her skin. “Muggle parents were being targeted—I don’t know what the papers here have said, but they were being hunted down and murdered and I couldn’t bear to take that risk.” Her chest rattled as she exhaled, her voice still thick with tears. “I’d rather you and dad be alive and hating me than dead because of me.”

Her mum met her eyes sharply. “I don’t hate you,” she said, sounding appalled. “I could never hate you. I am incredibly furious with you, Hermione, but the only thing I have ever hated is you belonging to a world I can’t protect you from. I can’t help you—that is what I can’t accept! My job as your mother is to protect you and guide you, and I can’t. You put your life at risk. There was nothing I could have done to stop you, and I just—can’t accept that.”

Hermione sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “You have no choice... If I told you things will change, or that I'll never be in danger again, I would be lying."

Her mum left the bed several minutes later, the silence punctuated by sniffles and toe-tapping. She knelt beside the chair and looked up into Hermione's eyes. “No more pushing me away—you do not get to push me away anymore, alright?”

"I can't make any promises," she said weakly. "Much as I'd like to, I can't promise you anything. Nothing ever works out the way I intend for it to."

"That's a rubbish excuse, sweetheart." Her mum said a minute later, patting Hermione's knee as she stood. "You're cleverer than that."

She took Hermione's hands, guided her up to stand, then pulled her into her arms before she could argue. Hermione let out a weary sigh as she returned the embrace a long moment later, smelling the jasmine perfume on her mum's shoulder as she rested her head there.

It was an absolutely rubbish excuse, but it was the best one she could think of.

Chapter Text

27 December 1998

Before the war, Hermione had always considered autumn and winter to be her favourite seasons. Oranges and browns set against a grey sky; scents of apples, pumpkins, and warm spices in the air. The early darkness, the warmth and vibrancy of summer slipping away into a state of decay, paving the way for a new cycle to begin.

The cold, chilly, foggy mornings at the castle was often the time she felt the most renewed.

It was the constancy of it, the dependability.

A welcomed death. A sweet, comforting end.

During the war, autumn and winter had twisted in her perception. The early darkness was sinister; the chill in the air more brutal than she could ever remember it being.

Long, delirious nights that bled into one another as the hunt for the Horcruxes seemed never ending and almost pointless, given the lack of progress they’d had for months.

Despite the lit lanterns in the tent and the warming charms around them, she’d always fallen asleep seeing her breath in the air. It was always so cold, so bitterly, bone-achingly cold on the run. The scarcity of food had left her thin and shivering most days, even beneath heavy jumpers and thick socks. There was never a point to trying to warm up on her own; nothing ever eased the chill.

The muggle survival techniques she knew had told her to use the body heat of another to warm up if the air got too cold or the early stages of hypothermia began setting in.

But even before Ron had left them, she had never considered asking him. Method of survival or not, it had felt too intimate of a request; a step too far in their relationship where they mostly still danced around each other.

The locket hadn’t helped matters in the slightest, the three of them so on edge around one another, always ready with a scathing comment or less-than-witty remark. Harry seemed just short of manic most days, even when he wasn’t wearing it. Ron was recovering from being splinched, his already short temper combined with Harry’s tension and his own feelings of inadequacy, exacerbated further by his wearing of the damned locket.

They had all been a ticking time bomb.

She should have been amazed they hadn’t blown up sooner.

When Hermione had worn it, she felt she repelled most of the negative effects of it. Perhaps it had been charmed to recoil against Muggle-borns. Perhaps she’d simply had too much on her mind to let it sink in and warp her conscious thoughts as it did her friends.

But that wasn’t to say she was entirely immune.

Standing outside, pacing as she monitored their wards while Harry and Ron had tried to sleep, she could only think about how cold she was. It was still autumn then, the trees mostly bare, their damp leaves squishing underfoot. The tent was yards away, and it had been so long since she felt anything so nice.

Masturbation was a natural and healthy method of stress relief. A well-deserved release and the exquisite rush of endorphins; there was no shame in it. It would raise her heart rate and provide the warmth she craved, even in the short-term.

It was necessary for survival.

That’s what her mind had told her when monitoring the wards that night, her thoughts heavily under the influence of the locket. It hadn’t made her angry or manic like it had the boys, but it reminded her of the value of self-reliance.

If one wanted something done right, they should find a way to do it themselves.

That’s what it had been, standing against a tree with her hand in her knickers, her cold fingertips dragging over her clit while her mind conjured the memory of him. Her jeans fell from her hips, her back slid against the rough bark of the tree. Her free hand grasped her hair as she imagined taking Pansy’s place on the floor for him.

His robes had covered too much, but she’d seen his hand at the back of Pansy’s bobbing head, gripping the fine strands of her hair and controlling the pace as his head fell back and exposed the column of his pale throat. Then his groan as he came in her mouth, deep and almost guttural, the sound so unexpectedly low despite his voice still in the years-long process of changing.

She remembered it then in the forest, gasping as she slid a finger inside and let her head fall back, let her hand slip from her hair and palm her braless breast. Her jumper rode up, the skin of her back scraping against the bark as she pressed into her hand. She felt more relief as she drew her finger out, wet and hotter than the rest of her skin, then slid back up to the bundle of nerves and slowed her pace.

Desperate as she was for the release, he hadn’t been in a hurry in the corridor. He’d drawn it out, savoured it.

The memory of his panting breath and words of soft praise brought her to release, a sharp, choked cry just barely escaping her lips. She curled in on herself, panting, her heartbeat racing under her palm and sex throbbing as she came apart.

She laid on the forest floor after, the wet leaves soothing her scraped skin, the cold earth grounding her.

The shame flooded in when she took the locket off. One minute she’d been basking in her release, smiling for the first time in weeks, and the next it hit her that she’d lost her damn mind and touched herself to a memory of him again—a memory she knew she shouldn’t have even had to begin with.

The person who had gone out of his way to bully her for years had become the focus of every single fantasy.

The person who had been tasked with killing Dumbledore.

The person who had, intentionally or not, lit the first match.

In the midst of the war, she hadn’t thought of the boy she fancied in her reality. Words of praise from Ron would have sounded condescending, the act of pleasuring him with her mouth degrading. She hadn’t imagined Ron’s hand in her hair or on her breasts, or his raspy moans or the blue of his eyes shrinking around blown-out pupils because she couldn’t.

He was her best friend, not her lover. Thinking in the abstract, sex would have been a sweet and beautiful thing between them, performed under the sheets out of respect. They would have taken it slow, fallen in love the right way. Physical intimacy with another wasn’t something that came naturally to her, but with time and gentle encouragement, she could have worked up to sleeping with him.

But she could never imagine sucking him off and looking up at him while she did it.

In the realm of her depraved fantasies, though, she easily slid herself into Pansy’s place.

She hadn’t thought of the person she actually envisioned a future with that night in the forest. No—she had gotten herself off to the thought of a Death Eater.

She only felt ashamed that she didn’t regret it, even after her heart rate came back to normal. Even after the cold set back in and she was lying on the wet ground, the thought of Malfoy slipping away after she cleared her mind of him.

No shame, but a longing bitterness took its place; wanting what she could never have.

Autumn and winter were no longer filled with cheer and beautiful memories. Like everything else in the war, they had become tainted.

Coldness and death were what remained. Coldness, unnecessary death, and despair. So much despair she could feel herself drowning in it every time she had closed her eyes.

The war ending on the second of May—the day after Beltane, marking the halfway point between winter and summer—had been a blessing. The cycle she’d relied on had eased back into place, giving everyone a reprieve.

She could feel the heat of the sun again. She could feel alive again, if she allowed herself to.

The childish wonder of jack o’lanterns and Christmas trees, of eerie foggy mornings and snowy nights, had been lost in the war. She no longer thrived in the darkness.

She only craved the light.

After the war, she slowly began to appreciate spring and summer. Flowers had more colour and fragrance than she could ever remember them having. The hums of bees and hummingbirds, the morning songs of birds outside her window, and the beautiful depth of blue the early morning sky held had become her new source of constancy.

The ground felt safer, warmed by the sun and seeping into her skin as she laid back on it. For years she avoided it when possible. She easily tanned and freckled in direct sunlight, and her parents had always worried about the dangers of skin cancer, though it was highly unlikely she, as a witch, would ever develop it.

Summer had always been associated with unrelenting heat and humidity, the scent of manufactured coconut in the sunscreen she’d been forced to wear, and the days that seemed to stretch on for eternity.

Summer was a time to relax and enjoy oneself, not the time to buckle down and work. It was impossible for her to work under those conditions. The sunlight reflected off the creamy pages of her books, making reading a chore. Sitting inside had been too stifling, even with fans and a freezer full of naturally-sweetened sorbets. Summer came with the promise of the backs of her thighs sticking to her parents’ leather sofa and tension headaches from always keeping her hair up to spare the back of her neck.

But after the war, summer had changed. The hot days made her appreciate the cool breezes. The tall patches of wildflowers provided enough shade for her books, even if she had to move around the sun every hour. Food had more flavour than it used to; she’d never tasted a sweeter strawberry before the war.

After the war, summer meant long talks and breakfasts in the library. It meant stargazing from a luxurious bathtub and sleeping with the windows wide open. It meant sunbathing and napping, treats she’d rarely ever allowed herself to indulge in when there had been so much work to do. After the war, summer meant slowing down and letting herself catch her breath.

At the start of autumn, summer had become a season she missed terribly, for the first time in her life. It had ended too soon. Her return to the castle meant a return to normal—school, her friends, her drive for perfection.

And she missed being alone with him.

If it hadn’t been mandatory to return, she wasn’t so sure she would have.

After the war, nothing had ever felt so right or so real than staying with him. She hadn’t appreciated it enough then, the intimacy of their arrangement. They had been so vulnerable and untrusting, and though it had gotten easier with time, they had wasted so much of it avoiding each other. Without the influence of other people, they might have figured it out sooner.

Summer was over, and the once-beloved darkness was settling back in. A return to normal was expected. Necessary.

For her it had been, falling back into place with her studies and her friends, even if her relationship with Ron was strained. For Draco, having lost the carefully held mask for so many years, a return to normal hadn’t been possible. Crabbe was dead and Goyle was in Azkaban, the two figures he’d hidden behind for half of his life had left him exposed.

On the first night back, when he told her he was going to stop pretending he didn’t want her, she had felt he was being coy. He’d almost kissed her that morning, had almost let his guard down, that he had to say something to throw her off and save face.

She hadn’t expected him to really mean it.

Asking him to touch her in the bathtub had been a selfish thing for her to do. She had developed a fair amount of respect and appreciation for him, but she hadn’t believed his sincerity in liking her as he’d claimed. For a while, she struggled with anxiety that she had coerced him into it. If he really liked her, like he claimed, then he would have said something over the summer when he’d had her all to himself.

Even after, she had reasoned his willingness to touch her had simply been accepting the challenge she offered. She hadn’t come under the hands of another, and he had promised he could get her there.

His reluctance to kiss her should have been enough to prove his lack of interest in her, but she’d pushed anyway. She had seen just enough below the surface of him to exploit, to get what she wanted.

She hadn’t expected him to really want her.

She hadn’t thought she could hurt him the same way he’d hurt her.

Until she’d flown with him on the Quidditch Pitch, she hadn’t believed it possible for him to want her as much as she wanted him. Deluded in her thinking as she was, she had excused her behaviour as a test. She had been throwing herself at him, challenging him, testing just how much she could wear him down before he ultimately rejected her.

It had been a horrible, horrible plan, and one that should have blown up in her face. His refusal to label what they were or kiss her, his hesitancy to take her hand when they walked between classes or on patrol together—he could have very easily, at any point in time, shattered the illusion she had allowed herself to get swept up in.

He could have called it off and said he was bored of leading her on.

He could have left her to be comforted by her Gryffindor friends and resume his habit of taunting and name-calling.

Much as she wanted him, she hadn’t fully believed him.

But when he told her he’d been feeling the same, that she had been putting him on edge and making him feel she wasn’t as sincere as she was, it had become so clear. They’d been mirroring each other; pushing and pulling away at the first sign of danger.

Two intensely vulnerable, insecure idiots who distrusted the sincerity of the other, believing it too good to be true.

How bloody stupid they both were.

Blowing through that last wall a few nights before had felt like the end of the road. It was the make or break for them. She’d feared the worst, half-expecting to be escorted back to the library and warded from his room for the rest of the break.

It had felt too scary to hope for the best.

But she had. Opening herself up and demanding the same in return, horrifyingly mortifying as it had been, had allowed him to do the same.

And the universe had rewarded them.

She was back in the sunlight with him.

Winter in England; summer in Australia.

She smiled and stretched before turning in bed, her eyes leaving the view of the Pacific from the large windows and settling on the blonde beside her.

He was asleep on his front, his face turned away on his pillow. His bare shoulders were tense, his left arm bent under the pillow. He really was a lovely specimen to examine: a long and lean frame with sculpted muscles, fair skin that was unmarred from the back, a firm and adorably curved backside that was somehow even paler than the rest of him.

God, he was beautiful.

The top sheet had been kicked to the foot of the bed, leaving both of them naked but for the watch on her wrist and the rings on his fingers. They were in a muggle hotel—a too expensive, too extravagant suite overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

Christmas night they had stayed in an inn very similar in style to the Leaky Cauldron, but with dark woods and no electricity—no air conditioning—they had fallen asleep so sweaty and miserable that he’d agreed to make the concession and stay anywhere else.

While she had smothered her complaints at the extravagance, he had settled into his comfort zone rather smoothly. High thread count linens, plush carpets and smooth, tiled floors, a walk-in glass shower and soaking tub—if he had let slip the cost per night, she was sure she would have gagged.

They’d forgotten to close the balcony doors the night before, but enchanting it for privacy had been a top priority upon arrival. She doubted anyone would have seen into their room from the outside, but knowing the balcony and the windows were secure eased some of the concern.

The salt-scented air was cool as it breezed in, and she curled herself around him.

She rested her face against the chilled skin of his shoulder and slid her leg over his. Draco twitched reflexively at her touch, breathing a soft, contented sigh when her fingertips trailed up and down his spine. He shifted to his side, and she pressed herself against his back, wrapping her arm around his waist then tracing the ridges of his abdominal muscles.

She pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his neck and shoulder, breathing in his unmistakably clean scent.

Upon discovering the scents in the batch of Amortentia in her sixth year Potions class, she had believed it to be a sign that Ron was who she truly wanted. Freshly mown grass aside, she had concluded the new parchment smell was a scent she simply enjoyed, combined with the help she often gave him when studying. It was a scent that had bonded them over the years.

The third scent she had believed to be from Ron’s hair. Earthy and smelling faintly of ash, she had caught a whiff of it after he’d sat too close to the fire one night in the common room. It had been the only thing that had made sense, as she hadn’t smelled anything like it before.

When the smell had faded, and he had started dating Lavender, she scoffed at the love potion as being a frivolous waste of time and potion ingredients.

Ron didn’t smell of grass or parchment; he smelled of cinnamon and the sweet, sun-warmed dirt from the Weasley garden. If there was a third, she’d never gotten close enough to him to tell what it might be.

But Draco’s clothes smelled faintly of grass outside of school. In the soap Pipsey used, so did hers. Grass with an underlying note of citrus she hadn’t noticed in her initial assessment of the potion.

The new parchment smell was ever-present in his library, unused stacks of it he’d kept for her in his desk drawer.

The third scent she had discovered only hours ago.

The night before, after leaving from her second visit with her mum and falling into bed after a smoke on the balcony, she had smelled the earthy, ashy scent on his skin. The uncommon herb and trace of mint—that combination had been what was missing all along.

She smelled just a hint of it on him then, still lingering in his hair.

He stirred awake fully, humming softly as he did, his hand sliding down to grab hers and bring it to his mouth to kiss her palm. When he let it go, she stroked his hair back then leaned in to press her lips to a spot behind his ear.

He shifted to lie on his back.

His eyes were still closed, yet he managed an impressive scowl, the space between his brows wrinkled as if he was offended to be woken up. She smirked at the sight, then kissed across his shoulder and collarbone, stopping at his throat under his chin as his arm came around her waist.

His eyes were open when her lips trailed to his, Hermione bracing herself on her hand beside his head. He responded, his lips lush and so soft as they moved against hers, and when he startled her with the invasion of his tongue, he flipped their positions.

She blew a breath out of the corner of her mouth to toss aside the tangled curl that had fallen into her face, then smiled up at him.

“Morning.” She said softly.

She placed a hand on his cheek and met his eyes, the pupils so constricted, the irises so clear, they seemed to reflect all the light in the room. An optical illusion, she knew, but she was mesmerised all the same.

He leaned his face into her palm for a beat, letting his eyelids fall shut. He inhaled deeply as if to wake himself up, then turned his head to kiss the inside of her wrist.

“Morning.” He mumbled, opening his eyes again.

He had settled himself over her, his comfortable weight sinking her down into the plush mattress, his forearms braced on either side of her head.

When their eyes met again, he frowned and used his thumb to smooth the space between her brows. “Why are you squinting?”

“It’s too bright,” she said, lifting her hand to shield her face from the morning light. “And you’re so pale, you’re practically blinding me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Apologies, Princess. Shall I draw the curtains?”

“No, I think I’ll manage,” she teased, craning her neck to kiss him. “But please, for the love of Godric, keep your arse out of sight if you wish for me to see again.”

He huffed a laugh and kissed her, sucking her bottom lip between his, shifting a hand to her jaw to angle her head back.

His lips left hers a minute later and started a path down her body, bracing himself with one hand on the bed beside her ribs while the other palmed her breast. He took the opposite nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and sucking it between his lips into a hard, sensitive peak. His teeth gently scraped it, making her gasp.

Her back arched with a moan as he switched breasts, Hermione watching as he took the other nipple between his lips and bit down just enough to make her squirm.

He settled himself between her thighs, her knees on either side of his waist as he teased and suckled her into a panting mess. He released her nipple, rosy and shiny from his mouth, when her hand sneaked down between them to rub her clit. His eyes caught hers as she sighed.

He readjusted himself and pushed her hand away, matching his hips to hers. He pinned her under his weight and kissed her, his hands finding her wrists as he pushed inside. She moaned as she responded, sliding her tongue against his, tilting her hips to invite him in further.

Her wrists ended up above her head, Draco holding them there with one hand while the other held her jaw still and kissed her deeply. She wrapped a leg around his hips, pinning him as firmly as she could as he thrusted into her in an achingly slow pace.

She arched into him further, her hard nipples scraping along his chest with every thrust. The heat of their mingled bodies produced a light sheen of sweat, easing the friction against her breasts but loosening the grip she had on his hips.

Her eyes were hazy as they looked up into his, half-open and pleading with him to let her go. She’d told him before that she wanted to feel possessed by him—he was giving her that, and the lack of control was exciting, but she wanted to stake her claim on him, too.

She twisted her wrists in his grip, her bottom lip between her teeth as she looked up at him. “Let me touch you, Draco,” she murmured, tightening her leg’s hold around his hips until she earned a ragged moan from his mouth.

He dropped a last kiss on her lips before releasing her wrists, then used his hand to anchor himself on the bed, caging her in, but leaving her arms fully free to explore.

Their height difference made kissing a challenge when she wanted to touch him, but she settled for his neck, his collarbone, his left shoulder that had a thin, long-healed scar.

There was no point in asking where any of his scars came from—both his and hers were products of the same war. Their skin had healed, but the marks might never fully fade.

She traced the thin scar first with her finger, then with the tip of her tongue, feeling the slight raise and noting the light pink colour of new skin. She had several small marks across her body, cuts and scrapes earned in battle, but the ones that were noticeable were the ones caused by magic. Hexes, curses. She could tell most of the damage to his skin was caused by magic, perhaps in punishment or training. The scarring looked too precise to be accidental.

It felt too sensitive of a question to ask him which, despite her genuine curiosity. Maybe one day they would get there. For now, she was content to kiss every inch of scarred skin, compiling a mental list of the worst ones.

She relaxed the leg beside his hip, her hand taking its place and gripping his buttock, a whimper escaping her at the sound of his groan beside her ear.

After a moment of surprise, he skimmed his teeth down her neck, distracting her just long enough to sneak her thigh from around his lower back and hitch it up to drive in at a sharper angle.

“Oh, my—” she squeaked out, then rolled her hips to match the new angle, the quicker pace.

She squeezed his arse with one hand and back with the other, and his head dipped to catch her lips in a kiss as she sank further down the bed, her head completely off the pillow then.

The pillow on the floor, rather. She didn’t know when that had happened.

He righted himself a moment later, his lips meeting her forehead, her temple. Her mouth was open and panting against his shoulder, her lips catching the skin and mixing with their sweat to leave it wet and shiny in the brilliant sunlight.

“You’re holding back,” he accused, holding her face still and stroking the pad of his thumb across her cheekbone.

She was clenching and throbbing around his cock, her hips rolling, tempting him to move again, but his willpower seemed stronger than hers.

“So are you.” She shot back, glaring as she dug her nails into his skin.

He rolled his hips once, twice, letting the tension build but it was nowhere near enough.

She groaned. “Draco, please—”

“Don’t beg, Granger,” he said, then nipped at her swollen bottom lip. “It’s beneath you.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You like when I’m demanding? You?”

He kissed her instead of answering her, her eyes narrowed on his. He stretched her thigh up until it was straining and she could feel him slipping out of her.

Whatever hold she thought she’d had on him was a lie—he’d been able to break away from her all this time, but he’d been indulging what she was silently asking for.

Her arms were lying limp at her sides then, her eyes pleading with his to sink back in, but he was clearly enjoying her frustration enough to put off his own release.

“Come on, Hermione,” he coaxed. He slid back in, slowly stretching her, then eased back out. “Be a good girl and tell me what you want.”

She inhaled sharply, her head lolling to the side with a moan stuck in her throat at the comment. It didn’t take him long to notice, and when he shifted back into her line of vision, his eyes were glittering with satisfaction.

“I fucking knew it,” he said, his lips against her ear. “I knew you got off on praise.”

She managed a scowl despite her panting breath, her clenching core, and her very needy clit.

“I bet your knickers are dripping when you leave class every day, aren’t they?” He teased, his mischievous eyes locking on hers.

She froze and stared back at him with wide eyes, feeling the heat of embarrassed blush blooming across her face and neck. He looked pleased with himself, his eyes flicking across her reddened skin.

“You want me demanding? Fine.” She leaned up determinedly on her elbows, then commanded, “Sit up. Against the headboard.”

He was only too happy to comply, shifting off of her to sit as instructed. He wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and smirked at her, patiently waiting for her to formulate her plan.

She feigned annoyance for only a moment as she moved to straddle him, gripping his shoulder with one hand and the top of the headboard with the other for balance. It faded when she was in position, her thighs bracketing his, her knees on either side of his hips.

All teasing went out the window then as she suddenly felt too close to him.

“This is alright?” She asked breathlessly, staring hard at him and watching his face for signs of disapproval.

It hadn’t occurred to her before then that, in this position, she would be entirely on display for him.

She was starting to feel self-conscious, her heart rate kicking up as his eyes took her in. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her naked in the daylight, but being under him, shielding her body with his—it had been a layer of protection she hadn’t realised she was relying on.

There was nothing to hide behind when they were face to face.

“This is alright for you?” She asked again, worry etched in her soft voice. “This isn’t—”

“Granger, this is perfect.” He swore, cutting her off. He flicked a glance to her parted lips. “You’re perfect. You’re so beautiful.”

His words were breathless and his eyes flashed as he watched his hands slide over her breasts. She was shivering under the attention, her throat working uselessly to swallow, her breath a stuttering mess as he roamed over her skin.

He held her breasts in his hands, feeling the weight of them in his palms, his thumbs dragging across her nipples. He met her eyes then, and the desire she found in them made her tremble.

“Okay,” she whispered, her lips twitching into a slight smile.

She closed her eyes when he kissed her.

His hands slipped from her breasts to her hips, curling around them to capture her backside and squeezing with his strong fingers. She broke from the kiss first, pressing her forehead against his as she tentatively lowered her hips.

She half-opened her eyes and pulled back from his face, studying him as she explored the new position, the new yet familiar ways their skin made contact.

He visibly swallowed, his eyelids fluttering when she circled her hips and guided the head back in an inch. Then another.

Her head rolled back at the new angle, her toes curling when she sank him in inch after delicious inch until he was fully sheathed inside of her. She gasped when their pelvises met, her fingertips digging into his shoulder from the shock of it.

“You—you’re so,” she choked out. “You feel so…big—this way,”

His answering laugh was more of a surprised gasp, his eyes lighting up. “A bit more than perfectly average?”

She nodded frantically, her hips beginning to rock on their own and stealing her breath away. “So much more,” she whimpered. “So much more. Oh, god—Draco,”

He tugged at her hips, lifting and pulling her down firmly, his hips thrusting up to meet hers. She clenched on the way up, relaxed on the way down, feeling the pressure starting to mount.

She was panting and writhing with every pass, stretching and clenching around him uncontrollably. Her hands curled over his shoulders, holding herself just far enough away that she could watch how she affected him.

The sight was nothing short of an ego boost. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, the panting, smothered-moan gasps that escaped his lips, his eyes rolling back after glancing down to where they were connected.

She was doing that to him.

His eyes were half-open, his pupils dilated despite the brightness in the room. A shudder rolled through him, and his head fell back with a groan as he twitched inside of her.

He shut his eyes, the back of his head against the headboard and the space between his brows wrinkled in concentration. She could feel him getting nearer.

She leaned in and closed the short distance between them to kiss him. It was so much easier like that, being able to hold his face in her hands and kiss him while taking more of him in than she’d been able to before.

“Hermione,” he rasped, his hips thrusting up to meet hers. He shook his head slightly, his eyes opening and almost pleading with hers. “I can’t—I’m going to—”

She nodded, feeling her own impending release. “Come inside me,” she keened against his lips. “I want you to come inside me.”

He kissed her harshly then, crashing his open lips to hers, digging his fingers into her sides. One hand slipped to her front and he began to circle her clit. Hermione cried brokenly, feeling too stimulated with the added contact.

His lips fell to her throat as she tossed her head back, the ends of her long hair brushing against her backside as she rose and fell, rose and fell.

The fingers on her clit faltered after several gruelling seconds. “Are you sure?” His breath came out in ragged pants against her skin.

“Yes,” she whimpered, nodding again.

She was vibrating all over, grasping his hair between her fingers as he jerked his hips up roughly in a final thrust. She felt him come inside of her, felt the hot spurts of his release, her constricted walls and the weight of her body bearing down on him adding to their combined pleasure.

“Fuck, Granger,” he moaned, the sound low and drawn-out against her skin.

He pressed his thumb to her clit, rolling over the bud as her hips continued rocking against his. “Good girl,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly. “You’re so good, Hermione.”

“Draco,” she gasped, her voice catching. “Draco, I—oh, my…” She smacked her palm against the headboard, the hand in his hair clutching and pulling at the strands as he relentlessly brought her to orgasm.

She broke off into a string of unintelligible moans. Her exposed clitoris felt raw, and she was grinding down and tightening herself around his softening length, savouring the sensations for as long as she could.

She hugged herself to him after, her hips slowing their pace until she practically collapsed against him, and he gently guided her back down to the mattress.

Her knees fell open once she was settled, and Draco leaned down to kiss her before easing out of her.

Hot liquid pooled out between her thighs, and she moaned weakly as another, milder wave rolled through her. He shifted off to lay down beside her, his own breaths still shallow and fractured.

The cool, ocean breeze and the forced air from the vent above the bed made her shiver, the sudden temperature change too extreme. She clawed at the top sheet now a foot from her head and yanked it back.

He helped her, tossing the thin cover over her and tucking it around her body before settling back beside her. She shifted onto her side and locked herself around his heat, whimpering at the relief she found there.

Sometime later—it could have been a few minutes, it could have been an hour—she felt warmed through and thoroughly, pleasantly filthy. She forced herself to pull away, then sat up.

She smiled down at him sleepily and pressed her hand to his chest. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he replied with a half-hearted eyeroll. “Breakfast or shower?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile, then yawned. “Yes to both. You start the water, I’ll call for room service.”

He pushed himself to sit up, looking bright yet unmistakably exhausted. “Believe it or not, I do know how to use the telephone.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, you do?” She challenged, then gestured to the phone on the bedside table. “By all means.”

It took several seconds for him to slide out of bed. He went to stand by the bedside table, examining the telephone for a moment before sighing. “I’ll start the water.” He said, his tone bitter.

She nodded knowingly, though he couldn’t see her. “It’s alright, love. Muggle devices can be tricky—you’ll get there.”

“Fuck off,” he muttered with a smirk on his way to the bathroom.

She snorted, watching him walk off, then crawled to the other side of the bed to retrieve the phone.

“Will you stop being so difficult?”

“I don’t need that.” He said, sneering at the pool of white sunscreen in her palm.

“Fine,” she shrugged, then rubbed the slightly slimy and chalky liquid between her hands and applied it to her legs. “But if you’re burnt red and miserable tonight, don’t expect me to help you.”

“Somehow I think I’ll manage.”

She bit back a smile and rolled her eyes. By some miracle, she had convinced him to walk down to the beach with her. Whether to please her, or out of curiosity to see her description of muggle swim clothes first hand, she wasn’t sure, but he’d gone along anyway. She'd spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon shopping for swim clothes and sunglasses, a beach towel and sunscreen. He’d lent her a sizeable stack of muggle money he’d exchanged Galleons for at the bank near the hospital and stayed back in the room while she allowed herself to splurge for once.

She'd kept track of every purchase, writing the prices down in a small notebook from her bag. She intended to pay him back every single Knut one day, but for now, she was going to enjoy it.

Her enjoyment was enhanced considerably after they'd found a semi-private spot in the sand. Any groan of complaint he might have still had left in him had promptly fled at the sight of her in a muggle bikini.

Recalling the way his eyes had flashed when she’d stripped off her denim shorts and pale blue t-shirt still sent a pleasant shiver through her. As much as she was enjoying having dragged him outside, the look he’d given her had almost been enough to get her back into bed.

Sitting on her knees beside him, she handed him the bottle of sunscreen. “Will you do my back for me, please?”

He took it but seemed less than thrilled if his scowl was anything to go by. Sniggering at his expression, she pulled her hair up into a loose knot atop her head, securing it with a tie, then moved to lay on her front on the extra-large towel.

Her hands went behind her back and untied the knot of her black bikini top.

“There should be a charm for this,” he mused, sounding put out as he began to apply the coconut-scented lotion to her shoulders.

“There could be, for all we know,” She said with a contented sigh, folding her arms under her chin. She was keenly aware that the sides of her breasts were now visible to anyone walking by. “Maybe it’s something wizards in the sunnier parts of the world want to keep to themselves.”

He hummed in a neutral tone as he ran his hands down her back. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him, smirking when she saw he had put on the sunglasses she’d bought for him. More expensive than she would have ever considered purchasing for anyone, she’d thought he’d appreciate them.

She also thought he’d look unreasonably good in them—and he did.

His mouth was set in a hard line, clearly concentrating at the task at hand. When he was done, he wiped his hands off on the towel, muttering under his breath that he wished he could take out his wand and clean his hands properly.

They weren’t necessarily surrounded, but the beach nearest their hotel was certainly not lacking in muggle presence. Adults mostly, even in the late afternoon, but she noticed a few families far off with small children, some playing around in the water, another building a sand castle.

Being summer, Hermione guessed they were still a few hours from sunset. It was hotter than she was used to, the heat from the sun sinking through to her bones and warming her from the inside out. It felt more wonderful than it had a right to.

Glancing back to Draco minutes later, she saw he’d pulled out a copy of the local newspaper, the moving images on the cover indicating its magical origin.

They had placed glamours on their scars and concealment charms on her bag, but if she could see the images move, anyone else passing by probably could as well.

“I can just imagine the scandal now,” she said, grinning at him. “Draco Malfoy blows his and all of Wizardkind’s cover by reading a newspaper in public.”

“It would be a very slow news day indeed if that made the front page.” He said, smirking back at her. “But it would give them something new to report about us.”

He dropped the paper in front of her, an image of them being escorted into the hospital on Christmas afternoon playing on a loop. It was a supposed “inside story” with quotes from passers-by in the alley and within the hospital itself, one recalling the very sensitive reunion she’d had with her mother.

“This is appalling,” she said in disgust. “Some things deserve to be off-limits.”

“You’ll get used to it.” He promised, his eyes catching on the smaller images that accompanied the article. “For now, no one seems to have anything negative to say about you.”

She scoffed. “I’m sure the Prophet is taking care of that well enough on their own. Do you suppose word has gotten out about us being down here?”

“It’s possible. Probable, even.” His hand stroked down her still-bare back. “Does it bother you?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head, smiling at him. “Not at all,” she said, her chest feeling light with her honesty. “Although, I do wish they would use better photographs of us. When we were out with Harry and Pansy, I was practically sneering in every one of them. You’d never know I was having a great time.”

“I looked fine in them.”

She snorted. “Yes, well, show me a photograph where you don’t look bloody gorgeous.”

He was smirking as he pulled the paper back, and she re-tied her top before sitting up.

“I actually got something earlier,” she said, reaching for her bag. She rooted around in it, picturing the bulky Polaroid camera in her mind’s eye before seizing it. “I was so excited when I saw it—I haven’t used one in ages.”

She handed him the camera for him to inspect, but he just stared at it with a slight frown.

“I could have gotten you a proper camera, Granger.”

“Oh, stop. This will work just fine.”

Despite his obvious lack of interest in the muggle device itself, he indulged her as she walked him through how to use it. The flash, the shutters. How the film is developed internally. How to set the focus. She was hardly a photographer—nor did she have much of an interest in the subject—but she regarded the knowledge as useful now and again.

“I’m not sure if this type of film would work with a developing solution, but the camera is practically magic itself.”

She popped open the giant black, square-shaped device once more and put the viewfinder to her eye. She had to lean back onto her elbows to get him into focus, then angled the camera up until she found his scowling, too bright face through the lens. She snorted a laugh before she pushed on the back shutter to take the picture. It clicked instantly, the flash going off unnecessarily, and she grinned as the camera mechanically whirled and shot out the blurry, white-bordered photo.

She plucked it out and gave it a few shakes, sitting back up to show him how the image settled in seconds from a flash of white and grey to a perfect image of him in his natural, peeved state, looking golden as he absorbed the rays of the sun.

“I think I’ll frame this one.” She announced proudly before kissing his cheek.

He scoffed at the image. “Let me try that,” he said, taking the camera from her right hand. “Lie back down, Granger. As you were.”

She frowned in suspicion but obliged anyway, resting back on her elbows. Her hair had mostly slipped from the tie’s hold, and she shook it out behind her. She heard the click before she was ready, and she looked up to find him taking the photograph out and staring at it for several seconds; a wicked smirk began to stretch across his lips.

“What did you take a picture of?” She asked flatly, reaching for it. He let her take it, grinning without shame as she looked from him to the photo. Her hair behind her was caught in motion, streaking in slight flash in the still image. Her neck was elongated and her face was relaxed, lips parted, eyes cast upward. If the focus hadn’t clearly been on her breasts, it would have been a rather lovely photograph of her. “Really, Draco? My tits?”

“Well I have to have something for inspiration when we get back to school.”

She handed it back to him with a disapproving head-shake and laid down on her back, stretching out on the towel to allow the sun to work its magic on the front of her body.

The camera clicked again.

Chapter Text

29 December 1998

“I don’t really have a plan.”

“You don’t have a plan?”

Hermione fidgeted with a shortbread biscuit, tapping it into crumbs on the side of her saucer. “Well…” She glanced over her shoulder at Draco, gnawing on her bottom lip.

No amount of Calming Draughts or hits of Draco’s herbal cigarettes could have prepared Hermione for the visit with her mother.

It was a beautiful morning, the sky a pretty, cloudless blue with a bit of a chill in the air as they’d made their way to the hospital to see her parents one last time.

Draco had only been granted four days in Australia, a mandatory appointment with his healer back in London preventing them from staying longer. If the Portkey had been sent on the last day of school like it was supposed to have, they would have had well over a week.

But Hermione wasn’t sure an extra few days would have made much of a difference. Because of her parents’ healer sessions and her inability to see her father—a worry that was rapidly simmering under the surface of her forced state of calm—more time in Australia would have simply meant more time alone with Draco.

Which wasn’t a bad thing. In fact, she dreaded the thought of returning home. He’d grown more affectionate, initiating kisses, touching her in public—it might’ve helped they were on the other side of the world from home, but she wondered if the assurance of her commitment allowed him to let her in more. It had helped her, of that she was certain. Self-consciousness never strayed too far, but waking up beside him was like a drug.

A remedy.

The most powerful of healing balms, waking up wrapped around him. Good morning kisses with his hand between her thighs and his tongue in her mouth. How she was expected to ever sleep alone again, she didn’t know. It seemed cruel to think about it.

She feared returning home, returning to the constant judgment of her friends and teachers and the standards she was always held to—the real world that might very well tell her she and Draco weren’t good for each other, that neither of them deserved what they were asking for.

She’d be a fool to want to go back.

A part of her wondered if they even had to. He had enough money for them to live off of for years while they sorted things out—neither of them had to finish school. Neither of them needed careers with the Ministry.

If she told Draco she wanted to stay alone with him in Australia forever, he could probably make it happen. He’d already done the impossible by finding her parents and recovering their memories. He could let her keep the peace she’d found with him.

But as he’d reminded her that morning, he didn’t have much of a choice. If he didn’t adhere the strict guidelines of his probation, he’d be facing a guaranteed sentence to Azkaban.

She could only begin to wonder how many favours he’d called in and what kind of deals he’d made that allowed him to accompany her on an international trip.

The cost had to have been high. Higher than she’d ever be able to pay back, probably.

And she just kept racking up her debt.

She’d have to make a separate list in her notebook for all the favours he’d done for her that money couldn’t buy. The potion. The room at Malfoy Manor. Finding her parents.

Having tea with her mum, as they were attempting to do right then, sitting outside the visitor’s tea room at the hospital.

The three of them were sat at a nice, outdoor patio on the top floor, shaded and close enough to the water she could make out the white-capped waves as they came to the shore. Loud seabirds flew around madly, diving and fighting over scraps of food littered about; waves curled up and crashed every few seconds.

“Hermione?”

The faint call of her name pulled her from her thoughts, and she tore her gaze from the water to find her mother watching her with a lifted brow and a steaming cup of tea to her lips.

“Oh, er—sorry,” she mumbled, shaking herself back to the present. She reached for her own cup of tea on the side table and took a sip. “What were we talking about?”

She’d already had half a pot of hibiscus tea to herself, having slammed back cup after cup of the fruity and lightly floral drink. She finished it off and flicked the biscuit crumbs off the saucer before setting the cup back onto it.

“After school—your plan.” Jean said, sounding a bit stiff. “Or lack thereof.”

“Right…” Hermione nodded. “I—erm. Well—”

“She was thinking of taking a year or two off, actually.” Draco said, stretching his arm over the back of the wicker loveseat they shared. She felt him lightly tug the ends of her hair as he twirled the long curls around his fingers. “Travel. Get some more life experience before settling down.”

She frowned slightly, looking at him in confusion. “I was?” She mouthed. He lifted a brow, clearly telling her to play along. “Oh—yeah, I was. Mm-hmm. I—there’s so much of the world I still need to see. It’ll be hard to do that chained to a desk job for the next…half a century or so.”

“You’ll be taking a year off to travel.” Her mum said dubiously. She slipped her cream-coloured cardigan over her arms after a chilly breeze swept through. “My, well, you’re certainly full of surprises lately. I’d have thought university, at the very least. But if you want to waste time traveling, after all you’ve been through—I suppose you’ve earned the respite.”

Hermione flinched. She suspected her mum was able to see right through her, and Jean seemed to have no issue calling her out on it.

She looked from her daughter to Draco then, her dark eyes narrowing a fraction. “And what are your plans, Draco?”

“Taking the N.E.W.T.s,” he said with a hint of a smirk. “Beyond that, I haven’t the faintest clue yet.”

Her mum nodded after a moment. “No interests you’d like to pursue?”

“I have a knack for Potions, but I can’t say it’s a subject of interest.”

“But you do well in it,” she said, then flicked her gaze to Hermione. “Hermione had quite a few interests and achievements—I just find it a shame she has no desire to put them to good use.”

“Not yet,” Hermione said somewhat defensively. “But I know the necessity. Don’t worry yourself, Mum, I will figure it out after graduation.”

“That’s the sort of thing you determine before you graduate, Hermione. You’re almost twenty, sweetheart. I'm...worried. I worry you’re running out of time to accomplish your goals while you're still young enough to enjoy it.”

Hermione flushed hotly, feeling the burn from her cheeks to her ears. “I wasn’t aware you considered twenty to be practically middle-aged.”

“It’s not, but—Hermione, by your age, I was almost finished with school. I worked and went to school—I had my own flat, before I even met your father. You’ve been in the same place for seven years, and what do you have to show for it?”

Her eyes burned as bitter tears prickled at the corners, and she looked up to blink them away. Draco’s hand on her back had stilled minutes before, but the fingertips dug in then, the pressure pushing through the fabric of her light jumper to press against the centre of her back.

“I was hoping to take her to Greece this summer.” He said, sounding so confident it could have easily been taken as the truth.

She looked up at him, startled, and as she opened her mouth to ask what he was talking about, he continued.

“Mythological sites—Athens. Mt. Olympus. Perhaps have a bit of a holiday in Santorini when she’s had her fill, but I’ll leave that up to her.” His hand grasped the ends of her hair again as he gave a rather smug smile to her mum. “I confess, she knows far more than I on the subject, so she’ll have to act as a guide for most of the trip. I imagine it would be more work than pleasure, but I’ll be more than happy to follow her lead.”

Her eyes narrowed as she considered him between sips of tea, the silence stretching out over a long, anxiety-inducing minute.

“Yes, she’s always wanted to visit.” Jean said with a nod to Hermione. She set her tea cup down on the table beside her. “Perhaps after you’ve been working for a bit.”

Hermione chewed on the inside of her lip and nodded. “Maybe. But I think I do want to take some time off, for a while. Maybe not a whole year, but—”

“What about university?" She mentioned again. "Take a few courses, see if there’s something outside of the wizarding world you’d like to do. That might be where you’re getting stuck—there aren’t many options for you, are there?”

She was about correct her, but Draco jumped in before she could. She stared in surprise as he spoke to her mum, obviously forcing his tone to sound respectful.

“Hermione mentioned university wouldn’t be a realistic goal with her education," he said coolly. “But McGonagall did offer to find a teaching position at Hogwarts if she desired it—if she wanted to stay in an academic setting. I’d say she’d be a natural for History of Magic, but I don’t think anyone will ever fill that position.” He smirked down at Hermione knowingly, a reference to the ghost who kept on teaching the class that she knew her mum wouldn’t catch on to.

“She’s brilliant with Ancient Runes—traveling and observing historical archaeological sites would give her first-hand knowledge of the subject if she chose to teach, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Granger?”

Her mum’s brow furrowed. “Would you want to teach, Hermione? Or do you simply fear the world outside of Hogwarts?”

Hermione tried not to bristle at that. “It’s just an option,” she said, her mouth feeling dry; she swallowed reflexively. “But it’s…practical. It’s safe. Aside from Defence Against the Dark Arts, there’s a fair amount of job security, especially under Professor McGonagall.” She cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t say teaching is a passion of mine, but it’s something for me to consider.”

Jean nodded, seeming pleased with that answer as she gave her the first real, genuine smile of the morning. “Sometimes the safest option is best.”

Draco tilted his head in disagreement, smirking as he took a sip of the coffee Hermione knew he hated. “Safe, yes, but her talents would be wasted in that castle. She’d be better off being a Curse-Breaker—it may be dangerous, but she’d actually be able to do something with her useless knowledge of Arithmancy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Arithmancy wasn’t useless, not to her, but she didn’t bother saying it out loud. She was too busy biting back a smile then, staring down at her lap while he defended her.

“She could write a book on her studies abroad—contribute new material for future generations so they can stop printing new editions of the same old rubbish that was first written, oh, a thousand years ago.” He trailed his fingers up and down her spine for a long minute. “It would be a shame to make her settle.”

Her mum’s narrowed eyes raked over him again, then she chuckled. “If only you were as passionate about your own future as you are my daughter’s successes.” She laughed again, shaking her head in what looked to be disbelief. “And what would be your contribution? Following her around the world while she made a name for herself?” She broke off a chunk of a currant scone and brought it to her lips. “You come from a wealthy family, don’t you?”

Hermione’s head jerked, and she stared at her mum, horrified. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m only curious.” She said, then popped the scone into her mouth. She cleared her throat moments later. “Surely you can’t be surprised I’d make the connection between his money and your newfound desire to be an unemployed adventurer.”

“Mum, that’s not—”

“I do come from money,” he cut her off smoothly. “And provided the government doesn’t decide to suddenly seize more of my assets, I’ll never have to work a day in my life. I may not know what I want to do in the future, but if I can help her, that’s enough for now.”

Jean dusted off her hands and sat up straight in her seat. “That may be fine for you, Draco, but Hermione was taught to value hard work. She won’t be content living off the generosity of others while she sorts her life out.” She looked at Hermione with slight dismay. “If she wants something badly enough, she knows she’ll have to earn it like everyone else.”

“And you don’t think she’s earned it?” He asked sharply.

“Draco,” Hermione murmured in a warning.

She gave him a cold look he easily brushed off, moving his hand from her back and leaning forward towards her mum. His hands clasped, his fingers locking, the knuckles whitening after a moment.

“You’ve read the papers, Mrs. Granger. You know what she’s sacrificed. You know what she’s done for witches and wizards everywhere. How much more do you think she has to earn?”

Jean sat still, her eyes narrowing now and again as she studied the pair of them on the loveseat, but she said nothing.

“My money can take her anywhere she wants to visit, without having to grovel at the feet of the Ministry, or take time off from the noble career of teaching.” He said in a low, controlled voice. “She won’t have to work a menial, thankless government job and await approval for months on end in the hopes of being sent on assignment, or have to write up extraordinarily detailed reports no one will bother to read because they’ve already moved onto the next case.”

He released his hands and shifted one to her lap, taking the hand on her knee and lacing their fingers. Hermione gripped them back and sought her mother’s eyes cautiously.

“It’s difficult to earn respect in our world, but she has.” He went on. “She deserves time to figure out what she wants to do with it.”

It was quiet for several minutes. Their tea went cold; the biscuits and scones went stale. Hermione’s thumb drummed against his hand, anxiety flooding her veins until she swore she could feel herself breaking out in hives.

“Alright then.” Jean finally spoke, picking lint off of her long, muted floral skirt. “But I paid for my first trip to Greece on my own—you should, too.”

Hermione sighed. “If that were the case, I’d probably never go. I haven’t any money.”

Jean gaped at her, eyes wide in bewilderment. “You can’t have possibly blown through your savings already.”

Hermione frowned. “Savings?” She asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion. “What savings?”

“From your account—er, vault. Vault?” Her eyebrows drew together for half a second. “At the bank—your bank. Green-something?”

“Gringotts?” Hermione asked carefully. “In Diagon Alley?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod. “Yes, that one.”

Hermione forced a laugh and released Draco’s hand, then ran her hands down her denim-covered thighs. “If only. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Her mum looked serious then. “Your dad and I set it up for you years ago,” she said, sounding a bit alarmed. “We were planning to give you the key when you turned eighteen, but, well…” She lifted a hand and let it fall, summing up the series of events, the reasons they hadn’t been around when she’d turned eighteen. “I assumed the Weasleys would have told you.”

“The Weasleys?” Hermione asked in a tight voice.

Her mum’s face fell slightly. “I thought it was Weasley—did I get that wrong, too?”

Hermione shook her head quickly, reassuringly. “No—no, they’re the Weasleys, but—you—” Her mind was racing. “The Weasleys knew I had a vault. At Gringotts.”

“Of course. Arthur helped us set it up for you—I hope they still have the spare key. I couldn’t tell you where the original is in the house, it’s been so long—”

“Hang on,” Hermione stood up, heart pounding, feeling light-headed.

She grasped the railing of the balcony and forced herself to focus on the waves in the distance for several minutes as she processed the news. The betrayal.

They knew she had money, and they never told her. Not after the war to replace her wand; not when she’d needed to buy the potion from the Apothecary. They’d allowed her to fret over the last few coins in her bag and worry about what she was going to do now that she had no one in the world but them and no place to stay but the Burrow.

Her mum had said Arthur helped them, but she couldn’t imagine him doing this to her. He was too kind, and the few times he’d been able to speak to her after Ron’s announcement of her pregnancy, he’d been nothing but sympathetic. He truly cared for her—he wouldn’t have done this intentionally.

But Molly might have.

She gasped in a deep breath and turned back to face her mum and Draco.

“The original? Where’s the original?”

Her mum sighed softly. “I don’t remember, sweetheart,” she said, sounding apologetic. “Things got shuffled around when we were packing to leave. Obviously we didn’t remember it then, or I would have made sure it was in a safe place. But it’s somewhere in the house—I’m sure of it.”

Hermione slumped back onto the loveseat with a defeated sigh of her own. “Do we even still have a house, Mum? I have no idea if it’s all still there, or if the government seized the property—”

“It’s there,” Jean said, reaching across the space to place a hand on her knee. She gave it a light squeeze, and Hermione covered her mum’s hand with her own. “We’ve been assured everything’s still there. We were a bit behind on taxes, but it’s all been sorted.”

Hermione sighed again, this time in relief as it eased a guilt she hadn’t realised she’d been holding onto so hard. Her chest felt lighter.

She hadn’t completely destroyed her parents’ lives, after all.

“Actually, sweetheart, would you mind checking in on the place before you go back to school? Maybe send some photo albums back to me?”

She nodded. “Of course. Of course I will.”

Jean gave her another light squeeze and began to pull away, and a thought occurred to Hermione.

“Is there anything Dad needs?” She asked, seizing on it. “Is he back in your room? I can go ask him—”

“Oh, erm,” her mum looked nervous, and Hermione jumped up to go inside. “Hermione, wait—”

Her mum grabbed her wrist as she passed her. “It’s not the right time. He’s not ready to see you.”

Hermione pulled her wrist back. “He’s not ‘ready’ to?” She asked, feeling an odd sense of doom and anger rising inside as things suddenly became clearer. “Dad doesn’t want to see me, does he?”

Her mum visibly swallowed and looked down at her lap. “No.” She said a moment later. “Not right now.”

“Not right now?” Hermione asked in a shrill tone. “But before we leave, right? Does he know I’m leaving today? I can just run down there and—”

She gave Hermione a pleading look. “It’s too hard for him, sweetheart.”

Hermione folded her arms defensively across her chest and looked to Draco. His expression was indecipherable, but he didn’t look surprised at the news.

“And it’s not for you?” Hermione demanded hotly. “You’ve been able to put it all aside and visit with me—why doesn’t he want to?”

“I’m—I’m still angry, Hermione.” She said calmly. “With you, with the war—with everything. But my…relief for your safety—it overshadows it. It hasn't been easy for me to push it aside, but I know the guilt must be eating away at you.” She looked up at Hermione. “I don’t want to punish you anymore. I don’t want you to always feel guilty for doing what you did to keep us all alive. I can’t. It would consume me if I did. I—just need to move forward.”

She reached out for Hermione’s hand, and Hermione let her take it. “But your dad… For your dad, it seems to be the opposite. As soon as he began remembering you, he was demanding for a way to contact you or to get back to London to find you, but—when it started to sink in what you’d done, once he knew you were alright—it was very difficult for him to look past it. In his mind, you betrayed us, despite your best intentions—and I do think you meant well, love, I do, but…”

She sighed exasperatedly. “I had months to stew over it that—once I was able to see you—all I cared about was seeing you. It’s easier for me to come to terms with it because I’m just so…grateful that you’re here, and that my only method of checking in on you is no longer puff pieces in those blasted newspapers.”

“But it’s not the same for him.” Hermione confirmed, her eyes stinging. “He knows I’m alright, and that’s enough? He has absolutely no interest in seeing me?”

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear—”

Hermione pulled her hand away and took a step back. “I’m…” She sniffed, her eyes beginning to well over with tears. “God, I didn’t want to say goodbye like this—”

“It’s alright,” her mum said, standing up to envelope her in a hug. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Hermione braced her chin on her mum’s shoulder, the tears silently streaking down her face and wetting her white cotton blouse as Jean rubbed her back in soothing circles.

“Why don’t you go for a walk?” She suggested to Hermione. “Clear your head.”

They parted, and her mum brushed the tears off Hermione’s cheeks with her thumbs.

“Go on, love.” She prodded. “There are some things I’d like to discuss with Draco still.”

Hermione shot him a quick glance, but he seemed carefully indifferent. He nodded once, her mum’s back to him.

“Okay,” Hermione said shakily. “Do they know when you’ll be home yet? I don’t know if I’ll be able to visit again before then.”

“We’re hoping before Easter, but it could be sooner. Your dad and I are still a bit…uncertain of a few things. It may take some time.”

Hermione swallowed guiltily and nodded, looking into her mum’s eyes and trying to convey just how sorry she was about everything.

“We’ll write to you soon.” She promised, then gave Hermione another hug and a peck on the cheek. “You’ll let me know when you’ve returned to school?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She said with a smile. “Off you go, then. He won’t be long.”

Back inside the cool, marble-walled hospital, Hermione detoured to her parents’ room. The door at the end of the hall was open as it had been when she and Draco had arrived for tea earlier that morning.

She found no healers or mediwitches or wizards. The windows in the room were opened, letting in the salty breeze that blew the white curtains inward.

There was no one there except her father, sitting up in an armchair, reading a book of herbal remedies. She wondered if he’d purchased it himself at the bookshop halfway down the alley, or if it was something a healer had lent him. The cover looked too unfamiliar to be one of hers from home.

He looked up as she hovered in the doorway, her hand tentatively lifting in a wave. She tried to smile at him, but the tears began to overwhelm her at the sight of him. He looked so healthy—so normal.

Reading a book in his study at home, slipping a bit of whisky into his tea at the end of a long week and whispering to her that it was their secret as he gave her a chocolate truffle from his desk drawer. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed those evenings, sitting in the other chair and doing her maths homework or reading Emily Brontë—no matter how inappropriate Wuthering Heights might have been for her age—or Roald Dahl, her peculiar fascination with The Witches becoming almost cruel in its irony.

The pair of them would sit for hours, content with the quiet company, her mum coming to refill tea and drop less-than-subtle reminders it was nearing her bedtime.

He met her eyes moments later, recognition flashing in the light hazels.

She opened her mouth to speak, to say hi, to say something, but his expression closed off quickly, and he returned to his book without a word or smile of acknowledgment.

It felt as if he’d been looking right through her.

She felt her throat tighten as she stepped away from the door, then made her way out of the hospital.

The bright sun and ocean air felt mocking.

Chapter Text

29 December 1998

She’d left Draco with her mother nearly an hour before, and she was starting to get restless. That morning, she wanted nothing more than to stay in Australia, to wake up every day to the sounds of the roaring ocean and squawking seabirds without feeling anxious for what might come.

But after seeing her dad, after him dismissing her with single glance, she wanted to be back in England. Cold, dreary, dead-of-winter England.

She could have stayed at the castle over the holidays, cosying up with a cup of hot chocolate and the library all to herself. She could have spent more time with Crookshanks and watched the snow fall. She could have marvelled at the décor and the thousands of ornaments that adorned the trees, the mistletoe strewn about the corridors.

Even alone, it would have felt better than this.

Sitting at a small table outside of the ice cream shop, sniffling as she worked through her second bowl of chocolate ice cream. The state she was in—sticky face, red nose, puffy eyes—she wasn’t surprised people were leaving her alone, but she was grateful for it.

She wished she could do a memory charm on herself, letting her keep only the memories of her and Draco on holiday.

Anything but the memory of her dad’s impassive face and her mum’s judgment. Selfishly, she almost wished she’d left them be.

She’d been preparing for the worst—she had prepared herself to be shunned from the start. She hadn’t expected her mum to hold her and cry with her, to forgive her and understand why she did what she did to them.

She’d wrongly assumed her dad would be the same way, Hermione and her father having had a close relationship before.

And maybe that was why it hurt so badly, seeing his rejection. Petty arguments with her mother had been common, something they each got over within a matter of hours. But arguments with her dad… She couldn’t recall ever having a serious argument with her dad.

Not about magic. Not about her coming home after third year with a large cat who took over their home. Not about her spending too much time with her friends during school breaks, leaving little time for her family.

He had always understood her, had always tried to make her feel that she wasn’t alone in the muggle world.

But he couldn’t understand this.

“I won your mother over.” Draco announced, pulling out the other chair at her table.

Hermione gave him a weak smile and picked up a spoonful of her rapidly melting ice cream. “What did you talk about?”

“Pure-bloods and you, mostly.”

She frowned. “She was asking you about Pure-bloods?”

“My opinions of them. My…” his lips twitched, his eyes slightly mischievous. “Philosophy regarding Pure-bloods and Muggle-borns. She might’ve been trying to trap me into saying something damning.”

Her responding laugh sounded hollow. “She definitely was,” she agreed, then took a bite. She swallowed after a moment, the cold lump burning through her chest on the way down. “So, you’re taking me to Greece, are you?”

“I will if you let me,” he said, then sighed. “But I know you won’t.”

“You know I can’t. It’s too much. I’m easily indebted to you for the next few years as it is.” She cracked a smile. “But I appreciate the offer.”

He nodded, his eyes following her hand as she scooped up another spoonful. “I meant what I said, Granger. Anything you need or want—I’ll give it to you.”

She chewed on her lip for a moment, considering it. “It’s—thank you, but I can’t.” She repeated dully. “It wouldn’t be right. It’s your money—I haven’t done anything to earn it.”

He snorted. “And I have? Do you know what I was doing on my birthday, before I saw you?”

“No, I was a bit preoccupied that day.”

His lips quirked up in a wry smile. “Well, while you were trying to sort that mess out, I was standing by as goblins counted every last Galleon in my personal vaults, preparing to hand half of it off to the Ministry. Reparations for the war.” He rolled his eyes. “Or so they claimed. I haven’t seen a single announcement or article detailing what they planned to do with all that gold, so who knows where it really ended up. You’d think reparations would include you and the dim-witted fucks you hung around with, but have any of you lot seen a single Knut for your services?”

Hermione shook her head.

“Thought so.”

He slid her ice cream bowl over to him and stole a bite despite her objections. He grimaced after a moment, but allowed himself a second spoonful.

“So, the way I see it, I control where the rest of my money goes. I get to decide who deserves it. You, Granger—you deserve it. You already let me take you on the most depressing holiday imaginable—”

She laughed and swiped her bowl and spoon back from him.

“Let me make up for it. You can drag me through as many ancient ruins as you want until you collapse from exhaustion. It doesn’t even have to be Greece—I just assumed you’d want to visit.”

“I do.” She said with a slight smile. “Give me time to think about it?”

“Fine.”

She leaned forward to kiss him, laughing against his smirking lips as she saw the ice cream bowl slide back across the table towards him. She pulled back a moment later, sitting on the edge of her seat, her hands clasping on the table between them.

“This was nice, wasn’t it? Getting away for a while?”

“It was absolutely perfect.” She said sincerely. “Aside from my mum’s disappointment and my dad’s utter revulsion at the sight of me—”

“You saw him?”

Hermione tapped her nails against the table top, the smooth glass surface likely charmed not to break.

“I just…wanted to see him—before I left. I was probably an idiot to expect anything more after what Mum said, but I thought…” She sighed. “I thought if he saw me, he’d forget how angry he was with me and hug me the way she did, but he went back to his book as if I wasn’t even standing there.”

She sniffed and looked down at the now-empty bowl in front of him.

“Granger,” he murmured, taking her hand. “Come here.”

She glanced around the outdoor space. It was relatively early in the afternoon still, most of the shoppers too preoccupied to notice them.

Hermione stood and stepped over to him, then settled onto his right thigh, twisting to wrap her arms around his neck and bury her face in the dip of his neck and shoulder. His arms went around her back firmly, one hand stroking down her hair.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice cracking.

He hummed in response, rubbing her back. If there was a photographer hiding out somewhere, she was thankful her face, at least, was hidden.

They stayed that way for several minutes, his arms possessively locked around her, her legs stretched across his lap and arms around his shoulders.

She’d never been held like that. Anytime she’d seen students wrapped up in an intimate embrace in the corridors whilst on patrol, she’d seethed. One, for the blatant disregard for the curfew. Two, for the gross display of affection where anyone could happen upon them.

But as he held her, she understood how nice it was. How safe and warm and oddly soothing. She let herself uncoil and sink into him, feeling his collarbone against her cheek, the smooth skin of his throat against her lips when she snuggled closer. His fingers coiled around her hair, tangling in the strands.

She was starting to get too warm from his body heat and the direct sunlight bearing down on them, but she had no interest in moving.

So they talked. A murmured conversation, reassuring her, Hermione reassuring him, assuming his parents were just as icy as her own father had been that morning. But he corrected her, his tone careful as he said his parents had never ignored him.

She scoffed and pulled back, resting her hand on his shoulder for balance as she stood. “My parents are colder than the Malfoys. Who would have thought that?”

His expression had hardened by the time she took her seat, and it struck her just how awful her words had sounded.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t know if ‘cold’ is the right word.” He mused evenly, his hands sliding the crystal bowl across the table. “‘Distant’ is more like it. My mother was quite warm. A bit smothering, really, but now I think she was overcompensating for my father. It’s all formalities, anyway. My mother wanted children; my father had to produce an heir. I shouldn’t have expected more.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, watching him for any cracks, any sign of anger or resentment, but he stayed composed through it all.

“Do you think your father loves you?”

His eyes flashed with something indecipherable, and he finally slid the bowl aside and reclaimed her hand across the table once more, swiping his thumb across her knuckles.

“I think…my father loves my mother, and she loves me. It’s not what you have with your parents by any means.”

“Had,” she corrected quietly. “What I had with my parents.”

“What you have with them. My father doesn’t care about my actions beyond how they reflect him and the family name. He cares about my well-being only as it pertains to the continuation of our line.”

His lips twisted in a slight approximation of a smirk, and she flipped her wrist, turning her hand over so they could link fingers.

“I don’t think my father ‘loved’ me enough to express true disappointment like yours did today—he always expected it of me.”

They were both quiet for several minutes, his fingers tracing over the lines of her palm as if he could read them. She knew he had at least a mild interest in Divination, but he hadn’t stayed in it long enough to take the O.W.L. for it.

It was funny to her how he’d stayed in Care of Magical Creatures for so long despite his contempt for Hagrid. Both were electives, and there had been far less of a risk of him insulting Professor Trelawney than the various and often dangerous magical creatures brought out in Hagrid's lessons.

Perhaps his parents had felt the same as Hermione in regards to Divination—an utter waste of time.

She didn’t know much of his mother, Narcissa, but she couldn’t imagine Lucius Malfoy giving approval to his studying Divination beyond his third year.

Still, she had a feeling he enjoyed it enough, holding onto the text as long as he had until she’d destroyed it in a thunderstorm. He might have even had a talent for it.

“Your mother is terrifying, by the way. Reminds me a lot of you.”

Hermione smiled. “What did she say?”

“She’s worried about you. Thinks you’re hiding something.”

“She is rather intuitive.” She said, a slight edge to her voice.

He raised his eyebrows “Hmm. Well, rest assured I kept your confidences. I assume you didn’t tell her about the incident with the Weasel’s sperm?”

She snorted a laugh, glancing around once more to ensure they were still alone. “Erm, no. Definitely not.”

His free hand found her knee under the table, his fingertips drawing circles over the bare kneecap. “She talked about him, though.” He said in a low tone. “Said you fancied him for years.”

She swallowed and forced a nod. “Well, you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And you knew he didn’t return my feelings for most of them.”

He smirked, his fingertips flirting with her thigh just below the hem of her denim shorts. “Absolute git.”

“And you knew I broke up with him just a few days after being with him.”

He cocked a brow again. “I didn’t know the timeline, no.”

“We were together less than two weeks.” She said, meeting his gaze squarely. “That’s it. Years of build-up only for it to fizzle out in ten days. You and I have only been officially together for one, but I think we’ll hit two with no problems.”

“We might even make it to three.”

She grinned, unable to help herself. “Don’t tempt fate with your optimism, Malfoy.”

“That’s me,” he said dryly. “Eternally optimistic.”

They stayed a few minutes longer, savouring the silence, the heat. Everything they would lose upon their return. When it was nearing three in the afternoon, they decided to make their way back to the alley they’d arrived in.

“She asked about children.”

“In what way?” She asked, frowning. “Does she think I’m not interested in having them?”

He shook his head. “It was more about the Pure-bloodedness of it. She was curious how it all worked. You’re a Muggle-born, but since you’re a witch, any child you produce will be Half-blood, even if you’re with another Muggle-born or even a muggle.”

“When you phrase it like that, the hierarchy makes absolutely no sense.” She argued. “So a child of two Muggle-borns will be treated better than their parents because only their grandparents are muggles? Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?”

“I didn’t think about it that way, either—not for a long time. Pure, wizarding blood was what mattered. Unless, of course, they were blood traitors like some of my mother’s family, then they were no better than muggles themselves.”

She shook her head up at him, reining in her laughter at the nonsense of it all. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“I didn’t make the rules.”

“No, you just believed them.”

“I had no reason not to.” He said simply, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Until you ruined everything.”

“Until I enlightened you, you mean?” She countered, grinning at his look of dismay. “Draco?”

He groaned, then smiled down at her. “Yes?”

“It’s true all the Pure-bloods share relatives, yes?” He nodded. “So, you’re related to the Weasleys, then.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch,” he sneered. “There’s a common relative, yes. Unfortunately. We’re…" he thought for a moment, then groaned. "I suppose we're distant cousins.”

“How distant?”

“Distant enough that I don’t ever have to think about it.”

She snorted, and he continued, sounding a bit defensive as he went.

“I doubt there’s a Pure-blood in Britain I’m not related to by some degree—the Blacks fucked everyone, alright. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“And they wonder why there are so many fertility issues amongst them.” Hermione said, shaking her head. “It’s a sign from the universe, screaming at you all to stop inbreeding!”

He laughed, his arm slipping from her shoulders to her waist, drawing her closer as they walked so he could kiss her temple.

“That is an excellent point. You should bring that up to my mother if you ever meet her—it might help with the clauses of my inheritance.”

“Clauses?”

“Rules I have to adhere to if I wish to inherit the estate before my father’s demise. It’s fairly standard.”

It was Hermione’s turn to grimace then. “Marry a not-so-distant cousin and produce more Pure-blood children.”

“Not necessarily. It doesn’t have to be a cousin.” He said cheekily. “You know, I’m not sure about that, actually. I’ll have to ask one of the goblins who manages the estate.”

She scowled. “Draco, I’m being serious.”

“I am, too. It’s a simple request to have them look over the paperwork, see if there’s an explicit clause that mentions siring only Pure-blood heirs.”

She shuddered in revulsion at his words. “It sounds so…contractual. Have any Malfoys produced children because they actually wanted to?”

He smirked. “Not for the last century or so, no. Beyond the blood purity, there’s a certain standard one must have before marrying a Malfoy. Social class. Money. They don’t want anyone who’s in it just for the gold and jewels in the vaults.”

“Well, I’m wrong for you on both counts, then.”

“You have money now,” he reminded her. “If the Weasleys haven’t helped themselves, that is.”

“They wouldn’t,” Hermione said. “They’re not greedy. Molly was probably trying to teach me a lesson.”

“What right does she have to do that?”

Hermione shrugged. “She tends to think of herself as everyone’s mother. If they knew my parents were waiting until I turned eighteen, they wouldn’t have said anything before. Then the war started—I doubt they even thought about it then. We also didn’t give them much of a choice, going on the run as we had. And after, well…she wanted me to have a baby.”

She glanced up to meet his eyes, but his were on the cobblestones ahead of them, steering her away from shoppers bounding between shops. He shifted around her protectively, Hermione now between him and the walls as they passed.

“It would make sense for her to keep it secret.” She went on. “I know Arthur—he would have told me by then if he thought I still didn’t know about the vault. And it’s probably not much anyway.”

He tilted his head, considering that. “Your mother made it sound like a significant amount when she mentioned it to me.”

“Hardly,” she argued. “I’m sure you’ve gathered my mum’s feelings on money needing to be earned. It was probably my dad who insisted I start off with some kind of foundation after school. If he would just talk to me, I’d be able to ask him.”

His hand rubbed her back, and she leaned into him as they neared the alley.

“He’ll talk to you again. I promise.”

30 December 1998

“Well?”

“It looks exactly the same.” Hermione said, staring up at her childhood home from her place on the pavement.

At the very least, she’d been expecting overgrown shrubs or dust in the windows, but it looked the same as it had the day she’d left.

“Let’s go in, then. No sense in putting it off.” He said, and it hardly did anything to reassure her.

She dug around in her bag for her house key, Draco smirking as she used it to unlock the door when she very easily could’ve unlocked it with a flick of her wand.

The door creaked open, stiff from disuse, and they coughed upon entry. Though the outside remained picture-perfect, everything inside was coated in a fine layer of grey dust. Dim, wintry light from the living room window highlighted the particles floating about in the air.

But everything was still there.

The living room furniture, the coatrack in the small entryway. The entertainment centre against the far wall was full of the large television and VCR, her dad’s stereo system and turntable. Shelves lined with neat rows of VHS tapes. Picture frames and a set of simple, brass bookends. The potted Heartleaf Philodendron on the top right corner was dead, creeping halfway down the wood with brittle, yellow and brown leaves. The floor below was scattered with the shrivelled leaves that had broken off at some point in the decaying process. The small blanket Hermione had tried to knit for her mum the summer before fifth year lay over the arm of the sofa, its forest green colour dull from dust and the remnants of Crookshanks’ fur.

“What the hell is this?” He asked, frowning at the towering cat tree by the window seat.

It was quite ugly to look at, the bottom of the column wrapped in thin rope for scratching, the rest covered in beige carpet. It had a tunnel with a toy suspended from the top in the centre, a curved seat a foot up from the floor, and a round bed at the top.

“It’s for Crookshanks,” she said, fighting a mocking smile. She felt it should be obvious. “Cats like to climb, be up high. He loves bird watching from that window, so Mum and Dad let me keep it there.”

He gave it another offended look before setting to work helping her clear off the dust and cat hairs clinging to everything in sight. She was very grateful for magic then, not having to dirty her hands or move things aside to clean them. Their wands did all the work in just a few minutes’ time.

She spent the better part of the afternoon compiling photo albums and letters she had sent home from school over the years, the edges of the parchment frayed and yellowed after being in a desk drawer for so long. She gathered every small item she thought her parents might enjoy, all the while keeping the bitter end of her visit with them at bay.

A photo on a shelf in the study showed her parents outside a ski lodge, and Hermione studied it with an ache in her throat, noting their ages. It was from the trip she had skipped out on for Christmas in fifth year, feeling the Weasleys had needed her more after Arthur had been attacked.

She left the study after that, too many good memories burned in her mind becoming distorted with the emptiness and stagnant air she found in the room.

“Where’s your bedroom?” He asked, his eyes focused on a spot on the wall she couldn’t see with his shoulders in the way. “They might’ve left the key in there—away from the other muggles.”

“Maybe.” She said, unconvinced, and shut the study door behind her.

Stepping around him, she saw that he was looking at a primary school photo of her in the hallway. Her hair had been tamed back in a French braid with wisps escaping the front and frizzing around her temples. Her eyes were bright and the colour of dark honey in the artificial lighting. Her formerly large front teeth were prominent as she smiled confidently.

She cringed at the sight of it.

“Erm, my room is downstairs,” she added, looking away from the gold-framed photograph. “Past the living room.”

She left him to do a sweep of her parents’ room, ridding pots of their dead plants, the floors of leaves and dust. She knew they wouldn’t be home for months, but she cleansed and remade the bed anyway, wanting to leave the house in as good of a condition as she could. She straightened what remained of her mum’s jewellery and tidied up their bathroom.

With her arms full of albums and organised pieces of parchment, she made her way back downstairs to add it all to her bag. She would have to research the best method for sending the materials back to Australia. It was much too far for an owl, but surely there had to be hand-off locations scattered throughout the world.

Perhaps she’d have to send it all through the muggle post.

Light poured into the hallway, the door to her bedroom left open. She set her bag on the coffee table and walked down to it.

Draco’s back was to her as he examined her room. Her small, white television sitting atop her dresser. Her built-in bookshelves overflowing and disorganised. Scattered notebooks lay open on her desk, evidence of the last bits of hasty research she’d conducted before leaving her parents.

A part of her had never expected to return, her hasty exist the year before the least of her concerns then.

There were only a few photos in the room, all containing the moving images of her friends. Her favourites had their own places on the white bedside table, a photo of Ron at Christmas in fifth year. A photo of Hermione and Ginny in their Yule Ball robes. She’d specifically chosen that photo with Ron because of how nice he looked in it.

Hermione quietly slid into the room and picked up the frame to put it away.

“I already saw it.”

She looked up to find him smirking, his fingers closed around a book. Hermione had the frame in one hand and the handle of a drawer in the other, and she slipped the photo inside and promptly slid the drawer shut. She didn’t want to see Ron then, see his smile or have his eyes in the photo wandering over her bed as Draco stood in the room with her.

“Saw what?” She asked innocently, then began to pick up the loose papers on her desk and put them all away, organising the space as best as she could.

“Your shrine to the Weasel. You’ve one over here, too.”

He gestured to a photo of her with Harry and Ron in second year. It was hardly a shrine.

She had never had a friend in her bedroom before. The Weasleys, as fascinated as they’d been with the muggle world, had never visited. Harry had never visited, either, though she understood why. Still, it was a bit sad for her to think about—in some ways it felt like they didn’t really know her.

But Draco was there then. He was examining her bookshelves, her narrow bed with the deceptively innocent white duvet and too many pillows.

“You have one in here, too?” He asked, then pushed a button on the television.

It flickered on, the low volume she’d last had it on still too loud and unexpected for the small space. A special news report had just started, and she glanced at her watch to find they’d spent half the day there already.

“I like films, when I have the time to watch them.” She smiled to herself, watching him watch the screen. “I think my parents thought I was reading too much. They got it for me a few summers ago when they thought I’d be home more, but…” She trailed off, her mood souring, and she grabbed the remote from her bedside table to turn it off.

“I was watching that.” He said indignantly, turning around to face her.

“It wasn’t anything worthwhile, trust me. Let’s just find the key and go, please.”

“Why are you in such a rush?”

He began pulling open drawers, the one beneath the television holding her small collection of VHS tapes. He pulled one out and examined it curiously, looking at the shape and glancing back to the rectangular slot of the built-in VCR, making the connection.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” He asked, amused. “Is there a house-elf rights agenda you need to sneak into the Ministry before the new year?”

She jumped up to grab the tape from him before he put it in upside down.

“No,” she said irritably, putting the tape back into the drawer and shoving it closed. “I just don’t want to waste more time than I already have.”

He rolled his eyes before kissing her hair, then turned to leave. She thought he’d be on his way out the door, but when she turned back, she found him getting settled onto her bed, kicking his shoes off and lounging on top of the covers. Her eyes flashed wide at the sight of him, cat-like and long-limbed, lying on her single, frilly bed.

“What’re you doing?”

He stretched out comfortably, so tall his feet had to rest over the footboard. “I’m taking a break—you’ve been working me to death.”

“Worn out after only few flicks of your wand, Draco?”

“I’m sure I have another round or two left in me,” he said, smirking up at her as his fingers played with the ribbon edge of a small, decorative pillow. “Your bed is small enough to fit in a broom closet, but I think we could make it work.”

She shook her head to hide her blushing. “I will not be defiling my childhood bed with you.”

“Why not? We’ve defiled mine.”

She scoffed and folded her arms. “Yes, well, I’m sure I’m one of many to pass through your bed, but I’ve never had anyone in mine.”

His eyes flicked to hers, staring at her appraisingly for several seconds before tossing the pillow aside and sitting up. “Why do you assume that?”

“Assume what?”

“That I’ve slept around.”

She shrugged. “Slytherins have a reputation—am I wrong to think you’d have plenty of company?”

“Are you asking for a number?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s none of my business what—or who—you did before me.” She said evenly. “So long as you’re with me exclusively, I don’t care.”

He rolled his eyes again. “There’s that Gryffindor nobility.” He muttered. “It’s two, by the way. The answer is two.”

“Two?”

“Two.”

“So, Pansy and…”

“You.”

Her face must’ve showed her surprise, because he sneered at her then.

“Just Pansy?”

“She was my girlfriend for nearly three years, Granger.”

“I know, but after—”

“After, I was a servant to the Dark Lord.” He said grimly. “A bit hard to get it up with him skulking about the manor.”

She gnawed her bottom lip, feeling wholly ridiculous for even bringing it up. She hadn’t really been asking, but she could understand why the wrong assumption would bother him.

She went over to the end of the bed and sat down facing him, eyeing him cautiously. “So…we’re even, then.”

His eyes flicked between hers, narrowing slightly. “I suppose we are, though I don’t know if you can count your first time.”

“I don’t,” she said honestly. “Not really. It didn’t really mean anything. Not like with you.”

“I meant something?”

She shrugged. “You mean everything.”

She caught herself in an instant, her eyes widening, horrified, as she opened her mouth to backtrack.

"Everything?"

“I—no, not like that. Not everything, but—”

He kissed her, effectively cutting off her rambling. He slid a hand around her back, the other around her hip, tugging her forward. Her hands went up automatically to hold his face between them.

Her breath hitched as his hand slipped under her shirt, his skin cold against hers, stopping just below the band of her bra. She kissed him back deeply, running a hand to the back of his neck as he traced the line of her lower lip with his tongue. He nipped her gently, his perfectly straight teeth tugging her lip and coaxing a soft moan from her throat.

He released her, then began to trail a path from her lips to her ear; she tilted her head to the side to allow him better access.

“Not the bed?”

She shook her head, her breath shallow as she continued to crane her neck for him.

“How about the wall then?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she pulled back enough to stare at him. “The wall?” She squeaked.

“Up for it?”

She glanced around the room, surveying their options. The only other available surface was her desk, but she thought it would be too uncomfortable. The spot on the wall by the door, though...that could work. She would be able to use the top of the dresser as leverage if needed.

She met his eyes, his crinkling in the corners, obviously pleased with himself that he was able to corrupt her so easily. She unbuttoned her coat and kicked off her boots, then glanced to her window as she tugged at the hem of her shirt.

“Close the curtains.”

Chapter Text

30 December 1998

“Don’t tell me it’s that easy,” he said with laughter in his voice. “You’re not even going to feign modesty?”

Hermione was already off the bed, working to rid herself of her jeans.

“I don’t suppose there’d be any point to that now, would there?” She asked, sliding the denim off her hips and letting them fall. She kicked them off and faced him, her hands coming to rest on her hips. “This will be your only chance to have me in this room, Draco. I suggest you make the most of it.”

When he simply smirked at her from the bed, making no move to get up or take out his wand to flick the curtains shut, she crossed the small room and closed them manually, casting them into an eerie grey darkness. She could still easily make out his shape, his lithe frame taking up a significant amount of space in her bedroom.

“The bed is quite comfortable, actually. Surprisingly so.”

“Not happening.”

“Why not? Is it sacred? Is this where you had your ‘not too many’ orgasms?”

Even in the dark, she was sure he could see the way her body stiffened and her cheeks heated.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He asked, a new edge to his voice. “Forget the photographs—is this the real shrine to the Weasel?”

“Stop.”

He leaned up on his elbows, a brow arching up. “What did you fantasise about, anyway? I’ve always been curious to know what gets you off.”

“Slapping the shit out of a demented little ferret, usually.”

He smirked at that, but remained fairly tense. “Not him?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Not once.” She said evenly, her face on fire.

Always you, you smarmy prick.

“Potter?”

Her face screwed up in disgust. “Absolutely not! And no one else in Gryffindor, either, so don’t even bother asking.”

At that he relaxed, his features effortlessly shifting from hard and cold to teasing and warm. If she wasn’t so attuned to his ever-changing mood at that point, it would have alarmed her.

“Good.”

He was up and over to her in an instant, lips catching hers, hands finding her waist as he backed her up against the wall. Still a bit cross with him for thinking what he had, she didn’t give into his kiss right away.

And he noticed.

He pulled back, his hands at her waist having tugged up the fabric of her shirt. “What did I do now?”

She glared back at him. “You know exactly what you did.”

He sighed bitterly but made no effort to remove his hands from her bare skin. “What was I supposed to think, Granger? You once fancied him enough to fuck him—is it so wrong of me to think you might have certain memories of him on the bed you wanted me off of?”

“I never thought of Ron or anyone else in this room.” Except you. “You can either believe me and fuck me right now, or you can get out of my way while I find that stupid key instead. Your choice.”

He rolled his eyes and muttered, “It’s hardly a choice.”

With that he pulled her shirt up and over her head, her arms raising in the movement. Her hair spilled out like a heavy curtain, falling around her face, her shoulders, the ends skimming the tops of her breasts.

His lips found hers again, plying, cajoling, a silent apology for being a jealous prat.

He pulled back with another sigh when she refused to respond to his kiss once more, resting his forehead against hers, his grey eyes only an inch or two from hers. She stared into them intently, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t.” She agreed. “Have I ever acted jealous knowing Pansy has been in your bed?”

He shook his head after a moment, his expression softer, apologetic. “I won’t say another word about the ginger.”

“Don’t think anything, either.”

His lips twitched in a smile. “Trust me, I don’t ever choose to think about any of them.”

“Well, he is a Pure-blooded distant cousin—on paper he’s a much better match for you than me.”

He huffed and kissed her, nipping her lip roughly as he muttered “bitch.” She snorted a laugh, then kissed him back, standing on tiptoe to press up against him.

He broke away to kiss along her jaw, running his lips down the side of her neck, bending to kiss down her chest. He scraped his thumb across her hardened nipple over her bra, a moan catching in her throat at the feel of it. His mouth soon replaced it, the normally sharp feel of his teeth against her sensitised skin giving off only a mild tingling through the protective padding of her bra.

Her hands went to the back to undo the clasp, but his eyes caught hers, and he shook his head slightly.

“Leave it on for now,” he said, more of a request than a demand. “Your tits look incredible like this.”

With a soft, contented sigh, she released the band and moved to rest her hands on his shoulders as he made his way down, kissing a trail down her stomach as he went.

Kneeling on the ground before her, she felt certain her heart would soon give out the way it was pounding. Even in the dim lighting, his expression as he took her in, eyeing the slight roundness of her abdomen, her hip bones, settling on the tiny pink bow of her knickers—she was seconds from losing all control.

Anything he wanted, anything he asked for; she would give him everything if he kept looking at her like that.

“Be good for me and open your legs, will you?”

Her feet shifted apart a few inches, and the spark in his eye as he visually traced her mound through the cotton barrier told her it wasn’t nearly enough.

Looking up at her through his lashes, he kissed her skin above the bow. His teeth caught it, tugging her knickers down until she felt the waistband biting at her hips, the elastic and scratchy, thin, lace border cutting into her skin as he slid them off of her. They fell to the tops of her thighs, leaving just the front of her exposed.

He released his teeth and used his hands to slide them all the way off, running his hands down her thighs, her calves. Then, lifting one ankle at a time, he helped her step out of them. Instead of pocketing the pair as he’d done before, he let them lay on the floor, the wet patch on the fabric damning evidence of her arousal. He dragged a hand up between her clenched thighs, her legs having pressed back together without conscious thought.

“You’re too rigid, Granger. Do I make you nervous?”

“Always,” she breathed.

“I won’t bite.”

She glanced down at him, catching his wolfish smile as he slid his gaze across her still-visible tan lines from hip to hip. As if sensing her thoughts about them, he trailed a fingertip across the sun-darkened skin just above her pubic bone, making her shiver.

“You really do take in the sun well,” he said against her, his lips barely brushing her skin.

“Too well,” she complained.

That wasn’t necessarily true, but compared to her, the most he’d gotten from the sun was an easily treatable sunburn to his nose, cheeks, and the tops of his shoulders. A charm to heal the skin; basic aloe vera and witch hazel treatments to soothe the burn. He’d been back to normal the next day, while she had left the beach two shades darker and remained that way still. He didn’t darken or freckle as she had—he wouldn’t have to come up with an excuse as to why he looked so vibrant and golden in winter.

If the papers hadn’t already outed them as having gone on holiday, she was certain her tan and the return of her gold-streaked curls would give her away.

So what if they did?

Would it really be so bad if everyone finally knew?

“Is it so noticeable people will talk?”

His eyes shot up to hers sharply. “Planning to show some skin when we get back to the castle?”

A mixture of brief, bitter emotions flickered in his expression, a possessive fire in his eyes as they met hers.

She scoffed. “Yes, I fully intend to prance about the castle in my knickers. Is that a problem for you?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Will I get to claim you first? Make it known you’re mine alone to touch and admire?”

It wasn’t the first time the threat of claiming her had been uttered, but it was the first time it felt…real. Not a silly promise, but a contract. A verbal agreement that may as well be drawn up in blood—he wasn’t fucking around.

And neither would she.

She brought a hand to his hair, stroking it back from his face so she could look him in the eye better. If he thought he was the only one with the desire to stake their claim, he had no idea what he was in for.

Perhaps it was a spoiled, only child thing, but she didn’t much care for sharing the important things. Her favourite quills, her precious childhood books she kept at home during the school year, and, now, him. She’d given enough to other people over the years—now it was her turn to take.

“Only if I can claim you, too.”

His eyes narrowed, seeming to gauge her mood, her honesty. “Would you want to?”

Hermione nodded once. “If I’m yours, then you’re mine. It’s only fair. Besides, I can be quite possessive.”

“Can you?”

“When I want to be—when it matters.” She released his hair and laid her hand on his shoulder in a business-like manner. “We should probably establish some ground rules for going back, just so we’re clear on boundaries this time around.”

He sat back on his heels and wrapped his hands around the backs of her thighs. “Such as?”

“Kissing in common areas, where anyone can see?”

He smirked. “I’ll allow it.”

“Could I occasionally join you at the Slytherin table for breakfast?”

“Whenever you’d like—every day if you want to.”

“You would get sick of me.”

“Not possible.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling, then said, “Do you have any you’d like to add?”

“A few,” he said, taking a moment to consider. He glanced up at her, a cocky gleam in his eye. “Can I finger you in class?”

Her cheeks flushed as she momentarily considered his sanity. He wasn’t being entirely serious, she was sure of it, but if he’d been handsy before when they’d only been tiptoeing around each other there was no telling what boundaries he might push now that they were together.

She shook her head, unable to keep the grin at bay then. “No.”

“In the library?”

She gave a slight, patient sigh. The library offered more privacy, at the very least. “Perhaps. If the timing is right.”

One hand slid up the back of her thigh, brushing the skin right below her arse he knew made her ticklish. “Can I take you flying again?”

“When it’s warmer.” She said, jolting a bit into him as he teased the skin there.

“You were quite warm, as I recall.”

She managed an eyeroll and pressed down on his shoulder. “Anything else?”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling to her tan line. “I can’t promise I won’t be jealous—it’s in my nature. You’ll forgive me if I act on it now and again?”

“As long as it doesn’t end in bloodshed, it’s negotiable. I might temporarily revoke certain privileges, but I’ll try to be understanding of the situation. What else?”

“Just one more.” He said, his voice taking on a deeper tone. He pulled back from her physically, his gaze sharpening on hers. “Is this serious? Outside of school—after school, will you still want this?”

She snorted, that question ridiculous to her after what they had just gone through together. “Draco, you’ve met my mum and discussed a future with her you haven’t even brought up with me yet. I’d say we are on the path to ‘serious,’ if we’re not there already.”

He smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. “And this ‘serious future,’ that’s something you want?”

She tugged his hair at the back, forcing his chin up, his eyes to meet hers fully. “I told you I have no intention of letting you go, either—if I have to brand my name onto you to show you how serious I am about that, I will do it.” She said, laughing. “I will probably terrify you in the process and make you regret ever showing any interest in me, but if extreme measures are what it takes for it to sink in, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

With her vision fully adjusted to the darkness of the room, she could see his eyes turn molten as he finally let out a pained groan, laughing under his breath as he broke her hold and pressed his face to her lower abdomen. “You really are going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

She looked away, her lips stretching into a smile so wide it hurt. “I should hope so.”

He laughed again, the front of his hair tickling her skin. He pulled back enough to look at her body before him, taking in every detail meticulously as if storing it away for later use.

Although she felt a bit embarrassed to have so much attention placed on a very specific area of her body, she couldn’t deny the odd rush of power it gave her. He acted as though she had him under a spell, and it felt intoxicating.

Moments later he gave the outside of her thigh a pat.

“Open.” He commanded firmly, and her thighs parted of their own volition. He gave another wicked smirk and whispered, “Good girl.”

Her head fall back on a whimper as he ran his tongue up her slit. She hit the wall with a muffled thud, and then steadied herself against it to allow her hips to angle up.

Never in a million years would she have imagined Draco Malfoy on his knees for her, licking up her sensitive skin and seeking out the spots that turned her legs to jelly. She didn’t want to look down at him, the thought of doing so feeling too intimate, but when she couldn’t help herself, she nearly collapsed at the sight.

Eyes open, memorising her in the ever-darkening room as he teased her. He steadied her hip with one hand, using the other to gently spread her open, the flat of his tongue sweeping from her entrance to her clit. Her breath hitched and her eyes fell shut as he devoured her, licking and sucking and teasing the sensitive spot even after she doubled-over, clutching his shoulder and the back of his head for support.

After, he steadied her hips, and she lifted herself upright, still clinging to him but allowing him room to breathe. He looked arrogant as ever, lips and chin slightly wet and a pure, unabashed look of satisfaction in his eyes as he took her in.

“Thank you.”

“Thank me?” She asked in astonishment. “Why are you thanking me?”

He rose up to stand, one hand wrapping around her neck. “I’ve wanted to properly taste you for months,” he said in a husky voice. “So, thank you.”

She gaped at him, her heart racing as it took a moment longer than it should have to piece together his words. “Anytime,” she breathed, too excited to feign shyness. “You may do that to me—anytime you want to.”

She thought she could make out a smirk before he kissed her. Her lips parted, matching his movements. She thought she could taste a hint of herself on his skin, but was fortunately too overcome with the texture and taste of him, of the rustling sound of fabric as he unsheathed himself from the confines of his trousers.

She steadied herself on his shoulders as he lifted her, the kiss becoming easier to manage as they met face-to-face, Hermione feeling weightless in his arms.

He slid into her with no resistance. Having eaten her out with the skill and tongue of the gods, she’d become so wet he could impale her in one move.

Her moans sounded raspy to her ears, a ragged plea for him to keep going, to drive his hips up and into her faster and harder. Braced against the wall, he yanked at her thighs until she wrapped them around his waist, securing her in place for them to move without the fear of falling.

She shrieked at the angle, her whole body seizing in shock as gravity bore down on her. Her hands grasped at his shoulders wildly, her legs locking at the ankles as he pumped into her.

“Yes,” she gasped, feeling sweat break out across her heated skin. “Dra—Draco—I—”

She was an incoherent mess, the act of matching thrust for thrust so exhausting she could hardly get a word out. Draco wasn’t even trying, his own moans and gasps in her ear, against her lips, so exhilarating she nearly came apart at the sound of them.

It was quickly becoming too much. Too much pressure, too much pounding between her hips and her heart rate that it was becoming difficult to breathe.

“Stop,” she choked out. “I can’t—”

Her back left the wall, and she wailed into a kiss, feeling the world explode around her. He quickly sat her on the edge of her desk and pulled her legs away from his waist. She gasped in relief, her head falling back, her back arching as he resumed.

With heavy-lidded eyes, she spotted the button-down he’d worn under his jumper was still on. Scowling, she reached for it, yanking the fabric until the buttons popped off and scattered around the room. He chuckled darkly and released her hips, his hands shoving down the cups of her bra in retaliation.

Fair is fair, she reasoned, her eyes rolling back as he cupped her breasts with both hands, squeezing them roughly.

The desk was creaking under her weight and the drive of their hips, and just as she was about to find her release, the front leg of it beneath her gave out, breaking off with a sound similar to a bundle of twigs snapping all at once.

It was a desk made for reading and homework—not shagging.

He managed to catch her before she fell with it, the neat stacks of paper she’d piled on the desk sliding off and meeting his buttons on the floor.

“All muggle furniture this useless?” He teased, laughing breathlessly, their movements stilled with her legs back around his waist.

He held her firmly under her bum, and they both looked down to survey the damage, panting.

“And you wanted—to try my bed?”

“Still do.”

Smiling, she shook her head, and he tried his best not to roll his eyes as he brought her to the floor.

It was easier then, letting him do the work. She’d contributed, the muscles in her thighs taut with exertion. She felt sure they would hurt more in the morning than they did after flying with him.

She lay on the floor, her hands clawing in her own hair as he rammed into her without restraint. She felt she might prefer it that way—so hard and fast it worked her into a state of ecstasy with minimal effort on her part.

In her right mind, she would want to match him thrust for thrust. Spent as she was, she didn’t care right then. She would make it up to him later.

When he finished, he rolled her on top of him, and she lay numbly across his body, her still-pulsing core clenching around his softening length as he remained inside of her.

She pressed lazy kisses to his chest, and he stroked her hair, both of them twitching with the aftershocks.

You’ll be the death of me, too, she thought, watching him as his features relaxed, the furrow of his brow smoothing out, his eyes languidly finding hers. His throat bobbed as he swallowed reflexively, and she leaned up to kiss his Adam’s apple. The hand in her hair pulled her to rest there, and she settled her face into the crook of his neck.

They stayed that way for several minutes, coming down from it, catching their breaths while still connected. She was the first to move, pulling back and standing on her knees to slip off of him. She gave him a weak, satiated smile before kissing down his chest, his abdomen. She kissed every single ridge of his sculpted abdominal muscles, kissing the skin above his navel she knew was particularly sensitive and feeling sadistically pleased when he jumped slightly.

She eyed his cock, still impressive in size even in its current state.

“What are you plotting?”

“Nothing you won’t like.” She promised, her smile turning shy as she met his eyes. She kissed his skin again and slid off of him, standing on shaking legs to retrieve her clothes. “I’m going to see if the water’s still on. Care to join me in the shower?”

An hour later she was nearing her breaking point, every drawer and cupboard in the house rifled through. They were standing in the kitchen, Draco apparently fascinated by muggle appliances—or kitchen appliances in general, seeing as he’d likely never stepped foot in one. She didn’t even know where the kitchen was in the manor.

“How bloody hard is it to find a key?” She snapped, slamming shut the utensil drawer.

“Granger,” he said, his hand absently fiddling with a knob on the stove. She resisted the urge to smack his hand away and glared at him instead. “Have you considered a summoning charm?”

She felt the blood drain from her face at his words.

Of course she hadn’t thought of it—that would have made things too easy.

“You couldn’t have suggested it, oh, I don’t know, four bloody hours ago?”

“I wasn’t in a rush,” he said with a shrug, then smoothly took a seat on the edge of the counter beside the sink, eyeing her calmly. A bit smugly. “Plus I enjoyed watching you hunt for it the muggle way—you are delightful when you’re irritated.”

“Bugger off.” She muttered, leaving the kitchen to retrieve her bag from the living room.

She pulled out her wand and said “Accio Gringotts key!” with more force than necessary. Seconds later she heard a rattling sound from the kitchen. Draco was looking from the drawer she’d shut just minutes before to her, trying and failing not to smirk.

Glowering, she yanked the drawer open once more, finding the key beneath a large serving spoon. She sighed as she pocketed the key, thinking their whole day had been wasted trying to locate it. He’d gotten her to relax for the better part of an hour, but now was the time to check her vault. She needed to make sure whatever amount was in it was still there, and report back to her mum she’d found the key and would be sending a package her way soon.

She also needed to ask Mr. and Mrs. Weasley why they’d kept it from her. She had wanted to apparate over that night, not wanting to spoil their New Year’s Eve plans, but it was getting to be too late in the evening for an unexpected visit.

Maybe that was why Draco hadn’t said anything—maybe he’d wanted her to himself a bit longer.

At that thought she softened just a bit, relaxing her tense shoulders before wandering over to him and giving him a kiss. His hand swept through her hair, holding her at the base of her skull as he deepened it.

When they parted, he kissed the tip of her nose before pulling away.

“Ready to go?”

“No, actually.” He said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not ready to share you just yet.”

“You’ve had me for five days—that’s not enough?”

“Not nearly.”

She smiled as she looped her arms around his neck. “I need to get to the bank.”

“Go in the morning. I’m sure they’ll be closed by the time we arrive, anyway.”

He cut her off with another kiss as she opened her mouth to argue, and she sighed into it.

“First thing in the morning,” he promised. “Just give me tonight. We can stay here—you can show me what muggles do at night.”

She frowned. “They’re just people, Draco. They eat, they sleep—nothing too out of the ordinary. Nothing that would shock you.”

“I will be the judge of that."

31 December 1998

She’d had sleepovers with her cousins as a child, at her house and during family reunions in another city on holiday. Watching films and pretending to be interested in their idle gossip as they took turns painting each other’s nails, Hermione always taking too long so as to apply the polish perfectly.

She’d often had sleepovers with Ginny, the activities fairly similar, but without the hum of the forgotten film playing in the background.

But this time was her favourite, easily. She’d ordered a pizza, secretly enjoying the snobbish way he’d turned his nose up at it at first, then giving in just before the cheese congealed and the crust grew stale. He watched a film with her from her bed, Hermione relenting and sitting between his legs on the narrow mattress, settling her back against his chest with his arms folded across her stomach.

They ate too-greasy pizza and watched an idiotic film on the telly that earned outraged protests from Draco at the lack of realism of the werewolf, Hermione laughing with every point made, every close-up shot of the transformation and the awful, practical effects. For his first film, she was glad it was something so awful they’d be able to remember it for a long time after.

It was too perfect, and she’d fallen asleep well before the end of the film, well beyond caring she’d enforced a no-bed rule.

But her sleep was far from perfect.

It was deep and restless, filled with flashes from traumas she couldn’t remember clearly. Few details stuck out, warped in her subconscious mind’s eye. Recent memories of Polyjuice Potion and disapparating; Ron being splinched. Going on foot for months and developing a bitter resentment for her best friends, though she’d always kept it to herself. Ron leaving; Hermione crying. Weeks and weeks of crying, feeling so completely, desperately lonely she considered wasting away in the Forest of Dean, letting the elements take her then because she was too broken to keep going.

Bellatrix Lestrange gleefully wielding her wand above Hermione, casting curse after curse as she wailed in agony, the sickening, electrifying sensation of the Cruciatus Curse flaying her senses over and over; she prayed she’d go mad to escape it.

The knife in her skin, a strange relief to the torture before it, the mad witch carving the cruel letters into her arm she’d likely have for the rest of her life.

Draco Malfoy, pale and sickly behind his mother, forcing himself not to look at her.

Ron screaming from the cellar, her name a constant ringing in her ear that wouldn’t ease, her mind silently pleading with him to stop. It hurt too much, knowing he wouldn’t come to save her, knowing she’d likely be dead before he had the chance.

The knife drove in deeper, piercing her flesh nearly down to the bone, her hot blood trickling from the open wounds as she finished the last letter.

She awoke with a scream, precariously balanced on the edge of her narrow bed, a stiff arm locked around her to keep her from falling off.

Gasping, she reeled back from the embrace, her mind still trapped in the drawing room at Malfoy Manor, Ron’s pleas still loud in her ear. She sat on the floor, panting and crying as she tried to make sense of it all. Her hands pressed against her ears in a futile attempt to ease the tortured wails. Her arm was stinging, and she looked at it to find the since-healed letters with deep, red nail marks scratched across them, as if she’d been digging into the skin in her sleep.

She took several minutes to calm down, to reorient herself.

She was in her room at home. The war had been over for months. She was perfectly safe.

The arm that had been around her belonged to Draco.

Sitting up on her knees, she turned and peered up at him. He was lying perfectly still, rigid, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above him.

“Are you alright?” She asked, sniffling.

His brow furrowed. “I’m fine.”

She lifted herself back up to the mattress on shaking limbs, feeling thoroughly wrung-out. He wouldn’t meet her eyes as she sat down to face him.

“I’m sorry if I was an—active sleeper.” She murmured, then frowned. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” he muttered, then let out a sigh a moment later. “You were crying for Weasley—I’m trying not to read too much into it.”

“Oh,” she breathed, worry etched in her tone. “Oh, no—Draco, it’s nothing like that. I’m so sorry. I had a nightmare about the war, about—this.”

She lifted her scratched forearm, and he looked at it, alarm flashing in his eyes as he saw the new marks. He grabbed her bag from the bedside table without asking, then rooted around for several seconds before finally retrieving the aloe vera she’d acquired on their trip.

He took her wrist and pulled her arm closer, carefully applying the soothing gel to her inflamed skin.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

He nodded in response, tossing the tube back into the bag.

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Jealous?”

“I’m trying not to be.”

She nodded, feeling sympathy for the position he was in. If he’d spent the night calling out for Pansy—no matter what the context might be—she might’ve been just as insecure about it as he seemed to be.

“I promise, it was nothing—romantic.” She said. She bent down to kiss his cheek, lingering there for a moment to breathe in his reassuring scent. “If you were a skilled Legilimens, I could show you, but you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”

She pulled back, and he seemed to thaw a bit more, his nod less forced, his scowl far less pronounced. He only looked mildly irritated then.

“Can I tell you a secret?” She said, resting her palm against his sternum. He nodded again. “The reason I didn’t want to do anything—in this bed…” she hesitated, steeling herself to get the words out. “I don’t know when it might have started for you, but I used to think about you. Too much. I was—not embarrassed, but I felt a bit…ashamed. I felt I might be doing something wrong every time I inserted your face or your voice onto the hero in a romance novel, but I couldn’t help it. Ever since that night, all I could think about was you. In this bed, I—I fantasised about you.”

Frowning, he asked, “Which night?”

“The Yule Ball.” She said quietly. “After R—after he made me feel just…awful, I walked around for a bit. Spotted you and Pansy in the corridor leading down to the dungeons.”

He looked confused, his frown deepening as if trying hard to remember the night in question.

“You might not remember it clearly, but I do. She was on her knees for you—I could hear what she was doing, the sounds you were making.” She chewed on her lip as realisation dawned in his expression, his eyes lighting up in surprise.

Taking advantage of his more relaxed state, she settled herself beside him, resting on her knees and palm, one hand sneaking to his belt buckle while her eyes asked for permission. He nodded once, swallowing hard as he watched her undo the belt and the front of his trousers.

“The ‘not too many’ orgasms I’ve had, Draco…they all involved you. Your voice. The sound of you getting off.”

She eyed him as she sneaked a hand down the band of his black boxer briefs, palming the stiffening appendage. He made room for her between his legs without her asking, and she rested on her knees in the small space. She tugged at the band, working it down until he sprang out, hard and rigid with thick veins running along it.

“Even with him, you were the only thought that made me wet.”

She pulled her hair up in a knot and sank down onto her elbows, having to arch her hips up to keep her steady on the foot of her bed.

“Granger—”

“I was always jealous of her, you know,” she murmured, wrapping a hand around the base to run her thumb up and down the vein on the underside.

He groaned involuntarily, sounding pained like he wanted to ask her to stop, but doing so might very well be the biggest mistake of his life.

“I wondered if you would make those sounds for me, too. If I could draw that kind of reaction from you.”

She gave the tip a tentative lick, watching his eyes shut, his jaw clench like he was trying to rein it all in.

“May I?”

He nodded, a rough jerk of his head, and she brought her mouth to the tip once more.

She had envisioned the moment playing out in her head many times, but no details had been clear. She hadn’t known he’d be too long to take all of him into her mouth. She hadn’t known for certain if he was uncut, though she’d learned through magical relationship columns and romance novels that was the case for most Half and Pure-blood wizards.

She kept a hand around the base, lightly fisting around him and running up and down in smooth, slow strokes as she wrapped her lips around the head. She twirled her tongue the way she’d read about, seeking out the right places to add pressure, where to suck, where to exploit in a way that earned her a guttural groan from his throat.

Experimentally, she took more of him in, taking him just before he reached the back of her throat and holding him steady as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked.

“Fuck—fucking hell, Granger,” he hissed.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the rhythm she’d found, basking in the groans and despairing sounds of appreciation as she licked and sucked him into a frenzy, his hand finding her hair and tangling roughly in the strands, gripping her at the scalp.

To her surprise, she didn’t feel suffocated by it. She didn’t feel degraded or submissive. She felt entirely in control, even as his hips jerked, forcing more of himself into her mouth with every thrust.

“Grang—Hermione, stop,” he panted, and she could feel how he pulsed under her touch.

He was a flushed mess, eyes wild and desperate for her to continue despite his plea for her not to.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she insisted. “Let me taste you?”

He fell back with a groan as her tongue stroked up the underside of his cock. “Fine, fine,” he ground out. “Anything you want. Just please—”

His words cut off with an agonised groan as she took him in again, continuing her strokes, the suction, as she had before until he came in heavy spurts across her tongue.

It wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as she’d heard it would be. The taste was mild, yet slightly musky. A bit salty, but nothing she minded swallowing, capturing his gaze as she did so.

“Good god,” he muttered, his fist tightening in her hair. “Merlin, you’re—fuck… Come here.”

She uncoiled herself and kneeled above him, straddling his lap as he sat up. He kissed her fiercely, stealing the already laboured breath from her lungs and keeping her there until they both ran out of air.

“Do I want to know where you learned how to do that?” He asked a minute later.

“Books—basic research in my dorm.”

His laugh was breathy. “Of course.”

He pressed slow, drugging kisses up and down her throat, shifting to nuzzle the skin below her ear as his hand found the button of her jeans and slipped it through the loop.

“I still can’t believe you got away with it,” she hummed, moaning softly as he slid his hand down the front of her jeans and into her knickers. “You and Pansy.”

“We didn’t. Snape caught us after. Right after.” He laughed. “We lost ten House points each.”

She pulled back, appalled. “Ten?!”

He smirked despite his overall dishevelled appearance, his too-long hair falling into his eyes. “Yes, well. Favouritism.”

He slid a finger against her, easily finding her clit and collecting the wetness further down, her head lolling to the side with a moan. She couldn’t believe how aroused the act of sucking him off had made her, but as he pulled his hand out, his fingertips glistening, there was no room to deny it had.

“What did you used to think about with me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she teased, and didn’t argue as he manoeuvred her to lie on her back.

She didn’t object when he stripped her of her jeans and underwear, or when he coaxed her into divulging every fantasy she’d ever had involving him as she touched herself in front of him.

She met his gaze through heavy-lidded eyes as she stroked across her swollen flesh, dragging the wetness to her clit and circling it, taking care not to add direct pressure just yet.

“You’re so quiet.” He said, his eyes never leaving her hand between her legs.

“I had to be. I wasn’t allowed to use magic outside of school. Muggle houses, they’re—” she broke off on a whimper as he curled a hand around her hip. “The walls are thinner. You hear everything.”

“You were worried you’d get caught.” He guessed, and she nodded. “I think you lied to me, Granger. I think it’s been more than a few times in this bed. How many?”

She shook her head, her breath hitching as she slipped her middle finger inside, then her index, moaning at the slight stretch.

“Honestly, just a few times.”

“When was the first time?”

She blushed despite the position she was already in, spread out and touching herself for him. He ran his fingertips across the skin of her lower belly, just under the hem of her shirt, toying with the last bit of modesty she had left then.

“Yule Ball,” she managed. “Girls’ shower in Gryffindor Tower. God, this makes me sound like a deviant, but I couldn’t stop thinking of you, Draco—your voice.” She met his eyes, her bottom lip between her teeth as she smiled shyly up at him. “I think you ruined me that night, and you never even knew it.”

His eyes flared, but he gave her no verbal response. He watched as she moved, paid particular attention to the strokes that made her twitch, made her breath hitch and whimpers catch in her throat.

Her orgasm was light, a wonderful tightening and loosening of muscles, leaving her feeling weak-limbed and happy. She withdrew her fingers after collapsing back against her pillow.

“We defiled my bed,” she said glumly a moment later, Draco capturing her hand. “Are you happy?”

“Extremely.” He said with a cocky grin just before he took her fingers between his lips.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, feeling wholly embarrassed as he cleaned her skin with his tongue, a pleasant tingle sparking through her belly as his teeth scraped along her fingers.

Apart from the hint on his lips the day before, she’d never tasted herself. She’d never wanted to, but he made her curious about it. Experimentally, she slipped her free hand back down, collected a bit of the wetness that remained, and tentatively brought her fingertip to her tongue.

She grimaced. “I prefer how you taste.”

He released her hand with a groan, then lifted himself above her, caging her in. Her knees lifted and parted to allow him more room, but he didn’t settle between them as she’d expected.

“Move up,” he said, nodding towards the headboard.

She obeyed, her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she rested against her pillows, her shoulders propped up against the headboard, giving him room to kneel between her legs, as she suspected he wanted to. Without warning, he bent and gave her a single lick up her slit, Hermione tossing her head to the side with a surprised whimper.

“Don’t,” she pleaded. “It’s too much.”

He relented, pulling back but keeping his eyes focused on her.

It was morning, the light around the curtains brightening the room and leaving nothing for her to hide behind.

“Please stop looking at me.”

“Why would I do that? You really are exquisite in the daylight.”

She flushed, swallowing hard as she looked up at the ceiling.

She felt him slide his fingers through her folds, making her shake and try to close her legs, but he was too close, his frame keeping her from shielding herself from his ravenous gaze.

“I think this shade of pink is my new favourite colour.”

A startled laugh escaped her, Hermione finally succeeding in twisting away as she buried her face in the pillow, an exhausted fit of giggles overcoming her.

Of all the absurd things he could say…

He joined her at the top of the bed, smug and triumphant as ever once she finally peeked up at him.

“You’re awful.”

“I’m honest,” he countered, grinning down at her exposed arse.

She flung a hand out and smacked his thigh, admonishing him, then she tucked her arms under the pillow and turned her chin to look at him.

“What is your favourite colour, anyway?”

He considered that for a moment. “It used to be blue—another colour I only ever associated with you.”

She turned her face back to the pillow, sure that her face was bright red then.

“You weren’t the only one ruined that night, Granger.”

She nodded in understanding, her eyes scanning her pillow case and the soft, fine, practically translucent fuzzies that clung to the fabric.

“What’s yours?”

“Well, it’s not the colour of your genitals, sorry to disappoint.”

He snorted. “Really. What is it?”

“Green. Really.” She said, looking up at him once more with a shy smile. “And that’s classified information, Malfoy. You are not permitted to go around telling everyone I fancy the colour of my House’s sworn enemies. Not even Harry knows.”

He rolled his eyes and asked, “Why green?”

“Oh, I love green,” she said, her voice taking on a dreamy tone. “Moss and grass. Leaves in the summer. Sage and mint. Emerald. Although…you have given me a new appreciation for grey.”

“Have I?” He asked, brushing her hair back, letting his hand come to rest on her cheek.

She shifted to her side as he laid down beside her, scooting over to close the already limited space between them. She met his eyes, taking in every speck, every crypt of white to dark grey in the mesmerising irises.

She swallowed, a lump forming in her throat as she realised how very fond of him she’d become.

“I really like you, Draco.” She said solemnly, watching him for a reaction.

It was as close to how she felt as she would allow herself to admit, but she wasn’t sure if he’d hear the significance in her tone.

She watched as an indecipherable expression flickered across his face, watched as he also swallowed, his eyes roving over her skin and avoiding her eyes for several seconds until, finally, he allowed himself to see her again.

He held her cheek in his palm, his fingertips lost in her hair, his thumb gently stroking her cheekbone. “I really like you, too.”

“Is additional security really necessary?” Hermione asked the goblin behind the tall counter. “I mean, really. Look at me—I’m hardly a threat.”

The goblin’s intense gaze appraised her shrewdly, his expression nothing short of a scowl as he likely recalled the last time she’d been inside Gringotts.

“You were the one who broke into Madam Lestrange’s vault, weren’t you?” He asked in a low, clipped tone. “You were the one who stole and escaped with our dragon?”

Hermione looked down at the floor.

“The fact that you’re even allowed on the premises at all is a privilege, Miss Granger.”

She nodded once, fidgeting under the scrutiny of the haggard-looking goblin and the wizard security guard that had been called to stand beside her.

“I will need to hold onto your wand, as well.” He informed her with a brittle, menacing grin. “Surely you can understand why.”

She bit her tongue and forced herself to keep a neutral expression as she pulled her wand from her coat pocket and handed it over. She understood it, but she didn’t agree with it, and handing over her wand felt soul-crushingly wrong.

She numbly followed the goblin out of the hall, her eyes taking in the repaired ceiling, the chandelier. It looked as if nothing had happened to it, the power and wonder of magic never ceasing to amaze her.

It had all been fixed, but goblins being neutral and self-serving as they were, they weren’t obligated to forgive her part in the war. She’d damaged and stolen their property; she was a threat.

The security guard was uncomfortably close as they stepped through the passageway and onto a cart. She let out a resigned sigh as she settled into a seat and braced herself to be taken along the somewhat rocky ride down to her vault.

Once there, she handed over the key and held the lamp for the goblin to unlock her vault, the ancient metal groaning as it eased open for what was surely the first time in several years. She stepped around them when the door was fully open, her eyes widening, jaw going slack as her gaze fell upon the contents.

There was a substantial amount of gold, silver, and bronze residing in the small, damp vault. The metal coins caught the light of the lamp, shiny and real and all at her disposal. She mentally calculated what she could see, well over a few thousand Galleons, twice as many Sickles, and a sizeable stack of Knuts.

She estimated the sum to be around fifteen to twenty-thousand pounds. Her entire life savings from her parents—money they’d likely been adding to since her birth, money she hadn’t even known about—just sitting underground in a cave-like magical vault until she was old enough to be entrusted with it.

Blinking tears from her eyes, she plucked up a few handfuls of Galleons and Sickles, a smaller handful of bronze Knuts, and slipped them into her expanded coin purse within her bag.

She couldn’t believe it.

She retreated from the vault and waited for the goblin to hand her key back before returning to the cart.

Back in the main hall, the goblin returned her wand to her, and she turned to leave.

It wasn’t until she was at the doors to the entrance that she realised the guard had followed her, and she turned to shoot him a look, her hand clenching around the door handle.

“For goodness’ sake!” She snapped, exasperated, then flung open the door and stepped briskly through it back into the chilly London air.

Draco must’ve heard her stomping as he turned to look up at her descending the steps.

“How did it go?”

Livid, she hissed, “They treated me like a criminal! Demanded my wand and had security following me out the door!”

He seemed to be holding back laughter, a sly smirk spreading across his lips as he met her gaze squarely. “You are a criminal, Granger.”

She gaped at him for several seconds. She didn’t know why she’d been expecting him to be on her side of the matter. He’d actually committed crimes. He had been tried before the Wizengamot.

So she had dosed herself with Polyjuice Potion and impersonated a witch to break into her vault, then freed their dragon and escaped along with it.

That hardly made her a criminal.

“I was exonerated.” She muttered indignantly. “You’d think they’d see the—nuance. Oh, shut up.”

He was laughing as he bent to kiss her, his arms going around her waist to pull her off the last step. “You’d better get going.”

“I know,” she said glumly. “Wish I didn’t have to, but I can’t just ignore it.”

He nodded, kissing her again, long and slow and so perfectly warm that it almost hurt her to pull away.

“I’ll see you at home.” She said against his lips, pecking him one last time.

“I’ll charm the gates for you.” He replied, then pulled away and gestured for her to head down the alley towards an apparition point. “Good luck.”

She scoffed. “Thanks.”

“You’re going to need it.”

“You’re probably right.”

Chapter Text

31 December 1998

“Hermione!” Ginny practically squealed, slamming into her with what was surely meant to be a hug.

“Hi,” Hermione said breathlessly, Ginny having knocked the wind out of her.

“About bloody time you showed up,” Ginny grumbled, then pulled back to usher Hermione inside.

Hermione hadn’t known who to expect when she’d knocked on their door, but she was very thankful it was her friend and not one of the five remaining Weasley boys who’d likely be uncomfortable in her presence.

“Sorry to drop by like this—are your mum and dad home? I need to speak with them.”

Ginny nodded, closing the door behind her. “Mum’s in the kitchen with Lavender.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s grabbing a few things from George for tonight—fireworks, I think.” Ginny looked her over then, her eyes narrowed as they took in the subtle differences in her collection of freckles and sun-kissed hair.

Hermione looked back at her seriously. “How are you?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen Harry, haven’t you? I’m sure you can guess.”

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. “I’m sorry for how things turned out, Gin. Really.”

“Don’t be. We knew it was over, I just didn’t think he’d…” She grimaced. “Move on so quickly. Besides, we weren’t anything serious. We weren’t committed before the war—I shouldn’t have expected we would be after.” Ginny shook herself, then forced a bright smile. “Enough about my romantic misfortunes. How’s it with Malfoy?”

Hermione smiled shyly. “Erm, he’s good. Things have been going really well so far. I’m sure you’ve read all about it in the papers?”

Ginny’s expression soured once more. “I stopped reading them days ago—I think everyone has. You all in the pub, it was—it was a bit much.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Ron took it the hardest, believe it or not. I don’t think it was jealousy—I think he just really misses you two. He feels like you’ve both replaced him.”

Hermione was gnawing on her lip then, the skin chapped from the cold air. “I’m sure from his perspective it probably looks that way, but we haven’t. No one can replace Ron. Or you for that matter.”

She snorted. “And here I thought I’d lost you to Pug-Face Parkinson.”

Hermione admonished her with a look. “She’s actually quite pretty. And her attitude has certainly improved, as well.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “Have I lost you to the Slytherins?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A Muggle-born in Slytherin?”

“Why not? You do look nice in green, Granger.”

“Oh, stop it.” Hermione said, laughing.

“Not to mention you’ve shagged not one, but two Pure-blood wizards. You should now be considered Half-blood, at the very least.”

Hermione shook her head, but couldn’t help matching Ginny’s grin. “I don’t think it works that way, Gin.”

She sighed a minute later, looking over Ginny’s shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “I really do you need to talk to your mum before it gets too late.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Oh, no. It’s nothing, really, just a…misunderstanding.”

“Alright,” Ginny said, sounding unconvinced.

She nodded for Hermione to follow, then turned and led the way.

“Mum, look who dropped by!” Ginny called as they entered the kitchen, standing aside and propping her hip against the cluttered wall.

Mrs. Weasley and Lavender had been all smiles when they’d walked in, both witches hunched over a tattered, ancient-looking recipe, various bowls of baking ingredients scattered across a flour-dusted countertop in front of them.

Lavender’s surprised smile froze in place while Mrs. Weasley’s fell entirely for a solid second. She recovered quickly, plastering on a too-cheerful welcoming smile that didn’t meet her eyes.

“Hermione, dear!” She said in that sweet, adoring way she had.

She rushed around the counter to pull Hermione into a hug, which she returned stiffly. She was entirely positive the back of her coat was now coated in flour and—looking across the counter at Lavender’s hands—butter.

“Treacle tart?” Hermione guessed, noting the tart pan and a well-used glass jar of golden syrup.

“Good eye,” Mrs. Weasley said, sounding pleased as she pulled back from the embrace. “It’s Harry’s favourite, isn’t it? If you stay long enough, I’ll give you some to bring to him.”

“Oh, erm,”

“He’s been staying with you at the Malfoys, hasn’t he?”

Mrs. Weasley’s smile flattened as she made her way back to her work surface. Lavender busied herself with cutting tiny cubes of butter into a bowl of flour with her fingertips. She surmised it would be much easier and cleaner to use her wand, but every time she’d watched Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, it was like a spiritual experience.

Everything handmade with care and minimal use of magic, quite literally putting her own personal touch on everything she cooked. Hermione had often admired her for it.

She herself had helped her parents in the kitchen during the holidays when she was little—to see something so mundane and normal be done in the magical world had been a source of comfort to her when she’d often felt so out of place.

“I haven’t seen him since Christmas, actually. Maybe Ron can bring it on the train for him.”

Mrs. Weasley didn’t respond, seeming to tune Hermione out as she weighed and poured the sticky substance into a large bowl.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said, raising her voice enough so the woman couldn’t easily ignore her. She looked up from the bowl reluctantly a moment later, giving Hermione a patient yet clearly strained smile. “Could I have a word with you? I’m hoping it won’t take too long.”

“Go ahead,” she said, her hand reaching for a wooden spoon.

“In private.” Hermione said quietly, flicking a glance to Lavender, whose hands stilled on the roughly-formed ball of pastry dough. “Please.”

Mrs. Weasley sighed, her forced smile turning apologetic. “I’m sorry, dear, you’ve caught me at a bad time. Perhaps you can come back later?”

“It won’t take long,” she said again. “But it is important.”

Lavender, sensing the tension, dusted her hands off on a tea towel and gave Mrs. Weasley a small, tentative smile. “I can take over from here, Molly.” She said sweetly. “You’ve taught me well. Maybe Ginny could help, too?”

Ginny snorted a laugh and muttered, “That’s likely.”

Mrs. Weasley shot her daughter a hard look, then turned back to Lavender. “That’s very kind, but I couldn’t ask you to take over. It’s too much.”

“I insist. Please, have some tea and chat with Hermione. I have everything under control.”

Mrs. Weasley wiped off her hands on a towel and took Lavender’s face between them. “You are so wonderful. I don’t know what Ron was thinking ever letting you go.”

Lavender blushed and looked back down at her pastry scraps when Mrs. Weasley released her. “We were just young then.” She said wistfully, her hands collecting the dough and bits of partially-hydrated flour.

“Yeah, that was it.” Ginny said under her breath, but within the too-quiet space, she was heard all around.

“Ginevra.” Mrs. Weasley said in warning.

Ginny glanced to Hermione and rolled her eyes. “I’m going, I’m going.” She said, shifting off of the wall. “Perhaps I should take a look through the papers for potential suitors. Worry not, Mummy, I will find someone else for you to marry me off to.”

Mrs. Weasley’s sigh sounded more like a growl as Ginny left the room, a reference to a conversation Hermione wasn’t privy to but was easy for her to connect the dots.

She would definitely need to set time aside to talk to Ginny soon.

Mrs. Weasley turned to the stove and reached for the kettle, looking over her shoulder at Hermione a moment later. “Tea?”

“No, thanks.”

I don’t think hot liquids should be within reach during this conversation.

“Alright.” Mrs. Weasley said briskly, setting the kettle back down on the back burner and killing the flame beneath. “Best get on with it, yes?”

Hermione nodded and waited for Mrs. Weasley to leave first, turning to follow the woman out of the kitchen.

Settled in an armchair near the fireplace, Hermione felt an awful sense of déjà vu. The last conversation they’d had in that room had been the day she’d run into Draco in Diagon Alley—the day she’d ended her pregnancy. Mrs. Weasley had used every verbal weapon she’d had to manipulate Hermione into seeing it through, making her vulnerable and nothing short of desperate when she’d finally made it to the doors of the Apothecary.

The reminder of that day—the overstuffed armchairs, the homey charm of the small lounge, the knitting needles that lay in rest on an ottoman—helped put things into perspective then.

She was no longer pregnant. She was no longer someone Molly Weasley could intimidate.

She was no longer looking to impress someone who had only ever tolerated her.

You’ve always been selfish, haven’t you, Hermione? I shouldn’t have expected anything more of you.

Hermione looked up to find Mrs. Weasley calmly studying her, the last words from their previous disagreement slamming back into her mind.

Hermione hadn’t been the selfish one back then. She’d been the considerate one. She’d been the one to ensure both she and Ron had futures to look forward to.

If Mrs. Weasley, even now, couldn’t see that Hermione had done right by everyone in her decision, then she would never see reason.

Hermione hadn’t realised until then she’d still been waiting for it. Unconsciously, she’d been waiting for an acknowledgment from her former motherly figure that she’d done the right thing. She was a good person—a considerate person—who put herself through emotional and physical agony in preventing a mistake from crumbling the precarious foundation they’d all been standing on.

Mrs. Weasley had to see that they were all better off.

Ron, despite his faults, still had a bright future to look forward to. He hadn’t been expelled—though her feelings on that outcome remained mixed—and he had a decent relationship with Kingsley. So long as he passed his N.E.W.T.s with an A or above, he was set.

Dropping out of school, taking whatever job he could get at the Ministry to support a family with Hermione while she was expected to stay home and care for a baby was…

Well, she couldn’t imagine a worse fate for herself. N.E.W.T.s by correspondence, if possible. Career goals even murkier than before and having to consider a small human that depended on her for their every need put many obstacles in her way of finding a satisfying career. And if Ron was at work or finishing school, she’d be solely responsible for caring for it. Ron would only be expected to provide financially.

He would have made a good father, Hermione was sure of that, but she was also sure enough resentment would have accumulated in her assessment of him that she’d forget all the good things she’d loved about him.

All that was left of them after the war would have been gone forever had she gone through with it. Ron’s goodness and motivation for doing the right thing would have meant asking Hermione to marry him. He would have done anything for her and their child if she’d allowed him to. He would have lost every part of himself for her if she’d needed him to.

But she wouldn’t have done the same for him. She’d sacrificed enough to help Harry; she wouldn’t lose herself in the process when it was the only thing she had left. Surviving, seeing the goodness in the world returning, finally being able to walk around freely again without the threat of Snatchers and Death Eaters at every turn—it was their second chance.

Voldemort was gone, never to return again. Decent people were put into positions of power in the Ministry. Hogwarts had been rebuilt and was granting them a second chance to finish their education and have good, fulfilling lives after graduation.

Marriage and children could come later—on her terms. The only future for her that included children was one where they were wanted and she could afford to give them every advantage she’d had growing up. They would live in a nice home. Her children would go to the right schools before Hogwarts. They would never go without anything.

Ron had always complained about lacking money and material possessions—she couldn’t understand why he would have wanted the same for his own child. Perhaps he’d looked at Hermione’s pregnancy as a lifeline, something to cling to in the abyss that was left after the war when nothing felt right anymore. He’d happily forgo any lofty goals, any chance at Quidditch stardom or succeeding in a top Auror position if it meant having a solid, physical connection to her. He would have followed in his father’s unambitious footsteps to have a family with her.

But she was not Molly Weasley. She would not have been content with the bare minimum or forcing any child of hers to settle for less than they deserved.

Maybe she was selfish, as Mrs. Weasley had claimed, but self-preservation wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

The tense silence wherein Hermione and Mrs. Weasley simply stared at one another, daring the other to speak first, was thankfully broken when Mr. Weasley came through the Floo. He set down a large bundle of packaged Wildfire Whiz-bangs and brushed off his robes before noticing the two witches sitting across from him.

“Hermione,” he greeted with a pleased smile, coming forward to embrace her. She stood and returned the hug, feeling much less stiff than when Mrs. Weasley had greeted her.